Absence of Grace 

Author: HJ Bender (hjbender@bent-halo.net)

Rating: M

Pairing: Boromir/Legolas

Summary: Coldness and distrust runs deep between Boromir of Gondor and Legolas of Mirkwood; and it isn’t until the Elf saves the man from death that the two discover much deeper feelings are running between them.

Disclaimer: I own only the idea, and the order in which these words are written.

To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved.
Absence of proof is not proof of absence.

e drifted peacefully in the dark, removed from pain and sorrow, senseless in this merciful void of nothingness. No sound or sight or smell or thought came to him; all was quiet and tranquil. Then the darkness began to lift, the world grew cold and mean around him, and he heard the echoes of a voice calling him back. The light became harsh and pain seized him, attempting to pull him again into the place where lack of feeling righted all wrongs. The temptation to give in to the powerful emptiness was strong, yet the voice that beckoned him was warm and familiar, full of color, and he felt that he must follow it. He went forward and pain cut into his body, yet his desire to obey the voice overwhelmed all physical discomfort. Flashes of memory began to pierce into his mind like thorns: a glimpse of grotesque faces, blood on leather, water and wood, a shadow in the grey sky that commanded him to die. It was ultimately this horror and shock, and the need to escape it, which brought Boromir back to his senses.

Steel blue eyes fluttered open and then widened as they focused upon the glowing visage before him. The image sharpened slowly, and Boromir beheld a fair elven face close his own, its blue eyes dark with emotion and shining wetly. Glistening trails on the pale skin spoke of tears that had fallen. For a moment the man could not recall a name or association, yet he knew that this was the owner of the voice that had awoken him, and despite the terrible ache in every fiber of his mortal frame, a fierce love swelled in his heart for this poor beautiful weeping creature.

‘What are these tears?’ he spoke in a hoarse whisper, reaching out with his uninjured arm. Rough fingers brushed against unfathomably soft skin, hesitating when they came to a long red cut. ‘Was this my doing?’

With grief crumpling his expression, Legolas shied away from Boromir’s hand and stumbled to his feet. Haldir stepped forward to assist him but Legolas evaded the warden’s reach.

With a wincing face the man sat upright, surprised to see his Elf limp from the bower and into the dark trees beyond. Boromir turned to behold Haldir, and said with childlike sadness, ‘Why…why has he gone?’

At first Haldir, thinking only of Legolas’ loss and the shortcomings of Men, desired to tell Boromir all that had transgressed. He wished to word the events so harshly that it would cause the man to recoil. He wished to tell this short-lived, insignificant mortal the gift that had unwittingly been bestowed upon him, the gift that was responsible for saving his already half-spent life. For an Elf—a woodland prince—to relinquish his immortal grace to one so unworthy, one to whom he owed nothing so precious-! It made Haldir’s blood boil with animosity. Yet the wisdom that lent him anger over this injustice also soothed his temper. It was not his right to tell Boromir what had taken place; that duty did not belong to him. But the man nonetheless deserved an explanation.

‘He is troubled by his wounds,’ Haldir said gently in the Common Speech, looking in the direction of the departed Elf. ‘Three days ago you were felled by Orc arrows, poisoned and brought upon the brink of death. It was Legolas alone who volunteered to save you. He claimed responsibility for your injuries—for his coldness and distrust of your race—and he paddled the many leagues back to Lothlórien so that you might receive healing.

‘Your boat was attacked by Orcs on the borders of our wood, though our forces were able to drive them back and bear you hence. Legolas was twice shot during the skirmish, but the journey itself was nearly his ruin.’ The Marchwarden gave Boromir a hard glance. ‘You are heavily in his debt, Son of Gondor.’

Boromir appeared stunned for several long moments, his eyes darting back and forth as his mind slowly caught up with the present. He remembered Amon Hen, indeed he could never forget it, and he remembered the vision of Legolas, battered and bleeding, upon the back of that terrible Orc. He remembered the sound of water, the feeling of its blessed coolness pouring down his parched throat. He remembered a steady, constant face above his own, pleading for him to stay. He remembered the warmth of elven tears falling upon his brow…

Boromir drew back his blankets and made as if to stand. ‘I must see him at once,’ he stated.

Haldir had to dart forward and grasp the man by the shoulders to prevent him from rising. ‘He is not well, Boromir, and neither are you. Rest is what you both require, not each other’s company.’

‘Then I refuse to rest until I have spoken with Legolas.’

‘Obstinate Man!’ Haldir said brusquely, his patience waning. ‘If you resist our efforts to aid you, then you shall grow weak and perish, and the Prince’s sacrifice will have been for naught!’

Boromir immediately went slack. ‘Prince? Surely you do not mean Legolas.’

‘Of whom else could I be speaking?’ Haldir retorted. ‘I should have guessed you would be ignorant of this fact. Legolas feared he would be treated specially were his lineage brought to attention within the Fellowship. He planned to conceal it for as long as possible.’

Boromir remained shocked. ‘Then his father…’

‘Is Thranduil son of Oropher, King of Mirkwood—our northern brethren.’ Haldir drew away from the man and stood straight. ‘I must now leave you to the care of our healers. For your sake, and the sake of Legolas, rest and recover your strength. The Lady informed me that you will be tended to, and should our foreign tongue baffle you, I offer my assistance when convenience permits.’ Haldir bowed slightly before turning and striding from the bower, his grey cloak drifting behind him.

Boromir sank back into his bed, his mind far from his own pain. Legolas—Prince Legolas, he reminded himself—had nearly perished while attempting to rescue a man whose acts of betrayal should have justified leaving him for dead. Fool! What madness had possessed the Elf to undertake such a task? Why deny a warrior a warrior’s death? Rather would Boromir have fallen at the feet of his foes than to waste away in the care of his allies; yet he knew that the latter was folly. He would live now, thanks to his fair friend.

But was Legolas truly his friend? Had they nothing more than tolerated each other’s presence, united only by their common goal? Were they not simply acquaintances?

Boromir closed his eyes and sighed heavily, which brought pain to his chest. You should have left me for dead, Legolas, he thought morosely. It is better than I deserve. What voice in your heart commanded you to save me? Did you do it out of guilt, out of pity? Or if you did it for love, what reason then provoked the tears of regret I saw in your eyes?

With questions gently lulling his mind into torpor, Boromir fell into a light slumber.

ne day and two nights passed ere the man was deemed well enough to leave the place of healing; he received a temporary flet for the remainder of his stay in Lothlórien. His first act upon being dismissed from elven care, however, was to find Legolas. Little did the man know that the Elf was never far from his bower, visiting in times when Boromir’s sleep made observation an easy feat. Certainly was Legolas drawn to the man, who now unknowingly possessed his most precious gift. Like the wretched mother who leaves her newborn upon the king’s doorstep, Legolas wished to see what became of his virtue—to see if it was cast into the gutter or welcomed into the king’s heart. Such thoughts turned his mind to Aragorn, and the other members of the Fellowship. Legolas decided that if they ever again met, he would speak nothing of his mortality.

Mortality… 

Legolas was frightened, terrified, at the mere thought of the rest of his days, though his spirit remained curiously unaffected. The same old itch of adventure crawled beneath his skin and tickled him the same as it had done in his younger years. He grew restless, eager to set out again and rejoin with his separated comrades. That was why he let himself be found so easily the day that Boromir was released from the infirmary, yet the moment he saw the man walking toward him all excitement of continuing the quest abruptly dissipated. And for perhaps the first time in his life, Legolas began to quiver—not with fear, but with something he could not yet describe.

The Elf rose to his feet, and they both stopped short a few paces from one another. Neither said a word, amazed by the other’s presence, such a reunion unexpected in the frail hope days passed. Boromir hesitated awkwardly, though a handsome smile was growing on his face, which was now softer and kinder than Legolas ever remembered seeing it. He had changed since Amon Hen, apparently for the better. ‘I have missed you,’ he said gently. ‘Why did you not come to me before?’

‘I did,’ Legolas replied. ‘But I did not wish to disturb your rest.’ He paused and blinked, surprised by a detail he had not before noticed. ‘You are dressed as one of our own,’ he said, gesturing to the tunic, mantle and boots of Lórien grey in which Boromir was clad.

‘The Elves are kind enough to wash and mend my own clothes,’ he answered with a touch of humor in his voice. ‘Until we set out again I shall dress as one of them.’

Legolas felt like grinning. ‘Never would I have imagined a soldier to so readily abandon his flag to the wash-tub.’

‘Easily done if your flag is as filthy as mine. In any case, I find these Lothlórien garments comfortable and light. It is little wonder you Elves are so swift on your feet.’

Legolas inclined his head at the compliment.

Boromir stepped forward, the smile fading from his face. A nervous mood took hold of him. ‘Legolas. I fear you have burdened me with a debt I can never hope to repay.’

The Elf’s heart froze with fear—did he know?

‘On one hand I could scold you for so foolishly risking your life on my behalf, and yet…’ Grey-blue eyes filled deep with gratitude. ‘Yet I thank you for giving me the opportunity to see my brother and father once again, for giving me a second chance—a chance to redeem myself—and to continue my part in this fight.’ He took Legolas’ hand in his own and, raising it, pressed a kiss to the pale skin. His beard tickled the Elf, yet when the man lifted his eyes Legolas felt no desire to laugh. ‘I shall never forget your sacrifice, my friend. If I must forsake all memories save one when I pass into the halls of my fathers, it shall be of you.’

It was almost too much for Legolas to withstand. A fresh spring of tears welled in his eyes and his expression twisted in his effort to withhold them. So his grace had been well-received, perhaps even deserving of this man. Legolas knew not if Boromir were speaking words to be forgotten after this day—only time would tell—but hope fluttered in the Elf’s heart: hope that his immortality had been spent, however unwillingly, on a worthy cause. ‘I thank you for your gratitude…mellon.’

Boromir’s comprehension of the elven tongue was terribly limited, yet a few words were familiar to him, and he recognized Legolas’ with a grateful smile. The Elf returned it. Neither seemed to realize that they had yet to release their hands from each other’s grasp, thus they were startled when one of the Lórien elves approached them from across the green lawn. ‘Pardon my interruption,’ he said, ‘but Lord Celeborn requests your presence.’

‘Then he shall have it. Thank you for the message,’ Legolas answered politely, then turned to Boromir. ‘Lord Celeborn wishes to see us.’

Boromir nodded curtly, a hint of his former roughness shining through. ‘Very good. I hope he is planning to release us—I grow restless lingering in this place, however beautiful it is.’

Legolas smiled to himself, silently agreeing.

ou have both appeared to heal well,’ the graceful Elf-Lord noted with approval. ‘That is good news.’ Before him stood Boromir and Legolas in the high flet of the lord’s dwelling. Boromir fidgeted nervously, but his companion had not lost any of his peaceful composure.

‘Our bodies are wont to heal in this fair wood,’ Legolas said, stepping forward respectfully. ‘The generosity of our Lord and Lady are dearly appreciated, for without them our paths would have ended in darkness.’

Celeborn smiled knowingly. ‘Your gratitude is welcome, Legolas, yet the greatest sacrifice of all was not made by the Lady Galadriel or I.’ His voice fell to a whisper unheard by all others save Legolas. ‘You have traded one grace for another, young prince. For that, your courage is commended.’

Legolas swallowed a lump in his throat and bowed his head. If only Lord Celeborn were aware of how accidental that courage was—would he still speak so highly of him? Legolas felt himself nothing more than a victim of coincidence, a reluctant savior. One should not praise a fool, nor should they praise a hero who saves another only to ease his own guilt. Legolas was so ashamed of himself that he could not bear to raise his eyes from the floor.

Boromir, troubled by this last exchange, summoned his voice and asked, ‘Why have you called us here, Lord Celeborn?’

Legolas winced at the awkward force of the man’s question, but Celeborn at least pretended not to notice. ‘Of late has the attention towards the eastern shadow been focused,’ he replied, ‘but Mordor’s forces extend far beyond its borders. Isengard’s army continues to grow, and the land of Rohan will soon feel its sting. To compound matters, Orc troops mass at Dol Guldur, and our woodland brethren are falling under threat.’

Boromir heard Legolas breathe in sharply, and when he beheld the Elf his face was unnaturally pale. ‘Legolas? What…’

‘Dol Guldur,’ Legolas murmured, ‘sits in the great northern forest. Mirkwood is its name.’

Boromir’s eyes widened. ‘That is your home.’

‘I fear for its safety,’ Lord Celeborn continued, staring hard at the two survivors. ‘Too long have the forces of darkness terrorized its denizens, and the reign of evil must be ended soon ere all chance of regaining the forest stronghold is lost. Should evil conquer Mirkwood, its trees shall burn and the luckiest of its people shall be left destitute. Then that wickedness, and all its festering rancor, shall spread to Lothlórien.’

Legolas’ eyes shined brightly. ‘What could I do, my lord?’

Celeborn shook his head. ‘Nay, I would not have you risk yourself so freely, Legolas. Any task you choose to undertake is bound to your will alone.’

It was to the surprise of both elves when Boromir stepped forth and said, ‘Then let us hear your proposal, Lord Celeborn. The strength of Gondor shall accompany this Elf, wherever his path may lead him.’

The Elf-Lord’s eyebrows lifted with pleasant surprise while Legolas turned to regard Boromir with awe. ‘I see,’ said Celeborn. ‘Then my proposal is this: bring word to King Thranduil that the Lórien forces are preparing to lay siege upon Dol Guldur. Gather the woodland army and ready them at the forest mountains.’

Both Boromir and Legolas could not conceal their shock. ‘A siege!’ Legolas cried. ‘But such an action could incite the Dark Lord’s forces to all-out war!’

‘And the soldiers of Gondor are too few to withstand a direct assault,’ Boromir added, equally concerned.

‘Yes,’ Celeborn nodded, ‘that is true. But you fail to realize how little time remains before Mordor’s fury is unleashed upon Middle-Earth. Now we must act without hesitation—it is too late to delay any further.

‘Boromir, do not fear for your people. Upon gathering the Mirkwood warriors at the mountains, you and Legolas shall bring half to Minas Tirith and leave the rest to await the arrival of the Lórien army.’

Boromir felt like flailing in his frustration, yet he restrained himself at the risk of insulting the Lord of the Golden Wood and the Prince of Mirkwood. Though Boromir did not doubt the skill of Legolas’ people, even half of their army would be of no great help to Gondor. They were simply outnumbered. Legolas seemed to be sharing Boromir’s thoughts; the two exchanged worried glances.

‘Take heart,’ Celeborn advised, ‘and have hope. It has saved both your lives before—let it now carry you safely through danger.’

ight fell in Lothlórien, though it brought a gravity with it that could not be felt by its people. Only two were aware of this heavy atmosphere, and rest had difficulty finding them.

Boromir, following his strong soldiering instincts, had gathered his things and packed them well. He cleaned his sword and the dagger that had been given to him by Lady Galadriel, polishing the belt that was offered with it. His Gondorian clothes had been returned, cleaned and repaired, yet now they seemed to bear the faint glow of all things that existed within the Golden Wood. It was no bother to Boromir. He was rather beginning to appreciate this ethereal quality, though it paled in comparison to Legolas’. In a distant part of his mind the man could recall his initial dislike of the Elf, of that smug, impudent nature which infuriated him. Still greater could Boromir recall his own self-segregation within the Fellowship, and his true reasons for joining the quest: to be closer to the Ring of Power.

Boromir shook his head. It was so far away now, the One Ring, and he grimaced to remember the way he had treated Frodo at Amon Hen. He hoped they would one day meet again, and that Frodo would accept his apology.  It was all so long ago, he thought. I no longer feel the desire to claim it. That madness has left me…and so has the Fellowship, save one.

Boromir’s heart warmed. Save Legolas. Mellon.

He sat in his flet, gazing out into the dark blue mallorn trunks and thinking about tomorrow, his legs hanging over the wooden edge. It was a short while later that his eyes were moved by a white figure passing on the ground below him: it was the Lady Galadriel. Boromir watched her without breath, wondering if the beautiful Elf-Witch could hear his thoughts from this distance, wondering if she was aware of his eyes. He had scarcely finished this thought when the Lady paused, and turned her eyes up to gaze at Boromir. The breadth between them could do nothing to dilute the power of her eyes.

Come with me…

Boromir rose slowly to his feet as Galadriel resumed her slow promenade, yet dreamily he felt as if he were still sitting where he had been; as if his body and his spirit had separated from each other, and what moved now was only a transparent form of himself. Entranced, the man was only vaguely aware that he was descending from his flet and following Galadriel across the grass, into the deep blue shadows of the Lothlórien night.

He could have walked for hours or minutes, pulled blindly by the power of her wake, before his head seemed to clear from the enchantment. Lady Galadriel stood by an old mallorn, gazing across the gentle waters of the Silverlode. Boromir approached her hesitantly, and soon stood beside her. He tried to see where she was gazing and could not find the object of her focus. He wished to ask her what her reasons were for leading him here, yet he could not bring himself to break the peace of the moment.

‘Tomorrow you shall depart from the Golden Wood,’ she said after a while. ‘A perilous journey awaits you, Boromir of Gondor.’

‘I am aware of that, my lady,’ he answered uneasily.

‘And you would follow Legolas into danger? Even at the risk of death?’

‘I would,’ Boromir said without hesitation. ‘He did not abandon me in his time of need, nor shall I abandon him. I find that we are not so dissimilar, for as he wishes to save his home and people, so do I.’

Galadriel smiled, her eyes never straying from the river. ‘Then you are seeing now what you failed to see before: you are beginning to hope.’

Boromir searched his heart for words but found none, thinking of his father’s failing rule and his brother’s unsteady grip on Gondor’s borders, and wondered how such a tender and delicate thing as hope could grow in the dark frigid wasteland of his spirit. Boromir’s gloomy reverie was interrupted when Galadriel raised her white hand toward him and opened her fingers. On her palm lay a shining ring of simple make, and she spoke in a slow songlike murmur:

‘Wrought in silver míthril, the ring of two and one

Whose immortal glow cannot repair the damage done.

However fair and strong, the leaf shall one day fall,

Lost before its time—farewell, the greenest leaf of all.’

She placed the ring into Boromir’s hand, closing his fingers over it.

‘Bought with tears and blood, this ring to represent

The hope which took it further than its power ever meant.

To keep, protect and trust: an everlasting token

Of loyalty and friendship, and a love that can’t be broken.’

Boromir had neither great appreciation nor understanding of verse and riddle, and the Lady’s words puzzled him, as did her reasons for bestowing such a gift. Nevertheless he bowed his head in thanks and turned the ring over in his hand to admire it. It was a plain thing, elegant but sturdily wrought, with threads of twining míthril forming a broad bridge of loops over the face. It seemed too small for Boromir to wear, yet when he raised his head to ask what he was to do with it, Galadriel was already walking away from him. Not wishing to bother the Lady with petty inquiries, Boromir sighed, looked once more upon the ring, and slipped it onto his smallest finger. A great weariness overtook him and he left the river bank, walking into the trees with the echoes of Galadriel’s words sinking deep into his memory.

How he managed to find his way back to his flet would puzzle Boromir upon waking the next morn, but for now he laid down in his cot and slept peacefully, his hand resting upon his breast and the silver ring glimmering in the pale moonlight.

ord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel bid farewell to the two warriors on the banks of the Anduin, and once again Boromir and Legolas thanked their hosts for their kindness and salvation. They were given food and light supplies, for the greater part of their journey would be by foot, and being burdened by quantities of gear would not make for a swift journey. Haldir also appeared to give them his farewell and blessings of good fortune on their journey, and assured them that his archers would be watching out for their safety as far as the eastern shore. From thence they would be on their own.

Boromir, dressed as a soldier of Gondor in his mail and leather, sword and horn at his side and Lórien cloak draping off his shoulders, looked hale and in good spirits despite the bandages he wore beneath his clothes. Legolas too, clad in his raiment of green and brown and armed with daggers on his belt and quiver on his back, appeared well and full of energy. They made a fine pair as they shoved off in their boat and made for the opposite bank. Once landed, they waved their goodbyes to the Golden Wood and disappeared into the trees, their course north-east and bound to the southern border of Mirkwood.

‘We have sent them into great danger,’ Celeborn murmured to Galadriel, watching the two mortals disappear.

‘They both have gone willingly,’ she replied. ‘And if they can survive the passage of Dol Guldur, they shall also survive the truth behind the ring of míthril.’