We now resume our regularly scheduled ficcing...
Title: Escape
Fandom: LOTR
Pairing: Boromir/Théodred
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Tolkien = genius. Simbelmynë = not so much.
Summary: This is apparently what comes of listening to Half-Life four hundred times in a row. Boromir is breaking down. Théodred shows him the daylight.
Wake me, I want to see the daylight
Save me from this half-life
Let's you and I escape
Escape from time
Come on, let's fall in love...
-Duncan Sheik, Half-Life
It always seems dark in Gondor now. Every morning a pale sun rises above the Shadow in the East, but its wan light cannot pierce the black clouds that ever shroud the Ephel Duath. Even on a clear day the air seems thick with unnatural vapors, and at night the stars are faint.
Boromir does not look to the East, but as he walks the parapet of the White Tower he can sense the Shadow pressing upon him. Each day it creeps slowly nearer; each day his men fight and bleed and die, and he no longer believes the promises of hope he speaks to them still. He paces the white walls every morning, his back to the Shadow, and tries to imagine a time without war. He rarely succeeds.
Perhaps war has simply been too great a presence in his life. Boromir is above all else a soldier, born and bred to glory in battle. Yet much as he excels at the arts of combat he cannot love this endless strife. He still delights in a singing blade, it is true, and finds a fierce joy in destroying the enemies that ravish his country. But when he wakes in a cold sweat, half sick with the horror of his dreams, the prospect of vengeance brings him no comfort.
Boromir knows his duty; he will fight as he has done all his life to whatever end may come. But he is weary, and even the mightiest blade in Gondor cannot fight the spectre of despair. It haunts him at every turn, poisons his sleep, greets him in the piercing gaze of his own father.
When the Steward declares his intent to send an emissary to Rohan, Boromir does not volunteer. Instead he waits, torn between love for his city and a secret, desperate desire to escape the darkness that surrounds it. When at the last Denethor selects him for the errand, his remorse is matched only by his relief.
~~~~~~~~~~
It has been many years since last he saw Théoden’s son. They were scarcely more than boys then, young men just come of age, still full of confidence and reckless courage. They talked and laughed together, outlining strategies as if already each commanded the army he must one day lead. Victory was so certain then, when doubt was yet unknown and hope was as simple as the clasp of a comrade’s hand.
Now the long years have tempered their courage; war has taught them doubt and dimmed their hope. There are lines of care in Théodred’s face, new scars on his weathered skin and worries in his eyes. But those eyes are still bright as steel, and when the two men clasp hands it is the same firm salute that Boromir remembers from days past.
This time they talk without laughter, speak of battles won and lost and those yet to come. Captain and Marshal sit together in the Golden Hall, ordering armies that are now theirs to command in all but name. And in the evening they escape the hall to walk out into the night, for here the stars are not yet veiled by the Shadow.
Théodred himself comes to wake Boromir in the morning, and they ride together across the golden fields. While the horses rest the men lie in the long grass under the open sky. It is not so dark here, away from maps and battle plans and the ailing king sitting bowed on his throne. There is certainly no darkness in Théodred's blue eyes, no doubt in his voice when he renews a promise made years ago.
In the clear daylight it is easy to clasp arm in arm and accept what aid Théodred offers. Yet Boromir thinks it easier still to lean forward and return the gift in equal measure. Hand to hand, mouth on mouth, they seal a covenant without words, and forge a weapon far stronger than hope.
Fandom: LOTR
Pairing: Boromir/Théodred
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Tolkien = genius. Simbelmynë = not so much.
Summary: This is apparently what comes of listening to Half-Life four hundred times in a row. Boromir is breaking down. Théodred shows him the daylight.
Wake me, I want to see the daylight
Save me from this half-life
Let's you and I escape
Escape from time
Come on, let's fall in love...
-Duncan Sheik, Half-Life
It always seems dark in Gondor now. Every morning a pale sun rises above the Shadow in the East, but its wan light cannot pierce the black clouds that ever shroud the Ephel Duath. Even on a clear day the air seems thick with unnatural vapors, and at night the stars are faint.
Boromir does not look to the East, but as he walks the parapet of the White Tower he can sense the Shadow pressing upon him. Each day it creeps slowly nearer; each day his men fight and bleed and die, and he no longer believes the promises of hope he speaks to them still. He paces the white walls every morning, his back to the Shadow, and tries to imagine a time without war. He rarely succeeds.
Perhaps war has simply been too great a presence in his life. Boromir is above all else a soldier, born and bred to glory in battle. Yet much as he excels at the arts of combat he cannot love this endless strife. He still delights in a singing blade, it is true, and finds a fierce joy in destroying the enemies that ravish his country. But when he wakes in a cold sweat, half sick with the horror of his dreams, the prospect of vengeance brings him no comfort.
Boromir knows his duty; he will fight as he has done all his life to whatever end may come. But he is weary, and even the mightiest blade in Gondor cannot fight the spectre of despair. It haunts him at every turn, poisons his sleep, greets him in the piercing gaze of his own father.
When the Steward declares his intent to send an emissary to Rohan, Boromir does not volunteer. Instead he waits, torn between love for his city and a secret, desperate desire to escape the darkness that surrounds it. When at the last Denethor selects him for the errand, his remorse is matched only by his relief.
~~~~~~~~~~
It has been many years since last he saw Théoden’s son. They were scarcely more than boys then, young men just come of age, still full of confidence and reckless courage. They talked and laughed together, outlining strategies as if already each commanded the army he must one day lead. Victory was so certain then, when doubt was yet unknown and hope was as simple as the clasp of a comrade’s hand.
Now the long years have tempered their courage; war has taught them doubt and dimmed their hope. There are lines of care in Théodred’s face, new scars on his weathered skin and worries in his eyes. But those eyes are still bright as steel, and when the two men clasp hands it is the same firm salute that Boromir remembers from days past.
This time they talk without laughter, speak of battles won and lost and those yet to come. Captain and Marshal sit together in the Golden Hall, ordering armies that are now theirs to command in all but name. And in the evening they escape the hall to walk out into the night, for here the stars are not yet veiled by the Shadow.
Théodred himself comes to wake Boromir in the morning, and they ride together across the golden fields. While the horses rest the men lie in the long grass under the open sky. It is not so dark here, away from maps and battle plans and the ailing king sitting bowed on his throne. There is certainly no darkness in Théodred's blue eyes, no doubt in his voice when he renews a promise made years ago.
In the clear daylight it is easy to clasp arm in arm and accept what aid Théodred offers. Yet Boromir thinks it easier still to lean forward and return the gift in equal measure. Hand to hand, mouth on mouth, they seal a covenant without words, and forge a weapon far stronger than hope.