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From above Boromir imagines the Leonids as debris, stone particles lit by a flick of the burning skirts of the Sun. From below one doesn’t see any of that. Just the flares, the flaming dust trails, thin as jellyfish-tendrils.
They’ve been riding for three hours. It takes a while to adjust to the faint light as they leave the comforting glow of the City. Above them the sky is glassy green. Against it the hills hover like black paper-silhouettes with orange halos. The Leonids will arrive with the last light. Faramir sits crouched over the horse like an alert, exuberant comma. Boromir loves these seasonal energy blooms. These occasional flares.
At last, they arrive. Boromir puts one foot on the hot ground and then the other. They unpack their bags. Underlays, pelts, beer, food. Boromir wriggles under the pelt. When inside he closes his eyes until he feels properly grounded. He gives the earth time to catch hold before he opens them to sprangles of stars and whorls of luminous dust. He starts counting, without following any rhythm or pattern; the important thing is to keep going. The counting is his personal white noise. When he counts, he upholds the world and keeps the stars aflame. Faramir stands upright still and looks at The Milky Way spilling and curdling above him, and the dark tidal paths of the Great Rift as they meander across the Upper Sky
Faramir puts his pelt close to Boromir’s. He shivers as he settles down. Boromir looks at him, wonders what goes on inside his head. He loves the enigma of his brother. He imagines Faramir’s mind hovering somewhere in a dark alley off the Milky Way in the constellation of Hydra. If so, what is he looking for? Perhaps a particular mood, a long cosmic drawing-in of breath that may not be let out again on this side of eternity. Boromir swallows. He doesn’t want the world to end, to cease breathing. He wants to embrace it, feel it burning against his chest, look space in the eye. Return its long, indifferent gaze.
Once there was a boy running across the universe, trousers torn, legs bruised. A million planets tumbling out of his pockets.
The next day when Boromir returns to their shared quarters in the early evening, he finds Faramir asleep. He looks very young and very tired. Boromir eats a piece of bread and drinks a cup of ale from the food laid out on the table. Then he lies down beside Faramir with his clothes on. Closes his eyes. His eyelids are curtains. When he closes his eyelids, he opens the curtains. Outside are statues and planets. Boromir leans out and lets himself fall into the push and pull of celestial tides.
It was a fireworks display on the Citadel two weeks ago. A riot of swirling colour. Spectacular and beautiful. But the rockets always strained against gravity. Ascended through roars of exhaustion. It really isn’t that easy to leave – Boromir finds comfort in that.
A part of him wants Faramir and him to forever remain children looking out of the window at the night sky. Thinking one day they’ll touch the world with their bare hands, even if it burns. See all the way to the edge of infinity. Boromir open his eyes and closes them again. Space looks in at him as he does so, brutal and alive, and not indifferent at all. Boromir hopes he’ll remain an enigma, at least in part, a section of him hidden in a dark side street out there.
The evening lets go of the light and the Leonids sweep above the City and the Citadel like burning sand and disappear.