Chapter Text
~*~
“Nearly six days? Are you sure?” Gimli asks. “The distance does not look so far from here. It only took the Rohirrim three days to arrive from Dunharrow.”
Boromir feels all the eyes on him. They forget that he has been Captain of the White Tower for years. This city and its people have been his to defend. The army his to command. The quest might have given him the chance to utilize some of his skills but here, he shows who he truly is.
A handful of men riding at speed would be able to make it to the Black Gate in a few days. An entire army is another matter.
“The height of the Citadel tricks the mind. In a straight line, it’s about forty miles from here to Mount Doom. But the Black Gate is not in a straight line from here and requires traversing the forest of Ithilien, which is difficult terrain in some places. That will slow an army down. From Dunharrow to Minas Tirith is nearly all flat plains. Riding swift is easy, making the trip shorter. Still, if all men were on horseback and the horses were well rested we could push hard and get to the Black Gate in four days,” Boromir points out. “But the Rohirrim just rode hard and then straight into battle. And the soldiers of Minas Tirith fought for longer than that. Some of us will be on horseback but most will march on foot. We could push somewhat, make it in five, but we need to arrive ready for battle if we are to be of any use at all.”
Eomer nods, though his agreement is clearly reluctant. “Our horses are trained for war but to push them that hard twice in just a matter of days with a battle in between would be…unwise at best. Many would not make it, which would only hinder us on the road. And as Boromir said, not all of my men even still have their horses.”
None of them want to admit just how badly off they really are. How desperate a move this truly is. They know. Boromir knows they all know. But no one wants to be the one to say it aloud.
After a moment’s consideration, Aragorn nods slowly.
“We need to do this but if we make poor decisions before we even leave, then we’ll be no help to Frodo at all,” Aragorn replies.
Frowning a little, Legolas asks, “Should we send people to scout ahead?”
Boromir thinks on this for a moment and then nods his agreement before Aragorn can speak.
“Our Ithilien Rangers know that terrain best. They took heavy losses in Osgiliath and defending Minas Tirith, but a few are still fit enough. Sending them would be a good idea,” Boromir says, turning to Aragorn. “We can have them hold where the Black Gate comes into sight. If they encounter nothing we need to be warned of, we can rendezvous with them there. If they do, they can send a rider back sooner.”
Gandalf adds, “Given your…encounter with the palantir, Sauron expects you to make a move, Aragorn. Even if the scouts happened to be seen it only serves to reinforce that knowledge.”
Nodding sharply, Aragorn replies, “I’d rather our army not run into any surprises. Yes, send scouts ahead. Boromir, you know which men are best suited. I leave that with you.”
Bowing his head, Boromir assures, “They’ll be on their way before nightfall.”
Aragorn straightens. “The rest of us will set out first thing in the morning. We will set the pace to reach the Black Gate in five days. I don’t want us to push so hard that the men arrive too tired to fight but we cannot take too long if we are to aid Frodo. Every moment of delay puts him at risk.”
A few more points are hashed out and the meeting breaks up, each going to see to whatever preparations he needs.
“I will accompany the scouts,” Legolas says as Gandalf and Eomer depart the room. “There is little I can do here to aid in preparations, but I may be of use with them.”
Aragorn places a hand on Legolas’ shoulder. “Be careful, my friend.”
Legolas smiles fondly.
“I shall see you in a few days,” Legolas assures. “Boromir, if you would make any necessary introductions.”
Boromir nods. “Come with me.”
In short order, Legolas is ensconced with the Rangers and planning their mission. Then Boromir realizes there are a few important matters he and Aragorn need to discuss.
~*~
Boromir does not intentionally find reasons to delay telling Faramir of the plan to ride to the Black Gate. If a few present themselves to him anyway, he cannot be blamed for that. He stops to check on Merry and Pippin, wanting them to hear the news directly. The two are sharing a room in the guest hall, Merry having been determined to be well enough to leave the halls if he continues to rest. The pair are sitting on one of the beds, staring at an old book. Boromir’s heart aches a little as he knows what he’s about to tell them will shatter the few moments of peace they’ve managed to steal.
“We’re going too,” Merry says, the moment he and Pippin hear of the plan.
“Merry, are you sure you’re alright to join us?” Boromir asks.
Merry worries the hem of the blanket on his bed. “I’ve come too far not to.”
That is a sentiment Boromir understands all too well.
“Maybe there’s no hope,” Pippin says, “but I’m not giving up now either.”
Boromir hugs them both tightly for several long moments, ignoring the aching pain it causes him.
“You are both very brave indeed,” Boromir murmurs softly.
They both respond by hugging just a little tighter.
~*~
Boromir settles on the edge of Faramir’s bed, his little brother also having been allowed out of the halls if he gave his word to rest. Fortunately, there are a few servants that can be relied upon to make sure Faramir does not do too much. Boromir will have to entrust his brother’s well being to them in the days to come. He tries not to think himself a hypocrite for forcing Faramir to rest and heal when he himself refuses to do the same.
“What terrible things has happened now?” Faramir asks, concern filling his all too expressive eyes.
Smiling gently, Boromir replies, “Nothing has happened yet. But something is about to.”
He explains the plan and tries not to let his heart break at the fear that flickers across Faramir’s face.
“What happens if we lose you and Aragorn both?” Faramir asks quietly.
Boromir grimaces. He is closer to his limit than he is willing to admit aloud. He knows it is no idle fear. He’s pushed himself so, so far in recent weeks. One more battle may well be the end of him. He will not lie to Faramir now and deny the risk. No, he must do something far worse.
“Then the rule of Gondor will fall to you, little brother,” Boromir tells him. “Aragorn spoke with one of the archivists and a scribe a few hours ago. It’s officially documented that he is the last of his house. Since he’s not yet crowned, technically rule of Gondor is mine. So, if something happens to him and me both, it will pass to you as next in the House of Stewards. But unlike our ancestors, you will rule knowing that…that the king will never return.” Boromir gently brushes hair out of Faramir’s face. “It is a burden I desperately hope we do not place on you.”
Faramir clutches his arm and Boromir knows the tears he sees in his brothers’ eyes are mirrored in his own. For all that they often differ in opinion, they love one another fiercely. Neither of them wants it to come to that, but they are both too pragmatic to think it cannot.
“Boromir,” Faramir breathes.
“I know, Faramir. I know,” Boromir soothes.
“Come back, brother,” Faramir insists. “I don’t care if you're hurt so badly you can never lift a sword again. I’ll do it for you for the rest of our lives if I must. Just come back.”
Boromir presses a gentle kiss to Faramir’s forehead.
“I promise you, little brother, I will not leave you so without a fight,” Boromir vows.
He does not say that if it comes down to his life or Aragorn’s, he will sacrifice himself without question. He suspects Faramir knows it well enough.
~*~
Supper is a quiet affair that night and they all turn in early, knowing they need all the rest they can take. Boromir lingers as long as he can in his bed without oversleeping. He can only hope he sees it again. A servant brings a tray with an easy to eat breakfast and assures him that Aragorn and the rest of their friends are having food delivered as well. It would be foolish to depart for the Black Gate without having at least something to eat.
Boromir finishes his own preparations, then seeks out Aragorn. This will be the last chance they get to speak alone before…well. Before the battle that will either end their lives or bring a new age to all of Middle Earth.
He enters the chamber Aragorn is using and sees his king studying a sword he cannot recall having seen before. Aragorn looks up and sees him staring at the sword.
“You’d already left us when Lord Elrond visited Dunharrow,” Aragorn says by way of greeting. “This is Anduril, Flame of the West.” He pauses, then adds, “Forged by Elven smiths from the Shards of Narsil under Lord Elrond’s direction.”
Boromir’s breath catches in his throat.
“Oh,” Boromir whispers, unsure what else to say.
Aragorn beckons him closer and Boromir goes.
“What do you think?” Aragorn asks as he hands the blade over for inspection.
Boromir takes the sword with careful, almost reverent hands. He cannot help but remember that night in Rivendell what now seems like a lifetime ago. He’d been so in awe of the Shards of Narsil…until he realized he was being watched. He’d felt judged for his care for the heirloom of Isildur’s line and it colored his reactions. Shame washes through him at the memory. He takes greater care with Anduril.
“It is a beautiful sword,” Boromir says after a long moment of carefully inspecting the blade. “One fit for a king.”
Not that he’d expect anything else from Elven smiths.
He hands the sword back carefully and Aragorn sheathes it.
Boromir can see that something weighs on Aragorn’s heart.
“What is it? Boromir asks.
If Aragorn has any doubts, any fears, they need to be addressed here and now, when they are alone. The men cannot see either of them falter.
“You once called Narsil no more than a broken heirloom. I know much has changed since, but do you still see it that way?” Aragorn asks.
For such a simple question, it carries such heavy meaning. Boromir isn’t certain he can properly convey the full depth of his feelings, but he resolves to try.
“In many ways, yes,” Boromir begins carefully. “Because that's what Narsil was. A legendary blade left broken. It was a relic. A symbol of a time long gone. Of a line of kings as broken as the fragments of the blade.” Aragorn looks away and Boromir forges on, desperate to make the truth of his point clear. “But this is a new blade, reforged from the pieces of the old. It’s something else entirely. Anduril is hope for the future, where Narsil was a reminder of the past. The Shards of Narsil were an heirloom. Anduril is a weapon, but also a symbol of the now. Anduril, flame of the West reminds us that we have not yet reached our end. The West still has hope.” He reaches out, intending to place a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder. Instead, he places it in the middle of the White Tree, the symbol of the king, on the tunic Aragorn now wears, “You bring new hope to a people who had all but given up.”
Aragorn turns his head back to face him. His eyes shine with the sheen of unshed tears.
“You were right, that night on the Anduin. All my life I feared what I was. Feared that I would be as weak as Isildur,” Aragorn admits quietly. “To have your faith now, when you once doubted me even worse than I doubted myself…” He closes his eyes and reaches up to clasp Boromir’s wrist. “Thank you, my Steward.”
Boromir sees in Aragorn’s eyes, feels in the tight grip of his hand, that Aragorn wants to say more but cannot find the words. That’s alright. He doesn’t need them.
“I am merely grateful I had the chance to change my mind,” Boromir replies.
Aragorn smiles, though his eyes are still wet when he opens them. “As am I. Come, we must lead our men one more time.”
Truly, the men are Aragorn’s now. This army of the West is his to command. Not Boromir’s, and for all that men of the Rohirrim are part of it…the army isn’t Eomer’s either. But the two of them will ride at Aragorn’s side nonetheless.
~*~
Aragorn and Boromir walk out into the courtyard where they will meet Eomer, Gandalf, Merry, Pippin, and Gimli with their horses. The rest of the army will meet them at the entrance of the city.
“Let us hope this is not the last time we walk through these doors,” Boromir murmurs as they exit the Citadel and step into the courtyard.
Aragorn nods but says nothing.
For the first time he can remember, the courtyard is devoid of guards. It seems strange, but he understands why they are needed elsewhere now. Boromir takes in the sight anyway, a small part of him needing to do so in case this is the last time he sees his beloved city.
The light of dawn is not as bright as it should be with darkness spreading from Mordor but as the pair walks past the White Tree…the light is enough that something catches Boromir’s eye.
He freezes for a heartbeat before turning and walking to the tree. A single bud has opened on the tree. Boromir brings a trembling hand up to cover his mouth to hide the choked off sob. For the first time in centuries…the White Tree blossoms. It hits him like a physical blow, taking him to his knees. He hits the ground with a gasp, causing his companions to call out in alarm.
“Boromir, what is it,” Aragorn demands as he hits his knees at Boromir’s side.
Boromir closes his eyes and takes a ragged breath.
“The tree,” Boromir forces out. “Aragorn. The tree.”
Aragorn looks up and sees the single flower.
“There is truly hope,” Boromir gasps.
With a trembling hand, Aragorn clasps Boromir’s forearm.
“We will not let our people fall,” Aragorn swears, repeating the vow he’d made at Amon Hen.
Boromir can do no less.
“And I will follow you, my king. Until my dying breath or the ending of the world,” Boromir replies.
For several heartbeats, they kneel there by the White Tree.
“Come. We must go,” Aragorn urges, helping Boromir to hit feet. “We cannot let this hope be for naught.”
As he lets himself be led to his horse, Boromir is grateful only a handful of their closest companions were witnesses to his moment of weakness.
~*~