The marketplace, Port of Pelargir, 20 years after Sauron’s defeat

“Gimli.”

Legolas’ tone was oddly strained, and the Dwarf turned toward his friend, concerned.

The Elf's face was ashen. “Do you see her?” he asked, without so much as glancing at Gimli. “Tell me if my eyes see truly…..”

Only one who knew Legolas well would have been able to detect the anger stirring beneath the surface, and Gimli’s unease grew as he followed Legolas’ unwavering gaze.

“Which ‘she’?” he asked, apprehension making his voice sharp. “It is a market, Legolas -- there are countless women….”

“That one.” Legolas cut him off brusquely, pointing. “Talking with the fishmonger.”

Gimli looked again, and saw a middle-aged woman with curling brown hair, neither short nor tall, neither beautiful nor plain, much like any other.

But he had no doubt that she was the woman Legolas meant.

For a long moment, the Dwarf was struck dumb, then fury rose within him, and he spat a Dwarvish curse. “She wears the cloak of Lórien,” he hissed, making no attempt to speak quietly.

“And the brooch as well,” Leoglas pointed out, and now his anger was apparent, so much so that a passing well-muscled dockworker was careful to give them a wide berth.

“She shall not be allowed to keep those tokens,” Gimli vowed through clenched teeth. He took a step toward the woman, but Legolas laid a restraining hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Why do you stop me?” Gimli demanded with a glare which would have sent anyone else scurrying for safety. “Think you that she came by the Lady’s gifts honestly? ”

“No,” Legolas admitted, eyes flashing with indignation. “No, she cannot have done so. But were we in Minas Tirith rather than Pelargir, I would still be loathe to accuse a strange woman of robbing the dead.”

Gimli reluctantly admitted to the wisdom of these words, but his offense did not lessen. “Then I suggest you confront her as to why she wears these items,” the Dwarf said tersely, “for I do not trust myself to speak kindly.”

“Come,” Legolas bade, and now his face was cold and unreadable, even to his friend of many years. “But keep your harsh words at hand. We may have need of them.”

The two made their way toward the unsuspecting woman, so intent on their purpose that neither noticed that the milling crowd parted to let them pass, as if daunted by their fearsome expressions.

The woman was still speaking with the fishmonger when they reached her. Legolas took a deep breath, willing his temper to cool. “Lady, might I have a word with you?”

She turned, and the polite smile froze on her pleasant face as she saw who had spoken to her.

“Imriel?” The fishmonger asked, frowning. “Is all well?”

She did not respond for a moment as she took in the strange pair who stood before her, gaze moving from their faces to the cloaks they wore, which were the brothers of the one on her very back.

At length, she became aware that the merchant had spoken. “Yes,” Imriel said in a voice that was almost steady, “All is well. But I must speak to these --- customers,” Gimli suspected she had been about to say “men” before she caught herself, “so I shall thank you for your time, and return when you’ve oysters on hand.”

The fishmonger did not look convinced. “Greet Randîr for me,” he bade, eyeing Elf and Dwarf suspiciously.

Imriel nodded her assent, and turned her attention back to Legolas. “If it please you,” she requested, gesturing that they follow her to a set of benches tucked between two shops a short distance away.

They did so, and Imriel sat on one of the benches, visibly attempting to compose herself. “You’ve --- you’ve come to take him back.” Her quiet words were thick with despair.

Legolas and Gimli exchanged a puzzled glance. “Come to take who back?” Legolas asked gently.

She looked to the Elf, and he was taken aback by the bleakness in her eyes. “My husband,” she replied, and Legolas saw that her hands, clasped tightly in her lap, were trembling. “I have always known someone would come for him -- are you in the employ of his wife?”

Gimli was growing steadily more confused, and from Legolas’ expression, he was not alone in this. “We are not here to bring back anyone’s husband,” Gimli said in a manner that was meant to be comforting, but instead came out exasperated. “We only wish to know how you came by that cloak and brooch.”

Without warning, Imriel burst into tears. “Do not take him from me,” she begged, looking wildly from Dwarf to Elf. “It will do her no good -- he does not remember her -- please -- do not part my children from their father….” Her words were drowned in her heartbroken sobbing.

Legolas stared at the woman in astonishment, for a moment utterly lost as to what the proper course of action might be. But he could not watch such sorrow without feeling compassion.

“We are not here to take anyone,” he reassured Imriel, laying one light hand on her shoulder as he sat next to her on the bench. “My companion says truly -- all we wish to know is how you come to be wearing this garment.”

She did not look up. “Both were a wedding gift from my husband,” Imriel answered, still weeping, “he was wearing them when we found him in the river.”

Gimli might well have turned to stone. He could not so much as blink an eyelid. She could not mean what he thought she meant. It could not be. Her words echoed in his ears.

He was wearing them when we found him in the river.

For an eternal moment, Legolas could not draw breath as his mind reeled. What she was saying was not possible. It could not be.

He was wearing them when we found him in the river.

Imriel glanced from one to the other, and hope gleamed in her eyes for an instant. “So -- you are not sent from his wife to bring him home?”

Legolas forcibly pulled his attention back to the woman. “No,” he said, his voice shaking almost imperceptibly, “if what you say is true, if your --- husband is the man I think he may be, he has left behind no wife.”

Gimli managed to speak. “Why do you think he has abandoned a wife?”

Imriel pressed her lips together tightly, and stared at her clasped hands, which rested in her lap, seeming to struggle with some decision. At length, she spoke, as if she were betraying a great confidence.

“Some nights, while he dreams, he speaks of a ring,” she was studying a plain ring of silver metal on her own hand, and did not see the way Gimli and Legolas both blanched, “and when he wakes, his mood is not light and merry, as is his wont, but dark and brooding.”

She glanced up, expression fearful. “I will give you this cloak and brooch, if they are dear to you,” she suited words to action as she fumbled with the clasp of the Elven brooch, “and I will tell Randîr that they were stolen from me. He will be angry, but his anger is quick to pass. Only, please -- do not disturb him.“

Gimli was immediately suspicious. “Why are you so eager to rid yourself of these things?” he demanded, glowering at Imriel. “If they are, as you say, ‘wedding gifts from your husband’, how can you part with them so easily?”

Her eyes widened at Gimli‘s accusatory scowl, but she did not shrink away from him . “I could not part with them ‘easily’,” Imriel corrected a bit tartly, pulling the cloak tight around her in a gesture that was surely unconscious, “for, other than my children, they are the dearest gifts my husband has given me. But --” she stopped, and when she continued, her tone contained a hint of steel.

“I do not know who you are. You could be the King’s men, sent to clap him in irons and throw him in a dungeon for the rest of his days - for what offense, I know not, but I know his past is not pristine, for no sailor's past is. You could be brigands who only mean him harm, or you could be sent by a wife, and are merely lying to me so that I will take you to him. If by giving you this cloak and brooch -- “ her hand stole to the leaf at her neck, “-- you will leave, then I will do it. I do not want my life disrupted if I can prevent it with so small a sacrifice.” She sighed. “I do not want Randîr disrupted. He has had trials enough for three men.”

“I am afraid we cannot oblige you, lady,” Legolas said, leaning forward slightly. “I cannot lie and tell you we are not the King’s to command, for we are. But we are not those who would take a man from his home unwillingly.” But if this man is who I suspect him to be, Legolas said to himself, we will certainly try to convince him to come with us. He indicated his own cloak. “As you have already marked, the garments we wear are identical to that which your husband gave you, down to the very curve of this brooch. Is this not proof enough that we do know him -- or did, once?”

Imriel seemed to consider this for a moment as she studied them. “It is true,” she said at length, “that were you here to take Randir to gaol on the King’s orders, you would be wearing the King’s colours. And I have heard naught of such a strange team hunting men for bounty.”

Gimli blinked at that, and Legolas could see his Dwarven friend was mildly amused by the notion.

Imriel shook her head. “As I have said, I do not want Randîr disturbed. He has had enough troubles, since we fished him from the water, and he does not need his wife bringing more to his doorstep.”

“We must insist on meeting your husband,” Legolas said, standing so that he towered over Imriel, determination written in every line of his body. “We will not leave Pelargir without doing so, and if you seek to thwart us, let me assure you that the next person who appears on your doorstep wishing to see your husband will be wearing the King’s colours, and perhaps his crown as well.”

Legolas could be frighteningly regal and imposing, if the occasion warranted, and Gimli was not surprised to see Imriel pale under the Elf’s intimidating gaze.

Gimli was surprised, however, when in the next moment, Imriel stood and met Legolas’ eyes unflinchingly, her own shoulders stiff with resolve.

“You will not cow me with your implications of high connections,” she informed him sharply, “for it is my duty to protect my husband and my family, and I will do what I have to keep them safe. But I think that I shall not stop you from meeting Randîr, though I dearly wish you had never come to Pelargir. It will not matter if you knew him in the past, as your faces seem to say. It can do no harm, for he has found no memories of his life before we found him. He will not remember you, and then you will go and leave us in peace.” Her hazel eyes were snapping with anger, and despite himself, Legolas was approving that he had not managed to frighten the woman into relenting.

“Thank you, lady,” he said, relaxing his posture a bit, “I am sorry if I seem overly demanding, but this is of utmost importance to us.”

Gimli spoke up. “If you please, lady -- what do you mean when you say you ‘found him on the river’? And why is it he does not remember anything before that?” Gimli’s uncharacteristic hesitancy startled Legolas.

Imriel turned to the Dwarf, expression now rather cool. “Just that,” she said, “I was on the riverbank, fetching water for the laundry, and I found Randîr in the shallows, among the reeds. At first glance, I thought him dead, for his clothing was heavy with blood, and he bore a dire wound on his head; upon looking more closely, I realized that he was clinging to life. I brought my father, we took Randîr to a healer, and he began his recovery.”

Gimli and Legolas listened avidly to her recitation, and when she paused, Legolas spoke. “He was not borne in a boat?” he asked, puzzlement creasing his forehead. “Was there nothing else with him? No…gear?”

Although he strove not to show it, doubt was beginning to creep into Legolas’ mind. Was the conclusion both he and Gimli had come to realistic, or simply something they wanted to be true? Was it even possible?

Imriel shook her head, “Broken pieces of some strange wood washed up with him, but those pieces were too small to have formed any sort of vessel. We found no gear in the water. He was dressed in rather fine clothing, but it was cut away by the healers, and the mail he wore was sold, for sailors have no use of mail.”

She seemed to be amused at the very idea, though Gimli and Legolas were startled by the word sailor.

“And as to your second question, “ she continued, “the healers do not know why he has no memory. Some say it is due to the wound on his head, some say he has the memory, but does not wish to remember. All I can tell you is that he did not remember so much as his name, although he remembers things such as how to read and write, and how to handle a sword or knife.”

“Randîr,” Legolas mused, wondering.

“Yes,” Imriel nodded, absently brushing a lock of chestnut hair from her face, “that is the name my father gave him, and he has never cared to change it.”

Gimli was deeply troubled by all that Imriel had revealed. “And -- he has been here, in Pelargir, these past 20 years?” he asked, disturbed at the possibility.

“Once he had healed fully, Randîr took to the sea,” Imriel corrected, “and he sailed both far and wide for ten years before deciding that he would prefer to stay with his wife and child, rather than roaming the seas and seeing us only rarely.” Her smile was tender, her eyes faraway as her fingers traced the surface of the silver-and-green leaf of Lórien. “We have been married 15 years, and are blessed with a fine strong boy, and a young daughter is the jewel of her father‘s heart.” Imriel came out of her memory. “And never in all that time has he recalled anything of his life prior to waking up in my father’s house,” she said, expression oddly triumphant, “and I do not think that seeing either of you will cause him to do so now.”

Legolas and Gimli stood silent for a moment, and an understanding passed between them. “If you will allow us a moment, lady?” Legolas requested.

“Do not linger,” she replied flatly. “It is nearing the evening meal, and I have delayed long enough already. I wish to see you gone as soon as possible. ”

The two companions moved away so that Imriel might not hear their conversation.

“I do not think she is lying, Legolas,” Gimli said without preamble, “but I do not understand how she could be telling the truth.”

“I do not understand this either,” Legolas admitted, more distressed than Gimli had ever seen him, “he was not living when we laid him in the boat, that I will swear. He was far too grievously wounded. And I do not understand how any vessel that small, even made by the Elves of Lórien, could make it over the Falls undamaged only to wash ashore here.”

Gimli stole a glance at Imriel, who was ignoring them. She looked honest enough, he thought. But he was not fool enough to believe that honest looks meant honest intentions.

“We must meet this Randîr,” the Dwarf said, “no matter how impossible her story seems, we must know for certain.”

Legolas’ smile was a thin, unnatural thing. “That, my friend, was never in question.”

None spoke as Imriel led them through the lanes of Pelargir. Her hostility was almost tangible, but neither Gimli nor Legolas noticed, lost in their own thoughts, which were, had they but known it, nearly identical.

Both did not know what they would do if Randîr was indeed Boromir, whom they had thought dead these last twenty years; both fought to keep expectation from springing to life, for the chance that Randîr and Boromir were the same person was very slim. It made no sense, for the man they had so carefully laid out in the funeral boat had been utterly lifeless. If some breath had stirred his chest, they could not have helped but notice it.

Both Elf and Dwarf could not bear the idea that Boromir might yet have lived when they set him on the Anduin, that they might have been too much in haste to begin their pursuit of the Orcs to see that their companion had not been slain.

Yet deep within their hearts, each fervently hoped that their suspicions were true.

After winding through the narrow lanes, they entered a clearly residential area which held dwellings of greatly differing sizes in various stages of repair.

Imriel slowed in front of a small white house with a blue door and a neatly-kept bed of yellow flowers. She halted so abruptly than Gimli trod on Legolas’ foot before he realized they had stopped walking.

“Do not upset him,” she warned, turning on the with a glare that brooked no argument, “do not try to make him recall some memory that is not there. I bring you here only to prove that you are wrong in your assumptions.”

“We understand,” Legolas said, and he lay a hand that trembled with tension on Gimli’s shoulder.

Gimli did not know who Legolas meant to steady.

Imriel narrowed her eyes at them, and seemed about to speak further, but she did not get the chance.

“There you are! I was very nearly ready to come looking for you, my heart!”

Neither Legolas nor Gimli needed to turn to know the owner of that deep voice.

There came a man they had never thought to see again in this life. He was much changed -- skin bronzed and hair lightened by many hours spent in the sun, a long knife- scar running from temple to chin, body much leaner yet still powerful, lines of age round the corners of his eyes, a distinct limp to his walk -- but he could not be mistaken for anyone but Boromir, son of Denethor.

He was barefoot, clothed only in the rough woven trousers of a common dockworker, and he dripped water as if he had just emerged from the river. With distant horror, Legolas noted that several small white scars stood out against the dark skin of Boromir’s chest, scars which could be nothing but the evidence of orcish arrows.

Gimli simply gaped, unable to form a coherent thought, unable to take his eyes from Boromir.

“Mama!”

The happy voice jerked both Elf and Dwarf back to themselves, and now Gimli did give a cry, for his shock had been so complete at seeing Boromir alive and whole that he had not even noticed the small dark-headed girl in Boromir’s arms.

“Ú-chenion man cínon!” Legolas gasped, hand tightening painfully on Gimli’s shoulder. “Is she not the very image of Elboron?”

Imriel had gone to meet Boromir and their daughter. “I see your father has been letting you swim in the river again,” she was saying, face stern but voice teasing, “I hope that this time went better than last?”

Boromir chuckled, and Gimli was painfully, joyfully reminded of a long-ago night on the road to Khazad-dûm. “There were no snakes this time, if that is what you mean,” he answered with a grin, bending to kiss his wife‘s forehead, “although there were several frogs which we unfortunately could not catch to bring home!”

“Unfortunately,” Imriel laughed, nose wrinkling in distaste. “Come, Lalaith,” she said, taking the tiny girl from her father, “your father has customers.”

Something in Imriel’s voice made Boromir study her intently for a moment, then he turned an appraising gaze on the two companions. A shadow came into his eyes, and he drew his wife to him. She hid her face in his shoulder, and he held her tightly, murmuring something into her ear that even Legolas could not catch, although he could hear Imriel’s muffled sobbing.

Lalaith openly stared at the Dwarf and Elf, oblivious to her parents’ interaction, and again Legolas was astounded at how very like Faramir’s son the child was. There were minor differences -- Lalaith’s hair, even wet, was a riot of curls, and her eyes were a dark hazel, but her nose and the line of her chin would be strikingly familiar to any who had seen Elboron as a boy.

After a moment, Boromir released Imriel. “It will be all right,” he told her, laying a tender hand against her cheek. “I will take care of it.”

“I know,” Imriel replied softly, tilting her face up to his with a trusting smile.

“Bregor has sent word that he does not know when he will return, ” Boromir went on, paying the stunned Elf and Dwarf no heed. “He has promised to help unload the skiff when it docks, and it has not yet arrived.”

Imriel shifted her daughter to a more comfortable position on her hip. “And if he returns immediately after the skiff has arrived, it will be the first time,” she said wryly.

Boromir nodded knowingly, and Gimli wished he could have the opportunity to meet this unseen son. He did not think it likely.

Boromir held Imriel to him tightly once more, causing Lalaith to squeak in protest as she was caught between them. He half-smiled, and said something apologetic to his daughter in a rolling language which neither Gimli nor Legolas understood, but Lalaith clearly did, for she giggled and blew her father a kiss.

“Go inside,” Boromir instructed, “and I will join you shortly.”

Imriel clasped his hand, and turned to go. Lalaith continued to stare as over her mother’s shoulder, waving at the Elf and Dwarf as she was carried inside. Gimli started to return the gesture, but let his hand fall when Imriel threw one last, defiant glare at the two of them before slamming the door.

.Boromir turned to confront Legolas and Gimli, eyes darkening nearly black.

“I do not know who you are, why you are here, or what you hope to accomplish,” he began, voice dangerously level, “but I am not inclined to be overly kind to those who make my wife cry. You had best have a good reason for doing so.”

His gaze moved from Elf to Dwarf, impatience, anger and protectiveness clearly written in his posture.

But no light of remembrance crossed his stony face. No hint of a smile, nor pleasure in seeing them appeared.

Legolas searched for words that usually came so easily to him, but he floundered, badly shaken by Boromir’s lack of recognition.

Gimli stepped forward. “It was not our intention to upset your wife,” he explained, keeping a close watch on Boromir’s steadily darkening expression, “we were merely seeking to discover how she came to be in possession of her cloak, for, as you can see, we wear its companions.”

Boromir blinked, looking them over more closely, and it was obvious from his reaction that he had not yet noticed this detail. “Oh,” he breathed, a world of understanding in that simple statement. “You are -- you knew me.”

“Once,” Legolas agreed. “Many years ago. And we thought you ---” he had to stop, for something was tightening within his chest, making him unable to breath.

“-- you thought me dead,” Boromir finished, almost sympathetic. His belligerent stance eased somewhat.

“We laid your body in a boat,” Gimli elaborated, struggling to keep his composure, “we drew out the arrows which left those marks there.”

He pointed, and Boromir looked down at his own chest.

The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of Boromir’s mouth. “I have always thought they looked like arrow-scars,” he mused, tracing one such mark. “But I could never think of why I might have been the target of such weapons.”

Legolas started to speak, but was stopped when Boromir held up one hand.

“I see that my appearance is a shock to you,” he said, “but I wish to make certain that you know my mind, before you say on.” His voice softened, although his eyes grew determined. “I do not wish to know how I came by these scars. In truth, I do not wish to know anything about my life before I awoke in the house of Baragund father of Imriel.”

This was a statement neither Elf nor Dwarf had anticipated.

“But…” in living memory, Gimli had never heard Legolas stammer, “…you do not wish to know where you came from, or what you may have left behind?”

Boromir shook his head. “If you had come perhaps ten years ago, I may have been tempted to learn these things,” he said, “but my family and life are here now. Over time, I have come to accept that my memories will never return to me, and I cannot see that anything you have to say will cause them to do so.”

Gimli gathered his scattered thoughts. “Why?’ he burst out, earning an quelling glance from Legolas and, interestingly, a wry smile from Boromir. “How can you not wish to know all that happened to you in the first forty years of your life? Do you not wish to know of your family, how they fare?”

Boromir gestured to them. “Let us go elsewhere,” he requested, “for I am certain that Imriel is listening at the door, and there is no need to subject her to this talk. And there is less reason to discuss this in the middle of the lane.”

They did not go far; he took them to a small building only a few steps away. Inside, it smelled of sawdust and rope; all around were scattered many wooden carvings of different sizes -- some large enough to be figureheads for ships -- in various stages of completion, and from the rafters hung thick, heavy coils of rigging. Neat rows of tools hung on the walls, and a small furnace sat in one corner. Gimli thought he spied a half-finished doll lying in an undignified heap on a worktable, and despite the situation, found he had to repress a smile.

Boromir did not offer them a place to sit, nor any refreshment, though he poured a cup of something for himself from a tall, thin gourd and took a sip.

“Long ago,” he continued, leaning against one of the worktables, “I desperately wanted to know these things that you can tell me, and my efforts to recall were all in vain. I knew how to wield a sword, how to sail a bit, what foods I liked and disliked -- but nothing of my own history. In that time, I did many foolish, destructive things in order to ease my loss.” He said this simply, without shame, but he reached up and touched the scar on his face in a gesture Leoglas suspected reflexive rather than calculated. “But as the years passed, no place, no person sparked recognition within me, and I began to realize that it was very possible that I would never retrieve any of my past.”

Boromir shrugged, downing the last of his drink, and pouring more. “I will tell you this, though I have no obligation to do so -- the closest I have come to finding my former self is in dreams, and these dreams are so dark and fell that I would not want to know their meaning.” His tanned face paled, the scar leaping out in sharp relief, and he studied the contents of his cup.

“Your wife spoke of this,” Gimli said, and saw his mistake when Boromir looked at him with narrowed eyes. “I am sure you know that she thinks you cast off another woman,” he went on hastily, thankful when amusement flickered across Boromir’s face, “she told us of one such dream only so we would understand why she thought this.”

“The Ring,” Boromir nodded, and Legolas’ stomach lurched sickeningly at the note of greed which throbbed briefly in Boromir’s voice. “Aye. She is convinced that it is a sign that I have a wife somewhere who is still looking for me.“ A fond smile appeared on his face, then was gone. “That dream comes less often than others, mercifully.”

Lost in thought, he traced the rim of the cup with a finger that bore scars of a kind that were only seen on the hands of men who have spent many years handling lines at sea.

His were not the hands of a swordsman, not the hands of a well-loved, privileged Son of Gondor.

They were sailor’s hands.

Boromir continued to stare into his cup. “I dream of battle,” he said, so low that Legolas and Gimli had to lean forward to hear him, “I dream of pain and despair, of crushing hopelessness and black voices following me into dark, unknown places where only death awaits. I dream of unspeakable creatures with cruel faces and sharp weapons, of mutilated bodies piled around me like a wall of flesh. I dream of men on fire, though they are yet alive.” He raised his head, fear and dread writ plainly on his face. “When I dream of my past, those are the things of which I dream.”

Legolas and Gimli were stunned to silence, as much by this unburdening as by Boromir’s undisguised terror. At length, Legolas found words. “But it is not all darkness,” he said with gentle persuasion, “surely you must realize that it could not have been all so bleak?”

“Must I?” Now anger was seeping into Boromir’s tone. “I am told there was a war during those years I do not recall, and. I can only assume that I played some part in it, for I have many unexplained traces of battle on my body. But I have no way of knowing if that part was for good or ill, if I took part willingly or under some coercion, if I carried myself with honour or with cowardice.”

“You carried yourself with honour.” Gimli could not keep the emotional reassurance from escaping, and was struck with odd guilt when Boromir flinched.

“I do not want to know such things,” Boromir snapped. “This is what I have been attempting to tell you, Dwarf. It will do no good for me to hear, for it means nothing to me. My past is just that, and it has no bearing on what I do now.” His anger drained away, and he bolted the contents of the cup. “My life is here,” he told them. “It is the only life I remember, and therefore it is everything to me.”

Legolas had the urge to go to Boromir’s side, but restrained it. “There are those who would like to know that you are not dead --” he began, and Boromir cut him off with a shake of his head.

“Answer this truthfully, if you can,” he said. “What good would it do for them to know?”

“What good would it do?” Legolas repeated, rather confused.

“If you tell these people that I am alive, what good will it do?” Boromir said patiently. “If you were to tell them that I live, they would insist on seeing with their own eyes, much as you have.” Gimli and Legolas nodded in unison, for this was plainest truth. “How do you feel, knowing that I do not recognize you, knowing that you are strangers to me, and will never be anything else?” Boromir made a weary sound that was almost a chuckle. “I am clearly not blood-kin to either of you, and yet you look at me as if I were a brother found. If I have a brother, how would he take it, knowing that I do not remember our young days together, nor our parents, nor anything about our feelings toward each other? Would his pain at seeing that I do not know him, and do not wish to know him, be worth the knowledge that I am not dead?”

Gimli winced as if Boromir had struck him, a reaction that was not missed.

“Even when you do not speak, you tell me that I do indeed have a brother,” Boromir sighed, running a hand through his drying hair. “And yet the knowledge does not move me, nor does it shake my resolve in this.” He stood, rattling the tools that lay on the table. “I would ask you to leave now,” he said brusquely. “Imriel will be sick with fear that I have decided to forsake her, and I have caused her enough pain over the years as it is.”

Gimli and Legolas were both taken off guard by Boromir’s abrupt dismissal.

“You cannot expect us to keep this a secret!” Gimli exclaimed, outrage mixing with disbelief.

Boromir’s gaze was emotionless. “I do not expect anything from either of you,” he said matter-of-factly, “for you are unknown to me, and I have no hold over you to ask such a boon.” He crossed his arms over his chest, as if to shield himself, and aimed his next words at Legolas alone. “Although if I was ever your companion and friend, I would beg that you do not tell these people where I am, or that I still live. You two alone have already caused enough turmoil to me and mine -- I do not know that I could repair the damage that would undoubtedly be done to my life and my family if more like you were to appear on the doorstep.”

Tears stung Legolas’ eyes. “I do not know that I can keep such news to myself,” he warned. “I do not know that I could carry this knowledge, and not share it with those whom I see every day.”

“Then think on this,” Boromir suggested. “Why am I alive? If I was indeed dead, when you lay me out in a boat, how come I to stand before you now, breathing if somewhat scathed? How is it that in twenty years, you are the first to find me, and know me for who I once was?”

Gimli eyed the other two, not quite certain what Boromir was trying to say.

“There is only one conclusion I have come to,” Boromir said with unshakable faith, “and that is that it is the will of the Valar. Whatever their reasons, they have allowed me to live, taking my memories in payment. I am at peace with this, though it has been a long, bitter struggle. I am more than at peace," he amended. “I am happy. I have a beautiful wife who has loved me through times good and bad, two children who bring me more joy than I deserve, and a solid reputation as an honest craftsman.”

His eyes were pleading. “It has taken me years to build this life, and I do not want it disturbed. You have no loyalty to me -- you may do as you please. But if you send strange men to Pelargir looking for Randîr, I will know who they are, for they will have in their eyes the same longing for recognition that you bear; the grief that I see on your faces will be mirrored in theirs. And I will take my family, and we will move to another place, where we cannot be found. I cannot give these people what they seek, and I will not allow my family to be disrupted so that strangers may be comforted. I am not concerned with these people’s happiness -- my wife and children are my responsibility, and I will do what I must to protect them.”

Gimli’s heart ached at this gentle threat, at the idea that their companion of long ago would vanish and they would never know where he had gone, so soon after finding him alive, but he could see that Boromir meant every word.

No, he thought sorrowfully. This is not Boromir. Not any longer.

Legolas willed himself to calmness. “We understand,” he said, and lines of worry in the man’s face lessened. “But if you are ever uncertain --”

“I will not change my mind,” Randîr interrupted, stern yet not without compassion. “I have a life -- I do not wish to take on some other man’s. Now, please -- go.”

Unexpectedly, Gimli crossed the room and caught the startled man in a fierce embrace. “I am glad we stumbled upon you,” he said, choked with emotion, “even if you are not.”

He released Randîr, wiping at his eyes as he made for the door, and had it been another time, Legolas would have laughed at the discomfort on the Man’s face.

As it was, the Elf merely placed his hand on Randîr’s shoulder, for he understood Gimli’s impulse. “I am glad as well,” he said, marveling at the warm flesh beneath his, trying not to see in his mind’s eye that very flesh riddled with orc-arrows, “and I wish you nothing but continued peace, my friend.”

Legolas walked toward the door, and he had nearly reached it when Randîr’s quiet voice stopped him. “Is he well?”

Legolas did not turn. “Yes,” he answered, “your brother is very well.”

He stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind him. Gimli stood waiting in the lane, and neither spoke until they reached their lodgings.

"You are thinking of keeping this information from Faramir." Gimli was the first to break the melancholy silence.

"No," Legolas corrected, though cautiously, "We are going to keep this information from Faramir." He expected Gimli to immediately fly into a rage, to rant and shout against such a decision.

But instead, Gimli only regarded Legolas thoughtfully. "You think Bor -- Randîr --," Legolas flinched, "you think he is right in his reasoning."

"Yes," Legolas said, "I do, old friend." He glanced out the window at the busy port, trying to collect his thoughts. "I do not know if I think it is the Valar's doing that he is alive, but who am I to say?" He looked back at Gimli, whose face was alarmingly unreadable. "But I think he was right when he said that knowing this will injure all who knew him as Boromir. Particularly Faramir -- though the loss will always be an ache in his heart, he has come to terms with his brother's death. He has healed, as much as one can from such a sorrow. Should we tear that wound open, and watch him bleed when his brother does not know his face? Would it serve any good purpose?"

"You do not think Faramir deserves to know his brother is alive?" Gimli's voice was even, devoid of emotion, and this made Legolas very uneasy. "Aragorn, the hobbits, Imrahil, his friends and comrades of war do not deserve to know?"

"Do they deserve to feel what I am feeling now?" Legolas countered. "What you are feeling now, for all that your face is as blank as stone? Would you willingly inflict such pain on any whom you call friend, Gimli son of Gloin?"

The Elf looked away again, and Gimli could see the tension in his friend's shoulders that meant that Legolas was on the verge of weeping. "I would not," Legolas said at length, "I will not. I will not speak of this to any, for I would keep this desolation, this bleak despair from them. Such sorrow I would not have predicted, knowing that he lives. And yet to hearing him denying all ties with his past -- nay, not simply denying his past, but repudiating it so forcibly -- this is more hurtful to my soul than thinking him dead in battle."

There was a long silence, again broken by the Dwarf. "He was right," Gimli admitted, and Legolas turned, startled, face tear-stained, "if we were to bring back the news that Boromir the Fair is alive, Pelargir would be swarmed with visitors from Gondor - everyone from Aragorn to the lowliest drudge in the stables would come to gawk as if he were an animal on display. Randîr and his family would never know another moment's peace, and none of Boromir's kin nor acquaintances would profit from the knowledge." Gimli did not bother to try and conceal his emotion.

"I know I have not profited -- indeed, seeing that Randîr knew us not, and had no wish to know us, cut more deeply than any wound I have taken in battle." He wiped the tears from face with his beard. "I cannot imagine how it would cripple Faramir to confront such a thing. Though Randîr utterly rejects us as companions of old," Gimli's voice broke, and he was obliged to pause a moment, "I do not reject that Boromir was a friend whom I respected greatly. And in honour of that friendship, I will say nothing. It is the last thing I can do for Boromir."

Legolas went to Gimli and placed his hands on the Dwarf's shoulders. "Then shall we lift a glass, and bid our friend farewell?"

Gimli stood, back straight, yet face sorrowful. "Aye," he nodded. "Tonight we will drink to Boromir."