Smoke Rings
This story takes place during the Fellowship's early journey across Hollin, soon after leaving Rivendell.

"The first part of their journey was hard and dreary, and Frodo remembered little of it, save the wind. For many sunless days an icy blast came from the Mountains in the east, and no garment seemed able to keep out its searching fingers. Though the company was well clad, they seldom felt warm, either moving or at rest."
--J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring, Book Two: "The Ring Goes South."

A chill wind fled across the thorny moors, and Boromir shivered, pulling his cloak more tightly about his body. The night's march had not led them to good shelter; this small hollow with its stand of skeletal trees was the best they could see as the sky began to pale, and they had marched longer than usual to reach it, so that they ate their breakfast in the full light of day.

Now the halflings slept in a tight knot of blankets, curled together like puppies for the warmth found thus. Legolas lay supine upon a blanket with no covering at all, and Boromir shuddered in sympathetic cold, though he knew it unnecessary; the Elf appeared to feel neither cold nor weariness, and even now might be awake, for all that his eyes were serenely closed. Aragorn the Ranger had rolled himself up in his blanket and dropped immediately into deep sleep; he had the infantryman's ability to sleep and eat whenever the opportunity arose, and also to go with both needs unfulfilled at will. Gimli was invisible beneath his own wrappings, but not inaudible: His snores rumbled through the dell, and on the other side of the clearing Boromir could see that Gandalf, also on watch, was becoming irritated by the constant buzz.

The well-wrapped wizard paced from tree to tree, glowering out over the meads and then at Gimli's sleeping form. Boromir forced his own gaze back out over the plain--he was on watch, after all, it was his job to watch for dangers--but found his eyes drawn irresistibly back to Gandalf's twitchy figure.

Finally Gandalf entered the clearing. He bent beneath the branches of the tree Gimli slept under and rolled him over with a grunt. Boromir held his breath, waiting for the explosion that would surely come when Gimli awoke to this treatment, but amazingly, the bulky Dwarf snorted and then settled--breathing quietly. Boromir grinned at Gandalf and nodded his head in thanks. The wizard smiled in return and came to stand beside the warrior.

"I think we have been over-cautious with no reason," he said in a low, conversational tone, gazing out over the rolling moors. Gandalf blended almost imperceptibly into this land of grey heather, grey sky, grey stone, and grey tree. "The land here feels quiet to me, and when our duty is over, I shall only wake one to keep the next watch."

Boromir nodded and moved over on his stone slightly, a silent invitation which the wizard accepted, sitting beside him. They dwelt companionably together without speaking for some time. Gandalf shifted after a while. "Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked.

"Not at all," said Boromir. "I rather like the scent of it, though I don't care to smoke myself."

Gandalf smiled and drew his wallet and pipe from within his capacious grey robes. He went about the laborious business of cleaning and lighting the handsome carved pipe and then subsided into stillness again, his only motions the small ones of drawing smoke in or blowing it out. His keen eyes scanned the horizon, and his smile returned, a curious, inward-turned smile, as though he remembered something pleasant.

Unable to resist, Boromir cleared his throat, and Gandalf swung his gaze back to him, a question in his raised eyebrow. "You do not smile so often that it passes unnoticed," said Boromir obliquely. His lips quirked slightly, and Gandalf's smile deepened.

"You wish to know what I think of to make me smile, on this cold day, during this cold journey," said Gandalf, and he puffed for a moment on his pipe. "Very well," he said. "I will tell you--you are the only person in the Fellowship to appreciate it, in any case." Boromir looked curious as Gandalf's face crinkled in mirth. "You know that your brother Faramir--" the soldier started at the name, one he thought of often but kept within his heart-- "liked to spend time with me when I came to Minas Tirith in his childhood."

"His youth, too, would he gladly have spent by your side," said Boromir dryly. "Ever he spoke of you and wished you would come oftener to the White City."

Gandalf nodded sagely: "Yes, and well do I know how your father felt about his son's attachment to me. If I were to say I had tasks elsewhere in later years, that would be true; but Lord Denethor's dislike of my presence increased as did his years, and that, too, stayed me from spending many days in your city."

Boromir looked down, unable to deny the truth of this. He had never understood his brother's fascination with Mithrandir, preferring to keep his company with hunters and scouts, learning the craft of warfare, which some need told him would be his, for better or worse. Gandalf saw his face darken and spoke gently. "I say this not to speak ill of your father or your family. And it does not come into this tale. Shall I go on?"

Boromir shook himself. "Yes, do, and excuse me--I know now what I did not then, that you are indeed a good companion and thrice worthy of the friendship of the Steward."

Gandalf laughed softly. "High praise, my friend, and I thank you for it. And now on with my story." He knocked his pipe against the stone seat, though, and spent a moment relighting it before he spoke again.

"During one visit, Faramir became fascinated with my pipe. He liked the scent of it, too," and the wizard's deep-set eyes glinted at Boromir. "He must have been, oh, say ten years old, or perhaps eleven--young in any case. I remember, he was all knees and elbows and tangled hair, and always either pale from too much time alone with his books, or burned by too much time in the sun with the soldiers of the city--there was never moderation with him, at that age." Boromir grinned in return, remembering a gawky lad always poised between word and action. Gandalf continued: "He would watch me smoke very carefully--he watched how the pipe was lit, and how I drew, and he dearly loved to see smoke rings, or other fanciful things."

"I wonder why he does not smoke, now that he is an adult--it is not a common habit among the men of the city, yet not unknown," mused Boromir.

"Ah, now we come to the crux of it," said Gandalf. "I think I can answer your question. One day I came back to my quarters in the fourth level and found your brother," Gandalf's voice rumbled with mirth, "curled up in my inner chamber, wretchedly sick, with my pipe and wallet beside him, discarded on the floor." Boromir began to grin. "The poor lad had snuck in just to try a little sniff, you see, and then--" both man and wizard began to chuckle, stifling their merriment so as not to wake the others-- "he was struck down. The stuff is generally nasty when you try it first, and to try it as a lad…" Gandalf wrinkled his nose in mock disgust, and Boromir guffawed, then hastily swallowed the sound. "Well, I cleaned him up--I hadn't the heart to scold him, as he had so obviously learned the lesson more severely than I could ever have taught him, not to meddle in the affairs of his elders--and I kept him with me all afternoon and evening, sending word to your father that he was safe and entertained. Yes, entertained," and Mithrandir's eyes twinkled as he looked out to the horizon, "mostly by heaving till he was as empty as a gambler's purse, and then by lying on my cot, green to the ears and turning away from all offers of food."

They sat chortling together at the picture Gandalf had painted, and at last Boromir heaved a sigh. "I miss him fiercely," he said, smiling still.

"I know you do," said Gandalf. "And I've no doubt that he misses you as well--you were ever goodly brothers to one another."

"Were we?" Boromir's face grew troubled. "I sometimes think not, or that I failed our brotherhood at the end. It was he who wanted to come to Rivendell, but I put myself forward and took his place. This is his quest by rights, and I begin to think that his wits and skill would be of more use here than mine." He did not say that the Ring preyed upon him daily, but the unspoken thought was heavy within him.

"You are most needed in our Fellowship," said Gandalf quietly. "You have not studied booklore as your brother has, it is true, but your skill and cunning as a soldier and leader may yet save your companions." He put one hand upon Boromir's arm. "Keep hope within your heart." Boromir was surprised at Gandalf's hand, not only because of its warming fire, but because Gandalf was not one to touch others lightly, unless it were the hobbits, whom he embraced as a grandfather might embrace his wards.

"I say nothing of courage, Boromir, for I know that your courage would long outlast your hope--I have no doubt of that." He took his hand away, but the warmth of it remained and sank deep, lightening the burden Boromir carried always, of homesickness and doubt.

"Your words do me honor, my friend," he said quietly. "I wish to be worthy of them."

Gandalf shrugged the earnest words away and smiled. Boromir now saw clear the worth which his brother had seen at a tender age, and he looked forward with--could it be? Yes, with hope, to the time that might yet come, when he and Faramir might sit at their leisure with the wizard and speak, and jest, and know one another better.

As for Gandalf, he was silent now, and he puffed contentedly upon his pipe. Boromir smiled to see him blow three smoke rings, red, blue, and green, but the soldier's smile faded as the unkind wind lifted the rings and shredded them, dispersing them to nothingness across the hard, barren moors. Boromir glanced at his companions, sleeping and waking, and hoped that fate would treat them more gently.