"Caught"
by Beryll
The dream had come the first time, when Aragorn had dozed off after they had taken the ships of Umbar. He had been leaning against the railing, weary to his very bones, the presence of the dead crushing him, sapping the strength from his body and mind till he felt sluggish and hardly able to move. Still he had tried to stay awake, not to lose control. To no avail. As if some part of him had known what darkness would burrow it's way into his sleeping mind and take route there.
In his dream he had been back at Amon Hen. Had been fighting the Uruk Hai again, fighting his way down-hill, to reach the place where he had heard the horn of Gondor. To guard the back of Boromir as he had sworn to do.
Only this time he already knew the outcome. He knew that
three arrows would pierce Boromir's chest and wound him beyond healing. That
the prince of Gondor would die at the dirty claws of an Uruk-Hai. That he
- Aragorn - would be too late.
With all his strength he had tried to get there faster, dodged fights that
he knew he had fought in that battle and ran with all the speed that his ranger's
legs could muster.
Still he had been too late. He had reached the clearing littered with dead and dying orcs in time to watch the third arrow hit Boromir with an agonizing 'thud'. He had even been in time to watch the Uruk-Hai grab the little ones to carry them away. He had been able to save them, he had slain the leader of the Uruk-Hai with a fury that had been greater than the one when he had truly fought him. For he knew - knew - that all was for naught. And Boromir had died in his arms.
He had only been asleep for a couple of moments. Still he had been drenched in cold sweat when Legolas had shaken him awake. He had stared out over the dark river, the dead again pressing against his awareness, and he had felt fear. Fear that it had been an omen for the coming battle. That he would not be able to save Minas Tirith, as be had promised Boromir he would do.
But the White City had not fallen. He had kept his word to his dying brother. The men of Gondor had fought the darkness of Mordor and prevailed. Middle-Earth had been saved from the evil that had been Sauron.
But victory had not vanquished the growing shadow in Aragorn's mind. As long as battle kept him busy he had slept the sleep of exhaustion. But when he had returned to Minas Tirith in peace, celebrated and loved king of the realm, Elessar, the elfstone - the dream had returned with even more force.
He had hoped, prayed that Arwen's soothing hand might ease the perpetual frown from his brow. And for almost a year he had slept deeply, peacefully and free of dreams next to her. He had all but forgotten it.
Then his nightmare had haunted him again. Again he raced down the slopes of Amun Hen against time, against fate and again he lost, this time to watch the leader of the Uruk Hai hack off Boromir's head and run off with it as trophy. Maybe this was, what made this dream the most devastating - that he could never tell what horror would await him in that clearing but that he knew with terrible certainty that he would always lose.
He had woken up screaming that night, unshed tears of fear and anger and pain in his eyes. Arwen had held him, soothed him. She had also tried to coax him into telling her of his dream but he had refused. The last thing he wanted was to give it even more reality by sharing it with his beloved Evenstar.
She had sung him back to sleep and he had felt save, loved, protected in her arms - till he found himself on top of Amun Hen a second time that night.
He had done the unthinkable then, sunk to his knees, dropped his sword, lowered his head to escape the horror that would await him on that clearing, offering his life to the Uruk-Hai in the hope of somehow saving Boromir's life. They had run past him, ignoring him completely, as if he was not even there. It had seemed to him, that he had knelt there forever. In his dream, night fell, the cold seeped deep into his bones, before he found the strength to rise, to pick up his sword and stumble down towards the inevitable. He somehow knew that he would not wake until he had faced the end.
He had found the clearing strangely quiet and peaceful. In the pale starlight the corpses of the Uruk-Hai might have been gnarled treestumps and the blood had already dried, the cold of the night preventing the stench of death. He had found Boromir easily enough. He leaned against the tree, where he had also died in the real battle. His eyes were open, reflecting the stars. An expression of sadness and loss was etched into his face. Two arrows stuck in his chest.
The agonized scream, with which Aragorn woke this time had
raised half the palace.
Again Arwen had asked him what troubled his sleep so much, again he had refused to tell her, even deepening the worry in her eyes. But what would he find in those beautiful eyes, if he told her why Boromir's death burdened him so much. If he told her of the love that had grown between himself and the prince of Gondor on their long journey? The fear of losing her love had still been greater than his fear of the dream.
That had not lasted for long.
He had again dreamed two times the next night. He had refused to sleep for three nights after that, had fallen asleep on the fourth day while he sat down by the white tree, marveling at it's beauty. And again Boromir had died.
Arwen had been relentless after finding him crying, completely exhausted and desperate curled up next to the tree. And he had told her. Told her how he had come to love the proud prince. How they had held on to each others strength in the darkness of Moria, sworn to protect each other from the evil of the ring while they were in Lothlorien, to guard each others back. And how he had failed his lover at Amon Hen. And for the first time he had been able to cry for his lost love.
Arwen had smiled and forgiven.
Aragorn had been so sure that now he would sleep again.
His Evenstar had tugged him into bed, telling him to sleep, to forget, she would guard his dreams.
It was not to be. Again he had fought the long battle down-hill, again he reached the clearing to late. This time to find the Uruk-Hai dragging his beloved, dying Boromir to his feet by his hair to force him into a violent kiss. Aragorn had hacked the monster to pieces.
Arwen had held him and soothed him when he awoke, this time shaking with rage. And when he had quieted down at last she had been able to tell him what she had seen while guarding his sleep.
"It is not a natural dream." she had told him. "It is a sending, calling you. And from the feel of it I would guess it is a plea for help." He had stared at her, uncomprehending. She had taken his hands in hers, deep sorrow in her eyes. "You have to go back there, love." she had said. "I can not tell how or why, but unfinished business is waiting for you at Amon Hen."
Strangely enough Aragorn had found that thought more comforting than frightening. It meant there was a way to end it. And end it he would. He had left the same day, going all alone, leaving the rule of Gondor in the capable hands of Faramir, telling none but Arwen where he went.
He had not slept much on his way back to Amon Hen. The dream had still haunted him and he had traveled with all the speed he could muster. As if this too was a race against time, against fate.
Fear had clenched his heart, when he finally reached Amon Hen. He did not know what he was going to find, did not even know what he feared but cold dread had held him.
The place by the shore where they had camped was quiet and deserted, no signs of the wary travelers that had rested there only two years ago remaining. Aragorn had left his horse there.
His feet had been heavy when he made his way to the clearing. Too often he had walked this path in his dreams, too often had he smelled the blood. Reality, memory and dreams where merging and he could not tell anymore what was real. But the clearing was empty, when he reached it. No roaring Uruk-Hai, no dying Boromir, no signs of battle. Just an empty clearing, covered with the yellow leaves that the trees had already shed.
But it had not mattered. Somehow Aragorn knew that he had reached his goal. He sat down against the tree, where he had held Boromir in his last moments, drew his sword and laid it over his knees. He was sure he would need it. And then he waited. For the night and for whatever nightmare might unfold.
And this time it was been different. This time he was awake when it started. This time he was not on the top of the hill. He heard the roaring of battle between the trees and slowly got up, sword at the ready. Then he heard the horn of Gondor, close by. The first call, when he had started his way down the slope in the real fight. But this time he was already here. Still he waited. And then the fight burst onto the clearing. First Merry and Pippin - ghostly figures, hardly real, running past him without seeing him - and then Boromir, raising the horn to his lips for a second call - so real, so clear, so alive and still, strangely translucent. Aragorn had understood then. He had seen ghosts before. Ancient ones. But this one he knew, this tortured soul was his lover and friend. This one he had to set free.
Their eyes met and a light blossomed in Boromir's eyes where before there had been the flat darkness of hopelessness. He had not blown a second time, instead hurrying over to him, endless gratitude in the expression on his face.
And then the Uruk-Hai spilled onto the clearing and there was been no time for words, no time for embracing a lover thought forever lost. Only the fight.
They were only ghosts but their sword where like ice where they nagged Aragorn's skin and they fought with the fury of the damned. But never did Aragorn lose sight of Boromir. Never did he fail to guard his back. He knew all too well what to look out for.
When the leader of the Uruk-Hai entered the clearing, a hateful snarl on his face, when he drew his bow, when he aimed his arrow, Aragorn was ready. And when the first arrow flew, he was in the way.
The ghostly projectile hit him and icy pain blossomed in his chest. Almost with surprise he looked at the place where the arrow protruded from his body. It hurt. It truly hurt. He heard the Uruk-Hai leader howl in frustration and also heard Boromir howl in rage. But no matter now, he fought on.
When the second arrow hit him, he fell down to one knee, the pain starting to numb his limbs. But he got up again. He would not be beaten easier than Boromir had been.
The third arrow never found him. His vision was blurring but it still was good enough to watch Boromir attack the leader of the Uruk-Hai in mindless fury, like he himself had done so often in his dreams. He watched them fight, with a smile on his lips, swaying on his feet, for he knew the outcome. When Boromir hacked off the head of the monster, he allowed himself to fall.
Safe. His lover was safe.
Darkness threatened to claim him, but when he felt ghostly hands against his face, he forced his eyes open again. Looked at the shining, translucent face of Boromir above him.
"Thank you." the beloved voice whispered. "Thank you, my lover. I will wait for you."
The figure of Boromir, prince of Gondor, slowly dissolved into tiny sparks of light, drifting off into the night. And the pain disappeared from Aragorn's body and he fell into deep, dreamless sleep.
If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to: Beryll