To a flame

Aragorn lay awake all night. He left the city, which had suddenly become cold, terribly huge and pressurised. The Rangers were camped on the hills near the walls, and the Grey Company, accustomed to forests, fields, and wilderness, were not much attracted to the castle lodgings either. But their leader, who unexpectedly joined them, was seen off with perplexed looks. It was no longer a secret to any of the Northmen to whom Aragorn's heart belonged, and they all knew that it was reciprocated. People who love so fervently and mutually do not come to spend the night in tents to beds on the ground, their faces black with grief. The morning began early, and once again it was hectic. Aragorn was silent, shrugging off questions and working hard, as if trying to forget his worries. Gimli and Legolas tried to find out from him what had happened — Gimli was direct and stubborn, Legolas tactful and sympathetic — but neither of them succeeded. At the dinner hour, when the cauldron of porridge gathered the Fellowship and sympathisers around him again, Boromir and Aragorn did not sit next to each other, but across the table. And were careful not to meet their eyes. Aragorn, deep in his thoughts, did not notice Gimli kicking the curious hobbits out the door, and Legolas, praising the fields of Rohan, dragging Eomer and the Prince of Dol Amroth away with him. The prince vowed to revive the gardens of Ithilien, the young king of Rohan promised to visit them. When the door of the refectory slammed, Aragorn woke up and noticed that he and Boromir were alone. He, too, shook his head, shaking off his reverie, and stood up to leave. Aragorn could not let him go. ‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘why did you refuse? Did I do something to offend you or hurt you?’ ‘No,’ Boromir replied, looking away. ‘Why then? And why did you allow intimacy if you don't love me?’ ‘I—’ Boromir hesitated, took a deep breath and looked Aragorn in the face. He was standing by the table, looking down at him, the light on his face making his eyes seem as bright as bright silver or ice on a river in spring. There was no coldness in his gaze, but Aragorn sensed a terrible pool beneath the thin crust of calm. ‘I'm not going to lie, you are very dear to me.’ ‘Those are cruel words,’ Aragorn said softly. ‘If you don't love me, say it. And I won't ask you for anything but friendship.’ ‘Yes. I hope we shall remain friends,’ Boromir replied. His voice was hard, and the fingers clutching the edge of the table turned white. Now Aragorn rose to leave. He had fought many battles in his life, but never before had he had to fight himself, and never had the terrible weapons of words been turned against him by those he loved. Now it was time for Boromir to stop the impulse to flee with a touch. It would have been better if he had not; the feel of the hand on his wrist made his heart ache, as if it had been clenched into a fist and held, preventing it from beating. Boromir immediately let go of Aragorn, but he stood too close. ‘Look, Aragorn,’ he spoke hurriedly, ‘we remembered yesterday about Caradhras—’ ‘Are you angry?’ Aragorn interrupted him. If that is the only reason... a mad hope flared in his chest. ‘But you know why I did it!’ ‘I’m not angry. I know,’ Boromir's voice had an unusual softness, as if he were explaining something to a child. ‘And I thank you for it. In a moment of madness, I wish I were your opponent, not Gandalf's. He would leave me in the dust.’ ‘You shouldn't be so. Gandalf cares for you very much,’ Aragorn shook his head sadly. ‘It doesn't matter. What matters is that you would do your duty even if you had to hurt your friend, even if it would cause you yourself unbearable suffering. And that is the right thing to do. It's what the people have a right to expect from their king.’ ‘And love knows nothing of duty, is that what they say?’ Aragorn asked. He was beginning to guess what Boromir meant, and grew darker by the moment. ‘That's right, too. Aragorn, yesterday morning... I think I slept much longer than one night — my whole life. And I only woke up last night beside you. But I know that one day I will wake up alone again, with you by my queen's side. It is your duty to your country and your crown. And I don't want to humiliate the good girl who will be your wife by cheating, nor you. Though... You will not cheat.’ Boromir smiled, but it was a sad smile. ‘One day you will instruct your sons and tell them that duty comes first.’ ‘You were the first to think of duty,’ Aragorn replied. ‘Yes. I, too, have been trained to rule Gondor. And I will do what is best for Gondor.’ Boromir kissed Aragorn. A bitter kiss with the flavour of goodbye, hurried, rough. Aragorn could not find the strength to answer. Boromir's hand slipped from the back of his neck to his neck, his shoulder. He pulled away, looked into his eyes, read and understood everything. He smiled guiltily, turned and walked away. Aragorn followed him. He stepped out onto the steps of the porch of the Tower of Ecthelion, looked at the White Tree swaying its dead branches in the wind, and cursed the tree, Minas Tirith, the winged crown, and the White Throne in warm blood. In the evening, after sunset, Aragorn returned to his tent. He was terribly tired; the sleepless night had taken its toll, and the day's toil had taken its toll even more. The armies were preparing to march, one more day and a new campaign would begin, which would end either in victory or death. The words of the elven brothers came to mind — one must not set foot on the path of death with a broken heart. Aragorn had to do just that now. ‘What has happened to you after all?’ Halbarad asked. After giving his friend a day to think, he still came to him with questions and freshly brewed tea. ‘I proposed marriage to Boromir and he turned me down,’ Aragorn replied. A fire was burning in front of the tent, a kettle was boiling over the fire, and a huge city loomed up ahead. If you strained your imagination, you could make out the flames of beams and candles in the windows of the houses, and one window in the steward's bedroom, where it was dark. Halbarad was not looking at the city, he was looking at Aragorn. Finally, he raised his right mobile eyebrow and waved his hand in an impatient gesture. ‘And what happened next?’ ‘What else do you want to know?’ Aragorn grumbled irritably. His heart felt like a grievous wound, the pain of which would subside to a slight whimper if he did not move or touch it. Halbarad was perfectly capable of picking such wounds, but he called it healing. ‘What was his explanation?’ ‘A sense of duty. The legacy of Gondor.’ ‘Oh, boy. He's got his mind. What else did he say?’ ‘It matters what he didn't say. He didn't say he didn't love me.’ ‘He hasn't lost his integrity, either. You know, I'm starting to really respect him. Though his father must have taught him all about duty from a young age. By the way, maybe it was for the best that old Denethor did not live to see the day when his adored firstborn son lay under a ragamuffin from the north.’ ‘Stop mocking me!’ Aragorn shouted. The ghost of Lord Denethor was already in every room of the House of Stewards. And Aragorn was not sure that Boromir did not see it too. Maybe it was his father's shadow whispering guilt to his son. ‘All right, I'll shut up,’ Halbarad said compliantly. ‘Only one question: you have found out the reasons for your refusal. Did you tell him why you needed his consent?’ ‘I thought it was obvious since I'm offering a ring.’ ‘Yep, and during the battle, a very obvious night hung over those fields for three whole days, even though it was supposed to be daytime at times.’ ‘It doesn't matter anymore, it's over.’ ‘Well, if you say so,’ Halbarad rose, stretched until all his bones creaked, and took a step away. Aragorn felt a sudden and very deep loneliness. ‘Halbarad!’ He called out in desperation. ‘What shall I do?’ Aragorn asked for advice, though he hadn't listened to anyone's advice in a long time. But, as it turned out, he had never loved. It was easy to love a star, to find the right words in the lines of songs and to perform feats in the name of these songs. And everything turned out to be much more difficult with a man whose image consists equally of vices and virtues, who does not need songs and feats — he is their hero. He is a fire that burns to the bone. ‘Go to him,’ Halbarad said. ‘Tell him everything. Tell him what he means to you. Even if you accept his answer, he needs to know why you asked in the first place.’ ‘Do you think he'll change his mind?’ ‘I doubt it. You can't swear allegiance to him at the altar anyway, you'd have to cheat on him to fulfil another obligation. And Boromir is proud and jealous. He won’t share you.’ At the moment Halbarad said this, Aragorn already knew what he would do. It was a decision that had been brewing in him for a long time. It went against all recognised laws. The very laws that the Steward and the Guardian of the Throne cared about. There is no point in breaking the law alone, but if two on either side want it, no wall will survive. Even a wall made of tradition and words written down on old parchments — such walls are the strongest — will crumble if there are two men willing to fight. ‘Hey, where are you going?’ Halbarad exclaimed as Aragorn jumped up and rushed to untie his horse. ‘Could this wait till tomorrow?’ ‘I've already lost a lot of time. I shall lose it completely in the morning,’ said Aragorn.