It was in these moments that Aragorn missed Boromir with a grief that staggered him. Missed the conviction and compassion in a pair of flashing eyes. Missed the sword arm at his side, keeping foes at bay. Missed late nights of guard duty and trading stories of battles before a fire or bedroll. What Aragorn missed most of all, however, was Boromir's faith. He would see the glory of Gondor restored, Boromir'd said. And Aragorn had – believed the Tower guard would take up the call. Believed that, with Boromir at his side, he could rule Gondor and bring it into a new golden age. Estel, so the Elves had named him. Hope. But, to him, that title should have been given to Boromir, true Captain and Champion of Gondor. "Your thoughts trouble you," Legolas said, as he walked next to Aragorn, alert eyes attuned to every shift in shadow, ears open for every whisper in the wind. The Stone of Erech was still before them, its secrets hidden in the gloom of the caves. "Is it so obvious or is this some Elven insight?" Aragorn asked. "It is obvious to a friend." "I've felt Boromir's presence," Aragorn said, loathe to speak the words above a mere whisper. "Boromir the Fair lives on within you." "Nay, it is not only that," Aragorn protested. "I have felt him, almost as if he lived still and was guarding my back again." "You speak strangely," Legolas said, clasping Aragorn's shoulder in comfort. "Men have not the power to return to these shores the way my people do. It is but the shadow that lingers in this dark place." "Nevertheless, I have felt him." * * * The Stone stood before Aragorn, great and terrible in its majesty. The sound of his horn echoed in the caves and was answered by many more. The Dead had awakened. Reinforcements for the long fight ahead, hope for Gondor and his people. The curse of Isildur would finally be lifted. Aragorn turned from the Stone and back toward the encampment at the bottom of the hill. When morning came, he would lead his army to Minas Tirith. He would fulfill his promise to the fallen. To Boromir. As if in answer to his thoughts, a fleeting wisp of a touch trailed across Aragorn's vembraces – vembraces he'd taken from Boromir's lifeless wrists. And Aragorn could almost swear he'd heard the echo of his friend's voice in the wind. Lack of sleep has made me fanciful, he thought, and started once more toward the camp. Once more, his vembraces tingled with a light touch. "Who goes there?" he asked, glancing around for some sort of sorcery or trickery. Do you not know? the wind seemed to answer. "Show yourself." Aragorn drew out his sword, prepared to face this new enemy with strength and conviction. He was Elessar of the Dunedain from the North, the last in the line of Numenorean Kings. He would show no fear to whatever evil awaited him. A mist appeared before him, pale green and wreathed in shadow, forming out of air and shade. And Aragorn almost fell to his knees at the apparition before him. "Boromir," he breathed, scarcely able to believe his eyes. The ghostshape, clad in familiar Gondorian armor and an Elvish cloak, nodded once regally, and stood proud in the path before him. "You wear my vembraces," the apparition said. "Why?" "As...as a..." Aragorn faltered, then found his voice. "As a reminder of my promise." He stepped forth, fingers outstretched, and inhaled sharply when his palm slid across the cloak and the solid plane and muscle of a shoulder. "You died," he said in wonder. Boromir clasped a wispy hand over Aragorn's. "I, too, made a promise, my King. I begged to be sent back to fullfill mine." "But how –?" Boromir smiled, a shadowy, wide smile. In it, Aragorn could see the spectre of what once was. "Those who answered my plea said you would come here," Boromir said. "I gave myself to the Dead – to fight alongside you until Gondor is free and our oath fulfilled." "You – you gave up peace...cursed yourself...for me?" "My allegiance is with Gondor and her King. If, by my life or death, I can protect you both, I will." An echo of words from what seemed a lifetime ago. "Boromir, there is no –" Boromir's finger was surprisingly life-like against Aragorn's lips. "It is done," he said. "I will, like the others, fight for you until you release me." For a long time, Aragorn and Boromir stayed as they were, together and still, with Boromir's light touch on Aragorn's lips. The terrible weight of Aragorn's grief seemed to leave him, bourne away on gossamer wings. What could he say in the face of such a mighty gift, what else to do except accept it gratefully, and with a full heart? "You humble me," was all he said in the end. The next moment, he had Boromir's deceptively solid form in his arms and embraced him like a brother, not minding the chill of ghost-flesh alongside his. Boromir was not yet lost to him. There was still time for hope.
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