Chapter 10

“Elros! Could it really be? ” Aragorn rubbed his chin thoughtfully. That it was the presence of Elrond’s twin brother he had sensed would certainly explain why the touch on his shoulder and the whispered voice he had heard had seemed so familiar, yet different at the same time. More than once he had felt Elrond‘s healing hands on his own wounds and followed the sound of the much-loved voice that called him back from darkness.

“Unless my eyes have deceived me, I believe the apparition I saw at your side was indeed the first King of Men. Although Elros died long before I was born, I have seen the portraits of him and Lord Elrond that hang in the gallery at Rivendell. The peredhil brothers appear as alike in countenance as are Elladan and Elrohir, “ Legolas explained. A slight incline of Aragorn’s head indicated that he thought the observation was certainly true. He had seen the paintings many a time.

“Aye, those who did not know them well often found it difficult to distinguish between the twin sons of Earendil,” agreed Haldir, his eyes momentarily focussed inwards on a fleeting memory of a day long ago. A day when he had watched the two young brothers engaged in sword practice under his tutelage. He could not help but smile at the looks of surprise this remark caused on the faces of the Elf and Man. Obviously neither had realised just how long lived the march warden was, nor that he might have many an interesting tale to tell.

“You knew them both? Will you tell me about Elros?” Aragorn requested his eyes alight with curiosity despite the fact that he was too weary to stifle a yawn or keep his eyes open long enough to see Haldir shaking his head. The Elf could plainly see the King was fatigued and he nodded his silent approval when he saw Legolas place the now empty cup on the table beside the bed.

“Rest now, Aragorn, there will be time for talk later.” Underlying Legolas’s softly spoken words was a hint of command that, as stubborn as the man could be at times, brooked no argument.

The combined effects of the trauma of the last few hours and the sleeping potion the Elf had already given him were now quickly taking their toll and Aragorn offered his friend only a half-hearted glare of annoyance when he felt his shoulders being gently pushed back onto the pillows. Casting one last glance over at Boromir and apparently satisfied that he was sleeping peacefully, Aragorn finally allowed his own eyes to close.

“It seems that Boromir has many friends, both alive and not.” Haldir’s quietly spoken comment drew Legolas’s attention and leaving Aragorn to his rest he walked over to join the march warden at the other man’s bedside. In his haste to see to Boromir’s well being he had not really had a chance to come to terms with the fact that the man he had believed to be dead was still counted amongst the living. Wrapping his fingers around the pale wrist that lay limply on the bed cover, the Elf allowed a small sigh of relief to pass his lips when he felt the warm skin, pulse of blood flowing through the veins.

“Aye, and his loss is still mourned by many in Minas Tirith. The people will be overjoyed, as am I, I freely admit, to learn he still lives, although their joy will be tempered with sorrow if Aragorn cannot convince him to return home.“ Legolas whispered, his eyes never leaving the sleeping face. Haldir wanted nothing more than to ease his friend’s mind, to tell him of Boromir's decision, but knew it was not his place to do so. Instead he took Legolas’s arm intending to usher him towards the door.

“Come let us leave them to sleep. Perhaps you would like to rest also?” Legolas shook his head at Haldir’s suggestion.

“I am not in need of slumber, but I would not refuse a meal and perhaps a cup of wine while I watch over them,” he replied, settling himself in the chair at the end of Boromir’s bed. A small smile curved his lips as he realised how like the Hobbits and Gimli he sounded. It had never ceased to amaze him how determined his companions had been to partake of food and drink, no matter the gravity of the situation.

“As you wish, but should you tire, my brothers and I will gladly keep vigil in your stead.” Haldir reassured the younger Elf.
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Setting aside the remnants of the meal Haldir had brought him, Legolas checked to ensure that both men were sleeping peacefully. Whilst it was not uncommon for Aragorn to suffer from exhaustion after healing those affected by the shadow of evil, as had happened when he laid his hands on Faramir, Eowyn and Merry, and many others in the aftermath of the war, Legolas sensed that this time was different. The struggle to hold on to Boromir had almost drained the king of his life force and had it not been for Elros’s presence and added strength, Aragorn would likely have passed into darkness along with Boromir. Legolas thanked the Valar for sparing the man he looked upon almost as a brother.

The raspy sound of Boromir’s still laboured, but more regular breathing reminded the Elf that the brave son of the Steward had also survived this particular battle, but so many others had perished. Not only in Gondor, Rohan and even the Shire, Legolas thought sadly, but also among his own kin. His heart filled with a deep and overwhelming grief for the elves he knew had been sent to Mandos’s Halls whilst defending Mirkwood.

Moving as silently as only an Elf can and softly singing a lament for those lost, Legolas made his way over to the open window and looked up, seeking comfort in the stars he loved so well. To his sorrow, the thick canopy allowed only dappled moonlight to penetrate the darkness of night, but as if they sensed his need, the branches parted slightly allowing him a clear glimpse of Earendil, most beloved star of all Elves. It was reassuring to know that, as was his son, Elros‘s father was also watching over them this night.

The sound of the sweet voice of one of their own singing of such sorrow drifted to where Haldir and his brothers sat idly around the campfire enjoying a cup of wine. Seasoned warrior that he was, Haldir sensed that the cause of Legolas’s melancholy was more than simply the near death of one man. He still keenly felt and mourned the loss of the brave Galadhrim who had fought by Celeborn and Galadriel’s side at Dol Guldur, as he knew did his brothers. Compelled by their own sorrow, the three added their voices to the lament. Legolas was not alone in his grief.

“A lament for Gandalf...”

The words were spoken in barely more than a whisper but the dry, raspy voice penetrated Aragorn’s slumber, forcing him fully awake. Despite the lingering effects of the sleeping draught that had left him slightly disoriented and his limbs heavy and difficult to move, Aragorn finally managed to arise. He sat on the edge of the bed, the sweet sound of elvish voices he had heard in his dreams making him believe for a moment that he was back in Lothlorien listening to the melancholy farewell to Gandalf. Focussing on the words he was relieved to realise he was mistaken. This was no song of mourning for the Istar, but Legolas and the Galadhrim mourning for the many elvish warriors who had fallen defending the two woodland realms to the north.

Apparently the restlessly slumbering Boromir had come to the same conclusion. However rather than awaken, it seemed that his dreams had become more nightmarish as he began thrashing about, tossing his head from side to side, waving his sword arm as if he was brandishing his weapon... or fighting for his life and those of the Hobbits.

Indeed, the elvish lament had penetrated the haze of the sleeping potion and Boromir believed for a moment that he was safe in Lothlorien. But even there he had not been protected from the ring. His heart was overwhelmed by his loss of hope, of fear for his city, of the need to possess the power of the ring just as his mind was flooded with images of all that had come to pass. As if merely a being entertained by actors in a play, he watched in horror as the lust for power drove him temporarily mad, pride and honour forgotten as he tried to steal the ring from Frodo. He desperately waned to pull the raving Boromir away from the Hobbit, but his feet were seemingly fixed to the ground.

The scene changed rapidly and now he was fighting the Uruks, giving Merry and Pippin a chance to escape, trying to redeem his honour with his life. He felt again every blow, and each jolt of excruciating pain as the black arrows pierced his flesh but determined to save the Halflings, he fought on.

As he felt the life flee from his body in a bloody red haze, he saw Aragorn rush to his side, try to ease his passing. He recalled the last word he had spoken before the darkness took him, but this time he remained aware of all that transpired afterwards. This time he felt the hot saltiness of his King’s tears as he kissed his brother in arms farewell. He saw the pain and anguishes in the eyes of the Elf who had been so forcefully introduced to the true nature of death and heard the gruffly spoken words of the Dwarf he had come to call friend. He watched as they sent him to his rest, the elvish boat as his coffin, the swirling waters of the Falls of Rauros his grave.

Boromir saw and felt himself floating downstream, enveloped in a shroud of mist, the speed of the boat becoming more rapid as the falls approached. He drew in a sharp breath when he saw felt himself falling over the edge.

“Help me, Haldir.” Boromir, his voice filled with pain and fear, begged.

The plea was not lost on Legolas who immediately ceased his song. He turned from the beauty of the starlight and hastened to Boromir’s side only to find Aragorn already seated there, his face showing his concern that Boromir’s movements would cause his wounds to reopen.

“Haldir is not far away, but Legolas and I are here, ” Aragorn spoke reassuringly as he took the badly shaking outstretched hand in his. The healer’s touch calmed Boromir immediately.