Rewriting History by Your Cruise Director

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Story notes: Thanks to Elisabeth Kerrigan for her transcription of The Fellowship of the Ring.
I crouch over you, my hand on your face, praying that you might be spared, that what grace is given me be passed to you. "I would have followed you, my brother...my captain...my king," you whisper, and I weep to hear the devotion in your voice. But miraculously, you do not die. Legolas arrives and teaches me secret elf-magic like that which Elrond used to heal Frodo. We pull your arrows out. While the others run to save Merry and Pippin, I hold you, I nurse your wounds and fill you with joy until you become whole again. Together we ride to the White City, and the tower guard takes up the call, "The Lords of Gondor have returned!"

The Horn of Gondor rings out in the forest. Its high round notes sing to me, summoning what strength is in my blood to respond. I fight with the force of Isildur himself, I cut down orcs by the dozen. I reach your side in moments, before any can harm you. Together we destroy an army of darkness, we defend the little ones, we stand shoulder to shoulder as the enemy flees these shores. Frodo and Sam have gone on ahead, yet the Fellowship holds fast.

Even before Merry realizes that Frodo has gone off by himself, I see your shield and know that you have drifted from us. The Ring calls to you; you cannot resist it alone. I find you before you find Frodo, I take your hands in mine. I tell you of my love until there is no room in your heart for anger or fear or doubt. Together we send Frodo and the Ring to their destiny, and together we turn toward our own.

At Lothlórien, you unburden yourself to me. You confess that the people lose faith in your father and that you want to set it right, offering me for the first time a role in that quest. You call your home my home. When you tell me that one day our paths will lead us there, to the white tower of Ecthelion, I promise to go with you. I call you brother. Over our clasped hands, King to Steward and Steward to King, we vow our allegiance to Gondor and to one another. The darkness cannot bind us.

In the depths of the mines, there are no orcs, no troll, no balrog. Gimli's cousin Balin greets us before a roaring fire. During the four days which Gandalf says it will take to cross beneath the mountain, we walk in well-lighted chambers, we feast on malt beer and red meat off the bone. The dwarves give us mithril and arrowheads for the journey beyond. We lie together each night, you and I, apart from the others, the firelight making your hair and skin gleam brighter than the greatest treasures ever dug from the earth.

High on the shimmering mountain, late in the night, I sit amidst the ice aching with the cold. Suddenly I feel something soft against my cheek and a weight against my back. It is the fur lining of your cloak, which you have wrapped around my shoulders. I reach out my hand to pull you to me, so close that the steam of our breath mingles in the air above us. Together we huddle beneath the heavy mantle, arms around one another, until we have both stopped shivering. We spend the long night keeping each other warm. In the morning, when Frodo loses the Ring, I say your name and you give it back to him without a second thought.

I am basking in the bright sun and your smile, sprawled on a rock where we have climbed to scout the hills. This moment belongs only to the two of us, with no other cares, no charges, no Ring. All the shadows have fled your face. For the first time I see what a simple thing it is for me to make you happy -- I have only to touch your hand or ask you to tell your stories, you will give your heart to me and grow in the giving. I am humbled in the knowledge of such power, uplifted in the face of such joy.

The Fellowship rests in a temperate valley beneath the Misty Mountains. You have been coaching Merry and Pippin with their swords; your body runs with sweat, your eyes gleam with the pleasure of exertion. The little ones are exhausted, but you want to keep striving. "Come hunt with me," I suggest. In the forest, I sneak behind you and we grapple playfully. Against a tree, I pin your arms above your head and lick the moisture from your throat. Before we return to camp with the others, it has begun to rain, and I have become as damp as you.

You are washing in a mountain lake when a sudden wave knocks you off your feet. I surface beside you, grinning as I splash at your chest. You slap the water back at me, and I dive beneath to grab your feet. We are both laughing as we plummet together. When in the course of our wrestling I discover that you have become as excited as I am, I stop teasing and try to hold you still, though you are slippery as a fish and powerful as an eel. We come together like two turbulent rivers spilling their waters into the same embracing sea.

While the others go off to make preparations for our journey, I find you on the bridge at Rivendell staring down at the running water. You meet my eyes with anger but also a grudging respect. I apologize for my blunt words in the meeting and assure you that I want only peace for Gondor. We walk back to the House of Elrond together, though I know that your blood is still riled. When we reach your rooms, you invite me inside. There among the strewn petals and silks of Rivendell, you make your claim as Lord of Gondor, yet I welcome you so eagerly that before you have finished, we have pledged our mutual commitment to our land and to each other.

At the council, before Legolas can rise to speak for me, I tell you, "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn." I make no demands for allegiance and you pledge no duty, but because I have met your challenge, you treat me as an equal, and my words seem to hold new weight with you. When the Ring begins to enflame all who sit at the meeting, our eyes meet. Together we understand that we can only resist this evil by refusing fear and frustration. Silently I promise you that I am no rival, but a man who will walk by your side, protecting your heart as you protect mine.

When you walk away from the shards of Narsil, I call out to stop you. I tell you my true name, and I express my admiration for you and for your father. You are wary at first but once you realize that I am sincere, you begin to speak to me of the White City and the men you command there. I tell you of my longing to return and my fear, ashamed to make such a confession to a stranger yet knowing somehow that because of who you are, you will understand better than Elrond, better even than Arwen. "You are Isildur's heir, not Isildur himself," you remind me as she would. "You are not bound to his fate." Coming from you, the words ring true. We speak of our fathers and the burdens we bear. When together we replace the hilt of Narsil, you pass it to me as my birthright.

I study you for the first time as you stand before the shrine to my ancestor, holding his sword. The reverence on your face inflames me, as do the strength in your hands, the confidence in your stance. I think I have never seen before a man who so looked the part of a king. You feel my eyes upon you and turn, disturbed to find anyone spying on your reverie. Quickly I rise and move toward you, explaining quietly who I am, why I am there. Then I lift your hand to my lips. The broken blade of Isildur's sword clatters from your fingers to the floor, its lonely legacy lifted forever from my shoulders, for now we will share it, always.

Far along the hallway I see you approaching, the golden man of Gondor approaching your destiny. As you come to the shrine, I rise to meet you. "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and I have long wished to meet you, Boromir," I say, bowing my head. Your eyes widen in surprise, but there before the mural you clasp my hand. I cover your fingers with my own, and we stand together in a solidarity not even the fires of Mordor could breach. My brother. My captain. My heart.
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