Takes place in Rivendell, film!based and Aragorn's POV
Author: Tessy (email@example.com)
Beta: the wonderful hot_x_bunny
Disclaimer: The characters, unless specifically distinguished, are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and the Tolkien estate. They are used without permission and no money is being made through this work of fiction.
Rating: overall rating may reach NC-17, but this chapter is PG at the most.
Pairing: Boromir/Thorongil and before you run away squicked, Boromir is of age when the serious stuff starts!
Author’s notes: This fic is heavily book-based, though the physical characteristics as well as some ways of behaviour are film-based. The timeline is AU and a significant element of the LOTR universe has been changed for the story’s sake: the only royal Elf/Man unions were in the First Age, so no Aragorn/Arwen here. Many thanks go to Sasjah, Cinzia, Uisgich, Galadriel and Widdershin for overall encouragement. Specific chapter thanks will be given when appropriate. This is Aragorn’s POV. Enjoy! :)
The Hall of Remembrance was bathed in the silver glow of Ithil and the works that filled it were revealed in all their beauty, as was the way with the works of the Quendi since the Awakening. In retrospect, it seems to me as if even the Lord Manwë held his breath back from flowing through the Hall , anticipating the thing which was going to change my life forever.
But I, against my usual nature, had been cast into an abyss of focussed oblivion that evening. Maybe it was a conspiracy forged and carried out by the Lords Fëanturi to make it possible for fate to approach me without my notice?
Whatever the reason, I was preoccupied with reading dear Bilbo’s account of the fateful Quest to Erebor, so that I did not notice the heavy footfall of a Man resounding through the Hall. When the veil of preoccupation was finally lifted from me and I looked up to face this unexpected intruder, it took all of my long-trained self-control to keep me from uttering a gasp of surprise.
For the Man whom I had, in my unobservant ignorance, deemed a stranger, was in truth anything but a stranger to me and especially to my heart.
Before me, clad in the rich travel garb of his station, stood Boromir Denethorion, heir to the Stewardship of Gondor.
At this precise moment, the younger man’s emerald gaze was trained on the painting covering much of the eastern wall, which had been made by the hands of my dear foster-brother Elrohir Elrondion himself and which depicted the moment of my forefather Isildur’s betrayal of both himself and the whole of Middle-earth to the cursed Ring.
I had often studied the painting during my tutelage under the Lord of Imladris’ care and knew every detail of it and would have known it even if my blood had not sung of this shameful deed every moment of my life.
Thus, I was free to study the Gondorian instead, the way he carried himself with the obvious pride of one descended from an ancient and noble Númenórean line, of one who knew his place in life, of one to whom the power to inspire confidence and admiration came as naturally as breathing.
He had grown stronger since I had seen him last, though nothing of his beauty had been swept away by the cruel hands of war.
Moonlight spilled across the fair hair and gave the Son of Denethor an ethereal beauty, creating around him the vision of one of our proud forefathers, such as brave Hador, who had, as I remembered with a smile, been one of Boromir’s childhood heroes.
Suddenly Boromir turned and, gazing directly at me, he observed, somewhat surprised: “You are no Elf…”
Indeed, I looked far from Elven that night and my somewhat rugged appearance must have caused Boromir to be wary of me. Luckily for me, the blond warrior was not filled with the same disdain regarding the Dúnedain of Arnor as I remembered Denethor being.
Bowing, I merely chose to greet the Steward’s heir with the assurance that he, like all Men of Gondor, was welcome in Imladris.
The next question was harder to answer for me, however:
“Who are you?”
I briefly contemplated revealing myself to him, but chose not to, as I was sure that Boromir would not have believed me to be Thorongil, because I no longer behaved like the brave Gondorian Captain the Steward’s heir had once known. Instead, I described myself in a way that would be obscure enough to keep the blond warrior from further questions and still suffice as a polite answer.
“I am a friend of Gandalf the Grey.” I answered, smiling politely at the younger man.
Finduilas’ son nodded at the answer and, giving a polite smile in turn, commented that we were in Imladris because of a common purpose.
But ere I could formulate a reply, the green eyes were drawn to the glimmering shards of Narsil, which dominated the Hall, resting in the lap of a statue portraying Emeldir, the brave mother of my forefather Beren Erchamion.
I myself was in turn fascinated by the obvious enraptured fascination with which Boromir handled the chief sign of my line’s heritage. He had always, even as a child, been interested in the great battles and heroes of Men, ignoring all the woe wrapped therein and spun within the great tapestry of Vairë the Weaver.
Try as I might, I could not will myself to tear my gaze from Boromir the Fair and as, according to both Thranduil’s son and my cousin Halbarad, it is quite intense for a Man, Boromir soon turned, clearly irritated by my stare.
And that was when I noticed it: suddenly a flash of lightning illuminated the depths of the Gondorian’s emerald gaze. He had recognized me for the man who had once been Thorongil.
The man who had once been his lover.
Following this discovery, Boromir’s posture stiffened and even his hands began to shake with anger. Ere I had the slightest chance to explain myself, he threw Narsil down unceremonially. Finishing this display of anger and hurt pride with an insulting comment that this sword was no more than a broken heirloom, the Steward’s son left the Hall swiftly.
Sighing, I stood up and placed Elendil’s sword back in Emeldir’s lap. While doing so, I contemplated this meeting with Boromir. He was right to be angered. I had left him without any sign of my reason almost two decades before. I had had no other choice then, if I wanted to keep my beloved from further harm than had already been caused by his sharing my bed despite his father’s apparent dislike for me. But how was Boromir to know that?
Suddenly, the soft footfall of Elven feet interrupted my anguished musings. Ere I could as much as turn my head to acknowledge the visitor, Arwen asked calmly, but still with an ever so small note of worry underlying her calm, soothingly melodious voice:
“Estel, why do you look so grieved? What worries you, gwanur-nin?” Celebrían’s daughter inquired, placing a cool, white hand on my shoulder as she stepped closer. I turned heavily within my foster-sister’s comforting embrace and, gazing for a moment into the blue depths of her calming eyes, I related my tale to her who has always been my confidant when it came to matters of the heart.
When I was finished, the Hall was filled for a moment with silence only: a thoughtful and considerate one on Arwen’s part and a shameful one on mine.
Then Arwen smiled ever so slightly, like a moonbeam dancing over a leaf, just barely recognizable, and said:” Why do you not go to the Lord Boromir and relate your reasons to him now, Estel? I am sure he would listen to you. Doubtless the flames of anger no longer rage in his heart.”
I just wanted to explain to kind Arwen that my beloved’s anger was easily kindled and very hard to abate, but the Lady Undómiel had already guessed my intention and placing a finger across my lips, she chided me softly.
“Ai, Rúmil of Tirion is wise indeed, if he calls the Secondborn a nuisance and a grief to both Valar and Eldar! For Ilúvatar has given to you the gift to be free of the bounds of the Music that bind all other creatures under the One, even the Quendi, and yet you use it not!”
Smiling myself now, I promised my beloved sister to talk with Boromir as soon as I could.
She nodded at this and made to leave the Hall, doubtless to find her beloved Legolas or our brothers, Elladan and Elrohir. At the entrance, Arwen turned and nodded encouragingly before walking away as soundlessly as she had come.
Turning, I gazed through one of the Hall’s many openings in the ceiling, out at the dark night sky so beloved by the Elder Children.
Sending a silent prayer to both the Lady of the Stars and my forefather Eärendil to give me estel, so that I could see this through, for my fair one’s sake, if not my own, I slowly made my way towards Boromir’s chamber.
On my way there I thought back on the events that had led both Boromir and me to where we now stood.
Lords Fëanturi: Námo (death) and Irmo (dreams), brothers and two of the Valar.
The architecture of the Hall: the ceiling and the idea that the statue holding Narsil is Beren’s mother are my ideas, the painting of the Dagor Dagorlad being made by Elrohir is taken from AC’s fabulous The Folly of Starlight series .
estel : Sindarin for “high hope”, the kind of hope that has no foundation in reason and is only founded in a strong belief that the thing is going to happen as it should
gwanur-nin: brother mine or my brother in Sindarin
Arwen’s words about the gift of Iluvatar to Men and Rúmil of Tirion are taken and paraphrased from accounts of the Ainulindalë in the Silmarillion and Morgoth’s Ring where it is expressively said that Rúmil the Sage of Tirion wrote down the Ainulindalë in Valinor.