To a flame

That very morning, when Boromir's prophecy about the silver trumpets of Minas Tirith came true, he and Aragorn had another quarrel. But this was a different quarrel from their previous ones. Before, they used to quarrel in such a way that it seemed as if they were ready to hate each other. Now their quarrels were hilarious to those watching. Boromir growled that Aragorn was not yet king and had no right to give orders, and at the same time helped him to tie the cuffs, while Aragorn accused him of donkey stubbornness and ignoring common sense, wondering in between what he thought of the resilience of the south coast troops. And they quarrelled because Aragorn did not want Boromir to go to the Black Gate with their army. ‘Boromir, enough of this misplaced heroism!’ he tried to exhort. ‘The old wounds have not yet healed, and in every fight you get new ones! You're still anaemic. At the Black Gate, we'll need all the strength we have and more, and you have none left.’ ‘I can ride, I can hold a sword,’ Boromir answered hotly. ‘All my men who can stand on their feet will be in battle, and you suggest I sit on the sidelines?’ ‘I invite you to stand in defence of Minas Tirith, if necessary. And Middle-earth,’ Aragorn said in a low voice. They sounded pathetic, but they sounded unhappy. ‘If the assault fails, everyone will be killed. Me, and Gandalf, and Éomer, and Prince of Dol Amroth, all the commanders who can lead an army. There will be no one left to unite the people. And only in unity is our salvation.’ ‘Faramir will stay in the city,’ Boromir reminded him, but not so firmly. ‘Yes, he will. And I believe he can handle it if he has to. He's a strong man, much like you. But are you sure you want to doom him to this?’ Aragorn was being deceitful. He was not so much thinking of the plight of Captain Faramir, who might be orphaned forever and would have to fight for orphaned Middle-earth against a terrible enemy, as of the fact that Boromir would be killed at the Black Gate before Aragorn himself — the Steward is always in the thick of the fight. But Boromir was not used to sparing Aragorn's feelings. His brother is another matter. The arguments involving him shook his confidence. Aragorn exclaimed inwardly. He went with Boromir to the Houses of Healing when he decided to visit his brother, and made sure that the young warlord's pallor and weakness caught Boromir's eye. Faramir, unlike his brother, was much more realistic about his own strength and was not eager to fight. No wonder — it was the third day since he had been brought back from the dead. When he heard that Aragorn wanted Boromir to stay in the city, he supported it wholeheartedly and joined in the persuasion. Under the double pressure, Boromir gave in. The next morning they bade farewell beneath the White Tree. Aragorn wore armour with crests, a black cloak falling from his shoulders, and banners fluttering in the wind around him. Boromir, on the other hand, was without armour and cloak, dressed homely. They had already said everything they wanted to say to each other, but they did not dare to say the last "farewell". Aragorn was led to his horse, the heralds were waiting for the signal, and an impatient Serogriv was already shuffling his hooves a little away. ‘Take it,’ Aragorn said suddenly, and handed Boromir a scroll with a seal. ‘What is it?’ Boromir broke the seal and unfolded the paper. ‘A will? Are you serious?’ He raised a dumbfounded look to Aragorn. ‘It's just a precaution to keep your life simple— If I fall in this battle, all my claim to the throne is yours.’ ‘I'm not taking this!’ ‘Take it or leave it, it's a valid document. It's signed by seven witnesses, as required by law.’ There were indeed seven signatures at the bottom of the parchment. Prince of Dol Amroth, Éomer Éadig, Gimli son of Gloin, Legolas son of Thranduil, Mithrandir the White Rider, the Honourable Meriadoc Brandybuck, and Esquire Peregrin Took. ‘Representatives of all the free peoples of Middle-earth,’ Aragorn said. ‘It may be that you will be their last hope.’ ‘If I am the last hope, Middle-earth will not be envied,’ Boromir grinned, trying to hide his shock behind the joke. He took the paper and hid it in his pocket. Then he held Aragorn's stirrup, touched his hand for a moment, as if he meant to hold it. But he stepped aside. ‘Don't give up hope,’ Aragorn said. Horns blared all around, echoed by the clang of weapons and the clatter of hooves. From every level of the city, a river of steel and iron-clad warriors under the banners of the two kings flowed toward the gates. The white banner of the Stewards was not in the sky, but only on the spire of Ecthelion's tower. Aragorn rode on without turning around. Legolas and Gimli were in the same saddle beside him, talking and joking. It did not occur to either of them to suggest to the other that they stay safe, rather they would have dreaded the fate of going into the darkness alone. Merry, sitting in Éomer's saddle, and Pippin, now Gandalf's faithful companion, could not imagine staying behind. Waiting for news of the fate of friends is sometimes a harder fate than battle and wounds. The army crossed the river at the hastily made crossings and took the road where no one had dared to go in the open for a long time. The dead city of Minas Morgul loomed on their left hand, and black mist rose over the mountains ahead. The fog grew, and the closer the squads came to Mordor, the more the witch's darkness pressed down. The sun disappeared again, heavy shadows stretched out, and longing and fear crept into their hearts. Then Aragorn thought that hobbits were a remarkably resilient people. He glanced to the side and saw the smiles on Merry and Pippin's faces. They looked at each other, and when they caught Aragorn's gaze, they looked embarrassed, as if they had been caught in some mischief. Laughter seemed inappropriate now, but so necessary. At the Black Gate, another prophetic word had come true. There it took all the strength they had and more, just to stand in the shadow of those mountains and find the courage to draw their blades. Those who could not cope with the fear retreated — Aragorn had sent them north, to kill the remnants of the Ogre forces near Minas Morgul, and south, to clear the coast. Barely half of the men had reached the Gate. But even with a little more courage, even twelve thousand men standing at the Gate would not have been enough to break the power of Mordor. When the gates opened and the dark hordes poured onto the plateau, there was real terror. What had struck Minas Tirith was no match for the armies Sauron had reassembled. The plan to draw out the armies had succeeded. Aragorn had ordered the occupation of three hills, not high at all, but on a table-like plateau it was already an enviable height. Now all that remained was to defend. Fight as long as he could, denying the thought of death, but carrying it to the enemy. Aragorn heard Pippin's words to Merry — if one is to die, one wishes to die beside a friend. Legolas and Gimli looked at each other bitterly and smiling at the same time. Aragorn had no one to send such a look to, only the guards of the Citadel were around him, ready to hear orders, not useless words of encouragement. Then Mordor struck, life and death blended together, hope and quiet acceptance of doom became one. No one could say how long the battle lasted. The first wave of the orc offencive was smothered, the second wave was barely repulsed, the third wave was approaching the hilltops, breaking the line of the defenders. At some point Aragorn realised that his friends were no longer around, they had been pushed aside, there were no citadel guards or squires, Gandalf's staff was sending lightning bolts over the enemy's heads a hundred yards away, and there were only mangled orc faces around. This is probably the end, Aragorn thought. He cut down head after head, head after head, but the Orcs were not getting any smaller. The Dark Lord's will led them, and the sky was blackened by the wings of the monstrous Nasgul creatures. No legend can be brought back to life, this song will end in sorrow. As if in answer to this thought, a huge half-troll orc stepped against Aragorn. He threw Aragorn to the rocks with a blow of his sword, so that his helmet flew off his head. The sword fell from his hand and glinted briefly in the dust and ashes. Aragorn's head rattled so loudly that he could hear almost nothing. His eyes blurred, and he could barely make out the huge shadow looming over him. The legend was repeating itself, but it would end differently this time. At the very moment when everything seemed to be over, Aragorn suddenly saw a mighty figure in white armour, wearing a tall winged helmet. The warrior, as if woven of light, raised his sword, coming between Aragorn and his doom. With a last effort of consciousness, Aragorn recognised his own blade in his hands — Andúril, the Flame of the West. With one blow the legendary sword struck the troll, guided by a strong hand, pierced the armour near the heart, and the terrible foe collapsed, shaking the ground. And the warrior turned to Aragorn. He seemed to call out to him, but Aragorn did not hear. The ground shook, and behind the warrior's back, the Black Tower was crumbling in agony. But he did not look there, only at Aragorn. ‘Isildur,’ Aragorn whispered in a swelling delirium and fell into unconsciousness. He awoke with ease, as if he had awakened from a pleasant dream. First came the sounds — quiet voices, rustles, birdsong, then the sensations — a soft bed, a light fresh breeze, something cold and wet on his forehead, soothing. The headache came too, but it settled somewhere in the back of my head and barely touched my thoughts. Then the smells. Aragorn recognised the athelas he himself had used to feed the sick, and the first flowers of spring. At last he opened his eyes and saw Boromir above him. He was concentrating on wringing the handkerchief over the basin, then wiping Aragorn's forehead again. ‘It was you,’ Aragorn whispered, looking up at him from under half-lidded eyelids. ‘Isildur?’ Boromir grinned. ‘I have never been called that before.’ ‘You didn't listen to me,’ Aragorn smiled. He was not angry. Heaven knows, he was happy that Boromir was so stubborn. ‘Did you believe for a moment that I would stay in the city?’ Boromir asked, feigning utter surprise. There was anxiety in his eyes, but he was smiling. ‘You don't know me very well yet.’ ‘When did you catch up with us?’ ‘Almost immediately. I went back to my chambers, added a few lines to your will for Faramir. And the horse was waiting for me under saddle. So we rode out of town at the same time.’ ‘Did anyone else know you were with us?’ ‘Hobbits,’ Boromir grinned. ‘You were all staring at the Black Gate, not looking around anymore. These two are sharp-eyed. I was riding next to them, carrying the standard.’ Aragorn groaned with anger at himself. How could he have been so blind! He tried to sit up, but his head immediately exploded with pain and dizziness, and nausea rose to his throat. ‘Get down!’ Boromir ordered and toppled him back over. ‘I am,’ Aragorn agreed meekly. ‘But the battle-’ ‘Is over.’ ‘I thought the Tower was falling.’ ‘That's right. Half of Mordor fell to the ground, Orodruin erupted in flames. The Ring is destroyed.’ Aragorn could hardly believe these words. But Boromir's shining eyes, his smile, the wind and the birds that came to his ears instead of the rattle of iron, convinced him of it. ‘What about Frodo and Sam?’ Aragorn was worried. ‘They're alive. The eagles carried them out of the fire. The Hobbits, Gimli and Legolas are also unharmed,’ Boromir added, seeing the new questions in Aragorn's gaze. ‘It is all over. Not without loss, but those closest to me survived. Except for you.’ ‘But it's just a bump,’ Pippin's voice sounded nearby. Aragorn glanced up and saw the two hobbits beside him, as still as mice. There was more hope than affirmation in young Peregrin's voice. ‘If I hit you on the head, it would just be a bump,’ he grumbled from behind the tent, and Gandalf came inside. He brought more healing herbs. ‘And for most thinking heads, that's a serious injury.’ Pippin became embarrassed and silent, Aragorn laughed despite the pain. ‘Now rest,’ Boromir commanded him. ‘Where are we?’ Aragorn frowned and tried to see through the gap in the canopy to see what was going on around him. ‘In Ithilien. I've told the troops to come here. There's nothing to be done in the cursed lands. There are many wounded who can't be carried far. Frodo and Sam need to rest, too.’ ‘Good.’ Aragorn nodded, closing his eyes. ‘Don't worry about anything,’ Boromir told him and touched his forehead with his lips. ‘I won't. You're there for me.’ Aragorn answered half-asleep, and the last thing he heard before falling back into slumber was the promise, "And I always will be".