Westering
Under the tight-tangled bare branches, the very air had been dark and
suffocating. Time and again he had lost the faint tracery of the path
and stepped ankle-deep in black rotting leaves. Here in the meadow,
though, pale dead grass whispered in a faint, clean breeze. Ahead of
him in the West, heaped clouds blazed in the sunset. The river ran
deep and quiet nearby. Further along the road lay Rivendell, full of
warmth and light and companionship. Already the damp chill of
midwinter was loosening its hold on him.
It took Boromir a minute to realise that even here, in the wood at
sunset, he was not alone. He knew that he was watched. His hand fell
to the hilt of his sword before he saw the man watching him.
It was the same remote, patient look with which Aragorn had first
greeted him, back in the autumn before the Council. Now the Ranger
sat, inscrutable as ever, on the trunk of a lightning-felled oak. His
hands were empty and his face calm, but Boromir felt again as though
he had intruded on a private moment.
"Were you waiting for me?" he challenged, walking towards the other
man.
"I knew you had taken this path," Aragorn said. "I thought that we
might walk the last mile together. Even so close to Rivendell, the
wood at night is perilous."
"I do not—" Boromir's boot skidded on stone, and he cursed and
looked down. At his feet rose a hummock of earth, no more than knee-high.
The grass was thinner there, and river-smooth pebbles gleamed
in the dusk.
"Have a care where you tread," Aragorn advised him. "These once were
tombs, though none can now name those who lie buried here."
"Tombs?" Boromir said, rocking back on his heels. "Yes, one of the
Hobbits spoke of some such: the Barrow-downs, he called them. Perhaps
they seem larger to Halflings. This is no more than a molehill."
Aragorn chuckled. "Those barrows that they fled, in the forest near
Bree, are the tombs of my ancestors," he said. "They are larger, and
the dead lie uneasily there. These are much older, and they have sunk
almost into the earth."
"A sad fate," said Boromir, "to have one's grave forgotten in the
wood."
"There are worse fates," said Aragorn. It was too dark to make out
his expression, but he was gazing at Boromir as though he saw him
clearly. It was another look that Boromir had become familiar with:
the look that seemed to read his heart.
"The Men of Gondor lie preserved in the Houses of the Dead," said
Boromir. "They rest at journey's end, where none may disturb them.
Better that than shrouded in earth for the worms to consume." His
voice rose, defying Aragorn's patient, goading silence. "When you
die, Ranger, where will your bones rest?"
"None may know that for sure."
"If we fail in this quest of the wizard's," Boromir said darkly, "our
bones will be toys for orcs. Or worse."
"Death is much on your mind this evening, Boromir." Aragorn stood and
came slowly towards him in the dusk, brushing dead flower-stems
aside. He did not look down as he walked between the shrunken tombs.
"Midwinter makes men think on their mortality," said Boromir. "The
days are brief and dim."
"Yet spring shall come again," said Aragorn softly, close enough that
Boromir could hear the steadiness of his breathing.
"Sometimes I dream that there will be no spring." Boromir's mouth
worked, tasting defeat. "That the days will grow shorter yet, and all
will vanish into night."
"All Men are mortal and must die," Aragorn said, infuriatingly
gentle. "Yet death need not be feared."
Boromir wanted to hit him, just to get a response more sincere than
this Elf-bred serenity. Instead he swallowed and stepped back. He
would not maul Isildur's Heir like a tavern brawler, no matter what
the provocation.
"It is not my death that haunts me." Boromir raised his eyes to the
West, trying not to see a fire burning there. "But lately my dreams
are full of flame, and I dreamt that I woke, already mourned, on a
pyre heaped with wood and oil."
"That is truly a fate to fear," said Aragorn gravely. "Yet few now
burn their dead, save in times of plague. Surely you will lie in
honour with your forefathers when—"
"It was a true dream!" Boromir cried. "It rang in my head as clear as
the vision which brought me to Imladr—... to Rivendell." He
swallowed. "I fear that fire. I fear to burn untimely."
The sky above them was deepest violet now, though in the West the
clouds glowed pinkly with a light of their own. A paring of moon hung
at the zenith, and the first star of the evening shone high above the
wood, towards Rivendell. Aragorn's gaze seemed fixed on that faint
light. He spoke so softly that the rush of the river almost covered
his words. "Boromir... I would show you... there is yet life before
death."
There were none to see the tears that started in his eyes at that
simple comfort. Surely not even Aragorn could read him by the light
of that single star. And so it was safe to reach up and meet the
embrace, to lean into the reassuring strength of Aragorn's arms.
It was not the embrace of a father, or a brother. Sometimes a comrade-in-arms would clasp him thus, before a battle or a trial, after a
death or a defeat.
This man might be his king, if they both lived. He was the heir to
everything that Boromir held dear. And yet they embraced as equals.
For now, perhaps, they might be no more than comfort to one another.
Aragorn's face was very close to his, and Aragorn was looking
straight at him, still, in the fading light. Boromir might have drawn
away then, save for the lure of warm breath against his cheek.
Instead he slid one hand against Aragorn's bare neck under the collar
of his coat, and felt the pulse surge steadily under his fingertips.
His other hand curled at Aragorn's waist, holding him close.
Aragorn's hands rested lightly on his shoulder blades, though the
gradual press of his body against Boromir's was less chaste. The cold
air licked at their damp skin.
Aragorn smelt of wood-smoke, pipe-smoke, dead leaves, himself. His
mouth was hot when Boromir kissed him, and he kissed back hungrily
and unhesitatingly, as though he had been long without passion. In
the wilderness, Boromir supposed, it might be so: certainly his own
long journey from the South had made him crave contact with others of
his kind. He had flirted with women and fenced with men in Elrond's
household, but all of them had been Elves, and he could not be quite
at ease with them. Aragorn and he were Men, evenly matched, equals in
honour if not in heritage. Aragorn's clever sinuous tongue pushed at
Boromir's own, and the Ranger rocked forwards slightly so that they
were braced against one another.
The two kissed silently for a long time, until the thin new moon
above them was bright silver against the night, and the first star
was lost in a scattering of constellations. At last Boromir drew back
from the kiss, breath as heavy as though he'd fled Aragorn's
dangerous, beguiling comfort. Aragorn made no move to restrain him,
and so he did not pull away, but stayed in the circle of the other
man's arms.
"The sun is down," he said softly at last. "It will be a cold night."
Words tasted odd in his mouth after Aragorn's breath.
"There is still a light in the West, to guide us home," said Aragorn.
Boromir wondered if he was speaking of Rivendell itself, a beacon in
the dark. Aragorn's arms loosened, and he stepped aside, but not
away. His gloved hand reached for Boromir's, and Boromir let him take
it. It did not feel like any sort of weakness.
"And when we are home?" he said, letting Aragorn lead him along a
path he could no longer see. To their right, the river murmured in
its ravine. Behind them, the woods were quiet and dark.
"Soon our journey will commence. All our strength must then be a
shield for Frodo."
"It will be good to end the waiting," said Boromir. "I am not
accustomed to this idleness."
"And yet, I think, we have a little idle time left to us here," said
Aragorn. His smile glimmered in the dark and his hand clasped
Boromir's more firmly.
Ahead of them, as they rounded the shoulder of the valley, the lamps
at Elrond's gates glowed a welcome. Boromir had expected Aragorn to
let go of his hand once they were in sight of the sentries. It was
reasonable. He had not expected Aragorn to turn to him, grip his
shoulders, lean towards him until he felt the warmth of Aragorn's
skin again.
"Boromir," he said, low and intense, "I will not let you burn."
The pressure of his hands was distracting. More than distracting: it
sparked and thrilled as though they were skin to skin. Boromir
exhaled shakily, unable to stop his smile. "I think you have set a
different fire," he said. "One that keeps the dark at bay."
Aragorn's quiet mirth echoed his own. "I do not fear to be scorched
by that fire." His hands tightened on Boromir's shoulders, and his
voice was suddenly solemn again. "But, Boromir... I swear that
should you die and I survive, I will accord your body all honour."
"Give me to the River," Boromir whispered, "that I may reach the Sea.
Let me go onwards over the Sea. Let me go West."
It was too dark for him to see the pity in Aragorn's eyes.
Continued in Midwinter
by Gloria Mundi
oming out of the dark wood into open space was like stepping from
night into day: Boromir's pace slowed, and he sighed with relief.
