In The Gathering Dark
Silence, complete utter silence except for a whispering voice in the night, the
ghosts of Khazad-dûm singing their mournful Requiem for a time long lost to
living memory. Or are these my own thoughts echoing in my mind, becoming a sad
song of loneliness and grief? I do not know, this darkness seems to swallow all
thoughts, devour all reason, makes me feel numb and indifferent. Indifferent to
all except this burning pain in my soul. I close my eyes and what I see is
always the same: the White City, my city... but the white banners turn dark, a
shadow is rising in the East, the tower of Ecthelion lost in darkness. And I
hear my father's voice, far away.
'Gondor's strength is failing...'
Gondor's strength is failing. This he said to me when I rode forth from
Minas Tirith to seek the counsel of Elrond Halfelven, rode forth to Imladris to
learn how to save my people. And now I'm here in this uttermost darkness and I
know that it is true, there is no hope left, there has never been. Even if we
get out of the labyrinths of Moria alive it will all be in vain.
Minas Tirith in ruins, the White Tower lost in darkness, that is all I see. And
there's another voice whispering in my mind, whispering my name. 'Boromir... Son
of Denethor.' Since we left Rivendell it has never stopped calling me, softly
calling me. 'Boromir... Son of Gondor.' A glint of gold in the snow and the
voice calling me. 'Boromir... Lord of Gondor...' and then 'King of Gondor...'
Temptation, Aragorn's hand on the hilt of his sword, white knuckles, unknown
tension, silent reproach in his eyes.
Memories flash through my mind as I stand in the darkness, alone. Aragorn's
eyes, so full of reproach. I can't forget them although I do not know why. Or do
I pretend I do not know? I fight that feeling inside me. It cannot be, it
cannot... I am a warrior, son of the Steward of Gondor... But his eyes...
they're haunting me, haunting me in sleep and waking.
Does he hate me then? Does he hate me because I'm weak and he is not? Does he
not feel the temptation of the Ring himself? Does he not feel the temptation
like Isildur has felt it? For sure even the heir of kings isn't as flawless as
he pretends to be. But his hand, his hand on the hilt of his sword and that
expression of silent reproach on his face I can't forget. Does he hate me then?
Why should I care about what he thinks of me? He is not King yet, maybe he will
never be. Gondor needs no King, not even now. If Minas Tirith is doomed to fall
not even Isildur's heir will be able to save her, I should have saved her but I
have failed. Silent reproach in Aragorn's eyes... Why do I care?
Isildur's heir he might be but in truth he is no more than a Ranger and the
claim he pretends to have on the throne of Gondor is nothing but a faded
bloodline. I do not care if Aragorn thinks me weak or not.
But there are his eyes still looking at me and I can't get rid of that feeling,
the feeling that I am lying to myself. Aragorn's eyes, always on my mind... Did
I not seek them, trying to read his thoughts in those pools of clear blue? Would
I not know them everywhere by that colour like the endless depths of the sea?
Why do I care?
It cannot be, it cannot... Not Aragorn... that usurper who claims to be my King,
that Ranger who claims to be flawless while he mocks my weakness, who would not
hesitate to raise his sword against me would I dare to stand in his way... not
Aragorn...
Why do I care? Aragorn. His very name feels like a dagger in my heart and a
strange painful awareness fills my soul. Sudden? No, it is not this type of
sudden awareness that hits you like a flash of lightning, and that is what hurts
most. This feeling seems to have been there from the beginning of time. I cannot
fight it now. Aragorn is right, I am too weak to fight any longer. Must I be
defeated so?
Curse this weakness... curse my treacherous heart. Never until this moment have
I known that my worst enemy is not he but my very self, my own terrible weakness
that I believed to have died a long time ago, starved in the iron dungeon of
will, an abandoned prisoner to the chains of pride.
Only now do I have to learn that it is not so, that this enemy is not to be
defeated, that waiting in the shadows it has mocked my every victory, knowing
the day would come, that on the summit of strength the fatal blow would not fail
to reach its target... one blow... only one blow to shatter a world... one blow,
it took so very little, the step into the abyss was so very short... Aragorn...
so agonizingly short, the step from victory to defeat...
...and when I close my eyes now it is not Minas Tirith I see but his eyes, only
him, everywhere, the darkness is whispering his name. Or is this my own voice,
so hoarse, forming the sound, that terrible, beloved name? How I have tried to
hate him, how I have tried to fight but my defense is shattered now in this
endless darkness without dawn. I feel I'm trembling, reach for the wall for
support, rest my burning face against the cold stones, close my eyes...
Impossible. And it hurts, hurts so much. I never thought I could be capable of
such feelings. Aragorn, what have you done to me? Do you know? Do you know the
torment of my soul? Have you read it in my eyes even before I knew myself?
'Boromir?'
A hand on my arm and a voice whispering my name. Valar, let him not see my
troubled heart, I could not bear it. 'I have been worried.' So soft, so
concerned, worried about me, about me, his enemy, me, his rival. I do not
answer, do not dare to speak lest my voice betray me and tell him what he must
never know.
'Boromir?' he asks again, his hand still on my arm. I can hardly see his face in
the darkness but I don't need to. Its picture burns inside my head, his fair
face. I feel him moving closer. Why has he come to me tonight, why has he sought
me in this darkness, oh why must he torture me so? Can he not feel that his very
presence is tearing me apart, that every word from his lips, every word of
gentle concern, concern undeserved, must kill me anew, that his touch must be my
undoing? Aragorn, why do you torture me so? Aragorn, where is my pride?
'Boromir... what is it? Come with me and rest.'
I force myself to speak, my voice hardly audible. Will he notice it's shaking?
'I... I cannot... cannot rest...'
I can feel him hesitate before he answers, his voice strangely changed, so
surprisingly unsteady.
'Neither can I...'
I catch my breath, struggling to make my voice obey my will.
'I wonder how the hobbits can sleep in this darkness... but then they seem to be
able to sleep anywhere...'
The irrelevance of my words trying to turn my mind from that one torturing
thought, trying, failing as my forced laughter dies on my lips.
Go... I plead in silence. Please go... Don't do this to me... Will you
not show mercy?
'I have...'
But he interrupts me.
'It is not the darkness that troubles me, Boromir.'
His voice is shaking, there is a tone in it I have never heard before and that
makes me shiver though I don't exactly know why. Don't I know?
'What is it then?'
But I know, know even before I feel Aragorn's fingers brush my cheek, softly,
feel them trace the lines of my face in the darkness.
'Boromir' he whispers. 'Boromir, don't you know?'
I dare not move, dare not breathe... His fingers get lost in my hair, encircling
my neck, drawing me closer and I feel heat welling up inside me.
'Aragorn...'
My voice breaks. His face is close now, so close I can see the gleaming of his
eyes, his breath upon my skin is warm, warm like the summer breeze on the plains
of Gondor. I try to read in his eyes, cannot believe what I see, I feel the
darkness must be deceiving me, the darkness or my own heart making me see
something I wish was there, eyes gleaming with a mixture of passion and despair,
a painful desire that seems to burn my very soul, for I see it mirrored in those
eyes.
'Don't you know?' he repeats, his voice hardly audible.
I can't answer, lost in his eyes and suddenly I realize, confess at last to
myself what deep in my heart I have known since that moment in the halls of
Rivendell when Aragorn's eyes first met mine. From that moment both of us have
been lost forever, not only me but Aragorn also.
I do not resist as he draws me into his arms. Is not this what I have wanted,
what I have dreamt of in the lonely watches of the night? Is not this what I
have desired those countless times I have guarded his sleep, unable to take my
eyes off his fair face?
For a moment he just holds me close, runs his fingers through my hair, and I
feel his warmth flooding through me. Victorious as it drives away the last
remnants of the cold darkness. Victorious as it washes away the last remnants of
doubt.
And as he kisses me, softly, I am his. As he kisses me, gently, I feel the wall
I have built around my heart give way, fall to ruin before the very fire of his
eyes. And nothing has ever felt so right, nothing but his lips on mine, so warm,
his tongue exploring my mouth welcomed by my own. I could kiss him like this for
the rest of my life, forever, just kiss him, forget the world around us, forget
the darkness, forget all that could ever stand between us, feel that he, too, is
forgetting, forgetting for a moment who we are, forgetting the rivals we are
supposed to be. He caresses my face as he continues to kiss me, slowly, as if to
memorize every line, every faded scar from battles long gone, as if he could
find beneath the bruised skin something else, something deeper, as if with his
lingering feather-light caress he could reach my very soul. And maybe he can.
'Boromir.'
How strange my name sounds on his lips, as he whispers it into the darkness, how
strange, and how familiar. A whole new meaning when his voice forms the sound,
on his lips it becomes a promise and a confession, a question and an answer.
Sweet defeat this is. Never have I allowed myself to believe that there is
victory other than triumph, reward other than glory, fulfilment other than
renown. But I must believe now, he forces me to believe and for once I do not
fight it.
I lean in to kiss him again, get lost in the sensation of his warm lips yielding
to my demanding tongue and I still marvel at how right it feels, so right. His
lips on mine, so right, so right, his hands on my face. And I know that I would
do anything, anything he asks of me, that the moment he first kissed me I have
acknowledged him my Lord and King, and I faintly remember being afraid, afraid
of the moment of surrender. How could I have possibly known that surrender could
taste as sweet, as sweet as this? And if it was his will that I should bow
before him and swear fealty this very night I would not refuse, no, I would
gladly kneel and worship him with every fragment of my being.
Aragorn, what have you done to me? I tremble for I am afraid of who I am, who I
have become in your arms and I do not know myself.
I feel his hands move over my back drawing random patterns on the rough fabric
of my cloak and I rest my head against his shoulder breathing the warmth of him
and forgetting the cold.
'Boromir', he whispers, very close to my ear. 'What is it? What is it you are
afraid of?'
And I tell him never knowing where the words came from and where they went, I
tell him of Gondor, of Minas Tirith so proud that will be his one day. And
surprisingly there is no bitterness in the thought now. I tell him of the fair
city of men, of my desire to save her and my fear of not being able to do just
that. I tell him and listen to myself speaking never ceasing to wonder that this
whispered voice that seems to form the words without conscious thoughts
preceding them is my own. And when all is said I fall silent for there are no
more words left, I fall silent and half wait for him to laugh at my fears, at my
doubts and my weakness. And I feel so vulnerable, so completely at his mercy it
frightens me. I have to learn to trust him, I want to learn how to trust him and
still I cannot, not yet, and I can do nothing but stand and await the blow that
will kill the last remnants of my shattered pride. I wait but the blow doesn't
come. Only silence and the warmth of his embrace. He doesn't move, he just holds
me and I close my eyes to fight back the tears that make even the faintest
vision blur into inpenetrable floating darkness. And all the time he is holding
me, silently and I do not know whether it is just that he cannot think of words
to say or whether his silence indeed has some deeper meaning, whether maybe this
silent acceptance is his answer to my fears.
I do not know how long we are standing in the darkness, silent except for his
breathing, regular, warm and close to the skin of my neck. I do not know if
those are seconds or minutes passing into the soundless darkness before he
finally speaks again. And even now it is just my name, nothing more.
'Boromir', a whisper becoming one with the darkness, just a whisper before I
feel his lips descend onto my skin and then all words fall short.
His hands upon my skin are trembling as he lets them slide beneath the fabric of
my tunic, maps my chest with his hands and paints it with mysterious patterns
the meaning of which is known to nobody but him. And as he undresses me, slowly,
I feel that at the same time he is stripping me of all my doubts, all my fears,
all my stubborn pride, stripping it all away, and as I stand before him,
shivering and yet burning, burning for him, this is who I am, the man beneath
the warrior, the soul beneath the pride, the lover beneath the Steward's heir
and the feelings beneath the duty.
And I know I will regret, I know and I do not care, not anymore. I know it will
hurt but this time I welcome the knife. Cut me loose, cut me loose from all the
strings that bind me, cut me loose from the doubts and the fear, cut me loose
from my name and my heritage and just let me be. And should I bleed to death so
be it, I do not care.
His skin against mine is so warm and despite the heat that is surging through my
veins I feel I must be ice in his arms, so long, so long gone the time when I
last felt like this, I feel I must learn anew what it means to burn, what it
means to be consumed and burn to ash, what it truly means to live.
As my world falls apart in his hands I feel Boromir of Gondor must be there
somewhere out in the darkness watching, a mocking smile playing on his lips
maybe for what I have become. And maybe he knows I'm falling and yet he does not
extend his hand to hold me back. For this moment, for no more than a moment it
can be, I do not care about Boromir of Gondor. The brightest flame burns
quickest, so they say and deep in my heart for all the illusions and all the
hope I feel I know this cannot last. But for a moment, just for a moment,
Boromir of Gondor is dead. He has died in the darkness this night but dawn I
fear will see him reborn.
But strange enough I do not care, I do not care as I am consumed, claimed and
set free by the man I know to be Aragorn but feel to be so much more. And yet I
feel that Aragorn, too, has died a little this night, has died a little in our
burning consummation, in the night-dark abyss beneath. And as he cries my name
in release and I can but whisper his in return I know that to whatever darkness
our path will lead us and to whatever light, to whatever beginning and whatever
end, I will remember this, always. Remember us, who we were and the part of us
that died to join the shadows in the gathering dark.
I wait for you, the night my sole companion,
I wait for you, the night my last salvation,
FINIS.
by Iana
am alone, alone in the endless darkness of
Moria. It is cold, an icy wind out of nowhere seems to reach my very heart,
makes me shiver.
my only shelter from the days of bitter rain
that mingled with my tears must turn to poison
and mingled with my grief must turn to pain.
my only hope left and the dark my only friend,
for daylight now is naught to me but torture,
for in the darkness I will find you in the end.
