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Have you seen Boromir the Tall by moon or by starlight?

 

Aragorn smiled, walking soft-footed away from Frodo’s room. Samwise, indeed. There was a creature even Gandalf had underestimated.

Then his eyes flicked up.

The steady thrum of whetstone against blade. No effort to disguise the sound. But in Elrond’s halls, not a sound one expected to hear. One hand on his sword, ears alert, he walked forward into darkness.

Against the lighter dark of an arched window, a man’s silhouette.

"Greeting."

"And greeting to you, Huntsman."

It was the distinctive accent of the Man of Gondor, the rough burr that reminded Aragorn..well, so long. Too many lifetimes, too many dead men.

"Weapons? In Elrond’s hall?"

"It was a long trail, for us of Gondor." The tall figure unwound itself from the window and stood, one hand still idly polishing the dull gleam of a long belt knife. "Can you claim the same, ranger?"

Aragorn sighed to himself. This one. Oh, he had known this one would be trouble. Arrogant, untutored, proud. His liegeman, he supposed, not that that-

"Boromir."

"Huntsman."

"It’s late, Gondor." Aragorn gave the man his hereditary title. His own title, although no living tongue save Gandalf’s had uttered those words.

"And yet there is still much to say." Boromir moved into the light, the white gem around his throat catching and sparking in the light of the elflamps across the staircase. "Can you spare a moment, ranger?"

There was a challenge to the Man’s tone. Clearly, Boromir was unwilling to acknowledge Aragorn’s unthinking acceptance into the elves’ council. And why not? After five hundred years of concealment, sixteen generations of regents since Isilder gave Gondor into the keeping of the Stewards, Boromir probably thought of himself as Gondor’s heir. Aragorn fought, vanquished, the moment’s resentment that the idea provoked. He had not lived so long concealed to give into the rancour this man’s attitude sparked.

"Is this something which should be discussed in council, Gondor?"

"More something I feel should be discussed...between Men."

"In Rivendell?"

Boromir had no idea. The very walls of this place were crossed with spells older than Aragorn, long-lived as he was, cared to consider. Who knew when, where, by whom, these enchantments originated? Not he, for all his bloodline and his long friendship with the Rivendell elves.

"Oh, I was warned." The big Man pointed at the walls with the long, gleaming dagger. "In Rivendell, they say, the walls have ears. We have our legends too...Strider, is not that what they call you?"

"Yes." For a moment Aragorn regarded the big man’s figure against the light. Would it be worth it? Was he stepping into a trap? Mordor’s words came in smooth guises...nevertheless, this was Rivendell, where no Dark servant would be comfortable: where Gandalf had accepted this man’s words in council.

"I know a place."

"Lead on."

"No."

Instant, searching, scrutiny. "Perhaps I was wrong about you, Ranger." Boromir’s voice came quiet across the space between them. "Those are not the words of an incautious man."

Aragorn bent his head in disbelief. "You still doubt our purpose."

"How can I not? Sixteen generations our people have held the border against Mordor...and never a mention of these rangers. Suddenly I am asked to believe in a silent force of men who fought for us without sign or acknowledgement?" Boromir’s tone was challenging again.

Aragorn said nothing.

"Yet I would say from your appearance, Strider, that you are not unacquainted with combat."

For an instant’s inappropriate levity, Aragorn fought the desire to laugh, an absurd and unwelcome thought.

"So we go together?"

"Stay."

"Wherefore?"

"What guarantee do I have that you mean me no ill?"

In answer, Boromir tossed him the blade, arching it through the darkened stairwell into Aragorn’s hand. "Here."

"Am I expected to believe -"

"Consider it an article of faith." Boromir smiled in the faint light. It was clear, he no more expected to have his word doubted than he expected Aragorn to turn, as he could, and strike him down, as he could, here in the stairway of Elrond’s halls, as near to home as Aragorn had ever experienced. ‘Gondor.’ Aragorn thought suddenly to himself. ‘To see the walls of Minas Erith silver in the sun..’ And then set that thought aside. There is no place for self-doubt.

"I hold no secrets here," he said. "Say what needs to be said."

Boromir moved forward into the light, his grey eyes holding the Aragorn’s.

"Strider, I am unaccustomed to these halls. Suspicious your countenance may be, but nevertheless I would consult with you. Elves, men say, have always been chancy, and the word of a fellow man is what I desire. Is there no place we might be private?"

"There are places where we may speak in privacy," Aragorn stated mildly.

"Then let us go." Boromir smiled, bowed. Aragorn carried no assumptions. Boromir wore the garments of a fighting prince, no rough soldier: his accent might be rough to the ears of the eastern men, but of a surety his breeding and style were of the leaders of the West.

"Here." Aragorn gestured to the ascending stair. "Let us go together."

Boromir was cat-footed in the dark, the jewels of clothing and throat catching stray gleams from the lights as they climbed. Beside him Aragorn was silent, alert. Always listening. The faint sound of light-toned bells departing down one of the branching corridors, the flicker of light neither he nor Boromir had crossed. They were watched. Of course. Even here in Rivendell, the elves had felt the hand of Sauron stretch across the leagues from Mordor’s black and flaming heart. Little trust, in these times. Yet trust there would have to be, if the ring-bearer was to take the One Ring safely to Mount Doom. So, hence, he climbed.

Minutes passed, but neither man faltered in the climb. Spiralling upwards, they passed the darkened terraces and passageways in the higher reaches of Elrond’s halls until, finally, Aragorn led them both out onto a walkway between trees crowned only with bright stars. Beneath them, a long way beneath them, the river curled and chattered to itself: faintly, harpsong rose from the glades beneath. The elves were feasting.

"Speak on, man of Gondor."

"We are not overheard?"

"We are not." Aragorn’s tone was certain. What he forbore to mention was that they were certainly overlooked.

Boromir seemed in no hurry to talk. He spun, the heavy cloak billowing smoothly in the light, spring-scented air, and walked to the edge of the platform.

"Tell me, Ranger." He turned, leaning against the railing with an assumption of casualness Aragorn judged hard-won. Not so sure then, as he wished to appear. "This tale of the ring - this one ring in which we are expected to believe. How true is it, think you?"

"I have trusted Gandalf with my life and honour these many years," Aragorn said. He watched the tall warrior with care. Out of sword-thrust: within throwing distance.

"Yet the men of Rohan hold no great esteem for him. And the doings of the Council of wizards have been directed away from our need these many years."

"Who is to counsel or control the wizards? Gandalf’s help has been ours as we needed it."

"My father’s advisors have ever spoken against him."

"Your father is old, and perhaps not so clear of thought as he was once."

"You know of our doings in your wilderness, ranger?"

"The deeds of the great are known to many," Aragorn observed. "Even yourself, Warrior, your name and your brother’s speak across the miles."

"And yet no word of you, Strider, returns to us. Perhaps you are non so skilled as Elrond’s words suggest?" Boromir’s arrogance showed in the tilt of his chin, golden stubble catching the light of a single lantern.

"That remains to be seen." Mild, Aragorn had nothing to prove.

"And yet I should trust your word of Gandalf’s wisdom?"

"Gandalf is a law to himself. Nevertheless, he has always held to the light, and his advice has always been sound. There is no man I would prefer to set out on this journey with."

"So little to trust to. The word of an old man, the counsel of a shabby armsman. Persuade me, ranger, in whom should I trust?"

"The ring is real. Isilder’s Bane -"

"A myth told to children, where I come from."

"A heritage you of all people, man of Gondor, should respect." Unexpected, the slow, burning rise of anger. Boromir’s arrogance cut Aragorn to the core: to be disbelieved by a man who, by all the laws, should be on his knees before Isilder’s heir.

"Respect! Pah. The drooling stories of old men. My father’s throne-"

"Your father holds that throne in trust, not of right."

"After sixteen generations? I am heir to Gondor, ranger."

Aragorn took a deep breath. Let it go, he told himself. This is not important. Sixteen generations of concealment, thrown away because he was angered by a child’s complaint?

"If you, warrior, had accompanied the ring-bearer as I have done, you would be as sure as I that this is in truth the One Ring."

"What proof? You were attacked by bandits, the halfling poisoned by a dirty blade: it is the habit of the inexperienced to over-estimate the enemy." Boromir was openly taunting the slighter figure of the ranger. "You should join me sometime at the borders of Gondor, Ranger: you would not be so quick to enlarge your tales of battle once you had seen Mordor’s servants in reality."

"There is little illusionary about the Nâzgul."

"The Nâ zgul! Rather some cloaked robbers on the moor..."

"Mock not what you did not see." Aragorn’s quiet command cut across Boromir’s bluster. For the first time, the ranger allowed some of his building anger into his voice. "This is not a game for children. You know not of what you speak."

"Ten years I and my brother have guarded our borders. Who better to know Mordor’s voice?"

"Mordor’s voice is not always what it seems. For longer than men’s memories stretch, the Rangers have guarded the East. Even your own borders, man of Gondor, have felt the touch of our hands, although trust in us you would not."

"You lead me full circle, Ranger: a force which I have not seen nor felt nor fought beside, a halfling myth of fireworks and vanishings and the muttering of an old man."

"Then why came you here?"

It stalled Boromir, his wilful aggression suddenly doused. Aragorn pushed his argument.

"As you say, the Stewards have held Gondor for sixteen generations. In early years, traffic between men and elves was infrequent, but honoured, despite Isildur’s break of faith: in later years your father and your father’s father and his father turned your eyes from the other races of middle earth. Your doings were no myth to our ears, yet you yourselves remained separate. Yet here you are, son of Gondor, a long journey to follow a myth."

"Men and elves have ever fought together, come Mordor’s rise."

"Yet you have not asked for aid before."

"Nor have we been so beset before. Who knows what happens in Gondor now? Why should I trust to this absurd myth of a single ring? Gondor needs men and arms, not the tales of children blinded by an old man’s story-telling."

"You came here for aid. If that aid takes not the form you wanted, still do not mock what you do not understand. In the ring’s destruction lies Middle-earth’s future."

"So sure, ranger! I have doubts."

"Clearly." Aragorn took a harsh breath. "As I stated, I have no doubts. At Amin-mor, I fought the wraiths and felt their power: I believe the Nazgul walk again. I travelled with the ring-bearer: I know what he carries. I trust Gandalf’s words."

"And yet I would not judge you a stupid man, ranger."

"You have no right to judge me at all, man of Gondor."

"I have every right. I stand next to Gondor’s throne, Easterner: my sword speaks for my country. You have no home here, no name to bear your colours. Only your race speaks for you in this place."

Aragorn laughed, no humour in the sound of his voice. "You argue with nothing." He said. "You know nothing. Leave us, then, Boromir: Middle-earth will not stand or fall by your single sword."

"Yet if Gandalf’s words are true and this is the one ring...Of all people, Gondor’s heir is best fitted to wield it."

"Isildur’s Bane? Of all people, Gondor’s heir is least fitted to bear the ring. Take your men and leave, Boromir: without trust in Gandalf’s wisdom and Frodo’s strength, this quest will fail."

"And your presence makes such a difference?" Boromir walked forward from the railing. "Prove it to me, Ranger."

"What?"

"Prove your worth to me, Ranger, here and now: persuade me you are worthy of my sword and my respect, and I will consider this quest that you sponsor worth following."

"A small thing to hang such a commitment."

"I am a man who lives by the truth of my sword, Ranger. Can you say the same?"

Clear in the light of a single lantern, contempt informed Boromir’s gaze as he spanned the shabby cloak and patched leather boots Aragorn wore.

"I will not fight in Elrond’s halls."

"No? I would call that cowardice." Without reaching for his blade, Boromir had begun to circle the other man.

"I would call it respect. I have no wish to fight you, Gondor."

"What would it take to force you, Strider?" Boromir mused as he continued to draw near, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Insult your mother, call to mind the grubby years spent rutting on the barren moorland you call home? What bastard roots bear you, stranger?"

"More than you know." Aragorn was backing to the stairwell: Boromir, seeing where he headed, moved to block his path.

"Want to join your friends the elves?" Boromir taunted. "You’ll have to go through me to get to them, Ranger."

Aragorn said nothing, walked towards Boromir and the darkened entrance.

"Looking for the wizard? Sure those little halflings will protect you?"

Aragorn stopped two paces from Boromir’s jewelled body, the challenge of those grey eyes fixed on his.

"Let me by," he said.

Boromir drew his sword, lowered it to lie gleaming in starlight between them. "Fight me first, ranger."

"No."

Boromir raised the sword and smiled across the broad ribbon of the silvered blade. "Or I take what I can back to Gondor and leave your quest to founder. Fight me."

Only the blur of impossibly swift, curved motion. Only the low creak of boot leather on wood as Aragorn spun: only the sudden dislocation of time and space: only the sudden pain of warm hand and empty fingers cracking off his jaw and the numbing smash of fist onto his sword hand: the impossible, fought, uncurl of pained fingers from hilt as Boromir was forced back and down under this unexpected and devastating assault. Aragorn’s attack left Boromir reeling against the stanchions of the platform, one hand rising to his bloodied mouth and rage in those grey eyes as, behind the ranger, the man of Gondor’s own sword crashed through the leafy branches.

The route to the stairway lay clear. Aragorn surveyed the result of his action and turned to leave: the contempt of his back turned to a conscious foe bringing Boromir to a dangerous rage. He sprung forward on the platform, diving, one hand reaching and twisting itself into the folded leather top of Aragorn’s high boots: both men propelled towards the edge of the platform. Aragorn, stretched, halted them both with a free boot on the poles of the railing but Boromir was already climbing towards Aragorn’s chest with a fist ready: it smacked full into Aragorn’s jaw. He saw stars, rolling away from the bigger man and scrabbling for purchase on the platform, catching and holding Boromir’s furred cloak to throw it up and over his head. Boromir halted for a second, confused and tangling with the heavy, blinding garment, and Aragorn took the opportunity to wrap one long fingered hand in Boromir’s belt, pulling himself forward. Boromir raised the cloak just in time to lay himself open to Aragorn’s own fist, unerringly aimed at the tip of his jawbone. The man of Gondor’s head cracked off the wooden platform, but his body was already turning under Aragorn’s as the ranger over-reached himself. Boromir’s hand caught Aragorn’s wrist, his powerful fingers digging into the bones, seeking that pressure point of pain. Aragorn’s free hand scrabbled at Boromir’s belt, caught and twisted the horn that there and snapped the restraining thong.

"Let go." he said through his teeth. "I have the horn." His free hand suspended the horn over the platform edge. Boromir’s eyes slid sideways, before he freed Aragorn’s wrist and flung himself across the other man’s chest, reaching for the strap. Aragorn’s boots found purchase on the floor: he pushed his body backwards, still clinging to the horn as he retreated, while one of Boromir’s hands went for and clasped the thick wool of his cloak at the neck broach and twisted. "Mine." Boromir said into Aragorn’s face, spare hand reaching for the horn. "Mine."

"Get it." Aragorn forced himself from the railings, rolling, with Boromir’s full weight on top of him, the horn and his hand swinging through the air as Boromir landed on his back, still grasping Aragorn’s cloak but with the other man’s weight now on top of him. One hand outstretched and holding safely to the horn, Aragorn punched Boromir in the ear. The bigger man gasped, but began to twist the cloak, leaving Isildur’s heir short of breath. He punched Boromir again. "Yield."

"No." Aragorn twisted, trying to bring his knee, with force, into Boromir’s crotch but the man turned beneath him, spinning both of them towards the opposite railing. Boromir’s other hand was freed, his grasp on Aragorn’s collar still firm.

"Yield yourself, ranger." His hand tightened further in Aragorn’s collar.

"No." Calculated, Aragorn flung his head forward, catching Boromir’s nose, and was rewarded when the man of Gondor gasped, his hand slackening. Aragorn pushed backwards towards the railing: blood, he’d caught Boromir right across his nose. Quickly, Aragorn cast the horn into the dark stairwell and heard it clatter down a couple of steps before coming to a halt. Safe at least. His other hand freed, Aragorn went for the final punch on Boromir’s jaw but was stalled by the bigger man’s swift roll, one hand still clasping his injured face. "Peace?" Aragorn suggested, but, given this unexpected respite, Boromir had risen to a crouch and now kicked out at the recumbent ranger. His vision was still blurred, however, and Aragorn fielded the kick with a smash that sent Boromir flying onto the platform again, crashing onto his chest. Aragorn flung himself across the other’s body, both hands pinning Boromir’s shoulders to the wood as his weight held the man immobile. "Yield." he said again, as Boromir moved convulsively under him. "Yield, Gondor: no honour in fighting a friend." His grip was firm, despite Boromir’s determined efforts. Aragorn clasped one flailing arm, brought it up, painfully, onto Boromir’s back. "Stop, friend." He said again. "You will need your strength." Beneath him, Boromir only grunted. Aragorn forced the arm further up Boromir’s back, wincing slightly himself: this must hurt. The bigger man sighed beneath him, tense, but as Aragorn forced his elbow still higher Boromir seemed to relax into pain, his body going limp under Aragorn’s. It was an unexpected reaction: disconcerted, the Ranger held his position and did not move. "Boromir?"

"Mmph?"

"Stop?" Aragorn avoided the charged ‘Yield.’

Boromir’s breathing was heavy. His body, caught under Aragorn’s, appeared, oddly, to warm. Silent, he twisted slightly, the movement serving only to lie him further under Aragorn’s stretched frame.

"Stop," Aragorn said, gently, into Boromir’s ear.

"Yes."

"Your word on it?"

"Yes." The man’s promise came harshly, and Aragorn was cautious as he lifted himself away from Boromir’s floored body. The man of Gondor lay still for a few moments. Aragorn had time for the faintest breath of worry before the man shook his head and rose to his hands and knees. "That was an unexpected attack." He remarked, turning his head to meet Aragorn’s calm gaze. The ranger shrugged. He was unwilling to say anything that would jeopardise the ring-bearer’s quest, and if that meant concurring with Boromir’s delusion...well, it wouldn’t be the first time.

"Where did you learn to fight like that? On the docks?" grunted Boromir, rising to his feet.

"No docks near my moorland, Boromir." Aragorn smiled faintly. "And few who fight as you do."

Boromir took that as a compliment. "You had some lucky moves." He acknowledged. "But to meet you with a sword...now there’s a man’s weapon."

"And we had best find yours has come to no harm. Or harmed in its turn. Come: the Horn lies near, and we will search for your blade."

"A moment, ranger." Boromir’s breath was still harsh.

"Then you will trust me with your horn?"

"How should I not?" Boromir grinned. "I have agreed...the fellowship must stand." His grey eyes met Aragorn’s.

The ranger nodded, slowly. "Indeed," he said. But added no more, holding Boromir’s eyes for a minute or two before turning to exit down the stairs. Left alone, Boromir arched upward and backwards. "Strider." He said to himself, quiet, considering.

Aragorn, stalking quietly down the stairway, was halted by the faint smell of spice and wine drifting from gossamer robes. "Elrond?" he asked, questioning, into the darkness. The dark elf moved forward.

"Is this what you seek?" One hand held the Horn towards the Ranger.

"You saw?" questioned Aragorn.

"I did. I would be careful, Strider, that one means you no joy."

"The fellowship must stand, Elrond."

"Do not take my warning lightly, Isildur’s heir." The Elf’s dark gaze met Aragorn’s steady countenance for an instant. "I must be gone. Do you join us later?"

"Indeed."

The Elf turned in a soft flurry of scent and robes, disappeared down the stair. Watching, silent as night, invisible as the shadowed moon, the elf had noted what he would not say. Between the smell of sweat and leather caught by his sharp senses, Elrond had noted the sharp tang of sexual arousal. Were it Aragorn or Boromir he could not say, but the fact was filed and noted for future reference. Men said the elves were cold: they were right. And Elrond had a long memory and a sweet daughter he had no wish to loose.