The rays of the sun were already waning when, one summer day at the middle of July, Boromir son of Denethor reached the city of Edoras in the Mark, at the beginning of his solitary journey towards Rivendell. He had been on the road for over a week, and Edoras would be the last vestige of civilized life he would encounter journeying further West, going North by the Gap of Rohan to the fords of the river Isen and then onward, northwards always, beyond the Greyflood, on to the slopes of the Misty Mountains, until he would reach the House of lord Elrond Halfelven.
Boromir had a mission to fulfil, and a heart filled with doubt and misgivings.
Not even a whole month had passed from the battle of Osgiliath, in which Gondor had lost the last foothold they had in the Citadel of the Stars, and many valiant men with it. A shadow fell on Boromir, remembering the great black horseman and the fear that came over them under the pale summer moon, remembering his brother's cry of dismay, and the terror that took them all.
There was nothing for it, now. He had a mission, and he had chosen to see it through. Faramir would fare well acting Captain of the White Guard in his absence, Boromir could think of no one better to look after his men. He would not fret over him as if Faramir were still his little brother.
Even though he was.
Yet such thoughts were of no consequence, now. The road was difficult, the journey ahead a long and dark one; Boromir needed a horse, a better horse than the one with which he had set forth from Minas Tirith, and he could not think of any that could be any better than one of the finest mounts that the Rohirrim bred. For this, Boromir had taken the path to Edoras, to the golden halls of Meduseld: Gondor and Rohan were ancient, true allies, and Théoden King would not refuse to lend one of his swift steeds to the heir of the Steward.
He found his way to the city with ease, even though years had passed since he last had set foot in it; evermind grew on the mounds where the ancient kings rested, white stars guarding over the sleep of the fathers of the Rohirrim. He spared them only the briefest of glances, spurning his horse up on the winding road, passing hills green and luscious in the heart of summer, deserted of people and cattle in the middle of war.
The high walls of Edoras waited for him at the end of the road, the great gate barred and watched by guards in bright mails with the green and white livery of the Mark. And though it seemed strange to Boromir that they would question him in their own tongue instead of Westron, he brushed it off as another awkward necessity born of perilous times; and as he knew the tongue of the Riddermark, and was indeed himself well-known by the captain of the guards, in no time at all he was inside Edoras, courteously escorted up to the golden halls of Meduseld, where Théoden King dwelt.
Boromir had not expected to find the son of the King in Meduseld, for he had heard that the éored of the Second Marshal had been rallied at Helm's Deep and there had been several skirmishes with Orcs at the West-border; yet Théodred it was that came to receive him, tall and proud as Boromir remembered him, and they embraced and looked one another in the eye, wordlessly counting the years passed since their last meeting and their last battle together, and then they embraced again, staying long in one another's arms.
"It is good to see you, my friend," Théodred spoke first. "It has been too long." He was of the same age as Boromir was, taller than him, though of slighter build; his hair was the colour of white gold, braided over his broad shoulders as was the custom of the Riders, and his eyes as blue as the summer sky, open and friendly as they fixed on Boromir, exactly how Boromir remembered. Long years had passed, since they last had met. The world had changed, and Boromir wondered if they had, too.
"It has been long, indeed," he said, and regretted he could not stay longer in Edoras, now that he knew Théodred was there. Yet his quest called, and even a day was delay enough.
Théodred looked at him once again, then clasped his hand over Boromir's shoulder. "But come," he smiled. "You are weary of your journey, and the road from Mundburg has taken you far from home. Come and take a bath, and food; then you will tell me about what took you here." And as Théodred spoke he gently guided Boromir along the wide halls, and Boromir let the promise of rest and comfort in the heir of the king's smile take away what weariness he could have felt.
That night Boromir had dinner in the high hall with the King, and though he had used to dine with King Théoden in the past, it was now so different it could have been passed decades, instead that the few years Boromir recalled: the king barely recognized his presence, he seemed curved as if under a great weight, white and fragile as though the smallest touch could snap him in two. Boromir caught the pained look on Théodred's face as he gazed upon his father, but what could he say? He remembered Théoden as a strong, tall warrior much alike his son, and yet it was true that sometimes old age crept on valiant men all of a sudden, making them weak in body and dim-witted. It was sad, yet there was nothing for it.
Two people were constantly at the King's side, tending at his every need; and while Boromir did not miss the wary, almost angry looks from Théodred as Gríma sat by his father, his eyes were drawn to the young Lady at the left of the King, a woman tall and slender, with long golden tresses and deep blue eyes, her face golden with sun and still round as that of a young girl--and young this lady should be, for Théodred introduced her as the niece of the King, yet Boromir did not recall having ever seen her at the high table. She looked sweet when talking to her king, and icy and aloof when the man Gríma tried to sway her attention. A beautiful, proud woman.
Boromir thought that she reminded him a little of Théodred--as he had been almost twenty years ago, perhaps, when they first had met. And then he smiled, for Théodred certainly would not have been impressed, knowing he was being compared with a lady.
Over dinner Boromir and Théodred exchanged small talk with the other guests at the King's table, for it was not polite talking of war and battles during meals. Tension was palpable none the same, and every so often the conversation would stray towards weapons, and dangers still far away, yet every day a little closer to the borders; Boromir would notice the Lady …owyn's eyes wander over to them at times like that, attentive and eager, and for the first time he caught himself wondering how it had to be, being a woman, locked away in the men's city, not allowed to partake of the deeds that were shaping the world. He knew that the women of the Rohirrim were trained to battle, of course, but how many lives of Men had passed, since the last of them had actually held a sword on the field?
When dinner was over, the King looked almost asleep, and Boromir was surrounded by men eager to know about Osgiliath, and Gondor's forces and plans; he did not talk about his quest, for he had already spoken of it with Théodred, and though the burden of it was heavy on his mind, for that night alone he still was in a city of Men, of allies and friends, and he did not desire other than rest and sleep.
And perhaps, a little more than that.
Théodred came to rescue him after having spoken briefly with his father, and he and Boromir left the hall, not needing to talk of anything at all, while they made their way along the lamplit hallways that led to the quarters assigned to the royal guests.
Yet, as if reading Boromir's thoughts, Théodred passed the stairway and instead led them over to a stone-paved terrace that overlooked the inner gardens, a quiet and quite secluded place. Boromir sat on a stone bench, and thought again of the last time he had seen the son of Théoden, and whether he could speak his mind to him. They already had spoken of the riddle and the quest, and that was a serious enough matter. What was on Boromir's mind right then, though, was quite different, and perhaps not so easily dealt with.
While his thoughts wandered, Théodred walked to the parapet of the terrace, looking down onto the night-shadowed gardens. His voice carried softly to where Boromir sat, jolting him out of his musings.
"The men have been talking of what has befallen in Osgiliath over a forthnight ago," Théodred stated quietly, in his smooth, deep voice.
Boromir could only nod, because of course, men would talk about that. The bitterness and the anger at what he perceived as his own failing, no matter what Faramir and Imrahil had said, made his voice harsher than he had intended. "Aye. It was..."
"It was a blessing that you escaped with your life."
Boromir looked up sharply at that, for it clearly was not what he had expected to hear. He regarded his old friend from across the terrace, but the moon had not risen yet, and Théodred's face was shroudred in deep shadows.
"We lost the bridge," was all he could think of saying. "The Fortress of the Stars has fallen for ever."
"Better to lose a stronghold, than lives of men," was the quiet answer.
Boromir stood up, suddenly wanting to see Théodred's face clearly. It could be that years had passed, yet it was not like him to talk thus, for Théodred well knew how vital a position, any position, was in the War against the Enemy.
He strode over to him, halting only when he was at his side, and saw Théodred's lips drawn in a thin, hard line, his eyes looking away into the night, and knew that something had occurred of which no one had yet told him.
He felt his heart tighten in his chest, and suddenly he knew.
"Who was he?"
The softly spoken question made Théodred look briefly at him, and for a fleeting moment his eyes held a look so raw and so painful, Boromir felt his breath stolen from his chest. Then Théodred looked away again.
"It does not matter. Every day we are fighting at the borders now, men join the ranks and they do not come back to their homes ever again." Théodred lifted his head then, his gaze on the bright stars above. After a while, in a whisper he added, "He was my herald. He was Erkenbold son of Erkenbrand." And Boromir could only nod and reach out to grasp Théodred's forearm at that, because he had known Erkenbold, and had thought it could be him.
"When?" he asked, under his breath.
"He fell before Helm's Gate, the very day you brought your life back from the bridge of Osgiliath," Théodred said, yet there was no bitterness in his voice, no accusation. Boromir recalled the fell shriek, the black shape under the moon, and flinched despite himself. Théodred's hand came to the one Boromir still held on his arm, squeezed it in return. When Boromir looked up from their joined hands, he found himself looking into deep blue eyes. "I am glad you are alive," Théodred said, and Boromir knew it was the simple truth.
"I am sorry," he offered, because all too well he knew there was nothing he could say, that could really make a difference, that could help. He had seen it happen too many times to keep count--men bonded together on the battlefield, and sometimes it was a thing of the battle, never to be spoken of when the battle was over; and sometimes, it was a bond stronger, deeper than any wedding vow could seal. He knew Théodred. He had known Erkenbold.
He had known.
"I am sorry," he repeated, hating the sound of those words, hating that he had nothing better to offer, to soothe Théodred's pain.
In a way, he considered himself blessed, for he had no one that could be taken away from him like that, in battle. He had never had.
In a way.
The moon finally rose, and in its light Boromir saw that Théodred was smiling at him, the old smile Boromir well remembered from times past, younger times, though not any more peaceful--never that, not in all their lives. "It is enough," he said, and Boromir could see that it really was, for they had always been able to understand each other to the core.
"Kinsman, it is you?"
The new voice, speaking the tongue of the Rohirrim, came sudden from the archway leading from the halls to the terrace, startling them both; Boromir caught himself with his hand halfway lifted to Théodred's face, and he snatched it away. If Théodred noticed this, though, he could not tell, for his attention was on the dark shape that had appeared under the archway, dimly lit from behind by the flames of the torches.
"Yea," he answered, then he cast a look at Boromir and, his eyes still on him, a sudden smile on his lips, in Westron he called, "Come, cousin. I would like you to meet a friend."
The stranger came forward at that, and in the dim light Boromir saw that he was a young Rider, still with his livery and his armour, clearly just come in from outdoors. He was tall, almost as tall as Théodred, his hair long and unbraided, so fair as to look almost silvery in the light of the moon. Boromir saw in him the likeness of the Lady …owyn, and realised who this young man must be.
"Boromir, this is my cousin, …omer son of …omund, Third Marshal of the Mark."
"The lord Boromir," …omer repeated, at once switching courteously to Westron, his eyes widening slightly in surprise before he checked himself. He clasped Boromir's arm in the greeting of the Riders, and he drew himself to his full stature. "My lord, it is a honour for me to meet you."
Before Boromir could say anything, Théodred smiled gently, his hand clapping lightly onto Boromir's shoulder. "You see, Boromir, your name is quite the legend among the Rohirrim," he said, and though his tone was mocking, his eyes were quiet and warm, resting on Boromir. His hand lingered a little on Boromir's shoulder, before falling away.
"I am glad to finally meet you, …omer," Boromir smiled at the Rider. "I heard of you, as well. The youngest Marshal of the Riddermark."
In the faint moonlight, Boromir could see …omer colour slightly, and stand proud before them, relaxed, evidently at ease with himself and his rank, confident of his valour--he was everything Théodred had said him to be, and Boromir found himself strangely pleased at that. A man so young, and so valiant.
"Were you looking for me, cousin?" Théodred asked, and somehow it seemed to dispel something in the air. Boromir felt as if he had been looking in …omer's eyes entirely too long, even though no more than a few heartbeats must have passed.
"Aye, I was." …omer smiled apologetically at Boromir. "Though I thought to find you alone. I did not mean to intrude." He gently slapped his cousin on the shoulder. "It can wait, it was nothing of relevance. I shall go and pay my homage to Théoden King."
Théodred's expression saddened a little, at that. "You will find him still in the high hall, I think," he said, and then added, darkly, "You will probably find Gríma there, as well."
…omer looked as if he was about to say something at that, then cast a look at Boromir, and relented. "I suppose I will see you soon enough at the Entwade, then," he said to Théodred, and when Théodred nodded, he turned and bowed courteously to Boromir. "My lord," he said. "I hope we will meet again before your leaving." And his eyes rested on him maybe a little longer than what could have been needed.
"I hope we will," Boromir dutifully answered, bowing, and as he watched …omer retreat, he found that he did hope so as well.
A quiet chuckle from beside him told him that he had, indeed, been looking a little too long.
"It is good to see that you have not changed at all," Théodred teased him, and though he scowled, Boromir was actually glad to see the dark mood of before being lifted a little from Théodred's eyes. Even if it was at his expense. "Still an eye for the comely lads, Boromir?"
"I have not, indeed, gone blind with age," Boromir retorted, and was repaid with another laugh, this time even more lively. He found himself smiling back.
"Young …omer is quite handsome," Théodred conceded. "And though young, he is no boy." He waited for a bit, before adding, "He was still a little lad with his tutors the last time you were here, yet I well remember how eager he was to know of your deeds. He used to say he would grow up to be a brave warrior like the lord of Gondor." His smile widened at the look on Boromir's face. "Aye, he broke my heart, the rascal did. I was not hero enough for my little cousin." And then, in a heartbeat, the smile was gone, and a thoughtful look replaced it. "I am quite sure …omer would be glad to offer you his... companionship, tonight. If you asked."
Boromir scowled at him again, and chose to not deign that an answer. Instead, something that …omer had said came back to him, and he asked, "What did he mean, at the Entwade? Since when is the Marshal of the West-mark needed at the East-borders?"
Théodred turned back to gaze out at the night. "These are dark times, my friend, and I will be where my duty needs me to," he said, with a hard edge in his voice, yet as soon as the words were spoken, he relented, and glanced back at Boromir with a small smile, not a real apology, but close enough for Boromir to accept. "The Rohirrim need to know they have someone that leads them still," was all he added, then looked away again. Boromir thought of the old white man in the high hall, and asked no more.
"I will be out of Edoras before dawn. I have to join my father's éored, we are ready to leave."
"Now?"
Théodred nodded again, then turned to look Boromir fully in the eye. And this time, it was Théodred's hand that was lifted, and came to rest on Boromir's shoulder. His thumb played with a lock of blond hair. "I am afraid this will be a farewell," he said, softly, and despite himself Boromir felt a shiver running up his spine. He raised his own hand, taking hold of the one Théodred kept on his neck, but did not dislodge it. Instead, he squeezed it, and shivered again when the moon disappeared behind a dark cloud. He did not speak.
They stayed like that for a while. Théodred was the first to look away. "I will let it be known at the stables for you to take the best steed you will ask for, before departing."
Boromir nodded, yet he still did not let go of Théodred's hand, till at last Théodred looked at him again. It was very dark with no moon in the sky, yet Boromir could see his friend's face as if it were the middle of the day, see the deep, dark blue of the eyes, the straight line of the nose, the faint golden shade of the short-trimmed beard that outlined the strong jaw--he could see all of this and more, and knew he would remember, for as long as he lived.
For Boromir had never had anyone that could be taken away from him in battle.
When Théodred made to speak again, he just closed the distance between them and took Théodred's words into his mouth, craning his head a little, keeping him in place with one hand tangled in the thick golden braid of his hair, his other clasping Théodred's shoulder so hard, he knew he had to be leaving marks. And he dug harder still.
And finally, with a strangled sound deep in his throat, Théodred's arms closed around his shoulders, and his kiss was met with a passion that spoke of many things--of loves past and gone, of pain and fear and rage and hunger and, perhaps, a little madness. Of days that had been long lost, and of days that no one could foresee, and were perhaps lost as well.
When they at last drew apart, not a word was spoken. They rested, still embracing. Théodred leaned his brow against Boromir's, and their breaths mingled, till the moon came out of its hiding and in the pale light they could see each other's eyes. Théodred smiled then, tightening his arms a little around Boromir before releasing him, walking past him, walking away. He did not turn back, and Boromir did not turn to watch him go.
It was almost noon when Boromir could finally set forth from Edoras, after having paid his homage to King Théoden and the Lady …owyn.
The Third Marshal of the Riddermark was waiting for him at the stables, and helped him with his choice, for he was well-versed in such lore as this one, and Boromir felt he could well trust him.
In the light of day he could see that …omer son of …omund really was no boy anymore, though his youthful looks could deceive. The looks that he cast Boromir held indeed more than boyish charm, and could have set fire to the whole Golden Hall. Boromir, while regretting more than a little the urgency of his quest, discovered that it did not really matter, for his heart was still with the man who had departed before dawn for the eastern border.
At last he was again on the road which had taken him to Edoras just the day before, and though the steed he now mounted was swifter than the one he had left behind, when he passed the barrows this time he slowed his pace.
The white evermind were like pure snow on the green grass of the mounds, bright eyes looking back at him from the graves of the kings, and Boromir impressed their sight in his heart.
Symbelminë.
Remember always.
He recalled one day long since passed, two young men just wetted in the blood of their first battle, coming to find a little corner of peace where the dead slept--Théodred's voice, naming the mounds, the names of the fathers of his fathers, one by one in the sweet tongue of the Riders, still new then to Boromir's ears.
Boromir recalled the look in the eyes of the son of the King, and how fragile and sweet the evermind had been, their scent pure and heady in the air, when he had lain down between them--little white stars caressing his hot face, cool against the heated skin of his chest, of his thighs--he remembered the curses, or endearments, in a still foreign language, muffled against the nape of his neck... another kind of battle, another first blood... another quality of pain and euphory. Their very own taste of eternity.
Times long since passed.
Times long since lost.
He urged his horse on, determined to fulfil his quest as soon as it could be done. He had no luxury of time to dwell on such idle fancies--for in his heart he knew that it had indeed been a farewell, that he would never set his eyes upon Théodred son of Théoden anymore.
And whether death would come earlier for either one or the other, he had this one, grim comfort: either way, there would be no one to mourn him when his time would come, to whom his own death would shatter heart and soul. No one would have in his eyes that fell, obscene, unbearable pain that had been in Théodred's.
No one would be there to cry over him, heart torn from his chest.
He spurred his horse on, and left the city of Edoras without ever looking back, while shadows grew darker behind him in the East.
The End
Site Info
We are the home of 1292 authors from among our 2552 members. There have been 2904 reviews written about our 3820 stories consisting of 10734 chapters and 29400445 words. A special welcome to our newest member, Rosamundeb.Categories
Skin Change
Donate
Help us keep one of the oldest running LotR archives available to all. Even the smallest donation helps!
Many thanks to our previous donors!
Many thanks to our previous donors!
