To a flame

It’s impossible to be angry at someone you’ve seen sleeping.       Recently, Aragorn and Boromir were shouting at each other, almost every conversation they had ended in a quarrel. This time, too, many things were said that Aragorn personally now regretted. Perhaps Boromir also left after each of his outbursts of anger, tried not to show himself to either Aragorn or the rest of the Brotherhood, and now avoided the Rangers. Zeal for the future Steward has always been common, but not anger. And Halbarad never tired of joking about the strong feelings that Aragorn and Boromir evoke in each other. Knowing human nature, the old friend was rarely wrong.       Aragorn was sitting by the fire, out of habit carrying his part of the night guard, although there was no need for guards in the center of the Rohan camp. The thoughts swarming in my head prevented me from lying down and falling asleep. One fortress was defended, one dark one by an army of Ents, and two little hobbits practically threw the powerful of this world to their feet. But even this did not inspire convincing hopes that the prophecy from Boromir’s dream would come true in the direction of light.       Aragorn looked at the Gondorian again. He settled down nearby, slept like a real soldier — without taking off his armour and boots, putting his sword next to him. He looked completely exhausted. The wounds received at Amon Hen were not fatal, but very severe, the unwillingness to lag behind the orc hunt cost Boromir enormous strength, and the battle at the Helm fortress almost killed him, and the enemy’s swords had almost nothing to do with it. All strength and endurance come to an end, now it seemed to Aragorn that Boromir’s strength had left him a long time ago, and he held on to stubbornness alone. And it is she who will bring him to the grave. Today, after a loud discussion of the fate of Gondor, Boromir did not allow the wounds to be examined and bandaged, and now the prospect of fighting inflammation and fever has been added to all Aragorn’s worries.       A snort in his ear brought Aragorn out of his reverie. Halbarad had been standing nearby for a long time and watched his friend stare at his sleeping comrade, forgetting even to blink. In response to the eloquent look, Aragorn only shook his head. Whatever makes Halbarad laugh, it’s much more complicated.       The exchange of glances was interrupted by Boromir himself. He shuddered, groaned hollowly through clenched teeth, his fingers dug into the dry grass in search of the hilt of the sword lying a little to the side. Aragorn immediately crossed the clearing and sat down on the ground next to her. He brushed the hair from the tense face of the sleeper, stroked the high forehead, wiped the cold sweat from the temples. There was no fever, just a bad dream.       ‘The darkness hasn’t got here yet,’ he said in Elvish. ‘And you’re not alone.’       Boromir did not know Elvish, but only the sounds of this wonderful language could drive away the darkness and dispel the enemy’s charms. The Gondorian’s face relaxed, he dropped his already raised head on Aragorn’s hand and fell back into sleep, now calm.       ‘Halbarad,’ Aragorn called softly to his friend. ‘Bring my bag, some basin and boiled water.’       Halbarad left, but with such a significant look that Aragorn barely suppressed the urge to throw something at him. Instead, he laid Boromir on his back and began to undress him. Even the deep sleep of the guardian of the White Tower was light, he shuddered at the touch, shivered from the cold, his eyelids fluttered, and tense muscles rolled under Aragorn’s hand. Then Aragorn began to sing. He quietly started an old elven song that his mother had once sung to him. There was no special charm in either the melody or the words, it was just a lullaby. But she was able to lull the vigilance of even an exuberant curious boy, and even more, so a warrior exhausted by darkness and pain. Now Boromir was sleeping really soundly, and there was no place for pain in this dream. Rivendell’s waterfalls roared there, and birds sang in the night gardens.       Halbarad returned just in time to help Boromir get rid of the chain mail. Together they stripped him almost completely to the waist, even took off his vest from one shoulder to bandage all the wounds. That bastard Saruman shot three arrows. The first one pierced the left shoulder, the wound caused severe pain, but did not ease the fate of the orcs either then or after. The second arrow pierced a lung and scratched a rib, Boromir still shuddered every time he took a deep breath, and immediately after that he almost suffocated. The third arrow was supposed to kill him, it hit him in the stomach, leaving a deep and very bloody wound. Whether it was a happy accident or one of Aragorn’s prayers to all the powers of the world was heard, but the arrow did not touch the insides, and the bleeding quickly subsided. The next morning Boromir brushed aside all objections and exhortations, and four of the remnants of the Brotherhood set off in pursuit of the orcs. Boromir often lagged behind, but invariably caught up with his friends on short halts. There was no more talk about what had happened between him and Frodo, but Aragorn was sure that he was now driven by a strong sense of guilt. Boromir could not ask for forgiveness from Frodo himself now, and therefore he threw all his strength into saving Merry and Pippin.       Having finished treating the wounds, Aragorn brought his blanket and wrapped Boromir up, made an improvised pillow out of his cloak and made an almost real bed on the stones.       ‘We’re not going to dress him?’ Halbarad was surprised, watching Aragorn hang clothes on poles by the fire. ‘Get ready for a big scandal in the morning.’       ‘He will see fresh bandages,’ Aragorn replied. ‘Let him sleep at least one night without a hauberk.” Returning to Boromir, he pulled back the edge of the blanket and the collar of the shirt. On the shoulders, the leather jacket was almost worn through, and even through the shirt and doublet, iron rings dug into the skin.Strangely, the lullaby that Aragorn sang lulled him to sleep. At least, the sight of clean scarring wounds and the calm face of a sleeping comrade had a calming effect. Aragorn sat next to him for a while, humming to himself a few more songs, of which only the motive remained in his memory, then settled down in a hollow between the roots of a tree and dozed off.       The sun woke him up in the morning. The sky was gray, the first rays were about to colour the horizon. Aragorn lay and listened to the camp wake up. Boromir shifted around, sat down, shook his head, chasing away sleep, caught the edge of the sliding blanket and pulled it over his shoulder. And then he froze, as if a blade had been pressed into his back. The blanket was not his—his own served as bedding—and all his clothes were hanging by the extinguished campfire.       ‘What the—’ He turned around, saw Aragorn, his light gray eyes instantly darkened with anger and, as it seemed to Aragorn, with fear. ‘What did you do? ’       ‘I have bandaged your wounds,’ Aragorn replied calmly. He got to his feet, stretched his stiff joints, took two tunics from the pole and threw one to Boromir. ‘I’m sorry, I had to do it.’       ‘What else did you have to do? ’ he snapped and began to dress with such speed, as if all the hordes of Mordor were waiting behind the hill. By the time the scabbard was tightened and all the rivets on the jacket were fastened, his nervousness had subsided.       ‘Thank you,’ he said, still frowning.       ‘I hope you will allow me to bandage you in the future in the light of day and in a waking state,’ Aragorn replied with a smile, trying to soften the situation. It didn’t work out very well.       ‘If it was so disgusting, why bandaged me sleeping? ’ There was no anger in Boromir’s voice, only a strange sadness. He was looking away and was about to leave.       ‘I was not disgusted,’ said Aragorn. The fact that he was not so disgusted that the slow undressing and gentle healing of a trustfully relaxed body then dreamed of him half the night, he kept silent. But he was terribly reluctant to let Boromir go. Barely noticeably touching his hand, Aragorn stopped his rush to escape. ‘Stay. There is no time at all before the camp awakens. And Halbarad made a rabbit stew.’       The army, as always with offensives and rapid movements, fed on dry rations and what they managed to catch themselves. The Rangers are no stranger to living on the road, they managed to surround themselves with comfort even in the Morgul swamp, not to mention the fertile fields and forests. Halbarad looked like Sam Gamgee here. He respected elven bread, but preferred chowder, meat, and plain bread. Aragorn seduced the wayward Gondorian with a fragrant broth with spicy herbs and large pieces of rabbit meat. And a full stomach always has a beneficial effect on mood. By the time the other Rangers, Merry and Gimli, woke up and Legolas returned from his walk through the walking forests, Aragorn and Boromir had already had breakfast and were sitting by the crackling fire again, talking calmly and even smiling at each other for the first time in a long time.       The idyll was destroyed by Eomer, who took Boromir to the village where the troops were gathering. Gimli immediately took the Gondorian’s place by the fire. He poured himself a second bowl of soup and thoughtfully lit his pipe, extremely pleased with such simple joys.       ‘The way to a man’s heart is definitely through his stomach,’ Halbarad said casually, looking at Aragorn. He was still watching the cloud of dust from under the hooves of horses that had long since disappeared.       ‘I don’t think so,’ Legolas remarked, stroking the plumage of one of the arrows in his quiver. ‘Although, if you hit from the bottom up and a little obliquely… maybe.’       ‘Aragorn is too well-bred to strike surreptitiously,’ Halbarad chuckled. ‘Everything comes from his heart.’       This time Halbarad miraculously dodged the blow, Aragorn even put down his pipe. The Rangers were laughing quietly, Merry looked at him with bewilderment, not understanding at all what he was talking about. Gimli grunted, blowing out a cloud of smoke.       ‘Well, it’s nice that you figured everything out. It’s about time,’ he said.       ‘What are you talking about? ’ Merry asked.       Aragorn gave Gimli an expressive look, to which the dwarf only waved his hand irritably.       ‘Come on, we’re not all blind here. There was always a spark between Boromir and you, since we had left Rivendell.’       ‘Gimli,’ said Aragorn, frowning. ‘It’s not that simple.’       ‘Your love to complicate everything is clearly from the influence of the elves,’ at these words, the dwarf’s hand seemed to involuntarily lay on his heart. Somewhere there, in a deep pocket, were three golden strands of hair. ‘As soon as the sun goes down, it’ll be dark. There will be a cloud and only memories of the stars. And they don’t write songs about a bonfire or a torch. Only real fire is not afraid of darkness or storms. They only make the fire brighter and hotter.’       Aragorn sighed heavily. Every word was true. The truth is that fire burns. To the marrow of the bones, to the very heart. And it’s even scarier and more painful to lose it, especially during a storm. Tonight Aragorn saved his bright candle from an accidental gust of wind and wrapped it in blankets, afraid even to remember that terrible moment when this fire almost went out right in his hands.