Paths of Peril 
AUTHOR: Adara 
ckyser@yahoo.com


1. Prologue

This is the sequel to Love and Lust -- A Dynasty Broken. It is not 
necessary to have read the first book to enjoy Paths of Peril, but it 
would help. Here is a quick synopsis to get you ready to read Book II.

In my first A/U story, also available on henneth-annun.net, Boromir 
became betrothed to the Princess of Rohan, who is named Eledwhen. She 
was raped shortly before the marriage was to take place and fled Minas 
Tirith. Boromir tracked Eledwhen, learned of the rape, and decided to 
take her with him to Imladris. Unfortunately, Boromir was seriously 
injured during an attack by brigands and almost died. The Elf Haldir, 
who stumbled upon them during the attack, took the heir to the 
Stewardship of Gondor and the Princess of Rohan to Lothlorien. While 
in the Golden Wood, the two said their vows and managed to create a 
child before Boromir had to leave. This entire story is based on 
Tolkien's early writings, where he included a daughter for Theoden 
King and planned a marital alliance between Rohan and Gondor.

This book, Paths of Peril, begins in the Golden Wood as Boromir 
resumes his interrupted journey to the city of Imladris. Paths of 
Peril will explain some things that happened during the first book, as 
well as delve into the strained relationship between the Man of Gondor 
and the other members of the Fellowship, particularly Aragorn. This 
story will revolve around Boromir and his feelings and actions. This 
is the way I wish Tolkien's Fellowship had been written, since I am 
fond of Boromir. I hope you take the time to read Love and Lust, if 
you haven't already.

Adara's standard disclaimer: I don't own these characters (except 
Eledwhen) and am not making any money off of them. Wouldn't do anyone 
any good to sue me anyway, since the only thing I own of value is my 
horse, Dylan. He's a good horse, but you wouldn't make much money from 
his sale. Thanks to Tolkien for his wonderful imagination.

* * * * * * * * *

Two figures stood silhouetted against ancient mallorn trees arrayed in 
leaves of fallow gold. Dainty yellow-blossomed flowers littered the 
carpet of lush grass about their feet, and the noon sun blessed them 
with its warmth. The taller of the two closed the small space that 
separated them, gathering the other into strong arms clad in gleaming 
chain mail. This figure obviously was male and a warrior. A 
full-length gray cloak, its hood completely concealing the identity of 
the wearer, covered the smaller figure.

"Do you know how much I love you?" The man's voice was rough with 
barely controlled emotion. The other nodded in answer and remained 
silent.

Boromir, son of Denethor, fought back bitter tears as he bent to kiss 
the soft lips of the young woman who stood, trembling, in his arms. 
Her lips were warm and slightly salty, washed by the tears that 
trickled from her eyes.

"I do not want to say goodbye," she whispered, the dulcet tones 
sending shivers through him. "Please, let me go with you to Imladris. 
I will not be a burden to you. I feel my heart will break if you leave 
me behind."

Boromir tilted his head back and let the sun's warmth bathe his fair 
face. His lips were pursed tightly together and his eyebrows nearly 
met in the center of his forehead as his face betrayed the pain he was 
feeling. "I cannot take you with me. This already has been decided. It 
is too dangerous for you, especially now that you carry my child. I 
will not risk either of you."

The Princess of Rohan sighed softly and lowered her head. She knew he 
spoke the truth, but the parting was no less painful for the 
knowledge. Without conscious thought, she placed her hands lightly 
upon her belly, where their child grew. Her thoughts turned to that 
night, two weeks before, when she and the Lord Boromir had pledged 
themselves to one another for eternity. That night's physical union 
had been both frightening and wonderful. To Boromir's credit, he had 
halted his lovemaking each time she struggled against painful memories 
of her rape in Minas Tirith and the near rape by the Uruk captain.

Her beloved's empathy had been a surprise, for she never believed the 
fierce warrior capable of such tenderness or depth of understanding. 
That night, as Boromir had lain beside her, spent from their 
lovemaking, Eledwhen had known instinctively that she had conceived.

"Must you leave now? Could your journey not wait just one more day, or 
even one more hour?" Eledwhen's voice quavered with the sadness of 
their parting and the fear of what he might encounter as he continued 
his quest to save the land he so desperately loved.

"Please, Eledwhen, do not ask me to turn from my duty. I am not made 
of stone. Should I gaze upon your exquisite face much longer, my 
resolve to depart today will dissolve into the very air we breathe. I 
must leave. Be brave and trust that I shall return." Once more Boromir 
enveloped his Lady within his arms and pressed her tightly against his 
body. Wordlessly he made a plaintive plea to the Valar that they could 
remain thus for the rest of their lives.

Eledwhen's light touch along the flesh of his neck scattered his 
thoughts. He moved slightly backward and looked down into her upturned 
face. Her deep blue eyes shone brightly with tears, but her full lips 
were pulled into a wide and mischievous smile. "You have become quite 
the wanton woman," he said playfully, easily recognizing the look of 
desire. "And one certainly full of surprises. My fears you would never 
be comfortable in my bed were all for naught. Perhaps there is magic 
in this land."

Eledwhen looked at him demurely from beneath thick lashes. The son she 
knew she carried was tangible testimony to the magic within the Elven 
kingdom. "Truly, love conquers all, my Lord." Wrapping one arm about 
his neck, she pulled him to her until their lips met. As their kiss 
deepened and their passion blossomed, the two lovers fell as one onto 
the soft carpet of grass. "I suppose I could put off my journey a 
little while longer," Boromir said, chuckling, as he pulled Eledwhen 
on top of him.

* * * * * * * * *

The sun was beginning to set when Gondor's Captain-General waved a 
gauntleted hand in farewell and urged his horse, Arod, into a canter. 
In less than an hour, Boromir crossed the land's northernmost border. 
Although he had seen no Elves, he'd felt their presence all about him. 
Reining Arod up short, he turned back toward the South and took a 
long, last look at Lothlorien. His heart was heavy, weighed down by 
the grief he felt at leaving his wife and child behind.

Though a proud man, of a line of many proud Stewards, Boromir knew 
that Eledwhen would be safer with her grandparents than in the wilds 
of Middle-earth. His inability to protect the Princess when she had 
been attacked during their arduous journey had been a humbling 
experience. Never one to question his strength or his battle 
abilities, he had been plagued by doubts during his convalescence with 
the Elves. One thing of which he was certain, if he did not shake off 
these doubts he would have little chance of surviving the long journey 
ahead.

Boromir sighed despondently and turned Arod toward Caradhras, where he 
hoped to successfully cross the Redhorn Pass. The Lord Celeborn had 
been kind enough to give him a map showing the quickest way to 
Imladris, where Boromir hoped to discover answers to a riddle about a 
sword that was broken and a ring. As the Golden Wood faded in the 
distance, Boromir wondered where his younger sibling was and what he 
might be doing. I hope Faramir is not alone and facing as impossible a 
task as this, he thought sadly.



---------


2. On the Road Again



A pall settled over Boromir, as man and beast put many miles between 
themselves and the Golden Wood. His heart was heavy despite the joyful 
afternoon spent making love to Eledwhen. Although he called the 
Princess of Rohan his wife, she was not legally his, at least, 
according to the laws of Gondor. Those cursed Elves and their bloody 
stubbornness, he thought glumly. By what right do they interfere in 
our lives? Mortal law has betrothed Eledwhen to me and, even were that 
not true, we have bound ourselves to each other, body and soul.

Neither Boromir nor Eledwhen had been able to convince the Lord and 
Lady of the Galadrim to perform the marriage ceremony. The Elves were 
rigidly polite, but firm. Even the lovers' admission of their physical 
union did naught to sway their decision. Boromir wanted to tell them 
about the unborn child, hoping to force their cooperation, but 
Eledwhen had begged him not to. "There will be plenty of time while 
you are gone for my grandparents to accept you as a future kinsman. If 
you anger them now, we shall have no hope of convincing them that we 
belong together."

Boromir smiled, remembering how angry Celeborn and Galadriel had been 
once they realized that the Man had checkmated them. It had been 
impossible to hide the fact that Eledwhen spent every night in his 
room after their exchange of vows. The confrontation with the Lord and 
Lady of the Golden Wood had been every bit as volatile as expected, 
although no Elven archers had appeared to execute him. However, the 
Lord Celeborn had taken him aside and chided him for his 
"ungentlemanly" behavior.

"It was not fair or sporting of you to take Eledwhen to your bed when 
you have not been officially wed," he had said gravely. But Boromir 
had merely laughed and replied, "All's fair in love and war, my Lord 
Elf. You should know this better than I, for you have lived time 
uncounted. You are angry because I outmaneuvered you; it irks you that 
a mere mortal could do so."

Boromir was jerked from his reverie by a loud neigh from Arod. The 
horse shied and sidestepped nervously, casting uneasy looks at the 
trees to their right. Boromir became immediately alert and unsheathed 
his great sword. "Easy, boy, easy. What do you smell?"

In answer to his question, a red hind emerged from the trees and ran 
swiftly in front of the gray stallion. Arod snorted and reared, 
causing his rider to curse and grip the saddle pommel to keep his 
seat. Boromir strained to determine what had caused the hind's flight, 
but heard nothing. Nor could he see more than a foot past the 
treeline, for it was dusk and night was rapidly approaching.

Deciding that caution was the better part of valor in this instance, 
Boromir spurred Arod into a gallop, hoping to put as much distance 
between them and whatever had spooked the deer. As Arod sped forward, 
two pinpoints of yellow light glowed between the trees where the hind 
had emerged.

* * * * * * * * *

Boromir managed to find his way across the Redhorn Pass without 
incident. Born beneath the shadow of the White Mountains, he had more 
than a passing acquaintance with journeys in high places. The central 
regions of the Misty Mountains were bitterly cold, and the snow left 
him wet and miserable. By day, he and Arod plodded their way along the 
narrow pass, careful not to stray too close to the sheer naked sides 
and the steep drop-off beyond. The reddish color that splashed across 
the mountains reminded him of blood. At night, Boromir burned some of 
the faggots of wood he had brought to ward off the cold and any 
animals that might prowl the pass. He was worried about wolf packs 
that hunted the pass, fierce animals that were ever vigilant for weary 
and unwary travelers.

Once clear of the mountain's shadow, Gondor's son turned north toward 
the Elven haven many leagues away. He checked the map Celeborn had 
made for him and knew he would soon enter Hollin, the lost land of 
Eregion. He had become weary of sitting in the saddle 12 to 14 hours a 
day and of eating lembas, which had been provided by the Lady 
Galadriel, along with fresh fruit that had been consumed within the 
first few days. Arod had eaten most of the apples, but the man did not 
begrudge his mount such a simple pleasure. If not for the horse, 
Boromir would be afoot and his journey much longer and very 
unpleasant.

Boromir knew he should be grateful for the supplies, considering that 
he and the Elven rulers were at odds over Eledwhen's future. Both 
Galadriel and the Lord Celeborn felt strongly that their granddaughter 
should remain with the Elves. And he had agreed, as far as the journey 
to Imladris was concerned. But he had threatened to spirit Eledwhen 
away secretly if they tried to stop her from returning to Minas Tirith 
with him. She was as necessary to his life as the air he breathed and 
he would not give her up. There had been several heated arguments on 
the subject before his departure from Lorien.

"At least Galadriel had enough self-control not to throw me off the 
highest flet in their house," Boromir said aloud, reaching forward to 
rub Arod's neck. Surprisingly, she had been fairly gracious at their 
parting; his mouth had fallen open in disbelief when she told him to 
take care during the dangerous journey ahead of him. He and Eledwhen 
had exchanged surprised glances before he managed to stammer a 
somewhat coherent reply. Eledwhen later surmised that her grandmother 
either knew, or suspected, that she was with child and was genuinely 
worried about its father's wellbeing.

"If that were true, she should have allowed us to undergo a formal 
wedding ceremony," Boromir said to Arod, a habit he had fallen into 
during solo trips to various garrisons throughout Gondor. "If I do not 
survive this journey, the child will have neither my name nor my 
inheritance. He, or she, will be a bastard. I must write Father and 
Faramir about our 'marriage' and the child as soon as I find a place 
where a messenger can be retained. Perhaps I can persuade them that 
such a bonding is legal under Elven law and should, therefore, be 
accepted as legal under Gondorian law."

Boromir sighed tiredly and scanned the land about him with an 
experienced traveler's eye. He was riding through a narrow meadow 
surrounded on both sides by gnarled trees so ugly and deformed that 
leaves refused to grow on their twisted branches. Though bereft of 
foliage, the trees still were so thick and close he could see nothing 
beyond. Water must be scarce in this land, he thought. I hope my water 
rations last until I cross into Hollin.

Arod moved his proud head back and forth as though agreeing with his 
master. Boromir laughed and stroked his mane. "Time to find a place to 
camp, old boy. It is late and far too dark for us to be stumbling 
about unknown country."

Boromir strained to see about him but was unable to do so because the 
quarter moon cast little light upon the surrounding landscape. "Blast, 
I wish I had one of those silver lanterns the Elves are so fond of." 
Arod snorted as though in agreement and Boromir started to laugh, but 
bit back the sound when he thought he heard an answering whinny. Arod 
began to fidget and toss his head up and down. He was clearly 
agitated.

A warrior survives on instinct, skill and a generous measure of luck. 
Gondor's Captain-General had not lived to the age of 40 by being 
careless or by taking foolish risks. He jerked the shield from his 
back to fend off potential arrows while urging his stead toward a 
dense patch of trees that would offer a relatively secure place from 
which to launch a defense. As Arod started in the direction asked, 
Boromir clearly heard the sound of hooves pounding upon hard earth. 
They were close and gaining fast.

Quickly assessing the situation (knowing well that he could not hold 
his own against a strong mounted company), Boromir urged Arod to flee 
in the opposite direction. The stallion gathered himself up before 
surging forward at full gallop, while his rider crouched low over his 
neck to make himself less of a target. Boromir looked back briefly and 
caught a glimpse of several riders on black horses. Their dark cloaks 
and full hoods made it impossible to see who, or what, they were.

As Arod made a dash for the cover of the trees, Boromir thought he 
heard whispers on the wind and a chill spread throughout his body. Who 
the blazes are those riders? Not particularly wanting to find out, man 
and beast continued to careen through the trees at a breakneck speed. 
Brittle branches dried beyond endurance by lack of moisture snapped 
loudly and fell to the ground as the two flew by in the murky 
darkness.

Boromir risked a glance over his shoulder and suddenly felt his mount 
fall out from under him. It was as though he were being catapulted 
through the air, or flying without the aid of wings. Mindful of how he 
might land, or what he may crash into, Boromir moved his shield so 
that it protected his head. He felt his body plunging downward and 
prepared himself for a jolt. His last conscious thoughts before 
impacting the ground were of Eledwhen.



-------



3. The Winds of War

This chapter returns the reader to Minas Tirith and the situation with 
Faramir and the Steward. In Book I, Love and Lust -- A Dynasty Broken, 
Denethor looked too long into the palantir and become ensnared by the 
Dark Lord. I shall continue to weave together events happening within 
the Fellowship and in Minas Tirith throughout this story.

* * * * * * * * *


Faramir thought he heard his brother's voice crying out to him. He was 
standing in a narrow meadow surrounded on both sides by gnarled trees 
bereft of foliage, and so thick and close he could see nothing beyond. 
Then the sound again -- a sharp cry as though someone were in pain. 
Faramir rushed into the trees in search of the source of the noises. 
From somewhere to his right he heard his brother's voice calling his 
name over and over.

"Boromir, where are you? It is I, Faramir. Where are you, Brother?" 
Frantic, Faramir rushed through the trees in the direction from which 
the sound emanated. A loud snarl and a responding yelp caused him to 
draw his sword and proceed cautiously. As Faramir parted the brittle 
branches in front of him, he saw two large feral shapes feasting upon 
something on the ground. One of the animals looked up sharply. Gore 
and blood dripped from its long snout. As he watched, horrified, the 
other furtively grabbed what looked to be a human arm and turned to 
flee. It was then that Faramir realized that the Wargs were feasting 
on a human. Enraged, he ran forward and the creatures melted into the 
dark beyond the trees.

Faramir stood over what remained of the bloodied corpse and felt his 
gorge rise. He was looking upon the remains of what once had been his 
beloved brother. A keening wail escaped his bloodless lips and he fell 
to his knees. Boromir's blood soaked his breeches and stained his 
boots. "I should have been the one to make the journey, not you! How 
can Gondor survive without its Favorite Son? How can I ever tell 
Father?" As he wallowed in his misery, Faramir's vision began to fade 
and all about him was a darkness more than night.

* * * * * * * *

Faramir awoke with a start. He felt nauseous and slightly disoriented, 
the way he often did following one of his visions. He knew he had 
dreamed, but could not recall the substance of the dream. However, he 
felt deep in his soul that his brother was in trouble. He closed his 
eyes and thought he heard Boromir's voice echoing dimly within the 
deep recesses of his mind. "Boromir," he whispered aloud. "Please be 
safe."

Shaking his head to clear it, Faramir rose unsteadily from the chair 
beside his father's bed. It had been several weeks since Mithrandir 
had brought the Steward of Gondor from the summit of Ecthelion's Tower 
to the Houses of Healing. During those weeks, Denethor had been 
feverish, wafting back and forth between semi-consciousness and an 
uneasy sleep. The way his father cried out and cursed led Faramir to 
believe that Denethor still struggled against the Dark Lord, even 
though he was now far from the palantír. A slight scraping sound drew 
his attention toward the room's entrance. Adanomir, Denethor's 
personal physician, stood humbly in the doorway, waiting to be 
noticed.

"How fares he, my Lord Faramir?" Adanomir hesitated only a moment out 
of respect for Faramir's new station before moving to his patient's 
bedside. Denethor's youngest son had been acting Steward since that 
disastrous night when the ruler of Mordor enslaved Denethor's mind. 
Faramir still found it nigh impossible to believe that his father 
would succumb to the evil whisperings of the Dark Lord, despite 
evidence to the contrary.

"He is much the same," Faramir answered tiredly. "I sometimes feel 
that he will never recover." Adanomir studied him over round-shaped 
glasses perched atop the bridge of his long patrician nose and smiled 
kindly.

"Do not give up hope. Your father is a strong man and will return to 
us when his mind has healed. I see slight improvements in his 
condition daily, though you may not. The young are only appeased by 
that which is easily seen."

Faramir frowned, bristling at the physician's words. A sharp retort 
formed on his tongue, but retreated when he saw Adanomir's tight smile 
and sparkling gray eyes. "Go and eat, and then take some rest," he 
advised. "I will stay with the Lord Denethor this night. You need to 
take better care of yourself. With your father ill and your brother 
gone, the people of the White City look to you for guidance. How will 
Minas Tirith thrive if none of the Steward's line remains at its 
helm?"

I shall do as you suggest, for your words are wise," Faramir said, a 
fleeting smile touching his lips. "Send for me immediately should the 
Lord Denethor awaken, or his condition change."

* * * * * * * * *

Faramir stood outside the main entrance to the Houses of Healing and 
drank in the clean night air. Men in the uniform of the City Guard 
saluted him smartly as they passed on their rounds. Some wished him a 
good night and added the title, Steward, which disturbed him. I need 
to see Uncle Imrahil. Perhaps he can lift my spirits.

His eyes scanned the narrow street that ran beside the wall of the 
gardens. Seeing nothing amiss, Faramir pulled his cloak tightly about 
him against the chill and began the walk to the uppermost circle. He 
wanted to be alone with his thoughts and so kept his head down and his 
hand upon his sword's pommel. None dared bother him.

* * * * * * * *

The Prince of Dol Amroth was deep in conversation with one of his 
captains when Faramir rapped on his door. A young page, pale with 
exhaustion, answered the knock. "Is my uncle within?" he asked, unable 
to see the room's occupants, who were hidden behind the partially open 
door.

"Come in, Nephew, come in." Imrahil's voice was strong, despite the 
late hour. Faramir thought he heard a slight groan from the boy. 
Faramir moved stiffly to the table and picked up a decanter of 
fragrant red wine. As he began filling his glass, the Prince made a 
disgruntled motion to the page, who should have been waiting upon his 
guests.

"Let him go to his bed, Uncle. The boy is nearly asleep on his feet. 
It is well past the bedtime of one so young." Faramir smiled kindly at 
the youth, who blushed and ducked his chin against his thin chest.

"All right. Away with you, lad. But see you return promptly by the 
third hour." Faramir laughed at the delighted look the young page gave 
him as he scurried from the room.

"I fear you are a bad influence on my servants. You should not 
encourage them to shirk their duties." Despite the severity of his 
words, Imrahil's sea-gray eyes were laughing. "Actually, I am 
embarrassed because I am remiss in not noticing myself how tired the 
lad is." The Prince then made a sweeping motion with his hand, 
indicating that Faramir should take a seat at the table.

"What is so important that it keeps you and members of your staff up 
so late? If I remember correctly, this is Captain Redderick, to whom I 
still owe a debt of gratitude for his help that night we took my 
father to the Houses of Healing." The captain gave a nod of 
acknowledgement and thanks.

Imrahil studied his nephew closely, then pushed a sheet of parchment 
toward him. "Read and you will understand what keeps me from my 
well-earned rest." This time Imrahil's words were light, but his tone 
and his countenance were grim. Faramir looked at the script on the 
page and realized the words were not the Westron language, but that of 
Harad. He lifted his eyebrows at this and glanced quizzically at his 
uncle, who motioned him to continue to read.

Faramir's knowledge of the language of the Haradrim was somewhat 
sparse, but he could still make out the gist of the letter. What he 
read shocked him. "Has this information been verified?" he asked 
sharply.

"Aye, my Lord," answered Imrahil's swan-knight. "The man who put 
together that dispatch is as trustworthy as my own mother, may she 
rest in peace. The information is only a few days old. A great army 
masses on Rohan's border near Isengard."

Faramir shook his head. "If I read this aright, the Haradrim have 
allied themselves to Isengard and fight with orcs and Uruk-hai. Is 
this true?"

"Not all in Harad are loyal to Isengard, for most serve Mordor. But it 
is said that many are lured northward on the promise of wealth and an 
easier life. It is hard enough being a soldier without also having to 
endure the horrors meted out by Barad-dur." The captain's face was 
slightly pale and pinched looking. His steel-gray eyes mirrored the 
concern in those of his liege lord's. "However, our spies say that 
most of the men in this army are from Dunland."

"If they mass near the Gap of Rohan, then they are too close for 
comfort to our lands," the Prince of Dol Amroth said heavily. "What of 
Theoden King and Prince Theodred? Have they had time, think you, to 
return safely to Edoras?"

"Yes, my Lord, for our messengers say the King and his party passed 
through the gap several days before the army first was sighted," 
replied Captain Redderick.

Prince Imrahil remained silent while he pondered how best Gondor might 
answer this challenge to its Rohirrim allies and, eventually, to its 
own lands. Faramir stood and began to pace the length of the room. 
After a few minutes he stopped in mid-stride and smiled. Prince 
Theodred always paced when he was excited or angry, but this was not a 
habit common to the Steward's younger son. "You picked up some bad 
habits from our Rohan guests, I see," said Imrahil wryly.

"Eledwhen often poked fun at her brother for his restlessness and 
inability to remain still for any length of time. How I miss them 
both." Imrahil cocked an eyebrow at his nephew's admission, knowing 
full well his feelings for the Princess. Faramir caught the look and 
blushed.

Imrahil sighed tiredly and ran a hand through his hair. "It is late 
and we all need sleep. Let us three think on these matters and meet in 
the morning. Faramir, will you join me for breakfast?"

"Aye, Uncle. However, I doubt I shall sleep much. I think I will take 
a walk on the battlements. Sometimes I think better where the air is 
clear and the stars seem within reach."

"Well, then, I bid you goodnight until the 'morrow. Captain Redderick, 
you will meet with the other captains and glean what information they 
may have heard. I fear that war shall soon be upon us in deadly 
earnest. We need Denethor's military knowledge now more than ever. It 
is an evil wind indeed that blows through the White City."

Faramir stood in the doorway, one hand on the latch, remembering his 
final conversation with Mithrandir. The old wizard had explained his 
purpose for coming to Minas Tirith, a purpose that had brought him to 
the White City in time to save the Steward from total madness, and the 
city itself from mounting chaos. Mithrandir needed to browse through 
the ancient scrolls in the city's libraries, searching for what he 
would not say. Evidently his search had been fruitful, for the wizard 
had taken his leave rather abruptly. However, he had taken the time to 
inform Faramir of his intentions to ride to Orthanc to confer with 
Saruman before traveling on to Imladris.

"I hope that Mithrandir finds his answers at Orthanc and, later, in 
Rivendell. I sent letters to Boromir with him. I wish with all my 
heart that my brother could have traveled with the wizard. If we'd 
only known about the council…"

Prince Imrahil walked to his nephew's side and placed a hand lightly 
upon his shoulder. "Life is filled with 'what ifs.' They can drive a 
man mad. Be content that he is with the woman he shall marry and pray 
that both are well."

Faramir felt a dark shadow fall upon his heart at Imrahil's words. 
Snatches of the dream he'd had earlier came to him in fleeting 
flashes. He pleaded silently to the Valar that it was merely a 
nightmare, not a premonition. Dejectedly he headed for the 
battlements.


---------



4. My Kingdom for a Healer

Sean Bean, who plays Boromir in the movie LOTR/FOTR, also had a role 
in a movie entitled My Kingdom for a Horse. The name of this chapter 
is a takeoff on that movie title. And now (drum roll, please) back to 
Boromir and the answer to Faramir's dream.

* * * * * * * * *


Boromir felt as though he was drifting upon a black sea, where gentle 
waves rocked him in complete darkness. His mind felt oddly detached 
from his body, causing him to wonder if he was dead. As Boromir 
floated weightlessly, idly speculating about his death, a great wave 
rose from the otherwise calm sea, swept him upward, and then tossed 
him roughly onto land. An intense and nearly unbearable pain consumed 
him like parchment in a fire as his body made contact with the 
unyielding shore. Valar, I hope this is a dream and that I shall awake 
uninjured in my bedroll. As he writhed in pain upon the unknown shore, 
tendrils of darkness curled about his mind, dragging him downward into 
the deep.

* * * * * * * * *

It was night when Denethor's eldest son gained consciousness. How many 
nights had passed since the accident he could not guess, for time has 
little meaning for those who sleep and dream. Boromir knew he had 
plunged a fair distance and, therefore, expected to find that his body 
had been shattered in the fall. The moon momentarily peeked out from 
behind the cloud covering and Boromir could see the steep ravine into 
which he had fallen. That drop should have killed me. A shiver passed 
through his body as he offered a slight prayer to the Valar that he 
was still alive.

Boromir shifted his weight to gain a better view of his surroundings 
and felt a bulk beneath him. Slowly he moved his right hand across the 
top of the stiff mass (relieved that the limb felt sound) and 
realized, with a jolt, that he was resting atop his steed's lifeless 
body. Poor Arod, to have come so far and survived so much, only to die 
in this strange land. Tears sprang to his eyes, but he held them in 
check. This was no time for weak sentimentality, but for action. He 
had to find a way out of the ravine before scavengers were lured to 
him by the smell of Arod's rotting corpse.

As a survivor of more battles than he could remember, Boromir knew he 
would have to take inventory of his injuries before taking any action. 
He uttered a slight groan, steeled himself for the pain to come, and 
willed his left arm to move. He was elated to find it unbroken. He 
next lifted his right leg. So far so good, he thought. However, when 
he moved his left leg, the excruciating pain produced a fierce wave of 
nausea. Broken, he thought grimly. After a detailed check of his 
entire body, Boromir was relieved to find that the only other injures 
were two broken ribs and a deep bruise to his left shoulder. He had 
been extremely fortunate for his injuries were relatively minor. Poor 
Arod's neck was broken. Tears welled in his eyes again as he looked 
upon his once faithful companion. "Pull yourself together," he chided 
himself out loud. "It is time to leave this place."

Boromir shifted his body to look for something to help him stand; his 
left hand felt the smooth leather of his mount's reins. Perfect, he 
thought. Grasping Arod's reins firmly in his right hand, he stretched 
out his unbroken leg until the foot felt resistance. Then he pushed 
against his mount's side, used the reins for balance, and struggled to 
stand on his right leg. I can do this. I must do this or join Arod in 
eternal rest, and that is definitely not an option. The struggle to 
stand quickly drained what little strength he possessed, but Boromir 
managed to support his weight on his unbroken leg. He felt giddy with 
victory; the feeling quickly dissolved, however, when he realized he 
would have to hop on that leg to go anywhere. A brilliant plan, heir 
of Gondor, but one that lacks foresight. I am on my feet, or foot as 
the case may be, but I have nothing to lean against for support. How 
far will I get hopping about like a bloody bunny?

Having recognized the holes in his plan, Boromir struggled to return 
to a sitting position. A loud roaring filled his ears and he realized 
he was about to pass out. He hopped backward, hoping to return to his 
seat upon Arod's flank, but instead fell heavily upon the hard ground. 
Uttering a terrible scream, the heir of Gondor once more plunged into 
darkness.

* * * * * * * * *

At the same moment a dreaming Faramir heard his brother's cry, the 
Princess of Rohan bolted upright in bed. She, too, had heard Boromir's 
voice. Eledwhen threw back the covers and began to rise, but a 
terrible pain in her side caused her to double over. My ribs are 
healed. I should not still be in pain. Frightened, wanting the comfort 
of her grandmother's arms, Eledwhen rose from the bed. An excruciating 
pain flared in her left leg, causing her to cry out and crumble 
helplessly to the floor.

"What is wrong, child? I felt your pain and come as quickly as 
possible." The Lady Galadriel was standing in the entrance to the 
room, one hand holding back the elaborately designed covering. She was 
shocked to see Eledwhen huddled on the floor, tears streaming down her 
pale face. Galadriel's feet barely brushed the floor as she rushed to 
kneel beside the distraught girl. "What has happened?"

"It is Boromir. I heard him call out and I am in terrible pain. I 
believe it is my lord's pain that I feel and that something horrible 
has happened to him."

Galadriel was relieved that it was not Eledwhen who was in physical 
pain. "Come child, climb back into bed. You had a bad dream, nothing 
more."

Eledwhen shook her head, her unbound hair falling into her eyes. She 
pushed the hair behind her ears with one hand, while the other crushed 
Galadriel's arm in a vise-like grip. "This was a dream same as that I 
had on the road; the night I had the vision of the owl and knew my 
brother was a prisoner in Gondor's dungeons. You know that was a true 
vision, for you were beside me when I looked into your mirror and saw 
him being flogged. I would have ridden immediately to Gondor had I not 
seen him rescued by the Prince of Dol Amroth."

Galadriel searched Eledwhen's face intently. The girl was as 
frightened as she had been the night she begged her grandmother to use 
her powers to discover what had befallen Prince Theodred. Thinking to 
placate her injured granddaughter, who was almost wild with worry, 
Galadriel had bidden her to look into the mirror. The Lady of the 
Golden Wood had not expected Eledwhen's fears to be verified, but that 
was before she realized how truly gifted the child was. Not only could 
she heal with just a touch, she also could see events from afar as 
though physically present. If she says Boromir is in trouble, then he 
certainly must be.

"Eledwhen, do not fear. I am certain the Lord Boromir is all right. It 
is you I worry about. You must calm yourself. If you have no care for 
your own health, at least think of the unborn child."

The Princess stared at Galadriel, her eyes wide in astonishment. "So 
you do know. I was foolish to believe I could hide this from you. I 
was correct when I told Boromir that your concern for him was as a 
father to my child."

Galadriel chuckled lightly. "You are too perceptive by far. In truth, 
I knew almost as soon as you did. There has been a glow about you 
since that night you bound yourself to the mortal. I was angry you 
went against my wishes, but that quickly faded into delight at the 
life you carry, for I shall be a great-grandmother." Relieved that the 
Elven Queen was not angry, Eledwhen hugged Galadriel tightly. "It 
shall be a boy. I can feel it."

Her laughter was so light and gay that Galadriel hoped the girl would 
not remember her dream about Boromir. But almost the instant the 
thought crossed her mind, Eledwhen pushed away, her face once more 
pale and drawn. "What if Boromir dies? My child will carry no man's 
name. I cannot bear that he would forever be called bastard. I must 
ride out and find his father."

Galadriel wrapped her arms about the Princess to physically restrain 
her, and to offer what comfort it was in her power to give. She was 
conflicted, torn between a desire to keep Eledwhen forever in Lorien, 
and her duty to ease her granddaughter's mental suffering. Heaving a 
sigh of resignation, the Elf lifted the girl's chin until two pairs of 
deep blue eyes met. "There is something I must tell you. I suppose it 
has been wrong of me to keep this from you, but I cannot bear the 
thought of losing you. The night that you and Boromir exchanged vows 
and pledged yourselves to one another for eternity…well, that was a 
legally binding wedding ceremony according to Elven custom. I do not 
know how Gondor's people will see it, but as far as the Firstborn are 
concerned, you two already are husband and wife."

Eledwhen's face lit up brighter than the sky at high noon. Then, just 
as suddenly as the brightness shone in her face, darkness settled 
across her once more pale features. "Why did you not tell me this 
before my lord left? It is cruel of you to keep such a secret. You 
know how upset we are about not being legally wed. Do you hate Boromir 
so much you would have him wander alone weighed down by his guilt?"

Galadriel looked as though she had sustained a fatal wound. She rose 
swiftly and began to pace the room. "If he suffers, it is his own 
fault! He thought to force our hand by getting you with child. The Man 
is immensely selfish and too prideful by far. He played a game, with 
you as his white queen, in hopes of having his way. Can you not see 
how cold and manipulative he is?"

Eledwhen stared at her grandmother through narrowed eyes. She was very 
angry. Galadriel stopped her pacing. "Can you tell me why you love 
this Man so much? If I could but understand your feelings for him…"

The Princess' facial features grew soft and her eyes shone brightly. 
"I love that he is honorable and brave; that he is terribly fierce in 
battle, yet tender with me. I love the way his eyes light up when he 
smiles and the sound of his laughter. When I am with him I am happy 
beyond words. He is so handsome and noble and…"

"And you love and adore him," Galadriel finished. Blushing, the girl 
nodded, then stared down at her hands. Galadriel looked at her 
granddaughter thoughtfully and then heaved another sigh. The child was 
hopelessly in love and now carried the proof of that love. She would 
never forsake Boromir for the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood. "I 
think, perhaps, that Celeborn and I misjudged the depth of your 
feelings for this Human. We thought you felt naught but a teen-ager's 
crush for an older Man, but we were wrong and I sincerely apologize. 
When Boromir returns, you shall have your formal marriage ceremony, if 
that is what you both wish."

Overwhelmed with emotions, Eledwhen propelled herself off the floor 
and flung herself into her grandmother's arms. "I knew you would see 
how much Boromir and I belong together. I am so happy, but I still 
cannot understand why you sought to break us apart."

"You cannot know the pain of losing a child. I lost your mother to 
Theoden even before she was killed by orcs. I also lost my daughter, 
Celebrian, because of orcs. Finding you at last, I could not bear the 
thought of losing you, too."

"Oh, Grandmother. Boromir will not prevent me from visiting Lorien. He 
is not my father. Yes, I know he is stubborn and, sometimes, 
mule-headed, but he would never do anything to cause me undue grief." 
Suddenly a shadow passed across Eledwhen's face and she shivered 
violently.

"What is it child?"

"Boromir and my dream. What if something has happened and he is dead? 
I shall never see him again."

Galadriel felt her heart lurch. All her games designed at keeping 
Eledwhen and Boromir apart… would the girl ever forgive her 
grandparents if Boromir never returned? Galadriel searched Eledwhen's 
distraught face and knew she had to set things right. "Well," she said 
at last. "Let us hope it does not come to that. Do not despair, for I 
feel in my bones that your lord will return to you." Galadriel clasped 
Eledwhen tightly to her breast and gazed upon the sunrise.

"I hope, for my child's sake, that is true," the girl murmured softly.

* * * * * * * * *

The sun was shining hotly when Boromir awoke for the second time since 
his accident. His mouth was dry and tasted sour. A putrid odor and a 
loud buzzing sound caused him to turn his head. Arod lay rotting in 
the heat, a blanket of flies covering his body like a shroud. Boromir 
shook with fury to see his faithful companion suffer such a final 
indignity. Rage consumed him and, uttering a fierce cry, he began to 
swat at the flies. Unfortunately, his efforts succeeded only in 
causing white-hot pain to flare within his leg. He lost his balance, 
fell face forward onto the hard earth and threw up what little 
remained in his stomach. Boromir looked again at his once proud steed 
and was sad to see that worms, too, were feasting on the body. Judging 
from the condition of his mount's corpse, he estimated that he had 
been in the ravine close to three days.

Gondor's heir turned onto his back and looked tiredly up at the sky. 
It cannot be my fate that I shall end my life in this forsaken place. 
I must not give up. My people need me, and I now have a wife and child 
to protect. Boromir moved into a sitting position with a great effort 
and began assessing his options. He knew he would need to find 
something to hold his leg in place or he would be unable to walk. He 
would worry about binding his broken ribs later. Though he did not 
feel particularly blessed, he realized that the fates had smiled upon 
him. It was obvious the horse's neck was broken and that he, too, 
would have suffered a similar fate had Arod's body not broken his 
fall. "Rest in peace, dear friend. You served me well even after 
death."

Tearing his gaze from Arod, Boromir began to inventory his tack. He 
needed items that could be used to bind his broken leg. Both the 
leather reins and the large girth could be used to hold a splint in 
place, but what could he use for the splint itself? Frowning, he 
searched the ground surrounding him. There were plenty of broken 
branches and, although brittle, they might hold until he could find 
help. I must set this leg properly, and soon, or I could end up 
walking with a cane the rest of my life. He would not allow himself to 
even think about the risk of infection.

It took the man of Gondor most of the afternoon to gather suitable 
branches for the splint and, afterward, to set the leg. Twice he 
blacked out from the pain. Night was fast approaching when he finally 
completed the task. Boromir smiled weakly at the splint he had made. 
Not a bad job; I would make a fair healer. Boromir had lived more than 
half his life as a warrior, an occupation that had provided countless 
opportunities for learning how to tend injuries in the field. He hoped 
this knowledge would now serve to keep him alive.

His satisfaction at the job already accomplished slowly faded into 
annoyance as he contemplated how to get to his feet. He could use his 
mount's corpse again, but its condition rendered it almost useless for 
such a purpose. I shall find something more solid to support me. 
Arod's usefulness has ended. The flies were beginning to become 
extremely annoying, and on the wind he could hear the howls of 
foraging wolves. Boromir had no intention of becoming fodder for any 
animal. He decided finally that one of the thick tree trunks in the 
ravine would provide the leverage he needed to regain his feet or, 
rather, his foot; however, he would have to drag himself several yards 
to the nearest one. I'd best get on with it. I am running out of time. 
He shivered slightly as he heard more howls, much closer than the 
first.

Denethor's son glanced up at the darkening sky, then slowly and 
painfully crawled toward the trees. He tried to keep his mind off the 
pain by thinking about Eledwhen in Lothlorien, and of his brother in 
the White City. He focused part of his mind on the task at hand, the 
other part he focused upon images of their faces. Just as he reached a 
stout-looking tree, Boromir heard a low growl. "The carrion eaters 
have arrived," he said aloud, looking toward the trees where the sound 
had emanated. He drew his sword quickly from its scabbard and debated 
whether he should try to stand. Nay, for if they rush me as I struggle 
to rise I will have no chance against them. Grimly he gripped his 
sword, supported his back against the tree trunk and waited.

A low snarl heralded the arrival of the first wolf, which stepped 
cautiously from the cover of the trees. It was a very large and 
powerfully built male, though obviously an underfed one. Its ribs 
showed clearly beneath its mangy coat. As the wolf stood exposed in 
the ravine, sniffing the air for danger, a smaller female wolf left 
her hiding place and moved toward Arod's corpse. Its larger companion 
started to follow but stopped abruptly, its long snout pointed upward 
as it caught a new scent on the breeze.

Boromir felt the wind shift and knew it would be only a matter of 
seconds before the predators caught his scent. Both would soon realize 
that they did not have to settle for long-dead flesh -- not when fresh 
meat was available. The male turned and Boromir could see huge golden 
eyes fixed intently upon him. It growled a warning to its mate, who 
turned away from the rotting meat to seek out the threat the male 
warned of.

This is not going to be pleasant, Boromir thought. I will be fortunate 
indeed if I survive their attack. Sensing the man's disability and 
weakness, the wolves began cautiously advancing, putting space between 
them as they came. Boromir knew they would attack from both sides at 
once, and that he would have to be swift to avoid having his throat 
ripped out.

The female attacked first, searching for an opening in his defenses. 
Boromir easily fended her off with his sword, but kept one eye on the 
lookout for the male wolf. When it came in for the kill, it managed to 
knock Boromir sideways against the female, who yelped fearfully and 
retreated. The male then leapt toward his victim, teeth bared, and 
snapped viciously in an attempt to reach the warm flesh of the throat. 
Boromir struggled to shove the creature away from his body using his 
right arm, while his left hand felt for the dagger at his belt. The 
female wolf chose that moment to reenter the fray. Boromir howled a 
fierce war cry, realizing as he did that he would be unable to fight 
them both successfully from his position on the ground.

From the corner of his eye, Gondor's heir saw the female propel 
herself off the ground. He pushed himself firmly against the trunk of 
the tree, not wanting the impact to knock him over. Surprisingly, 
instead of being slammed by the animal, Boromir heard a sharp cry of 
pain and a loud thud as the female hit the ground. He risked a quick 
glance at the body and was surprised to see a long-shafted arrow 
protruding from the throat. Quickly he freed his dagger from its 
sheath and buried it in the male's side. Enraged, the wolf snarled 
viciously and tried to sink its deadly fangs into its opponent's 
flesh. Boromir reacted instinctively as he withdrew the dagger and 
plunged it into the animal's eye. The male died quickly, its body 
falling heavily onto Boromir, knocking him sideways onto the ground.

"Well, you did need my help after all, Man of Gondor. I told the Lady 
that a warrior such as yourself would never need the assistance of an 
Elf, but she insisted."

Boromir winced, wishing someone else -- anyone else -- had found him. 
Taking a deep breath, he looked up and saw Haldir standing above him, 
hands on his hips, green eyes bright with mirth. Boromir groaned 
loudly. Oh, how I'd like to throttle that arrogant tree Elf! That 
would wipe the smirk off his face.

Haldir threw back his head and laughed heartily. The musical sound 
seemed to lighten the dim ravine. "If you do not want my help, I shall 
leave you to your own devices and return to Lothlorien. I followed you 
only because the Lady thought you might need someone to guard your 
back."

Boromir snorted derisively. "Then where were you when I fell into this 
bloody ravine? And where the blazes have you been while I lay here 
waiting to die beside this rotting, stinking corpse? If you had been 
but a minute longer, I would be lying here dead, wolves feasting on my 
still warm flesh."

Haldir shrugged his slender shoulders and turned as though to leave. 
"If you cannot be civil, then I am off to the Golden Wood." The Elf 
began to walk away from the Human, a wide grin on his face. Boromir's 
disgruntled voice finally commanded him to stay. Haldir stopped, but 
did not turn around. His grin broadened.

"Bloody Elf. You are going to make me beg you for help!"

"No, my Lord Boromir. A civil 'please' will suffice. Do all Men lack 
manners, or is it just the nobility of Gondor who treat everyone else 
as servants?"

Denethor's son grumbled something rude beneath his breath. Haldir 
turned around slowly. His face wore a look of total innocence. "I am 
sorry. I did not catch what you said." Actually, he had heard the 
Man's words, but was enjoying tormenting Boromir too much to let him 
know. The Gondorian could be such a brutish boor.

Boromir finally offered the Elf a poor attempt at a smile. "Will you 
help me, sir Elf? I seem to have broken my leg and I may have cracked 
a rib or two."

Haldir produced one of his silvery laughs and bent down beside the 
injured Man. "All you had to do was ask."


-------------




5. The Steward Returns

Thanks to JMac for comparing my last chapter to the writings of Louis 
Lamour. I am flattered, of course. My sincere thanks to those readers 
who have reviewed this story. It is a labor of love and so I continue. 
Denethor finally awakens in this chapter. I believe that Denethor fans 
may actually like the new and improved Steward of Gondor.

* * * * * * * * *

Denethor II, Steward of Gondor since the death of his father, 
Ecthelion II, woke abruptly from a macabre nightmare filled with 
horrific images of death and wanton brutality. The corporeality of the 
dream left him straining for breath, and his large frame shook as 
though wracked by fever. Denethor shook his head to clear away the 
last vestiges of the dream, then looked closely about his 
surroundings. He was lying on a soft bed within the Houses of Healing. 
He recognized the room, for it was used solely for those of the 
highest rank. What am I doing here? Certainly I am not ill.

Irritated, Denethor threw back the covers and swung his feet over the 
side of the bed. His irritation rose a notch when he realized there 
were no slippers beside the bed. He had instructed his valet to always 
place slippers beside his bed so long as he remained within the White 
City. "Marric! Marric where are you?" Denethor shouted. How dare they 
leave him alone and unattended! His irritation quickly flared into 
indignation. The twenty-sixth Steward of Gondor enjoyed the privileges 
that came with his position and title, and he never hesitated to 
chastise anyone showing disrespect for either. As he began to rise 
from the bed, the door to the sick room opened and his manservant, 
Marric, entered. The man's eyes widened in astonishment as he 
sputtered, "My Lord, they did not tell me that you are conscious. We 
all have worried that you would never… Praise the Valar for your 
recovery!"

"What are you babbling on about? Why am I in the Houses of Healing? 
Fetch my son, Boromir, immediately."

Marric looked extremely uncomfortable. "My Lord Steward, your eldest 
son has not been within these walls for at least the past two moons." 
At Denethor's look of cold rage, Marric retreated a couple of steps. 
"Shall I send for the Lord Faramir? He has been by your side almost 
constantly since you… took ill."

Denethor stared at him narrowly. "What is this illness of which you 
speak?"

The manservant shifted from one foot to the other nervously. "My Lord, 
why don't I fetch your youngest son? I am certain he can answer all 
your questions."

The Steward nodded, giving his consent for the man to leave on the 
agreed upon errand. When he was alone again, Denethor began to scour 
his memory for the last thing that he could remember. He finally was 
able to recall the pre-nuptial revelry in Merethrond, the Great Hall 
of Feasts. When had he fallen ill? Denethor felt a fleeting chill on 
the back of his neck and quickly looked around. The window was tightly 
shut. 'Twas no draft that had caused goosebumps to form on his flesh.

The door opened and Faramir strode into the room. His father read the 
relief -- and the wariness -- which crossed his face in rapid 
succession. "I was on my way here when I ran into Marric. He told me 
the good news."

Denethor realized by the tone of Faramir's voice that his son was not 
certain how good the news was. He looked strained and ill at ease. 
Denethor stood slowly and deliberately. He pinned his son with a stony 
stare before speaking. "What has happened? My fool of a manservant 
spoke of some illness. Why am I not in the Citadel within my own 
chambers?"

Faramir cleared his throat. "What is the last thing you remember, 
Father?"

Denethor recognized that Faramir was hesitant to apprise his father of 
recent events. He had taught both his sons how to deflect another's 
question with one of their own. It was a very effective stalling 
tactic. "Do not play games with me, boy. I asked you a pointed 
question and I expect a direct answer. Now!"

At the Steward's barked command, Faramir squared his shoulders and 
stood at attention. He clasped his hands tightly behind his back to 
hide the slight tremor from his father's eagle eyes. "You have not 
been yourself since the celebration of Boromir's upcoming marriage."

The Steward studied his son closely. "Go on."

"Well, sir, your actions were not normal. I am hesitant to go into 
details without your physician's leave. He gave strict orders that, 
once you regained consciousness, you were not to be bothered with 
matters that may cause undue distress."

Denethor moved with catlike quickness and struck his son across the 
face with the back of his hand. When he spoke, his tone was dangerous. 
"How dare you disobey a direct order from your Steward. I shall brook 
no disobedience, especially from my own flesh and blood. You serve 
Gondor in your current rank at my pleasure. Do not cross me."

Faramir stiffened visibly at the implied threat. His cheek stung from 
his father's slap. "Does my Lord Steward wish to hear the entire 
truth?"

"That would be most refreshing," Denethor replied sarcastically.

"Very well, Father. I have been acting Steward for almost a month… 
since the night we carried you to this room. You became ensnared by 
the Dark Lord and unwittingly carried out his plan to destroy Minas 
Tirith from within." Faramir's tone was emotionless and his stare was 
carefully blank. Denethor's eyes became small black orbs and he shook 
with rage.

"How dare you accuse the ruling Steward of Gondor of consorting with 
the enemy! Have you gone mad? This is a preposterous tale. I should 
have you detained within these walls until you begin to make some 
sense."

"You had best listen to your son, Denethor, for he speaks the truth." 
The Prince of Dol Amroth was standing in the open doorway, one hand 
resting lightly upon his sword hilt. He had witnessed his 
brother-in-law strike Faramir, though neither Man had noticed his 
arrival.

Denethor looked from the grim countenance of one man to the even 
grimmer countenance of the other. Could it be true? Could he have 
become an unwitting pawn in Sauron's plans to capture the White City? 
"Speak, Captain Faramir. I demand a full account of events since the 
feast in the Great Hall. Spare me nothing. If what you say is the 
truth, I have committed treason."

Faramir and his uncle exchanged relieved glances. Denethor sounded 
quite sane. Faramir proceeded to provide a detailed account of his 
father's most recent activities. The Steward turned pale during the 
recounting of the rape of the Princess of Rohan, but he remained 
silent. When his son repeated Mithrandir's account of the 
confrontation in the tower, Denethor sank slowly onto the bed, his 
face cradled in his hands. "Imrahil, please, tell me this is not 
true."

"Would that I could, Denethor. But everything the lad says is fact. 
The wizard said you used one of the Numenorean seeing-stones, which 
allowed the Dark Lord to bend your mind and will to help bring about 
the fall of Minas Tirith. Eledwhen fled the city and refused to return 
when your sons found her, for obvious reasons. Boromir decided to take 
the Princess with him to Imladris. After you ordered the Prince of 
Rohan imprisoned in the Citadel dungeons, I saved Theodred from the 
torture that you ordered. We came within a hair's breadth of war with 
Rohan. If not for Mithrandir's timely appearance, Sauron's forces 
could have marched into the city without any resistance. We were on 
the brink of a civil upheaval that would have made Gondor's kin-strife 
seem mild by comparison. All was madness and chaos."

Denethor groaned. He looked as though he had aged a decade in the past 
half an hour. His noble face was gray and his proud features had gone 
slack. "My foolish pride almost cost everything we have fought for. 
You should have clamped me in chains in the dungeon. At least there I 
could have done no harm to my people."

Prince Imrahil and Faramir relaxed. They had been prepared for 
denials, for outraged indignation… anything but total acceptance of 
the facts. For the first time since meeting Ecthelion's heir, the 
Prince of Dol Amroth felt something other than strong dislike for the 
man.

"What is done, is done. Very few know the true facts of these events, 
and none that do will repeat them. The people of Gondor know only that 
their Steward suffered a debilitating illness. I must add that Faramir 
has done an exemplary job as acting Steward." The Prince of Dol Amroth 
studied Denethor closely as he spoke. His dead sister's husband seemed 
quite shaken, but there was no sign of deceit.

Faramir went to his father and bent down on one knee beside the bed. 
Gently he took the older man's hands in his. "Everything within the 
city is as well as it can be. Yet there are pressing matters about 
which I could use your advice… when you are fully recovered."

Denethor squared his shoulders. "I am fit to rule now. Are you 
prepared to relinquish your control of Minas Tirith?"

Imrahil did not like the look of suspicion and jealousy that burned in 
the Steward's eyes as he looked upon his youngest son. True, such a 
reaction seemed normal for Denethor, but it also hinted at something 
more sinister. "Perhaps we should leave Faramir at the White City's 
helm, with you as advisor, until we can be certain that the shadow of 
the Dark Lord has completely passed from your mind." Denethor's eyes 
hardened and his face, so pale mere moments before, became deeply 
flushed.

"Uncle Imrahil only wants what is best for you and for our people." 
Faramir's tone was impersonal, but the soft gray eyes that searched 
his father's face were pleading. The Steward finally nodded.

"If everything has been as you both say, then perhaps I do bear 
watching. Send Adanomir to me. I would hear his assessment of my 
condition. Also, send for Marric. I need hot water for a bath as well 
as a change of clothes. Then we three shall hold council."

Faramir rose to his feet and gave his father a respectful bow. "All 
shall be as you wish." Saying that, Faramir left his father's sick 
room, followed slowly by the Prince of Dol Amroth. Denethor watched 
them through narrowed eyes, tormented by doubts. He could not help but 
feel that those two harbored plans to take control of Gondor.

Stop that! Such thoughts are both foolish and dangerous; yet I shall 
watch them closely. They say I have been under the influence of the 
evil one. How do I know this to be true? Perhaps it is they who have 
been swayed to darkness. I must be cautious and on my guard, and not 
just against them, but myself. If what they say is true, then I must 
have been out of my mind. That poor child, how she must hate and 
despise me. And Boromir… Denethor shuddered at the thought of how his 
heir would deal with the man who had raped his betrothed. Yet I am his 
father, and his liege lord. He will understand and, in time, forget 
and forgive. For the survival of our nation, it must be so.



-----



6. When Heirs Collide

Back to Boromir and his twice-interrupted journey to Imladris. In this 
chapter, the heir to the Stewardship of Gondor meets the heir to the 
throne of Gondor near Rivendell. This is the time before the council 
when Aragorn would have had some spare time on his hands. For my 
story, he is scouting the lie of the land around Imladris with one of 
Elrond's twin sons.

* * * * * * * * *

It took Haldir only a few minutes to remove the field splint that 
Boromir had spent hours devising. The Man gave a long-suffering sigh 
as the Elf deftly undid his handiwork. Boromir was lying on the ground 
and propped slightly up on his elbows so he could keep a wary eye on 
Haldir. The sigh soon turned into a deep groan, however, as slender 
hands gently probed the leg and the broken bone beneath the flesh. 
"Prepare yourself, for this will hurt a little," Haldir said 
good-humoredly as he took Boromir's left leg firmly in both his hands 
and pulled until the bones fit together properly once more.

"I set it already," Boromir hissed through clenched teeth. Haldir 
studied his patient silently, noting the extremely pale face drenched 
in sweat. The slight glaze to the eyes told him that the Man would 
soon become unconscious. "You did not set it straight enough. It would 
have knitted improperly and you would have walked with a limp the rest 
of your life. You are very fortunate I happened along."

Boromir groaned again and sank back onto the ground. He felt dizzy and 
nauseous, and the loud roar in his ears was making him deaf to 
external sounds. He knew he was passing out again and actually looked 
forward to the relief from pain unconsciousness would bring. As his 
vision darkened, Boromir felt something pressed against his lips. 
Faintly he heard a voice telling him to drink and he obeyed. Something 
warm and fragrant slid over his tongue. It tasted delicious, yet 
burned slightly as it flowed down his throat. "What is that?" Boromir 
asked Haldir between greedy sips.

"We call it miruvor. I am surprised you are not already acquainted 
with our cordial, which can do much to renew one's vigor and strength. 
How do you feel?"

Boromir's unspoken reply was to reach for the flask. "Easy, son of 
Denethor. You have had enough miruvor for now. Its effects are quite 
potent and I do not want you drunk before I can get you out of this 
ravine. Come, place your right arm about my shoulders and I will help 
you stand. There is a path yonder that leads to the top. Be careful, 
for it is very steep. Should you feel as though you may swoon, please 
let me know, for I have no desire to carry you."

Gondor's heir glared at him. "I have never swooned! Soldiers do not 
swoon. Women swoon. I will thank you to remember who I am and to treat 
me with the proper respect."

Haldir chewed on his lower lip, successfully staunching the torrent of 
scorching invectives he was about to unleash. Instead he 
"accidentally" allowed his grip on the Man to slip so that the injured 
leg came in contact with the ground. Boromir howled in pain and Haldir 
managed to hide a satisfied smile before apologizing for his 
clumsiness. Although Boromir had never seen a clumsy Elf, and much 
doubted that any of the Silvan folk could ever be clumsy, he remained 
silent. For now he was at the mercy of this precocious creature. Just 
wait until I can stand upon two legs and wield a sword again. I will 
teach him a thing or two about respect.

By placing his weight against Haldir, Boromir managed to hop on his 
right foot a few feet at a time before fatigue caused him to pause and 
lean more heavily upon the Elf. When he felt some of his strength 
return, they would continue. It was the dark of the morning when they 
finally reached the top. Boromir gratefully reached for a stout tree 
and leaned against it, gasping for breath. From somewhere off to his 
left, he thought he heard a soft nicker. He searched for the source of 
the sound and beheld the most magnificent horse he had ever laid eyes 
upon. Its white coat gleamed brightly in the moonlight, and its full 
mane flowed like silken threads over its long, muscular neck. He 
marveled at its height, estimating that the animal stood about 17 
hands tall.

"You have a horse! Why the bloody blazes did you not bring him down 
into the ravine? You made me walk all that way when you have a horse!" 
Boromir was more than a little irate. He was shaking badly from the 
long walk, he ached in every muscle, and each breath he drew caused 
pain. With a start, he remembered his broken rib. They had not taken 
the time to bind it before beginning their trek.

"The path is too steep for a horse and I could not risk injuring 
Ethriel. Unless you would prefer to hop all the way to Rivendell?" 
Haldir tilted his head to the side and studied Boromir intently. The 
Man was at the end of his physical rope.

"Water under the bridge," Boromir muttered thickly. "We shall speak of 
it no more. Now I must rest. If you would kindly stand the watch..." 
As he spoke, Boromir began to slide down the length of the tree trunk. 
Haldir was beside him instantly, helping him sit upon the ground 
without jarring his broken limb. "Rest, Man of Gondor. I shall be glad 
to take the watch as soon as I bind your chest. I am remiss in not 
looking to your other injuries sooner. Your wife would never forgive 
me if I caused you any more pain."

Haldir's voice sounded muffled and very far away. Boromir wanted to 
remain awake and ask the Elf about his beloved, but his body betrayed 
him and he lost consciousness. Haldir tended the remainder of the 
Man's injuries, then placed a blanket over him and chuckled softly. 
"Despite your protestations, you swooned like a girl." He shook his 
head and stood. His keen senses told him there was nothing to fear… 
for now.

* * * * * * * * *

Man and Elf spent three days among the trees near the ravine in which 
Boromir had plunged nearly a week before. They had managed to be civil 
to one another, perhaps because Boromir spent much of the first two 
days unconscious. When his strength began to return, he huddled beside 
the fire kindled by Haldir, wrapped in his great cloak. Boromir 
finally asked the question that had been uppermost on his mind. "How 
fares my lady? Is she well?"

"Oh, aye, she is most well, though she became distraught nigh on a 
week ago because of a dream. Seems she heard you cry out and, upon 
awakening, actually felt your physical pain. The Princess Eledwhen is 
a most remarkable young woman. She feared you seriously injured and 
was determined to ride after you, though one would believe she had 
learned her lesson about the folly of such heroics after the incident 
with the orcs. Still, I must admit that I greatly admire her fierce 
loyalty to those she loves. Were she a Man, she would be a formidable 
warrior indeed."

"Surely Eledwhen was not allowed to leave Lothlorien?" Boromir asked, 
absolutely horrified at the thought of his wife riding out alone to 
find him.

"Nay, the Lady of the Golden Wood thought it best that I seek the 
truth to Eledwhen's dream. I asked Ethriel to bear me and we rode as 
swiftly as the wind, following your tracks across Caradhras." Haldir 
added in an off-handed manner, as though the question were 
unimportant, "Did you know you were followed?" Boromir, who had been 
gazing into the fire, looked up sharply.

"I saw black riders and felt a darkness and fear I have not 
encountered since Osgiliath. At first sight, I merely wondered who 
those riders might be. Now I believe they were the same fell creatures 
my brother and I encountered on the bridge of Osgiliath before its 
collapse into the Anduin. But I doubt they search for me, for you 
found me alive."

"Perhaps they thought the fall killed you. Or, perchance, your 
destination coincides with theirs." Boromir stared blankly at Haldir; 
clearly this thought had not crossed his mind. "Since we first met I 
have felt a shadow upon your heart, as though you have been touched by 
some evil. Now I understand why. I fear you were touched by their foul 
breath as you stood upon that doomed bridge."

Boromir shifted uncomfortably. "Exactly what are those black riders?" 
Haldir heaved a great sigh.

"You are being obtuse. You must know what the black riders are. They 
are the Ringwraiths… the Nazgul, the nine servants of the Dark Lord. 
The nine once were Men… great Kings who fell into darkness because of 
their greed and insatiable lust for power. A bitter failing that and 
one, unfortunately, that I sense in you."

Boromir stiffened visibly. At length he replied softly, "I cannot 
argue that I have no desire for power and greatness. For, in truth, I 
desire to be King of Gondor after my father's rule ends. It is not 
fair that the Lord Denethor should remain a Steward, when he is King 
in all but name only. Should not the Stewards be rewarded for their 
faithfulness and diligence through all these dark years? If not for 
Minas Tirith and those who rule her, the power of Mordor would have 
grown great indeed. It is unjust that the heirs of the Stewards are 
not allowed to claim the deserted throne of a long-lost race of kings, 
for we have earned it."

As Boromir spoke passionately, a light sweat broke out upon his noble 
face and he shook with the ferocity of his feelings. Haldir watched 
him with a sense of growing dread, for he had more than a passing 
acquaintance with Isildur's heir. Denethor's son eventually would 
reach Rivendell, where the future King waited for a council summoned 
by the Lord Elrond. Haldir groaned inwardly but remained unreadable 
without. "What would you do should the King return?"

Boromir looked startled. "The King return? After all these centuries 
you believe that an heir to the throne of Gondor lives? Surely you 
jest. If there were such a Man he would already have stepped forward 
to claim what is rightfully his. Nay, no King shall ride out of the 
West upon a fiery steed to save us from Mordor. The Men of Gondor are 
all that stand between that cursed land and the rest of Middle-earth, 
and we have shed too much blood and become too few in numbers. I fear 
that we shall fall when the darkness is unleashed in full force."

Haldir kept his unwavering gaze upon Boromir, who kept his gaze locked 
to the fire. "I still would know what you would do should the King 
come to Gondor to claim his birthright. Would you follow him, or kill 
him?" A disgusted snort met the Elf's question.

"There is no sense in having a conversation based upon 'what ifs.' My 
uncle would counsel against such talk and say that such a course might 
well drive a man mad. There is no King in hiding, waiting for who 
knows what sign to tell him that the time is right to take his throne. 
Waste no more of my time with such idle speculation." Boromir pulled 
his cloak more closely about him and stretched out upon the ground. 
"Good night, Haldir. I thank you for taking the watch. If you tire, 
wake me and I will keep an eye out for trouble." The Steward's heir 
was soon fast asleep and snoring lightly.

Haldir stared at the Man a long time. At last he smiled. "Never a dull 
moment when Humans are around. Nary a one."

* * * * * * * * *

Little more than a fortnight did it take Haldir and Boromir to reach 
the Misty Mountains, a long range running north to south between 
Eriador and the Vales of Anduin. Haldir's steed carried the Steward's 
heir tirelessly across the many leagues. As they neared the hidden 
valley in the mountain's western foothills, Ethriel became restive. 
"Easy, boy, only a few miles more. Soon we shall find food and rest at 
the Last Homely House." Haldir stroked the animal's soft nose 
affectionately and stared upward at the snow-tipped peaks towering 
above them.

"What did you call it?" Boromir asked. He had been staring intently 
ahead, seeking signs of Imladris. The Elf's words sparked his 
curiosity enough to stir him to speech. He had barely spoken a word 
for the past three days, preferring his own company and the solitude 
it offered. He had grown weary of sparring with the Elf and felt 
uncomfortable beneath his penetrating stare. More than once Boromir 
had wondered what thoughts lay behind that questing gaze.

"The Last Homely House it is called. Half-Elven Elrond Peredhil 
founded Rivendell during the Second Age. Within this hidden valley 
lies a haven the likes of which has never been seen, except in my own 
fair land of Lorien." The Elf tore his gaze from the majesty of the 
mountains and looked upon his companion. "I counsel you to be 
respectful at all times within Lord Elrond's home."

Boromir wondered what the odd look Haldir gave him might mean, but his 
thoughts were interrupted by an ear-splitting cry from Ethriel. His 
right hand reached for his sword as he pulled back hard on the horse's 
reins with his left and strained to see beyond the fog-shrouded trees 
before them. Almost immediately, two shapes emerged from amongst the 
trees. Both were tall and lean and wore dark cloaks that effectively 
hid their identities.

As the two figures neared, Haldir cried out in his own tongue and 
moved forward at a trot to greet them. The three clasped each other 
tightly as would old friends or, perhaps, comrades-in-arms. After a 
hurried conversation, the three moved toward Boromir and his mount, 
which was now docile and the picture of perfect obedience. Haldir 
moved to Boromir's side and offered introductions.

"My Lord Boromir, allow me to introduce to you Elladan, son of the 
Lord Elrond, and Aragorn, a Ranger from the North and chieftain of his 
people."

Boromir bowed slightly to Elladan before turning his steel-gray eyes 
upon the Ranger. "We in Gondor have not seen one of the Dunedain for 
many years. We thought that race had all but died off."

Elladan made a slight choking sound and began to speak, but Aragorn 
held up a hand to still him before speaking softly to Boromir. "Long 
have we wandered in the Wilds, gathering news and doing what we can to 
combat the horrors of Mordor. We prefer anonymity."

Boromir nodded thoughtfully. "Are we near Imladris? My leg aches and 
my side burns as though on fire. I fear the broken rib may have done 
some damage whilst we traveled."

Aragorn reached the Man's side in two long strides. He gave Haldir a 
narrow stare. "You did not tell me he is injured. We will have to make 
camp here, for we are too far from Rivendell to journey onward 
tonight." Looking up at Boromir, he added, "I will do what I can to 
ease your suffering. Although I have treated many injuries, my skills 
pale when compared to those possessed by the Lord of Imladris. 
Elladan, would you gather wood for a fire? I deem it safe enough for a 
little light." The Ranger reached upward for Boromir's hand to help 
him off the horse. Wordlessly Denethor's heir positioned his uninjured 
leg on the same side of the mount as that of the broken one. Haldir 
moved to stand at Aragorn's side to keep Boromir from landing on both 
feet. Elrond's son left to gather wood for the fire.

It was not long before Boromir was seated on the ground, his back 
against a large tree and his injured leg stretched out in front of 
him. He watched Elladan build the fire. Strange that the son of the 
Lord of Imladris would so readily obey orders from a mere Ranger. He 
was curious about their relationship, but decided it was really none 
of his concern. The warmth of the fire did much to lift his spirits, 
as did the Cordial of Imladris that Aragorn bade him drink. "This 
tastes much like the Elf liquor Haldir carries," Boromir ventured.

"It is indeed miruvor, but the Lord Elrond's brew is far more potent 
than any other. I think, perhaps, you should go easy on that." Aragorn 
reached for the flask before the other Man could become drunk, even as 
Haldir had done before Boromir's ascent from the ravine. The Ranger 
knew from experience how easy it was to misjudge the cordial's 
potency, masked as it was beneath a velvety smoothness. He had drunk 
too deeply once, when he was much younger, and had never been allowed 
to forget. Elrond's sons, Elrohir and Elladan, swore he tried to mate 
with one of their father's prize mares. Aragorn had never believed 
that story, nor had he heard they repeated it to anyone else. Both 
twins possessed an oddly twisted sense of humor.

Aragorn studied the Steward's heir from behind the smoke that curled 
upward from his long pipe. When he was certain the man was soundly 
asleep, he motioned Haldir to join him. "What can you tell me of the 
Lord Boromir? How did he come to be injured?" Haldir offered a 
succinct account of how the Steward's eldest son managed to break his 
bones and why he journeyed to the Elven haven. He did not mention the 
Princess of Rohan or events in Minas Tirith. That was a tale best 
recounted by Denethor's heir. Aragorn was surprised by the riddle of 
the dream, yet seemed more interested in Boromir's account of the 
black-robed riders. "Are you certain these riders were Nazgul? The 
nine were together when we were attacked at the Bruinen." The Ranger 
hastily told Haldir about the flight from Amon Sul to the Ford of 
Bruinen.

"Aye, I am certain enough from his description that they were wraiths. 
Of course, they may not have been following him, but merely traveling 
toward Imladris by the same paths. I do not like that he goes to 
Rivendell, for there is a dark stain on his soul." Aragorn raised an 
eyebrow and bid Haldir explain himself. While the Dunadan and the Elf 
of Lorien talked, Elladan patrolled the camp's perimeter for signs of 
danger. Though it was rare to find danger this close to the Last 
Homely House, there had been reports of small bands of orcs seen on 
this side of Hithaeglir. He also was in a position to eavesdrop 
without being noticed.

"There is one more issue I must bring up. It would not be wise to tell 
Denethor's heir exactly who you are. He covets the throne of Gondor 
and would not act too kindly toward its future occupant. Unless you 
feel the need for a fight, I suggest you keep your lineage to 
yourself." Aragorn looked thoughtfully at the sleeping Man. He had 
heard tales of Boromir's prowess as a warrior, as well as his 
legendary pride and stubbornness. It came as no surprise, therefore, 
that the one who had been trained almost his entire life to rule the 
greatest country in Middle-earth would have dreams of a kingship.

"He is much like his father, although I do not consider that 
comparison entirely complimentary. I am well acquainted with the Lord 
Denethor, for I came to know him during the years I spent in Gondor's 
service. He is a Man who finds it difficult to accept aught but his 
own counsel. If he has tutored his eldest son and heir to mimic him in 
all manners, then I fear that Boromir will never be content with 
anything less than complete control." Isildur's heir made a sound that 
could have been a sigh. "Still, we shall see what we shall see. It is 
probable that one of us will not survive the struggle against the Dark 
Lord. Boromir could yet claim Gondor's throne."

Haldir looked at him strangely, but Aragorn simply shrugged his broad 
shoulders and returned his gaze to the fire. He withdrew more pipe 
weed from a pouch on his belt and remained by the fire, smoking, and 
did not sleep.



--------------




7. The Last Homely House

At long last, Boromir reaches Imladris and Elrond treats him to some 
Elvish healing. I swear that this is Boromir's last mishap (unless you 
can call his looming death a mishap). I took a snippet of dialogue 
from the FOTR movie. It fit so perfectly into Aragorn's discussion of 
Minas Tirith.

* * * * * * * * *

Boromir could swear he smelled smoke. And was that faint sound in the 
distance music? Surely a burning forest either surrounded him, or he 
was dead. The Man of Gondor jerked fully awake. He was lying in an 
enormous bed centered within an airy room with lofty ceilings. A shaft 
of sunlight through an uncovered window momentarily blinded him, and 
he squeezed his eyes shut. A pleasant chuckle to his right let him 
know he was not alone.

"I am glad to see you finally awake. You've slept the better part of 
two days." Boromir turned his head and slowly opened one eye. When his 
vision adjusted to the brightness, he saw an old Man garbed in a drab 
gray robe belted at the waist. He was puffing on a long pipe. 
Recognition of his visitor came slowly. When he spoke, Boromir's voice 
was only slightly better than a croak.

"Mithrandir. We in Gondor have not seen you for many a year. I suppose 
I should say I am pleased to see you." The old wizard chuckled again 
at Boromir's rather dry tone.

"The older you become, the more you sound exactly like your father, 
the Lord Denethor. Who, by the way, I saw recently during my brief 
stay at Minas Tirith."

"You saw Father? How fares he? And my brother… did you also see 
Faramir?"

Mithrandir drew deeply on his pipe before offering a reply. "Aye, and 
aye again. Your brother gave me a letter to deliver to you, but for 
the life of me I cannot remember where I left it." Seeing Boromir's 
expression of dismay, the wizard hastily added, "It is with my 
belongings. Never fear, I shall find it. As to your father's 
wellbeing… I believe we should leave that subject for another time. 
Right now I wish to know how you are." Mithrandir rose from his chair 
by a window and moved to stand beside Boromir's bed. The Man was 
frowning, for the wizard's words had alerted him to possible trouble 
at home. He started to ask a question, but was interrupted by a deep, 
but lyrical, voice.

"Lord Boromir, you look much better this morn. I hope you have an 
appetite, for I have ordered breakfast to be served within the hour." 
Without waiting for an answer, the newcomer moved to the bed and 
grasped hold of the Man's wrist. Boromir reacted to the unexpected 
contact by yanking his arm free and reaching for a dagger that was not 
at its customary place at his waist. The Elf's look of amusement and 
the wizard's laughter made him soon realize that the Elf only meant to 
examine his pulse. Boromir shrugged his shoulders and extended his 
arm. "At least the fall didn't damage your reflexes," the tall being 
said dryly.

"Allow me to introduce you to Elrond Peredhil, Lord of Imladris." 
Mithrandir's eyes twinkled merrily beneath his bushy brows. Boromir 
looked from the wizard to the Elf and back again.

"My apologies, Lord Elrond. I have not been myself of late. I am 
unused to being injured so often, and so badly, in so short a time. I 
assure you that the Steward of Gondor did not rear his children to be 
so ungracious. I must apologize."

Elrond made a dismissive gesture with the hand that was not holding 
the Man's wrist. "Your pulse is steady and much stronger than it was 
when my son and his friends brought you home. Haldir says you are 
unused to Elves and their ways, and have little tolerance for either. 
If your stay at Lothlorien was unsatisfactory, then perhaps we can be 
more accommodating."

Boromir watched the Elf's face closely for signs that he knew about 
Eledwhen and the verbal fights between himself and her grandparents. 
If Elrond was aware of what took place in the Golden Wood, he gave no 
indication. Finally satisfied with the Man's vital signs, Elrond 
pulled back the covers and began examining the broken limb. "You were 
very fortunate, Lord Boromir. As painful as this must have been for 
you, it is not a serious break and should mend quickly. Haldir did an 
excellent job of setting the leg and I deem that it shall heal 
perfectly straight. Perhaps you might want to thank him?"

Although Elrond's words were formal, there was just the barest hint of 
a smile lurking behind his dark eyes. Boromir sighed. Haldir had 
certainly told the Lord of Imladris about their verbal fights. "In 
truth, I am grateful for Haldir's help and fear my bad mood has not 
allowed me to show it. I would welcome the chance to speak with Haldir 
as soon as possible."

Elrond glanced toward the room's arched opening. The Elf of Lorien 
swept aside the soft fabric covering the door, as though bidden to do 
so by an unspoken command. He bowed formally from the waist before 
moving gracefully to the bed. "Although you apologized in Caras 
Galadon for your previous rudeness, I accept this apology as well. I 
hope some day to observe you in good humor."

Boromir laughed. "If you wish to see me when I am more myself, then 
perhaps you would like to accompany me on my journey home. The Golden 
Wood is most certainly on the way and, too, I have reason to stop 
there, as you well know." Elrond and Mithrandir looked curiously at 
the Man and Elf. Although both smiled pleasantly, neither offered to 
enlighten their host with an explanation. Haldir was the first to 
break the silence.

"I am afraid I must return immediately to my homeland and will, 
therefore, be unable to look after you. I pray that the fates are much 
kinder to you on the return journey and that you have no more mishaps. 
Perhaps you would like for me to take a written message? I believe 
there is someone there who would be interested in knowing whether you 
managed not to get yourself killed." Haldir's smile was almost, but 
not quite, a smirk. Boromir's eyes narrowed, but he bit back the 
scathing retort that came to mind.

"That is most kind of you. I shall write as soon as may be." Haldir 
bowed formally to Lord Elrond, then nodded his head respectfully 
toward the wizard before exiting the room. Boromir could tell that 
those left were about to burst from curiosity, but he was not prepared 
to discuss his private affairs with strangers. "I greatly feel the 
need for sleep. Perhaps you will be so kind, Lord Elrond, to see that 
I receive writing materials?"

Elrond nodded politely and withdrew from the room, followed closely by 
the wizard. As they walked down the hallway, Mithrandir began 
chuckling. "All right, I shall ask the question if you will not. Who 
in Lorien would desire a letter from the Lord of Gondor? Hum?"

The Peredhil shook his head. "I warrant I can find out. There are no 
secrets in my domain."

* * * * * * * * *

Boromir was setting his seal to the back of the envelope containing 
his letter to Eledwhen when the Ranger rapped lightly. "May I enter?" 
Boromir nodded absently as he blew on the warm wax to cool it. Setting 
the letter aside, he wiped the wax from his signet ring before sliding 
it back on his finger. Aragorn, in the meantime, had drawn up a chair 
beside the bed and settled into it, his long legs stretched in front 
of him. "To whom do you write, if I may ask?"

Boromir gave him a narrow stare and resumed his examination of the wax 
seal. Finding it satisfactory, he then turned to his examination of 
the Ranger. So the Lord Elrond sends a Ranger of the North to poke 
about in my business. Then it is true that Elves are possessed of an 
insatiable curiosity. Denethor's son smiled amiably at his guest and 
settled comfortably against the large and incredibly soft pillows 
bracing his back. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, 
master Ranger?"

Aragorn tried to suppress a smile, but could tell by the tightening of 
the other Man's jaw that he had not been altogether successful. He 
assumed a deferential posture by bowing his head and folding his hands 
in his lap. "I have just returned from another sweep of the outlying 
lands and thought to see how you are mending."

"Have you not spoken to the Lord Elrond, then? For he and Mithrandir 
stopped by this morning." Boromir put on his best politician's smile 
and waited for the game to play itself out. He knew that Elrond had 
sent the Ranger to learn for whom the letter was meant, and he also 
knew that the Ranger knew he knew. Aragorn studied Denethor's heir 
thoughtfully before throwing his head back and laughing. This was not 
what Boromir had expected and he frowned. Noting the other Man's 
consternation, Aragorn wiped a tear from one eye and cleared his 
throat.

"I am sorry, but this situation is too amusing not to laugh. By your 
demeanor I surmise that you already know part of the purpose for my 
visit. It is true that the Lord Elrond is nearly bursting with 
curiosity over the intended recipient of that letter."

Boromir shook his head and allowed a faint smile to brighten his noble 
features. "I would have been disappointed had he not sent you. My 
father would never allow correspondence to pass from the Citadel 
without knowing first its content and destination. The Lord of 
Imladris is certainly within his rights. However, this is of a 
personal nature and I shall not reveal to whom I send it. The Peredhil 
will have to remain curious. Unless, of course, the Tree Elf spills 
his guts."

Once again Aragorn threw back his head and laughed until tears sprang 
to his eyes. Boromir finally relaxed and laughed companionably. "So, 
now that my duty to the Lord Elrond has been satisfied, I may now turn 
to my own purpose for coming here, for I sincerely desire to know how 
you are getting along with those injuries."

Boromir's right hand made a sweeping gesture toward his left leg. "My 
leg is mending nicely, according to the Lord Elrond. The ribs are 
merely fractured and are of no importance. I should be able to sit a 
horse well enough to travel in little more than the passing of one 
moon. It is my hope that our host will lend me a horse from his 
stables so that I may return to my city as quickly as possible. These 
are dark times and every Man is sorely needed."

Aragorn held Boromir's eyes with his keen gaze before lowering his 
head. The Ranger appeared to study his hands as he asked casually, 
"And what of your mission? Have you learned the answer to the riddle 
of your dreams?"

Boromir shifted his position in the bed so that he was staring 
directly into the other's face. "I see you have had more than a few 
passing words with Haldir. He is too chatty by far. Perhaps I should 
not entrust this letter to his keeping, since he will probably read it 
and bandy about its contents. Elves cannot be trusted." The Ranger 
gave Boromir a hard stare. His eyes had narrowed and a vein stood out 
prominently on his forehead. "I have angered you, Ranger of the North. 
I forget that you are friendly with these creatures."

Aragorn lowered his eyes slowly and Boromir sensed that a fire 
smoldered beneath the otherwise calm exterior. When the Man finally 
spoke, his words were carefully measured. "Aye, I am a friend to the 
Elves and they, to me, in kind. The Lord of Imladris reared me since I 
was naught but a wee child, so do not say to my face that an Elf 
cannot be trusted. I have entrusted them with my very life and have 
never been disappointed. This I cannot say of the race of Men."

Boromir snorted. "Then you have never been to Gondor, for my people 
are ever true to their word. We are a proud and noble race. Our rulers 
were descended from the Numenorean exiles that fled to Middle-earth 
with Elendil. No Man may question our resolve… or our honor."

Aragorn studied Denethor's son thoughtfully. "Nay, my Lord Boromir. I 
would not question your honor, no more so than I would question the 
honor of my Elven brethren. Perhaps you will understand more fully 
before your visit here ends." The Ranger rose slowly and stretched his 
long limbs gracefully, much as a cat does. Boromir had to admire his 
lean warrior's form.

"I believe you would make a formidable opponent, or ally. Perhaps I 
can persuade you to journey to Gondor with me? There is nothing more 
beautiful in Middle-earth than the sight of the morning sun shining 
down upon the White Tower of Ecthelion."

"I have seen the White City, long ago. If we are destined to travel 
together, I shall be glad to accompany you to your homeland. But first 
you must have the answers for which you traveled so far and suffered 
so much. Lord Elrond has called for a Council, and I believe you are 
expected to attend. Until then, I suggest you enjoy your status as an 
invalid, for I suspect that your time away from battle is rare, 
soldier of Gondor." Aragorn bowed formally and quietly left the room, 
leaving Boromir staring thoughtfully after him.



--------------




8. A Good Beginning

I have allowed Boromir to arrive in Rivendell a week before the 
Council instead of the day of the Council because he was injured and 
needed time to rest and heal. This chapter's purpose is to show the 
close friendship that could have developed had Boromir never learned 
that Aragorn was the heir to the throne of Gondor.

* * * * * * * * *

The heir to the Stewardship of Gondor was seated in a high-backed 
chair on his room's balcony. His broken leg was propped upon a plump 
cushion that rested upon an ottoman covered with a rather intriguing 
tapestry. The heavy fabric was woven with brightly colored threads and 
depicted a forest scene. In the forest, ethereal creatures frolicked 
about naked. Because of the cumbersome splint on his leg, Boromir 
could not examine the ottoman closely enough to determine exactly what 
those creatures were up to. He supposed, however, it was something 
sexual, for he had heard stories about the promiscuity of Elves. It 
certainly would not surprise him if the scene depicted all sorts of 
debaucheries.

The sound of someone clearing his throat interrupted the Man's 
reverie. Mithrandir was standing at the entrance to the balcony, 
regarding Boromir solemnly. "You look much better today. A week's rest 
in Lord Elrond's care is exactly what you needed. May I join you?" 
Boromir nodded and the wizard settled his large frame into one of the 
chairs that adorned the spacious balcony. "I have that letter sent by 
the Lord Faramir. Before you read it, however, there is a tale that 
must be told. I would put this off until after you are better rested, 
but I believe you need to know these things before the convening of 
the Council, which is set for tomorrow. Aragorn will be there, so you 
will know at least one other person. The Ranger can be trusted. He is 
a Man who has traveled far and seen much that is evil. He would be a 
loyal friend, and you are in need of friends."

Boromir studied Mithrandir closely. The wizard's grim visage made his 
stomach clench tightly. Something definitely was wrong at home. Seeing 
the Man's worried look, Mithrandir sighed softly. "I wish I could say 
that the news is not all that bad, but I fear that it is… or was. 
There was great hope when I left that things would soon return to 
normal, or as close to normalcy as they could."

Denethor's son was fidgeting with the signet ring on his left hand. 
When the wizard stopped talking, he spoke rapidly. "Tell me what has 
happened? Has the White City suffered some grave blow by the enemy?" 
Mithrandir's eyes reflected pity for him and Boromir felt 
uncomfortable beneath that gaze. Agitated, he moved as though to rise, 
but the wizard stood quickly and placed a large hand upon his 
shoulder.

"Do not fret, son of Denethor. Although darkness was allowed to worm 
its evil way into the very heart of Minas Tirith, it has now been cast 
out. Your brother and Prince Imrahil have things well in hand."

Boromir frowned. "You say Faramir and my uncle have things well in 
hand, but this is my father's duty. He is the Steward of Gondor. You 
had best tell me the entire tale and quickly. Delay any longer with 
these obscure references to something having happened to the Lord 
Denethor, and I shall rise from this chair and shake the truth from 
you!" The Man's hands were clenched tightly into fists, and he shook 
with suppressed tension.

"I apologize. It is cruel of me to torment you thusly. This is a 
difficult story to tell, and I have procrastinated long enough. It all 
began the night of the wedding feast for you and the Princess 
Eledwhen. The night she left Minas Tirith. However, since you already 
know of those events, I shall skip ahead to things you do not know." 
Slowly Mithrandir spoke of things Faramir had reported to him, with 
one exception. He did not tell Denethor's son that his father was the 
one who raped the Princess. If she had not told him, it was not his 
place to do so. Boromir did not interrupt the wizard's tale, but 
remained grimly silent except for an occasional groan of horror.

"I must return home as soon as possible! This is a burden to be borne 
by the Steward's heir. At the very least, my brother should not have 
to bear it alone."

The wizard, who had been perched atop the balcony rail during the 
telling of his tale, moved swiftly to the Man and knelt stiffly beside 
him. "Your brother is not alone. Your uncle, the Prince of Dol Amroth, 
remains by his side. Together they make a formidable alliance. I have 
no fear that the White City is well."

"Have you heard anything of my father? Has any word reached Imladris 
of his fate?" Mithrandir shook his grayed head and rose slowly. He 
withdrew a letter from a pocket hidden inside the folds of his robe.

"Read this. Perhaps it will help still your fears. Afterward, if you 
have questions, send for me." Boromir accepted the letter with fingers 
that trembled almost imperceptibly. The wizard bestowed a sympathetic 
look upon the Man before taking his leave. Gondor's heir did not 
notice; he already was deeply engrossed in Faramir's letter.

* * * * * * * * *

"Please be assured, Brother, that all that can be done for Father will 
be done. Though I cannot say how the Steward will be once he awakens, 
I have high hopes that the strength that has served him so well during 
these horrible dark years will sustain him now. As to the identity of 
the Man who attacked the Princess… I shall not speak his name now. If 
Eledwhen has not told you, it is not right you hear it from me. I pray 
that you both are safe and well, and that you return home soon. The 
city needs you. I need you."

The letter was signed Faramir, Acting Steward of Gondor. Boromir 
closed his eyes and tilted his head against the back of the chair. The 
warm sun helped quell the chills that wracked his weary body. I should 
never have left Gondor, but insisted that the Princess return with me 
to Minas Tirith. Had I been there, I could have stopped this madness. 
I would have seen that something was wrong with Father and done… What? 
What could he possibly have done to prevent the tragic events? Even 
knowing the truth of what had befallen his father, he could hardly 
believe it. If Faramir, with his insight, could not perceive the evil 
wrestling for control of the Steward, then how could I?

Boromir finally fell into a sleep troubled with visions of the Prince 
of Rohan chained and bloodied in the dungeons of the Citadel. The 
visions shifted and he saw his father bent over a large globe, his 
face lit a fiery red from the glow within. Boromir's vision was then 
filled with that bright red light; from its center formed a yellow eye 
that seemed to stare straight into his soul. Dimly Boromir heard a 
dark whisper. I offer you greatness and power beyond your imagining. 
Return to me what is mine. With a mighty effort, Boromir pulled back 
from that merciless gaze and awoke to find the Ranger standing beside 
his chair.

"Are you all right? You are bathed in sweat and flushed. Shall I send 
for the Lord Elrond?" Weakly, Boromir shook his head.

"Nay, I am fine. It was naught but a nightmare. I received some rather 
disturbing news and, doubtless, it was that which fueled my dreams. I 
thank you for your concern. Will you sit and speak with me for a 
spell? I could use some company." Aragorn nodded and moved to a table 
upon which a silver tray had been set while the Lord Boromir slept. 
The former poured some wine into a silver cup and handed it to the 
shaken Man.

"Drink. It will help chase the bad dreams away." Boromir smiled 
gratefully and took the cup from the Ranger's hand. Aragorn poured 
himself a cup of the fragrant wine before moving to a chair opposite 
the other Man. He sank into the chair, crossed his long legs and 
settled back comfortably. Raising his cup in a toast, the Ranger said, 
"To your health, son of Denethor. May you have better luck in the days 
to come."

Boromir laughed mirthlessly. "I shall certainly drink to that." Both 
Men remained silent for several minutes as they savored the taste of 
the fine red wine. Aragorn, who had been staring into his cup, lost 
deeply in thought, looked up and saw that Boromir, too, seemed far 
away thinking, perhaps, of the news delivered by the letter on his 
lap. Boromir's sight refocused and he followed the Ranger's gaze to 
the letter. "A missive from my brother. Things at home are not as they 
should be."

Aragorn uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "Gandalf hinted as much 
but would, of course, say nothing directly. If you wish a sympathetic 
ear, I am at your service. I have had much practice at keeping 
secrets, if you do not wish others to know the contents of that 
letter." Boromir scrutinized the Ranger intently, trying to take the 
measure of the Man. Slowly he nodded.

"I believe you to be an honorable person and one who can be trusted. 
The wizard, whom you name Gandalf, has spoken highly of you. Were my 
brother here, I would confide in him. But he is not and I am in need 
of a confidant. Our ancestors shared the same blood, and it is not 
likely that the Lord of Imladris would trust you with his son's life 
were you not worthy. The wizard says you have seen much evil in your 
travels. Perhaps, then, you can understand things I do not." Boromir 
gave the Ranger an abridged version of events he had learned from the 
letter and from Mithrandir. Aragorn kept a neutral expression upon his 
face, occasionally murmuring words of encouragement when Gondor's heir 
faltered, overwhelmed by sudden rushes of emotions. When Boromir fell 
silent, Aragorn leaned back in the chair and steepled long, graceful 
fingers to his face. He finally ventured a few carefully chosen words.

"I sense that you have doubts that the Dark Lord could bend your 
father's mind to his bidding. Would you prefer to believe the Steward 
of Gondor acted of his own free will?"

Boromir shuddered involuntarily. "Nay! Rather would I believe that my 
father was an innocent puppet, with the Nameless One pulling the 
strings. To say otherwise would be to condemn my father as a hopeless 
madman! Or worse." Again Boromir shuddered. When he spoke, his voice 
was softer, more reflective. "I did not know that the Steward 
possessed one of the Seeing-Stones. My brother and I often speculated 
as to what he did in the Tower late at night. And he knows things, 
things that only Faramir and I could possibly know. Things we never 
shared with another living soul. All these years I believed my father 
to be possessed of some magical sight."

Aragorn chuckled. "Some would say that the Palantiri are magical. 
These powerful globes enabled their users to witness events and to 
communicate with others over great distances. You would not be the 
first to call this magic."

The Steward's son covered his face with his hands. When he spoke, his 
voice was muffled. "I always believed my father to be infallible. That 
he could stand up to anything, no matter how foul. In June, when my 
brother and I faced the Nazgul on the bridge at Osgiliath, we both 
quaked at such terrible and pure evil. I was ashamed because I 
believed my father would never have been frozen at the sight of those 
things. I still do not know by what miracle Faramir and I managed to 
survive. I often have asked myself why we were spared when so many 
died. Do you know that only four survived?"

"Nay, I did not know, though I have heard tales of that battle; of how 
you and your brother must have been touched by the hands of the Valar 
themselves. I, too, have seen much evil and many unspeakable horrors. 
Would that the times were gentler and kinder." Boromir was moved by 
the wistful longing he saw in the Ranger's dark eyes.

"Perhaps you will return with me to my city. I should like you to meet 
my brother. You two should get along famously, for you are much alike. 
I should also like you to meet my father. Perhaps he will be well when 
I return."

Aragorn looked sympathetically upon Gondor's heir. He did not want to 
speak of his years of service to that land, or of his acquaintance 
with Ecthelion's son. Some things were best left unsaid. "We shall see 
where fate takes us. For now, be content that Gandalf was able to save 
the day, and that Rohan and Gondor were spared a crippling war. For 
now, I must bid you good day, Lord Boromir." The Ranger placed his 
hand firmly upon Boromir's shoulder before leaving. Somehow, the 
companionable gesture made the Man of Gondor feel much better, as 
though a heavy load had been lifted from his shoulders. I feel there 
is more to this Ranger than meets the eye. He definitely bears 
watching.



----------




9. Making Merry

This chapter deals with the feast the night before the Great Council. 
It is told from Boromir's point of view. I used Tolkien's 
descriptions, though not verbatim. Boromir and Aragorn have developed 
the beginnings of a good friendship. I have included Elrond's sons. I 
know that Tolkien did not have them in Rivendell at the time of the 
feast or the Council, but I feel they add something to this plot.

* * * * * * * * *

The Last Homely House was filled with the ringing of many bells. The 
melodious sounds echoed throughout the Lord Elrond's home, summoning 
one and all to a celebration. The Ring Bearer had recovered and a 
great feast had been prepared in his honor.

Aragorn stood just inside the entrance to Boromir's chamber; he had 
volunteered to escort Gondor's heir to the feast. Now he stood and 
watched as his rival for the rule of the greatest nation in 
Middle-earth fastened his rich fur-lined cloak with a silver brooch, 
upon which the white tree of Gondor had been etched. Aragorn decided 
that the Man looked every inch the ruler he had been trained to be.

Boromir sensed he was being studied and looked up quickly. His gaze 
was met and held for a few seconds by the clear gray eyes of the 
Ranger of the North. "What are you thinking?"

"That you will be a strong Steward when your time comes." Boromir 
quickly turned his head and busied himself with searching for a cane 
that had been specially made for him by the Elves. He did not want the 
Ranger to see the surprise he felt at the unexpected compliment. His 
father had repeatedly warned that a successful ruler never let anyone 
see his emotions or guess what he was thinking. To hide his discomfort 
at the compliment, Boromir changed the subject. "This celebration. Do 
you know the purpose for it?"

Aragorn laughed. The lightness of the sound made Boromir feel a bit 
envious. It had been a long time since he had laughed so gaily. "Elves 
need no reason to throw a celebration. In truth, they celebrate almost 
anything and everything -- the rising of the sun, the setting of the 
same, the dawn of spring -- Elves are lighthearted and love to sing 
and make merry. However, there is a special occasion for this 
particular feast. An honored guest was gravely injured and is now 
recovered. Even as yourself. So you could say we celebrate the good 
fortune of those whose journey to Rivendell was marred by injury, but 
whose recovery from those injuries has been most satisfactory." 
Boromir fixed the other with a curious stare.

"Who is this other 'honored guest' and how was he injured?"

Aragorn smiled enigmatically. "Come with me if you wish to know. You 
are in need of some lighthearted entertainment, and the Lord of 
Imladris is famous for his hospitality."

* * * * * * * * *

Boromir stood beneath the great arch that marked the entrance to the 
hall of Elrond's house. His jaw dropped slightly as he beheld the fair 
folk that filled the enormous space. Most of the guests were Elves 
bedecked in their finest raiment. The vibrant colors of their clothes 
and the rich hues of their hair made the hall shimmer and glow, much 
as a rainbow against a blazing blue sky. The Ranger touched Boromir's 
arm lightly and nodded his head toward the folk seated at a long table 
upon a dais. Boromir saw the Lord Elrond seated in a great chair at 
the end of the table. On his left sat the old wizard; on his right sat 
an Elf with hair of shining gold. The Elf's face was fair and young; 
his eyes bright and keen. When his gaze fell upon the son of Denethor, 
it seemed it held the wisdom of the ages. The Man could only stare in 
awe.

Aragorn followed Boromir's gaze, leaned close and whispered, "That is 
Glorfindel, one of the Elven-wise. He is a lord of the Eldar from 
beyond the furthest seas -- one of the mighty of the First-born. I 
doubt you shall see another like him in your lifetime. Excuse me for a 
moment, for I see someone with whom I must speak."

Aragorn bowed slightly and moved soundlessly away. Boromir soon lost 
sight of him as he vanished into the throng of merrymakers. Turning 
his gaze back to the table on the dais, Boromir studied his host. Like 
most of the Elves, Elrond's face was ageless. His hair was as dark as 
the shadows of twilight, and upon it was set a circlet of silver. He 
looked very wise and noble.

Boromir caught sight of the Ranger again and watched as he approached 
a chair beneath a canopy. On the chair sat a lady so fair to look upon 
that the Man forgot to breathe. Her luxurious dark hair was braided 
and, above her brow, her head was covered with a cap of silver lace 
netted with small white gems that glittered in the torchlight. Her 
pale, smooth skin was flawless; her form was slender and graceful. But 
it was her eyes that drew him to her mostly, for he thought he saw the 
light of stars in bright eyes as gray as a cloudless night. Boromir 
felt a pang of jealousy to see that the Ranger seemed to have more 
than a passing acquaintance with the beautiful lady. He watched as the 
Man lightly placed his hand upon her shoulder as he bent to listen to 
her words. Their gaze was intimate and she favored the Ranger with a 
smile so radiant it rivaled the brilliance of the sun. Who is this 
wondrous creature? She clearly bears a close resemblance to the Lord 
Elrond, so perhaps she is his kinswoman.

"I see you are admiring Lord Elrond's daughter, the Lady Arwen." 
Boromir jumped slightly, for he had not sensed the presence of the one 
who spoke. He turned his head until he could see the Elf who stood 
beside him. He was surprised to see Haldir. "I thought you would be 
walking the Golden Woods by now, Master Elf. Have you decided to join 
me on my journey homeward?"

Haldir shook his head and produced a rueful smile. "Nay, I leave after 
the Council. I would have left sooner but the Lord Elrohir convinced 
me to accompany him on a scouting mission. It has been many years 
since I have seen the sons of Elrond, and I could not refuse the 
chance to catch up on the gossip of Imladris."

Boromir looked at the Elf speculatively. "And did you, in turn, share 
recent events in Lorien with your companions?"

Haldir assumed the indignant expression of one who has been grievously 
wronged. "I have said naught of that which concerns you and your lady, 
if that if the subject of your concern. I value Eledwhen's friendship 
too highly to risk losing it by the spreading of idle gossip. Have no 
fear, Man of Gondor, your secret is safe with me; although, I see no 
reason to keep your wife a secret. Unless, perhaps…" Haldir's eyes 
strayed to the Lady Arwen as he spoke. Boromir followed his gaze 
across the room and then scowled fiercely as the inference sank deep.

"I have said naught because I do not wish to bring dishonor upon the 
one I love. We have not been wed, and I would not have others speak 
ill of the Princess Eledwhen."

Haldir grinned broadly and slapped the Man on his back. "You are 
married, you great oaf! You two pledged yourselves both verbally and 
physically to remain one for the rest of your lives. That is all it 
takes under Elven law. If you choose to remarry under mortal laws, 
that is your business. But do not worry about your lady's honor, for 
she is your wife legally and I would kill any folk who said 
differently."

Boromir was surprised and more than a little pleased to hear Haldir 
defend Eledwhen so vehemently. He started to ask the Elf why he had 
not been told this rather important piece of information sooner, but 
stopped when he saw Aragorn motion for him to join those on the dais. 
"I would continue this conversation at a later time," the Man said 
solemnly. Haldir produced an overly exaggerated bow and moved away 
swiftly to join two Elves who were as close in looks as two peas in a 
pod. With a start, he realized that he was looking at two Elladans. 
Moving his gaze back to the Ranger and the Elf beside him, Boromir 
gave a slight nod of his head in acknowledgement and began picking his 
way through the crowd. Since most of those attending the feast were 
Elves, the Man felt like a bull charging through a field of wheat, 
which was to say he felt incredibly ungraceful.

Upon reaching Aragorn's side, Boromir bowed respectfully toward Arwen. 
"Your beauty literally takes my breath away, my lady."

Elrond's daughter smiled prettily and turned her lovely eyes upon the 
Ranger. "You were wrong, my love. He is quite the charmer." Turning to 
look at their guest from the South, who was blushing furiously and 
doing a poor job of hiding it, Arwen motioned for him to sit next to 
her. Boromir sat somewhat awkwardly, (thanks to his leg still being in 
a splint) and placed the delicately carved cane to the side of the 
chair. He looked at the lady beside him, but her attention had been 
drawn to a small child-like figure being seated across the table. 
Boromir scrutinized the newcomer closely and noticed that, although he 
had been seated upon several cushions, his shoulders were still only 
even with the tabletop. Whatever this creature was, it looked very 
small seated among all the tall folk, and very out of place. "It is 
called a Hobbit and this celebration is in his honor," offered the 
Lady Arwen helpfully before turning her attention to Aragorn.

As Boromir continued his study of the Hobbit, a richly garbed dwarf of 
important appearance sat down on the creature's right. The dwarf's 
white beard was very long and forked. The Man strained to hear their 
conversation, but could discern nothing other than the initial 
greeting by the dwarf of "Welcome and well met!" Disappointed, Boromir 
turned his attention back to the Lady Arwen. She is more beautiful 
than Eledwhen in some ways, but not so beautiful in other ways. But 
then, to compare the two is akin to comparing night and day, for 
Eledwhen is as bright and pure and as radiant as the day, while the 
Lady Arwen is as dark and mysterious and as lovely as the night. The 
lady turned her head and bestowed upon him a beatific smile. Gently 
she placed a delicate white hand upon his arm and whispered, "You must 
tell me of your lady love sometime."

The Man began to stammer a reply but Arwen stopped him with a silvery 
laugh. "There is no need for embarrassment. I cannot read your 
thoughts, but only catch the occasional feelings of strong emotion and 
what lies behind those feelings. I sense that you are in love and that 
you miss her greatly. But we shall, perhaps, speak of this later. You 
should eat, for your plate remains untouched. You are missing some of 
the greatest cooking in all Middle-earth." Wanting to please this 
gracious lady, Boromir picked up his fork and set to his plate.

* * * * * * * * *

The feast finally came to an end, and Elrond and Arwen went down the 
hall arm in arm. Aragorn moved to Boromir's chair and handed him the 
Elven-made cane. "Hurry or you will miss the singing and 
story-telling." Boromir frowned and shook his head from side to side.

"I believe I will skip the merriment. I am tired and would prefer to 
rest. I will need my strength tomorrow, for I hear the Council will 
most likely last the entire day. I understand from speaking with the 
Lord Elrond that I will learn the answer to my riddle. Since it is for 
this reason that I spent approximately three months on the road, I 
believe I should make certain I am not asleep when the meaning is 
revealed."

Aragorn grinned and offered Boromir help rising from the chair. 
However, the Man dismissed him with a wave. "You are more needed 
elsewhere. I believe there is a beautiful lady who desires your 
company. I would not leave her waiting too long, if I were you. There 
are many Elves about and all are more comely to look at than are you. 
Do not give them a chance to encroach upon what territory you have 
claimed."

The Ranger roared with laughter, managed to speak his leave taking, 
and then disappeared down the hall in the direction taken by Elrond 
and his daughter. Boromir began the long walk back to his chamber, 
serenaded by the sound of elvish minstrels making sweet music.

* * * * * * * * *

Gondor's heir was in sight of his chamber when he heard loud arguing. 
Curious, he stopped to listen. Boromir could make out two male voices 
that could only belong to Elves. "I tell you that there will be 
trouble when he learns who Estel is. Father should not permit him to 
attend the Council tomorrow."

The voice of the second Elf sounded somewhat piqued. "Elladan, the 
Lord of Imladris cannot snub the Steward's son because you are afraid 
he may pick a fight with our foster brother. And even should he be so 
brash as to challenge Estel to a sword fight, I doubt he could win. 
His leg is broken, you ninny!"

Boromir moved closer to where the two voices emanated. The owners of 
those voices were standing in an alcove and were hidden from the Man's 
sight. Boromir remembered Elladan, who had been with the party that 
had escorted him and Haldir to Imladris. But he was perplexed as to 
why the Elf should think he would be interested in challenging this 
Estel to a fight. Especially as they called him their foster brother. 
Elladan insults me, for no Man of Gondor would bring shame upon 
himself by fighting with his host's son, whether he is a son by blood 
or no. Boromir started to approach the two brothers to confront them, 
but was distracted by a loud crashing noise at the opposite end of the 
hallway. He heard what sounded like an elvish curse and decided that 
the confrontation could wait until after the Council.

The Man limped stiffly into his chamber, unaware that Elladan had 
stepped into the hallway and was watching him. Elrohir moved beside 
him and followed his brother's gaze. "I think you are being too 
judgmental. He is not a fool."

Elladan looked gravely at his twin brother. "Yet he is Denethor's son. 
That makes him a danger to Aragorn. I shall watch him closely, even if 
you will not."

Elrohir watched his brother stalk noiselessly down the hallway. Once 
the other was out of sight, his eyes shifted to the entrance to 
Boromir's chamber. How much of our conversation did he hear, I wonder? 
Sighing, Elrond's younger son walked slowly toward the Hall of Fire, 
where the celebration was now well under way.


-------------



10. Riddles in the Dark Revealed

At the beginning of this chapter, the Council of Elrond has been going 
on for most of the morning. Boromir relates his account of the fall of 
Osgiliath, his encounter with the Ringwraiths, and the dream that had 
plagued him and his brother since that encounter. Boromir's reaction 
to Aragorn's heritage is not a happy one. I have used some of 
Tolkien's dialogue exactly as he wrote it; some of the dialogue I 
paraphrased. A lot of the dialogue is from my own imagination. I hope 
you like the way I wove the three together to fit into my own plot.

* * * * * * * * *

Boromir found himself occasionally nodding off as he was forced to 
endure long-winded accounts of events in the world that were of no 
particular interest to himself. The dwarf's tale he found somewhat 
interesting, for Gloin spoke of the awakening of "the nameless fear." 
Boromir let his attention wander until he heard the word "ring." He 
then sat up straight in his chair and listened attentively.

The dwarf had been explaining how a horseman, who identified himself 
as a messenger for Sauron, had appeared in the night to speak with 
Dain, King of Durin's folk. Gloin told of the messenger's request for 
information about "a little ring, the least of rings" that had been 
stolen by a Hobbit. Although Dain had not seen fit to answer the 
request, he was worried about the potential threat from Mordor should 
he continue his present course.

"Twice the messenger has returned and has gone unanswered. The third 
and last time, so he says, is soon to come, before the ending of the 
year." Gloin looked at one of the Hobbits and smiled kindly before 
turning his gaze upon the Lord Elrond. "And so I have been sent by 
Dain to warn Bilbo that he is sought by the Enemy and to learn, if may 
be, why he desires this ring, this least of rings." Gloin looked 
expectantly at the Lord of Imladris.

Elrond's face was grim and his voice even grimmer. "We thank you for 
this information and for the warning. This may be of little comfort to 
you and your people, but I say that you do not stand alone in your 
defiance of the Nameless One. In good time you shall learn all you 
need to know concerning the purposes of the Enemy, for there are many 
here who have had dealings with his servants."

Gloin shook his grizzled head and growled a question. "What of this 
ring that the Dark Lord seeks? What importance does it hold for him 
that his mouthpiece rides so far from Mordor in search of it?"

Elrond looked down at the dwarf. "That is the true purpose of this 
Council, to reveal the truth about this "least of rings" that Sauron 
so strongly covets." And so Elrond began the tale of Sauron and the 
Rings of Power and their forging in the Second Age. After what seemed 
an eternity to Boromir, who was becoming extremely uncomfortable 
sitting in the hard, straight-backed chair, Elrond finally came to the 
part of his story that concerned Isildur. "Isildur cut the Ring from 
Sauron's hand with the hilt-shard of his father's sword and took it 
for his own."

Boromir stirred in his chair and leaned forward eagerly. "So that is 
what became of the Ring," he cried. "I have heard of the Great Ring of 
him that we do not name, but we in Gondor believe that it perished 
from the world in the ruin of his first realm. Isildur took it! This 
is tidings indeed. Now do I see the importance of the Lord Gloin's 
tale, for I perceive the truth of this 'least of rings' spoken of by 
the messenger."

Elrond gave the Man a sharp look before turning his gaze upon the 
faces of those about him. Each contained an expectant look mixed with 
dread. The Elven Lord sighed inwardly before continuing his tale. At 
last he spoke of the realm of Gondor in the South and of its long 
struggle to endure against the forces of darkness. He touched briefly 
upon the evil things that took Minas Ithil and dwelt in it and named 
it Minas Morgul, the Tower of Sorcery. "Then Minas Anor was named anew 
Minas Tirith, the Tower Guard, and these two cities were ever at war. 
But Osgiliath, which lay between, was deserted and in its ruins 
shadows walked." Elrond turned to Boromir. "So it has been for many 
lives of Men, but the Lords of Minas Tirith still fight on. Now, to 
our great sorrow, the One has been found. Others shall speak of its 
finding, for in that I played small part.

"But first we must hear from the Lord Boromir, who has come all the 
way from Minas Tirith to hear the answer to a dream that haunts both 
him and his brother." Saying this, Elrond motioned the Man of Gondor 
to take the floor. Boromir rose slowly, keeping a firm grip upon his 
cane, and took the place vacated by his host. He stared at those about 
him, letting his gaze linger upon the face of the Ranger of the North. 
There was something in Aragorn's expression that Boromir found 
unsettling. Slowly he turned his gaze back upon the Lord Elrond.

"The news from my homeland is grim, for we are constantly harried and 
set upon by the minions of the Nameless One. In June, terrible 
creatures -- I since have learned were vile servants called 
Ringwraiths -- won the passage of the bridge of Osgiliath and 
dispersed northward. My brother, Faramir, and I were able to drive 
back the enemy and destroy the bridge, where we almost met our doom. 
We lost all but four who fought for Osgiliath, and yet we remain 
steadfast in our resolve to rid Middle-earth of this evil.

"Our numbers dwindle, however, and little help have we earned from 
those whose lands have been spared by the spilling of our blood. 
Gondor will fight on until the last of her sons falls in battle. And 
when that day comes, the dark tide will sweep across the lands to our 
north and all shall be destroyed or come under the dominion of Mordor. 
I shall not live to see this happen, I think, but the thought of all 
that is good dying so tragically makes my blood run cold." Boromir 
fell silent and it seemed he would not speak again.

Elrond prodded him to continue. "The hour grows late, son of Denethor, 
and we would hear of the dream that has plagued you since the fall of 
Osgiliath."

Boromir's eyes refocused and he lifted his proud head. Squaring his 
shoulders, the Man began the tale of the dream. "On the eve of the 
sudden assault of Osgiliath a dream came to my brother in a troubled 
sleep. Afterward a like dream came oft to him again, and once to me. 
In that dream I thought the eastern sky grew dark and there was a 
growling thunder, but in the West a pale light lingered and out of it 
I heard a voice, remote but clear, crying:

Seek for the Sword that was broken:
In Imladris it dwells;
There shall be counsels taken
Stronger than Morgul-spells.
There shall be shown a token
That Doom is near at hand,
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,
And the Halfling forth shall stand.

"Long did my brother search for answers to this dream in the libraries 
of Gondor, finding nothing but frustration. He asked leave of my 
father, the Steward of Gondor, to seek Imladris and the riddle's 
answer. But my father remained steadfast in his refusal until certain 
events forced me to undertake the journey. Of those events I shall not 
speak of here, for they be of a personal nature."

At this bit of news, Aragorn looked speculatively at the Man, 
wondering what portentous event could have forced Gondor's 
Captain-General to leave his country in crisis and seek the counsel of 
Elves. He looked at Haldir, but the Elf's expression was unreadable; 
he sat ramrod straight in his chair, his gaze locked upon the Man of 
Gondor. Aragorn turned his attention back to Boromir in time to hear 
him say: "Long was the road I wandered. I was pursued by evil and 
injured twice, once near to death. But of these things I shall say no 
more, for I am here and alive and seek answers, not pity."

Aragorn knew the time had finally come for him to reveal to Boromir 
his true identity. He had dreaded the coming of this day because he 
feared it would mean the end of their blossoming friendship. But 
Isildur's heir was not one to shrink from unpleasant tasks and so he 
stood and cast his sword upon the table that stood before Elrond. 
"Here is the blade that was broken," he said quietly.

Boromir's expression was one of surprise and uncertainty. He looked 
slowly from the blade on the table to Aragorn's face and back again. 
"How is it that a Ranger carries Elendil's sword, and what have you to 
do with Minas Tirith?" He watched the other's face closely and noted 
the sadness that flickered briefly across it.

"He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn," said Elrond, "and he is descended 
through many fathers from Isildur, Elendil's son of Minas Ithil."

Boromir was stunned into silence and he took two steps away from the 
Ranger. His eyes narrowed and suspicion glinted there for all to read. 
"I knew that there was more to you than met the eye, yet never would I 
have thought you to be deceitful." The Man's tone of voice was filled 
with the anger of betrayal. His gray eyes were hard as steel as he 
stared unflinchingly into the eyes of his erstwhile friend.

The heavy silence was broken finally by the light voice of one of the 
Hobbits. "Then it belongs to you and not to me at all!" cried out 
Frodo. Boromir looked at the creature that had been seated across the 
table from him the night before during the feast. His jaw dropped and 
he looked to Elrond for an explanation.

"Bring out the Ring, Frodo!" It was Gandalf who spoke. "The time has 
come. Hold it up and then Boromir will understand the remainder of his 
riddle."

The Hobbit reluctantly drew forth a round golden ring that gleamed and 
flickered as he held it up before the members of the Council. All 
noted how his hand trembled. "Behold Isildur's Bane!" cried Elrond.

Boromir looked in amazement from the Ring to the small creature that 
held it. "The Halfling," he muttered. Looking back to Elrond, he 
cried: "Is this then the doom of Minas Tirith come at last? But why 
then should we seek a broken sword? And what proof is there that this 
is Isildur's heir?" He looked challengingly at Aragorn as he asked the 
last question.

Elrond stiffened and started to speak, but it was Aragorn who 
answered. "The words were not the doom of Minas Tirith, but that doom 
and great deeds are at hand. For the Sword that was Broken is the 
Sword of Elendil that broke beneath him when he fell. Now that you 
have seen the sword that you have sought, what would you ask? Do you 
wish for the House of Elendil to return to the Land of Gondor?"

Boromir's voice was barely under control when he spoke. "I want 
nothing from a Man who befriends another under false pretenses. Nor 
did I come here to beg any boon. I came for answers, and answers I 
have found. As soon as I am able to ride, I will return to my homeland 
and continue to defend her until my dying day."

An Elf dressed in green and brown jumped up out of his chair and 
quickly moved to stand beside Aragorn. "You should not speak with such 
disrespect to your future King." Aragorn groaned softly and stilled 
the Elf with a sharp look.

Boromir's eyes narrowed to slits. "I shall never call this Man 'King.' 
Nor will I support him against my father. Do not presume, Aragorn, 
that you can stroll into the White City and claim her for your own 
with nothing but old legends to back you. I have earned my birthright 
by fighting and bleeding for the nation that I love. What right have 
you to lay claim to the country I have protected most of my life?"

Aragorn said nothing. He felt wretched and wished he had been open 
about his heritage from the beginning. He had not because he hoped 
they would become friends, thereby preventing the ugly scene everyone 
at the Council now bore witness to. "Enough," Elrond said, his voice 
harsh. "This is a matter to be settled another time and in another 
place. I will not allow petty jealousy to deviate us from our true 
purpose. Lord Boromir, if you cannot conduct yourself in a manner 
befitting your station, I must ask that you leave this Council."

It took every ounce of control he possessed, but Boromir managed a 
formal bow to both his host and his rival. Gathering his dignity about 
him like a cloak, he limped back to his chair and sat down. He looked 
up and caught Aragorn gazing at him with a look that was a mixture of 
pity and regret. It was the pity Boromir saw in the Ranger's face that 
made him swear he would see Aragorn dead rather than allow him to be 
crowned King of Gondor. He turned his head and his gaze fell upon the 
Halfling with the ring. "Lord Elrond. You say that Isildur's Bane has 
been found, but how do we know that this ring is the One? I have seen 
a bright ring in the Halfling's hand, but I do not know that it is the 
same as Isildur cut from the hand of the Dark Lord. How do the Wise 
know that this ring is his? I would have proof, since I doubt that 
such a great treasure would have fallen into the hands of so strange a 
messenger."

"I believe it is time for Bilbo to tell his tale," said Gandalf, 
looking toward the older Hobbit. And so Bilbo told, for the first 
time, the true tale of his finding of the Ring. And after him, Gandalf 
explained how he had determined that the Ring was, indeed, the One 
crafted by Sauron in the Second Age.

And so the Council continued and much was revealed, but Boromir, in 
the bitterness of his rage, heard only snatches of this and that. 
Often he looked at Aragorn from beneath hooded lids, his anger 
building, fueled by his belief that the Ranger had only been friendly 
with him to…what? Surely the Man did not believe that the heir to the 
Stewardship of Gondor would help a stranger usurp his father's rule. 
And, too, he had liked Aragorn; had been drawn to him as a kindred 
spirit. He felt as relaxed around the Ranger as he was with Faramir, 
which made the Man's betrayal that much more insidious. I must return 
to Minas Tirith as soon as possible to warn Father against the coming 
of Isildur's heir. I not only have my own birthright to protect, but 
that of my son.

Boromir was so absorbed in his own tortured thoughts that he almost 
did not hear Elrond when he pronounced the fate of the One Ring. A 
startled gasp snapped him back to the present in time to hear the Lord 
of Imladris say, "We must send the Ring to the Fire."

Everyone fell silent. Boromir looked upon those in the room with 
disbelief. He frowned and finally found his voice. "It is folly and 
madness to even think about destroying this Ring, for it is our only 
chance to defeat the Nameless One. If the Elves do not have the 
stomach to use this power, then give it to the race of Men. We are not 
frightened by children's stories or ancient legends."

Elrond blinked rather owlishly before gaining control of himself. He 
knew better than to be shocked by anything said by a Man. "And whom 
would you suggest we choose to carry the burden of the Ring?"

"I will carry this 'smallest of rings' if no one else has the courage 
or good sense to do so. It is a tool to be used to save Middle-earth. 
It would be folly to throw it into the fire and end all our chances 
for survival!" Boromir was breathing heavily and a hint of desperation 
glinted in his gray eyes.

"Have you heard nothing? You cannot wield the Ring. None of us can! 
The Ring answers only to Sauron. It must be destroyed." Aragorn spoke 
rather more sharply than he had intended, but he needed to make 
Gondor's heir understand their situation. He could tell by the 
stubbornness blazing in Boromir's eyes that he did not accept the need 
for the Ring's intended fate.

"I ask only that you give me the means to defend my people. We are 
near the end of our strength and yet we somehow manage to fight on. 
The One Ring is the only hope for Gondor that I can see, and you say 
to cast it into the Fires of Mount Doom. If this is wisdom, then I am 
an orc." Boromir turned to face Aragorn, who stood only a few feet 
from him. Boromir's gaze was challenging, as though he dared Isildur's 
heir to disagree with him.

Finally, Boromir spoke directly to the Ranger. "If you are truly 
Isildur's heir, you would support my position to use the Ring to save 
our people. For if we do nothing, there will be no kingdom for you to 
rule. What say you to that, son of Arathorn?"

Aragorn ignored the Man's sarcastic tone and answered levelly. "I say 
that we must listen to those who have lived much longer than have we. 
Elrond was with Elendil and Isildur during the Last Alliance when 
Sauron was overthrown. The Lord of Imladris survived the Black Years 
and learned much that can help us defeat the Enemy in his new guise. I 
say it would be folly to ignore his advice."

Boromir next turned to Elrond, his hard features softening. When he 
spoke, his tone was almost plaintive. "I do not understand all this. 
Why should we not think that the Great Ring has come into our hands to 
serve us in the very hour of our need? Wielding it, the Free Lords of 
the Free may surely defeat the Enemy. That is what he most fears, I 
deem. I say take the Ring and go forth to victory!"

Elrond shook his head sadly. He knew that if Boromir could not be made 
to see the folly of wielding the Ring, his leave-taking of Imladris 
would be a bitter one indeed. "We cannot use the Ruling Ring. It 
belongs to Sauron and was made by him alone, and it is altogether 
evil. Its strength, Boromir, is too great for anyone to wield at will, 
save only those who have already a great power of their own." To 
forestall the eager question he saw in the Man's eyes, Elrond rushed 
his next words. "But for the Wise, it holds an even deadlier peril. 
For should someone be strong enough to cast down the Dark Lord, we 
would then have yet another Dark Lord in his place. And that is 
another reason why the Ring should be destroyed; as long as it is in 
the world it will be a danger even to the Wise. I will not take the 
Ring to wield it."

"Nor will I," Gandalf added. Boromir looked at them doubtfully, his 
anger simmering just below the surface. He began to twist the signet 
ring on his left hand. When he spoke, his voice had a hard edge to it.

"If this is the decision of the entire Council, then so be it. I shall 
return to my homeland and continue to lead my Men in battle. Mayhap 
the Sword that was Broken may still stem the tide, if the hand that 
wields it has inherited not an heirloom only, but the sinews of the 
Kings of Men." Boromir's last words were another direct challenge to 
Aragorn, who lifted his eyes to hold the gaze of the other and replied 
softly, "Who can tell? But we will put it to the test one day."

Boromir gave a derisive snort and said bitterly, "May the day not be 
too long delayed. And may this so-called future King of Gondor be of 
sterner stuff than Isildur, for had he not taken the Ring for himself, 
but destroyed it when he had the chance, Gondor would not now be in 
such a desperate position." Aragorn bowed his head and said nothing. 
The silence in the room became unbearable. Elrond finally declared 
that the Ring would be destroyed, and that it was now only a question 
of who would carry the One Ring into the very heart of Mordor.

Bilbo spoke up and everyone was amazed and even amused by the old 
Hobbit's assumption that the Peredhil meant for him to bear the Ring 
to Mordor. Once it was made clear to Bilbo that his role in the saga 
was over, everyone looked about to see who next would step forward. 
There was an uncomfortable silence when no one did. The noon-bell 
rang, and still no one stirred. Finally, into the loud silence, a 
small voice was raised. "I will take the Ring, though I do not know 
the way."

Boromir gaped at the diminutive Hobbit who stood trembling in the 
center of those gathered for the Council. For an instant, the Man was 
tempted to laugh at the absurdity of such a small and defenseless 
creature undertaking such an enormous task, but the laughter never 
erupted for he saw that no one else was amused. Instead, their faces 
were solemn and Boromir could see that all had respect for the Hobbit 
called Frodo.

"If I understand aright all that I have heard, I think that this task 
is appointed for you, Frodo, and that if you do not find a way, no one 
will." Elrond's voice resonated deeply about the hall. Again there was 
silence, until the voice of another Hobbit piped up: "But you won't 
send him off alone surely, Master?" Elrond smiled at the Hobbit who 
had spoken.

"No indeed, Master Samwise. You, at least, shall go with him. It is 
hardly possible to separate you from him, even when he is summoned to 
a secret council and you are not."

Boromir felt lightheaded, as though he was trapped with a group of 
madmen. He could not believe that the Wise would entrust such a heavy 
and important responsibility to two small Halflings who had never been 
out of the Shire before their journey to Rivendell. He groaned, walked 
heavily to his chair and sat down. "Such madness," he muttered. "Such 
madness."

Aragorn watched the Steward's son closely. What would I do were I in 
his shoes? he thought wearily. Would I be able to accept the Council's 
decision, especially since it could mean the destruction of my 
homeland? The Ranger barely heard Elrond announce a recess. He was 
trying to understand Boromir's position so that he might appeal to his 
good senses. Aragorn knew, more than any other, how important the 
Steward's heir would be in his struggle to claim the throne of Gondor.

Boromir glanced up and caught the Ranger's intense gaze. His eyes 
narrowed and his noble features formed into a scowl. Slowly he rose 
and made his way, alone, to his chamber.

* * * * * * * * *

Boromir was standing on the balcony off his bedchamber when he sensed 
someone behind him. Instinctively he clutched the hilt of the dagger 
he always kept on his belt. "So, you are returning to Lothlorien." He 
heard a light chuckle and knew he had correctly guessed the identity 
of his visitor.

"You are beginning to develop elvish traits. The Lady Galadriel will 
be pleased." Haldir moved soundlessly onto the balcony. "How did you 
know it was me?"

The Man chuckled and turned to face the Tree Elf. "I was expecting 
you. I heard someone say you would be leaving ere nightfall and I 
simply assumed you would want to see if I had any more letters to send 
to my wife. Tell me, what do you think about the Council's decision?"

Haldir studied Boromir's face intently before shifting his gaze to the 
high garden above the steep bank of the river. Idly he watched two 
figures sitting on the porch on the side of the house facing east. 
Shadows had fallen in the valley below, but there was still light on 
the faces of the two lovers. A swift smile pulled at the corners of 
the Elf's mouth before he turned to face the Man beside him. The smile 
was quickly replaced by a frown as he studied Boromir's face. "What 
troubles you more? That the Ring will not be used to save Gondor, or 
that Aragorn will claim the Kingship you have always dreamed of?"

Boromir shook his head and looked away to the east. He stiffened as he 
saw Aragorn and the Lady Arwen in the garden below. Haldir followed 
his gaze. "Jealousy does not become you. Besides, I thought the two of 
you had become friends."

"I do not make friends with those who would destroy my family." 
Angrily the Man limped to his customary chair and sat down. He fixed 
Haldir with a cold stare. "Would you have me befriend the one who 
plots to usurp my father's rule? A Man who would cast my brother and 
myself out of our home?"

Haldir shook his head vehemently. "You do not know Aragorn well if you 
can think that of him."

"I know him not at all. Nor do I want to." Boromir's fierce scowl 
skewed his fair features into an unattractive mask. Haldir felt real 
concern for the Man's sanity.

"You must accept what you cannot change. Were you not taught that 
someday the King would return and the Stewards' reign would end? Has 
this not been an event all have hoped for?"

"Not all," Boromir said darkly.

"I should have added 'present company excluded.' Perhaps you should 
accompany me to the Golden Wood. I planned to leave within the hour, 
but I could delay my departure until the morn." Haldir looked at the 
Man sympathetically. He now understood the depth of the emotions 
churning within Gondor's Favorite Son. What would he do should Estel 
help defeat the Enemy and claim what had always been beyond the reach 
of the Man's forefathers?

"I think you should speak with Aragorn. I could tell that you liked 
him -- before the Council and the revelation of his lineage. I truly 
believe that, working together, you two can make a difference in the 
outcome of the struggle ahead. I beg you not to throw away this 
opportunity over mere Human emotions."

Boromir did not look at Haldir as he mumbled, "I think it is time for 
you to return to your homeland. Please deliver my letters to Eledwhen, 
and say nothing to her about what you have learned. I do not want her 
upset."

Haldir placed a delicately boned hand upon the Man's shoulder and 
leaned down until his lips were mere inches from Boromir's right ear. 
"It will make no difference to your lady whether you are a Steward or 
a common soldier, which you could never be. She loves the Man that you 
are, not the title that comes with the Man. I wish you good health and 
good fortune."

Boromir didn't hear the Elf leave. He was wrapped too tightly in his 
own tortured thoughts. Haldir's last words rang in his mind. Perhaps 
he is right. But, if he is, then my life's work has been meaningless 
and I am no more than a common soldier. And should the war be won? 
What place in Aragorn's kingdom will there be for the heir of the 
former Steward?

He settled his head against the back of his chair, closed his eyes and 
was soon asleep. His dreams were dark and disturbing. Once again he 
saw a great lidless eye and heard a disembodied voice. "Bring me what 
is mine and I shall reward you with that which you desire above all 
else, King Boromir."




----------



11. Adrift in Rivendell

I intended to return the reader to Minas Tirith and show how Denethor 
and Faramir are getting along. However, my muse refused to cooperate, 
so I moved onto a different topic. My muse definitely preferred that I 
write about Boromir in Rivendell after the time of the Council. I've 
always wondered how he and Aragorn managed not to kill one another, 
except that Tolkien had Aragorn go scouting with Elrond's sons. So 
what did Boromir do with himself during those nearly two months? I 
have a suggestion…

* * * * * * * * *

The Man of Gondor slept little the night after the Council. That one 
small sentence had thrown his entire life into turmoil: "He is 
Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and he is descended through many fathers 
from Isildur, Elendil's son of Minas Ithil."

What bitter irony that I rode here seeking the salvation of my 
country, only to meet the one who will rule my country in my place. 
Boromir laughed dryly as he walked onto the balcony that extended from 
his bedchamber. For the first time since he had entered Rivendell, he 
did not notice the land's beauty. His thoughts were centered on his 
beloved Gondor and his lifelong goal to be her champion, and her 
leader. The betrayal by one he had come to like and admire was 
painful. I even thought to offer him some high command in Gondor's 
army if he returned home with me. What a fool I am, believing the 
words of a wizard and a stranger. Yet, there is something about 
Aragorn that draws one to him. It is not just that he speaks his mind 
plainly and, it would seem, honestly, he possesses a certain charm. I 
must travel to Lothlorien as soon as possible. I ache to see Eledwhen 
again, to feel her soft body beneath mine. And my father…I must return 
to Minas Tirith as soon as I can make arrangements for Eledwhen to 
travel. I must not leave such a heavy responsibility upon my brother's 
shoulders.

A change in the air about him caused Boromir to whirl about quickly, 
his hand clasped tightly upon the hilt of his dagger. Aragorn was 
standing in the archway between the bedchamber and the balcony. He 
looked hesitant, as one who is uncertain of the manner of his 
reception. An angry flush crept up Boromir's neck and his eyes 
narrowed. His hand tightened on the dagger in a death-like grip. "Have 
you come to gloat, heir of Isildur?"

Aragorn's expression became infinitely sad. Slowly he moved onto the 
balcony, keeping a wary eye on the other's dagger. "Do you wish for my 
death, or that I had never been born?" he asked softly.

Boromir turned his back to Aragorn and slowly eased his hand off the 
dagger hilt. He placed both hands upon the railing before speaking. 
"You have not earned the right to be called 'King.' What great deeds 
have you done? How often have you bled to keep Gondor safe from the 
darkness? How dare you pretend to be my friend while plotting to steal 
all that I have ever loved or wanted!" His voice broke as he uttered 
the last words and he fell into silence. Aragorn moved to stand beside 
him, pain evident in his gray eyes.

"I hoped we could get to know one another before you found out about 
my lineage. I wanted you to know me as Strider, the Ranger. Perhaps I 
was foolish to believe that you would like me well enough not to hate 
me for who my forefathers were." Boromir shot him a bitter look, 
limped to the table where a decanter stood, and poured himself a glass 
of ale. He tossed the liquid down his throat in one rough movement, 
then turned to face Aragorn.

"Your destiny. Your kingdom. Your throne! Where have you been the past 
40 years? Not in the forests of Ithilien fighting back the orc hordes. 
And certainly not at Osgiliath facing the Nazgul. Why have you never 
protected the land you want to rule?"

Aragorn closed his eyes and dropped his head. When he spoke it was 
barely above a whisper. Boromir had to strain to hear the words. "I 
have faced the Nazgul, and more than once. And I have served Gondor, 
in another guise and another time. I served at the pleasure of 
Ecthelion, and so had the opportunity to come to know your father 
well. We were not exactly the best of friends."

Boromir gave a strangled snort. "Preposterous! You are no older than 
am I. What game do you play?" Slowly Aragorn turned to face the Man of 
Gondor.

"I am much older than I appear. The blood of Numenor flows strongly 
through my veins, extending my life. I am almost 87 years old."

Boromir's mouth fell open. He took several steps toward the other man 
and peered into his face, searching for telltale signs of the other's 
age. What he saw was a man in his prime, a man who appeared no older 
than did he. He looked Aragorn directly in the eyes and asked, "Have 
you the strength of a warrior, or that of a feeble old man?" Aragorn 
laughed grimly.

"Do you challenge me to a duel, hoping that you shall prevail and rid 
yourself of the competition for Gondor's throne?"

"Nay, I am not that foolish, since you stand upon two good legs and I 
am lame. Nor would I insult my host by fighting with his foster son 
under his roof. I only seek proof that you are who you say you are, 
and that you can help me save my land." Aragorn nodded thoughtfully 
and turned his gaze upon everything he had come to love as his home.

"I understand your feelings. Your deep love for your homeland. 
Imladris has been spared the horrors Gondor has endured, but the time 
is coming when even the power here will fail if we do not stop Sauron. 
I have spent my entire adult life in the wilds, secretly protecting 
Middle-earth against an evil I would never have it know. I perceive 
that my time is at hand, that soon I must prove myself worthy of your 
country -- and your fealty."

Boromir became agitated and limped back to the table to pour another 
glass of ale. "Gondor has managed well enough without a king. My 
father has kept her safe and well protected for many years. He will 
not turn over his reign to a Ranger without proof of lineage. I warn 
you, it shall take more than a broken sword to back up your claim to 
the throne of Gondor. Do not think that the Steward will give up his 
rule on the say-so of a wizard and an Elf."

Now it was Aragorn's turn to become angry. He began pacing a small 
path along the rail. Finally his ire cooled and he caught Boromir in a 
steely gaze. "I shall prove myself in combat, even as have you. And I 
shall bleed for Gondor, if it is my fate to do so. The 
Sword-that-was-Broken will be forged anew and return to Gondor in the 
hands of Isildur's heir. Are you satisfied?"

"We shall see what we shall see. Gondor lies many hundreds of leagues 
away and there is much evil about. If you will journey with me to the 
White City, perhaps I shall see some sign that you are indeed worthy 
of the title King of Gondor." Boromir's stare was hard and 
challenging, yet Aragorn did not flinch beneath it. Slowly he allowed 
a smile to lighten his stern features.

"You have my word that one day we two shall stand side by side against 
whatever the Dark Lord throws at us. Shall we call a truce for now? I 
should hate to travel with you all the way to Minas Tirith wondering 
when you might choose to cross swords."

"You have my oath that unless you prove false, I will not directly 
challenge you. But I shall swear no allegiance to you as King of 
Gondor until I am satisfied of your claim." Aragorn stepped forward 
and extended his hand. After a slight hesitation, Boromir did the same 
and the two men clasped one another's forearm.

* * * * * * * * *

Boromir did not see much of Aragorn during the next few weeks, for the 
Ranger left Imladris with Elrond's sons. They were searching for news 
of the Nine Riders. Boromir would have preferred to join the scouting 
trips, but his broken leg ruled him out. Plus, he was not certain the 
Elves considered him trustworthy where their precious Estel was 
concerned. Instead he spent the days working to regain his strength 
and the use of his left leg. One day he wandered into Elrond's library 
and was surprised by the maps he saw rolled out upon a large table. 
Eagerly he studied the drawn representation of the lands between his 
present location and his homeland.

"I am glad to see you walking with only a slight limp, Lord Boromir." 
The Man looked up and saw his host. The Elf was almost invisible as he 
stood in a shadow cast across the room by the setting sun.

"My leg is almost mended and I am eager to be on my way. Perhaps you 
would be kind enough to lend me a horse?"

Elrond smiled and moved gracefully to the map table. "Which route 
seems the swiftest and least dangerous to you? Would you share the 
knowledge you gained during your recent experience? We seek a path the 
Fellowship may take." Boromir leaned over the table and studied the 
map detailing the land between Rivendell and Lothlorien. With one 
finger he slowly drew an imaginary line from Rivendell to Hollin, and 
on to the Redhorn Pass.

"This is the route which brought me here and also the route I would 
take back. It is approximately 45 leagues from here to the Hollin 
Ridge, and about a three- to four-day journey from there to the 
Redhorn Pass. Lorien is a relatively short jaunt farther."

Elrond allowed a momentary smile to cross his solemn features before 
quickly erasing it. "You seem to have more than a passing acquaintance 
with the Golden Wood. Would you mind telling me what, or who, draws 
you back?"

Boromir kept his gaze on the map as he answered, "My wife is there. 
She was injured during our journey to Imladris. I insisted that she 
remain with the Lord and Lady of the Galadrim." The Man looked up and 
caught his host sporting a somewhat shocked expression, which he 
hastily replaced with his usual serene mask.

"I did not know that you are married. I hope she was not too badly 
injured."

The Man turned his gaze back to the map. "She was captured by orcs. 
She suffered a couple of broken ribs and a concussion, but she was 
fine when I left. However, I am anxious to return as soon as may be."

"Of course, you are. Anything that you need for the journey, you shall 
have. My wife, too, was captured by orcs, long ago. They did 
unspeakable things to her, and she could not bear to remain in 
Middle-earth." Boromir started to say something comforting, but Elrond 
waved away his words. "I would not have us speak of such ugly things 
on so beautiful a day. Too, there is one favor I hoped I might 
persuade you to do for me."

Boromir sensed that something of life-changing importance was about to 
be asked of him. He had been bending over the table; now he 
straightened and prepared to meet his fate head on. "What is it that I 
can do for the Lord of Imladris?"

* * * * * * * * *

Once again the Council of Elrond was convened. It was now December 19, 
nearly two months since the decision on the fate of the Ring. Elrond 
stood before those gathered and looked each briefly in the eye. "The 
time has come to decide upon what course we shall take. Do you still 
hold to your word, Frodo, that you will be the Ring-bearer?"

"I do," said Frodo. "I will go with Sam."

Elrond sighed lightly. "I cannot foresee how your task will be 
accomplished, or what fate awaits you and your companion. Yet I will 
choose companions to accompany you as far as they will, or fortune 
allows." Turning his eyes upon those gathered about him, Elrond 
intoned, "The number must be few, since our hope is in speed and 
secrecy. The Company of the Ring shall be Nine, and the Nine Walkers 
shall be set against the Nine Riders that are evil."

Boromir's eyes were locked on Frodo as he listened to the Elf name the 
Nine companions. He was not surprised that the wizard had been chosen. 
The others were not known to him, except by sight. The Elf who had 
chastised him during the Council, Legolas, would go, as would the 
dwarf Gimli, son of Gloin. But when Elrond named Aragorn one of the 
Nine, Boromir shot out of his seat as though propelled by a bow. He 
looked accusingly at the other Man. "Then you will not come to Gondor 
with me?"

"I will," said Aragorn, "and the Sword-that-was-Broken shall be 
re-forged ere I set out to war. But the Hobbit's road and our road lie 
together for many hundreds of miles. Therefore, Boromir, I ask that 
you also join our Fellowship. I believe that the little ones will need 
our strength, if not our battle skills."

Boromir nodded thoughtfully. "Aye, I already have pledged my word to 
the Lord Elrond that I will accompany Frodo until such time as I must 
turn aside to travel to my city. I will hold you to your oath, 
Aragorn, that one day you will fight for the people of Gondor."

As Denethor's son contemplated the problems he knew they would face, 
Elrond chose the two remaining Companions -- Pippin and Merry, Frodo's 
two other friends from the Shire. "We must delay no longer. If the 
Ring is to set out, it must go soon. In seven days, the Company must 
depart."

This is such madness; four helpless Hobbits and only an Elf, a wizard 
and a dwarf to aid them. The only sane choice Elrond made was to 
include the Ranger and me. Boromir's gaze fell upon Frodo, and he felt 
suddenly out of sorts. Then he heard faint whispers in his head.

Aragorn studied Boromir from across the room. He did not like the 
paleness of the Man's pallor, or the feverish way he stared at Frodo. 
As valiant a Man as the Steward's son is, I sense that he is drawn too 
strongly to the Ring. I hope that none of us shall rue the day he was 
chosen to accompany the Ring-bearer.



-----------



12. The Son Also Rises

This chapter returns the reader to Minas Tirith and how Denethor and 
Faramir are getting along. Keep in mind that Faramir is in love with 
the Princess Eledwhen. This chapter deals with Faramir's feelings 
toward his father, as well as Denethor's state of mind after his 
ordeal with Sauron. Eledwhen makes an appearance in a scene at the 
end. Something is not right in Lothlorien.

* * * * * * * * *

Faramir was sitting at a huge oak desk in his father's study. For the 
past few weeks he had been forced by circumstances beyond his control 
to sit at this desk within his father's sanctuary and run the 
day-to-day activities of Gondor. He was not used to looking at the 
room from the Steward's perspective; always he stood on the other 
side, rigid, hands folded behind his back to hide the slight tremor as 
he faced his father's wrath. Faramir still did not feel comfortable in 
the room because it was filled with the ghosts of so many unpleasant 
memories. Even though he was now a man in his mid-thirties, his father 
could still intimidate him.

"Woolgathering, boy?" Faramir looked up to see his father standing in 
the study's entrance; he had not heard the door open. "Were I an 
assassin, you would be a dead man," Denethor said gravely as he 
stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. Faramir stifled a 
groan and stood up.

"Have you spoken with Prince Imrahil, Father?" Faramir watched the 
Steward walk over to a large table in the center of the room, upon 
which petitions and various and sundry documents had been spread out.

"I spent most of last night conferring with the Prince of Dol Amroth 
over the growing threat to Rohan near the Fords of Isen. Even though 
the King's daughter and my son were not married before they left Minas 
Tirith, Gondor is still duty bound to aid its ally when it faces such 
a strong threat. Especially considering what happened to the Princess 
of Rohan during her stay here." Faramir bit his lip and stared at his 
father coldly. Denethor seemed not to notice and continued with his 
report. "The latest dispatches show that an army is entrenched near 
Isengard. There is even word that Saruman is behind this force."

Faramir's gaze sharpened. "Is this certain? This is the first I have 
heard that Saruman may be against Rohan. He has always been considered 
an ally."

"That is exactly what the Prince of Dol Amroth said. Although it is 
only speculation at this point that the wizard in Orthanc is behind 
this threat to Rohan, I consider it likely. I have never trusted 
wizards and that includes your friend, Mithrandir."

"Yet it was Mithrandir who released you from the Dark Lord's control. 
And Saruman is the head of his order. If Mithrandir is not concerned 
about Saruman's loyalty to Gondor and Rohan, then why would our spies 
say otherwise?"

Denethor gave his son a dour look and sat in a chair normally used by 
guests seeking his advice, or to curry his favor. Faramir returned 
slowly to the Steward's chair. Denethor felt a pang of jealousy as he 
looked at his youngest son usurping his place. "Mithrandir is a fool. 
He is blind where members of his own are concerned. But let us dismiss 
the rumors of the wizard and look to the facts. The dispatches report 
that an army at least 5,000 strong has set up camp along the banks of 
the Isen. This army is comprised of orcs and men of Dunland."

Faramir thought for a moment, then added, "Earlier dispatches reported 
that men of Harad had been spotted as well. Do you believe that an 
assault on the Rohirrim is imminent?"

Denethor nodded his head gravely but said nothing. Faramir felt 
uncomfortable because he sensed anger hiding behind his father's calm 
façade. "Is there something else I should know, Father? I sense your 
displeasure."

"Do you now? Your powers of perception never fail to amaze me." 
Denethor's tone was extremely cold and dripped sarcasm. "You sit at my 
desk, running my city and wonder what there may be to cause me 
displeasure. I have been blessed with such a clever son."

Faramir stood up so quickly that a book by his hand fell to the floor 
with a loud thud. His face was flushed. "I sit at this desk because 
you, in your arrogance, thought you could spy on Mordor with impunity. 
Did it never cross your mind that the Dark Lord would become aware of 
your spying, or what it might cost Gondor if he should?"

Denethor laughed mirthlessly. "So, the calf challenges the bull. I 
suggest you do not let this temporary power you hold turn your head. I 
am the Steward -- always remember that. I need only convince two more 
members of the Council to side with me and my mantle will be returned. 
Your days as acting Steward are numbered. You would be wise not to 
anger your liege lord."

Faramir swallowed his anger and bent to retrieve the fallen book. He 
used the time to think of a reply to his Father's implied threat. 
"When you have been declared well enough to continue your duties as 
Steward, I shall more than willingly relinquish control. But it will 
not be a political decision. I must have assurance from your physician 
that all is well, then Prince Imrahil must agree. Politicians are too 
easily bought; I do not trust their decision in so crucial a matter."

Denethor's eyes narrowed to slits and his face darkened like the sky 
before a violent thunderstorm. He stood up abruptly and moved quickly 
forward. No more than an arm's length from Faramir, he raised his hand 
to strike. Before the blow could be thrown, Faramir reached out and 
gripped his father's forearm. "I am no longer a child that can be 
beaten into submission. I am the acting Steward of Gondor and my duty 
is clear. Until I decide that you are no longer a threat to the city 
and its inhabitants, I will remain in control. Plot with as many 
politicians as you like. I am in command of the Tower Guard and 
Gondor's army. Too, Uncle Imrahil has 500 swan-knights at his beck and 
call."

Denethor turned so red that Faramir feared he might have a stroke on 
the spot, yet the older man remained immobile and silent. When he 
finally spoke, it was little more than a sibilant sound. "I knew you 
would never step down. You have waited for this chance all your life. 
But I never figured the Prince of Dol Amroth for a traitor."

Faramir released his father's arm and strode rapidly to the door, 
pulling it open. "It would be wise for you to leave my presence before 
we both say something we will be unable to take back. I have no 
designs upon your Stewardship; however, I shall not put the White City 
at the mercy of a man who is capable of raping his future 
daughter-in-law. She is not much more than a child; you stole her 
innocence and took that which my brother should have. It was an 
unspeakable display of violence and immorality."

Denethor gave a strangled cry and lurched toward his son. Then, with a 
great effort, he brought himself under control before managing to 
utter a few strangled words. "I was not responsible for that. Never 
have I harmed a woman. Boromir will not hold this against me. He is a 
true and loving son, unlike you."

"I have always loved you, Father, though you have never returned that 
love. And, even though you perpetrated so heinous a crime, I still 
love you. I am not certain, however, that I much like you." Denethor 
walked heavily toward his son, coming to a standstill mere inches from 
him.

"I care not whether you like me, boy. I care only that you obey me and 
show me the respect due your Father and your ruler. We must put the 
past behind us if we hope to survive the next few months. Sauron may 
have gained control of my actions for a brief time, but in so doing, I 
learned things he did not plan for me to know. I know that soon he 
will unleash his entire force against us. It is doubtful that we shall 
survive, for they are many and we are few. When we fight for our very 
lives, it is doubtful that you will care about such trivial a matter 
as the rape of the Princess of Rohan."

"Once again you misread me, Father. For I shall never forget, or 
forgive, what you did. For the sake of Gondor, I must bury the 
feelings of anger and disgust that I harbor toward you. But do not 
think, for one moment, that I trust you. Now, please leave. I have 
much work to attend to."

Without another word, Denethor swept regally out of the room. Once he 
heard the door shut, however, he allowed his shoulders to slump and he 
leaned heavily against the stone wall lining the corridor. "I was a 
fool to let myself be used by the Dark Lord. And I am an even bigger 
fool if I allow this rift to continue between us. Perhaps I should 
convince Imrahil to intervene in my behalf. I have never been 
successful in dealing with Faramir. Imrahil may not like me, but he is 
a wise man. He will see the need for peace among us." Drawing himself 
up to his full height, Denethor swept down the corridor toward the map 
room and his dead wife's brother.

* * * * * * * * *

The Prince of Dol Amroth was enjoying the quiet of Denethor's map 
room. He liked the musty smell of old parchment and the rows of 
colorful maps wrapped tightly about long wooden rolls jutting out from 
the walls. He presently was studying the map that detailed the area 
surrounding Rohan and Isengard. Saruman's lair, as Imrahil liked to 
think of it, was nestled at the foot of the White Mountains near the 
Gap of Rohan and the Fords of Isen. It was a long march from Minas 
Tirith to Isengard up the Great West Road that ran through The Mark. 
He did not relish the idea of taking soldiers so far from home. It 
would leave Gondor vulnerable to attack, and a part of his mind feared 
that this might be the reason for such an untimely assault on Rohan's 
forces.

Imrahil became aware of Denethor's presence mere seconds before the 
other man spoke. "I hope to find you in a better frame of mind than my 
son," the Steward said, his voice filled with rancor. Prince Imrahil 
sighed inwardly and straightened up. He was not really in the mood for 
a confrontation.

"What is the topic of this morning's disagreement?" he asked lightly.

"I am ready to resume my duties as Steward of Gondor. My fool of a son 
refuses to hear me out. I thought perhaps you, as one of my peers, may 
be of a more sensible frame of mind. Fighting with Faramir is not 
healthy for the country, or for our relationship as father and son. 
You and I must devise a peaceful resolution to the question of who 
should stand at the helm of Gondor."

This time the Prince of Dol Amroth sighed out loud. "We discussed this 
only two days ago. I believe you no more fit to rule today than I did 
then. There is something about your manner that worries me. I cannot 
put words to it, yet I feel there is still something amiss. I would 
rest easier if you would content yourself, at least for now, with 
working with Faramir and myself."

Denethor had moved to stand at the window overlooking Mordor. His 
fingers drummed on the windowsill loudly in the silence that followed 
Imrahil's words. Though he constantly fought against it, he still felt 
a slight longing when he looked at that cursed land. What it was he 
longed for, he was not certain.

"Denethor, is there something wrong?" Ecthelion's son whirled about as 
he realized that Imrahil was speaking to him. By the tone of his 
voice, he must have asked a question some time earlier and was worried 
by the lack of response.

Clearing his throat, Denethor replied innocently, "I was pondering the 
threat to Rohan and did not hear your question. If you would be so 
kind as to repeat it?"

Prince Imrahil was not fooled by the other's innocent look or by the 
flimsy excuse for his inattentiveness. Imrahil had seen the glazed 
look in Denethor's eyes as he stared intently toward the land ruled by 
the Dark Lord. Ready to resume his role as Steward, indeed. Aloud, the 
Prince said, "I asked why you are so eager to take control away from 
your son. If you are truly concerned that this will come between you, 
then work with Faramir. Advise him."

Denethor's laugh was contemptuous as he favored Imrahil with a 
disdainful smile. "Would you share your authority with one of your 
sons? Would you have some young pup you reared telling you what to do? 
I doubt it."

Imrahil shook his head firmly. "I would if I knew myself to be a 
threat to my land and my people. The problem here is that you do not 
recognize your infirmity. Until you can look at Mordor with hatred as 
you once did, I will not support your reinstatement as Steward."

Denethor's icy stare caused the Prince of Dol Amroth to shudder 
involuntarily. He saw a hint of a smile in Denethor's eyes, as though 
he relished the discomfort he caused his former brother-in-law. 
Finally, Denethor spoke: "We shall see what the members of the Council 
have to say. If enough support my reinstatement, then you and Faramir 
must step down. Unless it is your intention to start a civil war?"

Imrahil bristled and strode forward until he was mere inches from the 
other. When he spoke he drew out each word slowly. "I am not the one 
who started this. You are the one who invited the Dark Lord into the 
very heart of Minas Tirith. You opened your mind to him and showed him 
our strengths and our weaknesses. Boromir is gone because of your 
recklessness. I pray that he shall return to us, and that your actions 
have not led to his doom."

Denethor opened his mouth to deny the accusations, but could not 
speak. His heart was pounding heavily in his chest and he felt as 
though he might faint. A wave of guilt washed over him so strongly he 
felt as though he was drowning. Almost he reached out to Imrahil for 
help, but his pride forbade it. Clasping his hands over his heart, he 
retreated from the room, leaving the Prince of Dol Amroth staring 
worriedly after him.

* * * * * * * * *

The Princess of Rohan was weaving a layette for her unborn child. She 
was sitting at a loom that had been placed upon the lawn of the 
fountain. She had not been feeling well for the past fortnight and the 
Lady Galadriel was worried about her health. Eledwhen was pale and 
suffered from occasional abdominal pains. The Elf did not want to 
alarm the girl, but she feared for the baby. The signs were not good. 
She had ordered the Princess to go outside and enjoy the fresh air. 
Now Eledwhen concentrated fretfully over the tedious work required in 
coaxing the delicate threads into wearable garments.

"It is good to see you again, your Highness." Haldir had materialized 
before the loom as though by magic. Eledwhen jumped, and the tip of 
the spindel pricked her finger, drawing a few drops of blood. The Elf 
rushed to her side and knelt, taking her delicate hand within his. The 
redness of her blood looked alien next to the paleness of her skin. 
"Here, let me take care of this," Haldir said gently. Eledwhen pulled 
her hand away and bolted to her feet. She looked as though she would 
burst into tears. "What is wrong, Princess?"

The girl's wide blue eyes spoke words her voice could not utter. She 
reached for the Elf only an instant before she fainted. Dark red blood 
seeped into the earth beneath her still form.





-------




13. A Dish Best Served Cold

This chapter begins the telling of events in Rohan taking place at 
approximately the same time that Boromir becomes part of the 
Fellowship. It explores the role Grima Wormtongue played in Eomer's 
rise to King of the Mark. I've rewritten this chapter so that it fits 
after the chapter "The Son Also Rises." I think it is a much better 
read. Notice that I have used some of Tolkien's descriptions of Rohan 
and Edoras. It is necessary for accuracy (better late than never). I 
will include subsequent chapters about Rohan as the Fellowship 
continues its mission.

* * * * * * * * *

Prince Theodred had ridden many leagues since passing through the Gap 
of Rohan. He and two of his most trusted captains were returning from 
a visit to Ithilien where, during a secret meeting with the Acting 
Steward of Gondor, he had discussed the growing peril from both Mordor 
and Isengard, and how the two nations could help one another. The 
meeting was especially important since the marital alliance sought by 
Theoden King and Faramir's father had, to put it mildly, not come to 
fruition.

Theodred had met in secret with Faramir, in Ithilien, because he did 
not want his father or his father's chief counselor to know about the 
mission. If the meeting became public knowledge, Grima Wormtongue 
would probably charge him with plotting to overthrow the crown. Which 
was ironic, since that was exactly the charge Faramir's father leveled 
against the Prince during the Rohirrim's disastrous stay in Minas 
Tirith.

The meeting had been mostly positive, with Faramir assuring Theodred 
that the Prince of Dol Amroth and Denethor seemed to be leaning toward 
sending Gondorian troops to reinforce the horse-lords. The Prince of 
the Mark had been unable, unfortunately, to assure Faramir that his 
father would let their troops step onto Rohirrim soil. The impetus 
behind the hastily arranged meeting with Gondor's Acting Steward was 
the sudden deterioration of the King's health. Theoden had returned 
from Gondor a changed man, sapped of all vitality and the desire to 
rule. He became reclusive and few saw him other than Wormtongue, who 
had taken advantage of the old man's rapidly declining health to set 
himself up as a sort of "king behind the King."

It was Grima who now set military policy, and every officer in the 
Mark loyal to Prince Theodred was shouting (privately) for the 
counselor's blood. It was becoming impossible to protect Rohan because 
nobody was allowed to make a decision in the field; everything had to 
be brought before the King and Wormtongue for approval. No one dared 
make a decision on his own for fear of imprisonment or worse.

Grima has the King under some sort of spell, for Father refuses to 
listen to anything I say. I will have to deal with this Worm before 
Rohan is destroyed. Putting heels to his mount, the Prince surged 
forward at a swift canter.

* * * * * * * * *

Night was slowly fading and the dawn fast approaching. Exhausted from 
many sleepless nights, Prince Theodred rubbed his reddened eyes and 
blinked rapidly as the light of dawn rose in the East. As the shadows 
withdrew, the black walls of the Emyn Muil far away upon their left 
became visible. The Prince studied them balefully before turning his 
eyes toward home. He could make out the stream that issued from the 
dale, and far away he caught a glimmer of gold. Edoras, he thought 
with a mixture of gladness and despair, wondering what he would find 
upon his return.

The trio was riding into a wide glen located within the vales of the 
mountains of the South when a lone figure came riding toward them at 
full gallop. His horse was lathered in sweat and slavering heavily at 
the bit. Just before reaching the group, the soldier pulled back hard 
upon the reins, causing the gray gelding to nearly skid into the 
foremost horse and rider.

"What is wrong with you? Have you no sense?" Hama, captain of the 
King's guard, was seething, for it was he and his mount that had been 
nearly overrun.

"The Prince! I have an urgent message for Prince Theodred." The 
messenger's face was sweaty and dirt-smudged. For a moment, the only 
sound was the labored breathing of the overheated horse.

Prince Theodred urged his mount forward until he was alongside the 
rider. "Who sends this message?"

"The Lady Eowyn. Cold as ice she was when she bid me find you with all 
possible haste. She made it plain I was to reach the royal party 
before it entered Edoras."

Theodred nodded. "You have served the Lady well, since we are still at 
least three leagues from that city. What says my cousin?"

The rider leaned forward conspiratorially so his words would reach 
Theodred's ears alone. "Your cousin bid me say only this. Tell the 
Prince to watch his back. There is evil afoot."

Theodred scowled. "Did she say aught else?"

"Nay, my Prince. She would say no more. But the Lady was insistent 
that I remain with her cousin until he reached the Golden Hall. If 
anything happens to you, I am certain I shall become the scapegoat."

Theodred smiled thinly at the messenger for his poor attempt at humor 
and sat back in the saddle, pondering his cousin's words carefully for 
the meaning behind them.

Hama's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Is something amiss, my Prince? 
Are we in danger?" The old soldier spoke barely above a whisper.

Keeping his own voice low, Theodred replied, "I do not know. Eowyn 
sent a cryptic message for my ears alone. She hints at some danger to 
my Royal person."

Hama clearly was not amused by the Prince's attempted humor. He looked 
about sharply, as though expecting an army of orcs to attack. "Then we 
must be on our guard until we reach Edoras, for the Lady Eowyn is not 
one to raise an alarm without good cause."

* * * * * * * * *

The company rode swiftly up the wide rutted track that led to Rohan's 
chief city. Still, it was almost noon when the three companions 
cantered into Edoras. They were edgy and tense. As they approached 
Meduseld, a woman dressed entirely in white stepped out of the 
shadows. The wind whipped her plain raiment about her slender form as 
she watched the men approach.

Prince Theodred urged his mount forward and the other two riders 
parted to let him pass. He reined his mount to a stop, dismounted 
quickly, and fairly flew up the steep steps to where Eowyn stood on 
the paved terrace at the stair's head. As he drew abreast of the 
woman, he gripped her arm to pull her next to him. "Eowyn, what is 
wrong? What danger…" Her sharp hiss warned him to silence mere seconds 
before he saw the man who had just emerged from Meduseld. Grima 
Wormtongue bowed respectfully.

"My Lord Prince, we have missed your Royal presence. You have been 
gone quite some time and no one seems to know where you had gotten off 
to." Theodred gripped the hilt of his sword and a deep flush crept 
upward from his neck to his face.

"I do not have to ask permission from a commoner to attend to my 
country's business." Eowyn placed a hand upon his arm to calm him. 
Wormtongue's smile was oily.

"You had best mind your temper and show a little more respect. I have 
the King's ear; he listens now to what I say." Shooting the pair an 
arrogant grin, Grima swept past them, his cloak billowing out behind 
him as he strode through the great door. Eowyn turned wide blue eyes 
upon her cousin.

"You should not have angered him, Theodred," she whispered. The Prince 
motioned her to silence, staring purposefully at the doorwards. He 
then took her arm firmly, and both entered Rohan's Golden Hall.

* * * * * * * * *

Prince Theodred paced distractedly before the blazing hearth in his 
antechamber, clearly agitated. The Lady Eowyn stood near the fire 
beside a heavy wood table ornately carved with running horses. She was 
holding a goblet of mead and watching her cousin's nearly frenzied 
movements. "Peace, Theodred. Sit and drink and, when you are calmer, 
we can rationally discuss this dispatch. I sent for Eomer so that he, 
too, may speak his mind." The Prince nodded and walked to where the 
young woman stood. He took the goblet from her hand, strode to a 
nearby chair, and sat down heavily before draining the liquid in a 
single gulp.

Eowyn gave him an amused smile and moved to his side. "Shall I refill 
your cup, cousin?" Theodred nodded in the affirmative. Casually he 
leaned back in the chair and studied Eowyn closely while she poured 
more of the honey liquor.

She seemed somewhat older than when he had left for Gondor as part of 
the Princess Eledwhen's entourage. Eowyn's lithe body was rigid with 
tension, and her beautiful face was stretched taut with fatigue. The 
lines around her eyes and the dark shadows beneath hinted at many 
sleepless nights. Something clearly had upset her. As Eowyn turned 
back toward Theodred with the refilled goblet, the door opened and the 
Third Marshal of the Mark entered. Eomer's glance shifted from his 
sister to his cousin before he shut the door soundly behind him. "Have 
I your permission to enter, my Prince?"

Theodred chuckled and reached for the mead still held firmly in 
Eowyn's hands. "Since you already have entered, why bother to seek my 
permission? Sort of akin to barring the stable door after all the 
horses have escaped."

Eomer laughed heartily and crossed to the table. He poured himself 
some mead, then looked at the Prince, raising an eyebrow as though 
seeking permission to do so. Theodred shook his head and rolled his 
eyes. "Why bother with the formalities after you do as you please? If 
you were not my cousin…"

Eomer quickly drained the goblet, poured himself a refill, and moved 
to stand before the fire. "It is bitterly cold in these halls. Might 
as well live in the stables. The horses at least are better company 
than many of the courtiers who fawn over you and your father. 
Particularly that Worm!"

Eowyn moved to stand beside her brother. Watching the Prince closely, 
she asked, "How was your trip to Gondor? Was it fruitful?"

Theodred rose unceremoniously from his chair and began pacing the 
length of the room. He spoke in clipped sentences as he paced. "The 
Lord Faramir and I talked endlessly, but it accomplished nothing other 
than to raise Wormtongue's suspicions. If Gondor's troops are not 
allowed to enter Rohan, on Grima's orders, there is no point in their 
coming."

Eomer rubbed his hands together to warm them and then changed the 
subject. "How have the Gondorians punished Denethor for his actions 
concerning your sister? I would have killed the Steward on the spot, 
but the men of Minas Tirith are too civilized for such swift justice."

The Prince froze in mid-stride, threw his arms out to the sides of his 
body, and shouted, "Nothing! They did absolutely nothing to punish 
that rapist! Denethor is now Faramir's advisor and his only 
'punishment' is that he is not allowed to sit in the Steward's chair 
during Council." Theodred resumed his frenetic pacing. The room became 
eerily silent.

At length, Eomer spoke. "So, Gondor's ruler rapes his son's betrothed 
and orders the torture of the Prince of the Mark, and he is excused 
from his crimes because of some fantastic tale of possession. Does 
anyone truly believe that the Dark Lord wielded control over 
Denethor's mind?"

"The Gondorians do. You know how the Prince of Dol Amroth was able to 
convince Father to quietly fold his tent and go home." Theodred stood 
motionless for a few moments, deeply in thought. Eomer's voice again 
broke the uncomfortable silence.

"The Men of Gondor would believe such a ridiculous tale. The noblemen 
of that country are naught but a bunch of over-read ninnies. We shall 
have to deal with Denethor ourselves. But first we must wait and plan 
carefully. There will be time enough for retribution later, even if we 
must wait until after the King has passed over."

Theodred studied his cousin's face. He nodded grimly in agreement. 
"Revenge, as they say, is a dish best served cold."

Eowyn shuddered slightly at the thought of the two Men meting out 
Rohirric justice to Gondor's Steward. As much as she hated him for 
what he did to Eledwhen, she would not wish such a death on anyone. 
Dragging her thoughts reluctantly back to the problem at hand, Eowyn 
turned the conversation once more to the reason for her warning to the 
Prince. "Theodred, you must be careful. We have information that your 
life is in danger."

The Prince leveled his gaze upon her and she was surprised to see that 
he was actually smiling. "My life is always in danger. What soldier's 
life is not?"

Exasperated, Eowyn tried a different approach. "Eomer and I received a 
dispatch that tells of a plot against you. Someone wants you dead for 
his own selfish reason. This is not a joke, cousin!"

The Prince looked at Eomer questioningly. "What say you? Do you give 
any credence to this? Who sent the dispatch?"

The Third Marshal stared thoughtfully into the fire before answering. 
"Erkenbrand set his seal to it; therefore, I doubt not the validity of 
the information. The dispatch does not include how he came across the 
plot, nor does it state the reason behind it. Perhaps Erkenbrand does 
not know. The only reason that makes sense is that someone has a 
strong desire to be King of Rohan. Yet your death would leave myself 
as the next in line for the throne, since Eledwhen gave up her claim 
when she agreed to wed the Lord Boromir. Still, to become King, 
someone would have to murder not just the Prince of the Mark, but the 
Third Marshal and his sister and, of course, the King himself. Such a 
plan is too preposterous to even contemplate, much less warrant 
serious consideration."

Eowyn stalked to where Theodred stood and gripped his shoulders 
tightly. Her pale skin was deeply flushed. "You must take this threat 
seriously! There is one who is cunning and dangerous enough to devise 
and carry out such a plan. You know as well as I who he is. The man is 
already pulling the strings behind the throne. How can you possibly 
doubt that such a thing is possible after your experience in Minas 
Tirith? After what happened to your own sister!" The Prince gave her a 
wounded look and abruptly pulled away from her grasp. He began to pace 
again.

"It is obvious that you believe my father's chief counselor capable of 
such intrigue, and I fear you are right. However, his hold over the 
King is unsettling but not, I deem, unbreakable. Even so, if this is 
Wormtongue's foul plan, then we must expose it; but we first must have 
irrefutable proof. Should we speak too soon, without proof, the snake 
will sink its fangs in even deeper. What say you, Eomer?"

"I would counsel caution, but I also would counsel that this plot must 
see the light of day as quickly as possible. If Wormtongue has indeed 
contrived the means of your death, we had best find out now, before 
his plan can be carried to its deadly conclusion. Theoden is failing 
and all too soon Rohan will need a new ruler. I should not like to 
become King by default. Especially since I would then be next in line 
for an assassin's arrow or knife. And, after my death, Grima's 
henchmen would go after Eowyn, and that I cannot allow."

Eowyn, who was standing by the hearth, clearly forgotten by the two 
Men, uttered one of the more colorful Rohirric curses. Both Men looked 
at her with raised eyebrows. She stared angrily at them, furious at 
their lack of insight. "Think you, Brother, that the Worm will kill 
me? I should be so fortunate. Are you both so blind you cannot see 
what is plainly before your eyes?" Both stared at her blankly. Eowyn 
swore again in frustration and stalked angrily to the door, pulling it 
open with such force that it hit the wall. Without a backward glance, 
she left the room.

"Do you understand her, Eomer? You are her next of kin. What the 
blazes was she talking about?"

The Third Marshal of the Mark shook his head, clearly perplexed. 
"Perhaps it is a woman thing. I try not to think too closely about 
such matters. Seriously, we must get to the root of this. If 
Wormtongue is at the center of a plot to destroy the Royal family, and 
we expose his plans, we shall finally be able to rid Rohan of his foul 
presence -- permanently." Both Men smiled grimly at the thought of 
life without the King's chief counselor.

* * * * * * * * *

Eowyn moved swiftly down the wide stone corridor leading to her 
chambers. How thickheaded men can be, she thought angrily. All these 
years and they still cannot see how Master Wormtongue covets me. Am I 
the only one who notices his sidelong glances and hears the double 
meaning in the words he speaks to me? How can they be so blind? My 
brother is a dolt if he believes there is only one way for Grima to 
gain the throne. A sound in the corridor caused her to pause. Afraid 
it might be the King's counselor, she hurried to her rooms, slammed 
the door firmly behind her and bolted it. Feeling relatively safe, she 
placed her forehead against the wood door and wept bitter tears.

Eowyn's tears finally stopped. She forced herself to walk to her 
hearth and willed the tension that had been building since 
Erkenbrand's dispatch had arrived to slowly leach from her body. Once 
again her thoughts strayed to the Princess. Oh, Eledwhen. Why ever did 
I let Wormtongue convince the King to leave me behind? For, having 
lost the most direct route to the throne because of your marriage to 
the Lord Boromir, the Worm turned his eyes upon me with more than mere 
lust in his thoughts. Though, in truth, it was most fortunate I 
remained behind, for I was here to receive Erkenbrand's warning. Eomer 
was on patrol, and had the dispatch been placed in Wormtongue's 
keeping… She shuddered at the consequences to the author of that 
missive. It would be so easy to kill any of Rohan's warriors, 
including the Prince and her brother. Men die in battle nearly every 
day. Grima pointed out to me only yesterday that death in battle is 
merely an occupational hazard. Was that meant as a warning? Was that 
his way of letting me know that if I do not marry him, he will see 
that Eomer does not survive his next battle?

There also was the matter of a second letter, for her eyes only, that 
Erkenbrand had enclosed with his dispatch. If the King's counselor 
discovered the Captain suspected that the Worm was acting as a spy of 
Saruman, they would all be dead. Especially since the Lord Faramir had 
informed Theodred that Gondor's recent dispatches suggested that 
Isengard was behind the current military threat to Rohan.

I must keep Erkenbrand's suspicions to myself until they can be proven 
true. He placed his trust in my discretion, and I shall not fail that 
trust. Eowyn groaned and held her head in her hands. How many worthy 
men already had died to further Wormtongue's ambitions? She had long 
ago lost count as, one by one, any who had the courage to speak 
against the King's counselor fell ill and died, or were hacked to 
pieces on the battlefield. There were few left to oppose him and, of 
those few, Theodred and Eomer were the most vocal. My dearest brother, 
how could I live if something happened to you?

Eowyn began pacing slowly as she strove to marshal her thoughts. 
Perhaps it is best that Eomer remains ignorant in this matter. Should 
he learn the truth, he may do something rash. I cannot, by my own 
cowardice, help Wormtongue destroy my brother. This is a burden I must 
bear alone -- at least for now. Feelings of sorrow and helplessness 
began to overwhelm her senses, and she shuddered violently. Without 
conscious thought, Eowyn made her way to her cold bed where, too 
exhausted to undress, she simply lay upon the quilted spread fully 
clothed. Another shudder wracked her slender body as she thought of 
Grima's touch upon her face. Was that really only yesterday? Can Grima 
truly twist the King's will to his bidding as he claimed? Is there no 
one brave enough to put an end to his treachery? Will this, in the 
end, fall upon my shoulders? And they say women are the weaker sex!

Eowyn sighed and closed her eyes. I swear on my life that I shall see 
Grima dead before he destroys my family, or touches me again. Too 
exhausted to think any more, the Lady of Rohan closed her eyes and 
prayed for a sleep that refused to come.




--------------



14. Song Sung Blue

Don't you hate when an author leaves you hanging? Like I did with poor 
Eledwhen? Sorry, but I do love cliff-hangers. Boromir receives a 
letter from Galadriel and the Fellowship finally hits the road. I have 
used Elrond's parting words almost verbatim. Boromir and Aragorn 
continue to spar.

* * * * * * * * *

Thrust, parry, feint. Thrust, parry, feint. Damn, I am totally off 
balance and I have lost my place. Is this where I thrust, or parry or 
feint, or just run as though Sauron himself is chasing me? The Dunadan 
must wonder how I ever earned a reputation as a formidable warrior.

Boromir and Aragorn were sparring. It was early in the morning, only 
three days before the Fellowship was set to depart from Imladris. The 
Man of Gondor had asked the Ranger of the North to help him regain his 
stamina. Boromir was afraid that after two months of inactivity he 
would be unable to defend himself, much less the poor hobbits. Now he 
was engaged in practice combat with one of the premier swordsmen in 
Middle-earth and he felt like a rank beginner. It was embarrassing to 
say the least.

The two men were practicing a simple straight offense, something even 
a child should have been able to handle. But Boromir was having 
trouble with his recently healed left leg, which refused to respond 
quickly to his demands. He had started well in the defensive stance. 
He did alright with his footwork when he had moved to make the full 
chop cut, but when he'd slid his right foot forward and to the left to 
drop his sword down upon his opponent's arm, he'd lost his balance and 
nearly fallen into Aragorn's blade. At that point the Dunadan had 
called for practice swords and Boromir had been mortified.

"Come now, Boromir. No one expects you to be in top form. It takes 
time and much work to recover from a broken leg." Boromir scowled 
belligerently at the Ranger. Aragorn was always so annoyingly 
understanding. He wanted the Ranger to show some sign that he was, 
well, HUMAN! Why doesn't the man at least swear once in awhile? His 
constant politeness is more annoying than any politician in Gondor. 
Maybe he will make a good King. He certainly has the patience for it.

The two men rested a minute before starting the drill again. Boromir 
was determined to stay focused and show that he was just as capable a 
swordsman as Isildur's heir. As the two thrust their practice swords 
and feinted, seeking to gauge the other's strengths and weaknesses, a 
shout came from the balcony off Elrond's study. Aragorn immediately 
halted his attack and looked to see who was motioning to them. Boromir 
was concentrating so fiercely he did not notice the other drop his 
sword to his side and look up. He came in swiftly for the killing 
stroke, moving forward under what should have been his opponent's 
guard, and thrust his sword toward Aragorn's heart. Boromir's momentum 
caused him to crash against the other man, and they both went down in 
a tangle of legs and arms.

"What the blazes are you doing standing like one of these elvish 
statues? If we weren't using these fake things, you'd be dead right 
now. I thought by now you would know to NEVER lower your guard against 
an armed opponent!" Boromir was embarrassed that he had not noticed 
the Ranger stop the practice.

"My apologizes, Boromir, but I believe the Lord Elrond requires our 
presence." Boromir followed Aragorn's gaze to the balcony, where the 
Lord of Imladris waited expectantly.

"Just when I was finally getting the hang of this again," the man from 
Gondor grumbled. Aragorn laughed good-naturedly and placed his 
practice sword upon a stone bench beside the court.

"I am fortunate we were no longer using our own swords or that last 
thrust would have skewered me. I was rather lax in my guard, but I 
thought you would cease your attack when you saw I was no longer 
fighting." Aragorn looked at Denethor's son speculatively. Valar, I 
hope he was truly not paying attention. I would hate to believe that 
the killing stroke was wishful thinking on his part.

* * * * * * * * *

Boromir and Aragorn were standing uncomfortably in Elrond's study. To 
the Ranger's experienced eye, the Lord of Imladris looked upset. "What 
has happened?" he asked.

The Peredhil smiled slightly; only his three children and his foster 
son could read him so readily. "I have news from Lothlorien. I am 
afraid it is not good." Elrond's gaze strayed to Boromir and remained 
there. Aragorn noted that Denethor's heir had become pale.

"What news, my Lord?" Boromir felt light-headed. There was no doubt in 
his mind that the news concerned Eledwhen. The Elven lord handed him a 
letter, and Boromir took it with trembling fingers. Aragorn looked at 
his foster father questioningly, but Elrond did not respond.

As Boromir read the letter, his pallor grayed. He backed instinctively 
into a nearby chair, sat down heavily and continued to read. Finally 
he looked up at Elrond. "Have you read this?" the man demanded.

"No, but the accompanying letter from the Lady Galadriel explained the 
need for your return. I shall release you from your promise to be part 
of the Fellowship if you wish it. One man on horseback can travel much 
more swiftly than nine on foot."

Boromir stood up unsteadily. "I need time to think. Please excuse me." 
Elrond and Aragorn watched the man walk heavily from the room.

"I would like to know what the Lady of the Golden Wood has to say. I 
would not ask, but it obviously concerns the Fellowship. If we lose 
Boromir's strength and skills, I fear our journey will be much more 
perilous." Elrond stood silent some minutes before addressing his 
foster son's request.

"Find Gandalf and bring him to my study. You both need to know what 
has happened."

* * * * * * * * *

Boromir sat in the chair on his balcony, staring sightlessly at the 
beauty surrounding him. His mind was still trying to come to terms 
with the letter's contents. The Lady Galadriel says Eledwhen may lose 
our child. How can this be? She seemed so healthy when I left. Boromir 
read the letter a third time.

"I believe your presence will greatly help my granddaughter's state of 
mind. Though she has been ordered to bed rest, she continues to fret 
constantly and I worry for her health and the life of the unborn 
child. My Lord Celeborn is accounted one of the greatest healers in 
Middle-earth, yet he is unsure that his skills will save my future 
great-grandson. Therefore, I ask that you return to us as quickly as 
you are able. Eledwhen needs you desperately."

Each time Boromir read the last paragraph, he prayed it would say 
something different. Anything but that he may lose his son. I thought 
that leaving her behind would ensure her health. Now it seems my 
sacrifice was for naught.

Aragorn came upon the Man of Gondor quietly, uncertain that he wanted 
to intrude upon the other's privacy. Boromir was plainly upset. Softly 
clearing his throat, the future King of Gondor moved to stand beside 
the Steward's heir.

Boromir was hunched forward in the chair, face resting in the palms of 
his large hands. Aragorn waited patiently for some sign that he should 
speak. Boromir finally lifted his head and gazed with red-rimmed eyes 
at the man before him. "Elrond has told you," he said flatly.

"He reported what the Lady Galadriel wrote in her letter to him. I am 
deeply sorry that your lady is so ill."

Boromir narrowed his eyes and snapped, "My wife is ill. She is my 
wife." Aragorn blinked rapidly in surprise at the man's angry tone, 
but kept his features frozen into a mask of concern. Boromir stood up 
suddenly and walked back into the adjacent room. He was furiously 
packing when Aragorn finally joined him.

"So you have decided to leave immediately." Boromir stood upright so 
swiftly he almost lost his balance, as his recently healed leg nearly 
buckled beneath him.

"And what concern is that to you? You are not yet my King, and so I do 
not have to ask 'by your leave' for anything that I do."

Aragorn took a step backward and raised his arms in front of him, 
palms up. "I am concerned that you may not be strong enough to travel 
alone. I would counsel that you join the Fellowship. Our road will 
lead to Lothlorien, and you may find there is safety in numbers."

Boromir drew himself up to his full height of nearly 6 feet. He 
bristled with indignation. "Are you suggesting that I am incapable of 
protecting myself? I am not some inexperienced rookie soldier. I am 
the Captain-General of Gondor's army! I warn you, it is not a title 
bestowed upon me in name only. I earned that position in combat."

The Ranger's eyes narrowed slightly. "You earned that honor, in part, 
by the nature of being the Steward's first-born."

Boromir reached for the scabbard on the bed. "Are you spoiling for a 
fight, Ranger?"

Before the other man could draw his sword, Aragorn quickly moved to 
block his action. The two stood frozen, each refusing to back down.

"Must Men always settle their differences with violence?" Arwen's 
presence caused the two men to immediately separate. Aragorn looked 
somewhat sheepish; Boromir looked angry. "Aragorn, my love, please be 
so kind as to leave the Lord Boromir in my care. I fear you are only 
making things worse for our guest."

Aragorn started to defend himself, thought better of it, and instead 
bowed slightly to the two standing before him. He left the room 
soundlessly. Arwen turned her lovely countenance upon the Lord of 
Gondor. The smile she bestowed upon him was disarming, and his anger 
melted like snow on a bright spring morning. "I believe it is time for 
our conversation about your lady love."

Boromir sighed and placed his weapon back upon the bed. He motioned 
toward the balcony and together they walked into the brilliant 
sunshine. The man said nothing, so Arwen spoke first. "Do not be angry 
with Aragorn. He has spent much of his life alone in the wilderness 
and sometimes forgets his manners. I am sorry to hear about your 
wife's ill health. Is there something I can do?"

The man shook his head despondently, then moved to stand by the 
railing. His gaze looked southward and to the east. "I must go to her. 
It is not right that she bear this alone."

Arwen's tone was soothing as she replied, "She is not alone, Man of 
Gondor. She is with her grandparents. If the Lord and Lady of the 
Golden Wood cannot help her, there is none who can."

Boromir shook his head stubbornly. "Do you counsel me to hold to my 
pledge that I accompany the Fellowship, thereby delaying my arrival in 
Caras Galadhon and leaving my wife with only Elves to comfort her?"

The Lady of Imladris stiffened visibly, though she tried to hide it. 
"You forget to whom you speak. They are my grandparents as well. The 
Princess Eledwhen and I share the same blood. Her mother was my aunt 
and I knew her for more than two millennia. You wound me when you 
speak so disrespectfully about my kin." Arwen was pleased by the guilt 
that crossed the man's face.

"My lady, please forgive my unforgivable behavior. I am overwrought 
with grief. Never would I do anything purposefully to cause you pain 
or distress. I spend too much time in the company of soldiers and 
sometimes forget the rules of etiquette my mother tried to teach me. I 
beg you to accept my sincere apology for my words. They were 
thoughtless."

Arwen placed a hand delicately upon his upper arm. Her smile was kind. 
"I know what it is to love someone who is far away. I worry constantly 
that something will happen to him and that I shall never see him 
again."

Boromir looked at her closely. "You speak of Aragorn. Will you two wed 
some day?"

The Elf's face became sad and she turned from him. When she spoke, she 
sounded close to tears. "My father will not permit us to wed until 
Aragorn has proven himself and regained the throne of his forefathers. 
It is my greatest fear that he will not survive the ordeal to come." 
Slowly she turned back to Boromir and he could see she was crying. "I 
would feel much comforted if you would consent to travel with the 
Fellowship. Your presence may make a life or death difference."

The man laughed bitterly and banged his fist upon the railing. The 
violent outburst caused Arwen to move away from him. "You ask me to 
protect the one person in the world who can take away my life. Do you 
clearly understand what you ask of me?"

Arwen's reply was so soft he had to move closer to her to hear it. 
"Each Steward has sworn an oath to protect and preserve Gondor until 
such time as her King shall return. Will you be forsworn?"

"I am not the Steward of Gondor, and so have taken no such oath. You 
ask me to destroy my family in favor of a stranger." Arwen shook her 
head.

"Nay, my Lord. I ask that you keep the man I love safe. Aragorn is 
noble and above all else, fair and honest. He will not take what is 
yours and cast you aside. He is not like that. If you would but travel 
with him, by his side, you will see the truth in my words. Please." 
Arwen placed the palm of her right hand against one side of Boromir's 
face. Her luminous gray eyes were pleading.

"You are my wife's kin and so I cannot refuse such a heart-felt 
request. I will accompany the Fellowship and do my best to discover 
the qualities you believe make Aragorn deserving of my fealty. But I 
warn you, it will be no easy feat."

Arwen lowered her head and let her long hair fall forward to cover her 
face. She was smiling triumphantly. "All I ask is that you go forth 
with an open mind."

* * * * * * * * *

The nine members of the Fellowship assembled upon the lawn beneath 
Elrond's study. Gandalf studied each member closely, hoping to gauge 
his resolve. "I fear they are none too keen about this journey," the 
old wizard said quietly to the Lord of Imladris.

"Are you?" he countered.

Gandalf snorted disdainfully. "A wizard is always ready to undertake 
any task appointed. I am ready."

Elrond smiled affectionately at his old friend. His smiled turned into 
a frown as he watched Aragorn and his daughter say their farewells. 
For the sake of Middle-earth, Aragorn must complete this mission 
successfully. But for my own sake, I dread the outcome. I do not wish 
to lose my daughter.

Arwen kissed the man she one day would die for and placed her forehead 
against his. Their hands were clasped tightly together as though each 
was afraid to let go of the other. Finally Arwen lifted her head and 
attempted a smile. "Take care of the Gondorian. He has had nothing but 
bad luck since he became betrothed to my cousin."

Aragorn studied Boromir, who looked rather uncomfortable standing 
between the dwarf, Gimli, and the Elf, Legolas. "You should be 
cautioning me to watch for signs that he might murder me -- or take 
the Ring."

Arwen frowned. "If that is a jest, it is a poor one. Do not say such 
things. I feel he is drawn to the One, but that he is a good man and 
will do the right thing, in the end." Aragorn returned his gaze to the 
Man of Gondor.

"I wish I had your optimism," he said dourly. Aragorn's gaze shifted 
as the Lord Elrond approached the rest of the Fellowship. Gandalf was 
at his side. "It is time. If it is my fate, I will return to you. 
Until that day, pray to the Valar for me." The two lovers shared a 
lingering kiss before the man took his place beside Frodo.

"This is my last word," said Elrond in a low voice. "The Ring-bearer 
is setting out on the Quest of Mount Doom. On him alone is any charge 
laid -- neither to cast away the Ring, nor to deliver it to any 
servant of the Enemy, nor indeed to let any handle it, save members of 
the Company and the Council, and only then in gravest need. Go now 
with good hearts, and may the stars shine upon your faces!"

With Elrond's words still ringing in their ears, the nine members of 
the Fellowship of the Ring left the Last Homely House.



-------




15. The Long and Winding Road


This is the second chapter where I heard a song in my head as I was 
writing it. Chapter 14 was titled after a Neil Diamond song, and this 
chapter carries the title of a Beatle's tune. If I can't have a little 
fun with my writing, why bother? To maintain the flavor of the book, I 
have used some of Tolkien's wording verbatim, some of it is 
paraphrased, and some is original. I am not making any money off of 
this, so I hope the professor's heirs don't mind.

* * * * * * * * *


The Fellowship had been on the road a fortnight. The four hobbits had 
been overly chatty at first, but as the days passed, they tired and 
wasted less energy talking. For this small favor, Boromir was 
extremely thankful. For the most part he kept to himself, wrapped 
within his worried thoughts about the Princess Eledwhen and their 
child. To the other members of the Fellowship he seemed morose and 
aloof. The future King of Gondor wisely kept conversation with the 
Steward's heir to a few, but necessary, words. Aragorn and Gandalf 
knew what haunted the man's thoughts and kept the matter to 
themselves.

"Tomorrow we will reach the Hollin Ridge," said Gandalf as he paused 
to peer at the landscape about them. The weather had taken a sudden 
change for the better. All nine members of the Fellowship heaved a 
collective sigh of relief as the wind fell and veered to the south, 
and the sun began to show as swift-flowing clouds lifted. It was 
certainly a welcome respite from the past two weeks, when they had 
been constantly chilled by icy blasts from the mountains in the east.

"Are we almost to Mordor, Gandalf?" Pippin asked hopefully.

The wizard scowled at the pesky hobbit before turning his gaze back to 
the land before them. "We shall travel throughout the night and rest 
in the morning. Do you agree, Aragorn?"

The Ranger had been standing silently beside Gandalf, chewing on his 
lower lip. Something was bothering him, but he was unable to put a 
name to it. He felt no threat from spies or foes, yet a growing sense 
of alarm was building within. Realizing that the wizard was looking at 
him expectantly, Aragorn grunted. Gandalf nodded, as though satisfied 
with this "answer," and began walking again. As he prepared to follow, 
Aragorn happened to glance at Boromir, who was smiling. The Gondorian 
obviously knew the Ranger had not been paying attention, and that 
Aragorn had used the same ruse that had served the Steward's heir well 
during long and boring Council meetings. Aragorn smiled thinly before 
making certain the hobbits were all accounted for. The little ones, as 
he had come to think of them, had a tendency to wander off alone or in 
pairs. More than once he had considered tying them all together and 
using the horse's lead rope to force them to remain with the rest of 
the Company. It definitely was going to be a long journey to the fires 
of Mount Doom.

By the end of the night's march the Company reached a low ridge 
crowned with ancient holly trees. The gray-green trunks seemed to have 
been built out of the very stone of the hills, the trees' dark leaves 
shone, and their berries gleamed red in the light of the rising sun. 
The Fellowship had reached the borders of Hollin, some forty-five 
leagues (as the crow flies) from Rivendell. "I believe we shall camp 
here, and not just for today," said Gandalf. "We all could use an 
extra day of rest."

The members of the Fellowship flung their packs onto the ground and 
threw themselves upon them. For once the hobbits were too exhausted to 
eat and fell asleep as soon as their heads touched their bedrolls. 
Boromir walked to a large tree and sank down in front of it, resting 
his sore back against its stout trunk. He partially closed his eyes 
and watched the wizard and Aragorn as they stood together discussing 
something. I tire of their superior attitudes. They may know the lie 
of the land but I, too, possess a fair knowledge of woodcraft; yet 
they ignore me as though as I am not a member of this Fellowship.

"I sense that you are no more enamoured of our guides than am I," said 
Gimli as he shook out his bedroll. Boromir looked up at the dwarf.

"They seem to know where they are going," he said neutrally.

Gimli uttered a muted harrumph before gingerly lowering his bulk onto 
the bedroll. "I know where I would like them to go, but they say they 
know best as to which road we should take. I thought we were all in 
this together. Who died and made Aragorn king?"

Boromir gaped at the dwarf, a look of disbelief on his tired face. Had 
the dwarf really made that crack about Aragorn? What did he know about 
the two men's disagreements? Boromir started to question Gimli about 
the meaning behind his words, but the dwarf already was snoring. 
Perhaps I am not the only one who objects to the Ranger treating us 
all as children or, rather, hobbits. Taking another long, hard look at 
the sleeping dwarf, Boromir closed his eyes and soon fell into a 
restless slumber.

* * * * * * * * *

Boromir awakened two hours later. Something had disturbed his sleep. 
Sam and Aragorn were sitting beside the fire, presumably on watch. The 
Ranger had his head cocked slightly to one side as though listening to 
something. What is he listening to? This place is as silent as the 
tombs of Rath Dinen. Hastily Boromir rose to his feet as the meaning 
of what he had just thought sunk in. "Aragorn," he hissed.

Even as the Man of Gondor spoke, Aragorn grabbed Sam and hauled him 
into the shade of a holly bush. Boromir immediately joined them for 
he, too, had seen the birds. They were flying low and straight toward 
the ridge upon which they camped. The three did not stir until the sky 
was clear again, then Aragorn hurried to awaken Gandalf.

"Regiments of black crows are flying over the land between the 
mountains and the Greyflood," Aragorn said grimly. "They are not 
natives here; they are crebain out of Fangorn and Dunland. I think 
they are spying out the land. We should move again this evening; 
Hollin is no longer wholesome for us. It is being watched."

Gandalf nodded in agreement and Sam groaned. He had been looking 
forward to another day's rest and a hot meal. Strider's decision that 
there would be no more fires depressed him. It wasn't natural for a 
hobbit to live on so sparse a diet, with only cold rations at hand. 
"Get some sleep while you can, Sam. I shall stand the watch."

The hobbit glowered at Strider before shuffling off to where Frodo lay 
sleeping. "My master needs a hot meal, he does," Sam muttered under 
his breath. Throwing one last heated look at Aragorn, he settled down 
for a much-needed nap.

Boromir did not feel like sleeping, so he joined the Ranger by the 
remains of the now extinguished fire. For several minutes the two 
remained silent. Aragorn finally broke the uncomfortable silence. "I 
sense you are angry or displeased with our decision to move on." 
Boromir gave him a scathing look.

"Our decision? Since when have I been included in any decisions? No 
one asks my opinion about anything. I might as well not even be here."

Aragorn looked at the other man thoughtfully. "Why did you decide to 
come with us instead of taking a horse and riding ahead to the Golden 
Wood?" Boromir looked uncomfortable. Finally he shrugged.

"I promised the Lady Arwen that I would look after you." He looked 
directly at Aragorn, a smile on his face.

The Ranger's jaw dropped and he groped to find words to fling back at 
the Gondorian. "I do not need to be looked after, and I do not believe 
that the Evenstar solicited your aid in keeping me alive. I have done 
well enough looking after myself for several decades!"

Boromir chuckled. "Believe what you will. The Lady Arwen is now my kin 
and, as my kinswoman, she asked me to help keep you safe. That I swore 
I would do. Otherwise, I would now be with my wife." The man's gaze 
became unfocused and he looked in the direction of Lothlorien.

"I am sorry. I should not have lost my temper. I hope you find that 
all is well when we reach Caras Galadhon." Aragorn placed one hand 
lightly upon the other's shoulder. Boromir did not withdraw from the 
touch, but seemed to welcome the comfort it offered. The two men 
remained companionably silent the rest of the watch.

* * * * * * * * *

Each member of the Fellowship was tired and dejected. They had 
attempted to cross the mountains via the Redhorn Gate. They were 
prepared for the cold; they were totally unprepared for the wrath of 
Caradhras. Even though it was the 11th of January, neither Aragorn nor 
Gandalf had been prepared for the unrelenting blizzard that nearly 
froze the hobbits to death. If not for the two doughty men, the entire 
Company might have been lost and the doom of Middle-earth sealed.

For once, Boromir's advice had been heeded and the Company had 
gathered faggots of wood for fire before attempting the pass. When 
they became buried by falling snow, Gandalf had still argued against 
the folly of openly giving away their location. However, once the 
choice became death or fire, the wizard reluctantly sparked the blaze 
and they survived. Now, as they huddled together discussing the next 
road to tread, Boromir got in one last lick.

"Any soldier knows that it is better to retreat and live to fight 
another day than to die needlessly in a battle that cannot be won." 
Boromir looked pointedly at the Ranger, who had argued vehemently that 
they continue to try the pass rather than go back down the mountain. 
Had they followed his advice, all would have died. Aragorn ducked his 
head and returned his attention to Gandalf, who was discussing their 
options.

"The road that I speak of leads to the Mines of Moria," Gandalf was 
saying.

Boromir was surprised to hear the wizard name the place. Even in 
Gondor they had heard terrible stories of ancient perils that walked 
the mines. Though he knew Aragorn and Mithrandir would veto anything 
he said, Boromir believed he had to try to dissuade them.

"It is a name of ill omen. I see no need to go there. If we cannot 
cross the mountains, let us journey southward until we come to the Gap 
of Rohan, where men are friendly to my people. Or we might pass by and 
cross the Isen into Langstrand and Lebennin, and so come to Gondor 
from the regions nigh to the sea."

Gandalf shook his head wearily. "You are a member of the Fellowship 
and as long as you remain with the Ring-bearer, those roads are closed 
to you. The Gap of Rohan takes us too near Isengard. And as for the 
longer road… we cannot afford the time. I deem that we must take the 
path the enemy will least expect us to take. We must travel through 
the Mines of Moria."

Boromir shook his head in disbelief. "The name of Moria is black. We 
might as well knock on the gates of the Dark Tower as pass through the 
mines." Despite Boromir's protestations, Gandalf persevered and it was 
decided that the Fellowship would turn south once more. Boromir felt a 
perverse pleasure in Aragorn's obvious distress. The Ranger also had 
tried to change Gandalf's mind, with equal success. At last, something 
about which we both agree. I hope it is not the last thing we will 
have the opportunity to agree on. Boromir slung his heavy shield upon 
his back and took the rear-guard position.

* * * * * * * * *

Gandalf was staring at the side of the cliffs and muttering to 
himself. Aragorn was pulling the packs off their pony, Bill, who was 
about to become orc fodder, in Boromir's opinion. Of course he knew 
they could not force the animal to enter the mines, but neither did he 
relish turning Bill loose to become some orc party's next meal. The 
man was seated with his back resting against one of the bare cliffs 
abutting the entrance to Moria, (wherever that might be) waiting for 
the wizard to speak the secret, magic words that would open the door 
to the mines. Boromir was irritated because the dwarf had no clue as 
to where the entrance was. Gimli was wandering about, tapping the 
stone here and there with his axe, and wasting precious time. The 
weather conditions also seemed to conspire against them, for the air 
was bitterly cold.

Boromir looked to where Gandalf stood. The wizard was staring at the 
blank cliff wall and muttering incantations, or something equally 
mysterious. Boromir sighed and turned to look at the water in the 
lake. It had an unwholesome look that made the skin at the nape of his 
neck crawl. I should have taken Elrond's offer to lend me one of his 
horses. I'd be in Lothlorien, warm in a bed with Eledwhen, not 
freezing my arse off with beings that talk to walls. Boromir turned 
his head in the direction of the water and caught a glimpse of 
Legolas. The Elf was pressed against the rock, eyes shut, as though 
listening. That one looks as if he expects the rock to talk to him. 
The Valar preserve us, for if the survival of Middle-earth resides in 
the hands of my companions, all is lost.

At that moment, Gandalf gave a cry of surprise. Boromir stood up and 
walked over to join the others in front of the blank wall. At least, 
it had been a blank wall. Now he could see faint lines, like slender 
veins of silver, running in the stone. The pale, gossamer threads grew 
broader and clearer, until their design could be guessed. Boromir did 
not listen to most of the conversation that followed, but kept his 
eyes and thoughts upon the stagnant pool. Something is watching us. 
Boromir involuntarily shuddered and again became aware of the others. 
Gimli and Legolas were arguing. Nothing unusual there, so he tuned out 
most of the spat. Their bitter repartee had been going on non-stop 
since their departure from Imladris. However, he couldn't help but 
tune in the conversation when Gimli loudly admitted that he did not 
know the word that would open the door.

"The words that open the door are Elvish," taunted Gimli. "You are an 
Elf, why do you not know the password?" Legolas looked as though he 
could gladly gut the obnoxious dwarf.

Boromir moved closer to Gandalf and asked the one question on 
everyone's mind: "But do not you know the word, Gandalf?"

"No! I do not." The Man of Gondor stared at the wizard in disbelief.

"Then what was the use of bringing us to this accursed spot? You told 
us that you once passed through the Mines. How could that be, if you 
did not know how to enter?" Boromir was struggling to keep himself 
from throttling the old wizard.

"The answer is, I do not know the answer -- yet. Patience is a virtue, 
one the Steward should have taught you by now. Have you entirely lost 
your wits? I did not enter this way; I came from the East." Looking at 
the dismayed faces turned toward him, Gandalf's countenance softened 
and he said more gently, "I once knew every spell in all the tongues 
of Elves or men or orcs that was ever used for such a purpose. The 
opening words were Elvish, like the writing on the arch."

"What does it say, Gandalf?" Frodo was looking at the door with a 
perplexed look on his tired face.

"It says 'Speak, Friend, and Enter.' But what the password is I do not 
know."

Boromir turned away from the Company and walked to the edge of the 
foul pool. He heard Gandalf "speaking" to the cliff wall in many 
different tongues. Have I lost my wits, indeed. Boromir was becoming 
agitated and restless. Time was wasting and he had to get to Eledwhen. 
What if she had lost the child? What if she had died as well? To help 
alleviate his mounting frustration, Boromir picked up a large stone 
and cast it far into the dark water. The stone made a loud splash in 
the silence, and the others quickly turned to see what had caused the 
noise. Boromir noticed that where the stone had vanished, great 
rippling rings were forming on the surface and moving slowly to the 
foot of the cliff.

Aragorn moved to Boromir's side and angrily grabbed hold of his arm. 
"Do not disturb the water. The Dark Lord's spies are everywhere." 
Boromir jerked his arm from the other's grip and placed his hand upon 
the hilt of his sword. In response to the wordless threat, Aragorn 
rested his hand upon his sword hilt. Both men glared angrily at the 
other until Pippin cried out.

"Why doesn't Gandalf do something quick? I want to get away from 
here!" He fearfully eyed the water in the pool, which was becoming 
increasingly agitated. At that moment, the wizard began laughing. 
"It's a riddle. I should have translated it, 'Speak Friend, and 
Enter.' All I have to do is say the word 'Friend' and the doors will 
open." He raised his staff, stood before the cliff face, and in a 
clear voice said, "Mellon." Silently a great door was outlined, then 
it slowly divided in the middle and swung outward until both doors lay 
back against the wall. A loud sigh escaped Pippin's lips.

Boromir bent to pick up his shield; Gandalf began to enter Moria. Both 
froze when Frodo let out a loud cry. Boromir whirled about and saw 
what looked like a long tentacle wrapping itself about the 
Ring-bearer's ankle. In a single, fluid motion, Gondor's 
Captain-General unsheathed his great sword with one hand while pushing 
Merry and Pippin backward with the other. Sam had run to help his 
master.

The next few minutes were the stuff of which nightmares are made. The 
creature began dragging Frodo toward the water, while Sam frantically 
hacked at the tentacle with his knife. The arm suddenly let go of 
Frodo and Sam pulled him away, crying out for help as he did so. 
Twenty other arms slithered from the pool, all moving toward the 
Ring-bearer; the water boiled and there was a horrible stench. Boromir 
rushed forward and placed himself between the two hobbits and the 
nightmarish creature. Several of the slimy tentacles reached for 
Boromir and he hacked at them with his sword. Gandalf then grabbed the 
hobbits and began herding them into the mine. Legolas began firing 
arrows at lightening speed and the dwarf finally stepped to the 
water's edge and began swinging his axe in a wide arc. Blood and 
tentacles rained down upon those closest to the pool.

Gandalf had succeeded in getting the hobbits into the mine's entrance; 
he turned back toward those fighting and shouted: "Into the gateway! 
Up the stairs! Quickly!" Gimli and the Elf began to fall back. 
Aragorn, who had joined the fray a few minutes earlier, took one last 
swipe at a persistent tentacle and began to withdraw. But Boromir 
seemed rooted to the spot. He continued to fight mindlessly, slicing 
the arms off the watcher in the water. Aragorn took hold of Boromir's 
sword arm and yanked it backward, shouting as he did so. "It is time 
to go! The hobbits are safe. Come on!"

Boromir shook his head to clear the stinging sweat from his eyes and 
saw that, indeed, the Halflings were out of harm's way. He began to 
move backward, not daring to take his eyes off his adversary. However, 
before Boromir could retreat to the relative safety of the mines, the 
tentacles seethed forward again, reaching for him. Aragorn shoved the 
other man toward the yawning doorway. "I said it is time to go!" he 
shouted. As the two men began to climb the stairs within the mine, the 
groping tentacles writhed across the narrow shore and fingered the 
cliff wall and the doors. Before anyone could think what to do, many 
tentacles seized the doors on either side and, with horrible strength, 
swung them round. The doors slammed shut and all light was lost. 
Standing blind at the foot of the stairs, they heard a noise of 
rending and crashing.

"We now have but one choice," said Gandalf grimly. "We must face the 
long dark of Moria."




-----------




16. Drums in the Deep

This chapter picks up at the end of Chapter 15, where the Fellowship 
is about to enter Moria. Once again, to maintain the flavor of 
Tolkien's original writings, I have used some of the Master's wording 
verbatim. Some of the words are paraphrased, but most are mine. I am 
not making any money off of this, so I hope the professor's heirs 
don't mind.

* * * * * * * * *

"We now have but one choice," said Gandalf grimly. "We must face the 
long dark of Moria."

The members of the Fellowship walked single file behind the wizard, 
who was holding his staff aloft to light their way. Moria was pitch 
black and eerily silent. As the hours wore on, the silence, more than 
the darkness, began wearing on their nerves. The hobbits jumped at 
every little noise made by the Fellowship's passing.

"Gandalf, how long will it take to get to the other side of the 
mountains?" asked Merry bleakly. "I do not like this darkness. I feel 
as though I am suffocating."

The wizard raised his staff a little higher and the light grew 
brighter. "It will take us four days to pass through the mines and 
reach the Dimrill Gate on the other side of the Misty Mountains. I 
believe it is safe enough to risk a little more light," he said 
kindly. "Is that better, Merry?" The hobbit nodded, forgetting that 
the wizard was unable to see him. Gandalf looked over his shoulder and 
saw the diminutive creature nodding his head in the affirmative. He 
smiled and turned his attention to the narrow ledge that suddenly 
appeared before him. "This must be where the dwarves began their 
digging on this side of the mountains. You must all be careful, for 
this ledge is narrow and treacherous. One mistake and you will find 
yourself at the bottom of the mines. It is doubtful anyone could 
survive such a fall."

Gandalf placed a tentative foot upon the ledge, testing to see if it 
could hold his weight. Finally he was convinced that the ledge was 
solid and he began moving onto it. Behind him, each member of the 
Fellowship did likewise. A dim light emanating from far above their 
position showed them the remains of what must have been a busy and 
prosperous mining operation.

"What did your people mine here, Gimli?" Merry was trying to take his 
mind off the long drop below him. Talking was a hobbit's second best 
way of alleviating fear; eating, of course, was the first.

"Moria-silver, Master Hobbit. My people mined for the true-silver that 
can only be found here." For once, Gimli sounded happy.

"Mithril is its Elvish name," added Gandalf. "Its worth was 10 times 
that of gold, and now it is beyond price. I heard that Thorin gave 
Bilbo a corselet of mithril rings worth more than the entire Shire and 
everything in it." No one saw the surprised expression on Frodo's 
face. Dear old Bilbo, always looking after me. I hope that some day I 
will have the opportunity to repay him for his kindness.

"What happened to all the silver that was mined?" asked Pippin, 
looking in appreciative awe at the stripped, naked walls and the many 
platforms that adorned them.

"The dwarves mined too greedily and too deep, and disturbed that from 
which they fled, Durin's Bane. All the mithril the dwarves brought to 
light was taken by the orcs and given as tribute to Sauron, who covets 
it." Gandalf sighed deeply and continued forward in silence.

As the ledge became narrower, the dwarf and the two men found the 
footing increasingly difficult to maintain. More than once, Boromir 
lost his balance and had to slam his body against the rock face to 
keep from pitching over the side. He looked ahead to see how the 
others fared and saw that Legolas was, as usual, the only member of 
the Fellowship undaunted by their predicament. He was moving along as 
though on a stroll down the Great West Road. As he watched the Elf, a 
picture of Eledwhen and Haldir together in Lorien entered his mind and 
he felt an unreasonable pang of jealousy. Elves are so graceful and 
beautiful. How could she not be attracted to them? And Haldir already 
has earned a place in her heart. The man tried to shove the worrisome 
thoughts from his head and concentrate on the path before him.

"Look sharp!" Gandalf shouted from the head of the line. "There is a 
break in the rock here and we will have to hop over it. It is not too 
wide; mayhap no more than the width of two hobbits. Legolas, if you 
would please move to the other side and help steady us as we cross." 
Without a word, the Elf moved around the wizard and hopped lightly and 
effortlessly over the gap.

"Cheer up. It is not too far to where the path opens into a wide 
hallway." Having offered these words of encouragement, Legolas reached 
for Gandalf's arm and helped him leap over the gap in the ledge. The 
wizard raised his staff and remained as close to the Elf as he could 
without risking the safety of the others. He did not want to be in the 
way, but each needed to see the path to safely cross the ruined 
portion. Once all were across, they shuffled to the wide archway only 
a few feet farther.

"Do you know where we are, Gimli?" Gandalf looked questioningly at the 
dwarf, who was staring about him with a perplexed frown on his face.

"Nay, this place is unknown to me. I do not remember being in this 
part of Moria. The air here has a foul smell to it. Let us push onward 
as quickly as possible to the Great Halls of Khazad-dum. I still have 
hopes that some of my kinfolk remain in this realm, though that hope 
grows fainter the farther we go." Gimli became silent and fell to the 
rear. He wanted to think without feeling that the others were watching 
him.

* * * * * * * * *

Several hours later they came to a junction where three huge 
passageways yawned before them. All led generally eastward, but the 
left-hand passage plunged downward, while the right-hand passage 
climbed up. The middle way seemed to run on smooth and level, but it 
was very narrow.

"Which way do we go, Gandalf?" Pippin was looking at him hopefully; 
the others appeared uneasy.

"Whichever way we choose, it had best be soon," said Boromir. "We are 
too exposed. The enemy could come at us from any or all of these 
tunnels. What say you, Mithrandir? Which passage leads out of these 
accursed mines?"

The wizard was looking about uncertainly. "I do not remember this 
place at all. We shall rest here for awhile. I need time to think."

Boromir started to protest the folly of such action, but shrugged his 
shoulders instead. It is useless to argue with a wizard, for he will 
always have his way. Stifling a sigh, he walked to a large rock and 
sat down upon it. Frodo sank onto the rock floor and propped his back 
against a boulder only a few feet from the Man of Gondor. Boromir felt 
suddenly light-headed and heard a ringing in his ears that soon 
sounded like whispering. He shook his head; it felt as though hundreds 
of tiny mites were buzzing about inside his ears.

"Are you alright, Boromir?" Aragorn was standing next to him, a look 
of concern on his dirty and unshaven face. Boromir frowned to think 
that he must look much the same. Not exactly the way I want to look 
when I see Eledwhen again, he thought. Tiredly he shook his head.

"I am fine. You need not trouble yourself over my well being. See to 
the hobbits if you must mother someone." Although Boromir turned his 
back on the Ranger, he did not do so quickly enough to miss the look 
of hurt that crossed the other man's features. He almost turned around 
to apologize, but was suddenly assaulted by a wave of desire so strong 
he almost pitched forward. He began sweating and his breathing became 
ragged. His eyes sought the object of his desire and fell upon the 
Ring-bearer. He could feel the pull of the One; feel its power passing 
over his body like a lover's caress. From a few feet away, Aragorn 
watched him closely through narrowed eyes. His hand fell unconsciously 
onto his sword's pommel.

Boromir rose unsteadily, took two halting steps toward Frodo and 
stopped. He felt crushed between the hammer and the anvil. His chest 
hurt each time he drew a breath. Then, suddenly, he heard the same 
voice inside his head he had heard twice before. "Take it, my Lord. 
You know you want it. Its power will grant you all you have ever 
desired. Power, greatness, the respect of your father… all your dreams 
fulfilled. All is within your grasp. Take it, take it now!" Boromir 
let out a loud sob and fell to his knees, arms across his chest. All 
but Gandalf rushed to his side.

"What is wrong? Are you in pain?" Gimli, who was clueless to Boromir's 
torment, assumed the man was ailing. Legolas and Aragorn exchanged 
knowing looks. Frodo looked just plain scared and moved closer to the 
Ranger.

"I am alright. Do not concern yourselves." Boromir forced the words 
through gritted teeth. "It is naught but a fleeting pain from an old 
war injury. It has almost passed. I thank you for your concern."

Aragorn felt a great sorrow wash over him as he understood for the 
first time the depth of Boromir's temptation. He gently touched the 
other man's shoulder and felt a surge of power pass up his arm. 
Aragorn jerked backward, for suddenly he was deafened by the sound of 
a thousand voices -- loud murmuring that filled his head. He stared at 
Boromir and saw him looking at him as though to say: "You see, it is 
not so easy to resist as you think." Aragorn felt like screaming. His 
gaze fell upon Frodo, who was staring at him, a look of terror upon 
his child-like face.

Must not listen to the voices, Aragorn thought furiously as he shook 
his head much as a dog emerging from water. Legolas' concerned voice 
broke the spell. "Aragorn! What is wrong?" The voices ceased.

The Ranger blinked rapidly and wiped the sweat from his brow with a 
sleeve. "We should not have taken this path," Aragorn said heavily. 
"There is death here." He turned slowly to face Gandalf, who had been 
observing from his perch atop a large boulder. The wizard was taking 
long, hard pulls on his pipe; his brow was furrowed in consternation.

"We are here now and must make the best of it. Try to sleep. I will 
take the watches. Frodo, why don't you sleep next to me?" Gandalf shot 
Aragorn a meaningful glance and cut his eyes toward Boromir. Aragorn 
spread his bedroll next to Boromir, who had resumed his place atop the 
rock. Neither said a word.

* * * * * * * *

Six hours later, Gandalf roused them all from sleep. He had spent 
those hours smoking and thinking. "I have made up my mind. I do not 
like the feel of the middle way, and I do not like the smell of the 
left-hand way. Therefore, we shall take the right-hand passage. It is 
time we climb again."

The Company spared the time to make a sparse breakfast of cold bread 
and cheese before moving onward. The hobbits could be heard grumbling 
about the choice and size of the menu. Tiring of their senseless 
patter, Gandalf hissed at them to be quiet and the Fellowship 
continued to climb in silence through the darkness of Moria, with only 
the wizard's light as a guide.

Boromir had been ordered to guard the rear. He knew why the wizard 
wanted him behind the rest of the Fellowship and truly could not blame 
him. The man was beginning to have doubts about his ability to control 
himself. The dreams that had come to him previously had been just 
that, dreams. This time, he had been awake when the desire to take the 
Ring had hit him like a blow to the mid-section. Perhaps their 
presence in Moria had contributed to the almost overpowering desire to 
snatch the One from the hobbit and escape with it down the left-hand 
passage. I must not let my guard down. Even were I of a mind to claim 
the Ring, I would not do so here in Moria. Where would I go? How would 
I ever find my way to the other side of the mountains, and to 
Eledwhen? For the first time, Denethor's son began to doubt his own 
sanity.

* * * * * * * * *

They had traveled as far as the hobbits could without a rest and were 
looking for a safe place to sleep when the walls on either side 
suddenly vanished. They now stood in a great cavernous space that 
seemed to swallow the small light bobbing at the tip of the wizard's 
staff. The four hobbits huddled fearfully about Gandalf's robes in the 
oppressive darkness.

Sensing their fear, Gandalf permitted himself a soft chuckle. "It 
seems I made the right choice. We have come to the more inhabitable 
parts of the mines and should not be far from the eastern side. I deem 
it is time for some real light."

Gandalf's staff seemed to catch on fire and a large flame lit the 
chamber about them. Each of the hobbit's mouths fell open in awe as 
they looked up at the vast roof far above their heads. Then they 
looked downward and saw many mighty pillars hewn of stone. On either 
side stretched a huge empty hall with black walls that were as 
polished and as smooth as glass. In the blaze of the wizard's fire the 
walls flashed and glittered. "What is this place?" Boromir asked in a 
hushed tone.

"This is the great realm and city of the Dwarrowdelf. It once was full 
of light and splendor; many of our songs remember its greatness." It 
was Gimli who had answered Boromir's question.

"You are not going to sing are you?" Legolas asked with just the 
proper amount of mock horror in his voice.

Gimli bristled. "Do you think that Elves are the only ones who can 
sing? Such arrogance! My folk have immortalized their deeds in song 
for time uncounted."

Legolas' bright laughter filled the great hall and bounced back off 
the walls. "I did not say that dwarves CAN not sing. I merely meant to 
imply that they SHOULD not sing."

Aragorn had reached his limit of endurance. Angrily he shouted, 
"Legolas, Gimli. Enough! I will have some peace. Both of you find a 
place to sleep -- preferably as far apart as possible. Sam, Frodo, 
take your rest near to me."

As Frodo began to drift off to sleep, he thought he saw a faint glow 
of light down one of the immense and very dark passages. Oddly enough, 
the strange light reminded him of a pair of eyes. "It is Gollum. He 
has been following us since we entered Moria." Aragorn spoke in a soft 
whisper pitched for Frodo's ears alone. Frodo shuddered and returned 
his gaze to where he had seen the eyes. Only darkness returned his 
stare.

* * * * * * * * *

What remained of the Fellowship was scattered about the Dimrill Dale. 
The shadow of the Misty Mountains covered them, as though aware of the 
despair each member suffered. Aragorn had been right; there was death 
in the mines, for Gandalf had fallen while fighting the Balrog.

They all had nearly been lost when an assortment of orcs, black Uruks 
of Mordor and one very large cave troll had cornered them in the 
Chamber of Records. The entire Company fought bravely and effectively, 
including the hobbits, but Frodo had been speared in the side by a 
huge orc-chieftain. Although all had escaped, and Frodo had 
miraculously not been killed, the drumbeats had throbbed and rolled 
doom doom as they had run to the bridge and their last hope of escape. 
It was on that narrow span that Gandalf had faced the hideously evil 
Balrog and fallen to his death.

Aragorn turned to look back at the Great Gates of Moria. He hated it 
when he was right, but the wizard had known the risk and accepted it, 
just as he, too, must accept that the mission of the Fellowship was 
now his responsibility. Sighing, Aragorn studied each of the seven 
remaining members. Only Boromir appeared not to grieve. He was 
standing protectively near Pippin and Merry, but not a tear had he 
shed. (Perhaps because he was entirely Denethor's son and the Steward 
of Gondor was none too fond of wizards.) The others were weeping 
copiously, even as he was.

Finally, the Ranger found his voice. "We must depart immediately. Even 
though it is just past noon, we have relatively few hours to put as 
much distance between ourselves and the shadow of Moria. Come 
nightfall, we will be hunted." When no one paid any heed to his 
advice, Aragorn hardened his tone and ordered Boromir to start the two 
youngest hobbits on the road to Lothlorien. A smile crossed the man's 
face as he realized how near he was to Eledwhen. He was almost 
cheerful as he pulled Pippin and Merry to their feet and shooed them 
on their way.

"What's he so bloody happy about?" demanded Gimli. "We have lost a 
very old and dear friend, and he looks as though he is on holiday!"

Aragorn leaned over the dwarf and said quietly, "Soon he shall see one 
he loves dearly, and who is seriously ill. Speak no cross words within 
his hearing unless you wish to feel the bite of his sword."

Gimli dashed away his tears with the back of a gloved hand and tightly 
gripped the shaft of his axe. "Never let it be said that a dwarf is 
insensitive to the feelings of others." Legolas stared at him with 
eyebrows raised and started to speak. A look from Aragorn froze the 
words on his tongue. Silently the Elf turned toward the Golden Wood.




-----------


Please continue on to my next installment of the Boromir/Eledwhen love 
story, The Power of Love. When the Fellowship reaches Lorien, the Man 
of Gondor learns the fate of his unborn son. Thank you for reading my 
fic, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing 
it.