To a flame

‘What a fool I am!’ Aragorn mentally scolded himself as he spurred his horse on. ‘He told me everything! To do one's duty, even if it hurts someone close to you, even if it causes you unbearable suffering... These were his words, and he was talking about himself! I asked him to say "I don't love" and he couldn't lie! The warden of the throne has a duty to provide the king with a crown and the country with a dynasty, a duty he's going to fulfil. You know what? To Morgoth all debts are owed.’ Aragorn let his horse gallop and flew through all the posts and garrisons, just swinging over the spears. At the White Tree he dismounted and flew up the stairs and into the open doors of the Steward's House. The familiar corridor was dark. Aragorn knocked on the door and listened. The wood was too thick to let in any extra sound, but Boromir's voice came through a few moments later. It was hoarse and low, as if he had been awakened. ‘And who came to me at such a late hour?’ ‘It's me,’ Aragorn said, trying to keep her voice low. ‘Open the door, we need to talk.’ There was silence in response. Aragorn pressed his forehead against the wood. Suddenly a voice came from the other side, Boromir standing at the door that separated them. ‘We have discussed it all, Aragorn,’ he said quietly. The drowsiness in his voice was gone, the hoarseness sounding as if his throat were dry. ‘Go away.’ ‘Please,’ Aragorn pleaded. ‘I have listened to you, now listen to me. Open the door, I want to see you.’ ‘Go away,’ Boromir said more firmly. ‘We don't need to hurt each other more.’ ‘This pain is what makes us who we are. You can't just turn away from it!’ Aragorn exhorted. But his answer was silence now. Boromir spoke no more. Then Aragorn went down into the courtyard, walked around the wall of the House and stopped under the east gallery. The wall here was covered with evergreen ivy, its thick old stems like ship's ropes. Clinging to them, Aragorn climbed onto the balcony, snaked along, and climbed the carved columns to the third floor. The tiny terrace was almost adjacent to the window of the Steward's room, but Aragorn still had to take a very dangerous step at dizzying heights from the railing to the window ledge. Fortunately, the shutters were not closed. There were no candles in the room, and not a single splinter burned. The hearth had remained cold since the morning Aragorn and Boromir had woken here alone. The bed was untouched, not a single fold in the gray coverlet. The master of the room was sitting on the floor by the door. He hadn't undressed for bed, hadn't even taken off his sword. He pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his forehead against them. Then he heard a rustle from the window and lifted his face... In the light of the moon peeping through the window, Aragorn saw Boromir's cheeks streaked with tears. In the next second, the lost look became angry. Boromir jumped up, wiped away the moisture with a quick movement, pressed his back against the door as if he had somewhere to retreat to. ‘I told you to leave,’ he growled. Aragorn stepped down from the window sill into the room, took a step toward Boromir, and raised his open palms in a conciliatory gesture. It was as if he were approaching a wild beast caught in a trap, ready to tear apart anyone who came near, in pain and despair. They say that strong men do not tolerate evidence of weakness. Aragorn witnessed it unwittingly. But those tears only proved that he was right. ‘Just hear me out,’ he asked. ‘Because I will leave.’ Aragorn took another small step. ‘You reminded me of my duty. As if I'd ever been allowed to forget it. Ever since I knew my real name, I've lived under its oppression. And if that's what I have to give up for you, I'll do it.’ ‘What do you mean?’ The anger in Boromir's face was replaced by surprise. ‘About the crown. Gondor doesn't need a king. And I don't want a crown that would separate me from you. I never wanted power, and I only came to Minas Tirith because it was your home. And I only wanted the crown to be worthy of you. But if a wanderer from the North is enough for you, I'll give up all claims and remain a Strider.’ ‘You can't,’ Boromir whispered in amazement. ‘I can. And I want to. But there is another solution,’ Aragorn stepped forward again. He drew Boromir's attention to his words, distracting him from action. ‘If you, as guardian of the throne, allow it, I will accept the crown. But I will not be the father of a new dynasty. When the time comes, I will appoint a successor, but he will not be my son.’ ‘But Gondor needs—’ ‘Gondor is you. I owe only you.’ Aragorn took a step for every phrase, and the room was small. Now he stood face to face with Boromir, could have touched him, could have kissed him. But he did neither, only stared into his eyes, catching every glimmer of the storm of emotion that raged within. ‘And who would that successor be?’ Boromir finally asked, pulling himself together. ‘I don't know. If I'm not killed at the Black Gate, I'll live another hundred years, and a generation of worthies will grow up in that time. But maybe your brother's son? It would be symbolic.’ ‘Why?’ ‘A new milestone in the history of two great kingdoms, and a king from the blood of both of them. Gondor and Rohan,’ Aragorn explained, seeing the confusion. ‘Faramir stays close to Éowyn in the healing chambers, though he can barely stand on his feet.’ ‘And he said nothing to me!’ Boromir was indignant. Surprise distracted him for a moment from his own sorrows. And Aragorn shortened the distance to a minimum, almost touching his chest. ‘As Gimli says — everyone has eyes,’ he grinned. Reassured that he had not yet been struck, chased away, cursed; reading the confusion and hope in his gaze, Aragorn put his arm around Boromir's waist, forcing him away from the wall he was huddled against, and pulled him close to him. With his other hand he brushed his hair away from his forehead and ran the pad of his thumb over his eyelids, wiping away the residue of salt. Then he took off Barahir's ring and offered it again. ‘What will your answer be now? Take it. Take it, and we will belong equally to each other and to Gondor. Our common duty will be to the welfare of this land, and our children will be all its sons and daughters.’ ‘How long ago did you come up with that?’ Boromir asked, glancing at the ring. ‘I made up my mind today. But I came up with it the day I first saw you in Rivendell, in the Hall of Remembrance. You were standing by the fresco. And I was reading the Book of the History of Gondor. The chapter where Isildur set up two thrones in Osgiliath, for himself and his brother.’ ‘Isildur did not share a bed with his brother. He had a wife and sons.’ ‘Did it save the throne of Gondor? That's not what the country needs for peace.’ Boromir stared into Aragorn's eyes for a moment, then leaned his head against his shoulder. Tears seemed about to flow down his cheeks again. But he breathed deeply and slowly, gritting his teeth, fighting himself. Aragorn hugged him tightly, and he wanted to weep with relief. It was as if the weight of endless duty had just been lifted from his shoulders. There would be fights to be fought — with the council, with the lords — and there would be those who would condemn this decision. But it is still easier than putting one's own happiness on the altar of another's peace of mind in eternal service to the law. ‘Is that a yes?’ Aragorn asked, forcing Boromir to raise his head. His eyes were dry, but he still flinched. ‘Yes,’ he answered and smiled. Their lips both trembled as they confirmed the promise and the binding of his ring with a kiss. ‘Just let's not announce it yet,’ Boromir said as the embrace dissolved. ‘Our friends will be happy for us, I am sure,’ Aragorn said. ‘Yes, but— We're at war. Maybe in a day you'll be free of your decision by the power of providence itself.’ Aragorn quickly clamped his palm over Boromir's mouth, preventing him from uttering any more terrible words. It was enough that he was having nightmares as it was. ‘I will order you,’ he said. ‘Once, and I won't use that right again. You will never say such a foolish thing again. It won't set me free, only dead. Do we have a deal?’ ‘Yes’. Aragorn was about to take his hand away from Boromir's lips, but Boromir intercepted his palm and kissed it. Tiredness came over both of them at once. The pain had taken its toll, and the joy they had won through hard work and difficult decisions even more so. Both of them looked down at the narrow bed that had once been their home. ‘Come with me,’ Aragorn suggested. ‘The ranges are camped under the walls. We'll have to sleep in camp beds, but even those are better than this instrument of torture.’ ‘Torture, then?’ Boromir was jokingly indignant and tried to break free of the embrace. ‘This was supposed to be your best memory!’ ‘It is. But now I'm hoping for a string of other best memories without that bunk.’ They drove out of the city at night. Past the sleeping houses, the surviving neighbourhoods. No one stopped them, though the garrison was on duty. On the first tier of the gate, still gaping at the hole in the wall, singing could be heard in the miraculously surviving inn amid the ruins. In the ranger’s camp, too, everyone was asleep. And morning greeted them with the clear ringing of silver trumpets from the walls.