Still Sharp
The fire had dwindled to coals when Boromir took over the night watch from
Gimli. The blonde man carefully banked the glowing embers to ensure a quick fire
the next morning. Once that task was done, he settled against a tree trunk to
keep the watch.
Gimli's heavy snores soon accompanied the rest of the subtle din of slumbering
warriors and hobbits. Boromir's sharp eyes picked out each of the fellowship in
the bright moonlight. The dwarf, Sam and Gandalf's sounds of slumber were
especially distinctive. After days in the company, Boromir would have noticed
their absence immediately.
Merry and Pippin, did not snore, but Pippin often spoke in his sleep on the
subject of food. Boromir smiled at the memory of Pippin waking him with an
incessant dreaming demand to 'pass the mushrooms'.
The Ringerbearer often moaned and twitched in his sleep, clutching at the Ring
beneath his shirt, while Legolas made no sound at all while at rest. Legolas was
first to wake and last to sleep, if he really slept at all. His sharp elfin
senses missed little.
Finally, Boromir's eyes settled on the sleeping form of "Strider".
Aragorn always slept near the hobbits, and closest to Frodo in particular. The
Ranger had a characteristic breathing pattern when deeply asleep. The full moon
provided strong light and he spent a few minutes studying Aragorn's face.
Isildur's Heir was finely featured under several days worth of beard. The blood
of Gondor flowed strongly in him, Boromir grudgingly acknowledged. Aragorn's
face was very like the renderings of Isildur made generations ago. Boromir
sniffed in agitation. Well, if 'Strider' was truly Isildur's Heir, then what of
it? The Stewards of Gondor, Boromir knew, had not failed his people in three
thousand years. Gondor done well enough without a King.
Boromir knew he must remain strong, for his father was failing, and more so
since it was obvious that Aragorn was more concerned for the welfare of a single
Hobbit than for all those in the Minas Tirith who fought Mordor's foul shadows.
Boromir's hand tightened on his sword as a mouse scurried in the tree where Sam
had hung the food packs. The slight noise had roused Boromir from his musings.
After a moment he relaxed and shifted to a more comfortable position.
Aragorn's features were burned in his memory yet he continued to stare at him
throughout his watch. The Heir was a paradox to Boromir. The man was clearly
intelligent, very skilled as a healer and a warrior. Aragorn obviously did not
lack confidence, yet he was insistent on this self-imposed exile. Boromir tried
to imagine why the rightful King of Gondor, would choose such a course. It was
idiocy! A king who was a Ranger, a lackey at the council of Elrond, grimly
determined to see the Ring destroyed. Boromir snorted. What was Aragorn then,
but Elrond's echo, after all?
True, the destruction of the Ring might end the peril from Mordor, but it made
more sense to decimate Sauron's armies first. Use the power of the Ring and then
march into Mordor to destroy it. Boromir silently vowed to press that point
again when the chance arose.
The moon slowly fell towards the horizon. It would be dawn in a few hours. The
watch that ended the night would soon fall to Legolas. The Elf would sit in the
branches above as was his habit. If the need arose, the elf could strike an
errant flea from Boromir's mail with an well aimed arrow.
Boromir took a deep breath of the cool night air and yawned. The tree line would
soon end and the trail Gandalf picked for the morrow would lead them into the
high altitude grasslands below the snow. The Gap of Rohan lay before them.
So close to home. Surely he could make Aragorn see reason. He stood, walked the
perimeter a last time and scanned the sleeping camp in the fading moonlight.
Stopping now and again to close his eyes, Boromir merely listened for anything
that might be a threat, but nothing alarmed him.
He paused by the banked fire and peered back at Aragorn's sleeping face. The
Ranger looked so calm during sleep, almost vulnerable. In Rivendell, Boromir
knew, he had been rather curt towards Isildur's Heir, though Legolas clearly
revered the Ranger and boldly stood up for him in Council.
The man clearly generated strong loyalty among his friends. and it only added to
Boromir's puzzlement. Why would a man who could behave like a king, and who was
a king, choose not to fulfill his responsibility as a king?
Legolas stirred, gracefully stood and nodded at Boromir. He nodded back and
stretched tiredly. He wrapped his cloak around himself and lay down. The moon
had fled and the sky was somewhat darker. It would not daylight for hours yet.
Sleepily, Boromir anticipated a hot meal, a quick wash in the stream and once
again a journey up the mountain towards Gondor.
The clang of a pan awoke Boromir and he blearily clung to the curious dream he
had been having. He shut his eyes again, reluctant to wake although the dream
had been disturbing. In it Aragorn's finely featured face very close to his own.
He had been lying on the ground, much as he was now, only very light headed and
desperate about something. Isildur's heir had leaned over him. pledged something
important and then Aragorn's lips had pressed warmly against his forehead.
Boromir fell down into darkness. Recalling the dream haunted Boromir into
wakefulness. He sat up and looked around for Aragorn. He saw the Ranger off in
the distance, scanning the horizon.
Sam passed him a plate of fried sausage and mushrooms. Spiced with onions and
some sort of herb Aragorn had gathered the previous day, it was quite good. Once
he had eaten, Boromir packed his things and went down to the stream to fill the
water bags. The hobbits were packing by the fire when he returned. He noticed
Merry's short sword had been notched and had not been smoothed out.
He should try to teach the halflings to take care of their weaponry and to use
them. It would add to his peace of mind if they could properly fight for
themselves. Aragorn was not doing them any favours by being too protective.
Frodo sat a little apart and seemed half asleep, toying with the ring. Boromir
tore his eyes away from the halfling and looked towards the Gap of Rohan. He
must find a way to make Gandalf and Aragorn reconsider the direct course to
Mordor. The Ring would serve them better in Gondor.
Boromir trudged up the mountain behind Gimli and Gandalf. Behind him, over the
chatter of the hobbits, he heard Aragorn speaking with Legolas in the Elfish
tongue. Boromir found his respect for Aragorn growing, despite his prejudice.
Tricky language to learn, yet the Ranger spoke Elvish as well as any in
Rivendell. The friendship of Elves was not easily won. Generally, they had no
love for Mankind. Legolas' reverence for Aragorn suddenly irked him. Why was
Legolas so devoted to him?
Memories of his earlier dream flitted through Boromir's brain as he walked. The
image of Aragorn's kiss agitated him especially. To distract himself, Boromir
spoke to Merry and Pippin, who seemed keen to learn sword play. He was grateful
for the distraction. It did not do to dwell on such an odd dream.
Later that evening Boromir had just begun training the little ones to fight when
the black birds, spies of Saruman, came and the decision was made to take find a
way through Caradhras instead.
Boromir was angry. The path through Moria made more sense. Why not impose upon
the Dwarves? Gimli took offense at Gandalf's refusal to consider it. Of course,
Gimli took offense at just about everything.
Aragorn, Legolas and Gandalf were to take the watch that night. Boromir looked
forward to a full night's sleep, despite the chill air. Rocks sheltered them
now, since the last of the trees were far behind.
They slept closer together due to the cold. The Hobbits were clumped together,
flanked by Gimli and Aragorn. Boromir hesitated then set his pallet next to the
Ranger's. It would be quieter than the dwarf snoring in his face.
Aragorn was to take the third watch. Already he was breathing deep, clearly
asleep. Boromir lay down and studied the Ranger's features more closely. The
king's face lost the edge of hardness he bore when awake. A stray strand of rich
brown hair had fallen across the Ranger's eyes. Boromir reached out to brush it
aside and, with a start, stayed his hand.
Boromir forced himself to turn away. Resolutely, he gazed out from under the
rocky overhang. Gandalf was on watch, calmly blowing smoke rings. Perhaps it was
a trick of the moonlight, but to Boromir, the smoke rings seemed to have elvish
markings etched on them.
When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of Narsil.
The broken sword was still very sharp. Boromir saw a his own shadow wield the
shattered blade and pierce his chest in three places. The pain was unbearable.
He heard his father, Denethor, screaming in madness. Incoherent and insane
echoes filled his ears. A smoke ring with archaic markings surrounded his face,
stung his eyes, and blinded him. Suddenly, the smoky air cleared and Aragorn's
features loomed above his. The King placed a sweet, lingering kiss on his
forehead and Boromir's pain disappeared.
Boromir awoke with a start. Aragorn's hand was on his shoulder. "It's alright."
Aragorn told him. "It's just the changing of the watch."
Boromir grunted sleepily and lay back down but the dream had alarmed him. These
visions were becoming more intense. Did they have a meaning? He did not know who
he could ask about them. He was worried about his people, that was all, he told
himself. Yet the dream disturbed him.
Legolas quietly spoke with Aragorn in the darkness, and finally the elf took his
rest between Boromir and Frodo. Unable to sleep, Boromir quietly observed his
king keep watch until dawn.
Caradhras and Saruman had defeated them. They were going to the mines. Gimli was
relieved, but Gandalf had not been pleased by the Ringbearer's decision.
Boromir, on the other hand, was very pleased to be off the wretched mountain.
The sun shone down upon them. Enjoying the warmth, they stopped by a deep mere
to dry out their clothes and bedding. Legolas, the least affected by the ordeal
on the mountain, went off to hunt.
The hobbits slept half naked in the dry, warm grass. Gimli tried to enthrall
Gandalf with tales of Moria, but soon gave up and oiled his rusting armor
instead.
Moria. Boromir was certainly looking forward to the Mines. Real food...real
rest...a chance to stop worrying about being in the open. He removed his dank
clothing and rinsed it out in the mere. The mountain water was very cold but
clean and refreshing. He spread his clothing out on the grass to dry, then
scanned the skies for Saruman's spies. Nothing threatened from above. He decided
to risk a bath and stripped bare.
In the chilly water, he scrubbed at the chilblains on his hands. The hobbits had
faired the worst. That morning, Aragorn had gathered several herbs and ground
them into rendered fat. The result was a sticky green paste. Aragorn tended to
everyone's frostbite, though Boromir managed to avoid him. The dreams came every
night now. Variations on the same theme. He was in pain and Aragorn appeared to
heal him with a kiss. The idea of it disturbed him more that he could say.
Boromir felt blood seep from the wounds on his hands and face as he climbed out
of the mere. He inspected his damp gear Aragorn approached. The Ranger held out
the bowl of ointment and indicated the drying blood on Boromir's hands. "Just
smear a little of this on your wounds. It will help speed the healing."
"I will." Boromir promised and hurriedly put on a damp shirt. His clothing still
smelled musty but he felt less vulnerable dressed. When Aragorn turned away
Boromir sniffed suspiciously at the ointment. He detected herbs but did not know
them. He smeared a little of the greenish paste onto a sore and did find it
soothing.
As the Fellowship slept in the sun and the game Legolas had shot roasted slowly
over coals, Boromir dreamt of pain.
A score of cuts deep in his flesh oozed thick foul smoke. Aragorn was trying to
plug up the holes but the smoke was choking them. As Boromir smoldered, he
begged Aragorn to leave him and take the Ring to Gondor, but Aragorn kept trying
to heal him. Finally, Boromir caught fire and the flames from his body seared
away Aragorn's healing hands.
Boromir awoke with a jolt. The smoke from the cooking fire made him cough
hoarsely and he sat up shaking. Aragorn's cool hand clasped upon his forehead.
Boromir flinched at his touch.
"You have no fever," said Aragorn. "Good. Soon we'll eat, then make our way to
Moria after dark."
With an effort Boromir found his voice. "Why not in daylight?"
"The door to Moria can only be found in starlight or moonlight." Aragorn
explained as he took Boromir's strong fingers in his own and inspected the
wound.
"Keeping using that salve every day." Aragorn slid Boromir's sleeve up and
turned a wrist over. "How did you get the scar?" Aragorn asked.
Still shaking, Boromir pulled away from Aragorn's light grasp. "At sword
practice with my brother, Faramir. We got a little carried away."
"Oh?" Aragorn arched an eyebrow at him. "What had you done to your brother?"
Boromir hesitated, then grinned back at Aragorn sheepishly. "I only broke his
nose a little bit."
There was no light in Moria nor the chance of a roaring fire or clean water.
Boromir reeked of musty sweat, dank leather and the foul blood of the waterbeast
that attacked Frodo. He was used to hardship during travel, but never had he
felt this unclean. He was not alone in his discomfort although Legolas did not
seem to sweat as the others were prone to. The Elf was the only one who did not
have a distinctive stench in the dark.
Gandalf quietly informed them they were being followed by Gollum. Legolas
offered to go back and pick him off, but Gandalf did not endorse the idea. They
all slept on opposite perimeters to protect the hobbits.
There was little chance to sleep, must less to dream, that last day in Moria.
After the foul Balrog and Gandalf fell into the chasm, they barely managed to
flee with their lives. The sweet sight of daylight and scent of clean air did
nothing to soothe the pain of the loss of Gandalf. Aragorn scarcely gave them
all a moment to grieve before insisting they continue on. Boromir found himself
begging for a little more time, but the hardness was set in Aragorn's face and
so they ran without stopping to the edges of Lothlorien.
In the Lady's Forest, Boromir knew that their tactics must change. If these were
the losses to endure from the Mines of Moria, then how could they march into
Mordor without a proper army at their backs? The Ring must be used to defeat
Sauron before it was destroyed. Why was it only he could see that possibility?
This desire was plucked from his heart as Galadriel stared into his eyes. She
knew his most secret heart, and worse, the visions and fears that plagued him
were laid bare for her perusal.
He remembered the dream of a relentless siege by Sauron on the Kingless City,
his father and his people falling into dete
"Oh?" Aragorn arched an eyebrow at him. "What had you done to your brother?"
Boromir hesitated, then grinned back at Aragorn sheepishly. "I only broke his
nose a little bit."
There was no light in Moria nor the chance of a roaring fire or clean water.
Boromir reeked of musty sweat, dank leather and the foul blood of the waterbeast
that attacked Frodo. He was used to hardship during travel, but never had he
felt this uncleantion filled his voice. Finally, Aragorn reached out and stroked
his face. "Enough. I tell you again. Rest, Boromir. We are safe here. Sleep now,
sleep deep and regain your strength."
To exhausted to protest, Boromir silently obeyed and slept, but Galadriel
haunted his dreams. She and Aragorn stood in front of Frodo. The Ring dangled
tantalizingly around the halfling's neck, just out of reach. He could just take
it, but he would have to fight Aragorn and the Elf Witch to do it.
"The Edge of a knife..." she warned him. Desperate, he reached out for the Ring
and he felt Aragorn plunging the shattered sword Narsil into his chest over and
over again.
Aragorn's strong hand was clamped over his mouth. "You're screaming in your
sleep!" As the scream died in his mouth, Boromir felt a cold sweat break over
his trembling body. Aragorn finally removed his hand and commented, "You will
not find peace until the Ring is destroyed."
Boromir bristled. "I will not find peace until I know in my heart that Minas
Tirith is safe."
"There is far more at stake here than one city," Aragorn replied evenly.
"Your city, Aragorn, son of Arathorn," Boromir countered savagely. "The Elves
will go into the West come good or ill and they will not take you with them. All
that will remain for you is in Gondor. Do not sacrifice Minas Tirith lightly.
Think on that."
Aragorn's glittering eyes met Boromir's steadily. "I think of little else."
Gimli and Legolas had gone off to explore the wonders of Lothlorian. Under the
Enchantresses' spell, Gimli was now totally devoted to Galadriel. The Hobbits
stayed with each other for the most part, and with Gandalf gone, Boromir found
himself most often in Aragorn's company. They prepared their gear for the next
part of their journey and spoke of legends past, but never the present. Boromir
nearly spoke of his dreams, but thought better of it. No good could be
interpreted from such admissions. His dreams were alternately violent or
disturbingly erotic. Always there was pain. Always there was Aragorn. Hurting or
healing him and the Shadows kissing him and madness danced around his body in
his sleep deprived brain.
In the many days since Galadriel peered into his soul, Boromir had not explored
Lothlorian. The last night he finally found the courage to take a long last walk
in the Lady's Forest. Upon returning he found Aragorn lingering by the boats.
Arwen's pendant dangled around the Ranger's neck and caught the lights from
trees high above.
Boromir gently took it in his fingers and admired it. The shards of silver were
entwined like lovers. "Tis a pretty thing," he said kindly.
"It will remain when all things mortal have passed into dust," Aragorn replied
sadly.
"Do you fear death?" Boromir asked, still twisting the pendent in his
fingertips.
"I fear only the Fear of Death that perpetuates great evil," Aragorn replied.
"Such fear corrupted and sank the greatness that was Numenor."
"Yet from that tragedy arose Gondor," Boromir observed.
"But why allow Sauron's evil to again foul that which men love. Stay true,
Boromir," pleaded Aragorn, "Stay true to the Fellowship and we will not fail."
Boromir's eyes widened in fear. His hands trembled as he confessed, "I have
dreams, terrible dreams..."
"I know," Aragorn grasped his shoulders. "I hear your cries as you sleep. Help
us destroy the Ring that is Sauron's undying power. Help us, warrior of Gondor,
and peace will come to you and to us all."
"Will it?" Boromir dropped the pendant and turned away.
He returned to his pallet, wrapped the gray cloak around him and tried to sleep.
Hours passed yet sleep did not come. Aragorn knelt beside him in the darkness
and said, "I can give you something to help you sleep, if you like."
Boromir sighed heavily. "Can you give me Sauron's heart on a platter?"
Aragorn shook his head. "Alas, the Eye has no heart left."
"Then nothing you can have will give me rest tonight." Boromir lay back down.
Aragorn reached out and lightly brushed a stray lock of hair back from the
warrior's face. Boromir shut his eyes and did not resist as Aragorn continued to
gently stroke his forehead. It took some time, but sleep finally overcame the
son of the Steward of Gondor.
Many gifts had been given; cloaks, pins and weapons of an elvish nature. It was
the last night he would have a chance to sleep peacefully under the protection
of Lothlorien. The perilous journey to Mordor lay ahead. It would also be his
last chance to convince them all to take the Ring to Gondor. If he failed in
that and the Fellowship choose the path the Mordor, he would appeal to the
ringbearer himself. The little one did not know the Beauty of the City. If the
ringbearer agreed to come to Minas Tirith, then Aragorn would have to concede.
The roar of the Falls in the distance was both soothing and terrible. Before
them, Aragorn said, lay the legendary kings of stone who stood guard, flanking
the river. The Hobbits took a watch in pairs now, giving the others a chance to
rest. Each resumed their nightly camp habits. Boromir and Merry gathered wood
and water. Sam and Pippin tended the fire and prepared meals, Legolas hunted
game. Aragorn gathered edible plants. Gimli maintained the gear.
Tomorrow they would reach the end of the river. Tomorrow they would turn towards
Mordor and leave Gondor in shadow.
Boromir continued advising the young hobbits on sword play. They were more
skilled now, though their small size would always be a disadvantage. They all
ate supper, then smoked by the fire. Moments of stolen tranquillity; savoring
the beauty of the river, enjoying the calm of the forest. Yet his heart pounded
and once more he pleaded with Aragorn to take the road to Gondor.
"I will not take the ring within a thousand leagues of YOUR city." Aragorn had
hissed angrily. Boromir backed down but it was getting more difficult to ignore
the fear in his heart.
He drew the first watch, then Aragorn, then Legolas. The running water dominated
the sounds of the night. There was no moon, so the darkness was absolute. They
kept the coals banked, not wanting to risk a fire all night long.
When it was time, Boromir went over to where Aragorn lay and jostled the
ranger's shoulder. "Second watch," he said wearily. The Steward's son was tired
of fighting with Aragorn, tired of carrying fear for his city , his people, his
father, tired of fearing the shadows in the dark and within his own heart. If
only he could sleep.
Isildur's Heir rubbed his eyes and stood up. "Take my place," Aragorn yawned and
indicated his pallet. "'Tis still warm."
"In time," Boromir slumped down exhausted. "I am in no hurry to dream this
night."
Aragorn peered at him in the darkness and warned, "Your fears are an evil
diversion from the Ring, brother. Do not let them distress you."
Boromir snorted. "Brother? Am I thy brother, son of Arathorn?"
"You are more than a brother to me," Aragorn replied. "Truly."
Boromir wrapped his cloak around himself and reluctantly lay on the pallet.
Aragorn's distinctive scent was present and he found himself savoring it. "Each
night is worse. I can find no rest, no peace, no... hope," Boromir confessed.
Aragorn pulled a jagged, dark-green leaf from his pocket and put it in Boromir's
hand. "Chew on this. It will keep your dreams at bay."
Boromir sniffed at it. He knew this plant. "It will do more than that," Boromir
pushed it away in disgust. "It will make me useless if we are attacked this
night."
"I do not recommend this herb lightly," Aragorn insisted and replaced the leaf
into Boromir's fist. "You must get rest. I had hoped once we'd left Lothlorian
you might sleep... but as you say, it is not so."
"I will not take it," Boromir handed the leaf back. "'Twill slow my senses too
much."
"Then there is nothing I can do for you." Aragorn attempted to stand but Boromir
stayed him. He gently took the hand of the man meant to be his King and firmly
placed it upon his own forehead. "This... helps a little," Boromir said thickly
and closed his eyes.
In silence Aragorn remained and stroked Boromir's hair until the warrior relaxed
enough to rest. As Boromir completely surrendered to slumber, he felt a pair of
warm lips press against his own. From very far away he thought he heard
Aragorn's voice whisper a single word. "Truly."
Boromir dreamt he was holding Narsil in his hand. It was still razor sharp. He
kept cutting his fingers with it, yet he could not find the strength to put the
sword back down. Finally Aragorn appeared and took the broken sword from him.
"It's still sharp." Boromir eagerly licked blood from his fingers.
"Yes," agreed Aragorn. "Truly."
The stone Kings stood silent witness to their passing. The end of the river
loomed before them in misty dread as the roar of the falls filled the air.
Aragorn decreed they would wait for darkness to come before crossing into
Mordor.
The Ringbearer wandered off into the woods once the fire was going. Boromir
noted his direction. Exhausted, he watched Merry gather dead branches. It was
horrible to always be so tired. The ring bearer was also suffering from lack of
rest. If he could only convince Frodo to come to Gondor, all would be well.
He slipped away, up the hillside and then looked back. The others were debating
the decision to wait for nightfall. Frodo kept walking into the woods. With a
last glance at Aragorn, Boromir quietly followed the hobbit, determined to ask
the halfling to lend him the ring and give him the power to save his people.
Distracted, Frodo didn't notice the silent warrior.
Boromir felt so weary, so cursed tired. He wanted to go home. He wanted to show
Aragorn his city, to make the Heir love it as he did. To do that he must make
the Ringbearer see reason.
He gathered a few pieces of wood, feeling exhausted and broken. 'But like
Narsil', Boromir thought as he approached Frodo, 'I'm still sharp'.
(no graphic sex described and twenty points for everyone who gets the
pun)
by The Bardess
s he journeys towards Mordor, Boromir deals with a series of disturbing and
erotic dreams induced by the One Ring.
