Daughter of Sorrow, Daughter of Hope

There she was, lying motionless in the snow.

He had searched for her for so long, everywhere, roaming through the streets, roaming through the towns and cities, lonely, desperate, slowly dying inside. He had not seen or heard anything of Galathorn either, not a single time since he had come back here. Well, it did not matter. He did not want to seek him anyway, for he felt betrayed. All his former joy and strength was gone, his former certainty buried under the bitterness of disappointment. He was kept alive by nothing but a frail sense of purpose, somewhere locked within his heart. It could not have all been for nothing.

And then there she was, all of a sudden. Although it was dusky under these snow-burdened trees, he recognized her the moment he saw her. Without the shadow of a doubt, his heart just knew her.

Black were her clothes against the snow, immediately catching the eye; marble her pale, perfect limbs where they showed; her hair spread out like a golden aureole around her head. Yet there was red – too much red. All around, the snow was stained with red. Blood was streaking her wrists, her own blood, little crimson rivers of life pouring unlamented into the whiteness below.

Boromir gasped in pain. There she lay, his beloved, a small, fragile bird that had crashed against the window pane of this world, dropped onto the ground unheeded.

“Ninglor! My love!”

No reaction. Her eyes remained shut.

He bent over her and scanned her face. It had matured, grown more beautiful and more sorrowful at the same time. Yet somehow, she looked tranquil, peaceful. As if she had been released from great pain. She looked as if … Boromir dropped on his knees beside her and took one of her hands into his. It was icy-cold.

“Nooooo!” His howl shook the very trees, pierced the stillness with knives of agony and shot into heaven like a mortally wounded eagle gathering its last strength. Fighting back his tears and resisting the impulse to cover her hands and arms with kisses, he tore his shirt into strips of linen to apply a crude tourniquet. He bandaged her beloved arms, caressing them with his eyes. Then he gathered her gently into his arms, trying to shield her with his body from the chilly winter air, trying to will his warmth into her, his life. Silently, unnoticed, his tears dropped into the snow, mingling with her blood in small thawing patterns.

He did not know how long they had been lying there. He had lost all sense of time, growing cold and stiff himself. For all he knew, he might have been half asleep, dreaming. ‘I cannot save her, but at least she will not die alone. We will die together. Never again will I leave her side.’ These were his only conscious thoughts, repeating themselves unbidden in his mind.

Suddenly, however, he became aware of a warmth around them. It seemed to have been there for quite some time, slowly but steadily dawning into his consciousness until it rose to his attention. Something soft and gentle fleetingly touched his cheek in a light caress, leaving behind a lingering feeling of mixed yearning and fulfilment. Boromir was reminded of the touch of silver willow catkins he had so cherished as a child, or the soft fur of a mouse or rabbit. Then he thought of firm, tender wings surrounding them on every side. He felt sheltered, as if the cosiest cloak had been wrapped around him and Ninglor, and all struggling responsibility and fretful care lay no longer in his hands. He sighed deeply and cuddled up to Ninglor.

Somehow he knew that Galathorn was there. No apologies came to his mind for doubting his lord. Only an overwhelming relief. He clung to it like a child in need.

And then he saw him.

How could he have forgotten that face? It did not matter. He simply was there. It was enough.

Slowly, Boromir’s eyes wandered from Galathorn’s features to the woman in his arms, nestled against his body like a small sleeping dormouse or squirrel, her face in all its youthful beauty – even now, though pale and withdrawn – still fragile with the vulnerability of childhood.

Shaken to the marrow with conflicting emotions, Boromir looked back to Galathorn, his eyes a pleading cry, and noticed tears in the other’s familiar, yet enigmatic eyes. Galathorn stooped down and knelt beside Ninglor, taking both her hands into his. Softly, he smoothed away some stray locks from her face and kissed her brow. Then he gently unwrapped the clumsy bandages. Watching with suspended breath, Boromir noticed that both of Galathorn’s arms were covered in scars and cuts. Somehow he knew they had been there all along, perhaps only increased in number and intensity now. ‘Who knows what the rest of his body looks like,’ the thought shot through Boromir’s head. ‘To each person different, I guess. A mystery, but no mistake. He does not want it any other way …’

Tenderly, soothingly, infinitely carefully, Galathorn stroked Ninglor’s arms, his tears mingling with her blood. Boromir noticed that Galathorn’s wrists started to bleed. At the same time, Ninglor’s gashing wounds closed into scars, thin red lines on the way towards healing. A rosier colour seemed to return to her face, even the hint of a smile. Boromir could see her breast gently heaving with the faintest of sighs.

Incredulous, grateful, mystified, and yet not completely satisfied, Boromir stared at Galathorn’s face. The latter looked up and returned his gaze. The profound intensity of those night-blue eyes pierced Boromir to the core of his being. He was drowning in that star-filled night sky, those boundless ocean depths of love.

“Did I die for her, Boromir, and shall I not feel her every pain? Do I live for her, and shall I not bear her every wound? Is not her suffering mine?”

Boromir bowed his head.

Then he looked up again, pleading.

“Oh my king! Can you not take her scars away? Can you not take everything away? Now! Everything! You know what I mean. The way you did it with me.”

Galathorn did not answer. His look was full of pity and love.

To what extent was he already working at that? Boromir wondered. And did he, Boromir, not know himself that it did not depend on Galathorn alone? What did he really know about Ninglor’s relationship to her saviour? But wasn’t it true that nothing was impossible for him? Still, he knew that Galathorn preferred thorough root work to easy instant solutions… Oh how could he be so slow, so patient, so correct, so perfectionist – so whatever it was?! Boromir trembled with the suppressed desire for action.

“Then give it to me, Galathorn!” he said through clenched teeth. “You know I would take it for her, if only I could!”

Galathorn smiled at him, a tender, compassionate, understanding smile, tinged with the faintest hint of sadness.

“Trust me, Boromir.”

Boromir closed his eyes and swallowed hard. As he opened them again, Galathorn was nowhere to be seen.

Boromir sighed. He did not know what would happen, but he would stay by her side, for as long as she wanted. Forever, he hoped. And he knew Someone else would do it, too.

He did not know what would happen. But he knew they were not alone.

In his arms, Ninglor stirred. Her eyes opened, beautiful blue-green stars, looking straight into his.

“Ninglor” – I am neither Boromir nor Galathorn; but I, too, will stay by your side, in whatever way possible, for as long as you want. Forever, I hope.

20.2.2004