|
|
Son of Gondor
(Spanish translation by Balboa HERE) Author: Aratlithiel Summary: Boromir ponders the Ring-bearer’s fate Rating: PG Artwork entitled 'Son of Gondor' by Kasiopea (used with the artist's express permission)
|
|
November 05, 2003
~*~
SON OF GONDOR
~*~
‘She held you long in her gaze, Ring-bearer.’
Oh, that I could know what she offered you, what she whispered to your heart…and what your heart whispered back.
~*~
The hobbit – once legend to his people, now friend and companion – the hobbit… No. He will not think on it.
Who sends him such horrors to play behind his eyes in the cold, still watches of the night? Is it the witch; she who comes in the guise of a smiling friend and makes a cruel game of testing truth and honour? Or can it be…?
He closes his eyes; a crimson chill and guttural shrieks through gnashing, yellowed teeth assault his senses. Crushing fear and gaping emptiness pierce him; run his heart through with the biting heat of honed steel, leave it raw and dripping scarlet from his breast.
Please. I have nothing.
Cold and empty, he is bent in weary supplication to the darkness. There is no sense, no reason, only choking blackness and jagged laughter. Small and broken, he staggers through the canted corridors of his mind, loses himself within their writhing, crumbling ramparts, curls about the void in his soul and waits for his end, for blessed release.
Time falters and there is pain. Pain. Racing through his veins, sundering mind from body, stripping his spirit, shredding it to ragged pieces that fall to the ground in tatters to hiss and vaporize upon the burning rock on which he stands. It empties him, fills him, wrenches him screaming from his own skin, claws his mind with talons of ice that burn a path through his heart, gnaws it ragged and bloodied from his chest.
Fire seeps from his pores, dances from his fingertips. Blood drips from his eyes and pools at his feet, washing away the world, christening it in smoke and ash. Fell voices move through his soul, pound his spirit and he wavers under the onslaught.
He can pull the sun from the sky if it is his wish. He can change night to day or erase both altogether should the mood strike him. He is everything and everything is he. He is all, he is One and he is none. He can hold the White Tower in his hand and crush it to dust or he can tumble the mountains to the sea with the crook of his finger.
Power courses through him, too vast for his skin, too heavy for his mind. He is breaking, breaking, his life ebbing from him even as all other life flows through him. It is his to command, his to possess, his to build and his to rend and all it will cost him in the end is everything that he is, was or could have been.
He looks to his hand and knows it is not his own, knows through whose bleeding eyes and beaten soul he watches. Intimate knowledge of the trickery crashes upon him and he writhes in sight of the Eye, denial screaming through the din of whispers in his ears. It tells him he is Master and pretends to bow to him, but he knows. There can be only one Master and His minions now careen toward the fire in search of the one they would snare in His web of lies.
But this one is not so easily fooled, wizened by the endless stream of promises and threats he has stood against for an eternity. He knows.
Alone, he is alone and that is nothing new, is it? One last task to complete alone at the apex of an endless procession of them. He has fought it alone and now he will end it alone. It shall be done.
He looks to his feet and his eyes watch in horror as they move toward the chasm, closing the distance to the flame as the black ones close the distance to the mountain. He screams his warning to the one who walks to his doom and he no longer sees through that one’s eyes, but through his own and the hobbit looks to him in despair, which leaches into acceptance as he walks toward oblivion. He screams again but his throat is seared by fire and coated in ash and now he too is alone.
The murmurs in his heart stroke his mind with many voices, all of them dark, all of them seductive, all of them lies, all of them truth. You send him to his death, they tell him. Will none of you save him from this fate?
You lie, he tells the whispering phantasms and they laugh at him through razor teeth that drip acid and gnash at torn and bloodied lips. You know the truth, Son of Gondor, they return, laughing and they are gone, deafening silence descending upon his battered spirit.
He tries to scream, but his throat locks and he is nothing, nothing in this silent, empty abyss. The blackness chokes him and he is buffeted, falling through the silence; no direction, no feeling, no knowledge of what he was or what he is. There is nothing, only an endless void and he careens through the emptiness, clutching desperately to the pain and terror because they are all he has left to hold to. He had not understood the meaning of nothing before, but he understands now and the emptiness staggers his mind, draws it shrieking through the void and lays it bare to the blackness. His senses abandon him, one by one, until he feels nothing but the Other that lies in wait for him at the edge of the darkness where the void spills into eternity. It draws him, drags him. He feels it reaching for him and he cowers within himself. No hope, there is no hope and he opens his mouth on a scream as it closes upon him.
He startles awake, surprised to find his lungs pulling in sweet, pure air and not the heated ash or suffocating emptiness of his dreams. His hands shake and bile fills his throat. The songs in the air, beautiful to his ears only hours ago, now grate his senses and turn jagged in his heart. His eyes fill with bitter tears.
Lies, he tells himself. All of it lies.
He bolts upright and looks about, seeking the small form that lies in slumber only paces away amongst a tangle of limbs, a cousin’s arm thrown protectively across his chest. Firelight honeys the pale skin, lights it as if from within and makes of it something not of this world. Brows twist, fists clench – he is not the only one who dreams this night.
What do you see? he wonders. Would she be so cruel as to show you what I have seen? It must be she who inflicts such trespass, for to think such invasion is exacted by the Other makes his mind cringe in horror at the filth of the touch.
There will be no more sleep for him this night.
~*~
Boromir stood, walked barefoot across the grass to immerse himself in the warmth of the fire. He sat, leaning his back against the smooth bark of the great mallorn, propping his elbows on his knees and dropping his head into his hands. His lungs sucked in great swallows of air, expelling them in shaky gasps before finally calming to a normal rhythm. The heat from the low fire reached for him, snaking its warming tendrils about his toes and he flexed them gratefully, trying to expel the chill that had settled on his skin, wormed its way inward to his bones.
Prophetic dreams were not something he would ordinarily have use for. A dream could not come between an enemy’s arrow and vulnerable flesh, after all. He was a man of bone and steel – favoring a strong shield and sharp sword for hacking his way through his enemies. Soothsaying was something he preferred to leave for those who had the luxury of pondering such nonsense. Then again, what good was the sturdiest of swords, the strongest arm against an enemy that refused to show itself? That chose instead to hide within the heart of a friend? A dream was what had brought him here, no? A dream of swords and pale light, a mythical creature stepping from the mists of legend to take his place in the changing world.
But mythical creature no more, this halfling. Friend now and comrade, courage beyond many doughty men of Gondor and a fierceness of spirit that shone through his very skin to pierce those who dared look upon it with naked eyes.
He had watched all of the halflings on this journey. It began as curiosity, mixed more than a little with an hostility that roiled up from the depths of a heart that saw weakness in their size and failure at the task entrusted to them…to one of them. But that was before he had occasion to witness the strength that dwelt in their hearts, the wisdom of their uncomplicated ways, the fierce bond they held with one another that somehow leached out to encompass all who traveled in their company. He felt that love as a physical embrace and was awed and humbled within its grasp.
But the Ring-bearer he watched more closely and the longer they traveled together, the more grudging respect gave way to outright admiration. Quieter than the others, this halfling, but he spoke not only in words. His whispers echoed as shouts through the heart, his rare laughter a warm embrace of the spirit. Many times Boromir had been witness to the Ring-bearer’s silent speech as it reached to touch the heart of one of his companions with nothing more than the flick of an eye or a small twist of the mouth.
The loss of the wizard weighed heavily upon him, yet comfort flowed from him, spreading to those around him as a mist that emitted from his very skin to envelope and soothe. ‘Here’s a pretty hobbit-skin…’ Aragorn had laughed as he lifted the mithril from the Ring-bearer’s torso to expose the blackened landscape of chest and ribs, evidence of what could have been and very nearly was. Merry had joined in with ‘Bless the old hobbit!’ but his eyes had sought his cousin’s, darkness and worry plain in their depths. And even as his wounds were tended and the reality of the wizard’s fate set in, Frodo had looked to his younger cousin and told him without words, I would not leave you, cousin. I am here still. I love you and they will not take me from you so easily.
Boromir had observed the silent communication, watching a small, relieved smile spread across the younger hobbit’s face and feeling its echo on his own. Even as Frodo had struggled for breath from his battered chest, he had effortlessly eased the fear of his kinsman. But Boromir had also seen the grimace of pain, held safely in check until Merry had turned to seek out his younger cousin and he wondered how much the reassurance had cost the Ring-bearer…and whether such loving deception was a wise choice in the end.
What else did the Ring-bearer hold close in his heart? What fearsome beast lashed at the restraints within his soul and how much longer would he have the strength to stay the rending, repair the damage done every moment by its seeking claws?
You know the truth, Son of Gondor.
Boromir shuddered. He closed his eyes and lay his head back against the tree, feeling a soft hum echo throughout the living thing and seep into his skin, soothing him; stilling the labored beat of his heart, calming the whispers of his mind.
He felt, rather than heard the approach and knew he was not alone. He opened his eyes slowly and turned his head, his gaze falling to the figure shored up against the tree beside him. Deep, knowing eyes, aglow with the firelight regarded him and a small smile danced across the face.
“I see I am not the only one having trouble sleeping in this trouble-free land,” Frodo said quietly.
Boromir smiled back. “I am not convinced of the ‘trouble-free’ part, but finding sleep this night has proven…problematic.”
“Finding or keeping?”
Boromir looked to his companion thoughtfully for a moment then smiled again. Frodo returned it and they were silent for a while, gazing into the embers at their feet. The music eddied on the clear air, capturing the night sounds of cricket and nightingale and winding them into the song. Neither moved, only sat and stared as the night sauntered on around them.
“Gandalf could make fire burn any color he wanted,” Frodo said softly after a while. “I’ve seen fires glow blue with green embers, if you can believe that.” He smiled absently, a quiet chuckle stealing from his throat.
Boromir was silent a moment longer, then, “You miss him.” It was not a question.
A pause, a slow, heavy breath and a barely audible, “Yes,” carried on a wavering sigh.
“And the others?”
Frodo thought for a moment, toes digging idly into the ash at the edge of the fire. “They did not know him as well.” He cast a brooding gaze to Boromir. “They loved him, of course, but I think his fall was more a blow to their confidence than their hearts.”
“They doubt Aragorn?” Boromir asked.
“No, I don’t think it’s as simple as that,” Frodo said. “I think that up until Gandalf fell, they all…we all believed that as long as a wizard stood beside us, the worst could not happen.” He paused as his voice wavered, calmed it then went on, “We no longer have that illusion to comfort us.”
Frodo looked to Boromir and the man caught his breath as the eyes reflected a glimmer of the despair he had witnessed in his dream. He flung his gaze back to the fire quickly, pushing the memory aside.
“And will they continue on?”
A grim chuckle, a heavy sigh. “I am afraid so.”
“You would rather they remain here?”
Frodo was silent for a long moment before answering, “I would rather they were all safe at home.”
“And yourself?”
“Myself?” Frodo picked up several sticks that lay by his hand and began breaking them into smaller pieces. “Continue on, of course.” He tossed some twigs idly into the fire, watching as they landed in the embers and were consumed by the flame. “Anything less would be…”
He trailed off and Boromir did not pursue it. They sat in silence again, listening to the crackle and hiss as Frodo tossed the sticks to the fire.
“I meant,” Boromir began after a moment, “wouldn’t you rather you were also safe at home?”
Frodo laughed at that, the sound sharp and brittle in the man’s ears. “Home would not be any safer for me than Moria, I fear. I would only endanger it as I endanger all of you who travel with me.” He tossed the last of his sticks into the fire and dusted off his hands. “They know my name, you know. He knows my name. And He knows I have It. I think the only thing He doesn’t know is what I intend to do with It.” He leaned his head back against the tree and stared up into the laden boughs overhead. Very quietly, he finished, “Yet, at any rate.”
Boromir saw again the despair of his dream drawn plainly in the eyes of his companion and felt his throat close with fear. Pursuit. He had not thought of it in that way before, but now he saw clearly the truth of this halfling’s predicament. What must it be like to have the eye of the greatest enemy trained upon your trail, nipping at your feet? What must it be like to carry such a weight and know that you are hunted; desperation muted only by your own blind faith in this hopeless errand? What must it be like to know that every fell beast in the land sought you and what you held, the evil at your breast calling to them as the scent of rotting flesh to carrion birds, your only hope the slender chance that you might move below their vision and remain a pace or two ahead of them if your luck held and you did not falter?
Will none of you save him from this fate?
He clenched his teeth, shook his head to clear it. He felt a shudder building at the base of his spine and suppressed it.
“And what of you?” Frodo asked into the silence.
Boromir opened his eyes, gazed into the flame. “What do you mean?”
“This is not your errand,” Frodo answered. “Will you continue on?”
Guttural curses, the crack of a whip. Slick stone cradles battered flesh, frozen and burning with fire all at once.
He cleared his throat. “I am a Captain of Gondor,” he said steadily. “I have given my word to accompany and protect you until our paths diverge. I will continue on.”
Frodo caught his eyes and held them. “There are some things you cannot protect me from.”
Choking on ash, pain, sharp and unrelenting courses through every limb. Malice pounds through his mind, settles in his bones and there is no escape, no respite, no refuge. Yet even as the rock bites jagged into the flesh of his knees he stands against it, refuses Its call.
“Then I shall protect you from what I am able and see to those you love,” he answered.
Frodo held his gaze for another moment then turned back to the fire and nodded.
There had to be another choice. This could not be the only way. Elves, wizards…what did they know of the struggles of Men? Of Hobbits? Who were they to decide the fate of the entire world when they themselves closed themselves off from it to languish in lush lands filled with dreams of times past? Surely they would not look to the struggle of the Ring-bearer and proclaim it good? Surely they would not see what Boromir saw daily and condemn the hobbit to a hopeless journey that could end in no other way but heartbreak, sorrow and death? They had made a mistake of course, had doomed the halfling to impossible promises and now he struggled to uphold the misplaced trust they had cruelly placed in him to fulfill a task that none could see through. They had allowed their fear and cowardice to cloud their reason and thrust that which they themselves dared not touch into the keeping of one who was being slowly shattered beneath its weight. This burden would kill its bearer; empty him, devour him from within and would the great ones who had started this wheel turning feel regret once the halfling was crushed beneath it? Boromir thought not.
They were using this halfling, his companion, his friend as a tool to their own ends and gave no thought to what he endured because of their callousness. They saw him as nothing more than a vessel to carry the burden and then shatter silently and without complaint when he failed, as surely he must in the end. The man felt outrage on behalf of his friend and wondered that the halfling did not harbor such within himself. Would the purity of his spirit not allow him to cast a suspicious eye on those who had set his feet upon this road?
Boromir was not so generous. He was son to Denethor II and as such retained a healthy suspicion of any who deigned to know better than he what was right and good for his people – especially those who accepted the protection of his armies while remaining cloaked and disdainful behind their own borders. If trust must be placed in others, let it be placed in one such as Denethor, who knew the ways of the enemy not through scrolls and ancient manuscripts, but through blood spilled at his feet and the cries of the wounded on the plain of battle. Let it be placed in Boromir, whose boots still held the stain of fields of death, whose hands wielded a sword that hacked mercilessly through rank upon rank of evil, whose voice had commanded men to walk to their doom with their heads held high and the peace of the just and righteous in their hearts.
There could be no trust in those who knew not what they asked of this halfling. Or worse yet, those who knew and asked it of him anyway. Men would ask no such thing. Men would answer the call themselves and not thrust such a burden upon one who was made for hearth fires and merry song, not harsh paths and despair so deep one could fall bodily into it if they were not careful. Denethor would not ask such a thing. Denethor would relieve Frodo of his burden, would reward him with comfort and an end to cold nights by fires too small to offer respite, alleviate the fear dragging into his chest with every breath he drew into it. Denethor would proclaim the Ring-bearer Saviour, lauding him with praise and gratitude, arraying him with riches and the respect of his people…and Boromir would watch it all and smile, knowing that his friend had been saved from a lonely, fiery end and had, in turn, saved his city and his people from an enemy now vanquished by his own evil creation.
He could hold his tongue no longer. “You cannot be certain of your path now,” he said quietly. “Would you not consider another?”
Frodo said nothing, only continued to stare into the fire.
“I fear that you walk to your death, Frodo,” he said in a choked whisper.
“It is my death to choose, Man of Gondor.” There was a tightness to the voice, a note of warning.
“Nay,” countered Boromir. “I was at the council. I watched all choices stripped from you as you accepted your doom. Yet now your fate is thrust upon your companions and indeed the world. Have a care, for the smallest twist in your fortune may prove our ruin.”
“Do you really suppose for one moment that I haven’t thought of that?” Frodo hissed.
Soot coats his throat as he pulls in the blackened air. Voices seep into his ear, burrow into his brain, rend his spirit ‘til it drips cold and clotted through pitiless claws.
Boromir balled his fists and took a deep breath. “No, Frodo,” was the brooding response. “I am quite certain you’ve thought of little else.” He looked to the hobbit beside him and his heart broke with pity. The foolish bravery, the utter faith in his righteous cause – Boromir was humbled again by the simple courage contained in the being at his side and angered by the stubborn belief in words uttered by those who knew nothing.
“What did she show you, Frodo?” he asked quietly.
Frodo turned to him, looked steadily into his eyes. “Nothing I wish to share.”
Boromir stared back, undaunted. “Shall I tell you what I have seen?” he asked.
Frodo continued to hold his gaze, unrelenting. The firelight shone about him, a corona glancing from his skin to bathe him in golden light; touching his eyes with a fiery glow that reached across the short distance between them to pin the man beneath it. As Boromir watched, the light grew and pulsed with the beat of the Ring-bearer’s heart. Shadows fell along the hollows of his cheeks and Boromir could see the jaw clench and unclench. For a brief moment it seemed as though the light flared and turned white-hot, then became hidden by shadows blacker than night before that too fell away and the halfling was once again gilded by nothing more magical than simple firelight. The Ring-bearer’s eyes released him and the man dropped his gaze.
“No,” Frodo said finally and stood. “Goodnight, Boromir.”
Boromir remained where he was, the passage of time registering only dimly as he watched the indigo of night fade and slowly succumb to the roseate shades of dawn. He did not realize that the fire had died until he felt the chill creep onto his skin.
Will none of you save him from this fate?
Ah, but it is not mine to decide. His fate is set and his choices his own. His heart is true, his purpose righteous. He will stand.
You know the truth, Son of Gondor.
I know what you have shown me and you lie. His soul is untainted. He will stand
Mocking laughter rolled beneath his skin and he closed his eyes, blocking out the emergence of the sun above in favor of the darkness behind his lids. He shuddered and folded his body in upon itself, hugging his knees and resting his head upon them.
You know the truth, Son of Gondor.
Boromir clenched his hands into fists and wept.
~*~
END | |
The dreams are getting harder to bear, the
horror in his heart they engender more difficult to conceal. His
city in ruin, malevolent darkness crawling like a slithering beast across
the land, the defiant light in the western sky guttering and finally
succumbing to the suffocating shadow that creeps across the rolling
plains, swallowing all life in freezing blackness as it
advances.