disclaimer.
All belongs to Tolkien and Peter Jackson.
notes.
This is mostly canon compliant (in sense of the movies), barring the fact that Legolas is not and has never been in love with Tauriel.
October 25th 3018, TA
Boromir felt his ears ring still as he drifted out of the Council, his palms sweating unrepentantly. The walls of Rivendell felt as though they caved in around him, suffocating and choking as he shouldered his way through the crowds, and he thought achingly of home, with Faramir and his father, where there were no rangers claiming to be Isildur's heir or Halflings with magical rings or Elf princes who leapt up in the middle of a Council to call you out on a mistake you hadn't realised you had made.
He tried to tell himself that it wasn't the last one that hurt the most.
When he had met Legolas that morning, lost and exhausted after a gruelling journey from Minas Tirith, the Elf had been a friendly face- something he had not found in Lindir or Lord Elrond. He had spoken of his mother with fondness- Boromir's father had never done so, never mentioned the late Finduilas so that Boromir had had to rely upon the wavering memories of an ill, hardly-here figure caught in hesitating snapshots from the corner of his eyes when remembering the woman he had gave both he and his brother life. But Legolas knew Finduilas, and Boromir reminded him of her; and Legolas had also known what it was to lose Men- or Elves, he supposed, under your command, how the guilt felt when it wrapped around your throat and constrained your chest until it was as though you couldn't breath for the sheer force of it. He had also shared Boromir's distaste of the Noldor, too- that being the first reason they had begun to get along so swimmingly
And then the Council had happened, curse it all.
The Council had been unexpected from the beginning, not the boring talk of trading between realms he had thought it would be or the rambling discourse on what people weren't doing to fight the Shadow; instead it had been the Council had would decide the fate of Middle-earth and the fate of Gondor- the very thing Boromir had been most worried about. He had watched each and every person snap to attention when the agenda had been shared with them all, when Frodo Baggins had laid his burden on the table (how foul the thing had felt! Like mould growing and darkening and ruining what it clung to)- and each person and shared out the various tidings they had had from their lands.
The Nine were abroad, after the Ring and spotted last near Rivendell itself where they had narrowly missed killing Frodo Baggins from a Morgul wound as he and a band of his kin, accompanied by the Ranger had battled their way from Bree in the utmost peril to reach Rivendell. Boromir had not missed the way Frodo had rubbed at where Boromir presumed his wound lay, and the way the blonde Elf who seemed prone to dramatics and had some ridiculous name that Boromir was pretty sure to be Glorfindel had leaned closer to Elrond and murmured something darkly in his ear.
A servant of Sauron also was beseeching the aid of Erebor, wheedling and threatening and bribing, though Boromir held no concerns that the will of the Dwarves would falter- especially after watching the redhead Gimli take an axe to the Ring in an attempt to destroy it; yet that meant both Erebor, Mirkwood and the kingdom of Dale would be at risk- something that had made Legolas' Elves sit up straighter and murmur to one another in hushed Silvan.
The previous bearer of the Ring, the wretched creature named Gollum had escaped from captivity in Mirkwood, leaving the havoc of slain guards and an Orc ambush behind him- the news Legolas had bore all the way from Mirkwood, despite the fact he was apparently a prince now, with a tremor of distress as he had confessed to the Ranger instead of Lord Elrond, something Boromir had found strange.
Until, of course, he delivered his own tidings and then inadvertently insulted said Ranger who had then turned out to be the apparent heir of Isildur, thus offending Legolas more than the Ranger Aragorn himself and subjecting himself to an indignant lecture which he then returned with his own haughty retort which had resulted in His Royal Eminence himself getting involved and discouraging Legolas from flying at Boromir in a rage.
These events were the ones that meant Boromir's latest suicide mission to destroy the One Ring of Sauron would hardly be as fun as previous ones, when one considered that Legolas would be going, volunteering only after Aragorn had, and very frigidly cold towards Boromir when he had whisked out dramatically from the Council with his gaze studiously directed away from Boromir. The parallels between that expression and the one Faramir had pulled that time Boromir had thrown his book out of a window were truly frightening and similar enough that the absence of his brother was more keenly felt than ever.
To think that the disdain of a perpetual stranger could so harshly affect him!
The halls still spun away from Boromir in a confusing nexus of corridors, hardly any better for the exploration he had undertaken only that morning; finding himself lost was hardly as surprising as Boromir had hoped it would be.
He ran his hands through his hair in agitation, shaking his head in disbelief as trawled past the door to the Council once more and came to the decision that he would spend a leisurely time wading through the history of the tapestries instead of rushing around like a headless dragon before finding someone to ask (politely) the directions to the dining hall, where he would locate Lindir and subject himself to horrible tour that the Elf had promised. It wasn't all in all a bad way to spend the day he supposed, more Faramir's groove but if there were any battle scenes like the one outside the library then it would be a tiny bit interesting at least, and he doubted he would ever have another chance at indiscriminately browsing Elven history.
Even if it would be a devastating blow to Boromir's pride to resort to having a tour to learn his way about the place.
Peering closely at the colourful swathes of fabric, Boromir paced swiftly up the corridor, his eyes darting over the images of old kings that he didn't recognise and old battles that bled one into another. Would these be akin to scenes that met Gondor in coming months? Would the Elven armies be substituted for the people of Minas Tirith? Would Faramir and his father lie amongst the dead for their bodies to be laid on hill of weaponry and amour with other soldiers at the end of it all? The thought was horrifying, sobering, and Boromir shied away from it, crossing over to the other side of the hallway to escape it but it followed him like the darkest cloud in the midsummer storms that often stalked Minas Tirth and the surrounding lands.
He doubted he would escape it at the very gates of Mordor, should he have conspired to go as far as there.
"Tauriel!" A voice cried, only a little further down the hall, breaking through the depressed pall that had settled, close enough and it jerked Boromir to attention and close enough that he could recognise it easily- Legolas Greenleaf. He wondered whether it would be better to turn around and leave, let the true identity of the young Elf and his allegiances fester between them, but there was something broken in the Elf's voice as he pleaded with his companion that rooted Boromir's feet to floor.
You owe him nothing, Boromir told himself firmly, he has lied to you and you have talked to him all of ten, twenty minutes. You don't owe him anything at all.
"Tau, please, wait up!" He yelled again, speaking the Sindarin that Boromir understood from the countless years of tutoring in Minas Tirith's old archives. Desperation seeped into his tones like poison. "Tauriel!"
The voice that replied finally to his cajoling entreaties whipped out of the silence like a blade, dimly recognisable as belonging to the stern redhead who had dragged Legolas away only that morning. "Why?" She hissed, furious, dark with anger and brimming with the sort of agonised pain that could have only accumulated over centuries of hardship- Boromir felt as though she violated her privacy by merely listening to her. She continued voice growing louder as it built to shout with every word, "why should I stay? Why should I have to watch you kill yourself? It is not fair, Legolas, to ask me to stay and watch as you go off on a Valar damned suicide mission! You are my best friend, my prince, my brother in arms- and I am going to watch you run off to your death!"
"I did not do to pain you-"
"You never do, Legolas," she sobbed after a moment, ruthlessly cutting in. "You are too good for that. Always too good for that, and that is why I must leave, or at least steer clear of you until you leave. I will take your messages to Thranduil, to your brother and to anyone else you would have them sent, but have Lastor send your messages to me instead of saying them in person. Give me that mercy at the very least."
"Tauriel-"
But whatever Legolas was going to reply with was lost to the echoing beat of military footsteps, violent and swift- too swift for Boromir to conceal himself and pretend he hadn't been listening before the Lady (were all female Elves referred to as ladies?) Tauriel rounded the corner with a savagery that Boromir had not known one could interject into walking. For a hesitant moment, the aggressive steps faltered in their clipped gait, a heart stopping, skipping a beat and then restarting, but it was only a moment, too brief for Boromir to even begin to coalesce words into something semi coherent to say. Tauriel pushed past him, the contact of their shoulders strong enough to send him reeling to one side, with only a quiet demand uttered so hastily he half wondered whether he was meant to hear it to signal her departure.
"Look after him," she had whispered. Her voice had been queerly choked up and nasally sounding; Boromir pretended he hadn't noticed that though- it was what he would have wanted in her position.
Legolas Greenleaf himself sat only a few metres down the corridor Tauriel had only just stormed out from, one Boromir had mercifully not been down before, collapsed in a sitting position with his legs pulled snuggly up to his chest and his arms wrapped securely around them, an expression of such dejection clear and forlorn on his face that he looked almost like a kicked puppy. He didn't glance up when Boromir dropped down next to him, or give any acknowledgement of the other's presence barring a small upward quirk of his lips and a slight give of weight to his left, which meant he pressed just a little closer to Boromir than he had previously. The older Man dared not move, for fear of startling away Legolas, sitting with the Elf in silence as they mulled over what had occurred that individually, in a strange cast of silence that sat heavy around their shoulders and seemingly concealed them almost from the outside world.
Boromir was, he reflected, only minorly startled when Legolas interrupted the quiet with a croaky laugh and a deliberate crack of joints as he shifted slightly, a feat that brought another slightly hysterical laugh to his lips. "Tough day?" He asked Boromir, waggling his eyebrows with another chime of laughter.
"Obviously," Boromir replied, without missing a beat. "They served banana as the fruit of the day at breakfast and I detest banana."
"Noldor," Legolas agreed seriously, nodding with sombre gravity, "bananas when strawberries are so very clearly the superior fruit."
"And then," Boromir continued with dramatic relish, "I signed myself up for a suicide mission upon which the fate of the world depends on." There was a few seconds of silence following this cheery pronouncement, in which both Legolas and Boromir thought on how best to bridge past that remark with a modicum of tact. Boromir added happily, with a sheepish shrug, "this is where my brother would tell me a have an unhealthy dependency on sarcasm."
"My brother would tell me that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit," Legolas said lowly, clearly mimicking someone- no doubt this brother he had only just mentioned.
"But the highest form of intelligence!" Boromir finished, indignantly at the affront of such a saying, making up words from the top of his head with a small grin and shake of his head. Faramir would have had told him very loudly that one couldn't just make up sayings at the drop of a hat- "It doesn't work that way," Boromir could hear him insisting, "you can't just say something and have it become a saying- it's got to be said by a wide lot of people and stand the test of time completely for generations to be integrated into common and everyday use."
Legolas laughed loudly at that, slumping further into Boromir's shoulder. "If ever a saying existed," he exclaimed, cheerfully, "that so aptly described my home, I would be astounded. At this point I believe my people and I survive on a mixed diet of sarcasm and broccoli."
"Your realm sounds like the most fun one would ever have- a king appreciative of fine wines (your father as it so happens!) and your Elves as dependent on sarcasm as I am!"
"Less wise, more dangerous," Legolas quoted swiftly in reply, slinging one arm around Boromir's shoulder and the Man wondered whether all Elves were this free in their affections or if it were just Legolas who had no qualms with so casually touching a stranger. It was the opposite of uncomfortable however, and Boromir subjected himself to it with minimal complaint, his breathing, which he had not noticed had been heaving in and out more rapidly than could be healthy, evened and calmed.
"Then it is just as well we have you with us on this quest," Boromir said eventually, hoping to steer the conversation toward their impending quest- no doubt what Legolas and his friend Tauriel had argued bitterly over, and her request still hung heavy in his mind. He felt Legolas stiffen under his touch, muscles bunching into tense knots akin to the ones ravaging their anxious ways through Boromir's own insides. "For I feel the time for the Wise to act is now over."
"Hear, hear."
"And I do believe I fear I meet that time with dread and as close to fear as I have ever felt with a sword at my hip," Boromir finished, ignoring Legolas' under breath interruption with only the barest of pauses, his hand caressing the hilt an pommel of his sword with a reverence that was the wont of Gondor's soldiers and only the slightest hint of reassurance being lent back by his blade.
Legolas paused, his hand trembled where it lay on his knee, the quiver of an eagle's wing as it swooped in flight, and he shrugged. "We have never set much store in the Wise in Greenwood," he murmured, softly, imparting what sounded like a great secret in the gleaming air of Imladris, "because they look after only themselves when it comes down to it, wield those they deem lesser to them as pawns to clear the chess board of what pieces they can before they are taken out of play themselves. Then they swoop in at the last moment and save those left in a way that leaves everyone of them grateful for being spared by their power and their grace- never mentioning the people who actually died for the cause of good or what part they played in the rise of the Shadow.
"It is because of this that I fear, maybe not for Frodo, but for Sam and Merry and Pippin- who are very much secondary players in this Quest we undertake, and expendable to the minds of those who seek to use Frodo as their martyr. Aragorn- Strider, Estel- is safe from the schemes of the White Council, Frodo to and you as well, Boromir, for you may prove useful; that is why I go on this Quest- so that Sam, Merry, Pippin and even the Dwarf may be spared a crueller fate than should be their lot."
"And what of you?" Boromir asked, staving off the curiosity as to why exactly he would be useful- he thought he knew, having discovered the true heritage of Strider-, and wondering concernedly where Legolas fit into this picture.
"Less wise, more dangerous," Legolas replied, knowledgably- dodging the question aptly and yet somehow Boromir found himself in no need of further explanation, though he would not be able to tell anyone else what he had felt Legolas had meant.
"Look after him," Tauriel had said and, sitting with the warmth of Legolas Greenleaf beside him, Boromir realised that there had never been any need for her extract such a promise.
If anyone were to make it out of this mess alive, it would be Legolas.
to be continued.
['Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit but the highest form of intelligence'] - Oscar Wilde
['Less wise, more dangerous'] - Beorn, The Hobbit