*Dispute at Helms Deep*

Legolas hailed Aragorn in the stony corridor. He
waited while the Ranger argued with Theoden, urging
him to send to Gondor for aid. But the stubborn King
refused. “Where was Gondor when our enemies closed in
around us?” He railed against Gondor, and Legolas was
only glad that Boromir was not there to hear his
beloved country so abused.

Aragorn was finally dismissed by Theoden, who would
not give the frustrated soldiers more time to prepare
for the war. They needed provisions, time…

“The man is mad.” Legolas nodded in agreement as they
walked Helms Deep together. “He made more sense when
Saruman controlled him.” Aragorn grumbled for a bit,
then remembered that Legolas had been trying to get
his attention. “Was there something you wanted to
tell me?”

Legolas reached into his pocket and pulled out the
Evenstar. Aragorn winced. “What is it, Estel?”

Aragorn sighed. “Arwen left. She is sailing for
Valinor.”

Legolas put an arm around Aragorn. “I am sorry.”

Aragorn shook his head and shrugged off the Elf’s arm.
“Don’t be. I’m not.” Legolas gave him a strange
look. “I don’t want to talk about it, Legolas. I
have enough to worry about.” He moved past Legolas.

“What should I…”

“Throw it away. Wear it. I don’t care. I don’t want
to see it again.” He stalked down the corridor,
leaving Legolas to stare after him with pity.

* * * * *

Boromir was restricted by Theoden. The King told him,
in no uncertain terms, that being the High Captain of
the Guard of Gondor held no rank with him. He didn’t
consult with Boromir at all, only dismissed him as
though Boromir were one of the farmer’s sons he
dressed up as a soldier and sent into battle.

How could a King be so cowardly? The Man refused to
take any advice, to send for any aid, because of some
petty rivalries. Didn’t he realize this was an attack
on the race of Men, and by not sending for aid, by
scoffing at the help of Elves and Dwarves and
Gondorians, he was allowing their world to be crushed?
They were outnumbered more than ten to one using mere
statistics. And if you only counted the soldiers in
Rohan’s army that actually fought worth a shit, they
were outnumbered at least two hundred to one. His
damned stubborn pride would kill them all.

Boromir did not favor Elves by any stretch of the
imagination, but he would never have risked his men
for something as stupid as pride. He was sincerely
glad when Haldir’s army arrived, and wanted to slap
Theoden in the face for his false camaraderie. Hours
ago he had refused Aragorn’s suggestion to send for
aid with great sarcasm – “And who will come? Elves?
Dwarves?” Absolute hypocrisy.

Boromir fought at the front lines. He helped Aragorn
and Gimli hold back the Uruks as Theoden hid behind
the walls of Helm’s Deep, supervising. He struggled
to share a strategy with the soldiers who surrounded
him, but they only followed Aragorn’s lead, those who
listened to anyone. It was utter choas. They fought
the Uruks on the ground as Legolas fought with Rohan’s
soldiers from the Deeping Wall, throwing back ladders,
fighting by sword those that scaled the Wall, shouting
to their comrades on the ground.

He saw Legolas’ face when Haldir was slain by the
Uruk-hai. Boromir might not care for Elves, but the
pain he saw there was genuine. He reminded himself
once again that had it not been for Legolas, he would
be dead now.

He plunged back into the battle with strength he
didn’t know he had. At some point, he had stopped
fighting against the Uruk-hai and started fighting for
the Men at his side, the Elves and Dwarf behind him,
the Elf and Men on the Wall. He fought for Gandalf,
he fought for the Ring Bearer and Sam, he fought for
the Halflings in Fangorn.

He fought for himself and he fought for Gondor. He
fought against those who would usurp him – each
Uruk-hai was his personal enemy. Aragorn. With every
stroke of his sword, with every slain Uruk he fought
Aragorn, he felt his hate grow and his conviction
rise. No one would take his Kingdom. No spoiled Man
who acted like an Elf, talked like an Elf, knew Elves
better than he did his own Men. No Man who hid his
entire life in Rivendell, only to emerge as the leader
of the Fellowship and play the hero, leading the Ring
to Mordor and taking Gondor by right. By right! What
right had he?

And he sliced through the Uruk-hai, one by one,
finally finding release for the anger that had
threatened to consume him since Elrond’s Council.
Aragorn had left him for dead. It would have been
easier, wouldn’t it, to take Gondor with the Steward’s
heir gone! Aragorn was just like Theoden. Just like
Lurtz. A coward. Coward! Killing him a thousand
times, a thousand satisfying times, taking Gondor back
with his blade, his blood-drenched blade, sharp and
smooth and deadly. No one would take Gondor. Not so
long as Boromir lived.

* * * * *

They had emerged victorious. The words sounded hollow
in Aragorn’s head. There was no victory. Only
frightened boys fighting for their lives, against an
evil they didn’t understand. Only Elves fighting a
cause outside of their own. Only women and children
threatened in the basements of Helms Deep. And
Theoden.

Theoden of Rohan was a coward. A stubborn coward who
cared only for himself. He had not raised his sword
until too late in the battle. When he was King,
Aragorn promised himself, he would lead his Men into
battle, giving orders from front and center, setting
an example for his soldiers. Giving them a reason to
be confident. Giving his subjects a reason to believe
in him. He would never have made the stupid decision
to hide in the Deep. It was the riskiest thing he
could do, and Theoden did it. He accepted no counsel.
What kind of King does not listen to his own people?

Aragorn joined in the nursing duties. Now only two
kinds of people existed: sick and well. Those who
were well tended to the sick. Aragorn was well, as
were Legolas, Gimli, and Boromir. Each did his part
to help the healing process of those who were injured
in the war. There were Men from Rohan and a few other
kingdoms and Haldir’s Elves. The Head Elf himself was
mourned by all in his company and Legolas. Legolas
sang cheerful-sounding songs as he tended the sick,
but Aragorn understood the words and knew they spoke
of grief and loss.

* * * * *

Legolas was surrounded by death. Not only Men had
died today. Lorien Elves had died today. Elves who
should have lived for a thousand more years. More
than a thousand more. Haldir was dead. Haldir.
Their leader. His friend.

He began the lament in the Deep. Only Elves and the
ocassional human could understand it. The Elves who
had not died and who were not mortally wounded
recovered quickly those first few hours, much more
quickly than the humans. Each Elf that went from
sickbed to nursing duty joined Legolas in his lament.
Soon Helm’s Deep was filled with song.
 

Boromir was pulled off his shift the second day. He
had refused to sleep and rarely ate. The Steward’s
son would not admit it, but he was afraid that if he
slept he would not again awake. So he dove into his
work. But when Legolas ordered him to take a break,
he had no choice.

He took the food offered him and found a vacant corner
on the Deeping Wall. It was almost silent but his
ears rang with sounds of battle. He pressed his head
back against the cold stone, trying unsuccessfully to
rid his mind of the noise that plagued him. During
the battle, when adrenaline was high, he relished the
sounds of swords striking swords and the inhuman
screams of the Uruks.

Now, he did not want reminders of battle. He wished
for silence, peace. He yearned to awake in Rivendell,
in a comfortable bed, beside Aragorn.

~Where did that come from?~ He frowned. ~ I do not
wish to lie with Aragorn. I wish to kill him.~

But Boromir was too tired to analyze his unusual
thoughts and fell asleep against the Deeping Wall.
Sleep brought him no peace. He dreamed of battle and
the Ring and obligations that pulled him in all
directions. He dreamed of stealing the Ring from
Frodo and using it against Aragorn. He dreamed of
Lurtz’s arrows in him again, of dying alone, of being
buried with Elves, too far from Gondor. He reached
for Gondor in his dreams but he could never survive
the journey. He died a thousand times in his dreams
that afternoon, feeling the pain of every arrow, every
slice of the sword, every crushing bone as he was
hurled into pits of rock. The Fellowship was always
there, watching, not saving him. He died for the
Fellowship even though he didn’t want to. Even though
he had only volunteered to join the Fellowship that he
might defeat the Man who would take Gondor. He died
for the Fellowship, and in dying for the Fellowship,
he died for Gondor.

* * * * *

Aragorn wasn’t sure what had happened. One moment he
was traveling toward the room with medical supplies,
the next he was up against a wall, a dagger to his
throat. He reached for Anduril but his hand met with
air. He suddenly remembered leaving his sword with
the rest of the Fellowship’s weapons. They always
removed their weapons before entering the sick rooms.

“What do you want?” He spoke forcefully despite
feeling overcome by fear. He had no mode of defense
save for his hands.

“Gondor,” the voice growled into his ear. He
immediately knew it was Boromir, would have known even
without the voice.

“Boromir.” The blade was pushed harder against his
throat. He couldn’t breathe. He lifted his hands but
they were quickly pushed away. “Please. Let us talk.
The-” The blade restricted his windpipe. He felt
the skin break. He felt the sting of metal against
the open wound and he felt light-headed.

Aragorn tried to look at Boromir, but could not
without turning his head. ~Please, Boromir. Do not
let this go any further. I have no desire to take
Gondor from you. I don’t want you to be my enemy.~

“You wish to talk?” Boromir’s voice trembled with
anger. He slowly pulled the blade away from Aragorn.
“Talk, my liege.” The sarcasm didn’t reach Aragorn as
he slid to the floor, gasping for breath, holding his
hands to his neck. Boromir grabbed him by his
shirtfront and shoved him against the wall,
threatening with the point of his dagger.

Aragorn tried desperately to regain his breath. The
wind was nearly knocked out of him from the force of
the wall. “Boromir… not your enemy… please.” Aragorn
closed his eyes. If he could regain some equilibrium,
he could overpower Boromir, take the dagger. He would
have to move quickly. Boromir had the advantage of
surprise, but Aragorn knew how to be swift, how to
reverse positions of weakness to positions of
strength. If there was one thing he had learned from
the Elves, it was how to take advantage of an
opponent’s hesitation.

~Boromir is not my opponent. It is only an accident
of birth that makes us so. How can I convince him
that we need not fight one another… that we can rule
Gondor together?~

Blinded by his anger, Boromir was not prepared when
Aragorn, who appeared to be incapacitated, took his
dagger with one quick hand while pushing him
face-first into the wall with the other. Aragorn
expertly held him against the wall with that same
hand and positioned the sharp side of the blade at
Boromir’s jugular.

“I do not wish to fight you, Boromir.” Usually a
sarcastic comment would have come from Boromir at this
moment, but as he was presently wondering if Aragorn
would actually kill him, he dared not. He, too,
attempted to find a weakness in his opponent’s stance,
in order to free himself without injury. For now, he
decided to respect the blade.

“You are not a very honorable soldier if you go about
attacking unarmed men, son of Gondor.” The insult was
drowned out by the reference to Gondor. Boromir saw
red for a second, before realizing that Aragorn spoke
to him with respect, not mocking.

“I know you want the best for Gondor, as do I,
Boromir, even if you will not believe me.” Aragorn
withdrew the blade from its dangerous location and
stepped quickly to the other side of the corridor.
Boromir wheeled around, seething. Aragorn pointed the
dagger at him.

“If you wish to fight me for Gondor, then I shall
agree to a duel. But I would prefer to discuss it, to
see if we might come to some compromise. I did not
choose to be your enemy, Boromir. Circumstances chose
thus, and I would that it were not so.”

Boromir watched with amazement as Aragorn turned the
dagger around in his hand, holding the blade in his
palm. He offered the weapon back to its owner in an
incredible display of trust.

~I can kill him right now. It would be so easy.~ But
Boromir pushed back those thoughts and accepted the
dagger. He was somewhat uncomfortable with the way
this encounter had ended with Aragorn in control and
logical, making Boromir seem a raving idiot. Boromir
backed away, looking at Aragorn’s too calm eyes and
too confident stance, and had to hold himself from
bolting. When he rounded the corner he collapsed
against the wall, angry and very confused.
 

~to be continued~