"Funny," Boromir thought, "I wasn't in the least jealous. Only touched. Deeply touched. I wonder, did she see him? Did she realize at all? Oh how I wish she did!"

"So do I, my friend," said a voice behind him, husky with longing. "So do I."

"Galathorn! Is there any way I could return there? She … she needs me."

"And can you give her what she needs? Have you got what you need? Have you got hope?"

Boromir weighed the question in his mind for a long time before he answered.

"I don't know. Maybe I have a bit more hope now … now that I've met you, now that I've seen… I cannot explain."

"Now that you've met me. And do you know me? Do you really? And do you know yourself?"

Who am I? I guess you don't really want to know. I am something I am afraid of, something I love far too much and far too little, something I hate and yet cling to, something that has become soiled and spoiled and makes me shrink away from the mirror in disgust. Something you wouldn't really want to know. Something somewhere among Orc blood and dirty leaves. What, after all, am I worth?

"Boromir, I want to give you what you are worth to me."

"Oh really!" He could barely hide the sarcasm in his voice. "And what would that be? A fig?"

"I give you my life."

"Oh, sure! You must be joking! What do you want in return?"

"Will you give me your life?"

"My life? What life? As far as I know, I'm dead!"

"Yourself I mean. All you are."

All I am? We've just had that bit. Whatever could he want with that? With me of all people? "You're not in for a very good deal here, I can tell you!"

"Boromir. Would you please stop pretending. Will you accept my life, laid down for you? Will you let go of the self you cling to and despise at the same time? Will you give me your pain and failure, your fear and hate, your darkness and despair, your sins and sorrows, your abilities and talents, your needs and longings? Will you accept my life and strength, my hope and joy, my love and fearlessness, my wisdom and guidance, my victory and eternal life?"

Boromir's head spun. What did all this mean? Was he asked to give up his personality? To become a nobody? Galathorn laughed, a light, refreshing laugh. "No, Boromir. You will be the same precious, unique Boromir. Only then you will realize it, become it, and you will be alive – really alive. Able to use your potential. Able to love."

The offer of a lifetime. What had he to lose that he had not lost already, that really would be a loss compared to the immeasurable gain? Why then was it so hard to let go, to jump off the precipice, to soar out into the unknown?

He suddenly realized that he was in his old body, with all the gashing wounds inflicted by the Orcs. Absurdly, he knew he had carried it with him, in him, all the time, even in that machinery world, only he had somehow forgotten about it. But it was there, it was him, and symbolic of his life, of all human life.

"Yes," he finally said. "I will accept your offer."

Galathorn's shirt, half-open, had slipped from one shoulder, and his companion saw a long, gashing wound beneath the heart which seemed to have healed, but re-opened. In a brief glimpse of vision Boromir saw himself inflicting that wound on Galathorn, repeatedly.

Little Borry, roasting butterflies alive, vivisecting frogs for curiosity. A stab, and another. Boro the adolescent, hatefully hacking away at his own flesh. Hacking away at Galathorn's flesh. Boromir the man, stabbing, slashing, killing the enemies of Gondor – and his personal enemies. Killing … Killing a man on a cross.

But it was smaller things as well. Mocking Firúnwen the outsider, proud of his ingenuity in finding the words that would hurt her most, that would earn him greatest approval from his jeering comrades. Throwing little Faramir into the mudflats, or into Anduin, relishing his screams, hating him for the attention he received from their mother. And numerous other things, now invading his mind like a legion of locusts.

He could not see how it worked, but somehow Galathorn had to pay for it. Chose to.

In utter consternation, Boromir broke down. Forgive me! Galathorn held him close, gently, soothingly, like a father a child. Boromir felt enveloped in forgiveness, bedded in forgiveness, tucked in under forgiveness and cuddled into a state of Everything-is-alright-because-I-love-you-and-will-never-forsake-you. Something in him snapped – something small and hurt and unwanted that had been shoved deep down to the bottom of his consciousness – and he cried, cried like a little child, let the tears flow and wash out age-old hurts and wants. Father! his heart pounded. I have found my real Father. "I need you. Stay with me. Be my lord. My captain. My king."

He did not know how long he had been lying in these arms. The next thing he realized was that Galathorn's hands, bleeding from those old scars, were laid gently on Boromir's wounds, their blood intermingling. 'My blood brother,' Boromir thought. He felt like in a trance. Was all this really happening, or was he just seeing it with his mind's eye? Or was it Galathorn's effort to help him understand, underlining and explaining the spiritual with the physical?

"Yes, Boromir. Trust me. I give my blood for you. My life for you. Let me share your pain. Let me take your burdens."

Burdens. The bitterness of a lifetime, seemingly small at first, buried and barricaded behind countless mechanisms of repression, rose to the surface of Boromirs consciousness, like water leaking through the chinks of a child's amateur dam. So much pain. He had not even known it was all in him, so much, but now it arose, a whirl of memories, pressing in on his consciousness, hammering in his veins, the pressure accumulating, growing almost unbearable … But Galathorn was there. All the hurt and hate – Boromir sensed it being gently taken from him, being, as it were, taken out of his soul's hands as he let go (reluctantly and with effort), being coaxed out of him with endless patience and love. "Yes," Galathorn whispered, "Give me your pain."

The dam broke. The poison of a lifetime – deep traces left by memories, gnawing shame and disgust at things he had done, things he had allowed to be done with himself, feelings crippled by bitter disappointment, the curse of being unloved, abandoned, rejected, despised, mistreated, even by himself – he felt it being drawn from his soul, rushing out in an overpowering turmoil of visions and emotions. Beads of sweat like blood drops appeared on Galathorn's brow, and his closed eyelids fluttered in inner pain and agony as the torture of another's life flooded his being, but in return, Boromir could feel a stream of living water rush into the vacuum, that empty space in his heart. What nothing, no-one had been able to accomplish so far: For the first time, that vacuum was filled.

They were one. Ilúvatar's spirit was in him, and Boromir could see his heart as Galathorn opened to him his own being. Galathorn's heart was Love.

And yet not a carefree love, not a positive illusion, ignorant of woe. A love founded on endless depths of ache, on an inconceivable degree of sensitivity, on experiences Boromir knew he could never bear even to know or share. As it was, he only sensed them vaguely from afar, as if through a filter. Galathorn did not allow them to touch, let alone overwhelm his friend. He only cautiously thinned the veil for a second, for a short glimpse: The pain of a loving heart, giving itself completely, making itself vulnerable like raw flesh, willingly taking upon itself the deepest depths of poison and evil – yet being ignored, misinterpreted, or wilfully rejected. His heart was broken day by day.

In a strange way, this comforted Boromir as much as it pained him. It made him feel understood. He was not alone.

At the same time, he felt a seed of compassion bud in his heart, compassion with all living things, a deep longing to ease the pain of the suffering.

And then, tired as one is tired after a long, adventurous journey, he fell into a deep sleep.