By: Dana
Summary: He dreads what the darkness in his heart could have him do.
Characters: Boromir, Pippin
Pairings: Boromir/Pippin
Rating: G
Warnings: Light angst, light slash
Author's Notes: Written for the dreams challenge on ringprov.
Most recent revision: November 10, 2004.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

He is good and strong and the blood of Numenor flows within his veins. Sometimes he thinks that is all that matters; but then, he is not so fair and wise as his younger brother, or his eyes so grey.

But Boromir is honourable, and his blade strikes swiftly; it is more an extension of himself, than a mere weapon that can be cast aside. And it has tasted blood, and it has felt his pain.

And there is pain, under this mask of stone.

"Boromir?"

Boromir raises his brow and gazes at the one who stands no more than two arm lengths before. Pippin's gaze is one of gold on green leaves, and his smile is like an errant beam of sunlight on a cloudy day, like the light that causes the copper in his dark curls to dance as he tilts his head. "What are you doing out here, Boromir?" he asks, and a playful grin tugs at his lips.

Pippin tilts his head again, back towards the camp, and Boromir's smile is thin. "I needed to sit for a while by myself, little one. There's no need to worry yourself, Pippin."

"Well," and amusement dances in Pippin's eyes, seems to drip from his tongue, "I find that a hard thing to do, Boromir." He puts his hand up, to stop Boromir from speaking, and gives Boromir a hard look before sitting at his side. "You see," and he speaks up again, not even waiting to see if his presence is wanted, needed, "you're sitting out here, by your lonesome, when you could be spending time with any number of our fine little group. And you just can't tell me that there's no need to worry about that, Boromir." He rolls his eyes and grins, but there's sadness in his eyes. Boromir knows already that he's seen more than he's ever imagined.

He wishes that he could take it all away.

Pippin sighs and looks away, and his fingers tangle with the frayed edge of his scarf. "Pippin..."

"Merry does the same thing, you know," Pippin says, then laughs and shakes his head, raising an eyebrow and giving Boromir a sideways look. "No, you don't."

Boromir thinks he feels a smile, and if there's a someone out there in the world, that can chip away at the armour that he wears, the wall that defends him, the mask that he wears, then he guesses that he would be Pippin.

"Boromir?"

Pippin's hand lights upon his own, and his fingers are soft and smooth against Boromir's, over rough calluses. Those calluses are the path of his life, where it has taken him, the highs and the lows. And there are those things that he has faced and overcome, but there are those things that leave a stirring of dread in the dark places in his heart.

"Aye, Pippin?"

"You are a lot like Merry."

Boromir shakes his head and the hobbit looks to him, smiling. "I guess that you would not see that, I suppose. But he has his silences, too, and his need to be alone. And I will treat you the way that I would treat him."

He could say something - anything - but Boromir does not, smiling instead, and Pippin grins. "Shall you tell me of Gondor, then? We ought to do something about the silence's return."

"What would you like to know?"

"Everything there is."

And Boromir can't help but wonder if the little one even listens, but he thinks that he can feel the hum of Pippin's life at the point where their hands meet. So he tells Pippin of his father, and his brother, of the city of Minas Tirith. Of the White Tower, of the Guard, and of the people there that make the city great.

But he does not tell Pippin of the Shadow, there, that touches even the greatest of the great; and it is hard not to think of Pippin, to look upon him, and lose his words. The thoughtful smile that curves upon the hobbit's lips.

And Boromir is good, and strong, and the blood of Numenor flows within his veins. He could but he would not take advantage.

"I would like to see Minas Tirith, Boromir," Pippin says, and his fingers, small and strangely strong, curl around Boromir's own; and Boromir cannot think of a heavier chain that could bind one person to another.

"You would like it there, I think." Boromir says, and Pippin's eyes light up, and he runs a hand back through his curls. And Boromir could not, would not, think of those bright eyes darkened by any Shadow. "You would be welcomed as a hero."

Pippin's laugh is light and bright. "A hero? I am no hero, Boromir. I am but one small hobbit. If you think that there is one amongst us, that deserves such praise, then I would say Frodo. Or I would say Sam. Or I would even say dear Merry. But me? No. I am no hero."

"I have seen it," Boromir replied, soft, and Pippin turns curious eyes towards him.

"What are you talking about, Boromir?"

"You will be great," Boromir says instead, and lifts their tangled hands, kisses one knuckle. "You will be great, and you will be remembered, and the people of Minas Tirith, of all Gondor, will not forget your name."

Pippin laughs again, and his hand comes to rest against Boromir's, and he looks into Boromir's eyes, and smiles; Boromir thinks that it would not be so much to let Pippin in. After all, he feels a distant dread, and it won't be long at all. No, not now.

"I want to make you proud, Boromir."

"You will."

Boromir thinks back, and wonders when he gave permission to Pippin, to let him into his heart. Because it isn't that he could chip away the defences, to strip away all that makes Boromir strong and proud, to see the real smile underneath grim brows.

Pippin already has.

And Boromir feels Pippin's kiss, light upon his hand, and then before he speaks, Pippin melts away and he lies in cold darkness, heavy and oppressive, it holds him down. He wakes, and he can still feel the warmth of the sun, can still feel Pippin's hands, holding his own.

Boromir feels the dread, too, and Pippin is not the one who need worry about making him proud.

But it is all a dream.

It is only a dream.

He sits and looks to the stars, and even when he lies again, against the cold hard ground, he does not sleep, even when the moon has sought his bed, and the rising sun turned the sky from black to blue to gold and grey.

And the blood of Numenor might flow within his veins, and he might be good, and he might be strong, but he is only a Man, and he dreads what the darkness in his heart could have him do.