To a flame

In the evening a council of war met in The Tower of Ecthelion. Aragorn, who had been visiting the wounded in the Houses of Healing, was the last to arrive and caught the end of a heated argument between the Lord of Lossarnach and the Steward. Gandalf did not interfere in the argument, he was once again smoking and thinking a lot. Prince Imrahil circled around his nephew and his opponent, preparing to separate them. Gimli sat in the throne-keeper's chair, listening, humming and dangling his feet in the air, missing the floor. Merry and Pippin, dressed as their kings, kept watch at the door, or rather just wished good evening to all who entered between light snacks. Legolas and Éomer stood aside, their faces showing they had much to say, but they were afraid of getting caught in the hot hand. ‘It's the middle of March! The snow has long since melted, it is time to plough the fields, and there is no one to plough them!’ cursed the old chief. His predecessor, the fat and genteel Forlong, had been killed in battle yesterday, and apparently had not been very instructive to his commanders. Now the Southerners were anxious to return home under any pretext. ‘Sauron had been dealt with, and now it was time to think of our daily bread!’ ‘You think too much of bread,’ Boromir bellowed. Surely he meant the chieftain's beginning gout and the swordbelt that barely fit over his enormous belly. ‘Who else are you going to feed? Sauron will strike again. And if we don't gather our strength now, the Orc brats will have white rolls for dessert! And the first course on the menu will be your children!’ ‘What's the point of victory if there's starvation afterward?’ the Southerner stood his ground. ‘What would kill you better, an empty barn or an orc sword?’ Boromir slammed his palm on the table softly but firmly, cutting off further argument. ‘Expect Lossarnach's troops in the city in three days. Not two hundred men, but two thousand.’ ‘I cannot leave my lands undefended, corsairs of Umbar…’ ‘The corsairs are dead,’ Boromir interrupted. He was clearly losing patience, which he was not known for. ‘King Elessar has freed your lands from the threats from the river.’ ‘Good,’ the old man replied reluctantly. ‘In five days…’ ‘Three days,’ Boromir repeated. The prince bowed briefly, turned and glanced at Aragorn standing in the doorway. He bowed again and went out, Aragorn had to go into the hall to let the old man through the doors. The doors were quite wide. ‘Am I right?’ Boromir asked, looking at Aragorn. He hadn't expected an answer and was so sure. But Aragorn nodded. ‘There is no threat to Lossarnach now, and Sauron will certainly not strike there. All those he fears are now in Minas Tirith.’ ‘The city cannot withstand another attack,’ Boromir said and leaned over the table. There was a map of the city and its suburbs, all stained in red ink. ‘We have men. Rohan has retained more than half, and the city's garrison has been thinned, but there are men to hold arms. Lóssarnach will send men, Prince Imrahil,’ Boromir nodded to his uncle, ‘promised another thousand swords. It will be at least a dozen thousand, but even with such a force it is easier to meet a new attack in a clear field than in these ruins.’ ‘Sauron will strike again,’ said Gandalf. ‘He is truly afraid. He is certain that the Ring is here and that it is what is helping his enemies to unite. I have received word from the North that the Enemy's attack on Erebor has failed, and the silvan elves have come to Dain's aid. And the remnants of Saruman's army have been defeated on the borders of Lórien.’ Gimli and Legolas looked at each other. There was such gratitude in the dwarf's eyes, as if Legolas had personally led an army of silvan elves to the aid of the dwarven kingdom. ‘Sauron suffers defeats all over Middle-earth,’ Gandalf continued. ‘Even the old enemies have united against him, and the dead are fighting on the side of the living. Our Enemy cannot imagine any other force capable of such a thing except the power of the Ring, and therefore he will come here for the Ring.’ ‘We don't know anything about the fate of the Ring,’ Aragorn shook his head. ‘But the Enemy is sure that it is here,’ Boromir replied. ‘What makes you think that?’ Aragorn turned to him. It seemed to him that Boromir was confused, and for a moment he seemed to wonder whether to speak or not, then he took the palantír out of the basket under the table, where there were some other papers. ‘It's the one my father kept here in the tower,’ he said. ‘I took a look— I couldn't resist.’ ‘What did you do?’ Aragorn exclaimed. Gandalf straightened up in his chair, his eyes flashed anxiously, prince Imrahil turned pale. ‘What did you say to the enemy?’ ‘You forget who you are talking to,’ Boromir's voice was ringing with steel. Aragorn remembered himself when the same question had been asked of him. And he softened immediately. So did Boromir. ‘I told him nothing. I showed him.’ ‘What is it?’ Aragorn asked. He shifted his gaze from the palantír blackening in the steward's palm to himself. He guessed the answer. ‘The ring, of course. It's all mind games, the enemy can show you things that aren't there. I did, too. I showed him the Ring in my hand as I had held it the only time I had ever held it — on the slopes of Caradhras, remember? When you clutched your sword,’ Boromir grinned. ‘Sauron was more frightened than you were.’ ‘When was that?’ Gandalf asked. He squinted his eyes and thought of something in his mind. ‘Right after my father died. I went up to the tower and—’ Boromir did not finish. He put the palantír back in the basket and covered it with the papers, turned away from everyone for a few moments. Aragorn imagined that terrible hour of loneliness and bitter loss. Boromir sought solitude in the brief respite of battle and found it in his father's study. And there he endured a terrible battle, a challenge he himself had challenged on the edge of despair. Once again Aragorn's heart filled with admiration and pride for the best of the sons of Gondor. ‘Sauron will come for the ring,’ Gandalf summed up, breaking the silence. ‘But it won't be tomorrow.’ ‘And he has lost his chief commander,’ Aragorn added. ‘There are eight more of them,’ Gimli reminded him. ‘It doesn't matter — the Enemy will gather strength and attack again,’ Gandalf shook his head. ‘We will not waste time either, and when he comes, we will meet him well,’ Éomer promised fervently. Gandalf gave the young warlord a sceptical look. ‘Before he speaks, tens of thousands of Orcs will gather outside the walls of Mordor. They will stand between Frodo and Mount Doom.’ There was silence in the hall, even Merry and Pippin had stopped chewing. Two battles won did not guarantee victory in the war; everything depended now on the two little hobbits wandering somewhere in the Black Land. If their calculations were correct, they should have reached the pass by now and descended into the valley on the other side of the mountains that guarded Mordor. That meant they had at least five more days of travel through the orc-infested hills. And there would be no happy reunions with Ithilien's scouts. ‘Then we won't wait for the Enemy to come to us,’ Boromir said. His words echoed in the stone hall, breaking the silence. ‘We will march to the Black Gate and lure Sauron's armies to us.’ ‘A barren desert, devastated by fire, covered with ashes and burning, even the air there is saturated with poison,’ said Aragorn with an expression. ‘If you had ten thousand warriors, you wouldn't be able to do it. This is stupid!’ ‘Aragorn!’ Boromir covered his eyes with his hand for a moment and laughed. ‘Do you have to quote every stupid thing I said?’ ‘It's just funny that you're the one who's proposing to go to the Black Gate right now,’ Aragorn grinned back. ‘Do you have another plan?’ ‘No. And I truly agree with your.’ ‘Certainty of death.’ Gimli concluded. ‘Small chance of success. What are we waiting for?’ Everyone looked at each other, and smiles blossomed on their faces. Crazy smiles, desperate cheerfulness. Somehow, it was the decision to go to their deaths that lifted the burden of thinking about the future. What was there to talk about the harvest if the army was going to storm the Black Gate? The last time such a thing had crossed the minds of great kings three thousand years ago, and now the decision to repeat the feat, albeit in an absolutely murderous manner, made their descendants equal to the characters of legends and songs. The commanders were returning to their troops, and the gathering of warriors and weapons in the city had begun again. ‘He's so strict,’ Pippin said quietly to Aragorn as they were leaving. Boromir was still discussing something with Prince Imrahil over the maps, I think it was about what garrison to leave in the city. ‘I'm used to him being so funny, always laughing at our stupid jokes.’ ‘Doesn't he laugh now?’ Aragorn smiled. Young Peregrin had discovered in these few days a different Boromir — not the big, kind man who had taught him and Merry to hold weapons and let them win, but a man with power. ‘He laughs, but he's so... He looks like Gandalf and old Theoden a bit.’ Pippin's getting sad. ‘He doesn't seem to raise his voice, but everyone runs to follow his orders. You listen to him and you know you can't not do it. This jerk was grumbling, but he'll do what he's told.’ ‘That is how armies are led into battle,’ Aragorn replied. ‘You can ask a dozen men as friends, a couple of dozen, even a hundred, if you have fought side by side with them for years. But to organise an army of many thousands, you have to speak in orders.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ Boromir asked. ‘About military science. Why orders are not negotiable,’ Aragorn winked at Pippin. ‘Our chances of victory are greatly improved without the Witch King,’ said Boromir. All his thoughts were now at the Black Gate. ‘Orcs are terribly organised, half-wild. Only the will of Nazgûl can make them attack according to plan and strategy.’ ‘Well, the mess at Helm's Deep was hard to clean up, too,’ Aragorn reminded him. ‘And they don't have the Black Rider anymore,’ said Pippin excitedly. ‘We have the White Rider and the White Warden.’ ‘And two hobbits, mighty warriors from the north,’ Gandalf added. ‘One helped slay the Nazgûl, the other saved the White Rider's head from the prospect of rolling in the streets of Minas Tirith.’ ‘Really?’ Boromir laughed and rubbed the two curly tops of his hair. Merry was very silent and still weak, but he smiled too, and even blushed a little with pride. ‘My best students!’ Boromir and Aragorn were left alone in the throne room. The black marble chair had been empty since Gimli's departure, and Boromir had shown no desire to sit there at the council. Now he stood in the middle of the hall, pensive, his eyes fixed on the white steps and the king's throne. Aragorn approached Boromir from behind, embraced him, kissed his neck. Boromir hummed and turned away. Aragorn removed Barahir's ring from his hand and pulled it on his open palm. ‘Take it.’ ‘Why are you giving it away?’ ‘I offer it in exchange for the One Ring that hurt you. It is older than the evil ring. It does not have its power, but I will give it another — the promise of joy. With this ring I’m betrothed to you,’ Aragorn said. He had been preparing to say it ever since he had discovered the ring missing in Rohan, but it had been a dream then. Crazy, unfulfilled. Now it's real. Boromir shook his head. He looked at the ring, and then he looked up at Aragorn's face, and it seemed to him... It did, all right. His words could not have hurt so much. Or could they? The obsession flickered and vanished, and now Boromir's face expressed only embarrassment and condescension. ‘I'm not taking it. And you don't have to offer it to me.’ ‘But I want to,’ Aragorn replied. ‘You lie. You have nobility in you, but I don't need it,’ Boromir bowed his head and smiled guiltily. ‘I should have told you at once, but I hoped you would not think of such a thing. What happened this morning... we were on the brink of death and needed each other to feel alive. That's all it was. I know how it is. I won't run after you and demand a vindication of your honour, and I won't bring you a bastard. You owe me nothing.’ He took Aragorn's palm in his hands and squeezed his fingers, hiding a precious but useless gift in them. Looking into his eyes, he continued to drop heavy words like stones. ‘You are my king, I am your steward. Let it stay that way.’ With these words Boromir went out, leaving Aragorn alone beneath the high throne.