Boromir lay dreaming in the groves of Lothlorien. In his mind's eye he saw at first only darkness, and then a wreath of smoke and flame, tumbling unstoppably towards him, and he could hear a terrible screaming that echoed around him. His face was cold and drenched with sweat.
Where was he? The walls around him were made of stone, holding him in, trapping him. It was pitch black, except for that dreadful creature of menace now approaching him, its body a burning inferno. The Balrog. And then he knew – he was back in Moria, back where Gandalf had fallen. He saw the wizard standing small and white in his dream, his staff raised, and he wanted to cry out, to run and pull him back. But no sound came out of Boromir's throat. And he could not move – his legs were frozen.
How could he win? How could he possibly survive, that little figure standing alone against a mass of fire and wrath? He knew what would happen. He had to stop it. But he couldn't. With its last spiteful swing, the Balrog pulled Gandalf into the abyss, and the screaming in Boromir's head became louder and louder, until he felt he was gasping. And then everything went black.
For a moment he thought he had woken up, but then the dream flashed and changed. Now he saw that he was out in the open, at twilight, in a place he had never seen before. The air was soft and warm, and all was quiet. It was peaceful and soothing, and he stood there for some time. But every now and then, he would hear a strange noise, soft and rustling, which rose and then lulled. He moved forward, and saw that he was beside the Sea.
It was vast, wide and glitterinng beneath the moon and stars. He was awestruck by it, for it stretched beyond the realms of his mind. Why am I here? he thought. It is not my path to cross into the Undying Realms. Then a soft voice spoke beside him.
You are here for me, Boromir.
He looked around, and forgot to breathe. Legolas stood before him, dressed in a simple white tunic, his hair loose and flying in the sea breeze.
I am here to give myself to you, he said.
Boromir inhaled deeply and put his hands on the elf's shoulders.
I have been aching for you, he whispered, aching for you.
Legolas looked beautiful, even more so, if possible, in his dreams than in reality. His proud, high cheek-boned face and milky-white skin were clear even in the evening light, as if they glowed from within. Boromir leaned forward, and drew his face towards his own.
They kissed, for how long Boromir did not know, standing there beside the Sea. And then, he felt a white heat pooling within him, and he took the elf's hand, and brought it to his lips. Please, do not leave me, he begged. Give me what I crave. There was a pause, in which Legolas looked at him. And then he held out his other hand, and opened it to show him what lay on the palm.
Is this what you wanted? he asked.
There, in his hand, was the Ring. It seemed to rise up off his palm, and float in the air, shining and gleaming. And as Boromir looked at it, entranced, he felt as though the night had grown darker around them, and all that blazed brightly was that loop of gold. It turned slowly, the light radiant along its continuous band, and the sea was full of whispers. His reached out, and the gold was reflected in his wide eyes. His hand closed over the cold metal.
It is mine! he thought, and he had never felt so full of triumph.
I have it!
But in that moment, a piteous wail broke the silence, and he saw that Legolas had sunk to his feet, and his face was ashen grey. No! he cried out, trying to lift his stricken lover.
It is too late, whispered the elf. It is too late!
And then Boromir saw that the Sea itself was darkened and rough, and had begun to froth, as if it were boiling with anger or pain. He was on his knees, desperately trying to revive Legolas, who was now lifeless in his arms, and still the Sea rumbled and groaned before them. And then, before he could do anything, that vast expanse of water had lifted itself into a torrent of dark waves, and it fell upon them, engulfing them in its merciless jaws with a resounding crash.
Boromir woke up with a start. Something had just struck him across the face. He had his hand on his sword at once, thinking they were being attacked, but then realised that Legolas was thrashing and sobbing beside him in his sleep.
"Wake up!" he said, shaking his slim shoulders. "Wake up, Legolas!" The elf shuddered and looked around him, as if he did not know where they were.
"It's only me," said Boromir. "Are you alright?"
The elf nodded, wrapping his blanket around his pale arms. "I was having a nightmare," he said softly. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"It doesn't matter. I wasn't sleeping well myself." He was still shaken from his own strange dream. Now he looked at the quiet figure, and saw his eyes which stared so sadly and emptily into the darkness.
"Have you been weeping?" he asked.
Legolas brushed his eyes hastily with the back of his hand. "I was dreaming – I was dreaming of them again."
Boromir knew he was talking about the Nazgul. "They can't hurt you here," he said.
"But they can hurt me here," he replied, gesturing to his heart.
"Oh, Legolas," said Boromir, full of pity. "I am so sorry." Not knowing what else to say, he embraced the elf and held him. He felt him trembling against his breast, and knew that he was trying to stop himself from crying. After a few moments, Legolas was able to control himself, and he took himself out of Boromir's large arms with regained composure. "I should not trouble you like this."
"It is no trouble."
"Only that it haunts me so much. It has gone through my spirit, and everything I think of is touched by it. I do not know what I shall do."
"You will fight on, son of Thranduil, as you have done so far."
"I do not know how long I can keep fighting."
"You are stronger than you think you are. You are a prince of Mirkwood." Legolas smiled with eyes downcast.
"You have always been strong for me, Boromir. I am glad you are here, especially since we have lost Gandalf." His lovely wide eyes were full of grief at the thought of the wizard's fate. Boromir, looking at him now, could not help but think of his dream with longing.
"If I ever come across the monster that used you so vilely, I will slit his throat," he said vehemently. But Legolas only looked at the ground, for nothing could undo what had been done, and even vengeance had no sweet taste for his tongue. It was almost dawn when they went back to sleep, both struggling with secrets and fears within themselves, and both minds troubled by emotions which they could not control.
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