In Empty Lands

Written By: Larner
You can find the original here:
All credit goes to the author

Prologue

Early in July Frodo Baggins, walking back to Hobbiton from a trip to examine the house at Crickhollow he purposed to buy, paused as if listening, for he swore he heard as if from afar the sound of a distant horncall.

Samwise Gamgee, who’d slipped into his Master’s study to start a list of supplies they’d need when at last he and Frodo Baggins set off on the journey Gandalf had set them, hopefully in the company of Meriadoc Brandybuck, raised his head. Meriadoc Brandybuck, who was conferring in Budge Hall with Fatty Bolger, also seemed to hear a distant horn ringing on the morning breeze. Peregrin Took, halfway between Brandy Hall and Tuckborough, paused, turning southwards.

Aragorn son of Arathorn, on his way northward to check the defenses against Angmar one last time ere he returned to the borders of the Shire to await the coming forth of the Ringbearer, drew on Roheryn’s reins. “What is that I hear, my friend?” he asked the horse. Roheryn whickered and tossed his head, then turned northward once more.

Gimli son of Gloin, listening with half an ear to the counsel being taken between his father and Daín and the envoy from Brand of Dale, turned, uncertain of what he’d heard. In the great woods Thranduil’s golden-haired son Legolas paused in his discussion with his father and brother on how the warning to Gandalf should be worded that the creature Gollum had escaped, his attention caught by a mysterious echo.

Gandalf had stopped to rest in a hollow not far from Tharbad. Hearing the sound of a familiar horn in the far distance, his attention fixed southeastward. “The Horn of Gondor!” he murmured as he tightened his grip on his rugged staff, tapping the knowledge that lay therein. “Irmo sends warning. The Enemy now makes the first moves in his most recent game. I must hurry! We are summoned to our places so as to best oppose him!”

In moments his campsite was cleared as if he’d not paused there at all, and he was walking southward again at all speed, intent on reaching Isengard within a week.

And having sounded his horn at the gates of the White City, the Steward’s elder son lightly kicked his heels into his steed’s ribs. He would stop in Rohan where he hoped to acquire a better horse to ride northward on. He had his quest to fulfill. The horse broke into a gallop, and they headed northward toward the gate in the Rammas Echor, headed now toward Amon Dîn and then westward through Anórien.

From the keel of the spur of rock that split the city in half peered Faramir of Gondor, his attention fixed on the receding form of his brother. This quest, he knew, ought to have been his own. Then he turned reluctantly to return to the Citadel, to hear from his father and the Council how much in the way of supplies they were willing to send east into Ithilien with him. The defense of Gondor must continue.

The Arrival

As he struggled toward awareness again, the first thing he heard was, “What was the fool doing trying to cross the Greyflood after such a rain?” It was spoken in Westron. Not someone from Rohan, then, he decided.

“My horse?” he managed to ask as he opened his eyes and shook his head to clear it.

“We saw no horse--only you,” a woman leaning over him declared.

A Man leaned over him from the other side. “Why did you try to cross the river after such a storm as we’ve had? It rose alarmingly. You could have died!”

“Who are you?” he asked as he sought to sit up.

The Man and woman, however, had other ideas. “Nay--sir,” the woman said as the two forced him to lie back again. “You suffered a blow to your head by either a passing log or from hitting it against a stone in the river. You had best not move for a time.”

The Man nodded, accepting a blanket brought him by a youth and wrapping it about his sodden form. “I had the time of it pulling you from the river when we saw your body drifting by on the current. Do not undo my good deed by seeking to move before you have sufficiently recovered.” The Man peered at him, examining him closely. “The circle of black at the center is not the same in both your eyes. Best you remain with us some days until you are yourself and healed again.”

“But who are you?” the Gondorian repeated.

“We were citizens of Tharbad. We have returned to what was our home to rebuild it,” the youth answered him.

The Man nodded agreement. “The river rises and enters our homes and we will go elsewhere for a season, but most of us continue to return, for the river and the road and its crossing are in our blood. It is our home, and we would not live elsewhere.”

“Although we have plans this time to build walls to contain the river,” the woman noted. “This is the second time we were sent packing by the river in my time, and my father spoke of three floods in his. But we love this land, and the earth is ever more bountiful after a flood.”

And so it was that Boromir son of Denethor was succored by those who worked to rebuild Tharbad once more.

“Where is it you go?” asked the youth around the evening fire that had been lit in the newly finished town hall.

“I seek the land of Imladris.”

The eight who had gathered to begin the rebuilding looked at one another, shrugging their shoulders. “We have never heard of it,” said one of the Men, a former blacksmith who hoped to rebuild his forge here and resume his craft.

“Are there any folk north of here? Any towns or settlements?” Boromir asked.

“There’s Bree, some weeks north of us by horse. Now and then a trader comes to us from there, as now and then folk out of the hidden settlements of Rhudaur or the villages of Dunland come to trade what they can.”

The one who’d pulled him from the flood added, “Bree’s said to be a sizable place, where the Greenway is crossed by the East-West Road that is said to run from the Sea to the Misty Mountains and over them. There are folk east of the mountains--the Beornings and woodsmen near Mirkwood, the folk of Dale and Esgaroth, and various Dwarves....”

“And Elves,” added the youth. “’Tis said there are Elves both east and west of the mountains. I saw a number of them, once, back when I was a boy. Tall and fair they were, riding horses the likes of which we’d not seen before, even amongst those who’ve come from Rohan. Beautiful folk--either golden like the Sun or dark-haired as night!”

Apparently in reaction to Boromir’s disbelieving expression the smith said, “Elves don’t come this way often and have little to do with us mortals, but they are seen from time to time. There will be word that the wargs are hunting or that more orcs have been seen to our east or within Rhudaur, and soon after there usually will come reports of mounted patrols by Elves and sometimes Men as well, seeking them out. An Elf came once to my forge with a Man as tall and dark as he to have a shoe replaced on the Man’s horse. I kept the token given me--it was the first time one of the Fair Folk deigned to speak with me.”

From inside his clothing he produced a bag, and from it he pulled a twist of soft cloth. He carefully unwrapped the small package, revealing a golden disk. An eight-pointed star shone at the center of the coin between two trees, one carrying disks, the other adorned with crescent moons. On the other side was represented a ship with another star on its swan-headed prow, with a sea bird soaring underneath it and seven stars arched over it.

Boromir turned the coin over once more, weighing it in his hand. “Gold,” he murmured. “And the symbols of the High Elves and Eärendil.” He felt a strange thrill in his abdomen. “Perhaps from Imladris itself?” He looked into the smith’s eyes. “Which gave it to you?”

“The Elf.”

The son of Denethor nodded, returning the coin. After thinking for a moment he asked, “Where do the Elves come from when they are seen? Where do they go afterwards?”

The smith traded glances with the youth before returning his attention to the warrior. “They come from the north, and are always seen last heading back northwards.”

North, eh? That matched with what little his father had been able to say, that Imladris was said to lie far to the north. A sign, perhaps, that this quest for the Sword that was Broken was not in vain.

It was late in the afternoon a few days later that the youth, who’d taken rod and line south along the river to his favorite place for fishing, returned with word that he’d seen signs of the further bank having been disturbed. Boromir and two others accompanied him back to the site in question, where he pointed across the river at a place where the bank was much churned. The level of the river had fallen, and there was a fallen tree lying across that allowed the four of them to come across it safely.

Boromir could easily make out the hoofprints of his horse, and felt a weight of concern lift from him. “Windstar survived the flood!” he said with relief. “He scrambled out of the water here.”

It was the smith who found horsehair caught against the trunk of a tree, and he examined the tracks of the horse with interest. “He was favoring one of his hind legs,” he noted. “It is not enough, I suspect, to stop him moving on his own, but could well have become crippling had you attempted to ride him.”

The youth asked, “Will you follow him and bring him back--remain here until he is healed?”

Boromir thought on that for a time, at last shaking his head. “Nay, I would not do that,” he said. “If his leg was injured it could take weeks to heal ere I could ride him, or perhaps even use him to carry what goods I might have, and my errand will not wait that long. Nay, I will leave him to the good folk of Rohan where he was foaled--he is wise enough to return to his home ranges, and they will care for him as is their wont. I must go on by foot if I am not able to borrow a different horse.”

The other Man present gave a shake of his head. “Where is it you go?”

“To the Elven land of Imladris.”

“And you would walk there? Have you any idea as to how far it is?”

“Nay, I do not, only that it is said to lie far to the north in a hidden vale. Know you of it?”

The Man’s expression had become alarmed. “Deal with Elves? It is said their concerns are not those of the rest of Middle Earth.”

“But the lord of Mordor has been as much their enemy as he has been ours, and I am sent to enquire of them.”

“They are uncanny folk, the Elves. And, no, I have no idea as to where their lands lie. Best to have nothing to do with them!”

“They are responsible enough,” objected the smith. “And I’ll wager they’re the ones who keep the orcs from our doors. ’Tis said they have no love of the orcs, and will slay all they find.”

“Then let each destroy the other, and both keep away from us!” declared the second Man.

Boromir found himself looking from one to the other when a call came from the youth, who’d followed the horse’s tracks back southward. “Here! Come here--a saddle!”

Together they turned toward the voice, coming to the young Man’s side. On the ground along the track the horse had followed southward lay most of Boromir’s tack and his saddlebags, apparently scraped off against a great tree. A swift examination of them showed an animal, perhaps a fox, had gnawed the laces to his saddlebags and taken much of his supplies; and as the Gondorian lifted them, out leapt a rat, obviously frightened as it scurried into the underbrush.

But he was able to retrieve his sword and shield, although his helm appeared lost in the flood; at least his bedroll and most of the extra clothing he’d brought with him remained. The map his brother had copied for him was ruined, however, the ink all run.

“What map was this?” asked the smith as Boromir looked with dismay at what remained.

“It was a copy of a map it is said was wrought by Eärnur, or perhaps for him, showing the lands that lay between the Elven havens and the Misty Mountains. It was a map it is said he used when he went to the aid of the King of Arnor, only the King had been lost in the far northern waters, his ship crushed in the ice. My brother found it for me in the archives--copied it for my use. Not that it will be of any use to me at this point.”

The next day he set off to resume his journey, now afoot. The smith accepted the saddlebags, the best of work done in Dol Amroth, in trade for a more serviceable pack, and the folk who sought to rebuild Tharbad offered him such supplies as they could spare. He was very grateful to them, and left the saddle to the one who’d pulled him from the river. As he went north, the smith chose to accompany him for a time.

“Do you think you will find this Imladris?” the smith asked.

“I certainly intend to,” the warrior replied.

“But you have no idea as to where it might be?”

“None--it is said only that it lies somewhere to the north, apparently not far from the East-West road that leads to the High Pass. I suppose I must go there first.”

“There is a town there, at the crossroads, or so the traders tell us. All speak well of Bree.”

“And is there a castle there?”

The smith scoffed, “And what do we here in the northern wilds need with castles? Have we any great lords with armies of knights riding behind them? No, although I believe there is a wooden wall about the place. You would do well to ask there, I suppose.” They walked together quietly before he continued, “Why do you go there, of all places in Middle Earth?”

“A riddling dream has troubled my people, and it is there that my father believes answers to the riddle might be given.”

“You truly believe the Elves will speak to Men of the wisdom they have amassed over the long ages of Middle Earth?”

“I know not. However, the peril of our day threatens all of us, Men and Elves and whatever other folk might yet linger within the circles of Arda.”

“You might ask among the Dwarves for direction.”

“You have seen such?”

His companion shrugged. “We do not see them often so far south, for it is said their strongholds are far north of the ruins of their ancient kingdom, along the borders of Men’s lands and the wilderness. But twice in my life have they come here. A curious folk, the Dwarves.”

“Are they indeed shorter than Men?”

“Indeed, with thick beards and hair, elaborately braided. Great craftsmen and warriors, they. I have often wished I might have studied under them--then I would be sought after as a true master of my craft!”

“And what of the Men who dwell north of here? Know you aught of them?”

The smith shrugged. “Not much is known of them, save for those of Bree. But those traders from Bree are different from the others--the ones we call Rangers.”

Boromir straightened, his eyes alert at the word. “Rangers?”

“Yea, we have ever known them as that. Some come this way at times, and we see them two or three times a year. They will stay in our inns and spend their coin. They are quiet folk, and their eyes ever are searching for evil, it seems. They are polite enough, but do not tolerate trouble. When any comes from south or east, the Rangers will watch them closely, and do not hesitate to interfere if it appears there might be a quarrel.”

“The Rangers--what do they look like?”

“Tall, spare, much as you are--hair usually dark, eyes mostly grey as winter skies or the river under clouds, often bearded. Clad usually in grey, green, or silver cloaks caught with silver brooches over riding leathers, usually. They carry swords, knives, and often bows as well. Their horses are tall and as lean as their masters, and often will not allow others to touch them. Many fear them, but then many fear the Elves as well, and that I see as foolish.”

After a time the smith asked, “In your own land, there you are one of importance?”

Boromir thought for a moment before answering, “My father is leader for our people.”

“And the horn you bear?”

“An heirloom of our house.”

“And you will be leader after your father?”

“If Mandos does not take me betimes.”

The smith stopped and looked him over closely. “You do not expect to return to the needs of your own people?”

“I intend to return with aid for my land, or I will not return at all.”

“And aid will come with the answer to your riddle?”

“Such is my hope.”

Again the smith searched his face, then reached out to clasp the warrior’s wrist. “Then may it be answered, sir. Go, and may the Powers be with you!” With that he drew back and bowed, then turned back to the site of Tharbad while Boromir son of Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor’s armies, turned northward along the Greenway.

(I) (I) (I)

Summer had passed into a fair autumn, and most days were clear, although the nights were increasingly chill. He saw a few homesteads and farms, and on very rare occasions walled villages. One night as he spent the night within the hay storage of one farmstead’s byre, he was awakened by a feeling of cold dread, and sat up, his face suddenly sweating with fear as he heard afar off, drawing apparently off northwards, a familiar chilling cry. Forgotten was the scratchiness of the grass stalks under him or the scent of the two cows and the one swaybacked horse kept to pull the plow. He reached automatically for his sword, even though he knew it was useless against the receding threat.

“Nazgûl! Why do they go through this forsaken land?” he asked himself as he realized he was shaking. “What do they seek?”

He had no answer to give himself, and did not sleep again during the rest of the night, no more, he noted, than did the horse or cows.

(I) (I) (I)

It was well after dark, and raining, when he approached the wooden palisade that protected the village of Bree. It was the first large community he had seen since he left Rohan. He prayed he would be able to take a room in an inn here, for it was a foul night and he had not slept fully under cover for days and days. Ah, to think of getting a hot meal hopefully cooked by someone who knew how to actually prepare it! He’d not had more substantial a meal than a duck cooked over a campfire for weeks. He had found an empty farmstead three days since, the walls alone standing yet and those charred by fire, about which he’d found carrots and some other plants whose roots he could harvest that had helped fill his belly.

But, a true meal, a real bed....

There were, he noted, two slots through which the gate warden might look to judge the traveler without the gates. Suspicious brown eyes glared at him through the upper one. “And why must I admit ye?” demanded the voice of the Man, thick with suspicion. “Ye’re not one from these parts, not got up like that, ye a’n’t, and not even one of them Rangers! Nah, we’ve had our fill with strangers wit’ swords, we have! Be off with ye!”

“But I only wished to stay at the inn...” he began, but the slot was rammed closed, and none answered his further bangs upon the gates. Finally he followed the wall around eastward and northward, but found no other entrances, until the wall came to an end on the steep slopes of a large hill at the north side of the village.

He skirted this to the east and followed an established track northeastward, and at last, as the rain finally ended, spotted a farmstead, the borders of which were protected by thick hedges on this side and a rough dry-stone wall on another. At last he found the gate and approached it. A great dog came bounding toward the gate from the direction of the house, pursued by a smaller fellow who yapped a warning as it came. He saw light swell as the house door opened, and a broad-built Man came out carrying a lantern, catching up a hay fork as he came to learn the nature of the disturbance. Boromir stood his ground at the gate, and the smaller dog was soon sniffing through the latticework of the gate and beginning to wriggle with excitement, apparently recognizing him as a potential friend, while the other dog’s stance spoke of wariness but not fear.

Apparently reassured by the dogs’ behavior, the farmer came close to the gate and allowed the light of his lantern to shine out at the traveler. “And who be you?” the farmer asked.

“A traveler from far to the south,” Boromir answered. “I sought a place to stay for the night.”

“Bree’s back thataways,” the Man said with a wave at the track the warrior had followed. “Got a couple inns they do, though I’d recommend the Pony--t’other’s not much, and the company rough.”

“I was refused admittance,” Boromir explained. “The warden at the gate said there’s been too much disturbance as of late.”

The farmer nodded, his attitude more wary as the lantern light winked off the hilt of the stranger’s sword. “Well, must admit as that’s true enough,” he finally agreed. “Was a powerful row there, some nights back. Strange folk’ve been abouts the Breelands, they have, what with Black Riders ’n’ horse thieves from Southern parts. The Prancin’ Pony’s stable was broke into, an’ we found two horses from theres in our south pasture the next day.

“The Black Riders--they came here? Why?” Boromir found himself demanding. “I do not understand why they would come this direction--not at all. There are no armies to the north that we have ever heard of, ready to fall upon their lands!” Again he found himself shivering.

“You know of them?” asked the farmer, suddenly curious and apparently further reassured by the warrior’s behavior.

“I have seen them before, and our folk have ever been warned against them,” he admitted. “They are dark and fell enemies. But why they range so far from their own place I know not. Never have I heard of them ranging north of the Emyn Muil, much less west of the River Anduin.”

“Never heard of them parts,” the farmer returned.

“Nor would I expect you to have done so. They are a good ways from these lands, east of the Mountains of Mist and far to the south.”

“And what’re you doin’ here, then, so far from your home?” demanded the farmer, his suspicions raised yet again.

“I was sent from my father to enquire of the Elves.”

The Man with the lantern straightened at that, his surprise apparently chasing his concerns away. “Elves? You’ve been sent to the Elves? Whatever for?”

He was invited into the Man’s house, where he removed his swordbelt and leaned his weapon against the wall by the door alongside the household’s own cudgels. He was thrilled to be given warm water with which to bathe his face and arms, and a substantial meal was given him, and afterwards he was allowed to sleep in the barn. The farmer proved a young Man, and his wife comely and obviously far gone with their first child. They were thrilled to have company and to hear what of his tale he would share with them, although he wasn’t certain how much of it they believed.

In the morning he was given fresh eggs wrapped in straw and a fair amount of food to fill his now well-worn pack. “Don’t rightly know as how far it is t’ Rivendell, where they could tell you of where this Imladris might be. A’n’t west’ve us--that’s only the Hobbits’ Shire that direction, so must be t’the east. And, after all, that's where most’ve the Elves as is seen hereabouts appear to go when they’re seen at all, although there’s talk of some as lives south ’n’ east of the Shire, too. But those’re the wanderin’ folks, or so ’tis said. No, if’n you’re seekin’ word of this Imladris, I’d say as Rivendell’d be the place to ask.”

“You have been to this Rivendell?” Boromir asked as he helped carry wood to the house door alongside the farmer ere he took his leave.

“Me? Leave the Breelands? Not likely! No, but the Dwarves as come this way’ll speak of it an’ their welcome they’ve knowed there. Used to live in Bree itself, you see, and worked at the Prancin’ Pony, workin’ under my Uncle Jape as is barman for old Butterbur. Year after me ’n’ Linnet married, you understand, her dad died and left us this place. Been here two years, and expectin’ a child in three month’s time, we are. It’s a good farm, and has been right good to us, it has.

“But the folks of Bree itself--they’re right spooked, whatever ’twas as happened when them Hobbits from the Shire was there, some nights back. Went off with that Strider, they did, right off into the wilds. Probably not see them again--he most like took them off into the woods somewheres and killed ’em by now. Prancin’ Pony was broke into, and there was talk of squinty-eyed southerners and Black Riders and spooks of some sort right in the middle of the village, don’t ye know. Won’t speak of it near Linnet, I won’t--don’t want her worryin’ none, what with the babe and all. Heard all ’bout it when I took the horses back, the ones as I found in the field there. Harry Goatleaf as was gate guard for the west gate, ’pears as he let ’em in. Him’s gone now--disappeared off with them strange, squinty-eyes southerners into the wilds. Mayhaps as they’re hidin’ out in the Old Forest or somethin’ now.”

He paused to lay his load of wood on the stack immediately outside the kitchen door, then turned to take that Boromir carried. Having stacked it neatly, he stood and wiped his brow, eyeing the taller Man. “You related to them Rangers, sir?” he asked.

“Not to any who might live in these parts,” Boromir said. “Why?”

The Man shrugged. “You’ve got much of a look of them, is all--tall, strong, dark hair, the eyes, a fine sword--although the swords of the Rangers ’round here’s different from yours. Maybe longer, not so broad. My neighbor there--” he nodded in a northeasterly direction, “--says as him’s seen Rangers an’ Elves talkin’ along the way. Seem to have some kind of understandin’, them does. Don’t know about that, of course. But the Rangers in these parts don’t dress much like you, save for the swordbelts--them’s much the same. None with clothes nowhere’s fine as yours, though.

“Well,” he added, “come in and we’ll see if’n Linnet’s brushed your cloak clean. That’s a right fine cloak, ’tis.”

Linnet had indeed brushed it clean, and had refreshed it over a steaming kettle, even mending tears in the lining. She smiled as she gave him his refilled water bottles, and ducked her head as she added a filled wineskin besides. “For yer journey,” she said, flushing slightly. “Go, and the blessin’s of them as wills fer the good go with ye.”

He was smiling as he resumed his journey under a fairer sky than had been visible the night before.

(I) (I) (I)

He saw flashing lights in the sky that night, far to the east, and several days later came to a series of tall hills, the greatest of which was crowned with the remains of an ancient tower, and about which he found foundations of an equally ancient fortress. He was exploring a dell on one side of the tallest hill when he suddenly realized he was under the watchful eye of a group of armed Men, one of whom had an arrow trained at him. “Who are you, stranger?” asked the one who appeared to be leader among them.

“I am from far to the south,” he said, raising his hands to show he meant no harm. “I do not live in these lands.”

“And why do you search here, in this dell?” the Man asked, his expression grim. He and his fellows were all built much like Boromir himself, and all had long swords at their sides, under their dull cloaks, all of which appeared to be grey or green and fair spattered with mud at the hems, and all of which were caught at the shoulder with brooches in the shape of a silver star.

“I was curious--have been looking all about the ruins there,” Boromir answered with a nod to the remains of the tower above them. “This appears to have been of old a great watchtower.”

“Amon Sûl,” the other agreed.

“The hill of the winds?” Boromir asked, straightening. “This was where the----” He stopped, aware of a shared excitement among those opposing him, and wondering at it.

“You know of the Weather Hills?” asked one of the others.

“That it is said that in ancient times Elendil the Tall built a tower there.”

“And that his descendants within Arnor themselves saw to it that it fell to the Witch-king of Angmar?” the leader responded, a level of irony in his tone. He looked more closely at the warrior, and then beckoned the bowman to him, asking a question in a language Boromir did not understand, but that sounded much like the language of Umbar, if differently accented. The answer was equally incomprehensible, but in it he was certain he heard the word Gondor and possibly the name of his father as well.

He decided to answer before the question was put to him. “Yes, I am from Gondor, sent by her Steward himself. Will you aid me or not?”

“What do you seek?”

He afterward could not say why he answered, “The Sword that was Broken--’tis said it dwells in Imladris.”

All five of those in this party took deep breaths together, exchanging glances. The bowman eased his string as he lowered his aim, running experienced eyes over him. The leader asked, “What think you of this one, Hardorn?”

“He has the look of Gondor to him, as I said.”

All returned their attention to Boromir. “And what does Gondor wish with the Sword that was Broken?” the leader asked in a cold voice.

“You know of it?”

“Its tale is told here among us as I must suppose it is told in Minas Tirith.”

Boromir paused. Northern Dúnedain? he wondered. It appeared that perhaps remnants of Elendil’s folk remained in the hidden places of Eriador, then. “Will you aid me in my quest?” he repeated.

“And what would you do with it should you find it?”

“We seek answers to a riddling dream,” he answered. “It was suggested that Elrond, lord of Imladris, could perhaps give us those answers. The dream speaks of the Sword that was Broken and of Isildur’s Bane.”

All opposite them went utterly still. At last the bowman said something in their tongue to the leader, a question of some sort.

“Our chieftain could perhaps tell you more,” the leader said at last. “From the tokens we have found this day he was here in this dell some two days past, and with a small company of others, none of them our people. He was plainly heading eastward, and most likely even now is on his way toward Rivendell. Go there and you will undoubtedly find him, and between him and the master of the Last Homely House I suspect they will answer your questions.”

Boromir examined eyes as grey and discerning as those of his brother. “And how is it I am to find my way?”

After a few moments’ discussion with the bowman the leader gave him detailed instructions, then paused at a question from a younger Man in the party. At last he nodded, then turned once more. “You know of the Nazgûl?” he asked. At Boromir’s shiver, he nodded as if this confirmed what the rest of them supposed. “They appear to have come northward, and we do not know why. Of us all, only Hardorn and our chieftain have encountered their spoor before, and Hardorn says that he is positive they have indeed been here, both above on the heights and here within this dell itself. Beware, Man of Gondor--keep a fire going by you in the night.”

“Gandalf was here, too, several nights before our chieftain and his companions came here,” added the young one, ignoring the warning looks of his companions. “His sign was clearly seen up in the midst of the ruins. They came upon him there, atop the hill. He, too, may be in Rivendell when you come there.”

“And you found nothing else?” Boromir demanded.

“One thing--a black mantle, slashed near the hem. And signs there,” he pointed at a firepit black with ashes, “that the night they camped here they kept a great fire going, perhaps in the attempt to ward off the Nazgûl themselves. They came aware of the dangers.”

The bowman added, “If you desire not to meet them here also this night, you would do best to be far upon your way. Some six hours’ walk east along the Road you will find ruins of a cottage somewhat south of the way. There is a well there that was sweet when we camped there last night. It is possible to have a fire there that won’t be seen by those who pass by.”

“And you?”

“We go to Bree to learn what more can be learned of our chieftain’s last visit there.”

“They would not allow me into the village. There had been trouble there ere I came there.”

There were grim laughs from the five Men. “If Strider was involved, I would say the trouble was grim. But they will not seek to keep us out, not with so many of us.”

A sixth Man joined the others from the south. “He went there, and I found he culled leaves of athelas. Apparently one of those with whom he traveled had been gravely wounded,” he reported, once he felt assured he might speak openly before the stranger.

The leader and bowman nodded. “Good enough. Then we must be away ourselves, and learn what Faradir has found out from his watch about the borders of the Shire. If Iorhael was with him here....”

They fell silent, and all pulled their hoods over their heads, reminding Boromir of his brother’s Rangers masking their faces before preparing for an ambush. In moments the six Men were vanished, and as he returned to the Road Boromir could hear the hooves of horses riding fast westward, seeing them already at a distance. He stood, watching after them, then returned briefly to the dell, finding a cache of wood. Taking a faggot upon his shoulder, he set off eastward, easily finding the ruins of which he’d been advised.

He saw no further sign of other folk as he finished his long journey.

(I) (I) (I)

“Daro!” came the command as he approached the ford of which the northern Ranger captain had advised him. Four Elves, each armed with sword, knives, and long bows to rival that his brother wielded, appeared as if by the effects of some spell.

Boromir stopped, uncertain as to what to expect next. He felt as if it were half a year he’d taken on this foolish quest, and now he was being halted in Elvish from proceeding on into the valley he’d so long sought? He’d lost his horse long ago, in the ruins of Tharbad; he was now losing his patience as well.

“Who are you?” he was asked in Sindarin.

“Boromir son of Denethor, Lord Steward of Gondor. I come on behalf of my father and people to seek the advice of Elrond Peredhel, thought the greatest of loremasters.” He knew his answer sounded over-proud, but he was tired and hungry after a long day’s march with little left of the food he’d been given in the Breelands.

The guards considered him for quite some time, and conferred in whispers. Was he to find still another refusal of entrance, he wondered, or still another barrier to his quest?

At last one of those who faced him asked, “How is it you found this place?”

“Men of Eriador--Rangers, I deemed them--told me how to come here. I told them I sought Imladris, and they said I might find direction and perhaps answers from the master of the Last Homely House in Rivendell.”

The Elves shared looks, and at last one spoke to him. “You are not the only one to be newly come here to Imladris, Man of Gondor. It appears that the Powers draw many here to their purposes.” His eyes searched Boromir’s face thoroughly in the light of the stars overhead, then at long last he said, “Enter.” He nodded to one of the others. “Lead him to Lord Elrond.”

Imladris--at last he’d found Imladris! Boromir felt a thrill of relief. It appeared his quest was at last met. Now, what would the answers be to the questions raised by the riddling dream, and would he like those answers? Only time would tell.

Be By Him

“If you will come this way, Lord Boromir, I will lead you to quarters where you may rest this night,” suggested the Elf who had met him at the door. “I am sorry that Lord Elrond cannot greet you himself; however, he is in conference with Gandalf and the envoy from Lord Círdan from Mithlond, and then he must check on the Perian Frodo Baggins, who has only this day awakened, newly recovered from a grave injury.”

The Man was puzzled by the last, not certain precisely what type of folk a Perian might be, but nodded without comment. The idea of being able at last to sleep in a proper bed--ah, but that would be sheer bliss at this time, as he’d had no such comforts since leaving Rohan. Even when offered a place along the way he had found himself relegated to haylofts or empty stalls in stables, for few wished to perhaps offer house-room to what might prove a sneak thief or one of questionable virtue. He did not blame the folk in these wild lands overmuch, of course--this was not his homeland, and few if any within the northern lands would have heard of the heir to Denethor of Gondor.

The Elf continued, “You have arrived too late for the feast held in honor of Master Frodo’s recovery, I fear. No matter--I will have food brought to your room, and Meliangiloreth will lead you to the bathing chamber when you are ready. If you will leave your clothing in the basket there, we will have it cleaned and returned to you, mended and refreshed, in the morning. I will advise you of this--that you have arrived in good time for the council to be held tomorrow. Indeed--many have come but recently to Imladris, it would seem by sheer happenstance, who all will likely prove to have an interest in what is to be discussed then.”

“And what is that?” Boromir was rather taken aback by how rough his own voice sounded in comparison to that of his guide.

The Elf gave an elegant shrug. “That will be revealed in its proper time and place--it does not behoove us to seek to solve the troubles of Middle Earth in the hallways of the Last Homely House at this hour of the night.” He turned, taking a passage to the right. “There is the way to the infirmary, in that direction,” he said with a nod further down the hallway they were quitting, “should you require such aid ere you leave us once more. Had we turned left rather than right we should have come to the lesser library and the way to the scriptorium, and if you require diversion ere you sleep you might well seek there. Certainly Estel often goes there when his thoughts keep him from sleeping easily. And one will be sent in the morning to bring you to the dining hall, unless you should desire to eat in your rooms?”

“No,” the Man said hastily, “to eat with the rest of those here would be suitable.”

The Elf nodded and led the way to a closed door, opening it to show a most beautifully appointed bedchamber. “There are robes that are sufficiently loose and comfortable to wear to and from the bathing chamber there in the press--simply choose whichever suits you. I believe there also might be small clothes there. However, it has been a time since I last examined the press’s contents, although I am certain our Lady has seen its contents suitably maintained. Meliangiloreth will most likely come to lead you to the bathing chamber soon, my lord.”

With that he stepped aside, turned, and left as unhurriedly as he’d come, leaving Boromir son of Denethor in possession of a room the likes of which not even his rooms within the Citadel of Minas Tirith could match. It did not appear especially large, yet it proved anything but small. Open curtains framed a doorway onto a balcony looking across the vale, and almost underneath him ran the Bruinen in all its fullness, the sound of it cleansing and steady, evoking a feeling of contentment. The bed, with its carved headboard depicting a great swan-prowed ship, reminded him of visits to Dol Amroth when he was a child. The chamber he’d shared with Faramir during such visits had boasted a large bed with such a headboard, and he and his brother had often played at pursuing pirates aboard that ship when they were supposed to be sleeping. Unconsciously he smiled as he stepped forward, glad to be reminded of that. Stripping off his glove, he reached out to run his finger over the carving of the forecastle, and as he thought of Faramir his smile faded and his expression became regretful. How they had last parted....

(I) (I) (I)

“Why did you claim this journey as your own?” Boromir could tell that no matter how apparently calm his face, his brother was in a most carefully contained fury, just from the tone in which the question was asked.

“Why not?” the older brother answered in as airy a tone as he could manage.

“You only reported you had the dream come to you to take this quest from me!”

Boromir turned to face Faramir directly. The younger son of Denethor was as tall as his brother, and had an archer’s wide and well-developed shoulders; but he did not have the breadth of chest or as fully muscled a torso as Boromir boasted. “Did I, Faramir? And how is it you are so certain?” His voice was far chillier than was his wont when speaking with his brother. “And it appears to me from what he revealed this day in Council that our cousin Húrin has also shared this dream, and perhaps earlier even than it first occurred to you.”

Faramir flushed, but he did not drop his gaze. He finally asked, “Why did you wish this quest for yourself?”

What was he supposed to answer? Because I saw more that I did not tell--that perhaps the one to go will not return? Because our father does not openly recognize that of the two of us you are the wiser and the better one in the end to rule Gondor when he is gone from us? Because I do not truly wish the Black Chair--I wish to die as I have lived, ever protecting the land we both love? His answer also was delayed. “I am stronger than are you.”

The rude noise Faramir made was reminiscent of those he’d been prone to make as a youth when someone said something he deemed beyond mere foolishness. “But I am the Ranger and not you. I am accustomed to living in the wild and following trails days old while you can barely catch a fish with rod and line and the hook baited by another! I am better suited to this quest than you, and both of us know it.”

“But our father gave it to me.” Then, after a moment of silence, he continued, “Do you so wish to be gone from him, Faramir? Does his constant criticism wear at you so?”

“And if it does?” Faramir’s voice was low, and spoken from between gritted teeth. “And if I would wish to see the northern lands for myself--learn how it is that those Elves who remain within Middle Earth hide themselves and their lands, search to see if any of our distant kindred yet linger there? Find if indeed there are such things as Halflings and to seek out the forges of the Dwarves? Do you deny me the chance to find answer the questions that have haunted my mind since my childhood?” He took a half step closer and said in lower tones still, “And if I would be free from the constant judgment on every choice I make, every decision considered? Once he trusted my choices, but no more. Nay, I deem he believes the darkness of the East can be truly kept at bay only with the flash of shining steel, and that you wield far better than I.”

Now it was Boromir’s turn to give derision a sound. “Nay, do not sell yourself short, little brother. I have the heavier hand with the sword I bear, but you are in the end a far better swordsman--faster on your feet, quicker to foresee where the next blow might strike from, more aware of those about you. On the night we fought upon the bridge in Osgiliath----”

“You saved my life thrice!” interrupted his brother.

“And you saved me at least twice that,” Boromir countered. “I did not see that small orc creeping up on my side, but you did, striking off his knife-hand and back to your own opponent before I could fully realize the danger I was in. As the battle takes me I have eyes only for the one with whom I fight, and so it is I must always fight by others that they watch my back. I only saw your danger those three times because for the moment there was none immediately before my face or under my blade.”

The two of them searched each other’s face, and at last Faramir straightened and relaxed. The anger was finally fleeing, leaving grief in its wake. “He will fear for you every moment you are gone,” he sighed, leaning back on the doorjamb.

“Perhaps, but he would fear as greatly for you, little brother.”

The younger Man was shaking his head, however, acceptance in his eyes. “You think so, Boromir? Nay, I deem that once he was aware I’d passed the Gap of Rohan and was on my way to be lost in the northern wastes he would put me fully from his mind and turn his thoughts again to questions of defense and preparation. I fear he is right, brother--that the end of this age approaches now at a gallop. He would be far happier with you at his side in this time of impending doom than to have me there.”

“Perhaps, Faramir, but I do not believe it is always a good thing to give our father what he believes he wants.”

Faramir’s face reflected shock at that thought.

Boromir gave a small smile. “Does that so startle you, little brother, that I at times might see myself as fathering our own father, seeing that what he wishes is not always what is best for himself as he did with us when we were boys? Nor do I believe that all he thinks best for Gondor is necessarily right, either.” Now it was his turn to step toward his brother, speaking in a low, intense tone. “He needs to quit his surety that you think too much, and to realize that much of the counsel I have given him that has proven best for the land originated in you. He needs to see that you are the wiser one of the two of us, both wiser and clearer sighted. He needs to accept that you are the truer of the two sons he fathered! He looks on you and for the most part he sees our mother reflected there--her generosity and gentle spirit and love of beauty. But he does not see that you are far more of his nature than I could ever be.”

He took one more step forward to whisper in his brother’s ear, “Do not put yourself out of his reach, for he will in the end rue the loss of you far more than the loss of me. Do not become distant from him--you are the better counselor, the more generous spirit. He will need you, Faramir my brother, and will remember with grief ere the end just how much he loves you. For all that he honors me the more openly, in the depths of his soul our father truly loves you the better because you are what he cannot be any more, since our mother was taken from him.” He stepped back enough to clasp his brother’s shoulders between his hands. “I love you both, Faramir, and would see the tension between you end. But it cannot truly be put behind by him if it ends only because you are not before his face day by day. Stay by him as he will allow it, and let not your wisdom be lost to him.” He smiled and slapped at one shoulder as he loosed them. “And I could not leave the land I love in better hands than yours. Continue to do well by her while I am wandering about, half-starved and increasingly ragged, in search of direction to Imladris.”

(I) (I) (I)

Well, he thought as he found a suitable garment in the press and rummaged through for small clothes, that last thing had proved true enough. Faramir had been right he did better in the wilds, after all. Had his younger brother been given the errand he’d most likely have found his way here months past, and probably would have recognized the signs of impending flood so as to wait until things were safe once more before crossing the river in the ruins of Tharbad.

A knock at the door heralded the coming of an Elf woman, as tall, beautiful, and elegant as the male who had led him here. “My lord, I am the healer Meliangiloreth. If you are ready, I will show you to the bathing chamber, and have directed that those who are to bring you a late meal bring it there that you might dine as you relax and soak away the weariness of your journey.”

He felt a smile stretch across his features as he bowed and indicated he would appreciate her company to such a place of comfort. He refused to feel sorry that he had deprived his brother the chance to visit so beautiful, comfortable, and hospitable a house.

Well Met by Moonlight

Ah--but he found the bed so comfortable! Boromir stretched out upon it, luxuriating in the softness of the sheets, which were scented with rosemary. A wholesome scent, rosemary, he thought. His bath had been hot and relaxing; the meal given him light yet filling, and wonderful after so many stringy rabbits, small fish, or fowl of various sorts or meals that consisted solely of whatever greens he could identify as edible (and in at least three cases he’d been proved wrong, to the slowing of his journey as his body purged itself of his mistakes), and what dried grain, beans, breads, and meats as he’d been able to acquire along the way from householders or those vegetables found in abandoned fields and gardens.

The land he’d traveled through had been mostly devoid of settlement, although he’d seen plenty of sign much of it had once been heavily settled, with ruins of what appeared to have once been thriving towns and villages, watchtowers and waystations easily seen along the way. The number of farmsteads and small villages that had been abandoned fairly recently, however, had alarmed him. The majority had been burned deliberately, and he was certain many had orc sign about them. Orcs were very obviously as great a threat here in the northern lands as they’d been in the southlands. In one area in the last day of his journey he’d been certain he’d even seen the spoor of trolls!

It was obvious these lands were under siege by the Enemy’s creatures, and that activity by orcs and those Men who sided with the Enemy had been increasing in the past few years. What must it be like to live here under the threat of Mordor’s northern allies? Were the Rangers he’d seen near Amon Sûl indeed of the remnants of the Dúnedain of Arnor--Elendil’s own people who’d settled here while his sons together had founded Gondor? Of what sort, then, would be their chieftain, whom they were certain would have made for this place?

He finally drifted into sleep, but woke with a start after only a short time, or so the positions of the stars seen through the unveiled windows assured him. What had awakened him? Not any noise he was aware of! He listened, but heard nothing but the pleasant swish of moving water and, afar, the call of a loon.

He rolled over and tried to sleep again, but found sleep was eluding him. Another turn, then after some time still another--and then it came to him--the bed’s own comfort was the fault. Too long had he slept, wrapped in his increasingly ragged blanket and his cloak, on hard ground or straw or carefully arranged evergreen bows to find it easy to sleep now upon a soft mattress, under soft blankets and sweet-smelling linens.

“Mordor take it!” he finally fumed, throwing off the coverings and sitting up. He reached again for the robe he’d used earlier and used it to cover his nakedness, then went to the stand to get a drink of water. He settled himself in one of the comfortable chairs that were provided, turning it to watch out of the windows, over the balcony, watching the stars and the moon.

He must have sat so for over an hour’s time before he decided he should perhaps seek some means of distraction. Hadn’t the Elf who’d brought him here spoken of a library? Actually it was Faramir who ordinarily would have rejoiced to hear that word, and there would be no question, had his younger brother been here he would probably have eschewed the thought of sleep in order to explore it. But even Boromir had found that, from time to time, a book might indeed help him to sleep. His brother had been shocked to see the book of treatises and the second of poetry that lay ever on the table by Boromir’s bed; but the warrior had ever found the dullness of both was able to so deaden his mind he could then sleep! If there was indeed a library at the other end of this hallway, certainly he ought to find something so decidedly boring as to allow him at least a few hours worth of rest! He rose and left his room, leaving his door open so he could find it easily again once he was armed with a book of sufficient overwordiness to allow his mind to relax, and set off through the quiet halls.

Rushlights gave just enough illumination to allow him to avoid scraping ornaments and paintings from the walls or crashing into the shallow shelves and tables that here and there held antiquities, exquisite porcelains, and oddities for the perusal of those who traveled these halls. Slowly he made his way down past the turning and beyond to the arched doorway at the end of the passage.

Here, too, a number of rushlights gave off a soft glow around the room; and on a table lay a lantern, apparently left for those who visited the room by night, and alongside it a few tapers. Peering into the gloom he saw that there were shelves of books and scrolls to the left, and a series of study tables to the right, near the overlarge windows, now shuttered by pierced wooden screens. He had taken a taper to hold it to one of the rushlights so as to light the lantern when he was distracted by a scent he’d not smelled in years--the odor of the smoldering leaves that Mithrandir had been wont to burn in his device he called a pipe, inhaling the smoke.

Mithrandir? Here? But then, thinking on it--why would that be strange? He was often gone from Gondor for years at a time--where better for such as Mithrandir to sojourn than such a place as this? And he’d certainly spoken to Boromir and his brother often enough of the great histories of the Elves--where better to learn such things than here? he asked himself. With that in mind, he set the taper back on the table and set out to trace the source of the odor. There was a door onto a southward-facing balcony, and he realized that the scent originated from outside the door. He went to it, went through it....

But it was not the Grey Wizard who sat there in a chair in the protected corner of the balcony, but a Man. So familiar was the position that almost Boromir called out Father in surprise--until the Man turned his head to the right as he reached toward the tankard sitting there. The profile lit by the small lamp that stood behind the tankard was indeed that of his father--almost; but the movement was more that of Faramir. And something about the chin was neither’s!

He must have made a noise, for the one seated in the chair suddenly turned to look fully at him. Oh, yes, the resemblance to his father could not be denied, although his father had long ago shaven away his beard and no longer allowed it to grow. But this stranger’s face, though as grim as Denethor of Gondor had ever dreamed of being, yet appeared somehow more youthful, more openly curious (although that curiosity was definitely guarded), and contained a hint of an emotion that Boromir had not seen in his father’s face in many, many years, although the Gondorian was not completely certain what that emotion might be.

There was competency there in this Man’s eyes--that was certain; a self-awareness that was somehow both disturbing to Boromir as well as reassuring. A brief examination of shoulders and torso told him that this was also a swordsman, and probably an excellent one, and that he was well aware of that fact. And, like both Boromir’s father and his brother, this was one who saw deeply into the hearts of those before him, to whom it was pointless to lie, perhaps even dangerous to make the attempt. Even as Boromir examined this one, he realized that the stranger was evaluating him in return, and probably with frightful accuracy. He felt himself stiffen slightly in response.

At last the other spoke. “I welcome you. You were perhaps sent to seek me out?”

“Nay--I could not sleep, and it was told me that there were books to be found here, at the other end of the hall from where I have been housed.”

“So you came in search of distraction from your sleeplessness?”

“Nay--I sought a work so boring it would lull me into senselessness.”

The other Man’s eyes widened somewhat at that, and Boromir saw beneath the scruff of beard a slight smile of amusement and even approval. “Then you do not seek out a tale of romance.”

“Indeed not! If I seek out a tale of a man and a maid I will speak with my lieutenant--his is the heart of the romantic, and I could not tell you how many fair maidens he has wooed and won--and then left to seek yet another to woo.”

The smile reached the Man’s eyes. He had indeed a sense of humor, another difference from his father, whose own humor was not truly vanished but deeply suppressed, and tended to show itself in statements of irony or such carefully crafted wordplay that many failed completely to appreciate the sally they could not convince themselves had come from the dour Lord Steward of Gondor. “Well, if you truly desire to be bored into a stupor, I can think of few as fitting to the task as Sepharion’s History of Númenor. Do you read Adunaic?”

“Adunaic? Ah, not for me, although both my father and brother speak it fluently enough.”

The other had closed his book and begun to rise, but now sank back into his chair and reached for his pipe, which sat on the table in a rest of stone, allowing the book to settle into the hollow between left hip and the side of the chair. “Then I shall need to think deeply as to what else might serve. Perhaps the records for the stables?”

“Nay, for that would only serve to rouse my interest and envy for what stock of horseflesh is raised here.”

“Then you have been made privy to the studbooks of the Rohirrim?”

“You know of them?”

There was a modest shrug as the Man pulled out a striker set and expertly relit his pipe, puffing on it to set it alight, then inhaling deeply. “Long ago I was granted the privilege of examining them, but not before I had proven myself many times over,” he said, once the leaves were glowing again. Then he asked, “What brings you here from Gondor?”

“And how is it you know of Gondor? None within these lands I have met so far seems to know there is aught beyond the Gap of Rohan save the Horselords, and that usually only by rumor.”

“This is the House of Elrond, greatest of loremasters. And I am told he himself visited Gondor more than once during his long life. It is true it is a thousand years since the last time he left the northern lands, but that does not lessen his knowledge of other realms.”

“Then how is it you know me as Gondorian?”

Again that slight shrug as the Man inhaled deeply, considering him thoughtfully over his pipe. “The stance,” he finally allowed. “The slight accent in your voice. Also, you are a swordsman, but are not known to me as one of the Dúnedain of Arnor--and there is no question that the blood of Númenor flows in your veins. And as you speak no Adunaic, you plainly do not come from Umbar.”

“You are the chieftain of whom the Rangers I met spoke?”

He straightened. “You met with some of our Rangers? Where was this? When?” It could have been Boromir’s father accepting the spoken report of one of his captains.

Boromir found himself straightening automatically, and answering, “Not quite two and a half weeks ago, near Amon Sûl. They came upon me there as I examined the foundations of the ancient fortress that once stood at the foot of the hill, and as I sought to examine a dell where recently a fire had been lit.”

A slight nod in keeping with the shrug. “Then they know we passed that way.” A puff at the pipe and another keen glance. “Did they use any names?”

“Only one--one was called Hardorn, and they spoke of Strider.”

A twitch of the mouth indicated approval and perhaps amusement. “Then I am assured they are well aware of where I am. Where did they go when you parted from them?”

“To the west, back toward Bree. They did speak another name--they said they would learn from one they called Faradir what had happened in some place they called the Shire.”

“Faradir leads the watch now on the Shire, does he? Then I would learn of him how it is the Nazgûl came to enter it.”
Boromir stiffened. “What is it you know of the Nazgûl?” he demanded.

“Far too much, Man of Gondor. Long and long did their chieftain dwell to the north of Eriador, making war on Arnor from within Angmar. And I have told you--Elrond Peredhel is the greatest of loremasters perhaps lingering within Middle Earth, and records of many things, including Sauron’s greatest slaves, are kept here. I know far too much of their nature for my own comfort.”

As the Man again puffed at his pipe, Boromir once again sought to evaluate what he’d come to know of this stranger. Indeed yes, this was the chieftain of whom the Rangers had spoken. At last he said, “I would know how it is you know I am not of your own folk?”

That shrug once more. “We are too few for me not to know almost every living Dúnadan remaining within Eriador. Once we were as numerous as those within Gondor, if not more so; so much so he who was then king was convinced to divide his kingdom into three that each of his sons might consider himself a king in his own right. But ever our numbers have dwindled since that day, and especially since the days of Arvedui Last-king. It is not for naught Aranarth refused the title of King of Arnor when it was confirmed his father and brother were lost in the northern ice.”

“Does there yet dwell within Arda an heir to Isildur, then?”

“And if there should exist such a one, would he--or she--be welcomed in Gondor, do you think?” Boromir’s surprise at the question must have shown, for his companion continued, “Here in the north the laws of succession were ever in keeping with the laws of Númenor, for the daughters of our kings were not denied the right of succession merely for having been born female.”

It was definitely an idea to think on.

At last, when it appeared the other Man would allow the silence to stretch on interminably, Boromir asked, “And do you go to this Council I am told will occur in the morning?”

The Man nodded slowly. “That I will.” His pipe had again gone out, and now he turned to rap it against the balcony rail to empty it before setting it back on the stone rest. He returned his clear, steady gaze to meet Boromir’s eyes. “Many are gathering--we have also envoys from Dale and the city of Esgaroth in the Long Lake in Rhovanion as well as two Men sent from the Beornings who are newly come to Rivendell, as well as a party of Dwarves sent from Erebor and another from the Blue Hills, troubled by rumors they have heard. And behind the parties from Dale, Esgaroth, and Erebor arrived another from Eryn Lasgalen, or Mirkwood, whose King Thranduil has his own concerns, apparently. And I have been here merely four--no,” he amended, his eyes lifting briefly to the rapidly greying sky, “five days myself with those I led here.”

“Why are you not abed yourself?” Boromir asked.

Again a hint of a smile, a tired, patient one this time. “There is too much on which to think, I find; and when I seek to sleep I see again the visage of the Witch-king turning on me as I faced him little over three weeks past. It is not a memory conducive to peaceful rest.”

“I--see,” Boromir said, and he felt himself shivering.

The other straightened and rose, stepping forward. “You, too, have faced that one?” he asked, his eyes filled with concern. “Not for some time, however....”

“In June,” Boromir explained. “My brother and I tried to hold the Nazgûl from crossing the bridge of Osgiliath. We brought down the bridge, but not before they had crossed it.”

The chieftain’s eyes widened with surprise, and the Gondorian found himself warming to the approval he saw reflected there. “You faced them--you and your brother and your Men?” he asked, his voice breathless with wonder.

Boromir nodded. “Seven of us survived the defense--we swam the river....”

The wonder deepened in the Man’s eyes. “You and your brother both survived such an encounter? Then you and your brother are indeed most hardy folk.”

At that moment a golden-haired Elf in the garb of this house peered from the doorway. “Estel--Lord Elrond requests you join him. It appears one of your Men has just now arrived and desires to offer his report, and the Master would enlist the Rangers’ assistance in assuring the black ones indeed have been swept out of Eriador.”

The tall Man gave a graceful inclination of his head in response to the message. “Then I will come.” He turned one last time to the Gondorian. “You are well come at this time,” he said. “And I believe many questions will be answered this day. Until the Council then, Boromir.” With a handclap to Boromir’s shoulder he turned to follow the Elf back into the building, tankard and pipe and book forgotten. The warrior watched after. The name by which the Elf had addressed the Man had brought to mind the emotion he’d seen in his face that he’d not seen in the face of his father for so very long--indeed, not since the death of his mother--hope.

It was not until he reached to pick up the book the Man had abandoned in his chair, however, curious to know what he’d been reading, that he realized another thing--he’d never told this one his name. His head turned with surprise to look again at the door through which the Man had gone, but there was no sign of him within the lesser library.

The Son of his Heart

“So, you have spoken with our newest guest?”

Aragorn nodded slowly. “Yes, Lord Elrond.”

The Master of the Last Homely House sighed. “Why do you insist on calling me Lord, my son?” he asked.

The Man looked at his former foster father from under his brows, then shrugged. “Yet you have ever been more than merely the one who raised me as his son--you are the rightful heir to Ereinion Gil-galad himself; the lord of this land, no matter how small it is; the greatest loremaster remaining within Middle Earth----”

Elrond held up a hand to halt his foster son’s words. “I question that, with Celeborn, Galadriel, and Círdan remaining yet within the Mortal Lands. And do you not also avoid speaking of me as father due to the fact I am that to the woman you love?”

Aragorn faced him directly, and with the pain of his desire conflicting with the loyalty he owed the one who’d raised him as his own written plainly on his face. At last he dropped his gaze. “I am sorry--I would not cause you this pain. Or myself,” he added in lower tones.

“The time comes,” Elrond said slowly, “when either your hope is reached, or we all face the final darkness together.” He sighed as he reached out to place his hand on the Man’s shoulder, and the two shared a look. “Of the two griefs, you know which I would prefer.”

Slowly his Mannish son nodded, his expression softening. “I wish only that neither of us had to face that grief, Adar.” He set his hand over that of the Peredhel.

After a time of quiet, Elrond straightened. “And what was your thought on meeting the son of Denethor of Gondor?”

Aragorn smiled ruefully. “When I realized who it was, all I could think for a moment was of the small child with the chubby legs I last saw with the hands of his mother on his shoulders.”

“Did he recognize you as Thorongil?”

“No, although he knows I am Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain. He met with Halbarad and Hardorn and those with them at Amon Sûl apparently a fortnight past. I was not surprised to learn one or more of them has appeared with news from the Shire and Bree.”

“And why have you not gone to your own rest?”

Aragorn straightened, lifting his head. “Did I not rest long enough after I collapsed the other day, the first time you tried to probe for the shard? I slept for better than a full day then!”

“And how much sleep did you allow yourself during the entire journey from Bree to here, child, and particularly after Frodo Baggins took his Morgul wound? It does no good for any should you become ill for lack of rest--you expended so much of yourself aiding him as you did to fight the progress of the shard and its influence as well as in leading the rest from the Weather Hills to here and keeping the greater part of the watch. You ought to have slept longer, but do not allow yourself the rest you as a mortal require.”

“And had the Nazgûl or orcs or trolls happened across us in the wilderness or the Trollshaws, think you the younger Hobbits could have successfully defended all five of us without my skill and knowledge? I could not allow myself the luxury of a deep sleep when I had under my protection the one bearing the Enemy’s worst device. Not that It was allowing me much rest with Its constant probing. It is disconcerting to find another’s promptings constantly working at one.”

Elrond examined the Man’s face closely. “You felt Its influence?”

“Yes--and that was far worse once Frodo was hurt, for before he appeared to mostly keep Its attention engaged. He was oft only partially aware of us and what we did, for fighting the shard appeared to take almost all of his will, which I have found to be considerable. I am amazed at how strong he is, as fragile as he appears.” His voice hardened. “And I curse Sauron anew for having created such a foul thing and setting It loose to trouble those of us who can only be expected to be influenced by Its will to evil!”

The Master of Rivendell shook his head. “It was never Sauron’s intent to lose It, and I doubt that once It was lost in the river he could have found It. Ulmo has never forgotten how Aulendil betrayed his brother Aulë’s trust as well as all of the Valar and Maiar when he participated in the destruction of the first Lamps and openly declared himself a follower of Morgoth.”

“Yet he gave It a will of Its own!” Aragorn argued.

Elrond shrugged. “He infused his own will, his own nature, into Its being. It cannot help being as It is, seeing that It is merely an extension of Its maker. Be glad, ion nín, that he did so, for in this way was his evil and his will divided for all these last three thousand sun-rounds.”

“Then It must be destroyed.” The Dúnadan’s declaration was one of sheer, unassailable logic.

The Peredhel examined his companion’s expression more closely still, marveling at the sheer determination and the loathing for Sauron’s craft he saw reflected there. “There is but one way that such a thing might be accomplished, and I would not see at this point anyone I love take that road.”

The light in the adan’s eyes could not be denied. “Then are we to allow It to remain here within the living lands, ever a trap and a twisting influence on the wills of those who have sworn to serve the Light? And what if in the end one of his servants finds Its bearer and takes It by violence, and returns It to Sauron himself? Without It he has even now nearly returned to his former strength, according to you and Glorfindel and Círdan and all others with whom I’ve spoken who saw what he’d become before his fall to the Last Alliance. Then it cost the lives of Elendil and Gil-galad themselves to bring him sufficiently down that Isildur could take It from him! Should he retrieve It again now--who could dream of withstanding him?”

“You cannot take it, Aragorn.”

That was spoken so quietly, a mere fact of even stronger logic than the Man himself had displayed, that it froze the Dúnadan for a time. At last he sank down onto a nearby chair, wiping a shaking hand across his brow. “It had almost taken me, Ada,” he whispered, “almost convinced me that only I could show sufficient will to keep It in Its place.” There was fear and distress in his eyes as he raised them to those of the one he’d ever loved as a father. “I dare not touch the thing!”

Elrond nodded slowly. “Now you know why I have refused even to look at It if I can avoid doing so. Oh, It would delight to take such a one as one of us.”

The Man indicated his agreement, his jaw tightening. His eyes dropped as he thought. At last he said softly, “I pray that It does not seek to suborn Boromir. I would not desire to see Finduilas’s child lost to Its power.” Again he looked up to meet the eyes of his foster father and most beloved and trusted counselor. “After seeing what It has done to the likes of Frodo Baggins....”

The heir to Ereinion Gil-galad and the heir to Elendil and Isildur shared one more moment of agreement.

Folk out of Legend

Boromir looked away from the mirror provided for his room as a knock sounded at the door. “Enter!” he called.

The door opened, and in the doorway stood a tall Elf, his dark hair carefully braided at the temples and caught with silver beads set with lapis. “My Lord Boromir? I am Elladan, and am to escort you to the dawn meal, if you are ready.”

“One moment only,” the Man said. “They did not bring back my boots, I note.”

“I pray your pardon--it is not a slight, but they were much broken down, Erestor has told me, and will need to be properly replaced. Considering their state, my adar wondered that you were even able to make it the last of the way here.”

“I began stuffing them with hay some weeks back, once the soles began to wear through,” the Gondorian admitted.

“The shoes provided are such as our own folk wear, although I doubt they would serve you for long in the wild. However, they should serve your needs well enough while you dwell here in this house.” The Elf examined the Man carefully and with obvious approval. “And the shirt provided you fits you well enough?”

This shirt was of a similar color to that he’d worn, which would need new sleeves, he knew, those having become badly frayed from being worn most of the time over the past three months. Boromir looked again at the new one that had been placed on the stand in his room along with his breeches and padded gambeson that he wore usually under his mail and the heavy tunic he usually wore over all. This shirt, of a color between a dusky rose and that of new wine, was of a particularly soft linen and was embroidered with golden sunbursts down the placket, about the sleeve ends and along the lower hem. “It fits as though it had been designed particularly for me,” the Man admitted.

The Elf nodded. “My sister will be pleased,” he commented. “She began preparing it not long after midsummer, and had no idea for whom it might be intended. It is not truly of a shade preferred by our younger brother. We thought it might be intended as a midwinter gift perhaps to one of his kinsmen. But once she saw the state of the shirt you had worn she knew that this shirt should come to you.”

“I thank you,” Boromir replied, “and your sister as well. She is most talented with her embroidery.”

The Elf smiled. “That she is. And the stockings fit you?”

“Indeed. They are marvelously soft.”

“The wool is from the Shire. Perhaps it is from the very farm on which our young guest Peregrin Took lived as a child. I will have to ask him, I suppose. Do come, Lord Boromir.”

The Man had the soft slippers on his feet swiftly enough, and followed his guide down the corridor and to the turning down which he’d been led the previous night. “You have many guests?” he asked.

“More than Rivendell has seen in some time,” the Elf admitted. “Many have come, each on his own errand it seems, all of which appear to be focused on the same matter. We shall have much on which to speak as the council begins.”

They walked by a room in which could be seen the Man Boromir had met in the early morning hours seated with three others, at least one of whom he’d seen among the Rangers he’d encountered at Weathertop. By them sat steaming mugs of some drink and plates of food. One of the three Men was eating rapidly while the one he’d heard called Estel questioned the one Boromir recognized, and the third sat sideways to the others, his arms crossed on the top of a small table and his head pillowed on them as if exhausted. As the Gondorian passed the door he found himself craning his head to take in the scene, and as they walked on beyond it he realized that the Elf had caught his interest and was amused by it.

“Strider is receiving reports from his folk,” the Elf said rather succinctly.

“I see. They appeared certain he would be here when I met them along the road.”

“They know him well enough, as well as the reason for his journey. It was likely that he would bring his charges here, after all.” He indicated another hallway. “The dining hall is this way. I am sorry not to company you further, but I have my own reports to give and orders to receive. I returned last evening during the feast, and spent most of it speaking with Estel myself of what Elrohir and I found of the traces of the Enemy’s servants. Now I must meet with the master of the house before the council, and agreed to guide you here as most others are busy about one task or another. Now, you may go through there and then turn right....” He indicated another doorway. “If you will forgive me, I suspect that time will be at a premium for my brother and me.”

With that he gave a graceful inclination of his head and turned to continue down the main hallway of the house. A tall, golden-haired Elf clad as a warrior paused to speak briefly to him, then continued toward the dining hall himself, tucking a pair of riding gloves into his belt as he came.

“My Lord Boromir?” he said as he came even with the Man. “Welcome to Imladris. My name in Glorfindel, and I am the captain of the vale’s forces of defense as well as one of Lord Elrond’s counselors. He is busy now preparing for the council to come and taking last-minute counsel with Gandalf as he breaks his fast, and so it is he cannot greet you at this time. If I might accompany you to the morning meal?”

The Man felt relief not to be alone. The name Glorfindel caught at his attention, although he could not now think precisely why it might be important. Something, perhaps, from the old legends? Someone this Glorfindel was perhaps named for? “I would be glad of your company, Master Glorfindel,” he said with a slight bow.

Together they turned through first one and then another door, entering what was plainly a large dining hall that seemed filled with natural light, both from the surrounding windows looking out on the beauty of the vale and from skylights in the ceiling that appeared to be set with colored glass. On the inner side of the room lay a long sideboard on which Elves were even now setting dishes of various foods, and waiting for them to move away stood a sturdy child who held a large tray, a second child, smaller and more slender, beside him. Glorfindel smiled at the sight of these and moved to greet them. “Master Samwise! You will not be taking your dawn meal with us, then?”

The sturdier child looked up, flushing some and inclining his head. Boromir had the idea that had his hands been free he would have been pulling at his forelock. “Thank you, Master Glorfindel, sir,” he said, “but I’ll be eatin’ with my Master and old Mr. Bilbo. He didn’t rise for first breakfast, so I’ll be takin’ him enough for both, as Master Elrond said as I should. I’m right pleased at how well he’s doin’, all things considered, of course. I mean, memberin’ as how bad off as he was day afore yesterday, if’n you take my meanin’, sir.”

“Indeed I do understand. Bear him my greetings, and may your meal be pleasant.”

“Thank you again, sir.” Again a duck of the head, and he turned his attention to the one with him. “Now, Mr. Pippin, sir, now as the ones servin’ is all cleared away, you think as you could get me some of them sticky buns--they ought to go down well, don’t you think? And the pears in light syrup, as they ought not to be too heavy on his stomach. What do you think about....”

Glorfindel drew the Man away. “We should allow them some time to fill their tray. One thing I have learned about the Hobbits of the Shire--it does not do to come between them and their breakfasts, either one of them. Master Bilbo has certainly taught us that!”

“And what are children such as these doing here? Are their parents with them? Or do children work as servants among these Hobbits of the Shire?”

The Elf’s eyes lit with amusement. “I will advise you to guard your tongue about them. I have had more than enough reason to be reminded over the yeni that the adults among the Hobbits do not appreciate being mistaken for children.” He led the way to a nearby table. “We can sit here, if that meets with your approval.” Together they sat and watched as at long last the broader child finally appeared pleased with the selection of foodstuffs the slighter one had placed on the tray and nodded his thanks as he turned to carry his load (enough, Boromir thought, for about five people) carefully past those seeking to enter the chamber. What the Elf had said confused him, he found. He watched as the maiden Meliangiloreth entered the room carrying a pair of larger platters and approached the second child, who’d been reaching for a plate apparently for himself. She said something to him, and he’d smiled broadly, eagerly accepting one of the platters. Now he took it and began rapidly filling it.

Boromir watched with fascination. “He, too, will be taking that to share with others of his party?” the Man asked.

“Others of his party? Oh, no. It is most likely all intended for himself. Ah--and here is the other one.”

Still another child had entered and was greeted by Meliangiloreth and presented with the second platter. He thanked her and gave her a gracious bow--and suddenly Boromir realized that this was no child after all. He approached the sideboard and began filling his dish much as was the other, who turned to greet him with a good deal of pleasure, apparently pointing out the most desirable dainties.

“Then those----” Boromir found himself uncertain what to say as he caught sight of the feet of one of the two--Hobbits--now serving himself at the sideboard.

“If you had begun asking if those are Periannath, or Halflings, the answer is yes, although their own name for their people is Hobbits. The fact Hobbits do not raise beards tends to confuse many--until they notice the hair on their feet and the shape of their ears. Only then does it become apparent these are not children after all. Although I will tell you that even their most venerable citizens will retain a child-like quality that is very endearing. But do not mistake their child-like nature for foolishness--they are far more sagacious than they appear. Certainly Master Bilbo is constantly taking us by surprise with his observations and conclusions, and Lord Elrond has accepted him as an honored advisor.”

“But the one who left is a servant?”

“Of sorts. His father served as gardener to the home Bilbo Baggins lived in when he dwelt in the Shire, and now Samwise Gamgee serves in the same capacity to Frodo Baggins, who inherited that home from Master Bilbo when he removed here some years ago.”

The Elf caught the Man’s full attention. “Rarely do the Hobbits of the Shire leave their own land or consort with other peoples, Lord Boromir. When they do so, however, we have found there is always a serious reason or purpose for them to come forth. Never undervalue a Hobbit.”

It was advice the heir of Denethor of Gondor was to think on frequently in the next few months.

Once the two Hobbits left the sideboard others began to approach it, and both the Man and his companion joined the Elves who were now seeking their breakfasts. Then from the outer room could be heard the clattering of heavy boots. Surprised at the noise, Boromir turned from the platter of eggs to look behind him, just in time to see a group of what must be Dwarves entering. Indeed they were much shorter than were Men, although they were at least a head taller than the Hobbits had proved to be.

“And will I see the esteemed burglar Bilbo Baggins today, Father?” one with a russet beard was asking a venerable Dwarf dressed in fine fabrics and with hair and beard of the snowiest of whites.

“I know not--I did not see him last night, for he came not to the feast. Lord Elrond indicated he took his meal within the Hall of Fire--that he found the thought of a feast overwhelming. Remember, Gimli my son--Bilbo is now old in the reckoning of his own folk. Not,” he added, “that I am particularly young, either.”

The Dwarf gave a nod, then glared at an Elf dressed in greens and browns whom he apparently felt came too close for his comfort. “If only these dratted Elves from Mirkwood hadn’t followed us here!” he growled in low tones, although Boromir could only assume that the Elf must have heard him as clearly as he did. “The Elves of Rivendell have always been hospitable enough toward us--but those of Mirkwood? Nah!” he spat. “What do they care about Dwarves?”

The Elf in question strode away with his half-filled plate, his head held remarkably straight. Boromir judged that this one with the golden hair was as offended by the presence of the Dwarves as they were by him.

The Dwarves quickly filled plates and began looking about, immediately noting the two Hobbits where they sat apart from the others and moving to join them. “Please, small masters,” said the white haired Dwarf, “may we join you?” At their assent the group of Dwarves sat by the two small folk. “I had hoped to see Master Frodo again this morning. Does he continue well?”

“I’ve not heard otherwise,” answered the taller of the two Hobbits, whose hair was darker than the other’s. “He was still sleeping when we stopped by to see if he would join us for first breakfast, and I saw Sam taking a tray to share with him and Bilbo. I’m not certain if they’ll eat in Bilbo’s chambers or Frodo’s. But Sam is much relieved now Frodo is up and about again.”

The white haired Dwarf nodded. “I am so glad for Bilbo’s sake that his beloved nephew appears recovered. How was it he came to be wounded?”

The two Hobbits both shivered. “It’s not something,” the darker haired Hobbit answered slowly, “that we wish to think about--not now in the brightness of daylight here! No, let Frodo tell you himself!”

The younger one added, “I’m only glad we got here in time. What Gandalf and Strider have told us could have happened----” He shuddered once more, and even with his back against the window he appeared notably pale, or so Boromir thought.

The Man turned to his own companion as they took their seats again. But after a look into the Elf’s eyes Boromir turned his attention hurriedly back to his own plate once more. In that gaze he’d seen an ancient grief and a burning anger--and patience, a patience honed by millennia of experience. He only felt relief that he did not appear to be the target of that fury.

Around the Corners

He was not certain how long it would be before the beginning of this council, but decided he would fill in what time was granted him after breakfast by exploring this so-called “Last Homely House.”

A house? Nay, no more so than was the Citadel of Minas Tirith a proper house! Indeed, it was proved in the light of day to be a complicated yet surprisingly graceful complex of buildings built harmoniously amidst the great vale of Rivendell, or Imladris to use its ancient name. Some of the buildings were built against the walls of the valley themselves, tied together with gracefully arched bridges, enduring covered walkways and stairways that yet appeared deceptively delicate, and enclosed passages and hallways that still managed to feel open and airy. It was not surprising to find a room that was open to the sky with a tree growing in the midst of it, around which the residents of the place worked and met, themselves shaded from the glare of day or protected from the wet, rejoicing equally to see sunlight or rain fall to the nurturing of the elm or beech or birch. There were frequent fountains and pools, some within a room and others in carefully protected courtyards. And the entire place was filled with the life-affirming sound of moving water and rustling foliage from the number of waterfalls that fed the rushing Bruinen and the forests and groves and orchards that surrounded the place.

He feared he would grow helplessly lost and not be found in time for the council, but this fear proved illusory. There appeared to be Elves everywhere throughout the complex, even when they were not in sight. Here he would hear the strum of harpstrings; there a clear voice raised in song. Indeed, that was what had roused him this morning as it appeared many of the denizens of Lord Elrond’s house raised their voices to greet the rising of the Sun. Even with the lateness of the hour of his arrival and the restlessness he’d known, the scant sleep he’d enjoyed had nevertheless seemed remarkably restorative in spite of probably numbering less than two hours, particularly as he woke to such a glory of song!

He found libraries and the scriptorium, where already a woman among Elves leaned over her work, swiftly and gracefully drawing the letters she copied from a separate tome. He peered into the kitchens and what appeared to be a practice salle. He fount the infirmary of which he’d been advised on his arrival. He walked out into gardens that still glowed with golds and reds of chrysanthemums and goldenrod, where the berries on the hollies were reddening, and birds feasted on the fruits of the rowan trees.

And then he spotted the sturdy--Hobbling? No, Hobbit! Yes, he saw the sturdy Hobbit from the dining room leading a taller, far more slender Hobbit about the rose garden, pointing out the last of the blooms clinging yet to the thorny bushes. Had he not seen the others first, he suspected he would have taken this one indeed for an Elf-child, the face finely featured and beautifully sculpted, the dark curls bouncing about the pale visage, the expressive eyes.... But there were those feet with the brown hair protecting what would be delicate skin on other races, and a certain shadowing of the brow and eyes indicating this one had undoubtedly been very ill, and recently. There had been talk of someone having been wounded....

Then it hit him--Strider--or was it Estel?--had led his charges here to Rivendell. What was so important about these that the Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain left all else to bring such beings as these Hobbits here to Imladris at this time?

The two Hobbits turned to climb up onto a great railed porch, and there they were joined by the other two, who were hurrying forward to embrace the taller one. “Oh, Frodo--you are well!” he heard one of them cry before he retreated into the building through a lower door, suddenly feeling as if he were spying upon them. Yes, there it was again--the indication that the tallest Hobbit had been sorely hurt and badly ill. There had been talk among the Rangers he’d met near the Hill of the Winds of athelas being culled and used, and that this indicated a grave wound. And it was there, apparently, that this party led by this Estel or Strider had been waylaid by the Nazgûl. Boromir shivered, suddenly feeling cold as the snows that lay upon Mindolluin.

There was a half-familiar voice overhead, barely heard through the intervening floor; then he heard the clear chiming of a bell.

A moment later an Elf appeared--the one who’d led him to his chamber the previous evening. “My Lord Boromir? That was the bell to call us to the council. If you will follow me? Please to come that your errand may be made clear to all.”

In moments he was being led up stairways and down hallways and across courtyards, until he was brought at last to the wide pavement where all were to meet. A grave-faced Glorfindel met them, and led Boromir to a seat obviously prepared for him.

“This way, Frodo, Bilbo!” said a familiar voice, and Mithrandir appeared, leading the taller, slender Hobbit onto the porch by another way, along with what was plainly a much older Hobbit whose eyes were yet clear and discerning, already sweeping the place and noting Boromir’s own presence with a hint of curiosity and pleasure. Behind them, barely to be noticed, was the broad one, the one said to be a gardener. He, too, was looking about, but warily, and when the two Hobbits were led to chairs together by the Wizard he settled himself on the ground near the seat of the taller Hobbit. As he went still, Boromir seemed to forget all about him, as he looked to see the rest who were filling the circle of chairs. There seemed to be many, and he found himself wondering just how long this council should last.

Lessons in History

When the Council of Elrond was finally over, Boromir continued to sit on the wide porch where it had been held for quite some time after most of the others had withdrawn. He had been surprised to realize he’d met one of the Men present before--a representative from Rhovanion from the court of King Brand of Dale. It was, by all accounts, a small kingdom hidden in the wilderness to the north and east. Now, as he lingered on the pavement, so did Lord Blyn, looking almost as thoughtful as was Boromir himself. The two Men found themselves exchanging looks.

Lord Blyn asked, “And what will Gondor make of this information, think you, Lord Boromir?”

Boromir shook his head. “I cannot say. That the Enemy’s own Ring of Power has been found--and has been held by such bearers and for how long?”

“It is nigh onto a full century since our lands have been restored to us, and largely through the services of Master Bilbo Baggins there,” Lord Blyn said. “I would not have believed his tale had I not been told it repeatedly by our lord King as I grew up in his courts, he having been told the tales of the felling of the dragon by his own father, Bard the Bowman, first King of Dale Renewed. And there is no question that Lord Glóin recognizes Master Bilbo Baggins, ever known among the Dwarves of Erebor as the Esteemed Burglar, and that Master Bilbo Baggins recognizes him in return.

“I never thought to meet him myself, of course. But to learn that it was much by the use of the Enemy’s own device that he was able to approach the Dragon and convince it to leave its lair....”

“You said little enough during the Council.”

“And what was I to say? Most of the concerns we hold and sought counsel on were far better stated by Prince Legolas or Lord Glóin. Yea, the emissaries of Dol Guldur and Mordor have come to Dale and to Esgaroth as well as to the gates of the Lonely Mountain and the watch posts of Mirkwood, and they have sought to both bribe and to threaten us as Lord Glóin indicated he feared was being done. My Lord Brand will not break faith with the Dwarves of Erebor or the Elves of Mirkwood--the last time we were approached by emissaries from Dol Guldur heralded the coming of the Dragon, after all. We have had too much experience with the lack of honor shown by Sauron, who is rightly named the Deceiver, even as Gandalf the Grey and Radagast the Brown have called him to us. His people have again grown in numbers and boldness, and encroach on our lands and seek to take what they will by force. Yet we are to believe that if we tell them what they would know of the little intelligence we possess about the Master Burglar we will then be left alone and unmolested? Ah, but I think not! Not when within a day of their coming with their threats and promises orcs and wolves from Dol Guldur fell on two of our border villages and destroyed them, taking all their stores and slaying or enslaving all who did not escape--and those numbered but four individuals.”

He was shaking his head. “And now we know why it is that the Nazgûl wished to know the whereabouts of Master Baggins and the Shire--so that the better part of his power that he poured into that--that abomination--might be retrieved, and so that he might again wield that full power over all lands and peoples as he did an age past! Already his cruelty is a matter of legend among us. And he would have us help strengthen him that much the more? I think not!”

Boromir was surprised by the vehemence of the Man. “And what do you know of that history?” he asked.

“Radagast the Brown spent much time with us after the slaying of Smaug by our Lord Bard, helping in the healing of the land from the devastation of the Dragon. He told us the histories--showed us maps he had gathered of the lands of Rhovanion since the last victory over Mordor, and shared the tales he had collected. And the Elves of Mirkwood have confirmed his stories, as well as those of Gandalf the Grey. Prince Legolas served the regent appointed by his grandfather when Oropher and Thranduil went to war in Mordor itself, and could tell you much if he could be brought to speak of that time. When one deals at times with the Elves, it is wise to learn of them what they will teach, or so my grandmother always said. They are a fey folk; nor are their concerns much in accord with the concerns of Men. But they have known the ways of the Enemy for all of the Ages of the Sun and are not confounded by his wiles and lies.”

“And what will you do now?” Boromir asked.

“I will return over the High Pass as soon as possible that I be there to advise King Brand as to the real nature of this ‘least of rings, this mere trifle’ that Sauron wishes, and to help in preparing the defense of our land. I doubt that Lord Glóin will agree to remain here long with such news to impart, for Dáin Ironfoot will also need to prepare his own defenses, as well King Thranduil. Nay, I suspect we of the Dale and the Mountain and the Wood will leave together, and most likely within a week’s time. It is to the benefit of us all that we return as swiftly as we can.”

With that Blyn of Dale rose at last, gave a courteous if distracted bow, and departed the porch, leaving Boromir alone there.

At last, frustrated and confused by all this, Boromir left the porch himself, intent on returning either to the room given to his use or to the dining hall, for his stomach was reminding him noticeably that there was no reason to deny its demands now. That those of such out-of-the way places as Dale, barely a name on old and faded maps, should be aware of the history of the Rings of Power and the ambitions of the Dark Lord of Mordor was disturbing, he thought. And then as he passed a small courtyard filled with glowing dahlias he heard light voices speaking quietly.

“You don’t wish to go to the dining hall then, Master?”

“No, Sam. It is too much to deal with right now.”

“But you’re better?”

“Of course I’m better--much restored, I’d say. But that doesn’t mean that I’m fully recovered as of yet. No, I would like merely to be alone for a time is all--think it out. I wish you hadn’t decided to include yourself in this, Sam. You could just go home and marry Rosie and be done with it all--be safe.”

“What? And let you go on alone, to danger and darkness and who knows what else? I think not, Mr. Frodo! No, I came with you ’cause I knew as there’s somethin’ I must do, and I’ll see it through, or I’ll not go home at all, not and leave you to face evil and all on your own. You’ve more’n enough on your plate, if I might say so as probably shouldn’t, without addin’ in needin’ to see to what I could do to make things easier for you. Not what it’s fully safe at home in the Shire, neither, what with them Black Riders havin’ found it. And mark my words, Mr. Frodo--if’n them have found the Shire, then others of bad intent can, too.”

The voice of the other Hobbit sounded tight with concern as he said, “All the more reason you and the others should go home, then--perhaps warn them!”

The Hobbit Frodo Baggins and his companion, apparently? The companion snorted. “You really think as them in the Shire would listen to us, Master? Not likely! I’m but a gardener, Mr. Pippin’s naught but a lad yet, and Mr. Merry’s a Brandybuck, for all he’s the Master’s son! And we’ve all been out of the Shire. Who would take a one of us serious, do you think?”

“Uncle Sara would, and Pal would listen to him.”

“Mebbe, Mr. Frodo. But I’ve known Mr. Paladin many years, you know; and him isn’t one to listen to what him doesn’t want to believe, and Missus Eglantine’s even worse. Neither of them ever believed in them trolls or that dragon of Mr. Bilbo’s, you know.”

“But now you’ve seen the trolls--or what remains of them, and have heard those who experienced the Dragon’s malevolence.”

“Well, it’s not like we hadn’t met Dwarves afore, Master. Dorlin told us how hard it was to clean the halls under the Lonely Mountain, you know. But, well, I’m not certain just what you noticed about them stone trolls, bad off as you was then, but one thing as I noticed is that not one of them had a pocket for Mr. Bilbo to’ve picked. I’d say as he maybe stretched the truth a mite all those years, what with tellin’ of how thirteen Dwarves and a burrahobbit got caught by ’em!”

There was a hint of laughter shared between the two of them. “I’ll have to ask about that while we’re here.”

“There you are!”

Boromir was startled by the new voice, for he’d not heard anyone approaching the garden.

“We saw Gandalf with Bilbo, heading into the dining hall for luncheon. Why aren’t you with them, Frodo? You’ve lost far too much weight in the last few weeks to be missing meals now!”

“And where’s Pippin?”

“He’ll be along directly, I’d say--sent him off to fetch at least some tea for you, once we spotted you here. But you need to eat, Frodo Baggins.”

“Maybe I don’t mind being back to the weight I knew as a tween, Meriadoc Brandybuck!”

There was a snort from the gardener. “Nonsense, Master--Mr. Merry’s right, and you know it. You always used to complain you didn’t look a proper Hobbit.”

“I didn’t choose to stop here to be browbeaten by the two of you or anyone else. I need some time--and quiet--to think.”

“Well, what happened at this council? Bilbo was looking--and sounding--most upset, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen Gandalf look so concerned and grim ever.”

“No--we’re not going to say this twice, Sam and I; so we’ll wait for Pippin.”

“Fair enough, I suppose. But what’s Bilbo so upset about, or Gandalf?” Then after a moment of quiet the same one said, “You don’t need to glare, Frodo. All right, then I’ll wait for Pippin. But I was only hoping to get a feeling for what’s going on before he gets here, and maybe keep the worst from him.”

But just then the fourth Hobbit’s voice could be heard. “What are they talking of, Frodo Baggins--you’re going on, and not going home again? They can’t make you go on--you’re just getting better after a terrible wound!”

“Going on? You’re going on? Where? Why? What haven’t you told us?”

“We haven’t had time to tell either of you anything as yet! Now, calm down! And part of why I didn’t come to you directly was because I wanted to have some time to think how I would tell you what’s going on.”

The young one demanded, “Well, you’d best get on with it and tell us now, for we’re not leaving you alone again until we know. We didn’t form the conspiracy so you could go off on your own on some other horrible errand before you had even had a chance to recover from what happened on the way to see this one done!”

“Where is it you are to go?”

“It is not important----”

“Don’t tell me that, cousin. Where are you supposed to go now?”

“Mordor.”

That stopped the interrogation. Although he couldn’t see the four Hobbits, Boromir could easily imagine the exchanges of shocked and disbelieving looks. At last the older of the two that hadn’t been at the council said, “Why didn’t you fetch the tea?”

“Well, I was starting to until I overheard the Dwarves discussing who might end up accompanying Frodo on the further journey. I’m afraid that I left rather a mess for Master Elrond’s Elves to clean up, there in the dining room--I dropped the tray as I left. But I demand to know what’s going on.”

The voice of Frodo Baggins sounded tired. “Sit down, the both of you.” Then in an annoyed tone, “On the ground, Pippin, if you can’t easily sit on a bench.”

“You don’t need to snap at me!”

“Well, you don’t have to look at me that way, as if somehow I’d managed to magic away all the benches of a size to fit you.”

“It’s not that at all, Frodo. It’s just the thought of you going on. You almost died!”

“It was something far worse than death, Pippin.”

Something in the tone of voice in which that was said caused Boromir’s blood to run chill. He shivered. Then he jumped as a hand touched his shoulder. He was shocked to find Strider--or Estel--or Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir to Isildur himself--standing by him. With a wordless gesture the northern Dúnadan commanded the Gondorian to come away, and Boromir obeyed as automatically as if it were his father who’d looked at him so.

Once they were within the buildings and headed toward the main rooms of the common area of the place, at last the other Man spoke. “Give them the privacy they deserve.”

“I had not intended to listen in, but once I heard who it was who was there, I found myself drawn to stay.” Boromir looked at the Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain. His garb was of a deceptively simple cloth that close up proved to be highly embroidered in green and gold leaves and blossoms rather than having the pattern woven into it as he’d first thought. “And what is your place in this household?”

The taller Man looked sideways at him. At last he said, “I am almost a son of the place. Long ago, after the assault that left my mother a widow and me a fatherless, toddling child, it was decided to bring me here to raise me in secret. Always the Heirs to Isildur have spent time here in Imladris to learn the full meaning of our heritage and to prepare us for the leadership of the Western Lands it has been hoped would be restored to us in time. There has not been a descendant of Valandil through the lineage of Arthedain who has not spent some years here for fostering and training and education. But I am the only one, or so my adar tells me, who has been as much a son to him as those born to his wife.”

He turned to lead Boromir to the same room where he’d earlier been seen with his Men. An Elf was there, carefully polishing the table. The Elf paused to ask, “Estel, shall I bring you and your companion food and drink here, then?”

“I suppose so, Lindir. And why are you cleaning the room today?”

“There are too many here for those doing service to the house to see to everything. I am as capable of wielding a dusting cloth as any other, am I not? And have you yourself not spent your own hours doing similarly?”

The Man smiled reminiscently, and Boromir could see the long friendship between Estel and the Elf. “And so it has been.”

“When do you expect to have to go back out into the wild again?”

“Elladan, Elrohir, and I will go out with a patrol at midafternoon, I would guess. I will meet with my Men that Hardorn could gather in haste and will search along the Mitheithel while the twins follow the Bruinen, then head north and south in search of any signs.”

“Signs of what?” demanded Boromir.

His companion turned to solemnly look at him. “Signs of the Nazgûl,” he explained. “We cannot leave until we are certain they do not linger in these lands. We cannot risk allowing them to come upon those who accompany the one who bears the burden in the wild. Already he has been pierced once with a Morgul knife--he would not be able to survive a second such assault, I fear.”

“You know of Morgul knives?” He vaguely noted the departure of the Elf.

The northern Chieftain searched Boromir’s eyes. “Do not forget where it was that the Lord of the Nazgûl long dwelt, there to the north of our lands. Know this--most within Angmar remain his people, although he has been gone from them better than a thousand years; and when our people have been assaulted it is from there that the bulk of our mannish foes ever come. To them he has from time to time entrusted such things, although the power and terror of them is yet worse when it is his hand that delivers the blow. Yea, we know of such things as Morgul blades, and the history of our folk has been rife with such attacks. Frodo Baggins is not the first I myself have seen who was subject to such a wound, although it is my fervent prayer he is the last.”

Boromir felt as if his lips were wooden when he asked, “Then how is it he is not now a wraith, this Frodo Baggins?”

“Do you think my adar failed to instruct me in the way to deal with such a thing? Much power has ever been granted the heirs to Isildur over wounds and healing; and I was able to strengthen him to fight the power of the shard that remained within him. But his full healing must wait until he reached this house, for I have not command of the full gift given originally to Elros Tar-Minyatur and his brother.”

“But does the brother of Tar-Minyatur yet linger in this....” He stopped, feeling his face flush.

The northern Chieftain gave him a particularly gentle smile, one that somehow reminded him not of his father but of his mother--and younger brother. “Elros chose to number himself among the Edain. Elrond, instead, chose the life of the Eldar. Oh, yes, Boromir, the brother of our great ancestor yet remains within the Circles of Arda, and within Middle Earth; and this day you have seen him. It was Lord Elrond of Imladris who was able at last to remove the shard of the Morgul knife from the shoulder of the Perian. However, it is useful to know also that Hobbits are both far hardier than are Men, and also more resilient. The one Man I knew who received such a blow felt the shard entering his heart within five days. Frodo bore his shard and fought its power for seventeen.”

“And one of your Men is now a slave to the Ringwraiths?”

But the Man was shaking his head. “No,” he said, very softly, “no--he is no wraith. He died before the shard took him wholly.”

And Boromir realized just whose hand it had been that had eased the way of that unknown Man to death rather than eternal enslavement to the Lord of Evil. He shuddered, understanding a portion of the grief he saw in this Man’s eyes.

He looked away, looking to his hand where he wore the ring given the Heir to the Steward. At last he asked, refusing to look back into the other Man’s eyes, “And what is your intention toward my land? Do you seek to add the Winged Crown to the one you now wear?” Only then did he look up under his lashes to watch this Estel’s response.

He saw a rueful smile on the Man’s lips and reflected in his eyes. “I wear no crown. I am granted from time to time the right to wear the Star of Elendil--or, rather, the replica of the original that was commissioned by Lord Elrond after the original disappeared with Isildur into the Anduin when he was slain by orcs. I hold this right as a lord of the Dúnedain and as the direct heir to Elendil through his primary heir, Isildur. It denotes no more than that my ancestor Amandil was last Lord of Romenna.

“No, I am no king, Lord Boromir. Since the death of Arvedui there has been no king within what once was Arnor, although at one time we had as many as three such creatures. After the last great war with Angmar, when your Eärnur came to our aid with his great armada, Aranarth would not accept the Sceptre of Annúminas back from the hands of Elrond, saying not until Arnor was worthy of the title ‘kingdom’ once more--or the two kingdoms that grew under the rule of Elendil and both his sons were reunited again--should any of his issue bear the title of ‘King’ or wield the Sceptre of Annúminas once more. I ask you, Denethórion, is Gondor yet ready to accept the return of the King? Would not your father--and you--lose much in the finding of such a one?”

“Do you mock me, you who are perhaps as much Elf as Man?”

“I mock no one. And at times I feel myself neither Elf nor Man. At times I know not what I am. What kind of prodigy am I--born among Men, raised amongst Elves, watching over Hobbits, looked at with compassion by Dwarves? The Dúnadan, but one who never set foot upon the shores of Númenor, who has never and will never sail within sight of the Blessed Lands? I might wear the Elendilmir, but who shall be dazzled by it?”

“You wear not the Ring of Barahir. Was that not of old one of the signs by which the Heir of Isildur might be recognized?”

The other Man shrugged. “No--I wear it not at this time. But its disposal is a matter of which none may speak openly.”

“Then it has been given to your heir, who is hidden as you were?”

There was a feeling of steel in the look given him at that. “It was laid on me that I might not bind to myself a wife until and unless I achieve my highest destiny. No--no heir has been born to me, for no woman has as yet known the worship of my body. And of that, this is all I will speak of with you--for now.”

They were quiet, contemplating one another as the door opened quietly, and the Elf Lindir reentered, carrying a tray on which lay two plates of food as well as goblets and a pitcher of juice. He set it on the table he’d earlier polished, looking between the two Men. “Master Elrond wished to speak with you ere you leave the valley, Estel. Think you that you will be one of the fellowship to accompany the Ringbearer south and east?”

Sea-grey eyes swept up to meet the eyes of the Elf. “I cannot think of a reason why this should not happen. Boromir here has come seeking aid and assistance for his people, and particularly for his city, which shall bear the brunt of the Enemy’s hatred when the stroke at last falls. Eärnil’s heir came to the succor of our lands when through the Witch-king Sauron sought to destroy Arnor, and by that aid were we given sufficient respite that we failed not completely. Shall I, as the representative of Arnor and as Isildur’s latest--and perhaps last--heir, do less well by Gondor?”

He looked back to capture Boromir’s gaze. “I have not an armada to bring to the needs of Gondor--indeed, I have nothing but myself I can hazard at this time. But I believe it is indeed time for the Sword to be reforged anew, and I shall bear it to the needs of your realm--and may it be by so doing my own realm shall be renewed.”

Boromir felt his heart lift unexpectedly. “Perhaps, Aragorn Arathorn’s son, Gondor is ill prepared for the return of the King--but there is no question that it shall rally when the bearer of the Sword Reforged comes to it.”

And the two smiled at one another, any thought of rivalry put away from both.

On Plans for Weapons

Apparently the same Elf who’d led him from his chamber this morning entered the room where Boromir sat with Aragorn son of Arathorn, although he appeared to have changed clothing from earlier. “Estel, Adar asks that you come to him in his study as soon as possible, and that you bring with you the shards of Narsil. Lord Glóin desires to consult on how the sword might be best reforged, seeing as Narsil was originally forged by his own people, and he has offered the services of his son to aid the smiths who will do the work.”

The northern Chieftain rose. “We have not a good deal of time, if we are to go out in search of the spoor of the Ring-wraiths,” he commented.

“Indeed not, which is why he would prefer to see you now.”

“Thank you, Elrohir,” the Man said. “You may tell him I am on my way to fetch the shards now.” He gave Boromir a questioning look. “Would you like to accompany me, Boromir?” he asked.

“If you will have me do so,” the Gondorian answered, rising also and feeling flattered.

“I will see to it your goods and supplies are taken to the stable then.” So saying, the Elf withdrew, and Aragorn led Boromir out of the room in his wake.

“Do all within this house have more than one name or designation?” Boromir asked as he followed the Dúnadan toward one of the residential wings of the place.

Aragorn looked at him in question.

“Well, so far I have heard a number of names applied to you,” Boromir explained.

His companion gave a short laugh. “Oh, I have more names and titles than perhaps is good for me. I was born Aragorn son of Arathorn, but was named Estel by Lord Elrond when brought here as a child to keep me safe from the agents of the Enemy. The folk of Bree gave me the name Strider, as we seldom use our own names within the Breelands. They’ve been granting us their own descriptive names for more generations than we can count. I am told they called my father the Horseman, when they weren’t using another, less polite name for him.”

“Well, that one introduced himself to me as Elladan earlier----”

Again Aragorn laughed. “Welcome to the home of Elrond Half-elven, sir, and of his children, including his twin sons.” They turned as Aragorn continued, “I can tell them apart immediately, as can a few others. But most cannot do so easily, I will admit.” He led Boromir further, as they exited briefly to go through a courtyard to reenter the building further on, and turned left down yet another corridor until they came to a door to which a green stone was affixed. Aragorn signed for his guest to remain in the hallway as he entered, returning in a moment with a worn black sheath from which protruded the pommel of a great, two-handed sword. He then led the way back much the way they’d come to a more private wing that had a distinct Elvish feeling to it, approached a door and knocked upon it.

The tall warrior Glorfindel opened the door to admit them, and seated about a low table were Lord Elrond and several others, including apparently the Elf who’d led him from his room that morning and two of the Dwarves as well a well-muscled Elf who must be a smith for the place. He recognized the white-haired Lord Glóin and his russet-headed son in the two Dwarves, and saw that they rose as the two Men entered, although he sensed they were doing so more out of eagerness to see the sword carried by his companion than out of courtesy.

“To see, with my own eyes, a relic of Telchar himself!” murmured the younger Dwarf, his eyes alight with anticipation as Aragorn son of Arathorn carefully removed the haft of the sword and laid it upon the table, then carefully shook the sheath to release the rest. In a moment the shards were laid in alignment, and together the two Dwarves and the Elven smith were leaning over it together, the Dwarves almost devouring the blade with their eyes, now and then reaching a single clever finger to trace a rune or device, commenting upon it in their own tongue.

There was another soft knock upon the door, and the son of Elrond went to admit Mithrandir, who joined the party at the table.

“You have Bilbo comfortably settled?” asked Elrond of the Wizard in soft Sindarin, in an accent that struck Boromir as being somehow more pure than that of his own people.

“He appears to be happy with the rest of Glóin’s party,” Mithrandir answered, “and is asking about his friends who remained in Erebor.”

“And no word has come to them of Balin son of Fundin and those who went with him?”

“Not for some years. Dáin is most concerned.”

“To seek to return there before ascertaining the full nature of Dúrin’s Bane was not, perhaps, wise.”

“I warned Balin of that, and of the evil presence I sensed there,” the Wizard was saying, but he paused to listen to the Dwarves.

“There--Telchar’s mark,” Glóin was saying reverently and he pointed to certain runes worked into the blade near the hilts.

The younger Dwarf’s eyes were shining. “Yes!” he grunted. “Oh--yes--it is an honor to even see such a thing!”

The Elven smith asked, “And can you tell me what these runes mean, if it is not sacred knowledge among your folk?”

“Protection to the one who bears the blade, and this one is to strengthen his awareness of what goes on about him.”

The Elf nodded his understanding. “A proper blessing for such a blade.”

“It is said he was the best of all our folk in the use of such runes,” Lord Glóin commented as he continued his examination of the broken blade.

“Father! Here!” Gimli said, indicating a partial sign near the break. “Is this a heart-sign?”

Carefully the adjacent shard was shifted slightly so the completed rune could be better discerned, Boromir found himself bending close to see as eagerly as were the Dwarves and the Elven smith. It was a longer sword than the one he carried himself, and rather narrower as well. There was an impression of marked mass to it, but also of fine balance.

“Yes--to guard the heart of its bearer at the same time it seeks that of the foe,” Glóin was saying. “And each of these runes was inlaid in mithril--do you see?”

“The forge and hammer are subtly different from how they are done now....” Gimli was saying, touching these symbols lightly and respectfully. Suddenly a smile of appreciation broke out on his face. “Wait--they don’t symbolize merely that the weapons smith was a Dwarf, but put the enemy under the hammer symbolized by the sword itself! I would never have thought to....”

But again Lord Elrond was speaking softly with the Wizard in Sindarin. “Bilbo will be terrified for his kinsman while Frodo son of Drogo is upon his quest.”

There was but the slightest nod of agreement from Mithrandir. “Indeed,” he murmured. “Although he will do all in his power to hide that from Frodo so as not to weaken him or his resolve. I thought my heart would stop when he offered himself.”

“The Ring has passed on--it is not his quest to take. Nay, he has done his part in seeing things as they should be. Now it is the work of those younger than we to see it properly done.”

“I know.” A troubled shadow fell on the greybeard’s eyes. “He offered it to me, Frodo did--there in the parlor of Bag End. It was a sore trial to say no.”

Was there the slightest look of alarm in the Elf’s expression? “Did the Ring Itself spark that offer?”

Again but the slightest of shakes of the head. “Oh, no. But he was properly named, just as Bilbo has held for decades. He realizes It is far beyond him, for all his current innocence.” The Wizard took a deep breath. “I fear for what It will do to him. He is so dear a one....”

“And one you care deeply for?”

“Yes.” A simple statement, that one. After a moment Mithrandir continued in a near-whisper, “There is something about him. All Hobbits tend to draw others to protect them, as you know. But for Frodo--it’s more than just the Elvish air to him, but you already see how his companions and Bilbo feel about him.”

“Not to mention Estel,” added the Elf. “He has pledged himself to the service and protection of this Perian. That is not something I could ever have imagined for him as Isildur’s heir, to place another above himself in this way.”

The Wizard gave a soft snort, to which Aragorn responded by sending a quick glance his way. “You never saw him as I did in the days he served others besides you.”

“But this is no great lord--he is merely a Perian of the Shire!”

The Wizard shrugged, and turned his attention back to the conversation now going between the Elven smith and the two Dwarves. “Then in what would it be best to temper the blade, think you?” the Elf was asking.

So many questions--whether to make of the mithril inlay separated signs of protection or to make of it a ribbon running through the entire blade, from which the symbols would spring; whether it would be better to fold the steel thrice or seven times; the size of the anvil and the weight and balance of the hammer, and the makeup of its mass; how the inlay would be worked into the blade.

The dimensions of the blade were noted, as well as current placement of all signs and runes on both sides. At last the grip was unwound, and the pommel sprung so that the nature and dimensions of the tang could be evaluated and measured. Then the discussion turned to the nature of those symbols to be worked into the blade and how they should be placed. Boromir listened avidly, and examined with the others the signs by which the ancient nature of the sword were noted.

The other Man present was growing more still as the discussion ground on. At last he straightened. “I can no longer put off our departure, friends. If we do not leave within the hour it will be no good leaving at all today; but we must make certain that no signs remain of the Nazgûl anywhere near at hand, and then that they have not set others as spies outside the valley. It will do us no good if the Ringbearer leaves Rivendell to walk immediately into a trap.”

He sighed, then looked to Lord Elrond. “You and Mithrandir, I believe, know best what kinds of protections would be best to work into the reforging of the blade, and I trust Lord Glóin and Master Gimli here to know the secrets to kindle it anew.”

“You can trust Gimli to see to it that this blade will answer as well to your hand as it has any of its former bearers,” Glóin assured him. “Although if you would give him a few strands of your hair, or even three drops of blood, it would help the more, as we could bind the blade more firmly to your bloodline.”

Aragorn paused uncertainly, sharing a long look first with the Elf Elladan and then with Lord Elrond, and finally with Lord Glorfindel. At last he said to the room at large, “I do not usually hold with blood magic.”

“I know,” Elrond said, “but if that was how the sword was crafted to begin with....”

Glorfindel went to a cabinet against the wall and came back with a chalice of fine crystal. The northern Chieftain started to bring out a knife from his belt, but Lord Elrond stayed him with a gesture. Instead he lifted the lower portion of the sword itself, and touched its blade to the heel of the Man’s left hand. There was a fine line of blood immediately. Glóin took the chalice and the hand, and shook three drops of blood into it. The Man then took the lower blade and with it cut off three hairs, giving them into the hand of the younger Dwarf. “If these will be of use?”

“That they will. I will see it is all done right, between myself and Lord Elrond and his smith--and Gandalf. You need not worry. Before the Ringbearer leaves this house it will be done.”

“Then I leave it to you all,” he said as he replaced the blade on the table, accepting a white cloth from Elrond and holding it to his hand. He bowed to the group, and led Elladan and Glorfindel out of the room.

Once the door closed behind the three, Gandalf, watching after, commented softly as before to their host, “And he was the second to whom Frodo offered the Ring--and he, too, refused it. He would not follow in his ancestor’s error.”

“There will be a third, then, to whom he will offer it. I only pray that the third is as wise as you and Estel.”

Once the smith and the Dwarves finished their plans and made to leave also, Elrond himself carefully lifted the shards of the blade and saw them again into their sheath. The Elven smith took the pieces of the pommel with him.

“This will not need to be made anew,” he declared. “If you will, I would test it to assure it has not grown brittle as did the blade.”

As he finally left the chamber to return to his own room, Boromir found himself dwelling on what had been said by the Elf. “There will be a third, then, to whom he will offer it.” Once to the Wizard, and once to the Man. If the third offer foreseen by Lord Elrond should be to Boromir himself--what could he do with such a weapon? He found he did not covet the sword destined to be reforged for Aragorn son of Arathorn. It was a far different weapon he imagined himself--perhaps--wielding.