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Chapter Text

It's impossible to be angry at someone you've seen sleeping.

Recently, Aragorn and Boromir were shouting at each other, almost every conversation they had ended in a quarrel. This time, too, many things were said that Aragorn personally now regretted. Perhaps Boromir also left after each of his outbursts of anger, tried not to show himself to either Aragorn or the rest of the Fellowship, and now avoided the Rangers. Zeal for the future Steward has always been common, but not anger. And Halbarad never tired of joking about the strong feelings that Aragorn and Boromir evoke in each other. Knowing human nature, the old friend was rarely wrong.

Aragorn was sitting by the fire, out of habit carrying his part of the night guard, although there was no need for guards in the centre of the Rohan camp. The thoughts swarming in my head prevented me from lying down and falling asleep. One fortress was defended, one dark one by an army of Ents, and two little hobbits practically threw the powerful of this world to their feet. But even this did not inspire convincing hopes that the prophecy from Boromir's dream would come true in the direction of light.

Aragorn looked at the Gondorian again. He settled down nearby, slept like a real soldier — without taking off his armour and boots, putting his sword next to him. He looked completely exhausted. The wounds received at Amon Hen were not fatal, but very severe, the unwillingness to lag behind the orc hunt cost Boromir enormous strength, and the battle at the Helm fortress almost killed him, and the enemy's swords had almost nothing to do with it. All strength and endurance comes to an end, now it seemed to Aragorn that Boromir's strength had left him a long time ago, and he held on to stubbornness alone. And it is she who will bring him to the grave. Today, after a loud discussion of the fate of Gondor, Boromir did not allow the wounds to be examined and bandaged, and now the prospect of fighting inflammation and fever has been added to all Aragorn's worries.

A snort in his ear brought Aragorn out of his reverie. Halbarad had been standing nearby for a long time and watched his friend stare at his sleeping comrade, forgetting even to blink. In response to the eloquent look, Aragorn only shook his head. Whatever makes Halbarad laugh, it's much more complicated.

The exchange of glances was interrupted by Boromir himself. He shuddered, groaned hollowly through clenched teeth, his fingers dug into the dry grass searching for the hilt of the sword lying a little to the side. Aragorn immediately crossed the clearing and sat down on the ground next to her. He brushed the hair from the tense face of the sleeper, stroked the high forehead, wiped the cold sweat from the temples. There was no fever, just a bad dream.

‘The darkness hasn't got here yet,’ he said in Elvish. ‘And you're not alone.’

Boromir did not know Elvish, but only the sounds of this wonderful language could drive away the darkness and dispel the enemy's charms. The Gondorian's face relaxed, he dropped his already raised head on Aragorn's hand and fell back into sleep, now calm.

‘Halbarad,’ Aragorn called softly to his friend. ‘Bring my bag, some basin and boiled water.’

Halbarad left, but with such a significant look that Aragorn barely suppressed the urge to throw something at him. Instead, he laid Boromir on his back and began to undress him. Even the deep sleep of the guardian of the White Tower was light, he shuddered at the touch, shivered from the cold, his eyelids fluttered, and tense muscles rolled under Aragorn's hand. Then Aragorn began to sing. He quietly started an old elven song that his mother had once sung to him. There was no special charm in either the melody or the words, it was just a lullaby. But she was able to lull the vigilance of even an exuberant curious boy, and even more, so a warrior exhausted by darkness and pain. Now Boromir was sleeping really soundly, and there was no place for pain in this dream. Rivendell's waterfalls roared there, and birds sang in the night gardens.

Halbarad returned just in time to help Boromir get rid of the chain mail. Together they stripped him almost completely to the waist, even took off his vest from one shoulder to bandage all the wounds. That bastard Saruman shot three arrows. The first one pierced the left shoulder, the wound caused severe pain, but did not ease the fate of the orcs either then or after. The second arrow pierced a lung and scratched a rib, Boromir still shuddered every time he took a deep breath, and immediately after that he almost suffocated. The third arrow was supposed to kill him, it hit him in the stomach, leaving a deep and very bloody wound. Whether it was a happy accident or one of Aragorn's prayers to all the powers of the world was heard, but the arrow did not touch the insides, and the bleeding quickly subsided.

The next morning Boromir brushed aside all objections and exhortations, and four of the remnants of the Brotherhood set off in pursuit of the orcs. Boromir often lagged behind, but invariably caught up with his friends on short halts. There was no more talk about what had happened between him and Frodo, but Aragorn was sure that he was now driven by a strong sense of guilt. Boromir could not ask for forgiveness from Frodo himself now, and therefore he threw all his strength into saving Merry and Pippin.

Having finished treating the wounds, Aragorn brought his blanket and wrapped Boromir up, made an improvised pillow out of his cloak and made an almost real bed on the stones.

‘We're not going to dress him?’ Halbarad was surprised, watching Aragorn hang clothes on poles by the fire. ‘Get ready for a big scandal in the morning.’

‘He will see fresh bandages,’ Aragorn replied. ‘Let him sleep at least one night without a hauberk.’ Returning to Boromir, he pulled back the edge of the blanket and the collar of the shirt. On the shoulders, the leather jacket was almost worn through, and even through the shirt and doublet, iron rings dug into the skin.

Strangely, the lullaby that Aragorn sang lulled him to sleep. At least, the sight of clean scarring wounds and the calm face of a sleeping comrade had a calming effect. Aragorn sat next to him for a while, humming to himself a few more songs, of which only the motive remained in his memory, then settled down in a hollow between the roots of a tree and dozed off.

The sun woke him up in the morning. The sky was grey, the first rays were about to colour the horizon. Aragorn lay and listened to the camp wake up. Boromir shifted around, sat down, shook his head, chasing away sleep, caught the edge of the sliding blanket and pulled it over his shoulder. And then he froze, as if a blade had been pressed into his back. The blanket was not his—his own served as bedding—and all his clothes were hanging by the extinguished campfire.

‘What the—’ He turned around, saw Aragorn, his light grey eyes instantly darkened with anger and, as it seemed to Aragorn, with fear. ‘What did you do?’

‘I have bandaged your wounds,’ Aragorn replied calmly. He got to his feet, stretched his stiff joints, took two tunics from the pole and threw one to Boromir. ‘I'm sorry, I had to do it.’

‘What else did you have to do?’ he snapped and began to dress with such speed, as if all the hordes of Mordor were waiting behind the hill. By the time the scabbard was tightened and all the rivets on the jacket were fastened, his nervousness had subsided.

‘Thank you,’ he said, still frowning.

‘I hope you will allow me to bandage you in the future in the light of day and in a waking state,’ Aragorn replied with a smile, trying to soften the situation. It didn't work out very well.

‘If it was so disgusting, why bandaged me sleeping?’ There was no anger in Boromir's voice, only a strange sadness. He was looking away and was about to leave.

‘I was not disgusted,’ said Aragorn. The fact that he was not so disgusted that the slow undressing and gentle healing of a trustfully relaxed body then dreamed of him half the night, he kept silent. But he was terribly reluctant to let Boromir go. Barely noticeably touching his hand, Aragorn stopped his rush to escape. ‘Stay. There is no time at all before the camp awakens. And Halbarad made a rabbit stew.’

The army, as always with offensives and rapid movements, fed on dry rations and what they managed to catch themselves. The Rangers are no stranger to living on the road, they managed to surround themselves with comfort even in the Morgul Vale, not to mention the fertile fields and forests. Halbarad looked like Sam Gamgee here. He respected elven bread, but preferred chowder, meat, and plain bread. Aragorn seduced the wayward Gondorian with a fragrant broth with spicy herbs and large pieces of rabbit meat. And a full stomach always has a beneficial effect on mood. By the time the other Rangers, Merry and Gimli, woke up and Legolas returned from his walk through the walking forests, Aragorn and Boromir had already had breakfast and were sitting by the crackling fire again, talking calmly and even smiling at each other for the first time in a long time.

The idyll was destroyed by Eomer, who took Boromir to the village where the troops were gathering. Gimli immediately took the Gondorian's place by the fire. He poured himself a second bowl of soup and thoughtfully lit his pipe, extremely pleased with such simple joys.

‘The way to a man's heart is definitely through his stomach,’ Halbarad said casually, looking at Aragorn. He was still watching the cloud of dust from under the hooves of horses that had long since disappeared.

‘I don’t think so,’ Legolas remarked, stroking the plumage of one of the arrows in his quiver. ‘Although, if you hit from the bottom up and a little obliquely... maybe.’

‘Aragorn is too well-bred to strike surreptitiously,’ Halbarad chuckled. ‘Everything comes from his heart.’

This time Halbarad miraculously dodged the blow, Aragorn even put down his pipe. The Rangers were laughing quietly, Merry looked at him with bewilderment, not understanding at all what he was talking about. Gimli grunted, blowing out a cloud of smoke.

‘Well, it's nice that you figured everything out. It's about time,’ he said.

‘What are you talking about?’ Merry asked.

Aragorn gave Gimli an expressive look, to which the dwarf only waved his hand irritably.

‘Come on, we're not all blind here. There was always a spark between Boromir and you, since we had left Rivendell.’

‘Gimli,’ said Aragorn, frowning. ‘It's not that simple.’

‘Your love to complicate everything is clearly from the influence of the elves,’ at these words, the dwarf's hand seemed to involuntarily lay on his heart. Somewhere there, in a deep pocket, were three golden strands of hair. ‘As soon as the sun goes down, it’ll be dark. There will be a cloud and only memories of the stars. And they don't write songs about a bonfire or a torch. Only real fire is not afraid of darkness or storms. They only make the fire brighter and hotter.’

Aragorn sighed heavily. Every word was true. The truth is that fire burns. To the marrow of the bones, to the very heart. And it's even scarier and more painful to lose it, especially during a storm. Tonight Aragorn saved his bright candle from an accidental gust of wind and wrapped it in blankets, afraid even to remember that terrible moment when this fire almost went out right in his hands.

Chapter Text

Boromir returned a few hours later, when the sun was already high. He looked annoyed and tired. The trackers invited him back to the hearth, Aragorn tried to carefully find out the news that had upset him so much.

‘Théoden's army won’t march until the day after tomorrow,’ Boromir replied.

He looked into the bowl where the hot soup was splashing invitingly, set it aside, not succumbing to temptation, and dropped his head into his hands. In this position, hunched over, as if under the weight of all the destinies of Middle-earth, Aragorn seemed a shadow of despair.

‘To go into battle with insufficient forces is to condemn your army to defeat,’ said Aragorn. He sat down next to Boromir, so close that he touched him with his hip, and spoke softly — only to him. A circle of silence suddenly formed around him: Gimli became extremely interested in the forest, and Legolas dragged him away with him, Halbarad and the trackers found a hundred urgent cases. ‘You lead armies into battle as much as Théoden, or even more, if you count in your own way,’ Aragorn reminded. ‘Do you understand—’

‘My mind understands this, but not my heart,’ Boromir replied dully, without raising his head. ‘Rohan will only have time to drive away the ravens feasting on the ruins.’

‘Minas Tirith will stand,’ Aragorn assured him. He put into these words all the faith that he still had. Boromir straightened up a little, tried to smile out of the corner of his lips.

‘I'm going back to Edoras today. If I go out in the afternoon, I'll be there by evening. And tomorrow at dawn I will go to Gondor. I should have left right away, along with Gandalf and Pippin.’

‘No horse could keep up with Shadowfax,’ Aragorn shook his head. ‘And your wounds would not allow you to ride day and night without rest.’ In truth, he would have forbidden Boromir to leave now, but he didn't try to stop him, he knew it was useless.

‘I want to be in the city when the siege begins,’ Boromir said, confirming all fears. ‘I have to be there.’

Aragorn sighed, but said nothing. It is foolish to dissuade a warrior from battle, especially one as stubborn as Boromir.

‘Have you told Théoden you're leaving yet?’ he asked instead of admonitions.

‘Yes,’ Boromir winced.

‘What did he say?’

‘That I am free to do as I see fit. Just like him. And reminded me that I am not the king of Rohan or Gondor. And not even the steward.’

Aragorn was silent again. He would like to say that Boromir has long been the steward in everything but the title, that Gondor is still alive only thanks to the efforts of him and his brother. But this is where almost all quarrels began. Boromir's devotion to his father was above any aspirations for power, above even his own pride. He belittled his merits in favour of those of his father and never tired of assuring Aragorn that Lord Denethor would not object to the return of the king. Aragorn was also tired of trying to talk him out of it. He was happy to get at least a fraction of the trust and friendship of this incredible man and was afraid to destroy everything. Therefore, instead of unnecessary words, he ordered Halbarad to prepare the horses.

‘We will go with you to Edoras,’ he said to Boromir and was rewarded with a look full of pure joy. The second part of the phrase was much more complicated. ‘But only to Edoras. I won’t go to Minas Tirith by the usual road.’

‘And which way are you going to go to the city?’ Joy was replaced by bewilderment, Boromir frowned, as if suspecting the answer.

‘I'm going through Dunharrow.’

‘You're crazy!’ Boromir exclaimed. ‘This is suicide!’

‘This is a chance,’ Aragorn replied softly. ‘The forces that the enemy is pulling into Gondor are not only on earth. If we can intercept the pirate ships on Anduin, we will divert the terrible threat from Minas Tirith.’

‘But no one returns from Paths of the Dead!’

‘I'll be back.’

Boromir jumped up and began pacing around the fire. The trackers saddled their horses and waited for the order, Gimli grumbled, but also climbed on the horse, and Legolas did not show the slightest surprise. At last Boromir approached Aragorn and was about to blurt something out, but Aragorn perfectly caught the train of his thoughts and answered before the words left the Gondorian's lips.

‘No, you're not coming with us.’

‘Why?’ Boromir's voice immediately sounded angry. ‘You don't forbid your friends to follow you even to death. Are you doubting me?’

‘I don't doubt you. Because I have no doubt that the sun rises in the east,’ replied Aragorn. He sees the sky, the road he chose scared him, and with all his heart he would like Boromir to be near. But not today. ‘We won't make it to Minas Tirith before the gates close. But you have to be there.’

Boromir's nostrils flared with barely contained anger, like a warhorse's, and his jaws trembled with tension. But he didn't say anything. Aragorn also kept silent and did not say that Denethor alone would not hold Minas Tirith and how hard it would be for Faramir between his father and Gandalf. About how people sentenced to death need hope.

Now they were silent for a long time. Everyone has already learned that it hurts the other, and least of all sought to open wounds. Or they just learned to understand each other without words, guess the views and read their own hearts. And now they were riding surrounded by trackers, holding hands, but not talking. Boromir even seemed to be trying not to look in Aragorn's direction once again. He probably wanted him to be by his side in besieged Minas Tirith as much as Aragorn Boromir wanted him to be on the Path of the Dead. They have become for each other the very candle that is lit at the darkest hour of the night. But they both had to give up this light to light the way for others.

In the dead of night, in the Golden Hall, they were met by the beautiful Éowyn. She, too, was horrified at the thought that Aragorn would follow the cursed path, and tried to convince him to join her uncle's armies. Aragorn with tenderness, but inexorable firmness stopped all disputes. Boromir did not participate in their conversation, and this taciturnity was alarming.

But it wasn't the wounds, they healed quickly. That evening Boromir allowed himself to be examined and bandaged without question. As if doomed, he allowed Aragorn everything he asked for. He did not contradict him when he insisted on eating properly and going to bed early, did not wave off blankets and pillows, even as if he did not notice that Aragorn put them on the same bed. True, it was so wide that two mighty warriors could never meet in it all night. And when Halbarad came to their room to report that everything was ready for an early departure, he witnessed a historical scene, as he later said. The future king of Gondor was sitting on his lap, the future ruler was on the bed in front of him, and the heir of Isildur was taking off his shoes and washing his feet. Aragorn had a towel on his hip, completing the ablution in a basin with a decoction of some fragrant herbs, he alternately wiped Boromir's feet dry and at some point... Halbarad thought he saw a weightless kiss on his knee. Boromir did not notice this; he had already leaned back in his chair and was almost dozing. Aragorn regretted that it was the only kiss he could take with him on the dark road.

In the morning Aragorn woke up in Boromir's arms. At night, in search of warmth, they clung closely to each other, now the heavy hand of the Gondorian lay on Aragorn's chest, and hot breath warmed his neck. No one had nightmares at night, none of them woke up in a sweat with a pounding heart. No darkness had power over them while they were side by side, shoulder to shoulder. Aragorn took this as a good sign. He got out of bed carefully so as not to wake Boromir and embarrass him. He himself woke up when Aragorn was almost dressed. After a quick snack, they got ready for the road.

Horses were nervously shifting from one foot to the other at the porch. Here their paths diverged, and Aragorn involuntarily hesitated, mentally berating himself for this. He watched as Boromir carefully tightened his bracers and slowly put on his gloves, adjusting each buckle. What should I say to a person who is going to hell itself? And what are these words worth from someone who himself goes into darkness?

Aragorn led Boromir's horse and carefully held the stirrup. If he had his way, he would have helped him into the saddle, but Boromir could not bear his own weakness. He jumped on his horse on his own, winced slightly, straightened up and was about to turn onto the road when Aragorn intercepted his horse by the bridle.

‘Promise me one thing,’ he said. ‘What you already promised me in Caras Galadhon. Remember?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Boromir frowned.

‘About the silver trumpets that will call us home. And the guard on the tower announcing the return of the lords of Gondor. Promise me that you will meet me at the gates of Minas Tirith, and we will enter the city together.’

‘Let's go together now, if you like this promise so much,’ there was no attempt to convince Boromir in his voice. Aragorn only shook his head in response. ‘You would bring people hope, which they have not had for a long time.’

‘I won’t bring hope,’ said Aragorn. ‘I'm just a character from a legend. But not you. They will follow you to your death because they know that you will do the same for them. I pray for one thing — do not rush. Remember what you promised me.’

Boromir was silent in response. Then suddenly he began to unbutton the bracers that he had so carefully secured. He took them off and handed them to Aragorn. A pair of beautiful armbands made of thick embossed leather. In the drawing, the thick crown of the great tree of kings was rising.

‘Take this. And promise that you will return them to me unharmed,’ Boromir said seriously.

‘I promise,’ Aragorn replied with a smile.

Their paths had parted, and there was no point in looking back, trying to see the lone horseman far behind, but Aragorn's thoughts were still on the porch of Meduseld. Something incredibly warm settled in his soul. Warmed by Boromir's skin, the bracers encircled his wrists as if they were his hands, rough hot palms. Immersed in his thoughts, Aragorn did not notice either the road or the conversations nearby and therefore did not immediately hear Legolas' hail.

‘My friend, it seems that something has been stolen from you,’ the elf said.

Aragorn was waiting for a joke about the heart and was ready to fully agree with her. It was foolish to deny that his heart was now rushing to Minas Tirith, and his love for the white city had absolutely nothing to do with it. But Legolas answered the questioning look differently.

‘The ring, Aragorn. The Ring of Barahir was gone.’

Aragorn's gaze darted to the index finger of his left hand. Only a slight trace of the ring remained on the weathered, tanned skin. Aragorn did not know when it disappeared, as his mind was busy with heavy thoughts all the time.

‘Boromir took it off at night,’ he said slowly.

‘This lad clearly has a morbid craving for jewellery,’ Halbarad muttered, but completely without malice. If there had been any condemnation in his voice, he would have been in trouble. Aragorn suddenly felt an incredible desire to protect Boromir from any evil word.

‘I gave him the ring myself,’ he said. ‘As a pledge of the king's return to the steward.’

‘And a symbol of our engagement,’ Aragorn added to himself. The bracers would certainly return to their owner, but the ring had found a new one.

Chapter Text

‘Forward, friends, to the stone of Erech!’ Aragorn exclaimed and the Grey Company followed him to the Path of the Dead. They were walking through a deep mountain maze, in the corridors of which darkness reigned, so black that it absorbed the light of eyes and souls. The horses trembled slightly and walked forward only because of their boundless devotion to their masters, and the people because of their boundless devotion to their king. No one saw fear on Aragorn's face or in his heart. Long thoughts about this road bothered him before, but when he set foot on the path intended for him, Aragorn left them behind. He was running not from fear, but to hope. And he believed that with black and silver banners he would bring hope to the White City. Songs, ancient prophecies, words of sages — all this does not matter. The greatest feats are performed not for the sake of songs, but in the name of one look. Aragorn was now led by such a look — grey eyes with a greenish tinge, like an elven beryl. These eyes look to the east, where Anduin casts steel in the gathering darkness. Dawn will not come, but a stubborn man will not take his eyes off the horizon until the very darkness of death closes his eyes. This means that ships under the banner of the king must pass through Anduin.

‘The dead are coming for us,’ Legolas said in amazement. ‘They heeded the call.’

Behind the backs of Aragorn and his friends, the fog and darkness swayed, thousands of voices sounded in it — the distant clang of weapons came muffled, as if from the bottom of a gorge, and in the dim light of the grey day, fragments of banners could be discerned. The oathbreakers went to the very place where they once swore an oath to the king to answer for their crime. Aragorn asked for nothing but the fulfilment of an old oath.

After leaving the gorge and riding into the valley, Aragorn ordered the banners to be unfurled and the horses to be spurred. In the gathering dusk, the banners looked black, but as soon as the moon appeared, the stars, the crown and the great tree, embroidered with elven silver, sparkled on the black velvet. The stars embroidered by the hand of Arwen Undómiel were now the only ones in heaven and on earth—all the others were swallowed up by the darkness spreading from Mordor. The ruined lands of Gondor, burned villages and desecrated shrines appeared before the eyes of Dúnedain. Mordor has surrounded Gondor for a long time, and now the ring has closed, in a few terrible days it has narrowed to the walls of Minas Tirith.

Horses and men needed to conserve their strength for battle. After a few hours of walking to the piers, they stopped. They waited for the dawn, but it never came. Only the sky brightened a little, turning the night into a joyless twilight, and in the south, where the black clouds were still torn apart by an uncontrollable wind, a black column of smoke rose.

‘Minas Tirith is on fire,’ Halbarad said.

The city was not visible from here, it was still a couple of dozen leagues along the river and even more along the road. But it seemed to Aragorn that this smoke did not just rise to the edge of heaven, but penetrated his chest, cut his eyes and made him suffocate. Théoden was still on the way, Dúnedain was just waiting for the ships and Gondor was fighting alone. In Aragorn's mind's eye, the forest at the foot of Amon Hen appeared again, the thick and low sound of a horn, hordes of orcs— Gondor was fighting alone.

‘Our sister asked me to give you something,’ said Elladan, one of Elrond's twin sons.

They found Aragorn at the edge of the hill, from where they could clearly see the river and the shipyards, and sat down on either side of him. The name of their sister Arwen echoed in Aragorn's heart with the same intense pain as the name and bright image of White Lady of Rohan.

‘She said this banner was her parting gift,’ Ellohir finished for his brother.

‘A parting gift?’ Aragorn frowned. ‘Why?’

‘She made the decision to go overseas. Together with us and our father.’

Aragorn could not immediately find the words to answer. He wished Arwen with all his heart peace and happiness away from this cursed shore. That meant far, far away from him. Far from the unreasonable changeable heart, from the love that causes suffering, from the promise of bitter separation. His own heart separated Aragorn for a long time from the one to whom he swore allegiance before death did it. But he would never dare betray her, especially after she remained loyal to him. This union would make two people unhappy at once, and the greater the suffering, the more loyal and honest those who enter into it. But Arwen is also wise. She believed the innocent heart of a twenty-year-old boy, but she also knew that seventy years later, this heart would not remain the same. Now she has freed the greying Strider from the vows of young Estel.

‘We didn't want to tell you before,’ Ellohir added, looking intently at Aragorn. ‘It's not good to tread the Path of the Dead with a broken heart. But my sister assured me that your heart no longer belongs to her.’

‘Really?’ Aragorn asked as if in a dream. He still couldn't figure out what he was feeling right now. His love and gratitude for the elf maiden were stronger now than ever before, but they were mixed with guilt and already incipient longing. That must have been how Gimli felt when he received Galadriel's gift. ‘Is she leaving soon?’

‘Father would like to,’ Elladan shrugged, ‘but she doesn't want to run away secretly and doesn't believe in bad omens. She also knows how to look into the future. Only the father sees the danger, and Arwen notices the light in the darkness. She looked into your future and saw something there. Believe me, she wouldn't have left you if she wasn't sure you'd be happy.’

‘When everything is over, you will accompany her to the ship,’ Ellohir added. ‘She will keep your love in the immortal lands, and the memory of Evenstar will remain among people with you.’

Aragorn had nothing to say in reply. Arwen would be waiting for him in the Grey Havens. But first they needed to defeat the Enemy.

‘The ships ahead!’ Legolas exclaimed.

Boats appeared on the river under black ragged banners. Aragorn gave the order.

The battle was short, the ships were pressed to the shore and cleared of pirates and traitors in the shortest possible time. People from the shore and ships fled by themselves when they saw the approaching army of the dead. But there were those who stayed. When the slaves were shackled, almost all of them remained in their places. And it was not fear that prevented them from moving, but a desire to serve the country and the king. Everyone who could hold a weapon got swords. The banners of the king, now flying from the masts, revived long-dead hopes in people. Aragorn freed the army of the dead, and in its place immediately came the army of the living. Rejecting despair and death, they were eager to fight, and for this they did not need oaths.

‘Minas Tirith has been under siege for the second day,’ they told Aragorn and his friends. ‘We heard the pirates saying that the city had already fallen. But this is not true, they would not be in such a hurry if only the ashes of the city were waiting for them. They also said that the steward was dead like one of his sons. Another one was seriously injured. They said that with the darkness came horror, a winged horror that drives everyone crazy in this city.’

‘Then we must hurry to save Minas Tirith,’ said Aragorn.

By his order, the freed slaves sat down at the oars again. Not trusting the wind, Aragorn ordered them to row as fast as they could. And the people, accustomed to obey the lashes, carried out this order as the most passionate desire of their own soul. Dúnedain and Aragorn himself, as well as Gimli, who perked up after getting rid of the neighbourhood of the dead, replaced the tired rowers, worked until their muscles ached. And Legolas and the sons of Elrond tirelessly peered at the horizon from the bow of the ships. But even without the elven vision, the column of black smoke was visible. He was approaching fast, the wind carried ash and the smell of blood across the decks. And when night came, even darker than day, the sky in the south lit up with fire — the reflections of a raging flame.

Aragorn, exhausted by his labours and thoughts, dozed off, wrapped in a cloak on the bow of the ship. The dream was short and disturbing. Legolas woke him up when the string of ships turned a bend. From here, Osgiliath was already visible as a dark spot in the distance. So, in a couple of hours they will reach Minas Tirith. Aragorn was afraid of what he would see.

‘Dawn is coming,’ Legolas said.

‘The sun will not rise,’ Halbarad replied. ‘People say that the darkness came from behind the Black Gate. Five days have passed since the Pelennor Fields were covered with snow, and since then the sun has not been seen here.’

‘Another trick of the Enemy,’ sighed Aragorn.

‘The Enemy can’t stop the sun,’ Legolas replied, ‘and forbid the roosters to crow.’

As if in response to these words, somewhere far away, in that very valley, hidden by darkness, a cock crowed. This cry despised the darkness and welcomed the morning that had come, despite all the tricks of the enemy. The rooster was echoed by the sonorous horn of Rohan.

Aragorn jumped up. With a wave of his hand, he ordered all his companions to be silent. Even the rowers stopped for a minute. The wind carried the song of the horns of Théoden's army, which was already standing at the walls of Minas Tirith. But the city remained deaf to the voice of hope. Is it really over? For one long, agonizing minute, a dead silence reigned around. And then the hollow echo of the Gondor horn cut through him.

Aragorn did not notice how tears flowed down his cheeks. The wind immediately dried them. This wind filled the sails and unfurled the banners. The men pulled at the oars. The barely audible noise of the battle approached and turned into a deafening roar of iron and stones. The winged Nazgûl were already flying over their heads, but their own terror and disbelief could be heard in their cry. And when the ships rounded the protruding cape and entered the Pelennor Fields, Aragorn and his companions saw a black sea of spears waving against the walls of Minas Tirith. Its high white walls were blackened with soot and blood, columns of ash were already rising from both the second and third tiers. The city should have been dead a long time ago! But they forgot to tell his defenders about it, like birds on destroyed farms, that the sun would not rise. On the high spire of the tower of Ecthelion, the same wind that drove the royal ships waved the white and gold banner of the Steward.

Chapter Text

The battle continued for a long time. Arriving at the walls of Minas Tirith shortly after dawn, Aragorn made his way to the gates only deep into the afternoon. At that moment, horsemen from the city and banners appeared there. Aragorn's heart lit up for a moment with a premonition of joy, but it was replaced by anxiety. The banners belonged to the Prince of Dol Amroth, and he himself rode among the first. A mighty warrior, brave and wise, Aragorn remembered him as a very young man and was glad to see him again. But not as happy as I would have been with someone I was waiting for here.

‘How are things in the city?’ Aragorn called out to the prince. The latter, who had just chopped off another black head, turned around and immediately dismounted. Recognition and joy flashed in her bright, clear eyes. He bowed to Aragorn.

‘Minas Tirith has not been taken, my king,’ he said.

‘I'm not a king yet,’ Aragorn waved away. He leaned on his sword and rested for a while. The battle was raging by the river and in some places in the city, but now the defenders were only finishing off the surviving servants of Mordor. ‘But I arranged to meet Boromir here, tell me why he didn't fulfil his promise?’

‘I am sure he would have fulfilled it if he could,’ the prince replied. In his words, Aragorn thought he heard anxiety and sadness.

‘Tell me everything,’ he demanded.

‘I'm sure he's alive,’ the prince replied evasively. ‘The last time Boromir fought alongside me at dawn, we fought our way to the gates of the third circle. He was looking at the river all the time. I looked in the same direction, but I didn't see anything. And at the same moment he suddenly exclaimed, ‘Ships!’ and they appeared there.’ Prince Imrahil smiled, as if only by the power of his faith he had caused something that could not be. ‘Today has brought a lot of pain, but also joy. Go to the city, my king, and search it. His team was dropped to the east of Arsenal on the second lap, I heard the horn from there. I don't know anything else.’

Aragorn followed the advice. He took a horse, found Legolas and Gimli — they continued to argue whether the set of drivers of the riding oliphant counted, if they only shot at oliphant and it crushed the riders itself — and the friends headed for the city. Aragorn did not carry banners with him, but he was recognized in the streets. If streets could be called what was left of the lower tiers of the fortress.

Having climbed to the very top of the city, they found Pippin in the steward's house. The little hobbit was watching at the open doors, and in the house itself, in the halls and galleries, there was a hospital, women and children were hiding. The Tower of Ecthelion seemed to represent the same thing.

The meeting turned out to be touching. A joyful Pippin rushed to his friends; Aragorn picked him up like a child in his arms. Something subtly changed in this young hobbit, now dressed in the armour of the guardian of the White Tower. It seemed that the hobbit became even more cheerful and louder, and at the same time sadder and stronger. It was as if he had lived a lifetime in a few days of separation. And he hugged his friends as if he hadn't seen them for ages.

‘Safe and sound again, master hobbit,’ grinned Gimli. ‘You're a lucky fellow.’

‘And you're probably right,’ Pippin admitted. ‘It happened here— Words can’t describe it; I’ve already regretted leaving the Shire a thousand times.’

‘So tell me what happened here,’ said Aragorn. ‘Where is the Steward, where is Gandalf? And where’s Boromir?’

‘Oh,’ Pippin seemed confused, and Aragorn again had the feeling that he, like Prince Imrahil, did not want to talk about something. ‘Yes, they were just here. I definitely saw Gandalf in the hospital. The wounded are brought from the battlefield, there is no room for treatment in the wards.’

‘Whose idea was it to open the gates of the House? Wasn't Denethor against it?’ Aragorn asked.

‘Nothing depended on his words anymore, since he was no longer the steward…’ Pippin mumbled, then looked behind Aragorn. ‘But it would be better if someone else told you the details.’

Aragorn turned around. Boromir was standing at the open gate of the House. His face was covered in soot and blood, his expensive armour was crumpled, as if trolls were playing with them, or, more likely, he fell from somewhere from a height. The white cloak was torn off, a piece of translucent fabric behind the shoulders looked like a piece of wings of a wounded bird. He took a step towards Aragorn, fell on his right leg, but did not even wince, did not notice the pain. Aragorn ran across the square and embraced Boromir, ruthlessly crushing the remnants of the surviving ribs. And then he kissed me.

Aragorn did not think about what he was doing and what he would get in return. Even if Boromir hates him now, even if the answer is contempt and disgust — let him. He's alive, that's the main thing. But instead of the expected blow, Aragorn heard a strange, broken sigh, which he drank from Boromir's mouth, and then these lips succumbed to his mute plea and answered.

The kiss would have lasted forever if Boromir hadn't suddenly started to settle right in Aragorn's hands. He only managed to support him and put him on the steps of the porch, not letting him fall sharply. Boromir's face was terribly pale, but his cheekbones and lips were pink. He tried to smile. There was neither fright nor disgust in his gaze. Only the light.

‘I'm sorry—’ he said faintly, ‘that I didn't meet you at the gate.’

‘Don't apologize,’ Aragorn answered quickly. ‘Are you hurt? Tell me—’

‘No,’ Boromir interrupted. ‘But Faramir… he's there… please…’

He did not have time to finish, as he fainted. There were hurried footsteps and the clatter of a staff nearby, and Gandalf knelt down at the steps. The wizard covered Boromir's forehead and eyes with his palm, whispered something to himself, squinted. Finally, he took his hand away and breathed a sigh of relief.

‘All wounds are old. Boromir is just terribly tired. I haven't seen him sleep or eat anything in these three days,’ he grumbled and got up. ‘But his brother really needs your help, Aragorn.’

With these words, Gandalf got up and quickly rushed into the halls where the hospital was located. Aragorn would have followed him immediately, but he simply couldn't leave Boromir here on the steps. He also could not carry him in his arms — the Gondorian was the same height as him and much heavier. Halbarad, who arrived in time, helped to transfer him to the ward.

‘Gandalf!’ Aragorn was already losing patience. ‘Finally explain what happened here?!’

He caught up with the old wizard already in the corridors full of wounded. In one of the niches lay Captain Faramir — Aragorn had seen him only once, when he was still a baby, but now he immediately recognized him. He was incredibly similar to his brother, although his facial features were much more elegant and softer than Boromir's.

Faramir was not seriously injured, but he already had a fever, and the infection that the Nazgûl carried joined it, turning even a trifling ailment into a deadly one. While Aragorn was busy with the preparation of herbs and urged the healers, who decided to recall all the songs and sayings about the athelas, Gandalf began his story.

‘I knew Boromir wouldn't wait for Théoden. And it would have been better if he had arrived earlier. I suspected it, of course, but I didn't know how deeply the Enemy had rooted fear here in the heart of Gondor. Lord Denethor has lost his former foresight and wisdom. But I didn't know until then that he was crazy, too.’ Gandalf shook his head and sighed. To Aragorn, he seemed older than he had ever been. ‘Darkness was already creeping in from Minas Morgul. And then from the towers they saw a horseman on the road. People recognized Boromir in him. The city seemed to come alive in an instant. Do you believe me, Aragorn? Just now the funeral bells were almost ringing, and suddenly there were crowds of people in the streets. The gates were open, and Boromir headed for the steward's house along a road strewn with flowers. Then I was also glad of this sinful act. More than I should have. I thought Denethor would see his beloved son and his mind would clear up. As if not so. I didn't even get up to meet him, I just looked at him, burned him with my gaze. Once I almost twitched when Boromir pulled out a chain from under his clothes. And instead of the One Ring, he showed his father the Ring of Barahir. By the way, where did he get this?’ Gandalf asked and narrowed his eyes slyly. ‘Boromir said you gave it to him yourself.’

‘No,’ Aragorn shook his head. He didn't want to expose Boromir in a lie at all, but he didn't want to lie to Gandalf even less. ‘He took it off himself. But we talked a lot about Denethor, he always assured me that the lord would not come between me and the throne. But, apparently, he began to doubt it himself, and he needed an argument.’

‘But it didn't help,’ summed up Gandalf. ‘Denethor completely went crazy and started shouting that his son was dead, all that was the machinations of the enemy and his real son would have brought him a Ring— He said a lot of nasty things. When Boromir got tired of listening to all this, he ordered to leave him alone with his father. But it didn't help either, because later he left the hall with a grey face and an abrasion on his cheek.’

‘Did his father hit him?’

‘I think so. That mark was left by a stone in the ring on the hand of the steward. Boromir demanded that the guards look after Denethor, announced the steward's serious mental illness and that he was now the steward himself. The princes and lords immediately swore allegiance to him, and he led everyone to the walls to prepare for the siege.’

Aragorn began to guess how that story ended. The pirates said that the steward was dead, one of his sons too, and the other was wounded. The truth was that Denethor mourned his firstborn while he was still alive. Aragorn was in a hurry to heal — he wanted to bring Faramir back to life as soon as possible, and then return to Boromir and say that there would be no more pain, he would not lose anyone else today. But even Aragorn's mind, which knew all kinds of stories, could not predict what he would hear next.

‘It happened on the first night— No, the second one,’ Gandalf frowned. ‘The gate had already been shattered, but the enemies had not yet broken through to the second ring of the city. Our enemies had a harder time than they expected, so they took a little break. There were no attacks, only the Nazgûl circled in the air. We were all in a depressed mood, but the steward surpassed everyone. We did not have time to enjoy an unexpected respite, as came our frightened hobbit. He said that Denethor escaped from custody in the company of a couple of loyal people and went to Houses of the Dead, taking oil and firewood with him.’

Boromir and Faramir immediately jumped on their horses and rushed there, Shadowfax and I could barely keep up with them. But it was already too late. When we arrived there, screams could already be heard from behind the doors, and a burning human silhouette was rushing around inside. Faramir and I kept Boromir together so that he wouldn't run away to his father. At the time, I thought we were about to lose another steward. Such losses split the mind. But Boromir was stronger. He shook his head, the delusion subsided. He ordered the gates to be locked and everyone to go to the second round, to extinguish what is still possible. Such was the end of the great Lord Denethor, son of Ecthelion,’ Gandalf finished. He lit his pipe, took a drag, and blew out a thick cloud of smoke.

Pippin climbed onto Faramir's bed. He looked into the commander's face with sadness and fear. Aragorn stroked his curly head and calmed him down.

‘Everything will be fine. He won't die.’

‘Boromir is awake,’ Pippin suddenly exclaimed. ‘Halbarad is looking after him.’

‘I will go to him soon,’ said Aragorn.

He would like to fulfil these words right now, but the hospital was waiting for the hand of the king and the healer. Many, many wounded were touched by Black Breath. Local healers were able to heal wounds inflicted by iron, but they did not know any cure for such a disease. They had to remember a lot of old fairy tales and legends that began to come true today, when for the first time in a millennium people saw the royal banners. Only in the dead of night did Aragorn return to the tiny room next to the east gallery of the House, which was Boromir's bedroom.

The room was a cross between a barracks and an ascetic cell. A narrow soldier's cot, a stool, a chest, a basin and a jug. The only luxury was a huge hearth that occupied half of one wall. The room was very warm now, but Boromir was shivering with fatigue, and Halbarad brought him more blankets. He seemed to be dozing, but as soon as the door creaked and Aragorn entered, Boromir opened his eyes. He seemed to recognize the guest by his gait.

‘I know what happened to your father,’ said Aragorn. He sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked Boromir's shoulder through the blanket.

‘You were right,’ Boromir replied in an impassive voice. Then he pulled his hand out from under the blanket and handed Aragorn a chain with a ring. Barahir's ring. ‘I stole it. I'm sorry. I thought it would convince my father if he didn't believe Gandalf's words— But it was all in vain.’

Aragorn took the ring back. There was no point in saying anything.

‘Can I ask you something?’ Boromir turned on the bed, now he was lying on his back, the blanket slipped off, and Aragorn suddenly realized that he was naked. Of course, these wards now belonged to the hospital, and he must have been examined by a doctor. In order not to mess with clothes during dressings and not to change shirts for feverish ones, they strip everyone naked.

‘Ask for what you want,’ smiled Aragorn. He felt ashamed of his thoughts and tried to distract himself. Boromir is exhausted, depressed — to put it mildly, still unwell, and he, the king sung by songs, thinks about all sorts of obscenities. Not to mention the fact that Boromir himself did not give any right to such thoughts. One kiss doesn't mean anything.

‘Kiss me again,’ Boromir said. And Aragorn froze, not believing his ears. ‘Like today next to the White Tree.’ And when he saw the confusion on Aragorn's face, he immediately became confused and turned away. ‘I have a fog in my head, don't pay attention—’

Aragorn cupped his face in his hands, turned him to himself, bent down and imprinted a kiss on his lips. During the day, there was a taste of blood, smoke and insane hope on his lips. Now Boromir's lips smelled of something herbal and coniferous — apparently, decoctions with which he was watered — a little strong ale to calm his nerves, and faith. And, breaking the kiss, Aragorn saw faith and devotion in his eyes.

‘I never thought it could be… like this,’ Boromir whispered.

‘Have you never been kissed?’ Aragorn was surprised. He knew that it was not considered reprehensible among soldiers for bachelors to visit brothels or even share a bed with each other, especially in moments of seething joy from victory in battle.

‘Not like that,’ Boromir shook his head. His eyelids were closing, he forced himself not to sleep with an effort of will. But when Aragorn wanted to tuck him in and leave, he restrained him by grabbing his arm tightly. ‘Stay with me.’

The bed was so narrow that it was possible to fit on it together only by hugging very tightly. Aragorn threw more logs on the hearth, stripped down to his underwear and crawled under the blanket. Boromir settled into the ring of his arms, warming himself and warming Aragorn with his warmth. The thick walls of the steward's house almost did not let in sounds, the silence seemed absolute. Only the fire crackled in the fireplace, and from time to time voices from the street could be heard through the cracks of the shutters.

‘Yesterday it seemed to me that this nightmare would never end,’ Boromir admitted dully, without opening his eyes. His breath tickled Aragorn's neck. ‘I’d like to find death in battle, if only—’

‘It's not over yet,’ Aragorn replied. ‘But we're still alive, and that's the most important thing.’

Chapter Text

Aragorn heard the awakening of the city. Through a crack in the shutters came a barely discernible hum of voices and the laughter of boys kicking through the streets for orc helmets. Women and children were taken out of the city before the siege began, but many simply had nowhere to go, and the families of the soldiers did not want to leave their defenders. On the night after the difficult victory, the city lived almost an ordinary life. The woman swore at the injustice of life, which consisted in the fact that her house was destroyed to the ground, and the hut of a drunken neighbour was not even touched. One of the men who were sorting out the rubble replied to the altercation that Mordor always destroys the best first. Aragorn could not stand it and laughed softly, at the same moment Boromir snorted behind his shoulder.

‘These people are incorrigible,’ he grumbled.

Aragorn raised himself on his elbow and looked at Boromir. He still looked sleepy, and there was a pillow mark on his cheek. Aragorn touched his face, stroked his cheekbones, the dimple on his chin and the barely beginning to show a wrinkle in the corner of his mouth — the same one that will make him look more and more like his father every year. But Boromir's eyes are brighter, his hair is lighter, and his look is lighter. Aragorn respected his father very much and did not blame him for what despair had done to him. Denethor lost many people in his life and mourned each loss alone. Aragorn was determined to heal Boromir any wounds and prevent painful scars in his soul.

‘What's wrong with you?’ Boromir asked. He studied Aragorn's face with his eyes, then bent his head and caught his palm with his lips.

It seemed to Aragorn that a little more, and his heart would not stand the love and tenderness that grow in it every hour. I'll just explode. This already made it difficult to breathe evenly, an unbearable heat filled the entire chest and descended lower, awakening no longer platonic desires. Having no strength to resist, Aragorn kissed Boromir on the lips, and he laughed and answered passionately, buried his fingers in his hair and pulled him closer. Aragorn realized that if he didn't stop now, it would be too late later. He gently but confidently pulled away, kissed Boromir again, but almost chastely, on the very edge of his moist, darkened lips, and got out of bed. He was genuinely glad that he had gone to bed in his underpants, and now he could try to hide the desires that his body could not cope with.

‘Go back to bed,’ Boromir immediately protested and shrugged his shoulders.

‘It's already dawn,’ said Aragorn and went to the window. The open shutters let sunlight into the room, the scarlet glow reflected on the gray walls. 'It's time to get up, the city needs us.’

‘A couple more hours will be enough. They have Gandalf, people listen to him. Or a prince. There are many people who want to command.’

Aragorn heard the bed creak. Without turning around, he could imagine Boromir stretching like a huge cat and throwing off the blanket. Heat simultaneously rushed to his cheeks and immediately gathered in the lower abdomen.

‘Look at me,’ Boromir demanded.

There was not even a hint of drowsiness in his voice, it was almost an order. And Aragorn obeyed.

Boromir was reclining with his head propped on his palm. The blanket was pulled up to his hips, but it didn't hide his... obvious interest.

‘Go back to bed,’ he repeated, catching Aragorn's eye.

Aragorn still couldn't take his eyes off him. Of course, they had seen each other naked more than once, first in the baths of Rivendell, then in Lorien. And Aragorn always admired what was revealed to his eyes, but never before had this picture been coloured by lust. And along with the permission and, moreover, the demand for intimacy, there was a feeling of the first touch of something great.

‘You don't know what you're asking for,’ Aragorn shook his head. His voice was hoarse and his throat was suddenly dry.

‘I know,’ said Boromir. ‘And I’m not a shy young maiden.’

‘Have you ever shared a bed with a man?’ Aragorn asked, coming closer.

‘Yes, but I didn't let anyone take me,’ with these words Boromir rolled over on his back and threw the blanket on the floor. With the same quiet rustle, the future king's composure collapsed. ‘You'll be gentle, won't you?’ The steward chuckled.

‘I’ll never harm you,’ Aragorn promised.

Lips met again in a kiss, hands intertwined, but passion replaced the night warmth and quiet tenderness. No one noticed the knock on the door, and the latch jerked. Who of the two locked the door yesterday didn't remember either. And Halbarad, who came to visit friends early in the morning, listened for a while, raised his eyebrows and went to look for something to eat. I was terribly hungry, and these two will soon be even more hungry.

By breakfast, the king and the steward appeared fully dressed, washed, rested. Boromir had bright spots on his neck, and Aragorn's head looked as if it was shaken by all the winds of Caradhras. Pippin already had a question, and he almost burst out of his mouth, but Merry whispered something in his friend's ear in time, and he buried his eyes in the bowl. The rest refrained from commenting at all. Except Halbarad, of course.

Everyone was leaning on the food as if they hadn't eaten anything for a long time, which, in principle, was not far from the truth. Provisions were being saved in the city — half of all the armies of Gondor were already concentrated here — and now the Rohans were added to them, who, after all they had done for Gondor, could at least count on food. So the winners' breakfast was meagre, but the main thing was that it was. Out of nothing, the Rangers managed to arrange a real feast again. Halbarad fried white bread in butter so that the butter completely soaked a thick piece, and the bread absorbed all the taste and softness of cream, and put fried eggs with bacon on top. The Hobbits were delighted, Gandalf immediately spoiled the mood, saying that it was for the whole day, there would be nothing more until dinner. Aragorn and Boromir swept away everything they saw without question or complaint.

‘Looks like you've worked up a good appetite,’ Halbarad said, giving them both another piece of toasted bread and pouring ale.

‘And I was wondering if you could resist a vulgar joke…’ Aragorn grunted.

‘I'm just saying the obvious,’ Halbarad shrugged. ‘And you're too gloomy. Maybe you came down for breakfast too early?’

Aragorn's attempt to teach his comrade a lesson was interrupted by Boromir. He hastily put the rest of the toast in his mouth, took another sip of ale, already getting up from the table.

‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘I'll have a look at the first circle, we need to find out what's left of the gate there.’

‘Dust,’ said Gimli and took a drag on his pipe.

‘So we'll have to build something out of this dust that will slow down the progress of the Orcs,’ Boromir took gloves and a flask carefully filled with Halbarad diluted wine. 'Meet me at the tower of Ecthelion before sunset. I'll gather the commanders, see who else can fight and what forces we have.’

‘Wait.’ Aragorn pulled out a pair of bracers and handed them to Boromir. ‘It's yours. You asked me to bring it back safe and sound, remember?’

‘Keep it to yourself,’ Boromir smiled, then leaned over to Aragorn and kissed him briefly in front of everyone. ‘See you tonight!’

A minute later, he was already running down the stairs into the courtyard. In one shirt and tunic, without chain mail and shield. The wind ruffled his hair, and the sun was reflected in his eyes. At last, he was home, he had the right to hope again. Aragorn admired him, standing at the wide gallery window, until the silhouette completely disappeared from sight.

When Aragorn returned to the table, Pippin had already cleared his throat — he took a sip of ale at the moment of the farewell kiss — Gimli and Legolas were going to the city, the dwarf badly wanted to walk along the walls, evaluate the masonry of the great masters of the end of the Second Age. Gandalf lit his pipe and sat lost in thought, blowing smoke rings.

‘Are you judging me?’ Aragorn asked quietly, sitting down next to him.

‘What?’ the old wizard woke up from his thoughts. ‘No, of course not. You've often had your own way and you've always been right. But be careful. Affairs of the heart are often more complicated than war and politics.’

‘I am confident in my heart,’ said Aragorn.

‘What about Boromir’s one?’ Gandalf asked. And immediately raised a bony palm, suppressing objections. 'He knows nothing about his heart. He may claim to be sophisticated in this life, but he knows a lot about war and nothing about love. The love of his father, brother and people—that was all he knew.’

‘I'll teach him.’

‘It's a complicated science,’ Gandalf shook his head. ‘Wise men sometimes know less about this than a peasant.’

‘Especially if this peasant has someone to tie up calluses and bring lunch to the field,’ grinned Aragorn.

Chapter Text

In the evening a council of war met in The Tower of Ecthelion. Aragorn, who had been visiting the wounded in the Houses of Healing, was the last to arrive and caught the end of a heated argument between the Lord of Lossarnach and the Steward. Gandalf did not interfere in the argument, he was once again smoking and thinking a lot. Prince Imrahil circled around his nephew and his opponent, preparing to separate them. Gimli sat in the throne-keeper's chair, listening, humming and dangling his feet in the air, missing the floor. Merry and Pippin, dressed as their kings, kept watch at the door, or rather just wished good evening to all who entered between light snacks. Legolas and Éomer stood aside, their faces showing they had much to say, but they were afraid of getting caught in the hot hand.

‘It's the middle of March! The snow has long since melted, it is time to plough the fields, and there is no one to plough them!’ cursed the old chief. His predecessor, the fat and genteel Forlong, had been killed in battle yesterday, and apparently had not been very instructive to his commanders. Now the Southerners were anxious to return home under any pretext. ‘Sauron had been dealt with, and now it was time to think of our daily bread!’

‘You think too much of bread,’ Boromir bellowed. Surely he meant the chieftain's beginning gout and the swordbelt that barely fit over his enormous belly. ‘Who else are you going to feed? Sauron will strike again. And if we don't gather our strength now, the Orc brats will have white rolls for dessert! And the first course on the menu will be your children!’

‘What's the point of victory if there's starvation afterward?’ the Southerner stood his ground.

‘What would kill you better, an empty barn or an orc sword?’ Boromir slammed his palm on the table softly but firmly, cutting off further argument. ‘Expect Lossarnach's troops in the city in three days. Not two hundred men, but two thousand.’

‘I cannot leave my lands undefended, corsairs of Umbar…’

‘The corsairs are dead,’ Boromir interrupted. He was clearly losing patience, which he was not known for. ‘King Elessar has freed your lands from the threats from the river.’

‘Good,’ the old man replied reluctantly. ‘In five days…’

‘Three days,’ Boromir repeated.

The prince bowed briefly, turned and glanced at Aragorn standing in the doorway. He bowed again and went out, Aragorn had to go into the hall to let the old man through the doors. The doors were quite wide.

‘Am I right?’ Boromir asked, looking at Aragorn. He hadn't expected an answer and was so sure. But Aragorn nodded.

‘There is no threat to Lossarnach now, and Sauron will certainly not strike there. All those he fears are now in Minas Tirith.’

‘The city cannot withstand another attack,’ Boromir said and leaned over the table. There was a map of the city and its suburbs, all stained in red ink. ‘We have men. Rohan has retained more than half, and the city's garrison has been thinned, but there are men to hold arms. Lóssarnach will send men, Prince Imrahil,’ Boromir nodded to his uncle, ‘promised another thousand swords. It will be at least a dozen thousand, but even with such a force it is easier to meet a new attack in a clear field than in these ruins.’

‘Sauron will strike again,’ said Gandalf. ‘He is truly afraid. He is certain that the Ring is here and that it is what is helping his enemies to unite. I have received word from the North that the Enemy's attack on Erebor has failed, and the silvan elves have come to Dain's aid. And the remnants of Saruman's army have been defeated on the borders of Lórien.’

Gimli and Legolas looked at each other. There was such gratitude in the dwarf's eyes, as if Legolas had personally led an army of silvan elves to the aid of the dwarven kingdom.

‘Sauron suffers defeats all over Middle-earth,’ Gandalf continued. ‘Even the old enemies have united against him, and the dead are fighting on the side of the living. Our Enemy cannot imagine any other force capable of such a thing except the power of the Ring, and therefore he will come here for the Ring.’

‘We don't know anything about the fate of the Ring,’ Aragorn shook his head.

‘But the Enemy is sure that it is here,’ Boromir replied.

‘What makes you think that?’ Aragorn turned to him. It seemed to him that Boromir was confused, and for a moment he seemed to wonder whether to speak or not, then he took the palantír out of the basket under the table, where there were some other papers.

‘It's the one my father kept here in the tower,’ he said. ‘I took a look— I couldn't resist.’

‘What did you do?’ Aragorn exclaimed. Gandalf straightened up in his chair, his eyes flashed anxiously, prince Imrahil turned pale. ‘What did you say to the enemy?’

‘You forget who you are talking to,’ Boromir's voice was ringing with steel. Aragorn remembered himself when the same question had been asked of him. And he softened immediately. So did Boromir. ‘I told him nothing. I showed him.’

‘What is it?’ Aragorn asked. He shifted his gaze from the palantír blackening in the steward's palm to himself. He guessed the answer.

‘The ring, of course. It's all mind games, the enemy can show you things that aren't there. I did, too. I showed him the Ring in my hand as I had held it the only time I had ever held it — on the slopes of Caradhras, remember? When you clutched your sword,’ Boromir grinned. ‘Sauron was more frightened than you were.’

‘When was that?’ Gandalf asked. He squinted his eyes and thought of something in his mind.

‘Right after my father died. I went up to the tower and—’ Boromir did not finish.

He put the palantír back in the basket and covered it with the papers, turned away from everyone for a few moments. Aragorn imagined that terrible hour of loneliness and bitter loss. Boromir sought solitude in the brief respite of battle and found it in his father's study. And there he endured a terrible battle, a challenge he himself had challenged on the edge of despair. Once again Aragorn's heart filled with admiration and pride for the best of the sons of Gondor.

‘Sauron will come for the ring,’ Gandalf summed up, breaking the silence. ‘But it won't be tomorrow.’

‘And he has lost his chief commander,’ Aragorn added.

‘There are eight more of them,’ Gimli reminded him.

‘It doesn't matter — the Enemy will gather strength and attack again,’ Gandalf shook his head.

‘We will not waste time either, and when he comes, we will meet him well,’ Éomer promised fervently. Gandalf gave the young warlord a sceptical look.

‘Before he speaks, tens of thousands of Orcs will gather outside the walls of Mordor. They will stand between Frodo and Mount Doom.’

There was silence in the hall, even Merry and Pippin had stopped chewing. Two battles won did not guarantee victory in the war; everything depended now on the two little hobbits wandering somewhere in the Black Land. If their calculations were correct, they should have reached the pass by now and descended into the valley on the other side of the mountains that guarded Mordor. That meant they had at least five more days of travel through the orc-infested hills. And there would be no happy reunions with Ithilien's scouts.

‘Then we won't wait for the Enemy to come to us,’ Boromir said. His words echoed in the stone hall, breaking the silence. ‘We will march to the Black Gate and lure Sauron's armies to us.’

‘A barren desert, devastated by fire, covered with ashes and burning, even the air there is saturated with poison,’ said Aragorn with an expression. ‘If you had ten thousand warriors, you wouldn't be able to do it. This is stupid!’

‘Aragorn!’ Boromir covered his eyes with his hand for a moment and laughed. ‘Do you have to quote every stupid thing I said?’

‘It's just funny that you're the one who's proposing to go to the Black Gate right now,’ Aragorn grinned back.

‘Do you have another plan?’

‘No. And I truly agree with your.’

‘Certainty of death.’ Gimli concluded. ‘Small chance of success. What are we waiting for?’

Everyone looked at each other, and smiles blossomed on their faces. Crazy smiles, desperate cheerfulness. Somehow, it was the decision to go to their deaths that lifted the burden of thinking about the future. What was there to talk about the harvest if the army was going to storm the Black Gate? The last time such a thing had crossed the minds of great kings three thousand years ago, and now the decision to repeat the feat, albeit in an absolutely murderous manner, made their descendants equal to the characters of legends and songs. The commanders were returning to their troops, and the gathering of warriors and weapons in the city had begun again.

‘He's so strict,’ Pippin said quietly to Aragorn as they were leaving. Boromir was still discussing something with Prince Imrahil over the maps, I think it was about what garrison to leave in the city. ‘I'm used to him being so funny, always laughing at our stupid jokes.’

‘Doesn't he laugh now?’ Aragorn smiled. Young Peregrin had discovered in these few days a different Boromir — not the big, kind man who had taught him and Merry to hold weapons and let them win, but a man with power.

‘He laughs, but he's so... He looks like Gandalf and old Theoden a bit.’ Pippin's getting sad. ‘He doesn't seem to raise his voice, but everyone runs to follow his orders. You listen to him and you know you can't not do it. This jerk was grumbling, but he'll do what he's told.’

‘That is how armies are led into battle,’ Aragorn replied. ‘You can ask a dozen men as friends, a couple of dozen, even a hundred, if you have fought side by side with them for years. But to organise an army of many thousands, you have to speak in orders.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Boromir asked.

‘About military science. Why orders are not negotiable,’ Aragorn winked at Pippin.

‘Our chances of victory are greatly improved without the Witch King,’ said Boromir. All his thoughts were now at the Black Gate. ‘Orcs are terribly organised, half-wild. Only the will of Nazgûl can make them attack according to plan and strategy.’

‘Well, the mess at Helm's Deep was hard to clean up, too,’ Aragorn reminded him.

‘And they don't have the Black Rider anymore,’ said Pippin excitedly. ‘We have the White Rider and the White Warden.’

‘And two hobbits, mighty warriors from the north,’ Gandalf added. ‘One helped slay the Nazgûl, the other saved the White Rider's head from the prospect of rolling in the streets of Minas Tirith.’

‘Really?’ Boromir laughed and rubbed the two curly tops of his hair. Merry was very silent and still weak, but he smiled too, and even blushed a little with pride. ‘My best students!’

Boromir and Aragorn were left alone in the throne room. The black marble chair had been empty since Gimli's departure, and Boromir had shown no desire to sit there at the council. Now he stood in the middle of the hall, pensive, his eyes fixed on the white steps and the king's throne. Aragorn approached Boromir from behind, embraced him, kissed his neck. Boromir hummed and turned away. Aragorn removed Barahir's ring from his hand and pulled it on his open palm.

‘Take it.’

‘Why are you giving it away?’

‘I offer it in exchange for the One Ring that hurt you. It is older than the evil ring. It does not have its power, but I will give it another — the promise of joy. With this ring I’m betrothed to you,’ Aragorn said. He had been preparing to say it ever since he had discovered the ring missing in Rohan, but it had been a dream then. Crazy, unfulfilled. Now it's real.

Boromir shook his head. He looked at the ring, and then he looked up at Aragorn's face, and it seemed to him... It did, all right. His words could not have hurt so much. Or could they? The obsession flickered and vanished, and now Boromir's face expressed only embarrassment and condescension.

‘I'm not taking it. And you don't have to offer it to me.’

‘But I want to,’ Aragorn replied.

‘You lie. You have nobility in you, but I don't need it,’ Boromir bowed his head and smiled guiltily. ‘I should have told you at once, but I hoped you would not think of such a thing. What happened this morning... we were on the brink of death and needed each other to feel alive. That's all it was. I know how it is. I won't run after you and demand a vindication of your honour, and I won't bring you a bastard. You owe me nothing.’ He took Aragorn's palm in his hands and squeezed his fingers, hiding a precious but useless gift in them. Looking into his eyes, he continued to drop heavy words like stones. ‘You are my king, I am your steward. Let it stay that way.’

With these words Boromir went out, leaving Aragorn alone beneath the high throne.

Chapter Text

Aragorn lay awake all night. He left the city, which had suddenly become cold, terribly huge and pressurised. The Rangers were camped on the hills near the walls, and the Grey Company, accustomed to forests, fields, and wilderness, were not much attracted to the castle lodgings either. But their leader, who unexpectedly joined them, was seen off with perplexed looks. It was no longer a secret to any of the Northmen to whom Aragorn's heart belonged, and they all knew that it was reciprocated. People who love so fervently and mutually do not come to spend the night in tents to beds on the ground, their faces black with grief.

The morning began early, and once again it was hectic. Aragorn was silent, shrugging off questions and working hard, as if trying to forget his worries. Gimli and Legolas tried to find out from him what had happened — Gimli was direct and stubborn, Legolas tactful and sympathetic — but neither of them succeeded. At the dinner hour, when the cauldron of porridge gathered the Fellowship and sympathisers around him again, Boromir and Aragorn did not sit next to each other, but across the table. And were careful not to meet their eyes.

Aragorn, deep in his thoughts, did not notice Gimli kicking the curious hobbits out the door, and Legolas, praising the fields of Rohan, dragging Eomer and the Prince of Dol Amroth away with him. The prince vowed to revive the gardens of Ithilien, the young king of Rohan promised to visit them. When the door of the refectory slammed, Aragorn woke up and noticed that he and Boromir were alone. He, too, shook his head, shaking off his reverie, and stood up to leave. Aragorn could not let him go.

‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘why did you refuse? Did I do something to offend you or hurt you?’

‘No,’ Boromir replied, looking away.

‘Why then? And why did you allow intimacy if you don't love me?’

‘I—’ Boromir hesitated, took a deep breath and looked Aragorn in the face. He was standing by the table, looking down at him, the light on his face making his eyes seem as bright as bright silver or ice on a river in spring. There was no coldness in his gaze, but Aragorn sensed a terrible pool beneath the thin crust of calm. ‘I'm not going to lie, you are very dear to me.’

‘Those are cruel words,’ Aragorn said softly. ‘If you don't love me, say it. And I won't ask you for anything but friendship.’

‘Yes. I hope we shall remain friends,’ Boromir replied. His voice was hard, and the fingers clutching the edge of the table turned white.

Now Aragorn rose to leave. He had fought many battles in his life, but never before had he had to fight himself, and never had the terrible weapons of words been turned against him by those he loved. Now it was time for Boromir to stop the impulse to flee with a touch. It would have been better if he had not; the feel of the hand on his wrist made his heart ache, as if it had been clenched into a fist and held, preventing it from beating. Boromir immediately let go of Aragorn, but he stood too close.

‘Look, Aragorn,’ he spoke hurriedly, ‘we remembered yesterday about Caradhras—’

‘Are you angry?’ Aragorn interrupted him. If that is the only reason... a mad hope flared in his chest. ‘But you know why I did it!’

‘I’m not angry. I know,’ Boromir's voice had an unusual softness, as if he were explaining something to a child. ‘And I thank you for it. In a moment of madness, I wish I were your opponent, not Gandalf's. He would leave me in the dust.’

‘You shouldn't be so. Gandalf cares for you very much,’ Aragorn shook his head sadly.

‘It doesn't matter. What matters is that you would do your duty even if you had to hurt your friend, even if it would cause you yourself unbearable suffering. And that is the right thing to do. It's what the people have a right to expect from their king.’

‘And love knows nothing of duty, is that what they say?’ Aragorn asked. He was beginning to guess what Boromir meant, and grew darker by the moment.

‘That's right, too. Aragorn, yesterday morning... I think I slept much longer than one night — my whole life. And I only woke up last night beside you. But I know that one day I will wake up alone again, with you by my queen's side. It is your duty to your country and your crown. And I don't want to humiliate the good girl who will be your wife by cheating, nor you. Though... You will not cheat.’ Boromir smiled, but it was a sad smile. ‘One day you will instruct your sons and tell them that duty comes first.’

‘You were the first to think of duty,’ Aragorn replied.

‘Yes. I, too, have been trained to rule Gondor. And I will do what is best for Gondor.’

Boromir kissed Aragorn. A bitter kiss with the flavour of goodbye, hurried, rough. Aragorn could not find the strength to answer. Boromir's hand slipped from the back of his neck to his neck, his shoulder. He pulled away, looked into his eyes, read and understood everything. He smiled guiltily, turned and walked away.

Aragorn followed him. He stepped out onto the steps of the porch of the Tower of Ecthelion, looked at the White Tree swaying its dead branches in the wind, and cursed the tree, Minas Tirith, the winged crown, and the White Throne in warm blood.

In the evening, after sunset, Aragorn returned to his tent. He was terribly tired; the sleepless night had taken its toll, and the day's toil had taken its toll even more. The armies were preparing to march, one more day and a new campaign would begin, which would end either in victory or death. The words of the elven brothers came to mind — one must not set foot on the path of death with a broken heart. Aragorn had to do just that now.

‘What has happened to you after all?’ Halbarad asked. After giving his friend a day to think, he still came to him with questions and freshly brewed tea.

‘I proposed marriage to Boromir and he turned me down,’ Aragorn replied.

A fire was burning in front of the tent, a kettle was boiling over the fire, and a huge city loomed up ahead. If you strained your imagination, you could make out the flames of beams and candles in the windows of the houses, and one window in the steward's bedroom, where it was dark. Halbarad was not looking at the city, he was looking at Aragorn. Finally, he raised his right mobile eyebrow and waved his hand in an impatient gesture.

‘And what happened next?’

‘What else do you want to know?’ Aragorn grumbled irritably. His heart felt like a grievous wound, the pain of which would subside to a slight whimper if he did not move or touch it. Halbarad was perfectly capable of picking such wounds, but he called it healing.

‘What was his explanation?’

‘A sense of duty. The legacy of Gondor.’

‘Oh, boy. He's got his mind. What else did he say?’

‘It matters what he didn't say. He didn't say he didn't love me.’

‘He hasn't lost his integrity, either. You know, I'm starting to really respect him. Though his father must have taught him all about duty from a young age. By the way, maybe it was for the best that old Denethor did not live to see the day when his adored firstborn son lay under a ragamuffin from the north.’

‘Stop mocking me!’ Aragorn shouted. The ghost of Lord Denethor was already in every room of the House of Stewards. And Aragorn was not sure that Boromir did not see it too. Maybe it was his father's shadow whispering guilt to his son.

‘All right, I'll shut up,’ Halbarad said compliantly. ‘Only one question: you have found out the reasons for your refusal. Did you tell him why you needed his consent?’

‘I thought it was obvious since I'm offering a ring.’

‘Yep, and during the battle, a very obvious night hung over those fields for three whole days, even though it was supposed to be daytime at times.’

‘It doesn't matter anymore, it's over.’

‘Well, if you say so,’ Halbarad rose, stretched until all his bones creaked, and took a step away. Aragorn felt a sudden and very deep loneliness.

‘Halbarad!’ He called out in desperation. ‘What shall I do?’

Aragorn asked for advice, though he hadn't listened to anyone's advice in a long time. But, as it turned out, he had never loved. It was easy to love a star, to find the right words in the lines of songs and to perform feats in the name of these songs. And everything turned out to be much more difficult with a man whose image consists equally of vices and virtues, who does not need songs and feats — he is their hero. He is a fire that burns to the bone.

‘Go to him,’ Halbarad said. ‘Tell him everything. Tell him what he means to you. Even if you accept his answer, he needs to know why you asked in the first place.’

‘Do you think he'll change his mind?’

‘I doubt it. You can't swear allegiance to him at the altar anyway, you'd have to cheat on him to fulfil another obligation. And Boromir is proud and jealous. He won’t share you.’

At the moment Halbarad said this, Aragorn already knew what he would do. It was a decision that had been brewing in him for a long time. It went against all recognised laws. The very laws that the Steward and the Guardian of the Throne cared about. There is no point in breaking the law alone, but if two on either side want it, no wall will survive. Even a wall made of tradition and words written down on old parchments — such walls are the strongest — will crumble if there are two men willing to fight.

‘Hey, where are you going?’ Halbarad exclaimed as Aragorn jumped up and rushed to untie his horse. ‘Could this wait till tomorrow?’

‘I've already lost a lot of time. I shall lose it completely in the morning,’ said Aragorn.

Chapter Text

‘What a fool I am!’ Aragorn mentally scolded himself as he spurred his horse on. ‘He told me everything! To do one's duty, even if it hurts someone close to you, even if it causes you unbearable suffering... These were his words, and he was talking about himself! I asked him to say "I don't love" and he couldn't lie! The warden of the throne has a duty to provide the king with a crown and the country with a dynasty, a duty he's going to fulfil. You know what? To Morgoth all debts are owed.’

Aragorn let his horse gallop and flew through all the posts and garrisons, just swinging over the spears. At the White Tree he dismounted and flew up the stairs and into the open doors of the Steward's House. The familiar corridor was dark. Aragorn knocked on the door and listened. The wood was too thick to let in any extra sound, but Boromir's voice came through a few moments later. It was hoarse and low, as if he had been awakened.

‘And who came to me at such a late hour?’

‘It's me,’ Aragorn said, trying to keep her voice low. ‘Open the door, we need to talk.’

There was silence in response. Aragorn pressed his forehead against the wood. Suddenly a voice came from the other side, Boromir standing at the door that separated them.

‘We have discussed it all, Aragorn,’ he said quietly. The drowsiness in his voice was gone, the hoarseness sounding as if his throat were dry. ‘Go away.’

‘Please,’ Aragorn pleaded. ‘I have listened to you, now listen to me. Open the door, I want to see you.’

‘Go away,’ Boromir said more firmly. ‘We don't need to hurt each other more.’

‘This pain is what makes us who we are. You can't just turn away from it!’ Aragorn exhorted. But his answer was silence now. Boromir spoke no more.

Then Aragorn went down into the courtyard, walked around the wall of the House and stopped under the east gallery. The wall here was covered with evergreen ivy, its thick old stems like ship's ropes. Clinging to them, Aragorn climbed onto the balcony, snaked along, and climbed the carved columns to the third floor. The tiny terrace was almost adjacent to the window of the Steward's room, but Aragorn still had to take a very dangerous step at dizzying heights from the railing to the window ledge. Fortunately, the shutters were not closed.

There were no candles in the room, and not a single splinter burned. The hearth had remained cold since the morning Aragorn and Boromir had woken here alone. The bed was untouched, not a single fold in the gray coverlet. The master of the room was sitting on the floor by the door. He hadn't undressed for bed, hadn't even taken off his sword. He pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his forehead against them. Then he heard a rustle from the window and lifted his face... In the light of the moon peeping through the window, Aragorn saw Boromir's cheeks streaked with tears.

In the next second, the lost look became angry. Boromir jumped up, wiped away the moisture with a quick movement, pressed his back against the door as if he had somewhere to retreat to.

‘I told you to leave,’ he growled.

Aragorn stepped down from the window sill into the room, took a step toward Boromir, and raised his open palms in a conciliatory gesture. It was as if he were approaching a wild beast caught in a trap, ready to tear apart anyone who came near, in pain and despair. They say that strong men do not tolerate evidence of weakness. Aragorn witnessed it unwittingly. But those tears only proved that he was right.

‘Just hear me out,’ he asked. ‘Because I will leave.’ Aragorn took another small step. ‘You reminded me of my duty. As if I'd ever been allowed to forget it. Ever since I knew my real name, I've lived under its oppression. And if that's what I have to give up for you, I'll do it.’

‘What do you mean?’ The anger in Boromir's face was replaced by surprise.

‘About the crown. Gondor doesn't need a king. And I don't want a crown that would separate me from you. I never wanted power, and I only came to Minas Tirith because it was your home. And I only wanted the crown to be worthy of you. But if a wanderer from the North is enough for you, I'll give up all claims and remain a Strider.’

‘You can't,’ Boromir whispered in amazement.

‘I can. And I want to. But there is another solution,’ Aragorn stepped forward again. He drew Boromir's attention to his words, distracting him from action. ‘If you, as guardian of the throne, allow it, I will accept the crown. But I will not be the father of a new dynasty. When the time comes, I will appoint a successor, but he will not be my son.’

‘But Gondor needs—’

‘Gondor is you. I owe only you.’

Aragorn took a step for every phrase, and the room was small. Now he stood face to face with Boromir, could have touched him, could have kissed him. But he did neither, only stared into his eyes, catching every glimmer of the storm of emotion that raged within.

‘And who would that successor be?’ Boromir finally asked, pulling himself together.

‘I don't know. If I'm not killed at the Black Gate, I'll live another hundred years, and a generation of worthies will grow up in that time. But maybe your brother's son? It would be symbolic.’

‘Why?’

‘A new milestone in the history of two great kingdoms, and a king from the blood of both of them. Gondor and Rohan,’ Aragorn explained, seeing the confusion. ‘Faramir stays close to Éowyn in the healing chambers, though he can barely stand on his feet.’

‘And he said nothing to me!’ Boromir was indignant. Surprise distracted him for a moment from his own sorrows. And Aragorn shortened the distance to a minimum, almost touching his chest.

‘As Gimli says — everyone has eyes,’ he grinned.

Reassured that he had not yet been struck, chased away, cursed; reading the confusion and hope in his gaze, Aragorn put his arm around Boromir's waist, forcing him away from the wall he was huddled against, and pulled him close to him. With his other hand he brushed his hair away from his forehead and ran the pad of his thumb over his eyelids, wiping away the residue of salt. Then he took off Barahir's ring and offered it again.

‘What will your answer be now? Take it. Take it, and we will belong equally to each other and to Gondor. Our common duty will be to the welfare of this land, and our children will be all its sons and daughters.’

‘How long ago did you come up with that?’ Boromir asked, glancing at the ring.

‘I made up my mind today. But I came up with it the day I first saw you in Rivendell, in the Hall of Remembrance. You were standing by the fresco. And I was reading the Book of the History of Gondor. The chapter where Isildur set up two thrones in Osgiliath, for himself and his brother.’

‘Isildur did not share a bed with his brother. He had a wife and sons.’

‘Did it save the throne of Gondor? That's not what the country needs for peace.’

Boromir stared into Aragorn's eyes for a moment, then leaned his head against his shoulder. Tears seemed about to flow down his cheeks again. But he breathed deeply and slowly, gritting his teeth, fighting himself. Aragorn hugged him tightly, and he wanted to weep with relief. It was as if the weight of endless duty had just been lifted from his shoulders. There would be fights to be fought — with the council, with the lords — and there would be those who would condemn this decision. But it is still easier than putting one's own happiness on the altar of another's peace of mind in eternal service to the law.

‘Is that a yes?’ Aragorn asked, forcing Boromir to raise his head. His eyes were dry, but he still flinched.

‘Yes,’ he answered and smiled.

Their lips both trembled as they confirmed the promise and the binding of his ring with a kiss.

‘Just let's not announce it yet,’ Boromir said as the embrace dissolved.

‘Our friends will be happy for us, I am sure,’ Aragorn said.

‘Yes, but— We're at war. Maybe in a day you'll be free of your decision by the power of providence itself.’

Aragorn quickly clamped his palm over Boromir's mouth, preventing him from uttering any more terrible words. It was enough that he was having nightmares as it was.

‘I will order you,’ he said. ‘Once, and I won't use that right again. You will never say such a foolish thing again. It won't set me free, only dead. Do we have a deal?’

‘Yes’. Aragorn was about to take his hand away from Boromir's lips, but Boromir intercepted his palm and kissed it.

Tiredness came over both of them at once. The pain had taken its toll, and the joy they had won through hard work and difficult decisions even more so. Both of them looked down at the narrow bed that had once been their home.

‘Come with me,’ Aragorn suggested. ‘The ranges are camped under the walls. We'll have to sleep in camp beds, but even those are better than this instrument of torture.’

‘Torture, then?’ Boromir was jokingly indignant and tried to break free of the embrace. ‘This was supposed to be your best memory!’

‘It is. But now I'm hoping for a string of other best memories without that bunk.’

They drove out of the city at night. Past the sleeping houses, the surviving neighbourhoods. No one stopped them, though the garrison was on duty. On the first tier of the gate, still gaping at the hole in the wall, singing could be heard in the miraculously surviving inn amid the ruins. In the ranger’s camp, too, everyone was asleep.

And morning greeted them with the clear ringing of silver trumpets from the walls.

Chapter Text

That very morning, when Boromir's prophecy about the silver trumpets of Minas Tirith came true, he and Aragorn had another quarrel. But this was a different quarrel from their previous ones. Before, they used to quarrel in such a way that it seemed as if they were ready to hate each other. Now their quarrels were hilarious to those watching. Boromir growled that Aragorn was not yet king and had no right to give orders, and at the same time helped him to tie the cuffs, while Aragorn accused him of donkey stubbornness and ignoring common sense, wondering in between what he thought of the resilience of the south coast troops.

And they quarrelled because Aragorn did not want Boromir to go to the Black Gate with their army.

‘Boromir, enough of this misplaced heroism!’ he tried to exhort. ‘The old wounds have not yet healed, and in every fight you get new ones! You're still anaemic. At the Black Gate, we'll need all the strength we have and more, and you have none left.’

‘I can ride, I can hold a sword,’ Boromir answered hotly. ‘All my men who can stand on their feet will be in battle, and you suggest I sit on the sidelines?’

‘I invite you to stand in defence of Minas Tirith, if necessary. And Middle-earth,’ Aragorn said in a low voice. They sounded pathetic, but they sounded unhappy. ‘If the assault fails, everyone will be killed. Me, and Gandalf, and Éomer, and Prince of Dol Amroth, all the commanders who can lead an army. There will be no one left to unite the people. And only in unity is our salvation.’

‘Faramir will stay in the city,’ Boromir reminded him, but not so firmly.

‘Yes, he will. And I believe he can handle it if he has to. He's a strong man, much like you. But are you sure you want to doom him to this?’

Aragorn was being deceitful. He was not so much thinking of the plight of Captain Faramir, who might be orphaned forever and would have to fight for orphaned Middle-earth against a terrible enemy, as of the fact that Boromir would be killed at the Black Gate before Aragorn himself — the Steward is always in the thick of the fight. But Boromir was not used to sparing Aragorn's feelings. His brother is another matter. The arguments involving him shook his confidence. Aragorn exclaimed inwardly.

He went with Boromir to the Houses of Healing when he decided to visit his brother, and made sure that the young warlord's pallor and weakness caught Boromir's eye. Faramir, unlike his brother, was much more realistic about his own strength and was not eager to fight. No wonder — it was the third day since he had been brought back from the dead. When he heard that Aragorn wanted Boromir to stay in the city, he supported it wholeheartedly and joined in the persuasion. Under the double pressure, Boromir gave in.

The next morning they bade farewell beneath the White Tree. Aragorn wore armour with crests, a black cloak falling from his shoulders, and banners fluttering in the wind around him. Boromir, on the other hand, was without armour and cloak, dressed homely. They had already said everything they wanted to say to each other, but they did not dare to say the last "farewell". Aragorn was led to his horse, the heralds were waiting for the signal, and an impatient Serogriv was already shuffling his hooves a little away.

‘Take it,’ Aragorn said suddenly, and handed Boromir a scroll with a seal.

‘What is it?’ Boromir broke the seal and unfolded the paper. ‘A will? Are you serious?’ He raised a dumbfounded look to Aragorn.

‘It's just a precaution to keep your life simple— If I fall in this battle, all my claim to the throne is yours.’

‘I'm not taking this!’

‘Take it or leave it, it's a valid document. It's signed by seven witnesses, as required by law.’

There were indeed seven signatures at the bottom of the parchment. Prince of Dol Amroth, Éomer Éadig, Gimli son of Gloin, Legolas son of Thranduil, Mithrandir the White Rider, the Honourable Meriadoc Brandybuck, and Esquire Peregrin Took.

‘Representatives of all the free peoples of Middle-earth,’ Aragorn said. ‘It may be that you will be their last hope.’

‘If I am the last hope, Middle-earth will not be envied,’ Boromir grinned, trying to hide his shock behind the joke.

He took the paper and hid it in his pocket. Then he held Aragorn's stirrup, touched his hand for a moment, as if he meant to hold it. But he stepped aside.

‘Don't give up hope,’ Aragorn said.

Horns blared all around, echoed by the clang of weapons and the clatter of hooves. From every level of the city, a river of steel and iron-clad warriors under the banners of the two kings flowed toward the gates. The white banner of the Stewards was not in the sky, but only on the spire of Ecthelion's tower.

Aragorn rode on without turning around. Legolas and Gimli were in the same saddle beside him, talking and joking. It did not occur to either of them to suggest to the other that they stay safe, rather they would have dreaded the fate of going into the darkness alone. Merry, sitting in Éomer's saddle, and Pippin, now Gandalf's faithful companion, could not imagine staying behind. Waiting for news of the fate of friends is sometimes a harder fate than battle and wounds.

The army crossed the river at the hastily made crossings and took the road where no one had dared to go in the open for a long time. The dead city of Minas Morgul loomed on their left hand, and black mist rose over the mountains ahead. The fog grew, and the closer the squads came to Mordor, the more the witch's darkness pressed down. The sun disappeared again, heavy shadows stretched out, and longing and fear crept into their hearts.

Then Aragorn thought that hobbits were a remarkably resilient people. He glanced to the side and saw the smiles on Merry and Pippin's faces. They looked at each other, and when they caught Aragorn's gaze, they looked embarrassed, as if they had been caught in some mischief. Laughter seemed inappropriate now, but so necessary.

At the Black Gate, another prophetic word had come true. There it took all the strength they had and more, just to stand in the shadow of those mountains and find the courage to draw their blades. Those who could not cope with the fear retreated — Aragorn had sent them north, to kill the remnants of the Ogre forces near Minas Morgul, and south, to clear the coast. Barely half of the men had reached the Gate. But even with a little more courage, even twelve thousand men standing at the Gate would not have been enough to break the power of Mordor. When the gates opened and the dark hordes poured onto the plateau, there was real terror. What had struck Minas Tirith was no match for the armies Sauron had reassembled. The plan to draw out the armies had succeeded.

Aragorn had ordered the occupation of three hills, not high at all, but on a table-like plateau it was already an enviable height. Now all that remained was to defend. Fight as long as he could, denying the thought of death, but carrying it to the enemy. Aragorn heard Pippin's words to Merry — if one is to die, one wishes to die beside a friend. Legolas and Gimli looked at each other bitterly and smiling at the same time. Aragorn had no one to send such a look to, only the guards of the Citadel were around him, ready to hear orders, not useless words of encouragement.

Then Mordor struck, life and death blended together, hope and quiet acceptance of doom became one.

No one could say how long the battle lasted. The first wave of the orc offencive was smothered, the second wave was barely repulsed, the third wave was approaching the hilltops, breaking the line of the defenders. At some point Aragorn realised that his friends were no longer around, they had been pushed aside, there were no citadel guards or squires, Gandalf's staff was sending lightning bolts over the enemy's heads a hundred yards away, and there were only mangled orc faces around. This is probably the end, Aragorn thought. He cut down head after head, head after head, but the Orcs were not getting any smaller. The Dark Lord's will led them, and the sky was blackened by the wings of the monstrous Nasgul creatures. No legend can be brought back to life, this song will end in sorrow.

As if in answer to this thought, a huge half-troll orc stepped against Aragorn. He threw Aragorn to the rocks with a blow of his sword, so that his helmet flew off his head. The sword fell from his hand and glinted briefly in the dust and ashes. Aragorn's head rattled so loudly that he could hear almost nothing. His eyes blurred, and he could barely make out the huge shadow looming over him. The legend was repeating itself, but it would end differently this time.

At the very moment when everything seemed to be over, Aragorn suddenly saw a mighty figure in white armour, wearing a tall winged helmet. The warrior, as if woven of light, raised his sword, coming between Aragorn and his doom. With a last effort of consciousness, Aragorn recognised his own blade in his hands — Andúril, the Flame of the West. With one blow the legendary sword struck the troll, guided by a strong hand, pierced the armour near the heart, and the terrible foe collapsed, shaking the ground. And the warrior turned to Aragorn. He seemed to call out to him, but Aragorn did not hear. The ground shook, and behind the warrior's back, the Black Tower was crumbling in agony. But he did not look there, only at Aragorn.

‘Isildur,’ Aragorn whispered in a swelling delirium and fell into unconsciousness.

He awoke with ease, as if he had awakened from a pleasant dream. First came the sounds — quiet voices, rustles, birdsong, then the sensations — a soft bed, a light fresh breeze, something cold and wet on his forehead, soothing. The headache came too, but it settled somewhere in the back of my head and barely touched my thoughts. Then the smells. Aragorn recognised the athelas he himself had used to feed the sick, and the first flowers of spring. At last he opened his eyes and saw Boromir above him. He was concentrating on wringing the handkerchief over the basin, then wiping Aragorn's forehead again.

‘It was you,’ Aragorn whispered, looking up at him from under half-lidded eyelids.

‘Isildur?’ Boromir grinned. ‘I have never been called that before.’

‘You didn't listen to me,’ Aragorn smiled. He was not angry. Heaven knows, he was happy that Boromir was so stubborn.

‘Did you believe for a moment that I would stay in the city?’ Boromir asked, feigning utter surprise. There was anxiety in his eyes, but he was smiling. ‘You don't know me very well yet.’

‘When did you catch up with us?’

‘Almost immediately. I went back to my chambers, added a few lines to your will for Faramir. And the horse was waiting for me under saddle. So we rode out of town at the same time.’

‘Did anyone else know you were with us?’

‘Hobbits,’ Boromir grinned. ‘You were all staring at the Black Gate, not looking around anymore. These two are sharp-eyed. I was riding next to them, carrying the standard.’

Aragorn groaned with anger at himself. How could he have been so blind! He tried to sit up, but his head immediately exploded with pain and dizziness, and nausea rose to his throat.

‘Get down!’ Boromir ordered and toppled him back over.

‘I am,’ Aragorn agreed meekly. ‘But the battle-’

‘Is over.’

‘I thought the Tower was falling.’

‘That's right. Half of Mordor fell to the ground, Orodruin erupted in flames. The Ring is destroyed.’

Aragorn could hardly believe these words. But Boromir's shining eyes, his smile, the wind and the birds that came to his ears instead of the rattle of iron, convinced him of it.

‘What about Frodo and Sam?’ Aragorn was worried.

‘They're alive. The eagles carried them out of the fire. The Hobbits, Gimli and Legolas are also unharmed,’ Boromir added, seeing the new questions in Aragorn's gaze. ‘It is all over. Not without loss, but those closest to me survived. Except for you.’

‘But it's just a bump,’ Pippin's voice sounded nearby. Aragorn glanced up and saw the two hobbits beside him, as still as mice. There was more hope than affirmation in young Peregrin's voice.

‘If I hit you on the head, it would just be a bump,’ he grumbled from behind the tent, and Gandalf came inside. He brought more healing herbs. ‘And for most thinking heads, that's a serious injury.’

Pippin became embarrassed and silent, Aragorn laughed despite the pain.

‘Now rest,’ Boromir commanded him.

‘Where are we?’ Aragorn frowned and tried to see through the gap in the canopy to see what was going on around him.

‘In Ithilien. I've told the troops to come here. There's nothing to be done in the cursed lands. There are many wounded who can't be carried far. Frodo and Sam need to rest, too.’

‘Good.’ Aragorn nodded, closing his eyes.

‘Don't worry about anything,’ Boromir told him and touched his forehead with his lips.

‘I won't. You're there for me.’ Aragorn answered half-asleep, and the last thing he heard before falling back into slumber was the promise, "And I always will be".

Chapter Text

Boromir had almost kept his promise.

On a bright spring day, Aragorn rode into Minas Tirith, ascended to the White Tree along the path of flowers, and accepted the crown of Gondor from the Steward's hands. And there, taking all the free peoples of Middle-earth as witnesses, the King and the Steward exchanged oaths of love and loyalty. They planted a new sprout of the great Tree, and by summer it was in bloom.

Minas Morgul was razed to the ground, and Osgiliath once again raised its white towers to the sky. But the capital was now always in Minas Tirith, which had been defended with great pain. Aragorn ordered two thrones to be placed in the Hall of Kings, and Boromir always sat beside him in councils and courts. He retained the title of Steward, but Aragorn also gave him the right of the princes of the blood to sit in the king's presence, never to kneel, but even to argue, to call the king unkind terms and occasionally to twist his finger at his temple. Not one of them lost his stubbornness, and in heated arguments the truth was born.

Together, the two lords of Gondor laid a new stronghold of strength and light from the great Sea in the south to the Grey Heavens in the north. In the long months when Aragorn was forced to leave Gondor on the business of Arnor, Boromir remained sole ruler. While they were still alive, songs were sung to both of them, and they sang not only of swords and battles, but also of a love that had no barriers. And the first such song was sung by Arwen Undomiel, who came with her father as a guest to the coronation. She gave Aragorn another standard of blue silk embroidered with silver and gold, and her blessing to Boromir.

Every human age comes to an end. The sons of Denethor absorbed their mother's Elven blood and their father's Númenor blood, but they were still no match for the blood of Elendil. Boromir had outlived his younger brother by one hundred and forty years. Time was merciful to him, and he retained his sanity and strength until his last days. Like his father, he had not even turned grey. So his departure, swift and unpredictable, was a great blow to Gondor. As for Aragorn, he lived another twenty years alone. One day one of his retainers stammered that now that his majesty was free of his vows, he could take a wife. Aragorn replied that he was not free, but dead. He did not withdraw into himself, but became sadder, sterner and more severe.

Aragorn was buried in the same grave with Boromir and under the same slab. Two bas-reliefs were made on the slab. One depicted Boromir with his left hand on his chest, on which his shield was attached. Aragorn, on the other hand, held a sword with his right hand on his chest. The free hands of the King and the Steward were joined and their fingers intertwined. This is how they have stood guard over the world all their lives, and will continue their watch until the end of time.