Chapter 15

He read it over.

But Boromir did not speak again.

He had read it before, it seemed a thousand times before, and the words before it and the words after it, but they all seemed to blur away, the only sentence in his mind was a simple one.

But Boromir did not speak again.

He ran his finger across the small black print, but it did not erase the sentence.

But Boromir did not speak again.

It had been easier to read the beginning, to read of the Shire and of Bree, the things that he had been told like a tale, of Rivendell and their council, those events that he had lived through.

Moria had been hard to read about, and he would have cried out in anguish and despair when Mithrandir had fallen into darkness, save the fact that he had learned of his fall and his return already on the internet, and that he appeared later in the book. It was still hard to read, and Gandalf was missing, so the words had still made him cry.

He wondered if Frodo did indeed have a mithril coat, and if he did, when he would actually tell them. It was a strange thing to wonder in the midst of all else he had read, but he wondered anyway.

Lothlorien had been a strange thing to read about. About Frodo and Sam's view into the mirror of Galadriel, about Galadriel's kindness to Gimli, about walking blindfolded through the beautiful woods. And, strangest of all to him, about his sudden and unexplained kindness to the dwarf that led to an unfathomable friendship by the time they left. That, he could not understand.

But all that seemed to dim when he reached that sentence.

But Boromir did not speak again.

The madness that he had seen for one moment on the streets of Boston, that biting, cutting, consuming desire—that was part of the tale. That was a catalyst, a climax, a good story. It was doom.

'Alas!' said Aragorn. 'Thus passes the heir of Denethor, Lord of the Tower of Guard! This is a bitter end. Now the company is all in ruin. It is I that have failed. Vain was Gandalf's trust in me. What shall I do now?'

Legolas stopped reading. What shall I do now? He closed his eyes and tried to press the book away, but he did not seem to have the strength.

But Boromir did not speak again.

He wondered if anyone else died, but he did not have the courage to turn the pages. It did not seem to matter anymore anyways. He finally managed to pull himself together and turn the pages; he turned to the end of the book. The pages fell open. He read them numbly. And so we won.

He shut the book and shoved it away from him; it glided across the dusty floor and came to a rest in the frail beam of the flashlight. He turned away from it and drew his knees up, pressing his face against them, but no tears came. The flashlight rocked aimlessly by his side.

'Legolas?' came a familiar voice.

No, not Boromir.

'Legolas?'

He had climbed up through the trap door and was staring at him; he could feel his eyes on him.

'Legolas, is something the matter? Elrond already read the book, he says you shouldn't read it…'

But Boromir did not speak again.

'What is wrong? What did it say?' Boromir's voice was tight and demanding.

Legolas turned to him, but he found no words.

Boromir just needed one look at him. 'Someone died, didn't he?'

Legolas nodded.

'Who?'

Legolas looked away from him.

'I did.'

Legolas did not answer; there seemed to be no need. They both knew.

There was some scuffling as Boromir crawled across the floor, the ceiling was low and neither of them could stand, and placed a nervous hand on his shoulder. 'Legolas?' he asked softly.

Legolas tried to avoid looking at him, but Boromir turned him around.

'How does it happen?' he asked gently, his hands on his shoulders, holding him secure.

Legolas shook his head, unable to speak.

'Tell me…' Boromir threatened, holding him tighter.

'Shot…by orcs…' Legolas managed, his voice choked.

Boromir sat still, his grey eyes filled with a strange sort of fascination, a calm, steady horror, his life seemed frozen in them; his lips were parted slightly in an unasked question; a fate, a death—knowledge. He closed his lips, running his shaking fingers over the elf's golden hair.

Tears burnt the elf's eyes, falling down his cheeks.

'Hey, it's all right,' said Boromir, tilting his chin up and smiling kindly down at him, brushing the tears away.

Legolas looked at him; he was smiling, his eyes filled with disbelief and slight amusement. The elf stared back in confusion; he would never understand the man.

'I'm not dead, am I?' Boromir asked him softly.

'No, but…' Legolas faltered.

'But what? Tolkien said I died? And what does he know? He did not know that we came here did he?' the man prodded.

'No.' He looked down.

'So how do you know I died?' Boromir pushed his chin back up, forcing him to meet his eyes; they were demanding and resolute, forcing him to answer.

'If we went back you would,' Legolas decided.

'Would I? What makes you so sure?' Boromir moved closer to him, raising his eyebrows in question.

'Because it says in the book that…'

'That I was shot by orcs?' Boromir finished for him. 'When?'

'After we left Lothlorien.'

'Lothlorien?' Boromir scoffed, 'I would never enter Lothlorien.'

'But Lorien is a fair and wonderful place,' Legolas said in dismay.

'So you say, but I have little trust for elves,' Boromir answered coldly, his eyes searching his companion's face, testing him.

Legolas frowned and looked away from him. 'There is nothing to fear in Lorien, for no evil dwells there.'

'You may make that claim, Elf, but I still would not enter.'

'Nevertheless, you did,' Legolas said coolly, drawing back.

Boromir leaned forward. 'Do you mean I did in the history of our quest as written by a mad man thousand of years after the fact—one who do not even believe we were real?' he demanded.

'Yes,' said Legolas rather lamely, avoiding his eyes.

'And what else does he say? What did I do to deserve death? What brought me to ruin at the hands of the orcs, or was it just unhappy chance?' He turned Legolas sharply to him again.

'You tried to take the ring from Frodo…'

'I tried to take the ring, and Frodo sent orcs down on me?' A fire burnt in his eyes.

'No, Frodo ran away; you were trying to save Merry and Pippin,' Legolas explained.

'And then I was killed? As punishment for my heinous crime? Why would I take the ring, elf?' His voice was low and dangerous.

'I know that you want it,' the elf whispered, meeting Boromir's glare with a quiet determination.

'I am not a thief!'

'It. Drove. You. Mad.'

Their eyes locked.

'You lie.'

'It is what it is written,' Legolas stated.

'And that makes you certain that it is true?' he laughed, an angry laugh. 'Legolas, you do not have to believe what you read about us simply because the man claims to have invented us—that would be folly. I did not enter Lorien, nor will I. I will not go mad; I will not die. The fate written for me in that masterpiece may not be my fate at all. Or yours.'

'But it says…'

The man released him with a shove, throwing him back against the wall. 'Blast what it says! Blast the book! Blast Tolkien for that matter!' Boromir turned sharply and caught the book up. 'Blast the whole wretched thing!' He hurled the book across the attic and it hit the opposite wall with a dull thud and fell open in the shadows.

Legolas said nothing; Boromir was crouched between him and the door. His fair face was filled with grief and rage. He brushed the sweat off his brow with a strong hand. 'Blast everything,' he whispered.

The elf moved hesitantly towards him. 'Do not say that, Boromir. You do not mean it.'

Boromir turned to him as if he did not see him. 'Don't I?'

'No, you don't. Boromir, please, you still believe in truth,' he pleaded.

'What is truth anymore?' the man shook his head, turning blankly away.

'It is what is real, what is right,' Legolas declared.

'And what is that, my good elf?' Boromir lamented, 'If we are fiction, then where lies the truth?' He placed a hand on the elf's chest. 'You are a lie.' He lay his hand on his own chest. 'I am a lie. Our lives are a lie.'

'But we both know that that isn't true,' said Legolas.

'It is true to everyone around us. If it were not true, then they would all believe a lie. And then where would be the truth? Does anyone know? Not even an elf can untangle this web, I see.'

'But we must be real, for we can feel and think.' Legolas waved his hands desperately about, as if he were trying to grasp hold of something to save him.

'How do I know what you think and feel? You could be an illusion for all I know.' He turned sadly away.

'But you can feel me,' said Legolas, taking his hand.

'A very good illusion, a magical enchantment—that is what you could be,' Boromir replied, turning back to him, touching his hair, his soft skin.

'But I am not,' the elf insisted.

'And where is the truth to prove that? What can you offer me as proof of your existence? What can I offer you?' he cradled his cheek in one hand, the other traced idly along his waist.

'I can offer you only this.' Legolas said softly, drawing his fist back; he punched him straight and hard in the nose.

Boromir veered sharply to the side and toppled to the floor with a cry.

'Magical enchantments usually like you!' he snapped.

There was a pause, and then the man sat up, moaning, he pinched his bleeding nose. 'Is that so?'

'Yes.' Legolas folded his arms firmly.

'Well, I guess that solves that problem,' said Boromir with half a chuckle, 'you are as real as I am.'

'Quite,' said Legolas, trying not to sound as confused as he felt.

'Do real elves happen to carry handkerchiefs?' Boromir asked jokingly.

Legolas pulled a handkerchief from his jeans pocket and handed it to Boromir, wondering why everything was so dandy now. He had, after all, just punched the man.

'Thanks,' said Boromir, pressing it to his nose. 'Like I said, you have a quick fist when you need it,' he added wryly.

The elf bit back a smile.

They sat in silence as Boromir waited for the blood to clot.

'Legolas,' said Boromir a few minutes later.

'Yes?'

'Was that a library book?'

'Yes, I think it was.'

Boromir groaned. 'Perfect.'

Legolas crawled over to it and picked it up. 'You damaged some of the pages and the cover's folded.' He looked down at where it had fallen open.

'What hope have we?' said Faramir. 'It is long since we had any hope. The sword of Elendil, if it returns indeed, may rekindle it, but I do not think that it will do more than put off the evil day, unless other help unlooked-for also comes, from Elves or Men. For the enemy increases and we decrease. We are a failing people, a springless autumn.

'I think this is about your brother,' said Legolas, 'Faramir was his name, was it not?'

Boromir took the book hastily from him, his eyes eagerly scanning the pages. 'Yes, it is.' He turned the pages back; he smiled, tears filling his eyes. 'He was always such a good boy. But, I suppose, he is dead now. Either dead, or never even real.' He turned to Legolas. 'Do you have any siblings?'

The elf shook his head. 'No, it was just I.'

Boromir gently caressed the pages. 'You missed out on a lot.'

'Yes.'

Boromir cleared his throat and turned through the book. 'What else does Tolkien write? Fangorn Forest? You dearly want to travel there.'

'Who does?' asked Legolas.

'You do. Here you say: 'I should dearly love to journey in Fangorn's Wood. I scarcely passed beyond the eaves of it, and I did not wish to turn back.'

'I wonder why.'

Boromir shrugged, turning through the pages. 'And here it says that you and Gimli are friends,' he told him.

'I've read that,' said Legolas, 'but I do not think that we could ever be.'

'Perhaps not.' Boromir shut the injured book. 'But, as I have said, the fate in those pages might not be ours. Who can say what will happen now?'

'I think that no one can,' answered Legolas.

The man nodded. 'And yet, I would willingly choose to return to Middle-earth, even were I to die. My heart lies there, my duty, and I will face whatever fate that may be written for me, on any pages, or in the book of time. If fate there be, I will take mine bravely, and if not, I will write one well. I do not run from danger, nor will I. And I will do anything in my power to save my people—anything.'