To a flame

Boromir returned a few hours later, when the sun was already high. He looked annoyed and tired. The trackers invited him back to the hearth, Aragorn tried to carefully find out the news that had upset him so much.       ‘Theoden's army won’t march until the day after tomorrow,’ Boromir replied.       He looked into the bowl where the hot soup was splashing invitingly, set it aside, not succumbing to temptation, and dropped his head into his hands. In this position, hunched over, as if under the weight of all the destinies of Middle-earth, Aragorn seemed a shadow of despair.       ‘To go into battle with insufficient forces is to condemn your army to defeat,’ said Aragorn. He sat down next to Boromir, so close that he touched him with his hip, and spoke softly — only to him. A circle of silence suddenly formed around him: Gimli became extremely interested in the forest, and Legolas dragged him away with him, Halbarad and the trackers found a hundred urgent cases. ‘You lead armies into battle as much as Theoden, or even more, if you count in your own way,’ Aragorn reminded. ‘Do you understand—’       ‘My mind understands this, but not my heart,’ Boromir replied dully, without raising his head. ‘Rohan will only have time to drive away the ravens feasting on the ruins.’       ‘Minas Tirith will stand,’ Aragorn assured him. He put into these words all the faith that he still had. Boromir straightened up a little, tried to smile out of the corner of his lips.       ‘I'm going back to Edoras today. If I go out in the afternoon, I'll be there by evening. And tomorrow at dawn I will go to Gondor. I should have left right away, along with Gandalf and Pippin.’       ‘No horse could keep up with Shadowfax,’ Aragorn shook his head. ‘And your wounds would not allow you to ride day and night without rest. ‘In truth, he would have forbidden Boromir to leave now, but he didn't try to stop him, he knew it was useless.’       ‘I want to be in the city when the siege begins,’ Boromir said, confirming all fears. ‘I have to be there.’       Aragorn sighed, but said nothing. It is foolish to dissuade a warrior from battle, especially one as stubborn as Boromir.       ‘Have you told Theoden you're leaving yet?’ he asked instead of admonitions.       ‘Yes,’ Boromir winced.       ‘What did he say?’       ‘That I am free to do as I see fit. Just like him. And reminded me that I am not the king of Rohan or Gondor. And not even the steward.’       Aragorn was silent again. He would like to say that Boromir has long been the steward in everything but the title, that Gondor is still alive only thanks to the efforts of him and his brother. But this is where almost all quarrels began. Boromir's devotion to his father was above any aspirations for power, above even his own pride. He belittled his merits in favour of those of his father and never tired of assuring Aragorn that Lord Denethor would not object to the return of the king. Aragorn was also tired of trying to talk him out of it. He was happy to get at least a fraction of the trust and friendship of this incredible man and was afraid to destroy everything. Therefore, instead of unnecessary words, he ordered Halbarad to prepare the horses.       ‘We will go with you to Edoras,’ he said to Boromir and was rewarded with a look full of pure joy. The second part of the phrase was much more complicated. ‘But only to Edoras. I won’t go to Minas Tirith by the usual road.’       ‘And which way are you going to go to the city?’ Joy was replaced by bewilderment, Boromir frowned, as if suspecting the answer.       ‘I'm going through Dunharrow.’       ‘You're crazy!’ Boromir exclaimed. ‘This is suicide!’       ‘This is a chance,’ Aragorn replied softly. ‘The forces that the enemy is pulling into Gondor are not only on earth. If we can intercept the pirate ships on Anduin, we will divert the terrible threat from Minas Tirith.’       ‘But no one returns from Paths of the Dead!’       ‘I'll be back.’       Boromir jumped up and began pacing around the fire. The trackers saddled their horses and waited for the order, Gimli grumbled, but also climbed on the horse, and Legolas did not show the slightest surprise. At last Boromir approached Aragorn and was about to blurt something out, but Aragorn perfectly caught the train of his thoughts and answered before the words left the Gondorian's lips.       ‘No, you're not coming with us.’       ‘Why?’ Boromir's voice immediately sounded angry. ‘You don't forbid your friends to follow you even to death. Are you doubting me?’       ‘I don't doubt you. Because I have no doubt that the sun rises in the east,’ replied Aragorn. He sees the sky, the road he chose scared him, and with all his heart he would like Boromir to be near. But not today. ‘We won't make it to Minas Tirith before the gates close. But you have to be there.’       Boromir's nostrils flared with barely contained anger, like a warhorse's, and his jaws trembled with tension. But he didn't say anything. Aragorn also kept silent and did not say that Denethor alone would not hold Minas Tirith and how hard it would be for Faramir between his father and Gandalf. About how people sentenced to death need hope.       Now they were silent for a long time. Everyone has already learned that it hurts the other, and least of all sought to open wounds. Or they just learned to understand each other without words, guess the views and read their own hearts. And now they were riding surrounded by trackers, holding hands, but not talking. Boromir even seemed to be trying not to look in Aragorn's direction once again. He probably wanted him to be by his side in besieged Minas Tirith as much as Aragorn Boromir wanted him to be on the Path of the Dead. They have become for each other the very candle that is lit at the darkest hour of the night. But they both had to give up this light to light the way for others.       In the dead of night, in the Golden Hall, they were met by the beautiful Éowyn. She, too, was horrified at the thought that Aragorn would follow the cursed path, and tried to convince him to join her uncle's armies. Aragorn with tenderness, but inexorable firmness stopped all disputes. Boromir did not participate in their conversation, and this taciturnity was alarming.       But it wasn't the wounds, they healed quickly. That evening Boromir allowed himself to be examined and bandaged without question. As if doomed, he allowed Aragorn everything he asked for. He did not contradict him when he insisted on eating properly and going to bed early, did not wave off blankets and pillows, even as if he did not notice that Aragorn put them on the same bed. True, it was so wide that two mighty warriors could never meet in it all night. And when Halbarad came to their room to report that everything was ready for an early departure, he witnessed a historical scene, as he later said. The future king of Gondor was sitting on his lap, the future ruler was on the bed in front of him, and the heir of Isildur was taking off his shoes and washing his feet. Aragorn had a towel on his hip, completing the ablution in a basin with a decoction of some fragrant herbs, he alternately wiped Boromir's feet dry and at some point... Halbarad thought he saw a weightless kiss on his knee. Boromir did not notice this; he had already leaned back in his chair and was almost dozing. Aragorn regretted that it was the only kiss he could take with him on the dark road.       In the morning Aragorn woke up in Boromir's arms. At night, in search of warmth, they clung closely to each other, now the heavy hand of the Gondorian lay on Aragorn's chest, and hot breath warmed his neck. No one had nightmares at night, none of them woke up in a sweat with a pounding heart. No darkness had power over them while they were side by side, shoulder to shoulder. Aragorn took this as a good sign. He got out of bed carefully so as not to wake Boromir and embarrass him. He himself woke up when Aragorn was almost dressed. After a quick snack, they got ready for the road.       Horses were nervously shifting from one foot to the other at the porch. Here their paths diverged, and Aragorn involuntarily hesitated, mentally berating himself for this. He watched as Boromir carefully tightened his bracers and slowly put on his gloves, adjusting each buckle. What should I say to a person who is going to hell itself? And what are these words worth from someone who himself goes into darkness?       Aragorn led Boromir's horse and carefully held the stirrup. If he had his way, he would have helped him into the saddle, but Boromir could not bear his own weakness. He jumped on his horse on his own, winced slightly, straightened up and was about to turn onto the road when Aragorn intercepted his horse by the bridle.       ‘Promise me one thing,’ he said. ‘What you already promised me in Karas Galadon. Remember?       ‘What are you talking about?’ Boromir frowned.       ‘About the silver trumpets that will call us home. And the guard on the tower announcing the return of the lords of Gondor. Promise me that you will meet me at the gates of Minas Tirith, and we will enter the city together.’       ‘Let's go together now, if you like this promise so much,’ there was no attempt to convince Boromir in his voice. Aragorn only shook his head in response. ‘You would bring people hope, which they have not had for a long time.’       ‘I won’t bring hope,’ said Aragorn. ‘I'm just a character from a legend. But not you. They will follow you to your death because they know that you will do the same for them. I pray for one thing — do not rush. Remember what you promised me.’       Boromir was silent in response. Then suddenly he began to unbutton the bracers that he had so carefully secured. He took them off and handed them to Aragorn. A pair of beautiful armbands made of thick embossed leather. In the drawing, the thick crown of the great tree of kings was rising.       ‘Take this. And promise that you will return them to me unharmed,’ Boromir said seriously.       ‘I promise,’ Aragorn replied with a smile.       Their paths had parted, and there was no point in looking back, trying to see the lone horseman far behind, but Aragorn's thoughts were still on the porch of Meduseld. Something incredibly warm settled in his soul. Warmed by Boromir's skin, the bracers encircled his wrists as if they were his hands, rough hot palms. Immersed in his thoughts, Aragorn did not notice either the road or the conversations nearby and therefore did not immediately hear Legolas' hail.       ‘My friend, it seems that something has been stolen from you,’ the elf said.       Aragorn was waiting for a joke about the heart and was ready to fully agree with her. It was foolish to deny that his heart was now rushing to Minas Tirith, and his love for the white city had absolutely nothing to do with it. But Legolas answered the questioning look differently.       ‘The ring, Aragorn. The Ring of Barahir was gone.’       Aragorn's gaze darted to the index finger of his left hand. Only a slight trace of the ring remained on the weathered, tanned skin. Aragorn did not know when it disappeared, as his mind was busy with heavy thoughts all the time.       ‘Boromir took it off at night,’ he said slowly.       ‘This lad clearly has a morbid craving for jewellery,’ Halbarad muttered, but completely without malice. If there had been any condemnation in his voice, he would have been in trouble. Aragorn suddenly felt an incredible desire to protect Boromir from any evil word.       ‘I gave him the ring myself,’ he said. ‘As a pledge of the king's return to the steward.’       ‘And a symbol of our engagement,’ Aragorn added to himself. The bracers would certainly return to their owner, but the ring had found a new one.