Far Horizons ❦ Boromir

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THE sun was shining again.

The shadow had been banished, and hope rose anew. The White City, though battered and bruised, still stood. She had endured it, a shining beacon of silver and pearl still jutting out proudly in defiance. Gondor would see a new age turned over like winter turned to spring.

But Men were not made of marble and stone, and the damage they endured was not so easily repaired. Wounds in flesh were bound, stitched, held together with the gentle care from healers. There was little the women in the Houses of Healing could not alleviate.

Grief was one of those things they had no cure for.

Aeardis's fingers intertwined together, her chest heaving with a sigh as she gazed across one of the small gardens nestled in the noble houses. Seated on the far side of the fountain, with his back turned to any passersby and his head bowed, was Boromir.

He had returned home to a city recently besieged and found more heartbreak than joy. A brother, wounded. A father...

Her feet made no sound as she crossed the soft grass, hands fisted in her skirt. Murky eyes were soft and sad. The grief of a child losing their father was a grief she knew all too well. It was a heaviness that only ebbed with time, with knowing that not even your father, the proudest, the bravest of men, will live forever.

She stood beside him now, unsure if he knew that she was there. She wanted to reach out to him, to place her hand on his shoulder and pull him against her, but she hesitated, her hands still tangled in her dress. "Boromir?"

Aeardis sank down to sit beside him, staring down at her lap for a long moment before she took a deep breath and spoke. "I am sorry about your father."

What was the phrase oft said? That one can truly never return home? For each journey away changed both the one leaving and those left behind. Never had those words been truer than upon his return. All had changed. The Dark Lord was defeated, a king had come forward to claim the throne that had sat empty for years while Boromir's forefathers had protected it and the realm, the Tree blossomed with the hope of a peaceful Fourth Age. Faramir was due to marry a shieldmaiden of Rohan, and his father was dead.

It was not the fact but the manner of his death that made Denethor's eldest sit in pensive silence in a secluded courtyard. Madness had stolen his reason and instead of lying with his fathers in Rath Dinen, the ashes were scattered to the winds.

The same wind upon which his father now floated filled Boromir's lungs in a deep breath. Denethor was at peace now, and Faramir was safe and well. His younger brother had already adapted to the changes, leaving Boromir feeling like an ancient relic tossed in the tumult of change.

And, thus more frequently he had made himself scarce, rediscovering his old hiding places.

Her voice interrupted his thoughts. His gaze turned from studying his hands to meeting her eyes. He did not wish to appear weak, but all it took was a single glance at her kindly features and tears were renewed. Aeardis wrapped her arms around him and wished for the ability to take away his pain and sorrow.

Aeardis stood in the healing chambers and looked around at those who remained. "What can I do to help Ioreth?"

The old healer shook her head, pushing back her white hair. "There is nothing else we can do for these men, they need time." Aeardis nodded and turned back toward the small greensward and fountain that Boromir frequented, today though, he was deep in discussion with Faramir in a separate wing of the Citadel. "How is Lord Boromir? The words that the wind brought did not fare well."

She looked down at her hands. It would be easy to say that he was healed, but that was far from the truth. Time would be the only thing that could mend his body. "His injuries still grieve him from time to time," she paused, thinking on his stubbornness, "I fear they will never fully heal." The elves had feared that as well.