Fic: Mithrandir's Regard, 2/3
May. 31st, 2006 10:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
przedTitle: Mithrandir's Regard, Part 2 of 3
Author: P.R. Zed
Fandom: LotR FPF
Characters: Boromir, Gandalf and the rest of the Fellowship
Rating: G, gen
Summary: Aragorn questions Gandalf about Boromir's character.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to the Professor; the idea is mine.
Note: Originally published in the zine Warriors of Gondor.
The Fellowship had been on the road for a week when Aragorn sought Gandalf's company. It was Gandalf's turn to guard the camp, and he had withdrawn into the woods to watch for signs of Orcs or other fell creatures. Midnight had come and gone when he heard the soft, steady steps of a Ranger's tread behind him.
Aragorn spoke no words, but simply nodded at Gandalf and took his place on an overturned log. The two kept a silent vigil as the stars turned overhead and the moon began to set, hearing nothing but the hoot of owls and the rustle of their prey.
Gandalf could tell that his companion was troubled, but did not draw him out, knowing that Aragorn would speak in his own time.
Just after the moon passed beneath the horizon and their faces were lit by nothing more than star shine, Aragorn finally spoke.
"I would know your mind on something, Gandalf."
"And what is that, Arathorn's son?"
"What do you know of Boromir?"
"That he is the Steward's son, and Captain of the White Tower."
"Not his titles. What do you know of the man?" Aragorn sighed and looked up into the night sky. "He was but a babe in arms when I was last in Minas Tirith. I would know what sort of man he has grown into."
"What do your instincts tell you?"
"Nothing." Aragorn toyed with the hilt of the dagger at his side. "Or rather, too much. He seems loyal and stalwart, but also haughty and aloof. I fear that the Ring calls to him."
"The Ring calls to us all, Aragorn. And we all must be careful of its temptation."
"You are right at that, Gandalf." Aragorn fell silent for a time, staring out into the darkness with a piercing gaze. When he finally spoke again, his voice was quiet and tentative. "I fear Boromir's arrogance most of all. I fear he lacks compassion and knows only a warrior's life."
"On that account, I can reassure you." Gandalf smiled to himself. "He may hide his heart behind a warrior's countenance, but it beats as strongly as yours, and he holds a deep compassion within that heart.
"I wish I could be as confident as you, that I could see that compassion in his stern features."
"If you cannot see it yourself, let me tell you of the times I have seen that compassion," Gandalf said. Settling back on the tree stump that had been his perch all night, he began to spin his tale.
The procession left the Citadel and wound through the sixth level of Minas Tirith on its way to the Closed Door.
Denethor led them all, a stone-faced shade of his former self. Behind him followed his sons, dressed in their sombre finest, gripping each other's hands as if to let go would be their undoing. Then followed Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, the boys' uncle, and various family members. Gandalf walked among the Steward's advisors and counsellors, though all the others gave him a wide berth, lest they be tainted by the same suspicion with which the Steward viewed the wizard. Last came the bier, black and terrible and borne by a troop of the Citadel Guard. Lining the procession's path were the people of Minas Tirith, come to pay silent respects to their Lady. All were clothed in funereal black; all wore the solemn faces of those whose hopes for a bright future had been dashed.
Gandalf had not journeyed to Minas Tirith for a funeral.
He had come at Denethor's request, a request that had itself been cause for alarm. Gandalf had had little enough contact with Gondor since Ecthelion's death; the city's new Steward favoured the counsel of Saruman, and shunned Gandalf as much as the bounds of courtesy would allow. So when Denethor's summons had come, carried by a grim-faced soldier of Gondor, the Grey Pilgrim had quickly made his way to Minas Tirith.
Immediately upon his arrival it had been clear what had inspired Denethor to such a desperate action.
Finduilas was dying.
Denethor had ever doted on his young wife, lavishing gifts and attention upon her as he'd done for no other living person, save perhaps his eldest son. An imposing figure and a hard taskmaster the Steward might be, but none in Gondor doubted his love for his wife.
That love had led him to seek out every possible cure when Finduilas had fallen ill, to no avail. Gondor's own healers had been as baffled as those of Ithilien and Rohan. Even Saruman the White had failed to heal her. Hoping for the impossible, Denethor had summoned Gandalf.
"Save her, Mithrandir," Denethor had asked, his face a bloodless mask, his hands clutched into tight fists.
But from the moment he had stepped into the sick room, Gandalf had realized that Finduilas had slipped beyond even his power to heal. The spirit within her had snapped, leaving her no strength left to fight the physical cause of her ailment. Though she loved her husband and sons, she had never thrived among the austere stone of Minas Tirith. This cold city, and her distance from the sea and her beloved Dol Amroth, had sapped Finduilas' strength as much as her illness.
Gandalf did what he could to ease Finduilas' suffering, while her husband kept a grim vigil at her bedside. And always in the sick room, keeping to the corners and ignored by almost everyone, were Boromir and Faramir.
Gandalf had seen little enough of the Steward's children since their grandfather's death. Boromir had grown into a fine, stout-hearted boy, ten years old and just about to begin his training in arms. Faramir was five years his junior and meeker than his brother. He'd had the misfortune to be born as his mother's strength was fading and his father's attention was directed elsewhere. Finduilas could spare no more than a kind look and a dry kiss on the cheek for either of her children, while Denethor barely looked at his youngest son. During these trying times, he did not even offer Boromir the attention that he was wont to give his first born during Ecthelion's time.
And yet Faramir clearly had the love of his brother. Boromir kept Faramir close to him, comforting him when the younger child was upset, never hesitating to embrace him at any time.
With little enough that he could do to save their mother, Gandalf began to keep watch over the boys, making sure their needs were attended to, taking them for walks in Gondor's streets and gardens to offer them some relief from the gloom of their mother's sick room.
He also began to teach them the lore of their lands, of the Númenoreans and their descendants. Boromir accepted the lessons with resignation, clearly preferring to be outside in the clear air than in the library, though rousing his attention when tales of battles were told. But Gandalf was pleased that Faramir took to the lessons with a surprising passion. He was especially fond of tales of the Elves, and Gandalf could see he carried more of the Elvish blood from his mother's side than his brother.
Then came the event that all had known would come, but all had dreaded: Finduilas drew her last breath. Denethor's grief was terrible to behold, and he was barely restrained by Imrahil, who had come to Gondor to say farewell to his sister. Boromir and Faramir stayed to the edges of the room, neither knowing what to say or do, both frozen with shock.
As soon as he could, Gandalf took both boys to the rooms they shared. Free from the eyes of others, the boys collapsed into each other's arms, wracked by tears, convulsed by sobs. Gandalf waited with them until their tears had abated.
Faramir it was who regained his voice first. "Where's Mother gone?" he asked. "I heard Father say she was gone."
Gandalf sighed. He'd been afraid that Faramir did not quite understand what was happening. One look at Boromir's distraught face told him that the older boy was all too aware of what had become of his mother.
"Your mother has gone to the Halls of your ancestors."
"But she'll come back."
Boromir held his brother tightly and shook his head. "No, Faramir. She's not coming back."
This time Faramir seemed to truly understand, and he once again began to quietly weep. Boromir looked to Gandalf, a panicked look on his face as he gently stroked his brother's head.
Gandalf looked into the boys' future and could see much grief. He could see their father, always a silent man, growing more silent still, and ever more resentful of his younger son. And yet he could see one way to make sure that some joy remained in their lives.
"With your mother gone, you must both look after each other."
"Don't worry, Mithrandir," said Boromir. "I'll always look after Faramir. Always."
"Good lad," Gandalf said, laying a hand lightly on Boromir's head, recognizing the conviction in the boy's voice. Then he left the two boys to their private grief, giving orders that they were to be brought their evening meal in their rooms.
Throughout the days that followed, Gandalf saw every indication that Boromir was as good as his word. He was constantly at his brother's side, holding his hand through the funeral rites, comforting him as their mother was laid to rest in the House of the Stewards.
Finally, Gandalf could delay leaving the city no longer. Other tasks called to him, and he could see only growing resentment in Denethor's face at the continued presence of the one who had failed to save his wife. He took his leave of the Steward, then sought out the boys for a final farewell. He found them in the garden where he had first seen the toddler Boromir playing with his parents.
"Mithrandir," Faramir yelled, before throwing himself at the wizard's legs. Always more diffident, Boromir offered him a formal bow.
"I must leave now."
"No!" Faramir cried. "You can't."
"I must, Faramir. Other lands have need of my talents. I cannot tarry in Gondor forever."
"I wish you could."
"You have your brother to look after you."
"But he can't teach me Elvish, like you can."
"You will have other teachers. And I will visit the city when I can."
"Promise?"
"I promise." Gandalf looked over to Boromir. "And what would you have me promise?"
"Nothing. Unless..." Boromir stopped.
"Yes?"
"Unless it were to promise that Faramir would always be safe."
Gandalf shook his head, sadly. "It is not in my power to make that promise. But with his brother protecting him, I have no doubt that he will remain as safe as possible."
"I will always protect him," Boromir said, taking his brother's hand firmly in his own.
"I believe you will."
"Farewell, Mithrandir."
"Farewell, sons of Denethor."
Gandalf's last sight of the boys was of them in the garden, with Boromir's arm encircling his brother with genuine affection.
"The boy knew compassion, but what of the man? Surely years of fighting on Mordor's borders have hardened his heart."
"It is not so, Aragorn," Gandalf said, shaking his head. "His devotion to his brother has remained unchanged throughout the years. And I have seen him weep real tears at the fall of the lowliest member of his company. His men love him dearly and will gladly fight or die at his command."
"And yet he presents such a hard face to our company."
"Give him time, Aragorn. His adult life has been spent fighting Mordor's might. He does not easily show his softer side to strangers."
Aragorn at last nodded in agreement. "I will give him time."
"You will not be disappointed."
They spent the rest of their watch in companionable silence, and it was Gandalf's hope that friendship would at last begin to bloom between the heir to Gondor's throne and the heir to Gondor's Stewardship.
Author: P.R. Zed
Fandom: LotR FPF
Characters: Boromir, Gandalf and the rest of the Fellowship
Rating: G, gen
Summary: Aragorn questions Gandalf about Boromir's character.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to the Professor; the idea is mine.
Note: Originally published in the zine Warriors of Gondor.
The Fellowship had been on the road for a week when Aragorn sought Gandalf's company. It was Gandalf's turn to guard the camp, and he had withdrawn into the woods to watch for signs of Orcs or other fell creatures. Midnight had come and gone when he heard the soft, steady steps of a Ranger's tread behind him.
Aragorn spoke no words, but simply nodded at Gandalf and took his place on an overturned log. The two kept a silent vigil as the stars turned overhead and the moon began to set, hearing nothing but the hoot of owls and the rustle of their prey.
Gandalf could tell that his companion was troubled, but did not draw him out, knowing that Aragorn would speak in his own time.
Just after the moon passed beneath the horizon and their faces were lit by nothing more than star shine, Aragorn finally spoke.
"I would know your mind on something, Gandalf."
"And what is that, Arathorn's son?"
"What do you know of Boromir?"
"That he is the Steward's son, and Captain of the White Tower."
"Not his titles. What do you know of the man?" Aragorn sighed and looked up into the night sky. "He was but a babe in arms when I was last in Minas Tirith. I would know what sort of man he has grown into."
"What do your instincts tell you?"
"Nothing." Aragorn toyed with the hilt of the dagger at his side. "Or rather, too much. He seems loyal and stalwart, but also haughty and aloof. I fear that the Ring calls to him."
"The Ring calls to us all, Aragorn. And we all must be careful of its temptation."
"You are right at that, Gandalf." Aragorn fell silent for a time, staring out into the darkness with a piercing gaze. When he finally spoke again, his voice was quiet and tentative. "I fear Boromir's arrogance most of all. I fear he lacks compassion and knows only a warrior's life."
"On that account, I can reassure you." Gandalf smiled to himself. "He may hide his heart behind a warrior's countenance, but it beats as strongly as yours, and he holds a deep compassion within that heart.
"I wish I could be as confident as you, that I could see that compassion in his stern features."
"If you cannot see it yourself, let me tell you of the times I have seen that compassion," Gandalf said. Settling back on the tree stump that had been his perch all night, he began to spin his tale.
The procession left the Citadel and wound through the sixth level of Minas Tirith on its way to the Closed Door.
Denethor led them all, a stone-faced shade of his former self. Behind him followed his sons, dressed in their sombre finest, gripping each other's hands as if to let go would be their undoing. Then followed Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, the boys' uncle, and various family members. Gandalf walked among the Steward's advisors and counsellors, though all the others gave him a wide berth, lest they be tainted by the same suspicion with which the Steward viewed the wizard. Last came the bier, black and terrible and borne by a troop of the Citadel Guard. Lining the procession's path were the people of Minas Tirith, come to pay silent respects to their Lady. All were clothed in funereal black; all wore the solemn faces of those whose hopes for a bright future had been dashed.
Gandalf had not journeyed to Minas Tirith for a funeral.
He had come at Denethor's request, a request that had itself been cause for alarm. Gandalf had had little enough contact with Gondor since Ecthelion's death; the city's new Steward favoured the counsel of Saruman, and shunned Gandalf as much as the bounds of courtesy would allow. So when Denethor's summons had come, carried by a grim-faced soldier of Gondor, the Grey Pilgrim had quickly made his way to Minas Tirith.
Immediately upon his arrival it had been clear what had inspired Denethor to such a desperate action.
Finduilas was dying.
Denethor had ever doted on his young wife, lavishing gifts and attention upon her as he'd done for no other living person, save perhaps his eldest son. An imposing figure and a hard taskmaster the Steward might be, but none in Gondor doubted his love for his wife.
That love had led him to seek out every possible cure when Finduilas had fallen ill, to no avail. Gondor's own healers had been as baffled as those of Ithilien and Rohan. Even Saruman the White had failed to heal her. Hoping for the impossible, Denethor had summoned Gandalf.
"Save her, Mithrandir," Denethor had asked, his face a bloodless mask, his hands clutched into tight fists.
But from the moment he had stepped into the sick room, Gandalf had realized that Finduilas had slipped beyond even his power to heal. The spirit within her had snapped, leaving her no strength left to fight the physical cause of her ailment. Though she loved her husband and sons, she had never thrived among the austere stone of Minas Tirith. This cold city, and her distance from the sea and her beloved Dol Amroth, had sapped Finduilas' strength as much as her illness.
Gandalf did what he could to ease Finduilas' suffering, while her husband kept a grim vigil at her bedside. And always in the sick room, keeping to the corners and ignored by almost everyone, were Boromir and Faramir.
Gandalf had seen little enough of the Steward's children since their grandfather's death. Boromir had grown into a fine, stout-hearted boy, ten years old and just about to begin his training in arms. Faramir was five years his junior and meeker than his brother. He'd had the misfortune to be born as his mother's strength was fading and his father's attention was directed elsewhere. Finduilas could spare no more than a kind look and a dry kiss on the cheek for either of her children, while Denethor barely looked at his youngest son. During these trying times, he did not even offer Boromir the attention that he was wont to give his first born during Ecthelion's time.
And yet Faramir clearly had the love of his brother. Boromir kept Faramir close to him, comforting him when the younger child was upset, never hesitating to embrace him at any time.
With little enough that he could do to save their mother, Gandalf began to keep watch over the boys, making sure their needs were attended to, taking them for walks in Gondor's streets and gardens to offer them some relief from the gloom of their mother's sick room.
He also began to teach them the lore of their lands, of the Númenoreans and their descendants. Boromir accepted the lessons with resignation, clearly preferring to be outside in the clear air than in the library, though rousing his attention when tales of battles were told. But Gandalf was pleased that Faramir took to the lessons with a surprising passion. He was especially fond of tales of the Elves, and Gandalf could see he carried more of the Elvish blood from his mother's side than his brother.
Then came the event that all had known would come, but all had dreaded: Finduilas drew her last breath. Denethor's grief was terrible to behold, and he was barely restrained by Imrahil, who had come to Gondor to say farewell to his sister. Boromir and Faramir stayed to the edges of the room, neither knowing what to say or do, both frozen with shock.
As soon as he could, Gandalf took both boys to the rooms they shared. Free from the eyes of others, the boys collapsed into each other's arms, wracked by tears, convulsed by sobs. Gandalf waited with them until their tears had abated.
Faramir it was who regained his voice first. "Where's Mother gone?" he asked. "I heard Father say she was gone."
Gandalf sighed. He'd been afraid that Faramir did not quite understand what was happening. One look at Boromir's distraught face told him that the older boy was all too aware of what had become of his mother.
"Your mother has gone to the Halls of your ancestors."
"But she'll come back."
Boromir held his brother tightly and shook his head. "No, Faramir. She's not coming back."
This time Faramir seemed to truly understand, and he once again began to quietly weep. Boromir looked to Gandalf, a panicked look on his face as he gently stroked his brother's head.
Gandalf looked into the boys' future and could see much grief. He could see their father, always a silent man, growing more silent still, and ever more resentful of his younger son. And yet he could see one way to make sure that some joy remained in their lives.
"With your mother gone, you must both look after each other."
"Don't worry, Mithrandir," said Boromir. "I'll always look after Faramir. Always."
"Good lad," Gandalf said, laying a hand lightly on Boromir's head, recognizing the conviction in the boy's voice. Then he left the two boys to their private grief, giving orders that they were to be brought their evening meal in their rooms.
Throughout the days that followed, Gandalf saw every indication that Boromir was as good as his word. He was constantly at his brother's side, holding his hand through the funeral rites, comforting him as their mother was laid to rest in the House of the Stewards.
Finally, Gandalf could delay leaving the city no longer. Other tasks called to him, and he could see only growing resentment in Denethor's face at the continued presence of the one who had failed to save his wife. He took his leave of the Steward, then sought out the boys for a final farewell. He found them in the garden where he had first seen the toddler Boromir playing with his parents.
"Mithrandir," Faramir yelled, before throwing himself at the wizard's legs. Always more diffident, Boromir offered him a formal bow.
"I must leave now."
"No!" Faramir cried. "You can't."
"I must, Faramir. Other lands have need of my talents. I cannot tarry in Gondor forever."
"I wish you could."
"You have your brother to look after you."
"But he can't teach me Elvish, like you can."
"You will have other teachers. And I will visit the city when I can."
"Promise?"
"I promise." Gandalf looked over to Boromir. "And what would you have me promise?"
"Nothing. Unless..." Boromir stopped.
"Yes?"
"Unless it were to promise that Faramir would always be safe."
Gandalf shook his head, sadly. "It is not in my power to make that promise. But with his brother protecting him, I have no doubt that he will remain as safe as possible."
"I will always protect him," Boromir said, taking his brother's hand firmly in his own.
"I believe you will."
"Farewell, Mithrandir."
"Farewell, sons of Denethor."
Gandalf's last sight of the boys was of them in the garden, with Boromir's arm encircling his brother with genuine affection.
"The boy knew compassion, but what of the man? Surely years of fighting on Mordor's borders have hardened his heart."
"It is not so, Aragorn," Gandalf said, shaking his head. "His devotion to his brother has remained unchanged throughout the years. And I have seen him weep real tears at the fall of the lowliest member of his company. His men love him dearly and will gladly fight or die at his command."
"And yet he presents such a hard face to our company."
"Give him time, Aragorn. His adult life has been spent fighting Mordor's might. He does not easily show his softer side to strangers."
Aragorn at last nodded in agreement. "I will give him time."
"You will not be disappointed."
They spent the rest of their watch in companionable silence, and it was Gandalf's hope that friendship would at last begin to bloom between the heir to Gondor's throne and the heir to Gondor's Stewardship.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-06-01 03:20 pm (UTC)~Kris
no subject
Date: 2006-06-01 10:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-01 06:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-01 10:04 pm (UTC)