Stories by WoodElf


Gandalf, lost. The Mines of Moria behind them. As Aragorn drove them on, Boromir could not help watching the Ranger and worrying. That Aragorn had assumed the burden of leadership for their Company was obvious, that the responsibility weighed heavily upon him, equally so. He walked with head bowed and shoulders slumped, his face ravaged with grief. How deep had been the friendship between Aragorn and Gandalf, Boromir knew not, but he knew despair when he saw it, and it was inexcusable in a comrade not to at least attempt to offer some sort of comfort.

When they stopped at midday, Boromir’s eyes followed Aragorn as he sat a short distance away from the others, his back to the Company in self-imposed isolation. Dropping his shield and pack onto the ground, Boromir debated with himself for a moment, then walked across the grass and sat beside Aragorn.

“I had not realized,” Boromir began, looking off into the distance, “how much I had come to rely on your hope until you lost it.”