Work Text:
2980 TA
Minas Tirith
Thorongil allowed himself a few moments to gaze up at the throne of the King. He had glanced at it in passing many times during his stay in Minas Tirith, but he made it appear as though he was merely showing respect for it. Looking too long was too risky. There was a chance that someone might figure out the truth—that he had a deeper connection to the throne of Gondor than he let on. He had a feeling that Steward Ecthelion’s son, Denethor, suspected something.
He closed his eyes and released a breath. It was time to go. Steward Ecthelion had tasked him with taking care of the Corsairs, and it would take several days to reach Umbar.
“Thwogi!” a small voice called to him, breaking him out of his reverie. He turned to see Lady Finduilas approaching with her young son, Boromir, in her arms. He placed his bag on the floor and knelt as Finduilas set the squirming child down. Boromir wobbled a bit; he was fully capable of walking on his own now, but sometimes his legs got ahead of the upper half of his body and he would lose his balance. The last few steps to Thorongil were almost a leap, but he was able to catch him. “Go bye?”
Thorongil pressed his lips together and gave a solemn nod. He spared a glance at Lady Finduilas and wondered if she knew. Though she often looked morose when he passed her in the halls—when Boromir was not with her—and she seemed to worry for his safety whenever he was sent from the city on an errand for the Steward, she had never looked this grim before.
“Yes,” he answered, returning his attention to the boy. “Your grandfather has given me an important task. There are some men who are hurting Gondorians and damaging their homes.”
“Come back?”
Lady Finduilas shifted in his peripheral vision. Yes, she knew, or at least she suspected. He wasn’t sure how, since he had not told anyone of his intentions, but perhaps she perceived more than she let on. Thorongil held Boromir’s gaze for a few moments more, and when Boromir’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears and he sniffled, he lifted a hand and let it rest against the boy’s cheek.
“We will see each other again.”
“Pwomise?”
Thorongil’s mouth quirked in a thin smile, and he hoped that Boromir would not see the regret that he attempted to keep hidden behind his gaze. Just as Boromir had become attached to him, he, too, had grown fond of the boy. Disappointing him was the last thing he wished to do.
“You have my word.” And then he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the boy’s forehead. When he drew back, Boromir rubbed at his forehead and made a face of disgust. Thorongil chuckled and got to his feet, picking up his bag from the floor and slipping it over his shoulder. “Be good for your mother. And your father.”
“I will!”
Lady Finduilas reached for Boromir and held him close. She and Thorongil watched each other for nearly a minute, and then her gaze fell and her eyelids fluttered shut, and she bowed her head slightly.
“No i Melain na le.”
Thorongil nodded his head to her, as well, and then he adjusted his bag and turned his back on them, on the throne of his ancestors, and on the city that awaited their king’s return. One day he would.
~*~
February 26, 3019 TA
Amon Hen
Once, twice, three times the Horn of Gondor blared, the blasts soaring above the sounds of battle. Boromir had been able to hold off the Uruk-hai well enough, but despite taking down many of them—with help from Merry and Pippin—they kept coming at them from all sides, swarming like ants pouring out of the dirt when their home is disturbed by a boot.
Legend said that the Horn of Gondor’s call would not go unheeded, and yet help had not come. And then the first arrow flew. One arrow pierced him, followed by a second and third. He continued to fight until he grew weak from blood loss—or perhaps it was in fact poison that the enemy had used to coat the arrowheads—and he dropped to his knees. The horn was cloven in two. He would not be able to call for help again.
The world around him became a whirlwind of blurred shapes and muted voices, his ears feeling like they had been filled with wool. Merry and Pippin were grabbed and carried away, their cries fading and becoming buried beneath the rumble of footfalls. Boromir swayed and fell back. He looked up at the towering trees, their naked branches reaching out like bony fingers. The ground was soft underneath him, like a bed made of fallen leaves. It was becoming harder to breathe. His chest hurt, and he could barely feel his arms and legs.
A set of footfalls, coming from the opposite direction the Uruk-hai had gone, reached his ears. The owner entered the clearing where he lay and came to an abrupt stop, and after a pause, took a few more steps towards him, the damp leaves crinkling underfoot. Suddenly, Aragorn’s face appeared above him, his eyes taking in his appearance. The Ranger’s brow furrowed and a look of dismay passed over his features. The wounds must have been worse than he’d thought.
As Aragorn knelt beside him, words began spilling out of him. About Merry and Pippin’s capture, about Frodo and the Ring, about his failure. Aragorn tried to reassure him that he fought bravely and did the best he could, but it still did not change the fact that he had caused the breaking of the Fellowship and he couldn’t keep Merry and Pippin safe. He also couldn’t keep his people or his city safe.
“I do not know what strength is within my blood, but I will not let the White City fall. Nor our people fail.”
Boromir lifted his head slightly, looking up at Aragorn’s face. It was becoming difficult to keep his eyes open, and his body felt as though it was being pressed into the soil. Everything felt heavy… except for the hand that rested on his cheek.
That was odd. He had a faint memory of someone else who had comforted him like this. Someone he had looked up to, who disappeared from his life and never returned. Details were fuzzy, as it was long ago, but he recalled the man’s eyes. Gray, keen eyes that pierced like a sword but were kind. As he continued to hold Aragorn’s gaze, he remembered their first encounter in the room that housed the shards of Narsil and how unsettling the other man’s eyes had been. Things had changed between them since then, though they still disagreed on certain matters. Then another memory came to him, not so long ago, when the sharpness in Aragorn’s eyes had softened. They were in Lothlórien and Boromir shared with him what the Lady of the Golden Wood had told him of the fate of his city. Boromir, thinking fondly of his home city, asked Aragorn if he had ever seen Minas Tirith, seen the beauty of the great tower when the shadows of the Enemy did not dim its light.
“I have seen the White City. Long ago,” he had replied.
Now, Aragorn’s eyes shown with emotion as he watched Boromir’s life fade. It almost looked like regret. And then, as though a shroud had been lifted, Boromir realized where he had seen these eyes before.
The heaviness in his body began to lessen until he felt as though he might float away with the breeze or the current of the river. He sucked in gasping breaths, forcing the words out.
“I would have followed you, my brother, my captain,” his mouth formed a smile, “my king.”
As he felt his breath leave his body, his last thought was one of hope rather than despair—the most hopeful he had felt in a long time. It had taken many years, but Thorongil’s promise that they would meet again did eventually come to pass. Now, Boromir felt that he could rest peacefully with the reassurance that Aragorn would keep his word that the White City would not fall.