Promise Me

Chapter Twenty

The only quiet that never unnerved Boromir was that of his own chambers. And this night, as he sat on the wide windowsill, overlooking the fields and river so far off in the distance, he leaned back against the sleek stone, ignoring the chill that bit into his bare back, and he let his mind wander.

His thoughts were heavy with the responsibilities he now had cast upon him, ones that would remain until Aragorn returned to take his rightful place. Then, with a steward no longer being necessary, Boromir would have to wait and see what, if any, service he could offer the new king. Whereas he'd once scoffed at the notions of both Gondor needing a king and Aragorn being that king, he no longer felt that way. Aragorn was exactly what Gondor needed in a king and when he returned, for Boromir refused to entertain the notion that he would return to Gondor but Aragorn might not, Boromir would do whatever his king asked.

From where he sat, he could not see so much as a faint glow of the Eye, but he knew it watched still. If Frodo was successful, that eye would go dark and he was fairly certain he'd feel it, for the world would no doubt offer up a huge sigh of relief once that darkness was wiped from its face.

It was a moonless night, but clear so stars spattered the sky. More than once, during the journey from Rivendell toward Mordor, Boromir would gaze up at that sky and lose himself in its vastness, even if only for a short while.

Sheets rustled and he turned his head toward the bed, where Gabby slept peacefully, her glorious hair spilling across the linens. She needed no moonlight for her hair to gleam, for it did so as if lit from within.

She was beautiful, inside and out, and it wasn't the first time he'd wondered what she saw in him. Because he did wonder. He wondered often, in fact. Especially now.

He shifted against the stone, biting back a wince as the cold from it bit once more into his back, into the backs of his bare legs, as he wore only his small clothes. Warmth weather couldn't come soon enough, as he'd had quite enough of the cold that forever seeped into his joints and bones from every room in his flat. Perhaps it was time to think about setting up house somewhere else in Minas Tirith, once he and Gabby were married. Someplace not made entirely of stone, if at all possible.

Aside from Gabby's deep, even breaths, the room was quiet, but it was a peaceful quiet and helped calm some of Boromir's more turbulent thoughts. He still hadn't quite accepted that Denethor was gone, that he and Faramir were all that remained of his family.

He sighed into the darkness, leaning his head against one of the rippled panes. His wounds ached, but not nearly as badly as they had prior. Just enough to make his already dark thoughts darker still. His relationship with his father had been complicated. He loved Denethor, but he hated him as well. Hated him for his treatment of Faramir, for his refusal to accept his youngest as the man he was and for not accepting that he'd never be what Denethor thought he should. Hated him for how he withdrew even further after Finduilas' death. Both of his sons needed him, and yet Denethor remained unreachable.

But most of all, he hated him for the weight he lay on Boromir's shoulders. By insisting on bringing the Ring to Minas Tirith, Denethor left him no choice but to betray those who trusted him. Above all else, Boromir took great pride in his sense of honor, and that was now forever tarnished.

And for what? He'd failed to take the Ring. Had he returned before Denethor's death, Boromir had no doubt his father would have cast him out, disowned him, for such a failure.

"Boromir, why are you still up?"

He started, turning to see Gabby's eyes barely opened as she gazed up at him, her head still resting on her pillows. "No reason in particular," he murmured, forcing a smile to his lips, "so go back to sleep, love. It's still the middle of the night."