theranger

Aragorn wrapped himself more tightly into his cloak. The chilly, damp weather was so much like his own mood that it felt like the sky itself was mourning. The sky was overcast, a livid light bathed the clump of sickly, wind-twisted larches where the three were taking some rest on their hunt for Merry and Pippin.

But Aragorn couldn’t rest, couldn’t forget..

The Lords of Gondor would walk no more together, no one would raise a call from the tower guard to warn the White City of their return... He squeezed his eyes shut to fight back the image, but it still lingered, making him roll restlessly on the hard ground.

Maybe one day he would be King of Gondor, his hair would turn grey under the winged crown.. Still.. he would be asking himself again and again the same question..

Could he have protected Boromir from falling under the spell of the Ring? Made him see it for the evil tool of darkness that it was?

Shifting in the damp folds of his cloak the ranger sighed and hid his face into his folded arm, resting his cheek against the metal of Boromir’s vanbrace, warm from the heat of his body.

He had hesitated, and now he would never know.