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Estel is still a child the first time he hears of the gwelaith. It's from his foster-brothers, teasing him, for he's at the age when the idea of marriage both fascinates and disgusts him -- "I thought you were so eager to be a great king," Elladan says, all innocence. "Won't you have to marry then?"
"If I'm king I won't have to do anything," Estel counters.
"But of course kings have to marry. How else will you get an heir?" Elrohir musses his hair. "Where would you be, little kinglet, if Isildur had been too shy of girls to take a wife?"
Elladan nods solemnly. "It's true, you know. All the old kings were married. Nearly all of them were married twice."
That is obvious nonsense, and Estel scoffs at it. "You can't get married twice."
"Elves can't," Elladan corrects. "Men can. And kings of Gondor must."
"You're both making fun," he says crossly, and stalks back to his bedchamber.
He asks Elrond about it later, trying to sound merely academically interested, as if it were a fact he had found in a book. And evidently he might have, from the way Elrond nods and says at once, "The gwelaith -- an ancient law of Gondor, practiced until the time of your kinsman Eärnur. What is it in the common tongue?"
"Binding with rope?" Estel translates doubtfully -- his best guess, though it doesn't make much sense, and anyway he didn't come here for a language lesson.
"Joining as two ropes, like a braid," Elrond corrects. "Joining in a way that strengthens. That was its purpose -- to tie the house of the king to the house of his steward, and strengthen both offices by the connection. The steward shows his loyalty by offering the hand of a member of his house, usually a son or a daughter, and the king shows his trust in the steward by accepting."
"What if they don't want to marry each other?"
"The ways of men are not the ways of elves." Elrond's face is neutral, but there's a hint in his tone that suggests the ways of men are distasteful to him. "Men may wed for other reasons than love or desire -- for wealth, for power. And a king's hand, in particular, may be constrained, by tradition or by the needs of his people."
"You mean I have to whether I like it or not," Estel says, a little sullenly.
"I mean it is a law," Elrond says, "and a tradition. A new king might not consider himself bound by it. But a wise king would think carefully, about what the tradition meant to his people, and what abandoning it will mean to them as well."
It seems to Estel he is always being told what a wise king would do, mostly with an emphasis on how it differs from whatever Estel is currently doing. But he nods politely and excuses himself, and goes to his bedroom to think on the matter in private. Being expected to marry once is bad enough; being expected to marry twice, and one of them to someone he does not choose -- well, it doesn't bear thinking about.
The idea continues to trouble him for a little while, and then he more or less forgets about it, as children will do -- marriage seems a very distant prospect, after all, and there are more interesting things to concern himself with.
He does think of it occasionally later, in Gondor, while he serves the house of the steward in secret. To marry the son of his steward -- Ecthelion's son is not much older than him, a reserved and haughty young man, and the idea holds little appeal. But then, if he does ever claim the throne, surely it won't be for many years; maybe by then Denethor will have children of his own, and Aragorn will find one of them better suited.
He leaves Gondor and returns to the wilds, and for many years has no reason to think of the gwelaith, and it passes out of his mind again.
He has forgotten it almost entirely by the time he meets Denethor's elder son.
He and Boromir have spoken, sort of, in council -- announced themselves, or been announced, and said their parts in the story of how the Ring came to be in Imladris, how all their fates came to rest in the hand of a hobbit. But the Council was called to settle the question of the Ring, not to discuss the rule of Gondor, and beyond their few words on the subject of Aragorn's sword, they have had little to say to one another.
Aragorn seats himself not far from Boromir at table that evening, and watches him, trying to get a sense of the man. He finds the thought of the gwelaith rising in his mind, unbidden. Boromir is fair enough to look at, noble in bearing, and his very presence there speaks something of courage and fortitude -- the journey from Minas Tirith is many leagues, and cannot have been an easy one. It's his speech at the council that gives Aragorn pause, for it paints him as an impetuous and unwise man, one much impressed with himself and little disposed to listen to the advice of others, and interested more in his own glory than in the needs of Middle-earth.
He wonders whether Boromir even knows of the tradition. It must have passed into legend by now, surely -- he had the memories of elves to learn from, but the men of Gondor would have only whatever texts were laid down in the time of the kings, close to a thousand years ago. Maybe he'll be spared by the simple fact that no one in Gondor knows that they should be married.
Then Boromir looks up from his conversation, and for a moment his gaze meets Aragorn's, and once again it's clear he is no diplomat. He flushes scarlet and turns his face quickly away, and for the rest of the evening nothing will induce him to so much as glance in Aragorn's direction.
He definitely knows.
By a silent but clearly mutual agreement, they speak little to each other in the early days of the journey, and give each other as wide a berth as they can manage. It's easy enough to do, and Aragorn doubts it's noticeable to the others. After all, they are the two strongest among the party, and among the more experienced at hard travel -- it only makes sense that, when one of them walks in front to choose the trail, the other guards the rear, or that they take opposite watches at night, or lay their bedrolls at opposite ends of the camp.
He does watch Boromir, when he thinks it will not be noticed. The other man is less at home in the wilderness than he is, but more so than many of the others. He is a little standoffish to Gandalf and to Legolas -- a distrust of magic, Aragorn supposes, and with anything too closely connected to it. With Gimli he is friendly enough, though, and with the hobbits -- well, it is difficult not to be friendly with the hobbits; they are an extremely sociable folk. But with Boromir they have grown very close, very quickly, and though Aragorn still has some doubts about the man, watching him at ease among friends, it's hard not to see the best in him.
And he is good-humored, and more willing to follow another than he seemed at first, though he grows impatient sometimes and does not hide it well. And he faces the unknown road each day without complaint, and carries, Aragorn suspects, more than his share in his heavy pack. And he is, after all, fair to look at…
He has a brother, Aragorn reminds himself, catching himself watching too closely as Boromir leads the way up a rocky slope. A brother who, by the sound of it, is gentler, humbler, more interested in events outside Gondor's borders -- perhaps he will turn out to share all of Boromir's good points, too, and this whole situation will turn out to be easily solved.
By the time they reach Lothlórien, he has been forced to reconsider.
He has read some parts of Boromir's nature rightly -- he is ill at ease among the elves, impatient with anything he considers folly, rates his own counsel higher than anyone else's. But the selfishness and rashness that Aragorn thought he saw at first… well, no man so concerned with the welfare of the littlest members of their party can be called selfish, can he? And as they fought their way through the mines, he has proven himself not only a skilled warrior but a stouthearted and steady ally, calm under fire and often risking himself to protect the less able fighters among them.
Boromir, he thinks, is not well suited to sitting in council; he is a man of action, and that may be what he saw at first as rashness, impulsivity. And as for selfishness -- the fate of all Middle-earth may be at stake, but Boromir wasn't wrong to see that the people of Gondor, of Minas Tirith, would suffer the first and the hardest blow, and Aragorn sees now that what seemed like a desire for personal glory was concern for his people above all, and loyalty to them.
He's still thinking on it, and frowning vaguely in the direction of Boromir's bedroll, when a voice from behind him says, "Keeping an eye on him?"
It's Pippin, arms folded, a disapproving look on his face. Aragorn swallows back a laugh and manages to answer, straight-faced, "What do you mean?"
"You're always glaring at Boromir when you think no one's looking," Pippin informs him. "Isn't he?"
This last is directed at Merry, who's already bedded down for the night; without taking his head out from under his blanket, he says, "Leave me out of it."
Pippin ignores this. "He's very brave," he says. "And he's looked out for me and Merry, and seen that we got this far safely. Don't you like one another? I thought you Big Folk would stick together."
"Pip, don't be nosy," Merry says, giving in and emerging from his blanket. "Anyway, us little folk stick together and you still don't like Bodo Grubb."
"Bodo Grubb used to run after me with a pitchfork if I cut across his field. You never see Boromir running after anyone with a pitchfork."
"Oh, and that's the only reason you'd dislike--"
"Peace!" Aragorn interrupts, holding up a hand. "Peace, please, my good hobbits. Of course we like each other well enough. But there are…" He hesitates, unsure how to explain it. "There are political considerations between us, that would complicate a closer friendship."
Pippin frowns. "Well, what does that mean, 'political considerations'? Sounds like nonsense."
He was sure Boromir was asleep. And yet, from closer to the fire, a voice suddenly puts in, "What he means is the rule of Gondor. If he becomes king, and I his steward, there are expectations we must meet, and traditions that would govern our…" A suspiciously long pause, and Aragorn shuts his eyes and raises one hand to his temple; he very much does not want to explain the gwelaith to the whole party. But after a moment Boromir finishes, "Friendship."
"What, there's a law that you can't be friends?"
"It's a bit more complicated than that," Boromir hedges, propping himself up on an elbow. "More a tradition than a law, for one thing."
"It was a law once," Aragorn says mildly.
"A forgotten law, then, that has passed into tradition," Boromir says; maybe it's only that he's too drowsy to remember to turn away, but when Aragorn looks over at him he's looking back, meeting his gaze. "And nearly a forgotten tradition, too. It has not been practiced these fifteen generations, if not longer."
"But only," Aragorn says despite himself, his eyes still on Boromir's, "because there have been no kings."
Boromir raises his eyebrows but says nothing, only turns over in his bedroll and seemingly goes back to sleep. Behind him, Aragorn hears a whispered "But what does that mean?", quickly shushed by Merry, and he can't help a snort of laughter -- let them count it as another of Strider's mysterious ways.
Aragorn wakes sometime past midnight, suddenly aware of movement around their camp -- it takes a moment for him to remember that they are in Lothlórien, that no threat is likely to reach them here, and a moment longer to resolve the moving shadows into the shape of Boromir bending over the fire.
He stretches and gets up, crosses over to join him. The fire has burned low, and is in some danger of going out; between them they feed it back up to strength, and then both settle on the ground beside it, enjoying the warmth and the quiet.
A brief quiet, anyway. After a while Boromir says, in a low voice, "Political considerations. A very polite way to say 'we are mainly concerned with how to get out of marrying one another.'"
Aragorn feels himself flush, but resists the urge to duck his head, keeping his gaze on the fire. "That isn't all I meant," he argues. "The stewards have ruled Gondor for many hundreds of years. I imagine the son of the steward might have… complicated feelings about the return of the kings."
"I have had my doubts," Boromir admits. "I have worried -- not only about the marriage tradition, but about your rule. About a stranger, whatever his lineage, ruling a people of whom he knows little, and who know him not at all. But traveling with you has allayed those worries."
"You honor me," Aragorn says, though it is, to be honest, rather faint praise. Then, politeness satisfied, he cannot resist; he tilts his head to one side and adds, "And your worries about the gwelaith? Do I make so unlikeable a suitor?"
Boromir turns quickly away, though not before Aragorn sees his face redden. After a moment, though, he says, "Perhaps you are not so… unbending as you first appeared. Or so certain of your own wisdom." There's a brief silence before he adds, a little hesitantly, "Do you mean to revive the tradition?"
"Would the steward accept me as king, if I did not?" It's a fair answer -- a real worry he's had, and a safer answer than now that I've seen the steward's son, I'm thinking about it.
Boromir snorts. "Fair enough," he says. "A chance to increase the glory of his house, and see one of his sons well married -- what father could resist it, whatever his sons thought of the idea?"
Well. That is a fairly clear message.
Aragorn takes a moment to line up his thoughts; he doesn't wish to outright lie, but doesn't dare tell the full truth. "I never cared for the idea of being told who I must marry," he says eventually, which is more or less true. "I admit I rather hoped it had been forgotten. If it must be done, and if there is one of the steward's house who will have me, then I will do my part. But you must know, I will take no hand that is not freely offered."
Boromir hesitates a moment, looking into his face, and then drops his gaze. "I know you would not," he says. "You need not assure me. But -- thank you."
Everything has gone wrong. Everything is continuing to go wrong -- every way Aragorn turns seems to be the wrong way, Frodo is nowhere to be found, and now--
Now he has found Boromir, at least, but perhaps too late.
He crosses the clearing in three long strides, drops to his knees at Boromir's side. Boromir's face is pale, his head tipped back to rest against the trunk of the tree behind him, and his breathing is shallow -- Aragorn curses under his breath, and then Boromir raises his head and says hoarsely, "I am sorry."
Aragorn jumps, and then takes a closer look -- perhaps Boromir's wounds are not so grievous as he thought, if he can still speak. "Hush," he says.
Boromir will not be hushed. "I tried to take the Ring from Frodo. I am sorry."
"I know," Aragorn says, absently -- there will be time to sort out blame and absolution later; for now his attention is all on Boromir's wounds, carefully stripping off his jerkin to get a better look. Most are shallow, not serious, but here, and here… He grimaces and orders, "Be still."
"They have gone," Boromir says, doggedly ignoring him, though every word is an obvious labor. "The halflings -- orcs took them -- I think they were not dead. The orcs bound them."
"Be still," Aragorn urges again, digging into the pouch at his belt -- there is some athelas there still, and some yarrow, which will help to stanch the bleeding. "We will find them."
"And then you must go to Minas Tirith." Boromir's eyes are shut, his head resting against the tree again. "Go and save my people! I have failed."
"You have not," Aragorn says, growing exasperated, "and might not yet, if you will only be still. For my sake, if not for your own -- would you widow me before we are even wed?"
For a long moment there is no response, and he doesn't dare look up at Boromir's face -- either he's finally convinced him to be quiet or unconsciousness has decided the matter for him, and he's afraid to see which. He finishes with what seem to be the worst of the wounds, then turns his attention to the shallower ones, cleaning them as best he can.
He's nearly finished when Boromir, his voice low and rough, says, "Do you mean that?"
Aragorn glances up to meet his gaze. The other man is pale, his face tight with pain, but his eyes are bright and searching, locked on Aragorn's face as if some detail he reads there might prove of vital importance. It's an unsettling look, one that gives Aragorn the feeling he can keep no secrets from it, and he flushes and drops his gaze like a guilty schoolboy.
"I meant only to ask you," he says, "and to do it under better circumstances. I know it's far from the life you planned. If you don't wish it--"
He's surprised when Boromir shifts, raises a hand to catch him by the back of the head, pulls him in and kisses him softly on the mouth.
"I didn't really expect you to accept," he admits, a little breathless, when they break apart.
"Oh, that will not do," Boromir murmurs -- his eyes are closed, but already his breathing seems easier, and Aragorn is less afraid for him. "Is this what you call a negotiation? The king my husband will need to do much better."
"A mercy that I will have you at my side, then, to help me," Aragorn says, lifts Boromir's hand to his lips, and they are still embracing when Legolas and Gimli come upon them.