Chapter Twenty Four: Of Distractions and Honour
"For you, there'll be no crying,
For you, the sun will be shining,
'Cause I feel that when I'm with you
It's alright. I know it's right.
And the songbirds keep singing,
like they know the score,
And I love you, I love you, I love you,
Like never before."
- Eva Cassidy, Songbird.
Boromir was brooding. This was not something he often did. Brooding was an occupation of his brother. Faramir was always in library of Minas Tirith, brooding over this and that. Or, at least, Boromir assumed he was brooding. What other reason was there for him to be hunched over a book for hours at a time?
However, as Boromir paddled the boat slowly, he began to sense something was wrong with himself. He had admired the regal statues carved out of the mountain, proudly standing on each side of the Anduin, their left arms held aloft, palms facing outwards in a gesture of warning. They were stern of face and oddly exquisite.
Still, something was not settling right with him. He allowed his mind to drift back a few weeks, his body taking over the steady strokes of the oars. What was the source of this restlessness? He had felt this way ever since... Ever since he had tried to teach Elizabeth how to use the sword. He recalled the feel of her pressed against him, the smell of her hair.
No, He thought, realizing what he was doing. No, I can't be distracted. Not now. Especially not by her. It was the Ring. It had been calling to him more insistently, promising everything he could ever want. It whispered to him while he slept, saying that if he took it, Gondor would be spared, Elizabeth would be by his side. Everything would be perfect.
His conscious mind knew that the damn thing was wrong, but another part of him yearned for it, wanted to be powerful, wanted Elizabeth to be amazed by him.
He risked a look at her. He wondered when it had happened. His heart went out to her in a sickeningly cliché way that he and Faramir had laughed at when they caught the blacksmith's daughter writing poetry to the son of a noble. Elizabeth was laughing at the friendly bickering between Legolas and Gimli.
Her beauty did not blaze in fierce colours, he understood, it was muted; harder to recognise, but it was there. It was in her confidence, her disposition, in her courage. He thought of the women in Minas Tirith, with their powders and perfumes and curls that reached their impossibly tiny waists. She knew those things were peripheral to what was truly lovely. She didn't wear the mask so many other women do, the mask that they thought people would want to look at. She was simply herself.
"Boromir?" Piped up Pippin.
"Yes?" Answered Boromir.
"Do you love Elizabeth?" Boromir's head jerked up so fast it was a shock that he didn't contract whiplash.
"What makes you say that?" He asked carefully.
"Well," Said Merry, "You were looking at her just now, and you almost steered the boat into the riverbank."
Boromir managed to get the boat back on the correct route and ignored Pippin's questions of "Do you? It looks as if you do."
What do I do? He thought, numbly. This can't continue. I wish to know what stirs her fire and chills her bones. I have to stop this. He contemplated his feelings for a time, the rhythmic paddling helping to soothe his nerves. While in the boat slightly ahead, Elizabeth's sense of dread grew into a sense of inevitability.
The fellowship reached the foot of Amon Hen, the Hill of sight. When they stopped on the beach of Parth Galen, Elizabeth was grateful for the chance to stretch her legs. Inside, she was scared. She knew far too well what was nearly here. Burying it deep within wasn't an option when it was virtually right in front of her. She couldn't help but notice that Boromir looked troubled, appearing to be fighting an internal conflict.
Must save Boromir. I have to. She clutched the dagger from Galadriel tight in her palm, almost drawing blood. If I didn't, you know, LIKE like him, would I still want to save him? The answer came to her instantly. Of course I would. He is a brave honourable man and I... I like him. She tried to bring up the memories of past boyfriends. There was only one; Henry. She remembered that it was summer and that he was quiet and had a lovely smile. She remembered her hair was long and tumbled down her back in waves and she went bare foot because it was too hot for shoes She was 19. She wore short shorts and didn't care that she was curvier than most girls because she actually ate food and had never been on a diet in her life. She didn't love Henry and she knew he didn't love her, but they shared sweet kisses and a freedom that only comes with summer.
It's ridiculous to think of Boromir in that way. He clearly doesn't like me, I just annoy him like I do everybody else. A stab of self-pity took her by surprise. And anyway, the kind of love I want doesn't even exist outside of fairytales.
"We cross the lake at nightfall." Aragorn said. "Hide the boats and continue on foot. We approach Mordor from the north."
"Oh, yes? It's just a simple matter of finding our way through Emyn Muil? An impassable labyrinth of razor-sharp rocks! And after that, it gets even better!" Said Gimli. Pippin and Elizabeth looked up, alarmed. "Festering, stinking marshlands far as the eye can see."
"That is our road. I suggest you take some rest and recover your strength, Master Dwarf."
"Recover my…?" Gimli growled.
Whoa. Wait. One. Minute. She glanced around their camp. "Shit!" She exclaimed and leapt to her feet. Boromir was gone.
She ran. As fast as her feet would move, she ran. She could hear her name being shouted by Aragorn but footsteps followed. She chose a direction at random. "Bollocks, fuck, " She cursed, uttering every bad word she knew, condemning herself to a lifetime of pain for being such an abominable idiot.
She tore through the trees, leaves crunching under foot and heart thumping heavily in her chest. She stopped, breathing hard and listening for the tell tale sound of talking. The air was very still and it was distrustfully silent except for her own ragged breathing and pounding heart.
There! She thought triumphantly, as Boromir's voice echoed faintly through the trees. "... I ask only for the strength to defend my people! If you would but lend me the Ring-"
"No!" Cried Frodo.
She charged towards the source of the talking, adrenaline surging and she felt lighter than air. It was Surreal. Dreamlike. The voices were closer. "Why do you recoil? I am no thief."
"You are not yourself."
"No, no, no!" She yelled, jumping over a log, barely covering the height needed.
"What chance do you think you have? They will find you. They will take the Ring. And you will beg for death before the end! You fool!" Boromir shouted. She knew where they were now. "It is not yours save by unhappy chance! It could have been mine. It should be mine! Give it to me!"
Emotion swelled in her chest, tightening and releasing. Moisture welled in the corners of her eyes. She ran. There were more outcries and more yells punched the air. "I see your mind. You will take the Ring to Sauron! You will betray us! You go to your death, and to the death of us all! Curse you! Curse you and all the Halflings!"
She burst into the small clearing, out of breath and cheeks carnation pink. Boromir was on the ground, disorientated. "Frodo?" He called. "What have I done? Please, Frodo!"
"Boromir!" Elizabeth said, running over to him. His eyes were still misty. She put her hands on his shoulders and shook, hitting his leather-clad shoulders. "Boromir!" She almost couldn't prevent the heart-wrenching hysterical sob that nearly burst from her lips, but she stopped. The madness of the Ring left him and he lay dazed on the ground.
"Elizabeth?" He whispered, like he couldn't bear to speak.
"Boromir, we have to go. I know that there are Orcs on the way and, and..." She trailed off. Then hugged him fiercely.
He was taken aback, but after the initial surprise his arms went around her and he held her. She rested a cheek against the warm juncture between his neck and his shoulder. She heard the echo of his pulse and the scent of him was sweat and mint and leather.
Her mind was screaming at her to run and hide from the Uruk-hai that were most likely prowling the forest, but she couldn't bear to rip herself away. He hesitantly slid his fingers beneath her chin, lifting her face. His eyes were steady and grey and full of faith. She nearly broke down and told him what was to come.
Their gazes caught and locked. She thought of the wave that seemed to catch her whenever she was near him, how she felt herself drawn over and under, pulled to him by forces that appeared beyond her control. It felt natural, as right as breathing, to lift her head, to meet her lips with his.
And that's where they have their first kiss. It is the most improbable time they could have thought of and it's in the middle of a foreign land. It's full of salty skin and chapped lips but underneath that, she could feel all the pent up emotion. All the frustration, and the hunger and longing. She felt his soft exhalation against her mouth; relief, as if a great weight had been taken from him. His hand rose to cup her face. Her eyes fluttered shut.
They parted. "We shouldn't be doing this." He whispered. "It is not proper-"
He was cut off my Elizabeth kissing him again. Her chest felt as if it was full of glitter and helium. This time, he didn't pull away. Time seemed to slow and, in that moment, nothing mattered to her any more. It was just him and her.
He couldn't believe he was doing this. But it felt so right. So, so right. He broke away and brushed her hair to one side, over her shoulder, exposing the pale skin of her neck. He leaned close, breathing in her scent, listening to her heart and the quick, shallow breaths. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he planted a tender kiss on the side of her throat. Then, with sudden fire singing in her veins, he placed more hot, open-mouthed kisses upon her collar-bone. Elizabeth. His Elizabeth. His crazy, random, untameable Elizabeth. Her muscles contracted in the pit of her stomach as he timidly bit down. She stifled a cry and his arm encircled her waist, holding her.
Boromir paused in his gentle assault of her neck to look up. Their eyes locked. One of her hands reached out to stroke his cheek, his chin, stroking the stubble and tracing his mouth like she was trying to memorize it. She ran a hand through his hair, earning a shiver. His own hand ran down her spine, pulling up the hem of her shirt at the bottom to draw patterns into the skin.
No words were spoken. None were needed. They spoke the common language of passion.
Snarls and the clang of swords brought Elizabeth to her senses. She shook her head and remembered what they had to do. If they didn't save Merry and Pippin, there would be no story to tell to anyone.
"Merry and Pippin." She said and managed to get to her feet and yank Boromir up with her. He seemed to grasp what was happening because he began to run as well and she clutched his hand, terrified of losing him and even more terrified of losing herself.