Out Of Winter, And Twilight, And Storms
Aragorn had sent him back to Lorien, with orders that brooked no argument, and told him to follow. "The Quest will be long, and the Lady will be able to tell you where we must meet again. But Boromir, there is only so much that I can do to heal you."
And so, shamed, he had gone back to the woods. The Elves said nothing of the Quest, of course. There were no harsh words meeting him, nor accusations, and the Lady's voice in his head was as solemn and gentle as ever it had been before. Yet it seemed to him that every face was one that accused him, one that spoke of failure and betrayal and always, always, of the essential weaknesses that were part of the world of Men.
The Lady gave to him a small pouch full of berries, some a brilliant red and some so dark a purple they seemed almost black and some, indigenous, he guessed, to these woods, a pink overcast with silver. "I also send with you," she said, and her voice was like the wind among the silver leaves, "the star that first appears as darkness falls, and is the same as that which lingers on the longest come morning, and do you as she will."
And then, that night, the daughter of Lord Elrond came to him. He had been staring into the pouch, wondering at the Lady's choice of gift, and then there had been a touch on his shoulder, and Arwen sat down beside him.
"Sleep," she had said softly.
"I cannot," he finally admitted. "I dare not, most nights, for fear of dreams." It must have seemed silly, he knew, but she did not laugh. She smiled, but it was gentle, and there was something sympathetic in it, and then she plucked one of the berries, a red one, plump and bright, from the pouch and bit into it.
She kissed him almost as she was swallowing it, and her mouth had tasted like the juice, tart and sweet. Her hands slipped to his wrists and pinned them, and she was tight around him, and Boromir had slept soundly that night, worn out by the Elf who would be his Queen.
In the morning, Arwen was there, waiting, and clad in heavier clothes than the shimmering silken stuff he had seen her wear, a far cry indeed from the light gossamer that she had worn last night. "We must ride," she said. At her waist there was a sword, and at her ankle, a small knife, and behind her on the horse she slung a bow.
They rode. Both had horses this time, and there was little time for speech, for they rode hard most days, as hard as they could and still leave the horses safe. In the nights, they were tired, and said little. Sometimes it was like that night in Lorien, and she would pin his wrists, teeth nipping at his lips when they kissed, and ride him hard, and sometimes he would push her against a tree or rock, his hand behind her head, cradling it, and fuck her.
"What are these?" Boromir asked one night, pulling out one of the silver-pink berries of Lorien. They were small and round, and grew a little softer with each day that passed.
She took the berry from him, and smiled, but with no malice or cruelty to it. "They are native to my mother's land," she said. "And you have never tasted any like them before, I'm sure. What is the matter?" she asked, her eyes sparkling. "Has Boromir the Brave not the courage to try a small berry?"
He glared at her and made a grab, lunging, but Arwen popped it in her mouth, laughing and squealing as he kissed her. He tasted the cool, mellow flavor on her tongue, though she had made short work of it. When both had stopped laughing, and touching, they were content to lay there through the night, and though he knew she must be keeping watch, he was never, in the darkness, woken by her stirring.
To Rohan she led him, and through it, for it seemed she knew where Aragorn had gone to by some means he could not guess. He had heard tales, of course, of the Lady of Lorien and her foresight -- perhaps she had told her kinswoman where they would find Aragorn.
The gates at Helm's Deep had been opened for them in the afternoon. Night was coming on, and clouds were gathering. There would be a storm, all knew, and most here would not live to see its lifting. Boromir knew they must not be much of a comforting sight, two riders, one a man still troubled by nearly mortal wounds. But King Theoden knew him as the Steward's son and heir, and he seemed satisfied, knowing that there were still men in Gondor who honored the old vows.
There were still a couple handfuls' worth of berries remaining in the pouch, and the three of them -- for Arwen would not let Boromir be parted from her -- found them a quiet corner in which to sit, and talk, and feed themselves and each other. There was not privacy enough for the things they really wanted to say, nor the kisses they truly wanted to give, but they contented themselves as they could. The couple handfuls' worth was drawn out nearly two hours, and sometimes they talked or laughed, and sometimes they fell silent, tears pricking at one or another of their party's eyes, fear clutching at another's heart, or even a merry smile drawn from the third's lips. Sometimes there came all three at once, and sometimes all three were simultaneously given to one of these expressions.
And then, as night came on, they were called to arms. Arwen had her bow, and her sword as well, and knife, and Aragorn the Blade Reforged. Boromir had only the same weapon he had wielded before, and he hoped, as he always had, that his strength and courage would not fail.