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.

An expansion on the drabble "The Arrival" that appears in "'Neath Anor, Ithil, and Gil," and contains and expands upon elements from that drabble.

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.

*******

            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.

*******

            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.

*******

            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.

*******

            “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.

Written for Raksha's birthday, and beta read as ever by RiverOtter.

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....

 *******

            “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.”

 *******

            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 glow of the Witch-king's eyes 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 found 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 Captain-General of the armies of Gondor.  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.

            Ah, Boromir--a mighty and worthy Man you have grown to be from that chubby-legged child.  A warrior indeed, and one I should rejoice to have fight at my side.  Almost a brother you could be--or as a brother’s son, perhaps.  But would you be content to be Steward under another when you have ever had the example of a ruling Steward in your father?  For Denethor threw over my attempts at fraternity and friendship.

            May it not be with the son as it was with the father!

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.

Getting to Know You

            Boromir was seated at the dawn meal the next morning when he was joined not by Elves or other Men, but instead by the five Hobbits.  “I hope you do not mind,” explained Frodo Baggins, “but as you are the first other than Gandalf and Aragorn to be definitely named to the company that will travel with me, I thought it wise to come to know you.”

            It was his first close look at the Ringbearer since the Council the day before.  Boromir was not certain where it was the Hobbits had met to eat, but none had appeared in the dining hall for the remainder of the previous day.  The Gondorian wondered how long it had taken the tall Hobbit to convince his kinsmen that there was no way to dissuade him from the mission he had taken upon himself.

            “That does indeed sound a wise decision,” he said courteously.  “Do sit and make yourselves comfortable.”

            Elves appeared with cushions to place on the chairs to assist the Hobbits to sit more comfortably at the table, and the five did just that.  They then consulted briefly as to what foods to fetch before the broadest of the four gave a gesture of his head to the youngest and rose to lead him to the sideboard where one of the Elves assisted the two of them to fill several platters.  Boromir drew his attention back to the three who remained at the table.

            He’d thought the old one a rather comical creature when he’d first begun to speak the previous day.  Certainly he had appeared full of his own self-importance at the time.  But now that he saw Bilbo Baggins close up he found himself wondering just how simple a soul this Hobbit might prove in actuality.  There was an indication that those faded eyes perceived more than one might guess, that spoke of far more experience than one would expect from one so small and guileless in appearance.  There was something so calculating in his inspection that Boromir realized he would do well not to underestimate this one at all.

            Frodo drew his attention away from Bilbo.  “I do not believe you have been introduced to my companions.  This is Meriadoc Brandybuck, whose grandfather was older brother to my mother.”

            “You can call me Merry, my Lord Boromir--they only call me Meriadoc when they are angry at me or for very formal occasions, you must understand.”

            Merry was not as tall as was Frodo, although some inches taller than old Bilbo.  His eyes were different in color from Bilbo’s, but had much the same set to them, and also much the same expression of consideration to them.  As was true of the older Hobbit, he appeared to be most competent and thoughtful.  Something in his expression reminded Boromir of his quartermaster in Osgiliath, who always seemed to know in advance just when it would be better to have more new cloaks or extra stores of medical supplies and healing herbs.

            “Then, Merry,” he replied, “you must call me simply Boromir.  My position within Gondor has no bearing here in the northlands, after all.  Or has Master Aragorn insisted you refer to him as Lord Chieftain or something similar?”

            The younger Hobbit shared a rather startled look with the others.  “Lord Chieftain?”

            Frodo’s cheeks grew rather pinker, although Bilbo’s smile grew but wider.  Frodo said, “I will allow Aragorn to explain that one once he’s returned.  But he is more than he appears, as he tried to tell us more than once along the way.”

            “He told us his real name was Aragorn there in Bree,” Merry said rather uncertainly as he returned his attention to Boromir, “but mostly we’ve called him Strider.  I mean, that was how he was introduced to us, after all.”

            Bilbo was shaking his head as he looked at the younger Hobbit.  “Oh, that he would,” he said.  “But surely you’ve seen how well he’s been treated here.”

            “Well, of course, what little as we’ve seen of him,” Merry admitted, once again speaking more to his older companion.  “And it’s been plain enough he’s had healer’s training, at least from how well he did by Frodo once he was stabbed by that Black Rider.  And in spite of how worn his things are, there’s no denying they’re all very well made and must have once been very expensive, or would be if you could even find things of their quality in the markets of the Shire or Bree.  You certainly couldn’t find anything of the quality of his trousers or his boots in Bree from what I saw during our stay there.  They had to be excellent quality just to stand up to the trip we made here, never mind how long he must have been wearing them before we met him at the Prancing Pony.”

            “It was the quality of his personal satchel that first struck me,” Frodo commented.  “No matter how worn it is, it is yet far more gracefully made than anything I’ve seen similar to it.”

            The broad one appeared with a large tray on which lay two platters.  He set one before Bilbo and the second before Frodo, gave a brief nod of acknowledgment, and turned to hand his tray to the waiting Elf while taking the platters from the tray held by the young one.  As he set a platter before Merry and another before the empty spot beside Merry, Frodo introduced these two.  “This is Samwise Gamgee, a most worthy Hobbit in my employ.  His father was gardener at Bag End from before my birth, and Sam has followed his father in that role,  He was chosen by Gandalf to accompany me here after he was caught spying on the two of us.  And this one is Peregrin Took, a younger cousin to both Merry and myself.  He’s Merry’s first cousin and my second cousin.”

            Bilbo took up the explanation.  “The four of us, you must understand, are all descended from the Old Took.  Old Gerontius was my grandfather, and Frodo’s great grandfather, and was great-great grandfather to Merry and Pippin here.  Although, now I think of it he was great-great grandfather twice to Merry, for all he’s a Brandybuck and no Took, through both his father and his mother, his mother being younger sister to Pippin’s father....” 

            Apparently noting the blank look on Boromir’s face he gave a self-deprecating laugh.  “Ah, don’t mind us--we’re Hobbits, after all, and this is very important to us, although it’s of no interest to much of anyone else, I’ve found.”

            Sam had set the last platter before the last empty spot at the foot of the table and returned the final tray to the unnamed Elf with thanks.  He now sat himself rather solidly before that last platter and picked up his fork.  Noting the interest in Boromir’s face he explained, “Don’t look at me--I’m not related by blood nor marriage to none of them--not for more generations than even Hobbits count, at least.”

            Somehow that struck the Man as far too funny, and he began to chuckle, which rather quickly grew into a full-throated laugh and then into a quite loud guffaw.  The Hobbits looked at him surprised, and conversation around them went quiet; but he could no more control his laughter than he could voluntarily stop breathing for more than a moment at a time.

            Merry appeared startled, but both Bilbo and Peregrin quickly proved delighted by this laughter, with the old Hobbit turning to Frodo and clapping him on the shoulder.  “There--I told you, my boy, that this would be a most satisfactory companion for the way--as jolly a one as any Dwarf.  Didn’t I tell you so?” he asked triumphantly.

            Sam merely looked questioningly at Frodo, who shrugged helplessly.  Then both turned their fascinated gazes back to Boromir, apparently waiting patiently for Boromir to regain control of himself.

            “I say, Merry, that we should have a fine time traveling with this one,” Peregrin stated.

            “No one said you should be going with us, Pippin,” Frodo responded rapidly, turning his attention to his youngest kinsman.

            “They’ll have to send me home tied up in a sack to keep me from following you, Frodo Baggins,” Pippin said, his temper suddenly showing itself.  “And that goes equally for Merry, right, cousin?”

            “We didn’t come all this way to let you go on alone,” Merry agreed, apparently relieved to find what appeared to be a well-worn argument restarting.

            “Lord Elrond has indicated I am to have eight companions--I would hardly call that going on alone,” Frodo returned, although without the heat he probably had shown the first few times he’d undoubtedly said it.

            Sam merely shook his head and attacked his eggs with gusto.  “Hardly fit conversation for a meal,” he mumbled around a full mouth.

            “That’s enough, lads!” Bilbo suddenly said.  “You are not to trouble Frodo with this, Merry and Pippin.  It’s not he who must be convinced, but Master Elrond, and he won’t be convinced by childish displays in his dining room.”

            “But he’s letting Sam go, when he shouldn’t have been at the Council to begin with!  I mean, he’s been rewarded for the cheek of slipping in where he wasn’t supposed to be----”  Pippin’s voice was rather strident.

            “He said, enough.”  Frodo’s voice was actually quite soft, but something in it stopped the young Hobbit colder than if he’d been yelled at. 

            Pippin stopped, his mouth still open.  Then with a rather stifled, “Yes, Frodo,” he turned his attention to his enormous platter of food and began eating. 

            Boromir finally mastered his laughter.  “You must forgive me.  Something in the way that was said simply struck me as being quite droll, almost like something my brother might have said when he was small.”

            Pippin paused with his fork part way to his mouth, his eyes alert with interest.  “You have a brother?”

            “Yes, a younger brother, Faramir.  And you?”

            The young Hobbit gave a look about at the other Hobbits around the table.  “The only one of us who has any brothers is Sam.  I have three older sisters, but Frodo, Merry, and Bilbo were all only children.”

            “We weren’t supposed to be only children,” muttered Bilbo as he raised his cup, and Boromir saw a fleeting expression of grief on Frodo’s face, quickly controlled.

            Merry explained, “My mum and his kept losing bairns, you see,” indicating Frodo.  “They both felt rather lucky to end up with one child who lived.”

            “I am sorry,” Boromir said gently.  “My mother died when my brother and I were young,  I was about eight, and he was five.”

            He gave the young one a swift glance--auburn curls and ingenuous green eyes, wide open and apparently interested in everything.  Smaller than the rest, and more slender, as was Frodo Baggins himself, Peregrin looked much like a youth among Men of about eighteen to nineteen summers--not yet of an age, perhaps, to be counted a full adult, but close to it, or so Boromir judged.  Accustomed to being treated as the youngest, obviously, so much so he followed the directions even of a gardener?  Well, admitting to being the youngest of four, and the only son, helped to explain that--if he was anything like those of his men who were youngest sons he had probably been made to fetch and carry all his life and knew no other way to respond but to comply.  Yet he saw this one, too, had a good deal of consideration and cleverness in his gaze, and a degree of stubbornness that had undoubtedly served him well at helping him from time to time to gain his own way in spite of the others.  An active one, and probably a bit of a chatterer whose very chatter would cover far deeper thoughts than one realized might be going on in that innocent-seeming head.

            Then there was the gardener--an open, patient expression, that of one accustomed to perceiving what needed doing and then seeing it done as directly and with as little fuss as possible.  And, with the constant glances given to Frodo Baggins, one who had chosen to devote himself whole-heartedly to his Master!  One with an eye to beauty, but who saw himself as simple.  Undoubtedly the perfect servant, if far more familiar than servants one saw in Gondor.

            At last Boromir turned his scrutiny to the Ringbearer himself, and saw--responsibility--a familiar sense of responsibility, much like that he knew in his younger brother.  A face to arrest attention, apparently young and innocent until one looked into his eyes.  But how could one truly describe the expression of those eyes?

            There was the memory of intense pain in those eyes; the memory of loss.  The smooth face spoke of one newly come to adulthood; the eyes spoke of one far more mature than this one seemed.  There was humor there, and compassion, and a degree of impatience with those less intelligent than himself.  And yet there was patience there also--it was the face of one who had come to terms with himself and knew that all his intentions would come to fruition--or not--when the time was right.

            And there was a degree of stubbornness there as well, a tendency that would be best kept in mind.

            Most interesting.  Boromir felt rather intimidated by this one, particularly as he realized this Frodo Baggins was making his own evaluation of Boromir of Gondor.

            “You are a warrior, I am told?” the Hobbit finally asked.

            “Yea, so I am.  And you?”

            The Hobbit made a dismissive gesture before lifting his fork and neatly cutting off a bite of ham.  “I barely know which end of the sword to hold,” he said.  “Strider--Aragorn--did try to give us some instruction, but we did not have much chance to practice while on our journey.  I fear that all the good I managed to do was to slay a cloak and break the blade of my sword after I’d crossed the ford.”

            The Man was arrested by this description of Frodo’s experience with wielding a blade.  Slew a cloak?

            The small one called Peregrin--Pippin--protested, “But you got us out of that barrow alive!”

            Frodo shuddered, setting down his fork, his appetite apparently fled.  “Only because the wight wasn’t paying attention to me at the moment.  If it had realized I had awakened and was sitting up, holding that awful knife----”

            “Let it go, my dear boy,” Bilbo advised, putting his hand on Frodo’s shoulder.  “Do not allow it to burden your memories.  You did very well--that’s the thing to remember.  Now, you need to eat every bite Sam has brought you.  You need to build back your weight to look a proper Hobbit again.”

            Frodo and the old Hobbit shared a look apparently filled with years of familiarity.  Frodo closed his eyes and allowed his older kinsman to pull him briefly against him, accepted the kiss Bilbo gave his hair, and at last straightened, setting himself to eating his meal.

            Uncertainly, Boromir looked at the two younger Hobbits, at last addressing the youngest of the party.  “You are called Pippin?”

            “Yes--Pervinca, who’s next older than I, couldn’t pronounce Peregrin properly, so she was calling me Peggin, or so Pearl has told me.  Lalia mistook what she was calling me on the day they took me to the Great Smial to inscribe my name in Old Yellowskin and thought she’d said Pippin instead, so she called me that, and everyone else did, too.  I mean, she was the Thain’s Lady, after all, and no one was allowed to question Lalia Clayhanger Took--or at least not to her face.”

            Frodo paused over a bite of fruit compote.  “She was an uncomfortable person to have to deal with.  I remember Lotho once spilling a goblet of Old Winyards in her lap when somehow Mummy and I had managed to offend her.”

            Bilbo laughed.  “You remember that, do you?  I’m surprised!  She’d sent over the most awful shirt for you to wear, one she’d had made for Ferumbras when he was small--made him look a right mam’s lad, it did!  Your Aunt Menegilda purposely poured a cup of grape juice over it so your mother could truthfully tell the old bat it was too stained to wear.  She suspected, of course, and started making over Lotho to try to punish your mum, not that Primula minded in the least.”

            “And I remember throwing the cake at Lobelia and making it look an accident so she’d leave.”

            Pippin was listening avidly.  “Really?  And Lotho dared to pour a cup of wine on her?  And here I was thinking I’d never approve of anything ever done by Lotho Sackville-Baggins!  And then you glued Lalia to her chair!”

            “I did not!”

            “No,” agreed Bilbo.  “That was Isumbard, wasn’t it?”

            “No, it wasn’t Isumbard, either.”

            “No, it was Reggie,” interrupted Merry.  “He told me, although he admitted the idea came from you.  But I bet Isumbard was wishing he had done it.”

            “Reginard did that?” Pippin asked, obviously surprised and impressed.

            “Well, we were of an age,” Frodo said.  “And Lalia was being particularly difficult to everyone that year, and had just been unutterably rude to Bard’s sister Linden.”

            “I was just so glad when she finally died,” Pippin sighed, once he’d swallowed a drink of juice.  “Even if it did cause such suspicion to fall on my sister.”

            “I was so angry when Ferumbras gave Pearl that necklace--it made it seem he was rewarding her for ridding us all of Lalia, and as if he himself were courting her.”  Frodo’s expression was very stern.

            Boromir was fascinated.  He had no true appreciation for the incidents described, but it was obvious these were all familiar with the situation.

            “What’s this about Pearl being under suspicion for killing the old harridan?” Bilbo demanded.

            Well--perhaps not all of them were familiar with all the situations!

            Pippin hastened to explain, “Well, Lalia’s chair rolled off the porch and down the stairs, and she died in the fall.  You know the gossipers in the Shire--Lobelia immediately started hinting that either Pearl or Lalia’s nurse had pushed it.”

            “But it was really the state of the thing,” Frodo said.  “Ferumbras explained how difficult it was to get it fixed and how they’d not been able to afford to replace it; and she had been warned not to sit on the porch like that as the brakes might give way, but she would do so anyway.  And one day they did give.  Pearl was horror-stricken!”

            “And Ferumbras gave her a necklace?  Which?  That string of pearls Isengar had brought back from his voyages?”

            Frodo nodded.

            Bilbo sighed.  “Ferumbras Took was always about as sensitive as a bull with his eye on a cow in season.  Poor Pearl.”

            “They finally gave over all the gossip once Pearl married Bard,” Pippin added.

            “Good girl.”  Bilbo turned his attention to Frodo.  “I’m only glad you finally recovered from her throwing you over that way.  Too bad, though, that you and Narcissa....”

            “Bilbo!”  Frodo’s face was pale, and his cheeks bright with embarrassment.

            For a time they ate in silence, Merry and Pippin exchanging glances and Sam purposely focusing on his food with only occasional glances at Frodo as if to make certain he didn’t need anything else.

            At last Bilbo turned his attention back to the Man.  “Here we are, supposedly learning more about you, but instead we’re talking of Shire matters, and the only one of us with the sense not to gossip like a common farmer’s wife is our Samwise.”

            The gardener turned a bright pink.

            “So, tell us about this dream you had, and how it led you to Rivendell,” the old Hobbit continued.

            Boromir began to explain, but had to admit to himself that he was more curious to know about the incidents and folk of whom the Hobbits spoke so familiarly.  He’d been brought up in the isolation of the Citadel, with few children his own age nearby during his childhood, and his one nearby cousin, Húrin, son to his father’s older sister, all but an adult by the time he’d been born.  He found the warmth and familiarity with which the Hobbits treated one another fascinating, and by the time the meal was over he felt envious of their close relationship.

            “And you are good with your sword?” asked Pippin.

            “I’m one who teaches others now,” Boromir explained.

            “Could you perhaps teach us?  Or at least me,” Pippin added hastily, having caught the alarmed expression on Frodo’s face.  “We Hobbits are accustomed to archery, or at least we Tooks are.  But we don’t use things like swords, usually.  I mean, I’d only ever seen two of them--the Sword at Brandy Hall and Bilbo’s old sword Sting, before he left Bag End.”  He turned to look at the old Hobbit.  “Did you really bring it away with you?”

            “That I did.  I decided that if I were to go through Mirkwood again it would be best to take it with me, as Sting already had done well against the great spiders there.  I can’t think of a better blade to use against such monsters, really.”

            “I bet it would not have broken after Frodo lifted it against the Black Riders like the one from the Barrow did,” the young Hobbit sighed.  “It might have helped him then.”

            Bilbo shrugged, but looked thoughtful.  “Perhaps.”

            “But we won’t be wearing swords...” Frodo began.

            “Nonsense,” Merry said.  “If Lord Elrond won’t let us go, then I’ll give you my sword from the Barrow.  I don’t want to think of you without some kind of protection of your own, out there in the wild!”

            The expressions of the two younger Hobbits were equally determined, and Boromir noted that Sam was nodding with approval.  “That’s right, Mr. Frodo,” the gardener agreed.  “You can’t be the only one as doesn’t have some sort of protection, and particular since you know as you can’t trust the Ring makin’ you invisible as a way of keepin’ you safe.  I mean, Master, look at how It didn’t hide you none from the Riders.”

            Reluctantly Frodo nodded his understanding.  “That’s true, but then I had no idea how it was the Ring worked to make someone invisible.  That It dragged me into the world of the wraiths themselves....”  He shuddered again, and his face was now very pale.  He rubbed at his shoulder as if it were paining him.

            “All the more reason to learn how to successfully wield a proper weapon,” Boromir suggested.  “Perhaps Lord Elrond would have some weapons appropriate to your stature here in Imladris.  As an Elven stronghold I would expect there is an armory here of some sort.  I already know they do have at least one weapons smith here.  After all, they have been discussing how to reforge the shards of Narsil into a usable blade again.”

            Frodo looked up with interest at that.  “Then they will remake the Sword of the King?” he asked.  “I am glad, as I believe Aragorn will need it in these last battles against the Dark.”

            The Gondorian felt somehow envious, seeing the expression in Frodo’s eyes as he spoke of the northern Chieftain.  Already there was a strong level of trust built between the Ringbearer and the Pretender, as Boromir had begun thinking of the other Man.  The realization during the Council as to the lineage of Aragorn son of Arathorn had led Frodo to a greater appreciation of the Ranger’s potential place in the rule of the outer world, and his existing respect for Aragorn had grown so much Boromir felt he would be unlikely to reach a similar relationship with the Hobbit.

            It was at that point that the Elf who’d led Boromir to his room on his arrival approached their table.  “Master Frodo--Elrond asks that you return to your chamber when you are finished with your meal so that he can examine your shoulder to see how your recovery progresses.  He does not ask that you hurry your meal in any way, but expects to be able to meet with you there in perhaps half an hour.”

            Frodo Baggins looked up gravely.  “Then I will be certain to be there.  I find I cannot yet eat as much at a time as I am accustomed to eating, so I will be finished here soon enough at any rate.  Thank him for me, please.”

            The Elf gave a bow.  “With pleasure, small Master.”

            Sam looked after with admiration.  “Master Lindir--he’s quite the singer, he is.  Wonderful folk, Elves.”

            Frodo’s expression as he looked back to his friend was indulgent.  “Yes, they are, but not as wonderful, I think, as you four.”

            Again the gardener flushed, with pleasure this time.

            When at last Frodo left the table Boromir realized he envied the Hobbit for far more than just his role as the Ringbearer.

Of Games of Kings and Castles

            After the dawn meal Boromir returned to his room, but left it again soon enough, feeling restless.  In a protected courtyard he found the old Hobbit, Bilbo, warmly wrapped against the increasing chill in the air.  He sat upon a bench with a book in his hands, those protected by fingerless gloves; but the book was closed and held close to his chest.  His expression was filled with concern, his mouth stiff with worry.

            “Master Bilbo, I am not disturbing you any, am I?” Boromir asked.

            The elderly Hobbit looked up at him, his eyes briefly examining him, the solemnity not leaving him.  “Feel free to join me, if you will,” he said.  “I would be with Frodo if I could, but he’s refusing to have any of us about at the moment while Elrond checks him over.  Has even overruled Sam, who finally agreed to go off to the kitchens to speak with the cooks about elevenses.  Don’t know precisely where Merry and Pippin have got off to.  Seems rather odd to see Pippin all grown up now, or next best thing to it, I suppose.  He was but a lad of eleven when I last saw him and charged him to safeguard Frodo’s Tookish streak.”

            “You are related to the Ringbearer, or so you told me?”

            “First and second cousin, once removed each way.”  For a moment it appeared he might continue his narrative on the relationship, but he plainly decided to let that stand for itself.  He took a deep breath.  “I was family head for the Bagginses, you see--inherited the position from my father and grandfather.  As I never married it was expected I should pass the position on to my closest next younger relative, my cousin Otho Sackville-Baggins, his father having been younger brother to my own.  Otho, however, as a lad was an insufferable snob, and he married one worse than himself in Lobelia Bracegirdle.  Otho’s father Longo married Camellia Sackville, and as the only child of the family head for the Sackvilles she brought with her the family headship for the Sackvilles if Uncle Longo would take her name as well as his own.  Otho and his wife Lobelia between the two of them have so mismanaged the Sackville family since they inherited the position that they have to be the most despised such folk in all of the Shire.  And the thought of passing on the headship for the Baggins clan to them was insupportable--truly insupportable, you must understand.  As for their son Lotho--if anything, he’s worse than his parents!  As self-centered a brat of a child as ever was when younger, he grew to be as big a thief and as ambitious as his horrible mother.”

            He shifted to lay the book beside him, resting one hand on it.  “My parents were well thought of--well, Bungo, my father, was always the epitome of respectability and wealth, of course.  And he did marry Belladonna Took, the oldest of the Old Took’s daughters, who brought a marvelously large dowry into the marriage.  They excavated Bag End, and prepared it to house as large a family as had been my mother’s--she was one of twelve children, you must understand.  Only that didn’t happen.  I was their only child, and quite happy in that state, I must admit.  Oh, they spoiled me terribly, my parents did, although never in the way Otho and Lobelia did young Lotho.

            “But then Cousins Fosco and Ruby died--catarrh, you see--went through the Shire and killed many.  And from what I’m told, it went through the rest of the northlands as well, killing as often amongst Men as it did amongst Hobbits.  From what Gandalf and Elrond have told me there were many deaths throughout the Breelands and the villages of the Dúnedain and across the breadth of Eriador.

            “When Fosco and Ruby died my parents took in their three children, Dora, Drogo, and Dudo.  Dora wasn’t particularly happy about it--she’d have rather stayed in their family hole, really, and raised the lads herself.  She was, after all, almost of age.  But as my dad was family head it was his responsibility to see to the needs of other Bagginses.

            “Drogo and I became very close.  Drogo wasn’t quite as Bagginsish as was my father, much less his own sister or younger brother.  Far more spontaneous, which I’ll admit isn’t saying much, as we Bagginses were always a stodgy family.  Eminently predictable, the Bagginses, and therefore totally respectable.  I’ll admit that Drogo’s penchant for mischief kept my father on his toes and my mother delighted, and it kept me fascinated.  Perhaps it was the Bolger in him.  But he made a point of keeping my father just mildly off his balance.  Publicly I’d complain, but privately I’d egg Drogo on to new heights of delicate rebellion.

            “Lobelia at one time fancied Drogo.  However, she disgusted him and he fled to Buckland to escape her--and fell deeply in love with Frodo’s mum Primula Brandybuck.  She was good for him, Primula was--fed his independent spirit and his tendency toward artistry.  Now, I can just imagine what Lobelia would have done had she married Drogo and he’d have suggested constructing a wardrobe and carving a dragon into its front panels.  She would have set up the loudest howl about such a thing and would have quite quashed the imagination right out of him, or died trying.  My father didn’t particularly appreciate Drogo’s love of imagining scenes and illustrating them, but he encouraged him to do what he could and saw to it he had the best teaching when he made it clear he liked constructing furniture and carving the wood panels.

            “We Bagginses didn’t need to practice trades, of course.  We’ve always been a fairly wealthy family and have invested well.  And then when my father married my mother that just added to our family standing, you must understand.  But my father refused to try to talk Drogo out of becoming a carver and joiner, which quite scandalized the family.  Then if Dudo didn’t prove to be as much an artisan in his own right!  Never went in for carving as Drogo did, but still built tables and chairs and cradles each of which was as much a work of art in its way as anything Drogo did.”

            “And this Drogo was Frodo’s father?” Boromir asked.

            “Oh, yes.  When Dora came of age she did move back into the family hole and took her brothers with her.  Not that Drogo stayed with her.  He’d come and visit with Mum and me frequently, and we were there when he married Primula.  When he wanted to rent the old Baggins family hole at the foot of the Hill I ended up selling it to him.  Frodo was born there, there in Hobbiton, in what had become known as Number 5, there on Bagshot Row.  It was where my own father was born, you see.”

            His eyes were softening.  “They’d meant to go to Buckland for the birthing, of course.  Menegilda, who’d married Primula’s oldest brother Rory, was trained in healing and was a very good midwife.  Gilda had intended to see the child born, once it became clear that this time Primula was likely to carry it the full term.  She’d lost two already, both when she was about four or five months along. 

            “Two months before Frodo was due Primula and Drogo were beginning to prepare things for an extended stay at Brandy Hall, and I was making plans to be there in November when the bairn was due to be born.  Frodo, however, had other ideas.  He was born on my birthday, don’t you know, in September.  No one knows what triggered the labor, but there you have it.  I’d been off at Tuckborough celebrating my birthday with a few of my Took relations, and they were to have joined us.  Instead one of our Boffin relatives showed up with word that Primula had gone into labor, and I hurried home as swiftly as I might.  Arrived at about the same time the child was born, and I was the first Drogo brought him to once it was plain he would survive the experience.”

            Bilbo sighed, folding his hands now in his lap.  “He was not quite twelve when his parents died--accident, you know.  Menegilda was quite adamant that he stay there at Brandy Hall with the Brandybucks, and for years I allowed myself to be bullied into letting him remain.  But it wasn’t the best situation for my lad--not at all.  Menegilda had taken it into her head he was delicate and did all she could to ‘protect’ him, to the point she was almost stifling the life right out of him.  Merry’s mum and dad were his immediate guardians, but even they were bowing to Gilda’s will for the child.  Finally when he was twenty-one she went too far and even Esmeralda realized that Frodo was nearly ready to fade away, and she and the healers in the Hall insisted I step in as his family head of name.”

            Suddenly those faded eyes were searching those of the Gondorian, almost pleading for understanding.  “I so loved the lad!  He’s always been my dearest boy, you see.  And I made up my mind.  Frodo was everything that Otho and Lotho were not--unselfish, eminently responsible, intelligent, artistically gifted as was true for both his parents, Took-curious, imaginative, insightful.  I brought him back to Hobbiton and adopted him as my heir, and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins never forgave me!”

            His gaze fell.  He continued in low tones, “What have I done to my lad, Lord Boromir?  Why in Middle Earth did I ever leave him that abomination?  He ought to be home in the Shire, there in Bag End, taking a bride and raising delightful children, not running off through danger toward death and darkness, with the Enemy’s Ring in his pocket!  Had I even dreamed it was such a thing as it’s proven, I would never have done so!  I would have brought it away with me and perhaps this would have all been over before it was even begun!  Instead I’ve doomed him to a horrible journey to a place that is so bad I can barely imagine it--and having dealt with trolls and wolves and goblins and Gollum and giant spiders and Smaug, it’s difficult to think of a place so bad I can’t imagine it in my heart.”

            What could Boromir say?  Finally he murmured, “You did the best you could, and as Mithrandir suggested.  Not even my father dismisses the advice of the Grey Wizard out of hand, you know.”

            Bilbo looked up into his eyes again.  “That’s true.  I can always blame Gandalf, I suppose, although I allowed him to relieve me of the envelope and set it on the mantelpiece.  But that’s all over and done with.  But I fear what this adventure may do to my boy--what it might cost him.  He’s a far gentler soul than I ever was.  Stubborn--yes, he can certainly be stubborn.  That’s why I’m out here instead of being at his side right now, for he doesn’t want us to behold the healing wound.  As if we hadn’t already seen it!  But he’ll keep it all covered over--you wait and see!”

            And then he stopped, his face arrested by a thought.  “Covered over,” he whispered.  “Wait--covered over!  Ah!  But there’s my corslet....”

            His eyes were shining with relief at whatever plan had formed in his mind.  He suddenly smiled.  “I’ll give him Sting, the blade I took from the trolls’ hoard.  There will be no need for Merry to give him the sword he carries now.  I’d guess that a sword apparently from Gondolin should serve him well enough, wouldn’t you agree?”

            Boromir was amazed at how much lighter in heart the Hobbit now appeared.  “So I would suppose, Master Bilbo.  But you have such a thing?”

            “Oh, yes, from my own adventure, there about eighty years back.  Once my own Tookish nature was roused I went upon one of my own, you know.  Yes, my Frodo won’t go out without what protection I can offer him, even if I must stay here.”

            He rose, lifting the book and examining it.  “This is one of Master Elrond’s own journals, records he made long ago of what he’s observed and been told of the world out there.  I’m much better at reading his Sindarin now than I was there in the Shire.  Our folk came out of the obscurity of the Anduin valley almost fifteen hundred years ago, some coming over the High Pass, others through the Redhorn Gate and still others the long way around down through what I am told is now called the Gap of Rohan.  There were three clans then--the Stoors, the Harfoots, and the Fallohides.  And my lad--he’s inherited the best of all three clans:  the steadiness of the Harfoots through his Baggins forebears, the forethought of the Stoors through the Brandybucks, and the intelligence and quick thinking of the Fallohides by way of the Tooks.  May they stand him in good stead on this quest.”

            Boromir had risen, and now looked down on the venerable figure of the Hobbit.  “I promise you, Master Bilbo, that whatever I can do to ease your kinsman’s way, to protect him from danger and soothe his concerns, that I will do.  I will do my best to see that his burdens do not overwhelm him.”

            Bilbo Baggins was now looking up at him, examining his features again, reevaluating him from what the Man could tell.  “I thank you, Lord Boromir,” he said.  “But do not underestimate my Frodo.  He has a core of mithril to him, you will find--light and shining, but harder and more enduring than dragons scales.  And do not think that he will ever easily allow any other to ease his way--that is not the way with Frodo Baggins.  Too many look at him and think he is soft and easy to best--and they all come to realize they were wrong.”  A cynical smile spread across his face.  “If you doubt that, just go to the Shire and ask Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, or some of those who saw the wrangles between my Frodo and Thain Ferumbras and his tyrant of a mother!”

            The old Hobbit continued to examine the warrior for a time longer, his face somewhat troubled.  “You will find, sir, that there is more than one way to best any enemy.  And I have no doubt that my Frodo will explore them all in the quiet of his prodigious imagination before choosing in the end the right strategy to employ.  And, knowing my young cousin, it is likely that you will consider him quite mad if he should allow you to know what that strategy will be, for I doubt it will come with much in the way of fanfare or displays of strength.  He’s always been an excellent player at Kings and Castles, you see.”  He tapped his temple.  “Those of us who do not have great strength or experience in the ways of warfare must be creative in our responses to danger, you see.  And there’s no Hobbit better than one who has a fair share of Fallohide in his makeup to thinking of ways around and past obstacles you would think to assault with weapons and engines.  And Frodo’s mind is indeed the mind of a Took.”

            With that he shifted the book under his arm, gave a nod, and left the Man of Gondor within the courtyard, thinking.

A Conversation in the Dark

            Most had gathered in the Hall of Fire, but Boromir found it confusing, too crowded after his months alone upon the road.  He wandered out of the Last Homely House, and somehow found his way to the garden of roses where the preceding day Frodo Baggins had broken the news to his cousins of his acceptance of the role as the Ringbearer.  He was not certain what brought him there, but he stood brooding on the last of the roses as their now faint scent delicately perfumed the air.

            Part of what had driven him from the singing, he knew in his heart of hearts, was the sight of that small figure, seated on a low couch that had been produced solely to give him and his companions comfort, listening to the singing and the tales told.  Most of the songs were in an archaic form of Sindarin, and Boromir could swear one song at least had been sung in the full High Tongue of Quenya, which he barely could follow in spite of the years of instruction he’d received.

            There had been a hunger in those fathomless eyes for the images inspired by the songs and tales.  And Boromir found himself feeling envious of the Hobbit for appreciating what had no power over himself.

            “Was it becoming too close in there?” asked a familiar voice, causing the Gondorian to jump in startlement.  He turned to see Mithrandir standing near a railing that looked down upon the river.

            “I am sorry--I did not see you here,” Boromir said.

            The Wizard waved a dismissive hand.  “I was certainly not making my presence here known.  Grey is a useful color within the twilight--it so easily is overlooked.”  He turned again to look down on the Bruinen.  After a moment he said quietly, “It often takes several days after I arrive here, perhaps as much as a month, before I can comfortably spend the entire night within the Hall of Fire.  By the time I arrive I’ve become comfortable with my own company once more, and must learn anew how to appreciate being around many.  It’s easier for Hobbits, I think, coming as they do from a people who often live in shared quarters.  Bilbo had no problems from the beginning, although I will admit he retreats frequently to his own rooms.  That, I must suppose, is the Baggins in him.  The Bagginses have frequently felt most comfortable alone or in the company of merely one or two others at most.  At home in the Shire, in spite of his reputation for hospitality, he did live alone for many years between the death of his mother and his adoption of Frodo; and the two of them did famously together, both of them happily ignoring the rumors and gossip going about describing them as those cracked bachelors living alone up on the Hill.”  He turned briefly, giving the Man a rueful smile and shrug.

            Boromir moved to lean on the rail beside Mithrandir.  “It is true,” he admitted, “that I have become unused to being amongst crowds of folk.  Perhaps Father would have done well to send Faramir after all--he would be sitting in there beside Frodo Baggins, reveling in the stories told and sung.”

            He saw an indulgent smile touch the bearded lips of his companion.  “Perhaps,” Mithrandir replied, his eyes again on the glimmer of moving water below.  “Or perhaps it would be he who stood beside me now, as uncomfortable as you are tonight.  As a Ranger he, too, is accustomed to being alone.”

            Boromir shrugged, and the two were quiet for some time.  Finally the Man asked, “Have you known this Frodo long?”

            The Wizard cocked his head to one side.  “Oh, some years, I must admit.  I’d not had much to do with the Shire and its folk for quite some time when, on a journey west to Mithlond I found my path blocked by a Hobbit’s wagon that had become mired seeking to cross the Baranduin at the Sarn Ford.  The owner of the wagon and his folk were putting their shoulders to it, seeking to work it free, and their leader glared up at me and commanded me to help as if I were any other Hobbit under his authority.  That was my first introduction to Gerontius Took, Bilbo’s venerable grandfather.  We became friends, and I visited him on occasion at the Great Smial, and a few times he came abroad with me for a season or two.  Once I arrived at Bree to find him awaiting me at the Inn of the Prancing Pony, and he rather imperiously informed me he wished me to bring him here to Rivendell so he could consult with Elrond.  One of the Enemy’s plagues was sweeping through Eriador, and he wanted advice on how to contain it once it should reach the Shire’s borders.  He came back again not long after his wife died, wanting advice on how to deal with a failing heart.  He managed to live a hundred twenty-nine years, the brave old soul.

            “On one of my visits to the Shire he introduced me to his grandson Bilbo, who at the age of four was a remarkably curious child.  I doubt Bilbo remembers that visit, but he followed after me everywhere I went during my stay.

            “Bilbo, however, was a Baggins by birth.  Of old his family was always a highly intelligent and responsible one; but it has married so often with the stodgiest of Harfoots that in the past few generations it’s been best noted for its predictability.  Bungo, however, married old Gerontius’s daughter Belladonna, so Bilbo is at least half Took.  No matter how well his father trained him to be predictable and dependable, in the end he could not withstand the challenge of proving to the Dwarves and himself he was indeed the competent burglar I named him, and became even more of a hero than I’d ever considered possible.”

            “He is a strange soul,” Boromir commented.

            “Perhaps.  But he has a core of strength and integrity to him that is not always easily apparent, particularly when he is rambling on and on in typical Hobbit fashion about food or how he is related to approximately half the Shire.”

            Boromir found himself smiling in spite of himself, having already been exposed to such talk twice.  He thought for a moment.  “Then you have known this Frodo all his life also?”

            “I never said I knew Bilbo all his life,” Mithrandir noted rather dryly.  “I met him first at the age of four, and saw him a few times during his childhood.  But then my own business kept me away from the Shire for many years, and I did not see him again until he was fifty.  I was on my way westward when I found myself falling into company with a group of Dwarves in Bree, a company intent on finding the means of recovering the treasures of Erebor from Smaug the Dragon.  It just so happened that Smaug was much on my mind as well, as the presence of a dragon in those parts had been seen as too much of a threat by far more than merely the Dwarves of Erebor, the Men of Esgaroth, and the Elves of Mirkwood.  The Wise had been seeking a solution to that threat ever since his arrival there.”

            “Why?” asked the Man, his curiosity piqued.

            The Wizard examined him as if surprised by the question.  “A dragon, so close to Dol Guldur and the great forest of Mirkwood?  Perhaps Gondor has not dealt with Elves and Dwarves sufficiently for the past thousand years to care for what catastrophes that might befall their lands, but I assure you it is different with those who dwell north of the Argonath who faced the threat of Smaug to themselves and their neighbors, and particularly since it was revealed that the Necromancer was Sauron himself.”

            “And who learned that first?” Boromir asked.

            Again Mithrandir examined him.  “Your father did not tell you that?”

            Shaking his head, the warrior answered, “No.  He knew?”

            “Oh, indeed he knew, for I discussed the matter with your grandfather Ecthelion while your father was present.  I did.”

            “You did?”

            “Indeed.  It had been suspected for quite some time, you must understand, but there were those who chose, whether through hope or self-delusion I could not say, to believe that it was not true.  I decided at last that it was time to put an end to such questions and to prove it one way or another.  Not, perhaps, the wisest decision I ever made to enter his stronghold myself, but at least I did manage to put the question to rest.”  There was no humor in the Wizard’s face now, only greyness as if the memory of that time still could cause him grief and pain.  “I barely escaped alive, and I was unable to bring any out with me.”

            For a time the Wizard brooded, looking down on the darkening view of the river below.  At last he continued in a low voice, “The Wise wished to attack Dol Guldur and flush Sauron from his strong place there, but we needed a diversion.  And we all desired an end to the threat of Smaug, whose presence in that region we perceived to be a deliberate move by the Enemy to set a powerful weapon near to his hand to use against Thranduil’s folk and the other Elven realms, as well as disrupting the trade that has ever flowed through the folk who have dwelt about the Long Lake.  Nor is it particularly far from there to the lands of the Beornings and the woodsmen who dwell about the northwestern margins of the great forest, or those of the Eotheod who remain yet in the headwaters of the Anduin.  And from those lands it is a small journey for a dragon to the High Pass and the strongholds of the Dwarves that remain on the eastern slopes of the Misty Mountains or in the Iron Hills.  Perhaps the people of Gondor have ever thought of the northern lands as empty, but I assure you they are not.”

            He straightened.  “I was led to go into the Shire, and why I cannot say.  It had been many years since I was last there, and it had been far longer since I last passed through  Hobbiton.  But I went there, and found, there upon his doorstep, smoking in the sunshine of a May dawn, Bilbo Baggins, who wished me a good morning and begged my pardon before becoming frightened at my suggestion of an adventure and fleeing into his hole.  Although he did manage, in pure Hobbit fashion, to ask me to tea the following day.  So I came--but not until I’d made certain the thirteen Dwarves I’d accompanied part of the way down the Road got there first.”

            He was now smiling again.  “I’d thought at first I was merely being capricious in choosing Bilbo Baggins as their companion, but now I realize that I was indeed led to his door.  As fussy and impractical for such ventures and as fearful as he was, he nevertheless revealed a courage that is belied by his size, and through his nobility he shamed many into behaving far better than they’d intended.  And then, on our return journey here to Rivendell I had a glimpse....”  His voice trailed off.  He took in a deep breath, then leaned forward, his forearms crossed over one another on the railing as he apparently stared into a memory.

            At last he spoke again:  “I saw Bilbo now and then, and whenever I passed through here there would be letters waiting for me.  He wrote that his favorite cousin Drogo had married, and in time let me know that Drogo and his wife Primula had finally given birth to a child that survived, a boy-child with striking eyes.  He was devoted to the lad, and as proud as if he were the child’s grandfather.

            “I first met Frodo shortly after his twenty-second birthday, the autumn after Bilbo brought him home from Brandy Hall.  I fear I rather startled the lad at first, but he came around swiftly enough.  Intelligent, well educated.  Again, far too curious for a proper Hobbit--but then he, too, has a good deal of Took in his makeup through his mother.  After all, she also was one of Gerontius’s grandchildren.  A pleasant young Hobbit, and far more interested in other peoples than is normal among Hobbits.

            “I’ve seen him now and then since, of course.  But when I coaxed Bilbo to leave the Ring behind as he left the Shire I will admit I was not thinking that much of Frodo’s well-being, but instead of that of my long-time friend.  Only when Bilbo was well clear of Bag End, with the Ring left on the mantelpiece, did I find myself thinking of what this thing, should It prove as malignant as I suspected It to be, might do to this remarkable young Hobbit.  I advised Frodo to keep the Ring secret and safe, and not to use It, and he did as I asked.  But he carried It with him wherever he went, and I had but hints of what It was doing to him.”

            “And what was It doing to him?” Boromir found himself asking.

            But Mithrandir was shaking his head.  “No.  No, it is best not to speculate.  But I will tell you that in my few visits since Bilbo’s departure I did see Frodo Baggins fighting thoughts and urges that were definitely not in keeping with his nature.  And when I realized he was having dreams of being sought for and pursued....  Oh, I had reason, Boromir, to come to Minas Tirith to go through the archives, looking for some means to test this--thing.”

            He turned to search the Gondorian’s eyes.  “Had you seen Bilbo there in Bag End when he accused me of wishing It for myself, you would not question why I was concerned.  That was simply not the Bilbo I knew and loved so well.  It was not the Hobbit who came in the dark of night to deliver into the hands of Bard the Arkenstone, a desperate move intended to forestall war between the survivors of Laketown with their allies from Mirkwood, and the Dwarves who were his friends.  And the odd glimpses of more commonly Mannish hungers I would catch in Frodo’s expression from time to time worried me greatly.”  He shivered and looked away.

            At last the Man stirred.  “They seem a hardy race,” he observed, not certain what else he might say.

            The Wizard gave a laugh.  “Hardy?  Oh, indeed!  Hardy and light-hearted, for the most part.  But do not allow that to fool you--there are depths to Hobbits that few have the chance to behold, even among themselves.”

            Again the two went quiet, both watching as they could the glitter of the moving stream under the light of the stars.  At last the Wizard drew his pipe out of an inner pocket and filled it with pinches of stuff taken from a leather wallet.  As he sealed the wallet again and sought to return it to its place he commented, “Gerontius gave me this, the last time I saw him.  He said he wished I might carry with me something by which to remember him.”

            Boromir watched as he put the pipe to his lips, murmuring a Word, and a brief flame sprang up in its bowl before settling to a dull glow.  The Man said consideringly, “I thought it was your pipe I smelled on the night I arrived here, but it proved instead to be that of this Aragorn.”  At his companion’s absent nod, he asked, “Then this smoking of the dried galenas leaves is common here in the northern lands?”

            “Oh, yes,” Mithrandir said around the stem of his pipe.  “Very common indeed, among Hobbits, Men, and Dwarves, at least.  The Elves, however, find it a lamentable habit.  The only one I know who would even try it was Círdan, although he did so but once, to my knowledge.  Alas, it appears that Elves do not find pipeweed as pleasant as do Hobbits, Men, or Dwarves--and at least this Wizard.”  He smiled and blew out a ring of smoke that was somehow discernible even in the dark of the evening.

            “And this is of old a practice, here in the northlands?” Boromir asked, intrigued.

            Mithrandir shrugged thoughtfully.  “Oh, not that many generations, actually--perhaps two hundred or two hundred fifty years.  I believe it started among the Hobbits of the Southfarthing, although those of the Breelands have also laid claim to the distinction of first thinking to smoke pipeweed.  If you wish to know more you should apply to Bilbo, for I suspect he could tell you perhaps to the day; although I believe young Merry might also have some knowledge of the practice, having relatives who raise the plants in the Southfarthing.  Old Toby and Longbottom Leaf are considered two of the most flavorful varieties throughout Eriador, actually.  Among the Dúnedain one can often tell which of their menfolk usually serve on the borders of the Breelands and the Shire by whether or not they carry pipes.  It’s far more widespread among the Dwarves to smoke than it is among Men, although most of the Men and Hobbits who live in the Breelands and the Shire do so, or so it appears.”

            “Lord Aragorn has obviously taken up the practice.”

            “That he has--but then he often serves about the Breelands and the boundaries of the Shire.  I am certain that if you should express an interest, he would be willing to instruct you in the finer points of the art, although the Hobbits might be better ones to teach you.  They consider it their right to introduce folk to the smoking of pipeweed, seeing its practice began with them.”

            “And you are well acquainted with Lord Aragorn?”

            The Wizard paused, again examining the Man, a half smile on his lips.  “And how well can any one person truly know another one has seen but rarely over many years?  Oh, I have known of him for some time, and have traveled with him on occasion.  I will admit he has often listened to my counsel.  However, Aragorn son of Arathorn is very much his own Man, and knows well the worth and need for secrecy  when dealing with the Enemy.  That he should have declared himself openly at the Council indicates he sees that it is needful to at last face Mordor and its dread lord openly; but even now he will move carefully, doing all he can to see that the way is clear that he not expose others needlessly to danger.  And I doubt any other Man within Middle Earth understands the stakes of the coming war better than he, not even your father.”

            Boromir felt himself stiffen at the apparent disparagement of his sire.  “I doubt,” he said in carefully controlled tones, “that anyone has a better appreciation of how much of a threat Mordor poses for Gondor than does its Steward.”

            “Oh, yes, there you are right.  However, most of Middle Earth does not lie under the authority or protection of Gondor.  When was the last time your father visited lands not your own?  I suspect it is many years since he went so far as to visit even Rohan, Boromir.  What he knows of Dale is limited, while Bree is but a name he hears in reports from a few traders.  As for those who are your distant kindred here in the north--they are but dimly heard rumors that he listens to with suspicion as to what their intentions might be toward his own domain.  I have tried to convince too many of the Ruling Stewards to open communication with the Dúnedain of Eriador only to be reminded that they are of little interest to Gondor as they are too few to even constitute a kingdom once more.  Seeing them as worthless in building alliances, Gondor has for most of the past thousand years allowed its brethren north of Tharbad to dwindle into obscurity, although at least that has also served in part as a protection to those of the Line of Kings.

            “But where Gondor has ignored relationships with Dwarves and Elves and has remained in almost total ignorance of Hobbits, the Chieftains of the northern Dúnedain have been forced to maintain treaties and trade routes, and their forces have ridden in the upper vales of the Anduin with the remnant of the Eotheod even as they have guarded the boundaries of the Breelands and the Shire and stood by the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains and the Elves of Imladris and Mithlond.  And you noted that Dale and Esgaroth sent envoys here, did you not?  Aragorn has passed through their lands and left a memory of aid unsought that yet came when needed.  His folk keep the routes of communication open along with offering what trade can be maintained.  He could do much to aid Gondor to increase its knowledge of what the Enemy is doing outside of Mordor if Denethor would only open himself to the friendship offered and long-since rejected.”

            “And when did such offers of friendship ever come to my father?” demanded the Man.

            “Long ago, first before you were born, and again when you were but a child.  It was not long after the death of your mother I brought to your father a letter from the Chieftain here, written in his own hand, expressing compassion and grief for his loss and begging him to allow an alliance, and your father took that missive and threw it into the fire, making it clear to me that he would never willingly make an agreement with the dregs of Arnor.”

            Boromir was surprised, for his father had never discussed knowledge of the northern Dúnedain with him, not even when it was decided that this quest for Imladris should fall upon his shoulders.  He’d certainly not mentioned any correspondence with their Chieftain!

            He looked out into the starlit darkness, thinking.  There were always a few who appeared to be of Númenorean heritage who would come to serve among the forces of Gondor, often serving as Rangers and scouts--Belveramir, who’d been a Ranger of Ithilien before injuries had reduced him to serving as a valet within the Citadel, had many stories in praise of the tracking skills of those Men who had come out of the obscurity of northern lands to take arms as mercenaries for Gondor.  Now he wondered how many of those had perhaps been sent by their Chieftains....

            The Wizard, too, was now looking out into the dark, puffing at his pipe and surrounding himself with rings of smoke, many of which lit the evening with unusual bright colors.  Boromir found his attention caught by the strangeness of the sight.  As he went to knock out the spent ash from the bowl of his pipe, Mithrandir apparently realized Boromir’s fascination with the display, and gave a self-deprecatory laugh.  “Ah, don’t mind me.  It’s a trick I devised long ago to amuse Hobbit children and that I use on occasion to divert Bilbo.  He finds the different colors intriguing.  The Dwarves also appear to appreciate the game.”

            “And Frodo Baggins--does he enjoy them?”

            “Frodo?  Oh, yes, I must admit he does--or at least he did when he was younger.  He used to suggest different shades for me to try for.  We spent one day when Bilbo had to be away to Michel Delving at it, and Bilbo when he returned swore he had to air out the smial for several days to get the last of the smoke out of the hole.”  He smiled at the memory of it.  “Bilbo could be quite a fussy individual at times.”

            “And this Frodo--is he, too--fussy?”

            Mithrandir shrugged.  “Frodo Baggins is another who is very much his own person.  He is one who is capable of fierce loyalty and remarkable sagacity, and those who know him well for the most part will bind themselves to him as a result of the love they bear him.  And, like Aragorn, he is one who knows well how to keep his own counsel.  I will warn you of this--it is never wise to underestimate any Hobbit, and particularly not this one.  He is extraordinarily responsible and mild in nature, but nowhere as passive as he might appear.  He thinks deeply and plans thoroughly; and when he has accepted to himself a purpose he will see it through.”

            “But will he be able to endure this task of seeing the Enemy’s weapon to Its destruction?”

            The Wizard straightened and took a deep breath as he pondered the question, at last murmuring, “I fear that if he cannot that we will all be doomed, Boromir.  Of all the Children of Iluvatar, Sauron appears to have left Hobbits alone out of his reckoning.  Therefore I suspect only they might now be able to move undetected by the Eye.”

            It was a sobering thought.

For Wilwarin and Cheryl Anne for their birthdays.

Breakfast Council

            Early the following morning Boromir was awakened by a knock at the door to his chamber.  “Come!” he called.

            The Elf Lindir opened the door to bring in a fresh ewer of water for the stand.  “If it please you, my lord,” he said as he exchanged it for the one that now stood by the basin. “Lord Elrond asks that you join him and certain others to break your fast.  There is a need to discuss who else shall join the party that accompanies the Ringbearer.  I will return shortly to lead you there.”

            It was a summons the son of the Steward had been anticipating.  He sighed as he threw back his covers in the echo of the closing of the door and rose to set about readying himself for the day.

            Within a fairly short time he was being shown into a private dining chamber where several tables had been set in a rough circle.  The Lord of Imladris himself was present, with Mithrandir by his side, both seated at what was apparently the one table within the room that was usually here.

            “Welcome, Lord Boromir,” he was greeted by the master of the house.

            “My Lord Elrond,” he returned with a bow he knew his father would have approved of, then accepted the seat shown him by Master Lindir.

            The door opened, and someone was ushering in three of the Dwarves, white-haired Glóin, his russet-haired son, and a third from their party.  These paused politely within the door and greeted their host, who welcomed them as courteously as he had Boromir, then took seats side by side as three Elves entered together, followed by two more, one the golden-haired Legolas of Mirkwood.  A dark-haired Elf accompanied a Man into the room, tall and venerable.  And at last the door opened to admit Bilbo Baggins and his kinsman Frodo, the latter somewhat warily from what Boromir could see.  At this Elrond rose swiftly, as did the others about the tables, including Boromir.  The Gondorian, however, felt a twinge of annoyance that the Elven lord would show this mark of respect to a mere Perian when he had merely inclined his head to the Steward’s son.  He immediately suppressed his annoyance, however, knowing that what this Halfling carried was far more important than mere Stewards or their heirs!

            Elrond examined the two Halflings.  “And Master Samwise agreed to be parted from you?” he asked as Frodo was aided into a chair.

            The Perian paled, although his cheeks became notably pinker.  His voice, however, was calm enough as he answered, “I set him to keeping a strict eye on Pippin, who has become particularly rebellious at the possibility he might be denied the chance to go further.  He has been insisting that he did not come all this way to be sent back home as if he were but a child, and he would be here now facing you with his complaints if he were left to his own devices, I fear.”

            Mithrandir shivered.  “Ah, then you are to be commended, Frodo.  I warn you, Elrond--Hobbits are themselves tenacious, as you know.  Peregrin Took, however, has raised that talent to new heights!”

            “You should try standing against a Took, a Brandybuck, and a Gamgee together some time!” Frodo muttered, and the Wizard gave a soft laugh.

            “I had wondered when Butterbur told me that you had three companions.”

            The Hobbit grimaced.  “I assure you, Gandalf, it was not my idea.”

            “Paladin and Saradoc must be out of their minds with worry, having their heirs disappeared in this manner.”

            “Uncle Pal will skin me alive when we return, and will never believe that I didn’t tell them about it, even.  And to think that Merry and Pippin had Sam spying on me for them!”

            The Wizard laughed aloud.  “You are loved by your own, Frodo Baggins!”

            Frodo shrugged, then turned to thank the Elf who set a goblet before him.

            Elrond turned to the Dwarves.  “You and our smiths were working on the Sword yesterday?”

            Glóin nodded his white head.  “Yes--we were deciding what method to use to separate the mithril from the steel.  We should have that done within three days.  I must leave once that is finished, or I will be in danger of not returning over the mountains before they become impassable with the winter weather.”

            The Master of Rivendell indicated his understanding before taking a deep breath and looking about at those who were gathered.  He indicated that the meal should be served, dismissing the servers with a nod when all had filled plates before them.  Boromir felt uncomfortable as he looked down at the food that lay before him, feeling for the first time in some months that he ought to rise for the Standing Silence, considering the solemnity of those gathered to share the meal.

            Once all were eating, Elrond set down his fork, again surveying the party.  “It is time for those of us who remain from the Council to begin deciding on who shall make up the remainder of the party.  It is fitting that those who shall go should number nine--the Nine Walkers to counter the Nine Riders who serve Sauron; nine of hope to counter the nine whose chief weapon has ever been despair!  It would be wise for it to consist of individuals from all the races who make up the Free Peoples of Middle Earth.  Two of those races are now represented--Frodo Baggins and his gardener Samwise Gamgee, as the Ringbearer and his companion, shall represent the Hobbits of the Shire.  Aragorn son of Arathorn, the Heir of Isildur through Valandil, Arvedui, and Fíriel daughter of Ondoher, shall represent Men alongside Boromir son of Denethor, the High Warden of the Citadel of Minas Tirith in Gondor, and Heir to the Steward of that land.  Gandalf will also accompany Frodo as representative of the Wizards and the White Council.  We have not as yet chosen individuals to represent either the Elves or the Dwarves, and we have four places yet to fill.”  He turned to Bilbo, who had begun to push himself to his feet.  “And, no, Bilbo, my beloved friend and counselor--it is not for you to go upon this quest.  You are no longer young in the reckoning of your people.  Nor would your going serve to keep your kinsman safe--indeed, I suspect it should only serve to increase his concern for your own safety.  I believe it is time to allow those who are younger to come to the fore, for it is their future that we all wish to safeguard.”

            The venerable Man cocked his head at the Master of the House.  “Yet you would allow Aragorn to go, although he is not the youngest among us.”

            “He is Chieftain of your people.  His time is now come--to fulfill his destiny and restore the fortunes of both realms, or to fall in the final battles.  Would you deny him?”

            The Man gave a twisted smile.  “And would he listen to any of us at this point?  I strongly doubt it.  As you say--his time is now come at last, now that Isildur’s Bane is indeed awakened and abroad within Middle Earth.”

            The dark-haired Elf who’d accompanied him into the room gave the Man a respectful nod.  “Indeed, it is as you have said, Lord Baerdion.  He is the one born of the full lineage of both of the sons of Elendil Elvellon.  This is indeed his quest as much as it is that of the Ringbearer.”  He inclined his head with respectful grace toward the younger of the two Hobbits, whose cheeks flamed, although the rest of his face grew paler.

            Another Elf, one Boromir remembered as having been introduced at the Council as having come from the Elven haven of Mithlond, looked between the Elf who’d spoken and Elrond, then gave Mithrandir a sideways glance, saying, “I would not say that Aragorn is a greybeard among Men, no matter when he was born.  Indeed, his lineage as the Dúnadan is apparent in the appearance of full manhood that he shows forth.  He is but of middle years in the time that might be expected of him, or so I would deem.”

            Frodo spoke up, appearing to surprise even himself.  “Nor am I precisely young.  I am fifty, after all, and also am in what we Hobbits consider our middle years.”

            Boromir was surprised.  He would never have suspected this was anything but a youngling of his kind.  “And your three companions are as old as you?” he asked.

            Bilbo laughed.  “Ah, indeed not!  Sam and Merry aren’t forty yet--they were each deemed of age only a few years past.  As for Pippin--well, he’s still not of age at all, not for slightly more than five years.  He will not be twenty-eight until December, you see.”

            Elrond explained to the Gondorian, “You must remember, Lord Boromir, that the great Rings extend the lives and vigor of their bearers.  It is true that Gerontius Took lived to be older than is Bilbo now, but he was yet more obviously elderly than is this, his grandson, and at a younger age.  How it will be with Bilbo once the Ring is gone we cannot yet predict.”

            Boromir noted that Frodo’s cheeks paled at that statement, although he fixed his eyes on the contents of his plate.

            The russet-haired son of Glóin searched his father’s face, then looked up to meet Elrond’s gaze.  “You feel that those who accompany the Ringbearer should be younger, eh?  And if I were to offer myself?”

            Elrond examined the Dwarf.  “You are a tried warrior of your people?”

            Glóin indicated his agreement.  “While we were fighting the Battle of Five Armies, my son here was leading the defense of our folk in the Blue Mountains against an assault by orcs and Men from Angmar who had thought to steal from our stores of weapons.  And here I had thought that by insisting he remain at home I was insuring his safety!  I doubt there is a Dwarf who is better with an axe than my Gimli in all of the Blue Mountains, the Iron Hills, or Erebor.”

            Gimli set a hand to the throwing axe he wore at his belt.  “I have fought my share of orcs and evil Men, Lord Elrond.”  He glanced sideways at the Elf Legolas.  “And particularly since I followed my father to the Lonely Mountain.  The orcs of Dol Guldur have tried their own assaults on Erebor.  We Dwarves fight to protect our own.”

            There was an unspoken challenge there to the golden haired Elf, whose own expression grew fixed.  “I have fought in defense of our lands and peoples since the days of darkness ere the Last Alliance, son of Glóin.”  He rose.  “I am the best archer in all of our lands,” he said to Elrond, his chin raised in defiance.  “And I will match my knifework against a Dwarf’s axe any day.”

            “You offer yourself to the quest?”

            “Yes.”

            The Elf with him gave an intake of breath.  “Your father----”

            Legolas quelled him with a look.  “Is not this quest as necessary to protect our lands as any other?  Nor, I think, need I go further than I will.”  He turned back to Elrond.  “Is that not true, Master Elrond?”

            “Indeed, that is so.  It is perhaps a longer road than your companion here will take in returning to your father’s halls, but it will protect the Ringbearer in the dangerous lands along the western slopes of the Misty Mountains.”

            “Then I would offer myself also,” said the other Elf from Mirkwood.

            “And then who will bear word back to my father as to why I am delayed, much less warning as to the apparent plans of the Enemy to assault the Men of Esgaroth and Dale and the Dwarves of Erebor and the Iron Hills as well as our forest?” Legolas said, shaking his head.  “Nay, I would have you return with the knowledge of what has been revealed here.  What other messenger can I send?  Imladris and Mithlond will be busy preparing for their own defense!”  He leaned closer to his companion.  “Remember--the Nazgûl have come here, here to the west of the Misty Mountains.  Sauron intends to destroy or enslave us all!  No, you must return to my father.”

            At last the other Elf bowed his head in acceptance, although he did not appear particularly sanguine about the prospect of returning home without his companion.

            Gimli, meanwhile, was eyeing his sire.  “And don’t go thinking to send one of our escort with me.  You are my father, and you must return to Dáin to advise him as to just what it is that Sauron wishes to recover from the Esteemed Burglar, and why it is important he not do so.  The orcs will be watching the passes going east--I won’t have you going home without proper protection!”

            “I will advise you I am not without skill in using my own axe----”

            “And you just admitted that I am better than you, and I shall not be with you during your return.”

            The two Dwarves sought to stare one another down, the expressions on their faces equally stern and stubborn.  At last, however, Glóin muttered, “Trust you, my son, to use against me the very arguments I gave you when I refused to allow you to accompany us on our hopeless quest to regain our treasures from Smaug.”

            “You didn’t think I would have forgotten them, did you?”

            Slowly a small, proud smile showed on what could be discerned of the older Dwarf’s face.  “No, my son, I did not.  Make us proud.”

            At last Gimli’s own lips curved upwards.  “You will never have reason to be ashamed of me.”  Each reached out his right arm to clasp the shoulder of his fellow, and they remained thus for some more moments before returning their attention to their host.

            At last Boromir cleared his throat.  “So,” he said, “now we are seven, and represent Hobbits, Men, Elves, and Dwarves--and Wizards.  What others might you think to send?”

            Elrond gave a slight shake to his head.  “I know not, not as yet.  I suppose it will depend in part on what others might offer themselves.”

            Gandalf gave an elaborate shrug.  “You already have been approached by two more volunteers.”

            Elven lord met Wizard’s gaze.  “I am not inclined to accept their offers.  The two remaining Hobbits are yet young in the reckoning of their people, and do not know what sacrifices they might be called upon to make should they go upon this quest.  The younger one particularly--Peregrin Took--he strikes me as being prone to being impetuous.  That is not a quality that is likely to help keep them unnoticed as the Nine Walkers seek to tread their road secretly through the wilderness, past the Enemy’s people and allies.  Also, I have forebodings regarding the safety of the folk who live within the Hobbits’ Shire.  The Black Riders have found it already, and are followed by other dangers.  I would not see it remain without warning.  Young Peregrin’s father is master of the Shire’s Moot and its Hobbitry at Arms, is he not?”

            “Yes, he is,” Frodo answered.  “But if you think my kinsman Paladin will call for a Shire Moot or for the bowmen of the Green Hills and White Downs to take up their weapons on the authority of the word of his son, I believe you are mistaken.  He is likely to discount the testimony even of Merry, in fact.  Uncle Paladin has never truly believed the stories Bilbo has told of matters outside the Shire.  In spite of his few trips to Bree, he appears to believe that nothing that occurs outside the borders of the Shire has any relevance to our lives.  I doubt he ever believed Smaug was real, or the three trolls who captured Bilbo and the Dwarves.  Pippin’s eyes must have been as large as dinner plates when we came upon them in the wild!  And how we are to convince him I had excellent reason to leave the Shire when and how I did I have no idea.  At least Uncle Sara is more likely to listen, although I suspect he, too, will find the tale exceeds belief.”

            “Paladin Took has tolerated me, but has never truly been open to my advice,” Mithrandir said, his eyes thoughtful as he looked on the Ringbearer.  He returned his attention to Elrond.  “He finds me a strange fellow, and has consistently refused to discuss any concerns I might have for those outside the Shire.  I must say that he is far more tolerant than was Ferumbras, who preceded him as Thain, but that is not saying much.  Young Pippin has more of Gerontius to him than does his father, I fear.  Indeed, Pippin, Merry, and Frodo are all more like Gerontius than is Paladin Took.  I fear it will take some doing to convince him that anything from outside the Shire could pose a danger, although once he is convinced he will then seek to move mountains to safeguard his own.”

            The Wizard looked briefly to Bilbo, who was indicating his own agreement.  At last he shook his own head.  “Face it, my friend,” he said, “those of the folk of the Shire who are most like Gerontius Took are here, present in your domain.  As for those who remain within the Shire, they must, as always, be faced with danger in order to be convinced it exists.  And it is in my heart that in this matter it would do well to trust more to friendship rather than to might or wisdom.  Even should you think to send Glorfindel in the fullness of his power and glory, that may well prove only to draw the Eye toward us the quicker.  No, I tell you, Elrond, that rather than seeking to offer the Ringbearer more protection we may well do better to offer him more reason to wish to prevail over the evil will of the Ring.  For It will grow in awareness, power, and malevolence once we leave the borders of your lands, and the weight of Its evil will be merely the worse the closer to the Mountain It comes.”

            Elrond, however, did not appear to be convinced.

Bound to Teach Weaponry

            As Boromir left his room to take the noon meal in the dining hall, he found himself joined by Samwise Gamgee, who was coming from the smaller library, a book in his hands.

            “You are fetching this for Master Frodo?” the Man asked the Hobbit.

            Sam flushed.  “Oh, no, sir, Mr. Boromir, sir,” he said.  “I was gettin’ it for me.  It’s a book as tells of Túrin, you see, and of when Beleg Cúthalion dwelt with him.  It’s a long time since I heard that tale from Mr. Bilbo, so I thought as I’d read it while we’re here.  I’m afraid as there’s not a good deal else as we can do save read, and it’s been quite some time since I could have time to read as much as I’d like.  Maybe it’ll help me keep my mind off of goin’ to Mordor.  Is it really as dark as they say?”

            Boromir shuddered.  “Dark?  I very much fear that it is indeed a dark and fell land.  However, if we are to walk most if not all of the way, it will take us some months to arrive there.”

            “It’s not what I’d thought as we’d be doin’, this trip to the Fiery Mountain to get rid of that Ring,” Sam said in a low voice, almost as if to himself.  “But if’n it’s the only way to keep not just the Shire but everywhere else safe, then I suppose as there’s nothin’ else for it.”

            They turned together toward the dining hall, outside of which lingered Merry, Pippin, and Bilbo.  “You didn’t find him, then?” Merry asked Sam.

            “Well, it’s obvious you didn’t find him in the other library, or the kitchens,” Sam responded.

            “No, I didn’t.  Now, if we were at the Hall I could probably have found him almost straight off, as I knew all his favorite hiding places he’d head to when he wanted to be left alone to think things through or cry himself out without Gomez and the other lads being aware of it and all.  But here--none of us but Bilbo knows the place well, and who’s to say what hidden corner he’s found?”

            “I did enlist Meliangiloreth to help me look for him,” Bilbo volunteered, “but so far we’ve not been able to find a trace of him.  Even as a bairn Frodo used to be among the most difficult of individuals to find when he decided he was going to hide away.  Your own mother found him once hiding in the laundry basket, having crawled inside the skirts of one of Primula’s dresses, Sam, there when they lived down in Number Five.  That was one thing--when he lived with me, Frodo wasn’t given to hiding away.  He’d just go to his room and write!”

            “That’s because you just tended to leave him alone when he needed it,” Merry pointed out, turning to lead the way into the dining hall.  “He’d only hide out when we younger ones came to call, for we didn’t tend to give him as much privacy.”

            Bilbo dropped back to walk by Sam and Boromir.  “And what treasure did you find, Sam?”

            “Stories of Túrin and Beleg, Mr. Bilbo.”

            “Not Túrin and Nienor, then?”  And the older Hobbit laughed, not unkindly, as Sam began to blush. 

            At that moment Merry gestured for Sam to join him, and he hurried forward to find out what the other Hobbit wanted.

            “You cannot find your kinsman?” Boromir asked Bilbo.

            Bilbo sighed, and turned to look upwards at him, pausing just within the doors.  “He’s finding this whole thing very trying, and is not keen to have to wait here for others to decide when it’s safe to leave the valley.  Nor does he wish to be burdened down with a large party to accompany him.  He had planned to leave the Shire alone, all by himself, and to use his natural ability to hide himself to slip through to Rivendell, hopefully showing himself only when the Road approached the Misty Mountains.  I’d warned him, after all, that of all the races within Middle Earth, only the Elves can hide better within plain sight than can Hobbits.  Once he approached Imladris he would need to allow himself to be seen by those who guard the approaches to the place to get guidance into the valley.  Other than that he was planning to rely on his own skills to see himself fed and kept safe along the road.

            “All that talk this morning about danger and all, and not diminishing other folks’ safety in order to give him more protection disturbs him a good deal.  And the indications that Elrond sees the Shire as perhaps being in danger--that’s enough to drive him wild!  After all, that’s why he realized he must leave the Shire--to keep it safe from any agents sent by the Enemy to search for the--the Ring.

            “Oh, why in the name of all the family heads did I ever leave that awful thing to him?  He’s quite the best the Shire has produced in a very long time--certainly he has a good deal to him to bring to mind the nature of Bucca of the Marish!  The Shire needs the lad there, not traipsing about in the Wild with an evil trinket in his pocket or hanging on a silver chain about his neck!”

            So saying, Bilbo turned back toward the room, going to join the other Hobbits, indicating with a cock of his head that Boromir was welcome to join them.

            “What worries me,” Sam was saying as they sat together at a particular table, “is that he’s not eatin’ right.  Take today--afore that breakfast as you all went to he’d had but a morning roll and some preserves and a mug of tea, and Mr. Bilbo here says as him didn’t eat all that much there.  Then no elevenses, and here it is luncheon!  And him was so proud as at long last he was beginnin’ to look a proper Hobbit!”

            Boromir felt confused.  “I had not noted that Frodo Baggins was particularly slender.”

            Bilbo sighed.  “For a Hobbit he’s always been thin.  I know they tell me he lost a good deal of weight along the way, but it’s hard to see, as he doesn’t seem that much thinner than he was when I left the Shire, actually.  And I note he’s wearing one of the shirts he used to wear before I left the Shire--I remember taking delivery of it from your sister Daisy and her husband, Sam.”

            “When I saw as he’d packed a couple of them shirts I was surprised,” Sam agreed.

            “Maybe it was just a feeling or a dream he’d had,” suggested Merry.  “It happened often enough when we were younger he’d just know something would happen, or was happening.”

            “Funny,” commented Pippin, who’d returned from the sideboard with platters for Sam and Merry, “how Frodo, being a Baggins, appears to have inherited the Took Sight.  I know Aunt Esme has it, of course, and I’ll swear that Da has had his own dreams a time or two.”  He set the plates on the table, asking, “Would you want me to get you something, too, Bilbo?”

            “Took Sight?” asked Boromir.

            “That’s what they call it--either knowing things will happen or having frequent dreams about what will happen.”  Merry turned to Pippin.  “Bring me an extra one of those honey rolls, please, Pip.  Thanks.”  He looked back to Boromir.  “It appears to happen fairly frequently among the Tooks and those who have a fair amount of Took blood.  They say that long ago one of the Tooks took a fairy wife, although no one seems to know exactly what that means, much less when or where, whether it was one of the Tooks once we Hobbits came to the Shire, or when we lived elsewhere about Eriador, or if it was back when we lived wherever it was we came from.”

            “The valley of the Great River, east of the Misty Mountains,” Bilbo supplied automatically.  “Master Elrond has some records of our arrival in Eriador in his journals, you see.”

            “Does he?” Merry asked, intrigued.

            “Oh, and you will make certain to bring me a goodly amount of those eggs, won’t you, Pippin-lad?  They prepare them especially well here,” Bilbo said.

            “I’ll come with you, Master Peregrin,” Boromir said, rising to follow the young Hobbit to the sideboard.  He was glad he had, for the Halfling’s grateful smile was more than ample reward.

            “So, you are serving all today, then?” the Man asked as he and Pippin approached the sideboard.

            “Frodo told me I must to make amends for having given Sam such a hard time this morning before Frodo went to the breakfast with Lord Elrond.  Sam doesn’t like it any, for it’s not in his nature to allow himself to be waited upon--he is certain that he’s to wait on everyone else, you see.  I don’t mind at all, really.  After all, with three sisters, and all of them older than I am, it’s not as if it were something new.  I was always upsetting them and having to wait on them for a day or two to make amends.  My mum has always insisted we must make amends.  It’s usually rather a relief to spend time at the Hall with Merry or at Bag End, for Aunt Esme and Frodo aren’t as certain we should always make amends as Mum is.

            “Although, you must understand that Frodo himself always tries to make amends when he’s hurt someone--someone who didn’t deserve it, at least.  I don’t think he’s ever tried making amends to any of the Sackville-Bagginses, but then they’ve always been awful, anyway.  They’ve never forgiven Bilbo for coming back alive when he did, just after they’d had him declared dead for having been gone for a year and a day.  And then when they learned for certain that Bilbo had adopted Frodo as his heir and they got only a box of silver spoons....”

            Boromir was feeling rather overwhelmed at all this information, most of which was totally alien to the life he’d known himself.  He reached for an apple, only to have Pippin interpose his own hand.  “Oh, no, you don’t want that one,” he said.  “It will not be the sweetest one.  And that one is just past its best.  Here--this one.”  He deftly picked out a particular fruit and set it on the plate Boromir had taken up for himself.  “And for the honey rolls, the ones on that side of the tray were just brought in so will be fresher.  Can you get me a couple of spoons full of the eggs there?  Thank you!”

            As they walked back to the table Pippin was still talking.  “That’s all you are going to eat?  I don’t understand how you Men can eat so little!  After all, you are almost twice as tall as I am.  I’d think you would need a good deal more food than we Hobbits do, but you’ve only taken about half enough for a decent luncheon back in the Shire!  If you ever dine with us at the Great Smial, you’d best take at least half again as much or my mother would think you didn’t like her cooking and would be most upset.”

            Boromir managed to squeeze in a word.  “She would?”

            “Of course she would--to disappoint a guest?  That’s just not done in most Hobbit holes!”

            “Do you truly live in holes?”

            “Well, we all do.  Not that we did when we lived on the farm at Whitwell when I was younger, my family, I mean.  We had a house there, but it was a proper Hobbit house--low and looked much like a smial dug into a ridge.  That’s what Hobbit houses are supposed to look like, you see.  But now we live in Tuckborough in the Great Smial, and it’s all dug into the longest ridge of the Green Hills.  Merry lives in Brandy Hall, which is almost as big as the Great Smial, only it’s in Buckland east of the Shire.  Frodo and Sam both live in the Hill.  Sam lives down at the foot of the Hill, in one of the smials dug into the lower regions of it.  Frodo lives much higher, there in Bag End, which was dug about halfway up the Hill.  Frodo owns the Hill, so he’s landlord for Sam’s family’s smial--or, he did own the Hill--he’s sold Bag End, though, so he doesn’t own that any more.  But he told me he didn’t sell the rest of the holes to Lotho, the ones down on Bagshot Row, along with Bag End.  So that’s all right for the Gamgees....”

            “Peregrin Took!” Bilbo interrupted as they reached the table. “That is quite enough blathering!  Stars above, lad--you would talk the ears off of the corn!”

            “He’s nervous and upset is all, Bilbo,” explained Merry.  “But he is right, you know, Pippin--you are talking far too much!”

            The younger Hobbit thrust one of his platters at Bilbo, and allowed the other to slap down on the tabletop as he fell into his chair.  “I’m sorry!” he muttered as he wiped his sleeve across his eyes.  “But I just can’t bear the thought of us having to stay behind--Merry and me, I mean!  We’ve come all this way so that Frodo didn’t have to do all this alone, and besides, he always promised that when he went on an adventure we could come, too!”

            “It’s not as if I was nobody,” began Sam.

            “I don’t mean that!” Pippin said.  “But he’s a Hobbit, and the others will all think he has to be taken care of, and it will drive him quite mad, and you know it!”

            As he again started to wipe his eyes with his sleeve, Bilbo sighed.  “Use your pocket handkerchief, lad.”

            “I don’t have one--we used it on Frodo’s shoulder after he was wounded.”

            Merry fished in a pocket and produced a square of linen cloth.  “Here, Pippin.  I managed to have one left.”

            After Pippin had blown his nose, he continued, “And what is this about there being trouble at home in the Shire?  There wasn’t any trouble there in the Shire when we left!”

            “Except for those Black Riders,” Merry noted.  “And they didn’t stay there--they were following us, and that’s where Strider is, isn’t it?  Out in the wild to make certain they were well washed away?  No, Pippin--right now you keep it, at least until it has been laundered.”

            The younger Hobbit nodded absently as he stuffed the soiled cloth into his own pocket.  He picked up a fork and took a bite of eggs, then set it down again, brooding.  “And if there are enemies threatening the Shire, what could we do about them?”  He looked up to meet Boromir’s gaze.  “What do we know about fighting other than dealing with Lotho Sackville-Baggins and Ted Sandyman, or that Tolman Smallburrow who used to live in the Hall?  You remember him, don’t you, Merry?  I mean, it’s one thing to be facing one of our own.  But if there are Big Folk who are threatening the Shire, what can we do about it?  We were about useless against the Black Riders when they found us at Weathertop, after all!”

            Sam nodded, if a bit reluctantly.  “It were old Strider who saved us there.  But him’s faced such folk afore, I’m thinkin’.  He knew what to do--light a fire and make torches and all.  But even then we couldn’t keep Mr. Frodo safe.”

            Boromir found himself shivering, remembering his own last encounter with the Nazgûl when they’d managed to cross the Bridge in Osgiliath.  “Even we of Gondor have difficulty standing against them, friends,” he said, meeting Pippin’s eyes, and then Merry’s and finally Sam’s.  “Do not feel shamed--if you stood against them at all you have done more than many Men whose courage is well known, but who found the mere presence of the Ring-wraiths was enough to unman them.”

            He saw Pippin’s eyes widen with surprise at such a pronouncement.

            The Hobbits shared looks, then turned their attention to their meal, obviously thinking on what had been said.  At last Sam said, “Mr. Bilbo here says as an Elf and a Dwarf’ll be goin’ with us, at least for a time, until we get near enough to their home for them to turn off.”

            Boromir swallowed the last of his meal and nodded.  “Yes, so it appears.  They shall stay with us at least as long as we remain on this side of the Misty Mountains, as it appears their homes are somewhere near Mirkwood.”

            “Legolas of the Woodland Realm is from Mirkwood,” Bilbo advised him.  “I saw him often enough during my own stay in his father’s halls.  While Gimli now lives within the realm of Erebor, there beneath the Lonely Mountain, some distance east and south of the Woodland King’s home.  He was born, however, here in Eriador, in the Blue Mountains, far to the west and north, after Smaug drove the few who survived out of their home and to their kindred here.”

            “You have been there, in the home of the Elven King?”

            “Oh, yes, years and years ago, just--just after I found the Ring.”  There could be seen no sign of humor on the old Hobbit’s face.  “I was wearing It to stay invisible, so the Elves never realized I was there.  I must suppose I was terribly lucky It preferred to remain asleep as long as I was in an Elven stronghold, for It did not appear to threaten me there, or try to slip off my finger as It did when I tried to get out of the goblins’ tunnels.”  The other three Hobbits had turned their attention to him, and he sighed.  “Oh, yes, I do believe that It was not happy when I sought to take It outside the goblins’ back door, and that was why I suddenly found It was off my finger and those guarding the way could see me.  After all, that was apparently why I found It where I did--It had slipped off of Gollum’s finger already in the tunnels, apparently hoping to be found by one of the goblins the Great Goblin would send down to the lake to bring back fish for his supper--whatever ones managed to survive Gollum, at least.  Or, at least that is what Gandalf, Master Elrond, and Glorfindel believe.  I wasn’t certain I believed It could choose to slip onto or off of a finger when It wanted until I heard what happened to Frodo there at the Prancing Pony.  I am certain that Frodo would never have put on the Ring in such a company, not at all!  No, that was the work of the Ring Itself.  Of that Gandalf, Elrond, Aragorn, and Frodo are all certain.”

            “It’s still hard to think of a Ring being aware, and alive-like,” muttered Sam.

            Bilbo gave a slight nod.  “Frodo won’t speak much of what it’s been like, but both he and Gandalf have let me know that indeed the Ring has awakened, and there is no question Frodo has felt It probing his mind.  As for Aragorn--from the look on his face when I asked him if he’d felt It probing at his, too, I’d say that he at least has been aware of It as well.  It’s frightening.”

            Pippin, however, appeared to still be thinking on the reported danger to the Shire.  “What kind of folk do you think could be sent to the Shire?  And would it be the same one sending them as sent the Black Riders, do you think?” he asked Merry.

            Merry’s eyes showed the same concern.  “I have no idea, Pippin.”

            “I doubt it’s goblins, Pippin-lad,” Bilbo said.  “Lord Elrond’s sons and the Dúnedain don’t allow many to slip far past here, you must realize.  And I’m not certain how most other enemies of the Free Peoples could penetrate that far into Eriador.  Those that try to come south past Annúminas or Fornost from Angmar are almost always caught by the Rangers, while those trying to slip along the coastline must get past Glóin’s folk in the Blue Mountains and the Elves who live along the Firth of Lhûn, while those who might come by boat from the southwest are usually stopped by the Elves of the wandering tribes who still have halls in that region.  That leaves enemies from the south or from here in the east.  And as I said, Elrond’s sons and people and the Dúnedain Rangers who patrol the Angle usually get them fairly quickly.  Also, Aragorn tells me his Rangers patrol quite far south as well, as far as the old city of Tharbad.”

            “And so I was told when I came through there,” Boromir added, remembering his own adventures crossing the Hoarwell.

            Pippin considered this information for a time while he ate his breakfast.  At last, as he finished the last crumb of his own three honey rolls, he looked up meaningfully to catch the Man’s eyes.  “You remember what you said, that you teach younger soldiers to use their weapons?”

            “Yes.”

            “You do that?”

            “Yes, I do, when I am home in Minas Tirith or working with new recruits in the fortress we maintain within the ruins of Osgiliath.”

            “Would you teach us Hobbits?  Teach us how to use our weapons properly, I mean?  Or at least Merry and me, and Sam.  I don’t think Frodo really wants to know, though.  But he should at least learn how to defend himself with a sword.  It’s not as if we’d be able to do a great deal of good against enemies with swords using thrown stones or a proper punch, or so I’d think.  And those who come against us are likely to use swords and knives, don’t you think so?  And wouldn’t anyone who tried to endanger the Shire be more likely to have swords and knives, too?”

            Something in that earnest gaze moved the warrior’s heart.  “I believe you would do well to learn to use your weapons, as long as you have them,” he agreed.  “I will seek audience with Lord Elrond and ask if we might use their training grounds and whatever salle they might maintain.”

            Even Bilbo appeared relieved.  “I will give Frodo Sting--perhaps today, if he comes out of hiding early enough.  But you are right, Peregrin Took--it is about time that once again Hobbits learn to use swords.  I doubt any have done so since Bucca left the Shire to join Arvedui Last-king’s muster.  However, it appears that is about to change.

            So it was that Boromir found himself bound to teach swordcraft to the four younger Hobbits.

For Aranellaureate, for her birthday.  Sorry it is late.

The Prince of Mirkwood

            It was late afternoon when Boromir left the Last Homely House to walk out across the grounds toward the distant stable and the birch wood beyond it, wanting some time to himself without the need to speak with others.  He was not certain whether Frodo Baggins had returned as yet to his chamber or even to the company of his kinsmen and servant.  Well, let the Hobbit care for himself!  Boromir was now feeling restless and eager to see the journey begun, now that it was certain that it would be taken.  The idea that they must wait for some weeks before leaving distressed him--he had been gone from home for far too long as it was, and his father needed to be advised of the reason the Nazgûl had crossed the river and had gone north and west into Eriador.

            How would his father react to the news that Isildur’s Bane was the Enemy’s long-lost Ring of Power--the Ring of Power thought lost all these millennia?  And now It was found, and within the grasp of any who could prove strong enough to take It, the one weapon perhaps strong enough to use to successfully face the Enemy himself?

            His father, Denethor son of Ecthelion, was certainly strong enough, he was certain, to use this weapon against the Nameless One and his forces!  To see the Dark Lord destroyed using his own artifice--what a delightful, right ploy!  And he who could do such a thing--he would be the hero of the age, remembered in song and story long after he was quit of this world!

            His reverie on this image, in which he, unnoticed, took the place of his father before the adoring populace of Minas Tirith, augmented by allies from Rohan, as proud princes from Rhûn and Harad abased themselves before him, suing for peace, was interrupted when he heard from above the command, “Daro!” uttered in a low voice.  He halted immediately, looking up automatically.

            Lounging overhead along a limb of the nearest tree sat the golden-haired Legolas of Mirkwood, one knee drawn up, the other leg elegantly dangling from the limb, the soft suede boot he wore neatly laced upon his foot.  The Elf looked down, his expression mildly concerned, but basically inscrutable.  He commented, “You are not watching where you go.”

            Boromir looked down to see a low fence, over which he would have stumbled had he gone any further.  Beyond the fence were a number of ponies, most of them sturdy, healthy beasts.  One, however, stood apart from the rest, paused in its cropping of the still-springing grass to sniff the air.  This was somewhat taller than the others, skewbald in brown and white, but much thinner than the others, almost skin and bone, in fact.  It turned to examine Boromir, came a step closer and sniffed again, then shied away.

            “That one looks as if it almost foundered,” Boromir said.

            “It was here when the Dwarves arrived,” the Elf offered.  “I know not whose it is, but I cannot imagine it belongs to the people of Imladris.  Never would they use a beast so, allowing it almost to starve as was done with this one.”  They watched it for a time before Legolas continued, “But it appears a wise creature.  It grazes, but slowly, steadily.  And although it is wary, it does not shy from those who work in the stable, but greets them as if grateful for their attention.”

            “You have watched it long?” Boromir asked.

            There was a graceful lift to one shoulder--Boromir was already noting that almost all done by Elves was done with remarkable smoothness and ease, as if a mere shrug were in some way a move in a particularly pleasing dance.  “Long enough.  I find the inaction after the decisions made this morning to be troublesome.  My fellow returns alongside Dáin’s people that none go without the means to protect themselves in such times.  It is well enough for him, I suppose, although I rejoice I do not travel with them as well.”

            “You do not appreciate the Dwarves?”

            Again a shrug as the Elf looked off, across the valley at the glory of a distant waterfall plunging down the cliff into the Bruinen.  “It is not so much that I do not appreciate the Dwarves as it is that this particular group does not appreciate the Elves of my land, and particularly not my father.  Many years back now, before the downfall of Dol Guldur, we had a time in which we were constantly being troubled by a group of Dwarves seeking to profane our most solemn of woodland feasts.  Again and again they would approach our torches and set off our guarding spells, and we would find the torches doused, the music stopped in mid-note, the dancing halted, and all we had gathered for the feast abruptly moved to a different feasting spot.  Long and long we had labored to perfect such spells that we not be taken unawares by yrch or spider or werewolf and other fell creatures; to find ourselves suddenly moved hither and yon because of a bumbling troupe of buffoons such as this was more than my father could bear.  The spiders were suddenly stung into action throughout the forest close to us, and we feared we must leave off our feast to send out our warriors to deal with them.

            “So as we kindled the torches yet again, hoping this time to get through the dance honoring Oromë, my father set a second spell within the first, that the one to first step into our sacred circle should be moved with us.  So it was that when next they came we captured their leader, Thorin Oakenshield, though we knew not who he was.

            “We later captured the rest of the thirteen Dwarves who had managed to wander off the path, but we got no sense from them.  They would not tell us their purpose in traveling through our lands--instead they spoke ever of having come near starvation and death by thirst.  My father knew that there must be some fell purpose for such as these to travel as they did through Mirkwood, so he ordered them held within our Citadel, which was carved from the living rock of a great hill at the heart of the forest.  When at last they escaped, we knew not how, we were in great wonderment.  No evil did any of us sense within out stronghold, although many spoke of awareness they were being followed and watched, and much in the way of food and drink went missing that none could account for."

            The Elf sighed, shifting to sit more straightly upon the limb, both legs now dangling.  “One of those was Glóin, now Glóin of Erebor, who heads this mission from the Lonely Mountain.  Never has he forgiven us that we held him imprisoned within our halls; and I sense his son is even more angry to find himself in company with the son of Thranduil, seeing it as an insult to his father.  But all any needed was to speak plainly of their mission and we would have aided them!  The Naugrim are, you will find, a stubborn lot, their heads and hearts as hard as the stone they thrive on.”

            Boromir nodded.  As the Elf returned his attention to the ponies the Man did the same.  At last he noted, “They at least appear to be good to their mounts.  All of them save the skewbald one appear to be well kept and properly fed.”

            Legolas again shrugged a single shoulder.  “I will grant them that,” he admitted as if grudging the acknowledgment.  “But then even the meanest of souls will often show kindness to beasts.  And it is to their own benefit to treat the animals they ride well, after all.”

            Boromir went forward to lean one hip upon a fence rail.  Together they watched the movement of the ponies.  Those from Erebor were apparently as clannish as their masters, and tended to avoid the sparer skewbald animal, who in return gave them a sniffing look and returned to his slow, steady grazing.  Suddenly it raised its head, smelling the air, but whether in pleasure or fear the Man could not tell.

            “Bill!” called a voice of one approaching from the House.  Man and Elf both turned, noting the arrival of the stout Hobbit, Samwise Gamgee.

            “Bill!” the Hobbit called again.  “Oh, look at you, Bill my lad--already puttin’ some flesh back on your bones!  They’re treatin’ you fine, aren’t they, dear lad?  Oh, I can tell as they are!  Well, here’s some treats from the house, Bill.  They’re all right proud of you, they are, carryin’ the Master as well as you did.  Here, lad....”

            As he approached the fence the pony did the same, obviously as eager as was the Hobbit.  Sam was rummaging within his tunic for a long carrot that he then held out to the pony, who accepted it gladly.

            The Hobbit kept up a running commentary as he greeted the animal and fed it the carrot, then brought out an apple to follow the root, and then a second carrot.  “They say as you can have more today, Bill.  I hope as you find it all good here.  And they’ve been brushin’ you up fine, I can tell.  Oh, but I’ve been so glad as we bought you away from that old Bill Ferny, I have.  But to go from the bad treatment as you had with that one to havin’ to scrabble through the hills the way we did--no proper food nor water for days like that--well, you’re a right noble one, to accept all that and still think well of me, is all I’ll say.  Ah, you’re a fine beast, you are, Bill!  Here--a lump of sugar--brought it from the dinin’ hall, I did.  And you are fillin’ out again!  By the time we’re ready to leave I’ll wager as you’ll be fine and sleek as any Elvish horse, you wait and see!  And you’ll be as ready to go on as the rest of us, won’t you?  Yes, I knew it!”

            Finally the Halfling turned and looked westward.  “I must go back again, Bill.  It’ll be time for tea soon, and I promised to take it with old Mr. Bilbo.  I just wish as Mr. Frodo would....”  He stopped, realizing he had an audience.  He flushed heavily, but drew himself up straighter.  “Oh, Mr. Boromir, sir,” he said, tugging at his forelock.  “I beg pardon, but didn’t see you there.  Come out to see our Bill, and make certain as he’s proper taken care of.”

            “Then he’s yours?” the Man asked.

            “Well, I suppose as he’s actually Mr. Merry’s, properly speakin’, at least.  The ones as he’d had ready for us to ride was all stole, there in Bree, and we had t’make do with what we could find.  Mr. Butterbur, him found Bill for us, the only pony in Bree proper what wasn’t in the stable at the Prancin’ Pony, or so it’d seem.  That nasty Bill Ferny had him, and used him hard.  To go through what we’ve been through, comin’ here and especial after my Master was hurt and still look better than what he did when we got him, that speaks volumes of how Ferny treated him.

            “And now both him and my Master are both so much better!  And I’m so proud of both of them!”

            “I see,” Boromir said.  “Well, give my respects to Master Bilbo, will you, please?”

            “And mine as well!” said Legolas from his perch in the tree.

            Sam looked up, obviously surprised, embarrassment and delight appearing to be warring in him.  “Give him your respects, my lord?  And whose is they, if’n you don’t mind me askin’?”

            “Tell him Legolas of Mirkwood sends his greetings, and that I would be glad to share honey buns with him in the morning.”

            “Oh, so you remember that?  He told me as there was one Elf as liked honey buns as he used to take from once in a while.”

            Legolas laughed, a remarkably delightful sound.  “Yes, I do believe he was stealing my honey buns.  Well, you’d best be off with you, if you are not to be late.  We will keep an eye on your pony for you.  It is obvious he is well loved.”

            Sam gave the pony a last pat alongside his neck.  “Oh, that I do.  Always have loved ponies, I have.  They taught me to ride out at Cottons’ farm, and I love the beasts true.  We could never afford one, though, my dad and us.  Maybe that’ll change one day, though.”  He caressed the animal’s ear and gave it a last bite of sweet roll pulled from inside his tunic, and turned back toward the House again, after giving a respectful nod to Elf and Man.  Whistling sweetly, he hurried off toward his next meal, leaving the two of them watching after him.  Bill the pony whuffled his disappointment at the parting, watching after also until the Hobbit was out of sight, then turning to again pull at the grass.

            There was a sudden movement behind a bush, and a small, slender figure in a green cloak stepped out of hiding, approaching Bill, who nuzzled at his shoulder with familiarity before turning back to his grass.  “I suppose that I, too, ought to go back in,” said Frodo Baggins softly.  “I’ve had time to think and to spare, I suppose, and I shall only worry them the more should I continue to linger.  Well, I must say I, too, am glad to see you are recovering from the privations of the march, Bill.  Take care, and eat well and wisely.”

            With that benediction offered, the Hobbit moved silently toward the fence, ducking gracefully through the rails, bowing to Man and Elf, and following after his companion.  In moments he had disappeared from sight.

            Boromir didn’t catch the exclamation the Elf uttered under his breath, as it was in a dialect he did not recognize.  “He was here--the Ringbearer?” he continued in Westron.  “But how was it I never noticed?  He wasn’t wearing the Ring, was he?”

            Boromir, too, felt somewhat shaken to realize they’d been so close to the Hobbit and had not noticed his presence.  “I cannot imagine he would think to wear It here,” he said.

            “His uncle did, and in my father’s halls,” Legolas pointed out.  “For the weeks of the Dwarves’ captivity he did so.”

            “But that was long ago,” Boromir responded.

            Legolas nodded.  “I am only glad,” he said at last, “that we were not speaking of the Hobbits, although I am not certain whether he would take offense at possible slurs cast on his kinsman’s friends.”

            “He did not appear offended.”

            Again that elegant shrug.  “No, that he did not.”  They watched toward the House in the growing dusk.  At last he said, “A strange one, this Frodo Baggins.  Not as talkative as his fellows, but at least half again as canny, I’d deem.  He will keep his own counsel, if I read him rightly, and is not certain he wishes to wait until others consider it safe for him to leave this place.  He would fain be off and doing now, before he has a chance to lose his nerve.”  Then, after one last silence he added, “It will be an honor to travel alongside him.  Master Bilbo sought to serve and protect my father as he could, and it appears that this one is even stronger in honor than his kinsman.”

            The Elf dropped lightly to the ground.  “I think it is time for us to return to the House as well, Boromir of Gondor, if you wish to accompany me.  And I will face the Dwarves with the pride of my people, and with the respect we owe to Dáin Ironfoot.  Come, if you will.”

            So saying, he led the way back to the House of Elrond, and Boromir watched light blossom in the windows in the face of the darkening day.

For Elvses birthday, and with special thanks to Kitty for suggesting the topic of this chapter.

On Swords and Swordsmanship

            “I’ve agreed to teach the Hobbits how to handle their swords,” Boromir confided to the Elf Erestor, apparently one of Lord Elrond’s advisors and aides that he’d encountered in the smaller library.  “But I am uncertain as to where we should work.  Is there a salle or training ground that we would be permitted to use?”

            The Elf glanced at a nearby window, glazed with colored glass down which rain was sheeting at the moment.  “There are several places where our warriors train, of course.  Most of our greatest warriors are out on patrol, making certain that the Nazgûl were indeed swept away in the flood raised by Lord Elrond and Mithrandir; but Lord Glorfindel has returned this morning and is making his report at this time.  He is the captain of our defenders, and can both direct you to a protected area where you might work and provide you with appropriate practice equipment.  I must say that this will likely prove a prudent move.  Estel has indicated he sought to give the Hobbits some instruction during their journey, but with the concerns for the wound the Ringbearer suffered he was unable to give them more than the basics of how to hold their swords that they not wound themselves.”

            Boromir found himself nodding in recognition as to how the Man would most certainly have focused his attention during the journey from Bree.  “It does sound to have been a most difficult time,” he noted.

            Erestor indicated his agreement.  “If you desire it, I will take you to Lord Elrond’s door, where you might await the coming forth of Glorfindel.”

            In minutes they were outside the room in which he’d seen the shards of Narsil shaken out and examined, and the Elf indicated a bench where he might wait for the Elven warrior to come forth.  The wait did not prove particularly long, for Glorfindel emerged within a quarter of a mark, or so the Man judged it.  He paused, acknowledging Boromir’s presence.

            “Is there aught that you would ask of me, my lord?” he asked.

            Quickly Boromir explained his needs, and the Elf smiled.  “Most wise of you.  The Ringbearer will need to be able to protect himself, as is true of those who may accompany him.  And it will be good for all who will be part of the company to become aware of the capabilities of those they will most likely fight alongside.  There is a practice salle along the northwest corridor that should suit you well enough.  It is adjacent to one of our armories where we keep practice swords and foils….”

            After luncheon Boromir led the Hobbits to the salle suggested by Glorfindel, finding the golden haired warrior already there and in the act of searching through a chest.  “We have here a selection of padded garments that have been used in the past by various children who had begun training with weapons here in Imladris.  I hope we will find garments that can be used by you as you begin to learn how to wield your weapons properly,” he said, glancing briefly at the Hobbits.  Frodo Baggins leaned against a wall, his arms crossed against his chest, looking uncomfortable with the entire situation.  Sam Gamgee had his hands in his pockets, and also appeared uncertain.  Merry and Pippin, however, came close to peer into the chest at the garments through which the Elf was rummaging.

            “We’ll have to wear those?” Pippin asked.

            “It is wise, when one begins learning to use weapons, to wear practice garb to minimize the chance of being hurt.”

            Pippin nodded, a gesture echoed by his cousin.  Sam and Frodo exchanged glances, Sam’s slightly alarmed and Frodo’s apparently resigned.

            It took some time to find practice garments suitable for each of them.  Frodo and Pippin were rather quickly garbed, but there didn’t appear to be anything that would fit either Merry or Sam without alteration.  At last Glorfindel left the room, returning a short time later with a second chest and Meliangiloreth, who carried with her a stick of charcoal wrapped in cloth and a number of pins.  In this chest apparently were kept parts of such garb that had been fashioned but not sewn together.  “We can have these sewn together tonight and ready for your use tomorrow,” the maiden promised them.  “But as you are not proportioned precisely as are either children of the Eldar or the Edain, we would do best to make these particularly for you.”  Once she had the two garments pinned together and marked, she left with a smile for all of them.

            “As that is taken care of,” Boromir announced as she disappeared toward the main section of the place, “we should now look to find appropriate practice foils for you to use as you begin.  It is usually best to match the foils for weight and balance to those weapons you will use every day, so if you will produce your swords we will see if we can find foils that you can use.”

            He was pleased to see that the four of them each had brought his weapon, and smiled as they were laid side by side upon a bench.  “These are beautiful!” he breathed as he unsheathed one of the blades laid there, then noted that Glorfindel had gone still as he also examined it as Boromir held it up to the light.  “Do you detect aught wrong with the blade?” he asked the Elf.

            “No,” came the reply, and Glorfindel held out his hand to take it from him, turning it at an angle to the light to better see the runes engraved upon it.  He had a peculiar smile upon his face as he examined the pommel next.  “Indeed, there is nothing I can detect that is wrong with this weapon, and a good deal I foresee as particularly right with it.  Which of you carries this blade?”

            “It’s mine,” volunteered Merry.

            “And how came you by it?”

            “Tom Bombadil gave it to me.  It was from the barrow where we were captured by the wight.  After Frodo cut off the wight’s hand and repeated the song to call Tom to rescue us, Tom brought out these four long knives and gave one of them to each of us, saying they would do for swords for us.  Only Frodo’s was broken after he crossed at the ford.  That one—“ he nodded at the odd sheath lying on the bench, “—is Sting, the one Bilbo found in the trolls’ hoard during his own adventure.  He gave it to Frodo yesterday so he wouldn’t have to have a sword specially made.”

            His attention caught, Glorfindel gently laid the blade he held upon the bench by its sheath, and reached to take up the other blade.  Boromir was intrigued, for it appeared to him that the Elf was treating these weapons with particular reverence.  “The sheath is of Dwarf make,” Glorfindel remarked as he examined it, “as is this shining belt.  But the hilt—that was made by Elves.”

            “Lord Elrond told Bilbo that Sting was made in Gondolin, as were Orcrist and Glamdring,” Frodo said, having quietly stepped forward to see the weapons more clearly as Man and Elf examined them.  “The belt was given him by Thorin Oakenshield from the armory in Erebor, and the sheath was presented to him by Dáin Ironfoot when he visited the Lonely Mountain after he left the Shire and before he returned here to live.”

            “Oh, I know the tale of the blade well enough,” agreed the Elf as he drew the weapon from its sheath and turned it to look it over carefully.  “It was made for a prince of the city, who gifted it in time to Elú Thingol of Doriath.  He in turn gave it to his Edain ward, Túrin Turambar.  When Túrin left Doriath he did not take it with him, and so it came, I am told, into the keeping of the Lady Lúthien, and through her to her children.  It was last in the keeping, I have been told by Círdan of Mithlond, of the Lady Elwing of Sirion, as were other weapons carried from Gondolin by Lord Tuor and Idril, his wife.  They were lost when the city was sacked by the sons of Fëanor.  Here—here is the mark of the smith of Ecthelion of the Fountain, who ordered the blade to be made.”

          “You would recognize such a mark?” Boromir asked, feeling skeptical.

          “Who better?” asked Glorfindel.  “I saw the blade given to its first bearer, after all.  And I have had occasion to examine Glamdring for Gandalf and to tell him of its history.”

          Boromir felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle at the thought of it.

          Pippin was leaning forward eagerly.  “And these swords of ours—do you know about them, too?”  He patted the sheath of his own weapon.

          Glorfindel returned Sting to its sheath and laid it upon the bench before taking up the second barrow blade.  His face grew more solemn.  “They were made for princes of Cardolan, long before the Periain came out of the valley of the Anduin.  Two of the King’s sons died in the wars against Angmar, and the King, his remaining son and wife and their youngest son were all slain by enemies, and buried together in the same tomb.  These were buried with them, apparently.

            “Great was the anger of he who wrought these against Angmar and its fell lord for the evil long practiced against the lands of Arnor, and particularly against the kingdoms of Arthedain and Cardolan.  It is particularly fitting they should have come into the hands of those who have been threatened by that one, I would think.”

            “By the weaponsmith who wrought them?” asked Boromir, confused by these revelations.

            Glorfindel gave his peculiar small smile as he returned Pippin’s sword to its sheath with a snap of the metal hilts against the wood.  “No—the Witch-king of Angmar.  It was his hand that held the blade that pierced the shoulder of Master Frodo here.”

            Frodo’s face had gone pale, and he was clutching at his left shoulder as if it pained him.  His eyes were wide with horror and distress.  The Elf’s face softened with compassion as he leaned forward to place his hand over Frodo’s and looked into the Hobbit’s eyes.  “Do not fear, small master, for you are freed of his influence and are, I deem, stronger than he in your fashion.  He sought to take you for his own Master; and it brought both of them nothing in the end.”  He leaned further forward.  “You shall prevail,” he declared, softly but with certainty.

            Frodo gave a reluctant nod, his color slowly returning, and they returned again to the finding of suitable foils for each of them.

            As he began instructing them in the forms commonly used in the handling of blades, Boromir thought on what the Elf had said about the blades carried by these four.  Could this Glorfindel indeed have seen the blade borne by Frodo Baggins crafted and given to its first bearer?

            There was a clatter as Pippin stumbled forward and dropped his weapon, and uncomfortable laughs from Merry and Sam.  But Frodo had immediately stopped his own practice to retrieve the foil Pippin had dropped, a reassuring smile given his young kinsman.  The chagrin faded from the youngest Hobbit’s face to be replaced by an expression of determination.  One thing was certain—Peregrin Took intended to become competent with his sword even if it should kill him!

            Boromir found himself smiling as he watched the four of them start anew.  This should prove most satisfying, seeing these four become competent with their weapons.

Originally written for the There-and-Back-Again Community "Four Loves" challenge.

“Trust to their Friendship”

            Frodo Baggins sat alone on a low, wide stool that he appeared to prefer, listening to the singing in the Hall of Fire, his face alight with that special joy that seemed to take him when he was lost in Elven song.  If he did as he had since his awakening from the removal of the Morgul shard, he would eventually fall asleep sitting up, a delighted smile competing with a look of intense longing on his face.

            Elrond sat watching the Ringbearer, still trying to make up his mind as to what two others to add to the Fellowship, which so far was comprised by Frodo and his companion Samwise, Aragorn, Boromir of Gondor, Legolas Thranduilion of Mirkwood, Gimli Glóin’s son from Erebor, and Gandalf the Grey.  He’d made up his mind in spite of Gandalf’s advice to send the two younger Hobbits back to the Shire.  His foresight told him that evil was gathering there, and he saw that these two were meant to face it--somehow.  However, it seemed to him that they were subtly different when he saw then fighting that evil, and he could not say how....

            The other three Hobbits, two of them each carrying something, entered the hall as quietly as only such creatures or Elves seemed capable of.  They paused near the door and leaned their heads together.  Then Samwise came forward, approaching Frodo from the rear, shaking out his burden to reveal one of the warm yet light blankets that had been provided for the Hobbits.  This he gently, reverently draped over Frodo’s shoulders.  Frodo looked up, plainly surprised yet also obviously grateful.  He murmured a word to the gardener, who flushed, smiling, as he wrapped the blanket more about his master, then came forward to sit on the cushion that Lindir had taken to setting at Frodo’s feet for the use of his companion.

            Once Sam was settled, the second one, Meriadoc, entered fully.  It could be seen he carried a small tray of drinks.  Tea, or so Elrond guessed.  Merry offered the tray to Frodo, allowing him to choose one of the cups.  Again the Master of Imladris saw that expression of surprised thanks form on the Ringbearer’s face.  Frodo smiled as he took the cup between his hands and held it where he could inhale its aroma before sipping from it as Merry dropped to sit on the second cushion one of the listening Elves pushed forward for him to Frodo’s right, allowing Sam to take another of the cups from his tray.  At the same time young Peregrin was approaching.  Frodo slid slightly to the right on his stool, offering to share it with the youngest of the Hobbits, holding out the blanket also to share with him.  In moments Pippin was also wrapped in the blanket, pressed close to that vulnerable left side.  Sam took a third cup from the tray and passed it up to the youngest Hobbit, and Merry took the last one for himself.

            A conspiracy, Elrond thought.  A conspiracy to see he is warm and comforted and--not alone; and able to remain awake as long as possible for his enjoyment.  Certainly Meriadoc and Samwise’s now-satisfied smiles made that plain.

            As for Frodo himself, his attention was on his young kinsman as much as on the song being sung, assuring that young Peregrin was comfortable and warm.  As Pippin rested his head back against Frodo’s shoulder Elrond suddenly appreciated what Gandalf had meant when cautioning him to trust to the friendship amongst these four. 

            He needs them, he realized.  He needs them to remain centered and grounded as Frodo of the Shire rather than merely as the Ringbearer.  And he realized something else--the two younger Hobbits as he saw them facing the evil gathered within the Shire were not as they were now--they were taller, grimmer, even in height.  But now--now Peregrin was decidedly the shortest of the four.

            They must go with him.  They must go with him to help him keep his hold on himself as long as is possible against the call of the Ring.  And they must grow into the role they will play upon their return.  Elrond realized that he would send no others in the company of the Fellowship.  It was this love shared amongst these four that had sustained Frodo to arrive here in time to allow for the removal of the shard.  He must indeed, as Gandalf cautioned, trust to that friendship.

            That concern lifted from his shoulders, he turned his attention more fully to the music, noting vaguely how Frodo’s own appreciation for it had also been increased.

 *******

            And from across the chamber Boromir turned his attention from the song being sung to the sight of Frodo Baggins seated with his fellows about him.  The older one was entering the room carrying a platter filled with soft sweetened rolls for these, his kindred and countrymen.   How the Man found himself envying the Hobbits their companionship.  He felt alone here, the only Man now within the Vale of Imladris….

            His attention shifted, and he saw the clear gaze of the Lady Arwen fixed upon the four Hobbits.  And what did she think of this small Ringbearer, he wondered.

For Linaewen for her birthday.

An Encounter with the Ringbearer

            Boromir found Frodo Baggins one day, standing half concealed in a doorway, looking out into a sunlit courtyard where several Elven maidens were busily hanging out what must have been newly laundered clothing.  There were many fine lines hung between one side of the court and the other, and these cords hung over what seemed to be a winter garden of some sort.

            They spoke quietly as they worked, each nimble hand deftly affixing damp garments to the lines with carefully worked cleft pegs of wood so that they were able to hang straight and dry unwrinkled.  In spite of the autumn chill in the air, it was nevertheless fragrant within the courtyard, and the lines of plants were as pleasing to the eye as were the views of the women who adorned it.

            One began to sing, and Frodo’s chin rose in response, his lips parting in pleasure as he listened.  When the others joined in the song of the first his eyes closed as if in ecstasy.

            Boromir realized, Our Ringbearer is hopelessly devoted to beauty!  Certainly he was now transfixed by it.

            The Gondorian looked out into the courtyard again, and noted that the one leading the singing was the Lady Arwen, daughter of Master Elrond himself, or so he’d been told.  There was no question that she was of unsurpassed beauty, although Boromir found himself reacting with suspicion to the alien nature of that allure.  She was an Elf, after all—or at least a half-Elf.  Peredhel, from a household ruled by peredhil.  Who knew how old she might be?  At least several centuries, if the old tales were true.

            From the shadows where he stood, Boromir considered the Halfling and the fact he appeared to have been spying upon the Elves.  Was Frodo Baggins enraptured by Lord Elrond’s daughter?  A thought to be pondered!

            He turned to leave as quietly as he’d come, but apparently it was not quietly enough to escape the notice of the Ringbearer.  Frodo turned his head suddenly, and his face went pale, save for his cheeks, which burned with color.  The Hobbit gestured for him to continue to leave, and followed after him, his posture stiff.  Boromir cast but one glance back toward the doorway into the courtyard, and had a brief glimpse of the Lady Arwen.  Somehow he knew that she’d realized that the Hobbit had been there, and part of the reason she’d begun to sing had been for Frodo’s benefit.

            Frodo pushed past the Man as they went through another passage, at which time he led the way into a small room filled with light and fine porcelains.  In the center of the room stood a circle of carefully wrought benches, on which one might sit and appreciate the beauty with which the chamber was fitted.  Here he stopped, staring up at the Man with an expression so filled with dignity that Boromir was reminded of his own father.  Boromir dropped to sit upon the nearest bench so as to be more on a level with his companion, deciding that he would allow the Hobbit to speak first.

            At last Frodo said, as if answering an unspoken question, “Like you, I just happened upon that passage, and heard the maidens within the court speaking.  I have been seeking to improve my understanding of spoken Elvish, so paused—at first—merely to try to understand.  I swear I was not deliberately spying upon them.”

            Boromir gave a studied shrug.  “It is nothing to me, small master, should you choose to watch those who host us here.  They spoke of little enough—merely commenting on the health of the garden in which they worked.”

            The Hobbit’s stiffness melted somewhat.  “Then you speak Elvish?”

            “We speak both Sindarin and Westron in Gondor, my friend.  Sindarin is the language we have spoken throughout our history, and is widely used by the nobility.  But more and more of our daily business is conducted in Westron, it seems.”

            “Westron is the name for the Common Tongue?”

            “Yes.”

            Frodo nodded, a half smile at this intelligence on his expressive face.

            Boromir continued, “We do not speak Sindarin exactly as do the Elves of this place, I find.  Our accent is somewhat different, and we have different phrasings, or so it appears to me.  But those differences are not enough to keep me from understanding what is said by those who live here.”

            Frodo again nodded.  “I see.”  He stood a moment in thought before explaining, “Bilbo began teaching me Elvish when I was but a child, although he admitted that he wasn’t always certain he had the pronunciation quite right.  I even know some Quenya—not a great deal, mind you, but enough to appreciate some of the references in the books Master Elrond has shared with Bilbo and Great-grandfather Gerontius.  I doubt Uncle Paladin truly appreciates just how much correspondence has gone on historically between the Great Smial and Rivendell, actually.”  

            He sat himself upon the bench at Boromir’s side, apparently having decided to be companionable.  “The voices of the Elves—they are so beautiful,” he said softly.  “I can sometimes seem to see that of which they speak, particularly when they sing or are chanting poetry.  That song that they were singing just then—it was about riding horseback, wasn’t it?”

            “Yes.”

            The Hobbit’s smile indicated he was pleased to see he had it aright.  “I could see it in my mind—a great crowd of folk, all following the huntsman together.”

            “It was a hymn in honor of Oromë, the Hunter among the Valar, the one known to the Rohirrim as Lord Bema,” Boromir explained.  “It is said that he was the first among the Powers to come across the newly awakened Elves by the Waters of the Beginning, so I must suppose he is greatly esteemed among them.”

          Again that smile of discovery.  “I see.”  Frodo Baggins looked up to search the Man’s eyes.  “How pleasant it must have been to come here and find that you understand the language, no matter how differently you might speak it within your home,” he said.  “As if you had come across unexpected kindred from afar.”

          Unexpected kindred from afar?  Boromir felt somehow discomfited by such a thought.  After all, from what he had learned of this Aragorn son of Arathorn—he appeared almost ready to press his claim to the Winged Crown and the throne of Gondor, and where might that leave Boromir and his family?  So long had the House of Húrin faithfully served the people of Gondor.  Certainly he should not desire to totally disinherit them or set them at naught?  Surely not!

          But it appeared that the Ringbearer had read his thought.  “Oh—so, your own people might have mixed thoughts at accepting Aragorn as your King, then?”

          Boromir realized his own expression must be perplexed.  Frodo merely sighed as he sat forward on the bench, setting his hands on either side of his thighs, turning his gaze toward a great urn before them.  For a moment the Man felt as if there were a strange kinship between his companion and that urn, both deceptively delicate in appearance and filled with an alien beauty, but both enduring beyond what a Man might expect of them.  But then the thought fled him as suddenly as it had come.

          Frodo Baggins was plainly thinking things through.  “It must be much as Otho and Lobelia felt when Bilbo brought me to Hobbiton as his ward, realizing I threatened their inheritance,” he said quietly.  He looked up to smile wryly at the Man.  “Otho Sackville-Baggins was Bilbo’s cousin, the son of his father’s next younger brother, and thus Bilbo’s proper heir according to Hobbit custom, seeing he never married or had children.  Otho was always a rather unpleasant chap, however, and when he married Lobelia Bracegirdle he became even more so.  Their son Lotho is a lout—always has been.  They spoiled him terribly as a lad, and allowed him to lord it over the other Hobbit children.  Nor did they do better by him as an adult.  Lobelia herself is a known petty thief, and she encouraged her son to follow in her footsteps, I fear.  Far too much time on his hands with far too little direction or proper employment.  He stole from the merchants in the marketplace, and pocketed trifles he saw when visiting with others.  I suppose it’s the Bracegirdle in him—he has a cousin named Timono who is just as quick to snatch up things that aren’t rightly his.”

          He sighed and shifted slightly.  “Bilbo, as family head for the Bagginses, was responsible for seeing to it that all those in the family who were in want had their needs met.  My parents died when I was a child, leaving me in want of a proper guardian.  My mother’s people insisted on keeping me for years, but at last agreed it was time I found a proper place among my own family of name.”  He paused, then blurted out, “They were almost killing me with kindness, you see.  Aunt Menegilda was so careful of me, I found it quite stifling.  I was a tween when Bilbo finally insisted it was time I came to Bag End with him.

          “I didn’t remember Lobelia to recognize her, although I remembered that she used to make my mother cry, back when I was little and we still lived in Hobbiton.  It was because of Lobelia that my father decided we should move east, first to Buckland and then Whitfurrow.  They came to see me, just after Bilbo brought me home, and were insufferably rude.”  His expression became wry.  “I have to admit I was equally rude in return.  Bilbo and I used to find ways of being scrupulously polite while being as rude to the three of them as we could be.”

          Boromir found himself laughing with delight.  “That,” he chortled, “must have taken a good deal of thought.”

          Frodo’s smile became more obvious as he looked down at his now linked fingers.  “It was often amusing to plan just how to be as insulting as possible using wording that could not be easily recognized as rude by anyone hearing the words repeated.  Bilbo had raised it to an art form.”  His eyes twinkled in appreciation for Boromir’s laughter.  He straightened, linking his hands behind his head as he stretched.  “Bilbo didn’t tell them that he’d truly adopted me as his heir, and Lobelia refused to believe that he’d actually do so without letting it be properly published about the Westfarthing.  By the time Bilbo decided to leave the Shire for good it was too late for them to do anything, and you can believe that Bilbo made certain that all was properly done so they could do nothing.  And the three of them had made themselves so unpopular that the best lawyers of the Shire cooperated to see to it the adoption papers were incontestable.  Believe me, Otho did his best to see if he could break Bilbo’s will!”

          “And who sees to your inheritance while you must be away?” asked the Man.

          The smile faded from the Hobbit’s face.  “I sold it—Bag End, that is.”  He sighed.  “I had to make it appear that I must leave Hobbiton, so I pretended to have come to the end of my money, and sold it.  I sold it to Lotho Sackville-Baggins and his mother.  Bilbo is most upset with me, allowing them to take possession of his beloved home.”  He stood up, drawing into himself.  “I doubt that I shall be returning home in any case.  I only pray they do well by the place.  If they don’t, I fear that Sam will take his vengeance on them when he returns to the Shire.”

          Boromir looked on Frodo Baggins and knew not what to think.  The Hobbit appeared particularly vulnerable and isolated, but also filled with a peculiar dignity and authority that somehow brought to mind his brother Faramir.  “And why is it that you do not believe you shall return to your own land?” he asked.

          Frodo snorted, a sound Boromir had not expected to hear from this one of all people.  “I ask you, my lord—I am to travel to Mordor, the Enemy’s own stronghold, and somehow enter into his lands, slipping past what I must guess to be highly guarded gates, and find my way all the way to the mountain where the Ring was forged.  Do you truly believe any person, no matter how trained he might be in stealth, can do such a thing?  And even if I come to the fire, what will happen when the Ring goes into it?  Do you think it even possible that anyone standing over the fire would survive once the Ring goes into it?  I doubt it.”  He shook his head.  “I must find my way, somehow in the trackless wilderness, and take these others I love with me, and even you and Strider, Masters Gimli and Legolas, into dangers they cannot begin to imagine on a quest that is nigh hopeless.  And I am not certain how to get there to begin with!”

          “Then, why did you volunteer to take it?” asked the Man.

          The Hobbit’s face was again pale, even his cheeks this time.  “You do not know what carrying—It—is like.  You do not know how It can take hold of you.  It has happened to me—twice.  You don’t want to feel It take you.  No one should ever feel such a—violation.  No one.  If I can make certain that no one else endures what I have, then I will see to it.

          “Now, if you will excuse me….”  So saying, he rose, gave a surprisingly graceful bow, and left, taking the passage that led toward the section of Imladris where he was housed.  Boromir was left, watching after him.

          After a moment the Lady Arwen entered.  She looked toward the passage Frodo had taken, obviously as thoughtful as Boromir himself.  At last she said, “He is finding the Ring a greater burden than he’d expected.  Bilbo, since the Ring was identified as Isildur’s Bane, has told me of how his thoughts were often fixed upon It to the exclusion of all else, of how he feared It might abandon him as It had the creature Gollum.  He has spoken of how he would attempt to leave it locked in a drawer in his study in Bag End, and find he could not enjoy himself at a banquet or party, realizing he was fearful that some harm might come upon It while he must be away.  Ah—to be so taken by what appeared to him to be a trifle, a simple souvenir of his journey to help retrieve treasure from Smaug.

          “He confided to me the other day that he’d often held the fancy that somehow the Ring was disappointed in him, and now realized it was more than a mere thought.  And he is in terror as to what It might do to the beloved son of the heart.  He has said many, many times that his beloved fosterling is the best of Hobbits throughout the Shire, one who learns well from his own errors and who seeks then to set things straight, one who is a paragon of responsibility and caring.  He would not see that gentleness sullied, or the responsibility punished as he realizes the Ring is capable of doing.”

          “You speak of the Ring as if It were a living being,” Boromir said, surprised.

          But she was shaking her head.  “Do not underestimate It or Its capabilities, Boromir of Gondor.  It holds the greater portion of Its dread Master’s evil intent and malice toward all other life.  It will betray us all if It can—never doubt that!”

          “And what would one raised in the protected seclusion of Imladris know of such things?” he demanded, the words rushing out of him as if with a life of their own.

          She sighed.  “I have not spent all my life here in my father’s house.  Nay, I have traveled the distance between here and my grandparents’ home far more often than you might realize, and particularly since my mother was forced by the evil of Sauron’s influence to abandon the Mortal Lands.  And you will find I have far more knowledge of the capabilities of the Great Rings than you could ever know in your lifetime, even if you were granted the grace to know the full tale of years granted my adar’s brother.

          “The Great Rings were all granted the ability to care for themselves, and the Ring even more power of self-determination than is true of the rest.  It does not stir here, in Imladris; again It slumbers.  But once the Ringbearer leaves the valley, I fear It will awaken with a vengeance, and will tear at him as It can, seeking to force him to turn from his purpose, to claim It for his own or to cast It away where It might be found by one of Its Master’s slaves.  It cannot easily escape from the chain on which It hangs, and the protection wrought into that chain may help dampen Its power somewhat for some time.  But what It will do to him as he comes ever closer and closer to Its birthplace—I fear for him.  Already he has been gravely wounded for Its sake, for It has sought to betray him several times since he left the home of his heart.  And how he will be torn when he realizes that It will also seek to turn the hearts of his companions—that will be a great torture.”

          She searched his face with eyes in which whole fields of stars seemed mirrored.  “Be ready, my lord, for It will seek to take your will as well as that of every other member of the Fellowship.  From what I have read of him, Frodo Baggins has managed to protect his friends and companions from Its influence over the years; but whether or not he can protect Men as he does Hobbits is questionable.”

          “Then you believe that the Ring will particularly be an evil influence upon Lord Aragorn and myself?”

          “It took the will of Isildur, and he was a most strong-willed individual, or so both my mother and father and their advisors have told me.  It has a particular affinity for Men, it would appear.  Remember—Its maker managed to corrupt the heart of Ar-Pharazôn to the point he felled the White Tree of Númenor and allowed it to be burnt upon Morgoth’s altar in Armenelos.  It will seek to do as much to those who bear the inheritance of the Star Island.

          “I do not fear as much for Aragorn as I do for you, Lord Boromir.  He has been mightily tried again and again throughout a lifespan nearly twice your own.  He knows much of his own strengths and weaknesses, and has experience at guarding his heart from outside influences.  Still, he will be as under assault by the Enemy’s weapon as will you.”

          She leaned closer to him.  “Be on your guard, and question any thought that would seek to turn you from your honor.  For not all the thoughts that cross your mind will be merely your own, you will find once you cross out of the borders of my father’s lands.  Remain vigilant!  And do not underestimate the Hobbit, for he has strengths you cannot fully understand.”

          She gave him one last searching look, and left him, returning the way she’d come.

          Warily, he watched after her, wondering what had motivated her to speak as she had.

A Warriors’ Dance

            “Face it, Master,” sighed Sam, dropping his foil with a desultory clunk! onto the low bench the four Hobbits used for their weapons, “I’ll never be any good with a sword!”

            “Nonsense, Sam,” Frodo said.  “Just imagine it’s but a variation of the Staves Dance.  You can do that well enough, you know, for you taught me.”

            Sam looked doubtful.  “But it’s not a dance as we’re doin’, Mr. Frodo, sir.”

            “And what’s the difference between doing weapons forms and a dance, Samwise Gamgee?”

            “You’re sayin’ as you think of the forms as we’re workin’ on as a dance?”

            “So, that’s how you’ve been doing so well with them, eh?” commented Merry, leaning on his foil.  He looked over at Boromir and confided, “He’s the best dancer in the Shire, you see.”

            “Only because Bilbo’s been here for the past seventeen years,” Frodo said, smiling.

            “What is this Staves Dance?” the Man asked.

            “It’s a dance that’s popular in the Northfarthing,” Pippin explained.  “Many of my North-Took relatives are quite good at it.  But it’s just not done by most Hobbits from the Westfarthing—they tend to consider it uncouth, dancing with long walking sticks, don’t you know.”

            Merry added, “I suspect most of those from the Westfarthing who watch it imagine getting hit by a staff and shudder inside.”

            Pippin nodded his agreement. 

            Boromir was intrigued.  “You dance with staves?” he asked.

            “Oh, yes,” Pippin said, warming in his enthusiasm.  “And Frodo and Sam do it very well, you see.”

            “Would you like to see it?” asked Merry.  He turned to Frodo.  “I saw some staves in the armory there, and a few were pretty short.  Must have been used a long time ago when there were children here in Rivendell.”

            Sam was flushing.  “I don’t know, Mr. Merry,” he began, but Frodo cut him off.

            “Oh, no, you don’t, Samwise Gamgee.  You’re quite good at it, and you know it.  Now, let’s you and me go into the armory there and see if we can find a staff apiece to perform it with.”

            “But there’s no music!” objected Sam.

            Frodo waved at Pippin.  “With Pippin here, you’d say that?  Oh, no, you know better than that, Sam.  Pippin can do the music.”  So saying he grabbed his companion’s arm and dragged him, still reluctant, into the armory.

            “You’ve seen him dance this before?” asked Boromir of Merry.

            “Oh, yes.  He used to dance each year at the Free Fair in Michel Delving, although it’s been a few years since he did it last.  When old Olimbard learned Frodo had learned the Staves Dance from Sam, he insisted he join a group of residents from the Long Cleeve to present the dance on the dancing ground before the ale tent.  Had planned to show him up, I suspect, but Frodo was the one who did the showing.”

            “How did Sam learn this dance?”

            “Oh, one year, early on after Frodo went to live with Bilbo in Hobbiton, Sam’s parents sent him off to his Uncle Andy in the Northfarthing to try his hand at becoming a roper.  My father says that the quality of rope that Sam made during his term at the ropewalk there in Tighfield was excellent, and he would have made a master roper.  But Sam’s first love is gardening, so he came back to Bagshot Row, insisting his father take him as an apprentice.  And there he’s stubbornly stayed ever since.”

            “He’s an excellent gardener,” Pippin assured the Man.

            Frodo and Sam came out of the armory, each one holding a stout rod somewhat longer than his own height.  “I feel a right fool, doin’ this for a person what hardly knows Hobbits,” Sam muttered under his breath, but he and Frodo squared off, facing one another with their staves held at chest height.

            “All right, Pippin; give us a chorus, then,” directed Frodo with a swift glance at his younger kinsman, and then he turned his attention back to Sam.  Sam held his staff horizontally, and Frodo adjusted his grip to hold his own upright.

            Pippin began to sing.

            Where the music of Elves made Boromir’s scalp prickle, Pippin’s singing instead made him smile at the simple, vibrant, mortal beauty of it.  From the corner of his eye, the Man realized that others had entered the salle, and he saw Mithrandir’s bushy brows lift with pleasure.

            “We’re to be given a special honor,” the Wizard murmured to his companion.

            It was probably as well that Sam’s back was to the door, or he might have refused to dance at all had he realized that Lord Elrond was now one of his audience, Boromir thought.  But then the chorus was being repeated, and the dancing began….

            During the journey to follow, Boromir was to think back on that exhibition with great pleasure.  Frodo was graceful when presenting his forms with his weapon; but now—he was a living flame when he danced, a flame that lit a corresponding fire in Sam.  There was nothing oafish in the gardener now, not when dancing opposite Frodo Baggins!  The staves flashed and clattered together, were whirled overhead and leapt over as they skimmed the ground.  But the two performing the dance shone equally as they danced to the music of Peregrin Took’s voice.

            Boromir could only stand and watch, transfixed as he was not by the songs given in Elrond’s Hall of Fire.  He saw not two stunted individuals of foolish appearance, but instead two competent warriors who trusted one another implicitly, for had a single blow from either staff landed on a head or shoulder there would have been cracked skulls and broken bones.  But the other’s staff was always there to shield its wielder from certain injury, or the body would have twisted away or leapt high over the other’s weapon.

            The dance finally ended, but the enchantment continued for a few moments as Sam and Frodo faced one another, Sam breathing heavily and grinning widely, and Frodo’s head erect with triumph.  “That was a right workout, and no mistake, Master,” Sam panted, raising his staff to lean on it.

            Frodo, however, didn’t even appear remotely winded.  But his eyes were shining as he noted their host’s approval.  “You did superbly, Sam,” he said in praise, and Sam flushed the more with sheer pleasure—until he turned and realized that more than Boromir had watched the performance.  He first paled, then went stark red with embarrassment, although he kept his head erect.  Frodo flashed him another quick smile as he handed the gardener his own staff.  “Here, let you return them and get your composure once more.  And you are as good as any gentlehobbit from Long Cleeve any day, Samwise Gamgee.”

            As he entered the armory, Sam again was glowing with pleasure at his Master’s approval, and Boromir realized that this would help the gardener face the attention of the Master of Imladris and the Wizard the better.

            As for Mithrandir—you would have thought the Hobbits’ skill was somehow his own doing, or so Boromir found himself thinking.

For Thundera Tiger and J-Dav for their birthdays, and in memory of Roisin.

Return of the Scouts

            Boromir awoke feeling restless.  It was four weeks from the time of the Council, and still nothing seemed to have been done about sending them forth from Elrond’s valley.  He worked with the Hobbits daily, but saw little progress.  Frodo was the best of the four with forms, but was uncertain when it came to sparring.  Sam was finally beginning to hold his sword properly, but he paused too long before using it defensively; the Man despaired of him being able to adequately protect himself, much less to take the offensive against an enemy.  Young Pippin showed the best progress in using his weapon, actually; but he was so small and light compared to even the other Hobbits that Boromir wondered as to how he could ever handle himself should they come to blows with an enemy force.

            He dressed and went to the dining hall, where he gathered a small plate of foodstuffs he could take with him, and wandered toward the front doors, intent on walking free of the great edifice of the Last Homely House for a time.

            The sky was grey as pearls as he emerged onto the fore porch; he deemed it would most likely rain by late afternoon.  The wind was cold—far colder than one would know at this time of year in Minas Tirith.  “And we are to leave here in such weather,” he muttered to himself, “with a northern winter about us!”  He found himself shaking his head at the futility of such an act.  How would they supplement their diet in such a case?  There was a limit as to how much food they could expect to take with them, and there would be little chance to find any greens along the way.  He had gone along on a few patrols with Faramir’s Rangers, and knew how they depended on the herbs to be found in the forests of Ithilien and in fields gone feral to help stave off the weakness that came from depending solely upon breads and meats for one’s meals.  Where would they find green stuffs if they must travel through a winter landscape?  Deer would be growing thin with their own winter foraging depleted, and many of the birds and animals one might seek to hunt would have sought other lands for the winter, or would be sleeping deep in dens, inaccessible to hungry wanderers within the wild.

            The one advantage was that there would be less likelihood of encountering enemies at such a time, as the need for food would be as great a worry for others as for themselves.  “Faramir should have been sent on this mission,” he admitted grudgingly.  “He has always been the more canny hunter, and is better trained to recognize potential for food and shelter in the wilderness.  And he is also better at recognizing the camps of enemies than I.”

            He wandered down the steps and along the paved way toward the bridge that cut the House of Elrond off from the entrance to the vale.  At last he sat on a grey stone, and set to eating, looking about himself morosely as he chewed upon a morning roll.

            He turned his head at a shrill yet sweet whistle, and realized that an Elf stood on guard opposite himself as a form straightened to listen also to that distant call.  The guard caught his eye, and informed him, “A scouting party has just crossed at the fords!”  He hurried to the doors and threw them open, calling his news within before returning to his post.

            It was quite some time before the expected party actually arrived at the doors of the Last Homely House, however.  One of those within the party was a northern Ranger he’d seen at Weathertop, the one called Hardorn; there were two Elves among the Men who’d ridden in with him, neither of whom he recognized.  They were welcomed within, and led to the room where the Man Aragorn had received his own reports on the day of the Council.  Here the newly come searchers were furnished with food and drink, and Master Elrond and his advisers received their news:  the Black Riders had not been seen anywhere west of the Weather Hills, nor had there been any rumors of the feelings of terror or oppression that surrounded them anywhere within the Breelands.  Of the Rangers who had been stationed at the Sarn Ford at the time the wraiths entered the Shire, just as Master Frodo was leaving Hobbiton, there were but three survivors, one of whom had been badly wounded and whose recovery was impeded by the feelings of despair he fought.  Boromir listened from the back of the room, remembering how many of those who’d stood in the way of the Nazgûl in western Osgiliath had been left laid low by the Black Breath on the day the bridge fell.

            He found himself watching the Ringbearer, who stood reluctantly by Master Elrond, Mithrandir behind him with a reassuring hand on his shoulder, duty-bound to hear the reports with the rest.  The Hobbit nodded his head as he listened, but his expression remained solemn, his eyes shadowed with concern.

            The next morning another party arrived—three Elves who’d followed the Bruinen almost all the way to the Sea.  They had found black mantles that had been torn away by the flood, and the corpses of a few of the horses.  These they’d dragged from the river and left to the mercies of scavengers.  Some of those they’d encountered south and east of the Shire had reported doing similarly with a single steed that had been carried much farther afield.  Two swords, one of them with a broken blade and the other badly damaged, had been found; and one displayed a coronet of iron that caused all to blanch.  Frodo’s face was pale, and Boromir noted that he clutched at his shoulder as if it pained him.

            Scouts continued to trickle in.  No signs of the Riders had been seen anywhere to the north at all.  A hunting party encountered near the last bridge over the Mitheithel had reported seeing a large number of carrion birds some days earlier when they were nearer the Bruinen, and had noted them feeding on what appeared to be the remains of a black horse, competing with a pair of wolves for the prize.  No, they had not reported any feelings of distress at the time.   North, south, or west—all seemed clear of any report of the Enemy’s darkest servants.

            The twin sons of Master Elrond arrived at last, although from separate directions.  All was quiet in the Ettenmoors, and the next pass to the north, one that was even now closed due to snow and rock falls, was free of any sign of passage of any sort.  The other came from the High Pass over which the Road climbed eastward; the Mountain Giants that frequented the high vales were not to be seen, and even the orcs that usually issued from the darker paths leading off the Road had left no signs of any activity.  He’d been as far east as the Carrock, and none of Beorn’s folk reported disturbances in their lands.  Flights of crebain had been noted toward southern Mirkwood, but such was not unusual in such lands.  As he’d been returning, there had been an avalanche somewhat north of the Road just east of the summit; he did not believe any could look to come that way until the spring returned.

            Among the last to return was Aragorn son of Arathorn, looking gaunt and exhausted, the heel of one boot broken off, his short beard and hair unkempt.  He had traveled first west and south to Tharbad, then had scouted the lands of Rhudaur, traveling the Hoarwell valley and searching some of the lesser used passes as he came north.  The orcs of the Misty Mountains appeared to have withdrawn into their caverns in the deep places, and save for a few distant sightings of flocks of crows and crebain he’d seen little to indicate any living creatures were stirring. 

            The morning after his return Boromir was invited again to break his fast in the private dining room where the family appeared to eat when there were no guests within Imladris.  Again Frodo Baggins was in attendance, as were his kinsmen and Samwise Gamgee, the Elf, and the Dwarf.  Mithrandir entered alongside Lord Elrond and the Chieftain of the northern Dúnedain.  The Man certainly looked cleaner, Boromir thought, and both his hair and beard appeared to have been trimmed somewhat and combed free of their formerly matted state.  But his eyes were still somewhat sunken, and his skin appeared rather grey.

            After the meal had been served and the servants withdrew, Elrond spoke.  “The last of the scouts has returned, and it appears that the Nazgûl are no longer west of the mountains.  From what has been seen, all is quiet, and even the trolls and orcs have gone to ground.  It appears that all will be well for those of the Fellowship of the Ring to go forth soon.

            “Tomorrow the smiths of Imladris, assisted by Master Gimli and Aragorn, shall begin the reforging of Narsil.  Lord Glóin’s design for its remaking has been approved by all.  I would ask now what other arms will be carried by the company.”

            Gandalf straightened.  “I shall carry Glamdring and my staff,” he told them.  “With my eating knife I shall be as capable of defending myself as may prove necessary.”

            Aragorn said, “Besides the Sword reforged I shall carry my bow and a quiver of arrows, although I suspect I will mostly use them for hunting.  I will also carry a dagger and a boot knife.  And the scalpels in my healer’s kit may be small, but at need they may be used well enough in defense by one who knows the construction of the body well.”

            The Dwarf, it proved, would go well armed, with his great axe that doubled as a walking staff, two smaller throwing axes, and an eating knife that could easily be used as a dagger.  Frodo would carry Sting, and the others each carried the swords they’d brought from the Barrow-downs.  Each also carried a small eating knife, and Sam admitted he carried a folding skinning knife with him.

            “I would advise, then, that if you can, you should carry it on your person rather than within your pack,” suggested Elrond.  “And I can provide a knife suitable to scale and filet fish also, should any wish it.”

            Boromir was surprised to see the Ringbearer himself straighten at the offer.  “I should be glad of such a thing,” Frodo said.  “Mine was in the clothing taken from me by the wight, and it was not to be found when Master Tom freed us from the barrow.”

            Legolas carried his bow and quiver, which he’d been filling with the arrows he’d been fletching over much of the last few weeks, a belt knife, and a larger long knife with a white handle that he indicated he’d used for many years when he must fight hand to hand.  “I assure you,” he noted, “that I am very good with it.”

            “Boastful, is he, our Elvish princeling?” muttered Gimli softly, and Boromir saw the Elf’s jaw clench, indicating he’d heard well enough.  The Gondorian, however, felt that the statement had been straightforward, and suspected that it was no boast, but merely the factual reporting of a seasoned warrior.

            “And I shall carry my sword and shield and dagger, and have a throwing knife in each boot,” Boromir advised them all.  “So, Lord Aragorn here shall carry a healer’s kit?  I deem such will undoubtedly be most useful with so many in the party.  You can set a broken bone and stitch a wound, then?  I have had to set stitches a few times for my men, but admit I am not skilled at it.” 

            “I have seen to it that all who have come to this house for training are trained at least in basic skills in treating wounds and common ailments known by those who must travel,” Elrond said.  “I assure you that Aragorn is a competent healer, and should prove capable of meeting most situations you are likely to meet.”  Aragorn himself merely met Boromir’s gaze levelly, although a muscle in one cheek tightened slightly.

            “I will gather a small store of such herbs as will be most likely to prove useful,” Elrond continued.  “It cannot be as large a variety or in such quantities as would prove best, perhaps, as you will need to carry all upon your persons….”

            “But we’ll have a pack pony with us,” interrupted Master Samwise.  The Hobbit stopped, suddenly realizing how abruptly he’d blurted this out, and flushed a brilliant scarlet.  “Please forgive me,” he said, ducking his head.  “Perhaps I oughtn’t to of spoken out so.  But we won’t be leavin’ our Bill behind—wouldn’t be right, if I might make so bold.  I mean, he’s come so far with us and all.  And we’ll be needing a goodly bit of stuff to make this journey if’n I begin to understand the plans at all.  Which,” he added in a lower voice, “I have to admit as I probably don’t.”

            Remembering the pony he’d seen in the pasture, Boromir found himself wondering just how the Hobbit could think that it would be able to stand up to such a journey.  However, one of Elrond’s sons spoke up in support for Sam.  “Having seen just how much the Hobbits’ pony has benefited by its stay here and how eagerly it greets Masters Samwise and Frodo when they visit with it, I suspect that he is right.  The creature has accepted them as its herd, and will be devastated if it is forced to remain behind when they must leave the valley.”

            “But our ways may take us down paths and roads where a pony may not be able to travel,” objected the Dwarf Gimli.

            Aragorn was listening gravely to the comments made by Gimli, and then turned his attention back to the ducked head of the gardener before fixing on the troubled visage of Frodo Baggins, who, Boromir deemed, most likely saw the truth of the Dwarf’s words even as he appreciated the great love his companion held for the skewbald pony.  The Man stroked his chin thoughtfully as he at last turned toward Lord Elrond.  “I find I must agree with Sam here,” he said at last.  “‘Trust to their friendship,’ or so Gandalf has counseled you before.  There is a different friendship here that must be honored—that between the pony and those it has accepted as its rightful masters.  I, too, have seen the love that has grown between Sam and the pony Bill, and the protective nature it has developed toward Frodo here.”

            Frodo’s face paled, although his cheeks were a distinct pink now.

            The Man continued, “Great heart should not be denied, I think, although I suspect that Master Gimli is all too correct that somewhere along the way our path might well lead where Bill cannot follow.  But, if it had not been for the faithfulness of Bill, I doubt we should not have arrived here with Frodo strong enough to be healed.  And during the weather we are likely to face during the beginning of the quest, we shall need more provisions at least until we have been able to cross to the east side of the Misty Mountains.”

            Gandalf was clearly holding his tongue, although knowing him as he did, Boromir suspected that the Wizard sided with the Dwarf in his own estimation of the situation.

            Master Elrond was looking from one face to another of those who would comprise the Fellowship.  Boromir suspected the Dwarf could well prove right, but kept his own face studiously neutral.  It would be a far easier journey, even if it were merely in the first portions of it, if they did not have to carry all they took with them upon their own backs and shoulders.  Legolas had a slight smile of sympathy aimed at Samwise, who missed it as he was keeping his own eyes fixed on the backs of his hands where they lay folded together on the table.  Pippin, his spoon paused midway from his plate, was looking hopefully at the Master of Imladris, and Merry had one hand on Pippin’s shoulder.  Frodo was also trying to keep his own expression neutral, while Gimli appeared wholly disapproving.  Aragorn’s face appeared merely calm, as if having had his say he would accept whatever would be decided with no further argument.

            At last Elrond sighed.  “So it shall be:  the pony will go with the party to carry what extra supplies they will take.  It is not a foolish beast—or so it has proved so far.  If they find they cannot take it further, I suspect it will be able to find its way back here until they can return.”

            Sam raised his head, his expression grateful, and Frodo smiled indulgently at him, although when he looked away Boromir caught a glimpse of concern—apparently the Ringbearer was considering the pain his friend would know should they be forced to part with the pony along the way.

            Now Boromir spoke up himself.  “Then, when is it we shall set out upon our journey?” he asked.

            “We need to finish gathering such supplies as we can send with you,” Elrond said, sharing glances with his counselors and Mithrandir.  “And there is the need to reforge Narsil once more and temper it properly and test its mettle.”

            The Elf known as Lindir spoke up.  “I suspect that the best day on which to begin the journey should be perhaps a week before the solstice.  There are storms sweeping toward us even as we sit here now; they should be calm by that time.”

            “And what route are we to take?” asked the Dwarf.  “Should we head directly over the High Pass?”

            But one of the sons of Elrond was shaking his head.  “Not that way,” he advised.  “As was reported when we returned, as of this time the passes are all closed.  I doubt that any pass north of the Redhorn Gate shall be open for crossing until the spring is well upon us.”

            “There is the Gap of Rohan,” Boromir suggested.

            But Mithrandir spoke definitely:  “No, we cannot go that way.  Once I managed to escape Saruman’s clutches—he will not allow me to escape him a second time, and particularly not if I come near him in the company of the Ringbearer.”

            Frodo’s face went pale again with concern, even his cheeks this time.

            Aragorn spoke up at last, saying, “Nay—we cannot as of this time predict how things shall be this long before we can even come there.  I would advise against making a firm decision as to which path we should take to go east of the mountains until we are within striking distance of the Redhorn Gate.  None can say how the patterns of weather might change between now and then, won’t you agree?”

            So saying, he met Mithrandir’s eyes, and the Wizard indicated his agreement.  “That is true, son of Arathorn.  We will wait until we have reached that pass before deciding on which route we shall take further.”

            Elrond nodded.  “So be it, then.  A week before the turning of the year as mortals account time we shall plan to see the Fellowship depart our valley.  Use well the time to prepare yourselves, my friends.”

            And with that, a much subdued company turned their attentions to their meal, each thinking on his own concerns as he ate, only Peregrin Took eating much, Boromir noted.

Written for Keiliss for the LOTR Yule Exchange.

Talk of Paths to Be Trod

            Boromir found that the Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain was sitting alone at a table in one corner of the main dining hall that night.  As he approached carrying his own plate, he asked, “May I sit with you this evening?”

            The other Man looked up, obviously tired yet with a sincere smile of recognition.  “Do so, and be welcome, Boromir.  I am told that you have been schooling the Hobbits in the arts of weaponry, and doing a fair job of it, from the reports given me by Master Elrond and Glorfindel.  That can only work to the good for us all on this journey, or so I’d hazard.  I fear that the further south we go, the greater the chance that we will be forced to close with enemies.”

            “You do not eat with Lord Elrond and his family this evening?”

            “Another emissary has come from Mithlond and the wandering tribes in what remains of Lindon.  I fear that all are closeted now with Gandalf regarding the latest threats to the coastline.  We of the Dúnedain of Eriador have few people living in their territory, so I can have little enough advice on how to deal with whatever threats they face.  I have been allowed a bit of time to myself this evening, and soon enough I shall be seeking yet another hot bath to banish away what chill still remains in my bones before I retire for a good sleep in a proper bed once more.”

            “Tired, are we?” asked a voice, and Boromir looked up, startled to find that the twin sons of Lord Elrond stood behind him, each bearing a plate of food.  Without further ado they settled into two of the other seats at the table and placed their meals before them.  The one who’d spoken was considering Aragorn closely.  “You went far and far, I suppose, Estel.”

            “That I did,” the Man agreed.  “And I traveled through snow and cold rain much of the time.  And I must admit that at this time I feel every one of my years, and that I still feel cold through and through.”

            The other twin looked to his brother.  “And in the end he went alone, as is usual with him, sending even Halbarad in company with others that they be best defended while he took the harder path, trusting in his own skill and luck to protect himself from the cold and whatever enemies he might encounter.”  He turned his attention back to Aragorn once more.  “We tell you again, youngling—you do best to travel in company with others that you not render yourself unexpectedly vulnerable to wound, accident, or illness.  Most hardy of Men you might be, but you are yet mortal.”

            Aragorn made a most undignified snort.  “Youngling, is it?  As if your daernaneth didn’t call you the same.”  He stretched and took a drink from the mug before him.  “Youth,” he said, setting down his cup once more, “is a relative thing, as you well know.  And I am no longer young in the count of mortals.”

            The two Peredhil shrugged, and turned their attention to their own meals.  After a time, Aragorn looked to his mortal companion.  “Tell us of your journey here.  We may well need to follow the same path backwards once more, although my heart tells me we ought to skirt far around the vale of Isengard, now that Saruman’s treachery has been laid bare.  I travel oft enough to the ruins of Tharbad, but rarely beyond it, and have not set foot in the southern lands west of the Misty Mountains in more than two score years.  What are the defenses that you have seen in the Dunlands or the plains of Rohan?  How does Gondor seek to preserve its own borders within Anórien?  How would such a group as we be likely to be dealt with should we be forced to travel through their lands?”

            Boromir found himself shrugging.  “Our defenses have been much weakened by recurring assaults by orcs and brigands who appear to have come south out of Dunland to the west, and from across the river where it is most passable near the Isle of Cair Andros.  As for Rohan, there have been many strikes at their northern borders, and far more incursions through the Eastfold and into the Westemnet than have been seen in many generations.  The lands just south of Orthanc have ever been in contention between the Dunlendings and the Rohirrim; but it isn’t just the odd Dunland incursion that has been happening in the past two years.  More orcs have been seen now seeking shelter in the Ered Nimrais, and they often cooperate with those who come down from the north and east.  And a new sort has been seen lately—great battle uruk-hai of unknown origin.  Tall and muscular are they, and they have taken part in assaults throughout the Westfold and the Westemnet, even into the southwest portions of the Eastfold, which has been much depleted in population.  And I must say that we have seen them east of the Mering Stream from time to time as well.  They do not bear the Eye, and so do not appear to have come from Mordor.  But what their origin might be we cannot tell.”

            Aragorn’s face was thoughtful as he slowly ate the meal before him and listened to what the Gondorian had to say.  “A new breed of uruk, eh?” he commented.  “That is an unneeded thing—to bring about yet another sort to fight!  And I wonder how the Enemy has managed to do this?  Not, of course, that he has not had the whole of the past age in which to perfect his own Master’s corrupt vision.”  He sighed, and took another sip of his drink.

            The two Peredhil exchanged glances.  “I like this not,” one said.  “Yet another abomination to fight that the Shadow not overwhelm us all?”

            “Nor I, Elrohir.”  Elladan’s expression was dark.

            Aragorn looked from one to the other.  “And I make yet another who is not pleased by such news,” he said.  He turned his gaze back to meet that of Boromir.  “And how would we most likely be greeted by the rulers of Rohan?”

            Boromir felt the muscles in his jaw tighten.  “I cannot say.  I remember when I was younger that we were ever welcomed within Rohan, and I was oft sent by my father as emissary between us to Théoden’s court.  Never then did I feel aught but welcome and friendship.  But this last trip----”  He felt the words failing him.

            “This last trip?” prompted the Man by him.

            Boromir shook himself.  “Things were not as they were before.  Oh, the King was there and appeared alert enough, but it is as if he were much aged before his time, and as if there were some veil that hid the outer world before his sight.  He is not blind nor deafened,” he hastened to reassure the others, “but it is as if he does not attend on all that is said to him, and ever he looks to his counselor Gríma ere he will answer what is asked of him, as if the half-Dunland wretch somehow must approve what he would say.  His heart darkens within him as it has not since the death of his beloved wife many years since.  His son Théodred, whom I once thought of as one of my closest friends, was distant to me this time, and his nephew Éomer stood in the back of the hall and glowered the whole of the time I was there, but not, I thought, at me, but at Gríma instead.  Éowyn, Éomer’s sister, stood by her lord uncle and tended to his needs as if he were in need of a nurse, although I saw no signs he ought to be overborne by the weight of his years.  She glanced at me warily, and then back toward Gríma, whom they privately call ‘Wormtongue,’ as if in warning.

            “I do not understand what it is that happens within Rohan, but I like it not.  It was Théodred and not the King who saw a better horse chosen for me than the one I rode from Gondor for the journey north, though he spoke little to me beyond letting me know he gifted this from his own herds.  Not that I rode it long.  For I was caught in a flood at the crossing at Tharbad, and almost lost my life there.”

            “So they told me when I stopped among those who even now seek to ride out the winter in the village they are now building atop the ruins of the former city,” Aragorn told him.  “They told me that the signs were that your horse was able to free itself of the current and made its way southward once more, scraping off much of your goods along the way.”

            “Even so,” Boromir agreed.  “Some of what he had borne was restored to me ere I parted from them to continue the journey north.  Great of heart I found those who seek to rebuild Tharbad.”

            “If a half-Dunlandish sort holds the King’s ear in Rohan,” Aragorn said consideringly, his gaze now fixed toward a distant window, “we cannot look necessarily for welcome should we find ourselves there.  The folk of Dunland have no great love for either those of the Mark or for my people here in northern Eriador—too often have we all stood in opposition to one another across the battlefield, and the Enemy has always encouraged them to see those upon their borders as rivals rather than as potential allies.”

            “You must go warily,” advised Elladan.

            “And carry a large stick,” added his brother.

            Aragorn gave them a wry look.  “With Narsil forged anew and riding on my hip, I must suppose I shall indeed carry a stick large enough to impress the Rohirrim.  Of course, that would be if we had reason to travel within their lands.”

            “Think you that we will cross the mountains before we go that far?” questioned Boromir.

            “As Gandalf has indicated, Saruman is not likely to ignore his presence anywhere within the vicinity of Isengard, and particularly if he comes in the company of the one bearing Sauron’s Ring.  Too long has he sought It, or so we have learned.  As he has declared Sauron his Master, even if in truth he seeks It for himself, Saruman must be seen by us to be as great a danger as any other servant of Mordor, and must be avoided at all costs.”

            Boromir nodded his understanding, but in his heart hoped they would indeed travel that way once more.  He had no wish to see any more Elvish lands, no matter how fair they might be; and the Redhorn Gate had a fell name in the tales of his people.  It was said that once Dwarves dwelt in the mountains under it, but that long ago a great evil had erupted in their dark caverns and had slain nearly all who lived there, as well as most who had lived both east and west of the pass.  He could not imagine any good to be found in the passage of the mountains over a place with such a dark history.

            And that night, in his dreams, he saw Théodred, now King of Rohan in his father’s place, riding out to greet him, Éomer behind him as his trusted second, and the Lady Éowyn laughing with delight to see him leading the Fellowship into the land of Rohan on its way eastward to the defeat of the Unnamed One.

Reforged

            Boromir woke before dawn, dressed swiftly, and hurried to the dining hall, where it seemed ever at least some fruit, bread, and drink were to be had.  He swiftly gathered sufficient to see his early morning hunger allayed, and then went on his way to the smithy where this day’s excitement would surely be found.

            Aragorn son of Arathorn was already there, as were the smith he’d seen before, Master Elrond himself accompanied by Lindir, Erestor, Glorfindel, and his twin sons, and Legolas of Mirkwood.  Gimli arrived a few moments later, followed by Frodo Baggins, Samwise Gamgee, and the Wizard.  Gimli wore his heavy boots and what appeared to be a comfortable shirt with scarred sleeves, and carried what proved to be a thick leather apron that he swiftly drew on. 

            The broken blade of the sword, its shards looking strangely bereft after the removal of the mithril runes, lay before them upon a length of blue velvet.  Aragorn stood looking down on the steel, his eyes thoughtful as he considered them.  He also wore a leather apron over a shirt that had seen much use in hard labors.  Before them was a table on which lay three hammers, two obviously of Elven make and one that had a shorter head and haft that yet appeared heavier than the others—plainly a Dwarf hammer intended for Gimli son of Glóin to wield.

            The master smith looked at those who had gathered to see the reforging of the blade.  “I believe that this is best done by cooperation of all of the Children of Ilúvatar.  Lo, this blade was originally wrought in the depths of time by Telchar the Dwarf and was eventually given by him into the keeping Elu Thingol, who passed it to Finrod Felagund, who in turn gave it into the hands of his friend Barahir, a Man.  So it has descended to the heirs of Barahir and in time into the keeping of the current Heir of Isildur.

            “Its light has helped to dispel the blackness of evil for over three Ages of the Sun.  It is time for it to be reforged and rekindled, and it will be by the joint efforts of Dwarf, Elf, and Man that this shall come to pass.  Each of us shall strike in turn.  And, Master Baggins, if you will assist in the working of the bellows for the forge, I believe that we will see this done.”

            “And if you will allow me to spark the fire,” murmured the Wizard.  At a nod from the master smith, Mithrandir stretched out his arms, lifting his staff; and closing his eyes uttered a Word, at which the fire upon the forge suddenly flared first green and then white hot.  The smith’s helpers were swiftly shoveling lumps of charcoal into the firebox, and Frodo took a place as indicated across from one of the smiths to help work the bellows, Sam hovering behind his Master’s shoulders.

            With tongs the shards of the blade were lifted and thrust into the flame of the fire, held there until they began to glow white hot, at which time they were laid upon the anvil set for the use of those who worked to reforge the blade.  And the Elves sang….

            This was a song of making, of craft, of forging of weapons, of beating the white-hot iron into blades keen as shards of glass but far more durable.  Noldor magic? Boromir wondered.  Yea, it must be that!  And he heard a wordless tune, a descant to that sung by the Elves, added by Mithrandir, which inspired the golden-haired Legolas to add his own song, and at last the Dwarf began his own addition, timed to the beating of his hammer, guiding the blows of the other two, Aragorn and the Elven smith, as each took part in the reforging.

            The fields of many battles appeared before Boromir’s eyes, then the flights of Eagles in defiance to the spawn of evil magics.  He saw the stealth of those who appeared out of the depths of the forest to attack those who would bring darkness into the sacred places where the Elves of the forests kept their revels.  He heard the primal beating of the hearts of the Earth’s own children as they explored Mahal’s gifts of metal and stone, as they brought beauty out of sheer mass of matter.  And then he heard another song begun, as Frodo Baggins, who ought to be so winded by his efforts on the bellows he could utter no song or music of his own, also began to sing.  And now Boromir saw what it is that weapons were forged to protect—the beauty of the land and its children, the innocence of families as they strove to bring in the harvest and marveled at the glory of flowers and turning leaves.

            Seven times was the steel folded and hammered out, the last time into a great long rod that should be the blade once it was properly flattened and shaped and sharpened.  The fourth, central, time, the three hairs were laid upon the steel as it was folded, and the three drops of blood were shaken into the new barrel that held the liquid in which the blade was being tempered.

            Each time that the metal was folded and beaten anew the two Hobbits changed places, allowing each some rest.  Food and drink were brought to those who filled the forge, both workers and observers, throughout the day, and it seemed ever someone was settling a mug or small plate of fruit or cold meats by the sides of the two Halflings.

            As evening fell they could see that the steel was now in its final form, the blade straight and true, the edge beginning to show its definition, the side of the blade shimmering but smooth as it caught the light.  The Lady Arwen had entered the forge among those who brought the latest offering of food for those who had labored all of the day at the task of seeing the blade of Narsil forged anew.  Aragorn turned to catch her eye, and gave her an exhausted smile.  As he lifted the blade for her inspection, she came closer.  “This shall seek ever to protect all?” she asked.

            “So I have vowed,” he said with conviction.

            She touched the metal with the tip of her finger, and, lo!  It proved already sharp enough to draw blood!  She allowed the blood to run down the edge, and then shook her hand over the barrel.  “May it never be raised solely for reasons of gain or to merely seek mastery over others,” she said.  “May it ever by a tool of defense for all that need protection!”

            The smith lowered the blade once more into the barrel, and as it came forth Boromir saw that it shone indeed, as it was said of old Narsil had ever done.  And now it was laid upon the forge, and with a special tool the Dwarf began to draw the sigils and runes that would serve to guard both blade and bearer from the evil intent of those who threatened all of the Children of the Creator, crooning a different song now.  Once the runes were drawn and the steel polished once more to smoothness, two came from an inner forge, carrying a crucible between them.  Gimli’s eyes opened further with approval.  “The mithril!” he breathed.

            The Elves sang as the crucible was lowered and carefully turned to allow the liquid mithril to flow down the ribbon of groove that fed from one rune to the next, until all was filled with the silvery metal.  Then the sword was turned over, and now it was the smith who drew the signs as the crucible was borne back into the inner forge.  This time Aragorn, Gimli, and the smith together sang as the remainder of the liquid mithril formed the second set of runes and decorations.  Sun, Moon, and stars bloomed upon the blade, as well as the name Aragorn had given this sword.

            “For it shall now be known as Andúril, the Flame of the West,” he proclaimed as he this time drew it from the barrel, shining brightly in the light of torches, Moon, and stars that now filled the building.

            Frodo appeared very weary as he watched from the high stool someone had brought for him to sit upon.  “It is nearly done?” he asked.

            “We will polish and smooth it throughout the night,” said the smith, “and tomorrow the blade will be sharpened.  Yea, it is nearly done.  Will you now breathe upon it?”

            The Hobbit appeared startled.  “Breathe upon it?”

            “Your people are not given to warcraft, but instead to the nurturing and turning of the earth and to the raising of food.  Your breath shall help to hallow it to its purpose of protection of all that is fruitful and innocent.”

            Only when the Wizard nodded, smiling in encouragement, did Frodo slip off his stool and approach the anvil.  The smith thrust the blade once more into the barrel and took it out, rubbing it dry with a length of new chamois before setting it upon the anvil.  The fire of the forge itself was finally settling into a dull red as the flames were allowed to sink at last, and the air within the exposed shell of the building was becoming cool.  Outside it was frosty, and as he looked behind him Boromir thought he saw hints of a veil of cloud descending from the crests of the mountains to the east.  “Snow before morning,” he murmured.

            “Indeed, so it would appear,” agreed Lindir.

            One could see the mist of the Hobbit’s breath as he leaned forward to breathe upon the length of the blade; then it was turned over and he walked its length again.  He looked a bit light-headed as he finished, and his face was pale when he finally pulled back and Sam settled his hand on the taller Halfling’s shoulder.

            Now Mithrandir came forward, and examined the blade critically, finally raising his head to beam at those who had taken part in the forging of the sword.  “Well done indeed,” he said.  “Let the flame of this blade, once kindled, ever lead truly those who seek to protect others.”  He leaned over, and breathed upon the symbols of Sun, stars, and Moon, and they shone forth as he stood once more.

            Boromir felt the hairs on the back of his head lifting as he watched Samwise Gamgee urging his fellow out of the smithy and back to his own quarters.  “That was quite a bit of work, and no mistake,” he heard the gardener saying as he and Frodo quit the building.  “But a body needs rest, too.  Come on, Mister Frodo.”

Written for the LOTR Community's "Hit the Books" challenge.  For LindaHoyland and Tracey Claybon for their birthdays.

All the King’s Men

            Frodo sat reading in the silvery light of a window in the great library of the Last Homely House.  It had rained yesterday, the rain gently but firmly stripping the last orange and brown leaves from the trees outside, allowing daylight, filtered as it was by today’s high clouds, to fall upon the book he was perusing, which lay upon a low table.  Frodo sat in a comfortably cushioned chair appropriate to his height, undoubtedly crafted for his uncle, who’d been a resident of Imladris, Boromir understood, for the past seventeen years.  Frodo leaned over the book, his left elbow resting upon the table’s surface and his cheek cradled in his hand.

            Boromir felt a tug at his heart—how this image brought to mind his own beloved younger brother, who whenever he could would sit thus, also bent over whatever tome had most recently caught his interest.

            Face it—Boromir was homesick!  It was nearly half a year since he’d left Minas Tirith and his brother’s company, seeking after the meaning of that puzzling dream that had troubled himself and so many of his kin, including Faramir.  He’d not been certain why he’d ended up here in Master Elrond’s library until now, seeing the Halfling—Hobbit—with his attention fixed upon his book.  At home when restless and wanting to explore his own apparently fathomless thoughts this was what he’d do, after all—head for their father’s library or, if Faramir was intent on research (or avoiding the Lord Steward’s immediate attention), down to the City’s archives where he could count upon finding his brother in just such an attitude, his eyes devouring the information or tale before him.  But Faramir had always proved willing to smile up at him, interrupting his own study to speak with his brother, perhaps sharing what he’d just learned from his reading but usually willing to listen patiently and help Boromir identify just what it was that caused his disquiet.

            Frodo looked up as the Man approached and nodded an acknowledgment before returning his attention to the book before him—a definite difference between the Hobbit and Faramir that left the Warden of the White Tower with a distinct feeling of disappointment.  The Man knew well enough that there was no reason for him to feel disappointed, for Frodo Baggins, after all, was not his brother, no matter how similar their habits when reading.  He certainly was under no obligation to turn from his book to give Boromir attention.  However, the heart’s rules are not necessarily based upon logic, as Faramir was fond of saying….

            Uncertain what to do next, Boromir stopped near the table at which Frodo sat, considering the Hobbit and wishing it were Faramir there instead, willing to turn from his own studies….

            Frodo had gone quite still, and although he’d not yet lifted his head, the Man was aware that the Hobbit was making the decision as to whether to shift his attention to Boromir or to simply ignore him.  At last Frodo gave a soundless sigh and looked up, slipping the bound ribbon between the pages to mark his place as he quietly closed the book.  “You wished to speak with me, my Lord Boromir?”

            The Man winced.  “You do not need to use the title, small Master,” he said.  “I have no authority here in the northern lands, after all.  Certainly I have not heard you use such titles when speaking with Aragorn.”

            The Hobbit appeared thoughtful, lifting his hand to rub briefly at his left shoulder as he searched Boromir’s eyes.  “That is true enough, I suppose, Boromir.”

            The Man felt unexpected relief.  “Thank you, Master Frodo.”

            Frodo shook his head slightly, giving a dismissive wave of his hand ere he settled it again on the cover of his book.  “No—if I am not to use your title, then certainly you can call me by name as well.”

            “As you wish it, Frodo.  I am not interrupting you unduly, am I?”

            Frodo gave a wry smile.  “Oh, I’m well accustomed to being interrupted while reading, considering how often my younger cousins insist that I am in need of their companionship.  Did you have a question to ask?”

            “You don’t mind if I sit with you for a time?”

            “No, of course not.  Do pull up a chair.”

            Within a moment Boromir had done just that and sat opposite the Hobbit, who sat bestowing polite attention on him.  “I admit,” the Man said, “to finding myself growing increasingly impatient to be on my way southward once more, now that Aragorn has seen his sword reforged and the last of the scouts appear to have returned.  And with the impatience, it is hard for me to stay still.  Were I home in the White City, I would either be in council with my father and the other lords and captains, or I would be seeking out the companionship of my brother, were he, too, within the Citadel.”

            “You have mentioned your brother before,” Frodo commented.  “You miss him, then?”

            “Oh, yes.”

            “What is he like?”

            Boromir shrugged.  “He is some four years younger than I, more slender in build, more at ease in stillness than I, much as you are.”

            “I remind you of him?”

            “Oh, yes, in many ways.  I rather suspect you and he will quickly become friends should we have the fortune to spend time together once we reach Gondor.”

            “If, of course, I find myself within your land,” Frodo said, his face paling somewhat.  “My path, after all, leads to Mordor, not to Gondor.”

            “Yet it is likely we shall have to pass through some portion of Gondor in order to reach the Black Land,” Boromir countered.  “I have not yet been advised as to what path we are to take south and east, after all.”

            “Tell me of the route you followed to come north,” invited the Hobbit.

            Boromir gladly described the ride north around the eastern reaches of the White Mountains, past Amon Dîn and westward through Anórien to the border of Rohan at the Mering Stream, the ride through the rolling grasslands of the Riddermark to Edoras, then north on the horse Théodred, Théoden King’s son, had chosen for him.  He did not go into detail regarding his foolish decision to chance the ford at the ruins of Tharbad in spite of the signs of flooding, merely admitting he’d lost his borrowed steed there and had been forced to proceed on foot.

            “As we are to do when we leave here,” Frodo said.

            “Yes.  Not a swift journey we propose to make, but proper to the need for secrecy, I suppose.”

            Frodo nodded.  “I know that neither Gandalf nor Aragorn wishes to draw the attention of either Sauron or the Wizard Saruman.  Saruman did not offer you any difficulties while you headed north, did he?”

            “No one from Isengard appears to have paid any heed to me when I passed the Wizard’s Vale,” Boromir admitted.  “I saw a few at a distance, but no one close up.  Now and then a flock of great crows would fly overhead and perhaps circle, but that was all.  Nor did anyone challenge me as I traveled through Dunland.  And once I left the site of Tharbad on foot no one appears to have noticed me at all.  I saw few upon the road, and most of the farms and villages I passed were ruinous and long abandoned.  I might see inhabited land perhaps once every five days or so, and few of those I approached would deign to speak with me.  I did not blame them, however, considering the many ruined homesteads and fields overgrown with bracken I passed.  Not until I entered the Breelands did I find land that showed signs of long settlement.”

            Frodo was nodding.  “Apparently much of the land east along the Road was heavily populated when Bilbo made his first journey here when he was fifty.  He and the Dwarves were able to sleep in inns or at the very least in barns most of the way between Bree and here.  He said that he was shocked when he left the Shire when I came of age to see how few of those villages and farms remained, and how suspicious those who lived there were.  And when we came east we saw none, although admittedly Strider led us along paths where he knew no Men lived.  The Enemy’s creatures have so devastated the lands that once comprised Arnor.”  His attention returned to the book he’d been reading.  “According to this, the whole of Arnor was once truly a kingdom, filled with fair cities and villages.  There were farms everywhere, and few cities and villages were walled save near the borders and the edges of the Misty Mountains.  Cardolan held their richest farmlands, and Rhudaur their most productive mines.  And the King’s Men guarded the roads and the borders, assisted travelers, and helped keep the peace.”

            “What book is it?” asked Boromir.

            “Its title translates to All the King’s Men, from my reading of it.  It is a history of the Dúnedain of the North, and particularly of its protectors, those we’ve always spoken of as the Rangers.”  Noting the change of expression on Boromir’s face, he asked, “That has special meaning to you?”

            “Oh, it is but that in the South-kingdom we call those who protect the borderlands Rangers, also.  And my brother is their Captain.”

            “Is he, now?  Then the same patterns of protection hold both North and South, it appears.”

            “Indeed.  And the Halflings of the Shire also benefit from the services of the Rangers of Arnor?”

            “Apparently, although mostly we have remained ignorant of the protection they offer us.  Oh, they’ve always ridden through the Shire going east and west, or taking the swiftest roads to and from the Sarn Ford.  When he granted the remains of Cardolan to us as our own, Argeleb the Second wrote into our charter that we were to speed his messengers along their way when they must pass through the Shire.  Only in the centuries since the loss of Arvedui Last-king we have lost sight of the fact that the mysterious Rangers are those Messengers we promised to aid.”

            “It must have seemed strange to you, then, to find yourself having to trust the one you met in Bree.”

            Frodo was nodding his agreement.  “Nor were we much encouraged by what Barliman Butterbur had to say about him.  He’s the owner of the Prancing Pony Inn there in Bree, and he is even more suspicious of the Rangers than is your typical Hobbit who lives within the Shire.  He was very anxious for us when he found we’d ‘taken up with that Strider,’ as he put it, although he did his best to aid us once we found our ponies had been stolen by the strange southerners who appear to have broken into the stable the night we spent there.  Even knowing that Gandalf trusted Aragorn didn’t seem to reassure him any.”  He gave another wry smile.  “And now Aragorn has been revealed as the Heir to Isildur, and rightfully our King--here in the North, at least; and, I must suppose he is planning to present his claim for the South-kingdom as well.”  He cocked his head as he searched Boromir’s eyes.  “Your father is Steward there.  How is he likely to react to the thought of the King returning after so long with the throne empty?”

            The Man found himself shuddering slightly.  “I do not believe he will lightly yield up the rule of Gondor to anyone else, no matter how well his claim might be supported.  After all, our Kings have ever been of the lineage of Anárion, the second son of Elendil, rather than his older son Isildur.”

            “But isn’t it the custom in Gondor as it is here that the primary heir is the oldest surviving child?”

            “Isildur surrendered the rule of Gondor to his brother Anárion’s son Meneldil before setting off northward to take up the rule of Arnor in his father’s place.  When he learned that his uncle had perished along the way, Meneldil would not agree to bow to his younger cousin Valandil as High King, recognizing him only as his peer, not as his superior.  And in the South-kingdom the primary heir has been ever the oldest surviving male heir.  Daughters do not usually inherit unless there is no surviving brother or uncle or adult male cousin, although they will oft be dowered with land to take with them into a marriage, land that is expected to provide for them should the marriage fail or their husband die betimes.”

            “Arvedui married the daughter of a King to Gondor, did he not?”

            “Yes—Fíriel daughter of Ondoher.  But she had two brothers who would have been expected to inherit the Winged Crown before her child, although both predeceased her.  It is true that on the basis of her birth Arvedui presented his claim to the throne, intending to rule in concert with her as it was said he did in the North, but the Steward Pelendur would not recognize this claim, and the Lords of the Realm would not gainsay Pelendur’s will.  Instead they named Eärnil the Second as King.”

            “And you believe that your father will follow the example of this Pelendur?”

            “Pelendur did not take the rule of Gondor into his own hands, surrendering it to Eärnil.  My father inherited the rule of Gondor as has been true since the days of Mardil, when Eärnur disappeared into the maw of the Morgul Vale, leaving no child or close-enough male kindred to inherit the Winged Crown after him.  And so it was that when he disappeared, his Steward Mardil took the Winged Crown to the Hallows and settled it in the hands of Eärnil the Second, and then took the rule of the realm into his own hands until the King should return again.  He perhaps might have accepted the claim of Arvedui’s son as the oldest male heir to Ondoher, but that one did not come south, and indeed it was said that Arvedui’s son drowned with his father in the ice-bay of Forochel.”

            Frodo appeared thoughtful and tapped his book.  “According to this and the lessons Bilbo gave me before I came of age, Arvedui was indeed accompanied northward by one of his sons, but it was not Aranarth, his primary heir.  Instead, once the war was won with Eärnur’s help, Aranarth and his mother declared there were simply too few of the Dúnedain remaining within Arnor to consider it a viable kingdom any longer, so he named himself Chieftain of the northern Dúnedain instead and withdrew his people into more protected and hidden places until such time as they could recover sufficient numbers to again refill the lands claimed so long before by Elendil and those who built the North-kingdom with him.  Only Sauron has ever sent plagues and enemies to keep the number of the Dúnedain small and to threaten the heirs to Elendil and Isildur, until the last heir was taken into fosterage here as a very young child to protect him.”

            “And that was Aragorn himself,” noted Boromir.

            “So it has proved,” Frodo agreed.

            Boromir glanced at the tall Elf who’d entered the library and was lighting the candles and lamps throughout the room, and scratched his chin.  “Who wrote this book?”

            Frodo looked down at the book’s cover before answering, “It was begun by the Chieftain Arador, but finished fairly recently by Erestor, who is the master archivist for Master Elrond as well as one of his chief counselors.  Arador indicates that he believed that in a few generations the time should come for the final battles against Mordor and Sauron’s armies, and he wished for his heir in that day to know the full history of his lineage that he be better prepared for his destiny and the needs of all of the Dúnedain, north and south.”

            “So he wished to see all of the Dúnedain reunited as the King’s Men, did he?”  Boromir considered the wine-colored leather that bound the book.

            “Indeed,” said another voice, and the two looked up to see Erestor himself leaning over their table with his taper, prepared to light the lamp that lay there against the early twilight outside the windows to the room.  “Such has been the hope of all of the Chieftains of the northern Dúnedain, as well as that of most of the Kings of Arnor prior to the final battles against Angmar.  Arador was grandsire to our Aragorn, whom we called Estel during his childhood here.  Arador wrote most of that during a period not long following the birth of his son Arathorn while he lingered here, recovering from a shattered leg.  As is common enough amongst the descendants of Eärendil and Elwing, he displayed a powerful gift of foresight, and believed the time was coming for the final wars against Sauron the Accurst; and he wished the history of all the King’s Men within Arnor to be recorded, from that of Ohtar, who carried the Shards of Narsil here after the tragedy of the battle of the Gladden Fields, to the current day.  He left it unfinished, expecting his son and grandson to continue the tale; but Arathorn died but a few years of the Sun after his father, so in the end Elrond commissioned me to see it finished and bound, ready to present to Estel on the day on which he was judged a Man grown.  I left some twenty pages or so empty when I bound the volume, and Aragorn has added to it the tales of his maternal grandsire Dírhael and his Uncle Halbaleg, and intends to finish the book should he indeed earn his seat upon the thrones of Gondor and Arnor, able to both wear the Winged Crown and to carry the Sceptre of Annúminas.  And I believe that he hopes to include in it the exploits of you and your brother and your father, my Lord Boromir.  I know that he greatly honored what he knew of your grandfather Ecthelion, and speaks with respect of your father Denethor and the reports of his rule of Gondor.”

            “He follows the doings of my father?”  Boromir felt great surprise at the idea.

            Erestor nodded with solemn pride.  “That he does.  Always there have been a few from amongst the northern Dúnedain who have gone south to serve in Gondor’s armies, as I believe the Stewards have always recognized.  Do you think that they have returned northward with no news at the end of their terms of service?  And more than one of these has brought with him a southern-born bride, often of far higher birth than might be expected to agree to wed what is seen as a mercenary.”

            “And he would add my brother and me to this book as well?”

            The Elf answered, “Why should he not?  Are you not to accompany him and the Ringbearer south in the Fellowship of the Ring?  All stand in wonder at the tale of your journey north in search of answers to the riddling dream you and your brother shared, and he is grateful that you have agreed to offer training to Master Frodo and his companions in preparation for the return south and east.  He had already heard report on the confrontation you and your brother had at the bridge of Osgiliath with the Nazgûl, and he feels nothing but respect for what was done there.”

            “Yet the wraiths got past us ere we brought the bridge down.”

            “Perhaps.  But merely to successfully face them without being reduced to a state of abject helplessness is a great feat that all here in Imladris would honor the two of you for.  And such courage and determination can only earn the respect of Aragorn.  Believe me, he hopes that you and your brother both will agree to be numbered amongst all of the King’s Men.  And if your father will do so, also, it will mean a great deal to him.”

            Denethor, to consider himself one of all of the King’s Men?  Boromir shook his head at the very thought of it.  He himself planned to take note of Aragorn’s strengths and skills as they undertook their mutual journey south toward the border between Gondor and the wastes of Mordor.  It was very possible that by the time they reached the northern boundaries of Gondor’s lands he might well be willing to accept Aragorn son of Arathorn as a candidate for the Winged Crown and the throne of Gondor; and definitely Faramir would rejoice to see the Return of the King.  But as for their father….

            Little did any of them know Denethor son of Ecthelion if they believed he would gladly give over his own role as ruler of Gondor to any other!

            All of the King’s Men indeed!

The Battle of the First Snowfall

            Aragorn had left the valley once more, apparently having some last business to deal with concerning his own people, and Boromir noted that both Frodo and the Lady Arwen appeared quieter with the knowledge that the northern Ranger was no longer within the Last Homely House.  The smiths, aided by Gimli son of Glóin, were seeing to the final polishing of the newly reforged sword; the two younger Hobbits were making excellent strides in their mastery of their own blades; and Mithrandir was keeping Frodo busy within the libraries of the place examining maps and questioning Master Elrond about every detail he remembered regarding the peredhel’s own time spent within the walls of Mordor and his one visit to the Sammath Naur.

            A snowfall had indeed begun during the night after the reforging of Andúril, but the wind had switched during the darkest hours to come from first the south and then the west.  Before the dawn the snow had turned to a driving rain, leaving trees stripped bare of leaves gone brown and crumbling, and many of the walks muddy and trickling runoff.  All seemed to be watching the windows, and particularly Frodo Baggins himself, as if now that the date for their leave-taking was set he both longed and dreaded for it to finally come.  How much he paid attention to the maps and constant stream of talk and information that the Wizard maintained Boromir could not be certain; he knew only that when Master Bilbo would take his kinsman by the hand and lead him away, insisting that Gandalf was only going to heighten Frodo’s own anxiety or overwhelm him with more information than he could deal with, that the younger Hobbit appeared relieved.

            Late the fourth afternoon after the reforging, he came across Frodo in a gallery, not looking at the frescoes that decorated the walls or the ancient weaponry that leaned with mock carelessness in the corners, but standing, hands behind his back, staring at the grey landscape outside the large window in the north wall.  “It will most likely snow again tonight,” the Hobbit remarked as Boromir entered the hall, apparently having heard the footsteps of the Man that Boromir himself did not realize were audible.  “Perhaps this time it will remain more than an hour or two.”

            “Perhaps, Little One,” Boromir said.

            Frodo turned, one expressive brow raised as he searched the Man’s face.  “I am the tallest of the five of us Hobbits,” he noted. 

            “Yet still to my eyes the five of you appear particularly small and vulnerable,” Boromir returned.  “I worry about how you and your fellows shall fare once we are out walking through the wilds of this northern clime.”

            Frodo asked, “Is it indeed warmer in the southlands where you live?”

            Boromir came to stand by him and looked outside the window at the rather barren-appearing garden to be seen.  He shrugged as he considered the question.  “It is rarely cold enough to snow there, although we seem to get one or two snowfalls per year.  But our days do not grow dark as early as happens here.  It has been rather a surprise to find the light failing less than four marks after noon.”

            Frodo shrugged slightly.  “That is only because it is winter now.  In the summer the daylight lasts until late in the evening, and it is often a struggle to convince our younger children that, yes, it is time for them to go to bed if they intend to have a full day of play tomorrow.  Gandalf told me when I asked about it that it has to do with how far north one is—the further north or south of a certain point, he said, the greater the difference between the length of daylight hours in summer and winter.”

            “So we have been told also in Gondor,” Boromir admitted.  “But until now I did not understand how true that was.”

            After a period of quiet shared contemplation of the weather outside, Frodo said, “He told us also that it was colder here near the mountains in the winter than it is in the Shire, and warmer in the summer, for we are closer there to the Sundering Sea.  I am not quite certain just how being close to the Sea does this, but I must admit that the cold seems to be more intense than I am accustomed to feeling at home.  Or perhaps this is merely the effect of the wound I suffered.”

            “According to my Uncle Imrahil, it has to do with the wind being cooled or warmed by blowing over the water,” Boromir said.  “When I have been to visit him in Dol Amroth in midwinter it may be snowing a distance north of his castle, but I have never heard of snow anywhere in the city around it.  The rain might feel quite cold, but it will be rain rather than snow.  The city is built about a natural harbor, you see, and not far from the remains of what is said to have been an ancient Elf haven.”

            “Edhellond,” Frodo said.  “Gandalf has said there was an Elven haven far to the south in Gondor that was called Edhellond, but that it was abandoned long ago after a storm blew a ship betimes westward and its lord was lost.”

            Boromir was impressed that the Hobbit had heard this tale.  “It is said that the Princes of Dol Amroth are descended from a marriage between an Elf-woman and one of those descended from the line of Kings of Númenor, although I am uncertain whether the first of his lineage within Middle Earth was one of the Faithful who was aboard the ships fleeing the Star Isle when it foundered or if he was one of those from earlier times who returned to Ennor to found trading centers or small kingdoms of their own.”

            “Perhaps both contributed to the family,” suggested Frodo.

            “You are most likely right,” agreed the Man. 

            They were quiet for a time, staring together out at the weather.  At last the Man said in low tones, “I am not looking forward to starting our quest so soon before Mettarë, even though it should mean that the Enemy’s own forces will be forced to remain close to shelter themselves.  That we should be abroad in the Wild with the weather chancy seems the very height of folly.”

            Frodo turned thoughtfully to meet Boromir’s eyes.  “It appears,” he said, “that those who advise us intend indeed that apparent folly should be our cloak.  For who would expect that the Wise should send us forth in such a foolish manner?  Will the Enemy think to see us leave the shelter of Rivendell when there is the greatest chance of storms, do you think?”

            The warrior had to admit that the Eye of Sauron was most likely to look elsewhere to its own advantage when prudent thought would seek to keep the one bearing the Enemy’s weapon most safe.  There seemed nothing more to say after that, and soon they parted, each going to his appointed room, and Boromir sought the warmth of his bed relatively early in the evening.

            Ere dawn Boromir awoke, aware of an abatement of noise without that spoke of snow fallen in the night.  He rose and parted the heavy draperies that protected the room from drafts, and saw that he was right.  The ground was covered with a few inches of snow.  For the moment the fall had stopped, although signs were that it would most likely resume within short order.  All was still outside, with no indication any creature stirred abroad.  He let the curtain fall and went to draw on warm clothing and his recently repaired boots.  When he was suitably garbed he looked out again. There was a thin light filtering through the high clouds immediately overhead that announced the risen Sun, and it appeared that not all creatures remained within shelter after all, for a line of footprints followed a path through the gardens to an area where he knew a pool spread out from the bed of the Bruinen, around which flags and marshsweet and rushes grew in more clement weathers.

            They appeared to be the bare footprints of a child, and he wondered at them—then realized that, no, no fair Elven child would be abroad unshod at this time.  It must have been one of the Hobbits who left those prints.  And as he watched, three small cloaked figures, their hoods drawn up to cover their heads, followed the prints into the open area below his window.  He opened the pane as quietly as he could, and he could hear one saying, “He must have gone this way, then.”

            “Of course he’d be up and out at first light, this being the first true snowfall of the season,” Pippin said.  “Which means he’ll be lying in wait for us.  Best be on the watch!”  He reached out a hand sheathed in a thick mitten, and scooped up a measure of snow and deftly shaped it into a ball.  “I intend to be ready to retaliate at a moment’s notice,” he advised the others.

            There were nods from Pippin’s companions, and they set out to search the grounds for their absent fellow, each taking a different route, Pippin holding his intended missile at the ready.

            The idea that the Hobbits were anticipating an attack from one of their own already abroad in the gardens tickled the Man’s fancy, and in moments he was drawing his own heavy fur-lined cloak around his shoulders and heading off down toward the nearest door into the grounds, fumbling on his heavy gloves as he went.

            The air out of doors was crisp and clean as only air that was cooled by snow could be, and he breathed it in deeply, delighting in the scent of it.  He turned to consider the trails of the Hobbits, and noted that they were all headed in the same general direction, but spread out as they moved that they not be bunched too closely together as they might come abreast of their quarry.  It appeared they intended to flank whichever one it was who’d gone out first, in fact.  In moments he was shaping a ball of snow of his own, trying to decide which path he should follow.

            In the end he chose to follow the way Pippin had gone.  He could see the line taken by the first, and that Pippin had stayed to the left of it, utilizing the cover of various bushes and hedges.  It appeared the youngest of the Hobbits intended if possible to get off the first throw, should he come upon the first unawares.  Soon Boromir came abreast a bench on which three figures sculpted of snow had been left.  Each of the others had paused to examine the figures, although none had come close enough to touch any of them, and again the trails diverged.  The Man could not discern the meaning of the figures, and shrugging returned to his own hunt.

            It was so quiet!  Boromir could not hear any movement at all save for the squeaking of his own boots on the snow, which was a wonder to him as he searched.  The trails of the three hunters were somewhat dampened by the sweeping of their cloaks across the surface of the snow, and none of them had sufficient weight to penetrate the snow completely to the bare ground or grass underneath.  But the trail of the first Hobbit was now indiscernible, as if, having wandered a bit and made his snow sculptures he now purposely did all he could to hide the route he’d taken, intending indeed to lie unseen, ready to take those who would follow in search of him by surprise.  The trails of the three searchers were more spread out and wandering in response, and Boromir was now uncertain as to which trail was that of young Peregrin Took.

            The first yelp of indignation caused the Man to jump, as if he himself had been hit.  He was certain that the voice was that of Master Samwise, and he heard the voices of the two younger Hobbits raised in challenge while silvery laughter gave some indication of where it was that Frodo Baggins had lain in wait.  Soon there were muffled grunts of battle, and Boromir ran forward, breaking through a hedge into the midst of a four-cornered barrage.  Laughing in spite of his panting breaths, he lobbed his ball of snow in the direction where he anticipated Frodo must be, only to take a blow from a missile thrown directly at his head that burst against his right ear.  He gave a cry of indignation and was immediately shaping and throwing a return burst, but before it was well into the air he’d been hit by two more balls, one hitting him fair in the chest and the second in the back.

            The warrior was soon on the defensive.  True, he could shape and throw far larger balls than could his opponents; but all four were very swift and deadly accurate with their throws, which surprised him greatly.  The one good thing was that Pippin was soon siding with him, while Merry and Sam had joined forces against them.  Frodo, however, chose no side, and was proving a force to be reckoned with as he attacked first his younger cousin and the Man, and then his older kinsman and the gardener.  Throughout it all Boromir saw little of Frodo himself, as the Hobbit appeared able to fade into the shadows of hedges and branches with a skill the Man found uncanny.

            A cold flake against Boromir’s cheek heralded the return of the snowfall, and soon the air was whirling with both the white of dancing flakes and the continued barrage of the four battling Hobbits and the Man.

            Then the sound of the closing of the great front doors to the Last Homely House caught the attention of the five of them.  Frodo was in the open at the moment, his hood fallen back, allowing his dark hair spattered with snow to be clearly seen as he listened.  A nod to the others, and suddenly the five of them came together in unspoken alliance against whoever it was that had come out into the gardens.  In contrast to the quiet movements of the Hobbits, Boromir could hear the heavy tramp of feet and the creak of harness.  “The Dwarf!” Sam mouthed, and Frodo nodded, again drawing his hood over his head and melting into shadows, expertly shaping a missile as he slid out of sight.  A quick look around, and Boromir could detect none of his fellows until an impatient shiver from Pippin gave him away, close by a stand of blueberries.  Boromir smiled as he gathered enough snow to shape six balls, setting them in readiness as he prepared a seventh and awaited his first sight of the Dwarf.

            But Gimli had not come alone, it appeared.  Beside him as guide was the great Elven warrior Glorfindel, as quiet in his own movements as were the Hobbits.  Pippin and Merry’s snowballs burst against the Dwarf’s chest and great russet beard, followed by Boromir’s first volley; Glorfindel managed to avoid the missile thrown by Samwise, but failed to dodge that thrown by Frodo, which hit him in the left shoulder.  Again there was silvery laughter from the Ringbearer, and Boromir felt pleased by the look of surprise on the Elf’s fair face as he readied his own second ball, only to have it knocked from his hand by an accurate throw by Glorfindel.

            “So, that’s the way of it, is it?” demanded Gimli, smiling hugely, and he was leaning down to form his own snowballs.

            Cries of defiance and gusts of laughter filled the gardens as the battle raged for at least another quarter of an hour until an eighth individual emerged from the trees, raised his staff, and shouted, “Enough!  Master Elrond has need of his counselor, and asks that Glorfindel at least return to the house.  If the rest of you would rather freeze your toes and ears off than to eat the breakfast that has been prepared for all of you, that is your own affair.”

            To which Frodo responded with a snowball aimed at Gandalf’s hat, one that knocked that edifice a good three feet from the Wizard’s head.  And with Frodo’s silvery laughter disappearing into the distance, he ran light-footed and apparently light-heartedly toward the great doors to the house, as eager for his first breakfast as ever a Hobbit was.

For Lady Branwyn, SugarAnnie, Tiggerskate, and Ignoble Bard for their birthdays.

Reference is made here to a drabble-and-a-half to be found in "Wherever the Prompt may Lead" and to the stories "The First Snowfall of the Season" and "Honor Avenged," as well as to the original character Gilfileg first introduced in "The King's Commission."

Final Gathering

            The next morning Boromir awoke feeling particularly content, although his right shoulder was rather sore.  Apparently, he realized, one uses different muscles throwing snowballs from those used when wielding a sword.  But it was the healthy ache of exertion, and he found he reveled in it.  The sky outside his window had a crystalline clarity to it when he peered past the heavy draperies, all clouds driven away during the night.  The snow sparkled like diamonds under the light of the rising Sun as Anor peered over the mountain peaks, indicating that it was, if possible, even colder outside the Last Homely House than it had been the day before.  More snow had fallen the previous evening, and he saw no signs of the great snow battle that had occurred yesterday.  Indeed, the snow appeared virgin, untrammeled by the feet of anyone.  Then he heard laughter and singing, and the Elf Legolas, who was to be part of the company, came gaily from the direction of the stables, clad as if it were early autumn rather than winter and wearing but light leather boots upon his feet, leaving no footprints behind him as he approached the doors to the wing in which he was housed, and Boromir felt his scalp prickle at this reminder that Elves were of a different nature than were Men.

            He headed toward the dining room, but stopped when he heard the murmur of Hobbit voices not far inside the main doors of the place.  Merry, Sam, and Pippin stood there, again dressed to go outside.  “You think it will work, Sam?” Pippin was saying.

            The gardener nodded.  “I’m as certain as wind through willows,” he said, his expression particularly determined.  “We daren’t call him to open his windows, for he’ll guess for certain what we’re up to, but he’ll never suspect there’s anythin’ up if Strider taps at them.  And you heard Mr. Glorfindel tellin’ Gandalf that the word’s come as Strider’s nearly here from the Ford already.  Considerin’ the hard time Mr. Frodo give him comin’ out of Bree, I’m thinkin’ as he’ll see fit to help us lure Frodo out.”

            Boromir joined the three Hobbits.  “What is this?  Do you intend to betray Master Baggins, then?”

            “Oh, yes,” Merry said, more than a hint of relish in his voice.  “Considering all the years he’s waited for us at the first snowfall of the season to pelt us with snowballs, we’ve decided that the second day this year is our turn to take revenge.  And we shall enjoy it, thoroughly!”  He looked up in challenge to catch the Man’s eye.  “Are you with us, Boromir?”

            How could the warrior pass up such an opportunity?

            Pippin accompanied him back to his room to fetch his cloak and gloves, chattering steadily.  “Frodo’s been getting us all the first snowfall of the season for as long as I can remember, and both Merry and Sam say the same.  So, today we intend to get our own back on him.  After all, he likes Strider now, and trusts him implicitly.  So we’re going to wait until Strider approaches the door with our plan, and hopefully he’ll agree to go along with it.  After all, he has good reason to know just how devious Frodo can be.”

            “And what reason would he have to wish to aid you in your campaign?”

            Pippin shrugged wryly.  “Well, it was just after we accepted his offer to lead us to Rivendell.  Now, Frodo trusted Strider almost straight away, you see, although Sam thought him the most likely villain he’d ever seen, and neither Merry nor I was quite certain just what to think of him.  It was obvious he wasn’t used to traveling with Hobbits.  Now we know that he’d known Bilbo here for years, but we had no way of knowing that then.  But he kept forgetting to shorten his stride, and would get out of sight—often, and it was annoying Frodo no end.  And then he was disrespectful toward Frodo’s mushrooms.”

            Boromir was uncertain what this meant.  “How is one disrespectful toward mushrooms?” he asked as they approached his door.

            “Believe me, when it’s a Baggins involved, it’s far too easy.  Now, my cousin is the most generous and gentle soul imaginable—unless you are disrespectful toward others, or his favorite dishes.  And being a Baggins, Frodo’s favorite dishes include mushrooms—mushrooms and squab.  I’ll warn you now, never, never be disrespectful of his mushrooms or you will live to regret it.  Strider learned, our second day out of Bree.”

            “But why would anyone even wish to eat the things?” Boromir asked, appalled at the idea.

            Pippin was obviously surprised anyone would think to ask such a question.  “Why?  Don’t you like mushrooms?”

            Boromir shuddered with distaste.  “Of course not!  Dreadful things!”

            The young Hobbit was shaking his head.  “Best not say that around Frodo, not if you’re wise.  Most Hobbits adore mushrooms, but Frodo—well, Frodo almost worships them.  I used to think it was that first Bilbo and then Sam spoiled him, but I learned that actually Bilbo is just as bad about them as Frodo himself.  They used to carefully divide them to make certain that they each got just as much as the other.  And Sam’s just decided it’s not worth his peace of mind to do anything but to make an extra share for Frodo anytime he cooks them.  So, while we were traveling and Sam happened upon a stand of good pearl mushrooms, he shared them out equally for all of us, with a small extra serving for Frodo for after he was done with his time on first watch.  Only Strider, not understanding about Frodo and his mushrooms, ate them.  And he learned better.  Oh, I think that Strider will cooperate this morning.”

            “What makes you certain that Frodo will still be in his room?”

            “His shoulder started aching last night, so Master Elrond brought him a hot water bottle wrapped in a thin blanket to help ease the pain, and told him to sleep in extra today.  And I suspect he gave Frodo some chamomile tea to help him sleep.  Besides, Frodo might be always the first one up after the first real snowfall of the season, but he likes to stay warmly in his bed after that.  So I doubt that he’ll be up until well after second breakfast today.  Is this your room?  How is it different from ours, I wonder?”

            Pippin quickly satisfied his curiosity while Boromir fetched his things, and on the way back commented at length on the differences he’d noticed between various people’s quarters throughout Rivendell, or at least those few private rooms he’d seen so far.

            The others were impatiently awaiting their return, and Sam led the way out of the doors and down the path to where Boromir had awaited the return of the scouts before.  A few Elves filtered silently through the surrounding trees, and then all was quiet for some minutes.  At last the soft crunch of snow under booted feet and horses’ hoofs could be heard, along with murmured conversation in what Boromir believed to be Adûnaic.  Aragorn and one of his Rangers approached, each leading a horse laden with gear.  The other Man was, if Boromir was not mistaken, the one named Hardorn, who in spite of the discussion he was carrying out with his Chieftain was still instantly aware of the party awaiting their arrival, as was Aragorn himself.  Both went silent, focusing their attention now on Boromir and the Hobbits, Hardorn warily, and Aragorn with courtesy.

            “You are here to greet me?” Aragorn asked.  “I must admit I am flattered.”  His expression grew more serious.  “And where is Frodo?”

            “That’s what we came out to ask you about,” began Merry.  “He’s still in bed, or we hope he is.”  Noting the concern growing in the Man’s eyes, he hastened to add, “Oh, but it’s nothing serious—just he overtired himself yesterday, and his shoulder was aching some last evening, so Master Elrond gave him some willow bark and then some chamomile tea and suggested perhaps he might sleep in some this morning while he can.  But he’s been rather restless the last few days with you gone, and we thought he might appreciate it if you were to go right to his window and tap on it—wake him up to a pleasant surprise, if you will.”

            Sam nodded, continuing the request.  “Oh, yes, it would brighten his day a good deal, knowin’ as you’re back.”

            But something in the repressed energy to be noted in Pippin warned the Dúnadan that something was up.  “And just what is it that you’re not telling me?” he asked, his expression shrewd.

            Merry rolled his eyes as he turned in his cousin’s direction, and Sam was shaking his head, his lips slightly compressed.  Pippin gave the other two an apologetic shrug before he turned to explain.  “It’s like this, Strider.  Every year at the first true snowfall of the season Frodo greets us by pelting us with snowballs, and he did just that yesterday morning.  Now we wish to get him back.  He wouldn’t open his window for us, as he’d know that we’d only be repaying him for yesterday’s barrage.  But, for you, you know….”  He widened his eyes pleadingly, and Boromir could see both of the northerners’ eyes brightening with humor.

            Hardorn gave a slight laugh.  “So, they’d have you set him up for them?”

            Aragorn nodded in return to his kinsman’s question.  “Apparently.  And certainly I have some grievances of my own to settle with the younger Master Baggins regarding his actions toward me shortly after we left Bree.”  As the other Man started to straighten the taller Man held up his hand placatingly, saying, “I will not say that he was without provocation, but I do suspect that he went further than was necessary to let me know that in his eyes I had trespassed against him.  It was a mere matter of me not realizing some of his personal preferences, is all.  And you could not say that I’d not been warned.  After all, Bilbo had advised me on numerous occasions that when Frodo has felt his dignity has been trampled upon he has been known to be most ingenious in repaying those who have offended against him.  And what I did is likely to be seen as a grave offense indeed by most Hobbits.”

            His companion appeared intrigued.  “I must hear more,” he murmured.

            Aragorn smiled, and there was an almost feral expression of satisfaction to it.  “Perhaps later we shall have leisure to discuss it in depth.  But I am of a temper to aid and abet these three.  Or,” he added consideringly as he glanced pointedly at Boromir, “is it four I’d be helping to vengeance?”

            The Gondorian gave a slight bow.  “Oh, it is indeed four, I deem, who are willing to take part in this further attack on Frodo for his actions yesterday.  I have learned that he indeed can be devious.”

            Aragorn’s smile widened.  “Devious?  Oh, no question.  Well, gentlemen, I am of a mood to forward your mischief.  Let me but give over my goods to those who’ve come to the door to greet us and let them know I shall join them shortly, and I shall be at your disposal.  You’d best go in, Hardorn, and perhaps you can have the bath readied for us.  I suspect we shall all five appreciate a good soak in warm water as much as you shall before we are through.”

            Some half a mark later Boromir, still laughing and panting with exertion, accompanied the Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain into the bathing chambers, shaking snow out of his hair.  “Now, that was definitely worthwhile,” he smiled, “seeing the expression on the Halfling’s face when our snowballs found him.”

            Aragorn agreed, “Indeed!  It is nice to know that he can be taken unawares.  Although I shall see to it that my chambers are warded against his entrance.  I have no desire to have to undo mischief for the rest of the day.”  He had surrendered his snow-spattered cloak just inside the doors to the Lady Arwen, whose brows had risen with interest as she considered its state, although she’d spoken not a word. 

            But Boromir had noted the lingering touch between Elf maiden and northern Man.  “Your heart is caught by the Lady Arwen, then?” he asked as he shrugged out of the heavy shirt he’d donned that morning.

            Aragorn and Hardorn’s eyes both turned on him with consideration, and Aragorn’s expression had become deliberately blank.  “If I am drawn to her,” he said, “then I am in good company.  Elladan and Elrohir have told me that the majority of the heirs to Isildur have been so drawn over the last Age of the Sun.”

            Why he said the next Boromir could not later explain.  “And I note that Master Frodo, also, is drawn to her.”

            Aragorn gave a sad smile.  “He is one whose own heart sees clearly, and is drawn ever to that which is worthy of worship, or so Bilbo has assured me.  But he has already dismissed his own attraction, knowing as he does that nothing can come of it.”

            “As you cannot do as easily?”

            “And who says that doing so has been easy for Frodo?”  There was compassion in the Man’s tone as Aragorn finished unlacing his own shirt.  “He may be apt to creative vengeance for deliberate slights, yet he is perhaps the most honorable individual I have met in recent memory.”  He slipped the shirt over his head and threw it into a nearby hamper.

            Boromir froze, his attention caught by an old scar on Aragorn’s lower torso.  “That was a mighty wound,” he commented.

            The northerner looked down with dismissal.  “It was at the time, I must admit.  But that was half my lifetime ago.  It is long healed.”

            Hardorn gave a snort.  “It almost cost us our Chieftain,” he noted.  “Or have you forgotten that?  Had not one of the sons of Elrond been searching for you to bring you news of my father’s death, it is likely you would not still be with us.”

            Boromir noted, “The maidens of your people must nearly swoon to see it.”

            Aragorn sighed as he stepped out of his trousers.  “And when have they had much occasion to see it?  I am not particularly given to displaying my scars to women.”  He threw the garment after the shirt, drew off his small clothes and slipped into the great stone bath, sighing with relief as the warmth of the water surrounded him.  “I am only glad that the Hobbits prefer the copper baths in their wing.  I have been advised that Pippin tends to be rather an enthusiastic bather, and I have no interest in constantly evading splashes of water in my face.”  He sat upon the submerged bench and leaned back against the rim, his head back and his eyes closed.

            As Boromir and Hardorn joined him, Boromir asked, “Then there is no woman of your people who swoons for you?  Or does your wife keep them away?”

            Aragorn sighed, squinting at the son of Denethor.  “I have had the doom laid upon me that I may not marry until Sauron has been defeated.”

            Boromir paused, considering the other Man with concern.  “Then, if you were to die in battle, there is no other to follow after you?  My father would be appalled!”

            “Do you have a wife or betrothed awaiting you?” demanded Aragorn.  “Or had you intended to leave that duty to your brother?  Surely your duty to your own people demands an heir of you as much as of me.”

            “And when have I had time or energy to woo a wife when my people are constantly under threat from Mordor?”  Boromir’s felt the anger growing in him.

            Hardorn was stiffening, but subsided as his Chieftain laid his hand on his shoulder.  Aragorn returned his attention to the southerner.  “And so it has been here as well.  Orcs and trolls are our most common enemies; but although the Witch-king does not dwell there any longer, still Angmar ever threatens our lands from the north, while lawless Men wander out of the ruins of Rhudaur and Dunland to trouble us from the south.  Matters stand much as they did a thousand years ago when we sent those we could spare to fight at the side of the last Kings of Gondor, and when Eärnur came to the aid of my ancestors Arvedui and Aranarth.  Always we have had to defend ourselves from enemies from both north and south, while Gondor is beset from south and east.  I must be ever going from one threat to another, or strengthening our alliances with other peoples, or seeking out intelligence on the new dangers our great Enemy sets in motion, leaving me but little time to spend in considering dynastic matters.  We are not so different, you and I.”

            He sighed, and allowed himself to slide down off the bench until he was totally underwater, rubbing at his dark hair before he emerged and pushed himself back onto the bench once more, wiping the water out of his face and the wet hair back from his eyes.  Again he considered Boromir for a few moments before he continued, “True, I am the heir of Isildur through his youngest son Valandil, father to son over many generations.  But that does not mean that there are no others who are descended from Isildur, for many of my forebears had younger brothers or sisters, or both.  Almost all of the Northern Dúnedain carry a degree of royal blood, in fact, as we have heavily intermarried.  Mostly our people dwell in the Angle, but we have a few scattered villages the width of Eriador, even on the Firth of Lhûn, where we have fishermen and two trading ships.  My last errand was to review the forces that guard our northern border.  He who leads them is second to me as Heir, being but three generations from the line of Kings, while Halbarad, Halladan, and Hardorn are five generations removed from the line.  Halbarad is now my Steward here in the North, as he will serve Gilfileg if I am lost in our quest with the Fellowship and the last battles with Sauron and the forces of Mordor.  If I am lost, then, it shall be here in what was once proud Arnor as it has been in Gondor for much of the last age, that those who lead the final, perhaps futile battles against the Shadow will be the descendants of younger sons and daughters of our once great Kings.

            “But there shall be no heir to my body until and unless Sauron is defeated utterly—that is the doom that has been laid upon me.”

            Boromir considered the eyes of this one he’d thought of as the Pretender, and found them remarkably calm—calm and patient.  A kinship in spirit he sensed there with his younger brother, and he found himself hoping that this one and Faramir might one day come to know and honor one another.

For Primula Baggins and Mark for their birthdays.

Departure

            Now that Aragorn had returned, all began preparing for their intended departure.  The Elf Glorfindel and the smith who had directed the reforging of Narsil went through all that each member of the Fellowship would carry, making certain that all weapons were sound and that they were properly housed, and assuring that the four Hobbits knew how to care for and sharpen their blades.  They also made certain that each individual had at least four sets of clothing appropriate for the weather that they were likely to face, including finely knit garments of the finest wool threads to wear under their outer clothing, and silk undershirts for each of them.  Aragorn explained that such silk garments might well save their lives should anyone shoot at them with arrows, as the ability of silk filaments to stretch could keep arrowheads and possibly even knife or sword blades from penetrating deeply and embedding themselves beneath the skin. 

            Both Glorfindel and the smith seemed intent on making certain they were prepared for facing the foulest of weather, and the smith kept insisting that above all else they must guard the health of their feet, as should their feet fail them they would most likely become ill swiftly, and might well end up unable to travel further.  Even the Hobbits were provided with boots to wear should the weather warrant it, and the number of knit stockings made available to them all amazed Boromir. 

            Boromir’s own boots were again consigned to the cobblers, who saw them well rubbed with preserving oils to help keep them proof against moisture, gave them new insoles to increase his comfort and allow the sweat to be properly wicked away from his skin, and checked one last time the integrity of soles and heels.  Then he was given a second pair of boots so that he could switch between them.

            Aragorn carried a red bag within his personal satchel that held a variety of herbs, equipment, and supplies likely to be needed in case of injuries.  Gimli and Sam were to carry what would be most needed to prepare fires for warmth and cooking, and Sam insisted on carrying his own cooking pans he’d brought with him from the Shire.

            Boromir’s pack he’d received in Tharbad was cleaned and its seams reworked. A loop was added so that if necessary he could carry from it a small folding shovel, should they need to carry their own goods rather than rely on the pony Bill.  Each was to carry a full change of clothing in his pack, with their other changes of clothes in oiled canvas bags to be carried by the pony.  Each of them carried a striker set of one sort or another as well as extra sets of laces, needles, and thread; and each had his own tin plate, cup, bowl, and spoon.  All were to carry salves and oils to help protect their skin from irritations and chapping, and were instructed to examine their hands, feet, and faces daily.

            Each of the Hobbits carried special bags for their daily rations of dried fruits and nuts to eat as they walked, more bags for foraging, and twine from which to fashion snares and to carry small game.  Legolas and Aragorn also carried game bags, as well as extra strings for their bows that were protected by sleeves of oiled parchment.

            The cloaks of all of them were checked by the tailors and seamstresses, and Boromir’s cloak was provided with a new lining.  All had new gloves and mittens, with a new scarf for each member of the Fellowship, even Gandalf, who saw his packed away, preferring his silver scarf that he’d worn for as long as Boromir could remember.

            Each one of them was taken to the salle by Glorfindel, who sparred with them and then offered advice on how to best use their skills should they find themselves under attack.  Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas, and Gandalf all sparred with one another so that they might learn somewhat of one another’s skills so as to better fight together should it prove necessary.  “And it shall,” grunted the Dwarf.  “Mark my words—we will meet enemies along the way!”  Boromir did not doubt that Gimli was correct in this.

            Evenings were often spent by Aragorn, Boromir, and a reluctant Frodo again going over the maps of the regions through which they were likely to travel.  Gandalf was spending more time closeted with Elrond and his advisors going over the latest news sent from abroad, and there were often messenger birds coming and going from the valley.  On the night before they were to leave Frodo, whose nerves were growing increasingly frayed, insisted on having Boromir relate his encounters with others on his travels northward.  “I am so filled with possible routes and dangers that I do not believe I can absorb another detail!” he insisted.  “Let me hear of those Boromir encountered on his way northward.  Perhaps such tales can restore my hope that just maybe our journey may not be solely going from one danger into another.”

            Boromir began to protest that as it had been decided they would stay away from the road they would not likely meet the same folk, but a shake of Aragorn’s head stayed the words he would have spoken, and he gave Frodo the tales he’d wished to hear instead.  There had been some pleasant encounters he’d known—one evening he’d been allowed to sleep within a house rather than being consigned to a barn; there had been occasional gifts of fresh eggs and vegetables and once a half a ham; and there was the tale of the care and advice he’d received in the ruins of Tharbad, offered by people who’d lost all they’d owned but stubbornly insisted on refounding their lost town one more time….

            Frodo was far more relaxed when Sam came to fetch him away, explaining that old Mr. Bilbo wished to spend the rest of what time Frodo could stay awake with the son of his heart.

            “Thank you for answering his request,” Aragorn sighed, once the two Hobbits left them.  “He is right—there has been too much focus on ways and dangers, and he much needed a break from all of the foreboding we have all felt.  I believe I shall now go to the Hall of Fire—I, too, need some last distraction from the coming departure, and to know the comfort of being with those I have known and loved for most of my life.  Will you accompany me?”

            Boromir shook his head.  “I shall accept some chamomile tea, take that book you loaned me and read some from it, and hope that I shall soon fall asleep.  I intend to enjoy my last night in a comfortable bed as best I can.  I will be up early in the morning to bathe before I break my fast one last time at Lord Elrond’s hospitable board.”

            Aragorn smiled, laid his hand companionably on the southerner’s shoulder, gave a slight bow and departed, leaving Boromir to replace the maps they’d brought out and then ignored back into the chart cupboard from which they’d taken them before he returned to his room.

            His own clothing no longer filled the clothes press given to his use.  His cloak hung from a hook by the door, and his armor awaited him on the armor rack that stood in the corner near the wash stand.  The clothing he was to wear on the morrow he’d already laid out neatly on the table, and the pack he’d carry stood beside the door, all readied for the morning.  A bright fire burned upon the hearth, and candles filled the chamber with a soft light that flickered reassuringly, making the swan-headed ship carved into the headboard for his bed seem to rise and fall comfortingly upon the waves it sailed.

            He would miss this place, and once more he found himself wishing that Faramir could have seen it.  But at least the waiting was now over, and he would be heading tomorrow toward home, back toward the needs of his father, his people, and his brother.  How he hoped that during his absence his father had been treating Faramir more gently than he had before Boromir’s departure.

            Meliangiloreth came, bringing him a goblet of wine and a steaming cup of chamomile tea.  She examined his eyes and the nails of his hands briefly.  “You are in good health, Lord Boromir,” she told him.  “May the paths you now follow bring you to the honor that you deserve.”  She smiled at him one last time ere she left him, and he knew that even though he ached to return to his own lands, yet still he would bear with him in memory the timeless beauty of this kind valley.

 *******

            It seemed that they waited interminably for the moment of departure the next day.  Pippin and Merry finally took off their packs and sat upon them as they all awaited the coming forth of Gandalf and Lord Elrond from their last counsel.

            Sam stood by the head of the pony Bill, who had grown strong and glossy during their stay in the vale of Imladris.  Bill was carefully laden with the personal satchels of them all, as well as bags of various sorts of produce, and carefully wrought baskets of tightly woven wicker for the carrying of the more perishable foodstuffs provided for the earliest days of their journey.  Each of them was given a water bottle to be slung from a shoulder, and more, all now filled with fresh water newly taken from the Bruinen, hung across the pony’s flanks.  The only one who did not appear to wear a look of anxiety, in fact, was Bill, who merely appeared eager to be upon their way.

            Aragorn sat apart from the rest on a low wall, his head bowed, obviously thinking deeply upon this departure from his friends here in Elrond’s house and his duties as the Chieftain of the northern Dúnedain.  Frodo stood by the side of his elderly kinsman, although he still managed to appear isolated in spite of old Bilbo’s hand resting in comfort upon his shoulder.  Frequently he would close his eyes and swallow visibly, and he was rubbing at times at his left shoulder as if the healed wound there were aching in the cold of the winter afternoon.

            Sam had slipped a small apple out of his pocket to feed to Bill, who was accepting it with relish, when at last the doors opened again, and Elrond and Gandalf came forth, accompanied by Elrond’s advisors and the smith—and Elrond’s fair daughter.  Aragorn rose to his feet, and his eyes met those of the Lady Arwen, who smiled at him as if assuring him that all would be well, and that she intended to watch over him from afar.  Again Boromir wondered about the relationship between the Man and the Elf maiden he so clearly yearned for.  Frodo’s eyes were also irresistibly drawn toward Arwen, and Boromir could see the look of hopeless worship in them before he turned his attention forcibly to meet the eyes of their host.  Gimli straightened from where he’d leaned against the base of a statue, and Legolas rose with Elven grace from where he’d lounged upon a bench.  Merry and Pippin were now standing and hastily replacing their packs upon their shoulders.  Three more bags were being added to Bill’s load as Aragorn drew nearer to Elrond and Gandalf. 

            Elrond’s sons had departed the valley the night before, having gone forth to scout out the first of their way, assuring themselves that no enemies might lie in wait for the Fellowship during the first crucial hours of their journey.  Boromir heard his belly growl, and he found himself wishing he’d taken that extra honey bun he’d been eyeing in the dining hall as at last Elrond began to speak.

            “And may the blessings of Elves, Dwarves, Hobbits, and Men and all of the free peoples be upon all of you,” the Peredhel intoned, or so Boromir remembered it afterward.  He found he heard better the sound of the blood moving through his veins behind his ears, now that the moment of departure was upon them at last.  He felt only eagerness to be upon their way, to have his feet at last headed southward once more.  He could not bear to remain idle a moment longer!

            Frodo’s face was pale, his bloodless lips pressed together tightly as he slipped out from under Bilbo’s hand and moved as if in a trance to Gandalf’s side.  Legolas came next, lithely coming before Boromir in the forming line.  Merry and Pippin fell in behind the warrior, with Gimli behind them, Sam and Bill nearly treading on the Dwarf’s heels, and Aragorn taking the last place, turning to bow gracefully to those who stood before the doors of the Last Homely House before he stepped upon the rimless bridge to cross the Bruinen one last time as a mere Ranger of Eriador.

            The journey, at long last, had begun.

            Elladan and Elrohir met them after they crossed the river at the Ford, addressing mostly Aragorn as they assured the Fellowship that there had been no signs of anyone, either of the eruhini or of any beast, along the first of the paths they were to follow.  “Still,” one of them said, “as long as you travel near to the base of the mountains there is danger of orcs, wargs, and possibly even trolls.  Go carefully, muindor nín.” 

            One of them slipped a green stone into Aragorn’s hand, and the other offered one to Frodo, who smiled up at him distractedly before they went on.  Frodo automatically slipped the gift into his pocket, and hours later he took it out as if uncertain as to how it had gotten there.  Boromir doubted if the Hobbit even remembered that last encounter with Elrond’s sons in the haze of their departure.

            They walked through the sunset and throughout the long night, pausing every four marks or so to rest and eat a cold meal taken standing, then going onward once more.  Near dawn they came into a protected hollow where Aragorn indicated they would rest for the day, and all dropped exhaustedly (save, Boromir noted, for the Elf) onto whatever could serve as a seat.  Legolas took the first watch, a small fire was lit so that Sam could stir up a thick porridge for them to eat, and rose hips and other leaves were steeped in boiling water to offer them a rich tea sweetened with honey.  “We shall be drinking a good deal of rose hip tea to help us stave off illness,” Aragorn advised them as Boromir accepted his ration of the drink from the Hobbit.  It was good, but he knew he was likely to grow tired of it before their journey ended.

            He could hear the Hobbits, who’d laid their bedrolls side by side near to the small fire, murmuring to one another as they settled toward sleep.  “I swear as every rock in Middle Earth is likely to find its way under my back,” Sam grumbled, but still he was soon snoring.

            When awakened by Gandalf for the third watch, Boromir noted that Frodo alone of the Hobbits was awake, and that his face was streaked with silent tears.

            He feels guilty for the discomfort we all know for his sake, the Man realized.  He found himself pitying the Hobbit, and wishing that there were something he could do to ease Frodo’s burdens.

For Mews and for Leianora for her birthday.  Finally!

A Stone and Nearly Half Again of Nothing

            After their first resting period out of Rivendell, Boromir was surprised to hear Merry raising his voice to his younger cousin.  “But that was what I’d set aside for when I awoke, Peregrin Took!  How dare you take my winter pear?”

            “But I was hungry!” whined the younger Hobbit.

            “So, since you were hungry then I must go without?” demanded Merry.  “Would you have taken it from Boromir, or Strider?  Or Gandalf?”

            Pippin’s face went taut.  “Oh, I’d never do it to Gandalf.  He might turn me into a toad or something of the sort!”

            “And why does that make it all right to do it to me?  You’d not dare to do it to Sam or Frodo, even.  I may love you dearly as if you were indeed my own little brother, but that does not give you the right to take what is mine without even asking!  I’m hungry, too, you know!”

            Now Pippin’s expression was such that it was obvious he’d failed to imagine such a thing.  “But—” he began, 

            Merry interrupted him, “It’s not as if we were home in Brandy Hall or the Great Smial, or even Bag End or Rivendell, with full larders just down the passage and relatives or Elves to wheedle treats from, Pip.  We have only what’s being carried on our backs or Bill’s, and what we find along the way to hunt or harvest.  And it’s full winter now, so we’re not going to be able to find the mushrooms, berries, and other fruit we’d pick on the way between Bree and Rivendell.  We’ll have to keep our eyes out for wild carrots, yams, and other roots that have survived underground that we might add to our fare.  I even suspect that we’ll grow tired of hares, winter grouse, and fish before we’re through.”  His expression was still quite severe.  “You need to realize you can’t be so self-centered, so I’m going to make you carry this bunch of nothing with you for the rest of the next march—it’s nearly a stone and a half of nothing, and if anything can get through to you that this is what we’ll be left with when we’re done if you continue taking what you please with no thought for anyone else, this ought to do it!”  So saying, he reached down to the ground and lifted up—well, from what Boromir could tell, he lifted up nothing!  Yet it appeared that what he lifted up had heft, shape, and weight to it, and when he forced it into Pippin’s hands, the younger Hobbit acted as if whatever it was he’d been handed had some substance to it as well.

            “No!” Pippin objected.  “You can’t force me to carry about this much nothing all night!”

            Merry was shaking his head.  “I can, too, Pippin, and you will carry it or I’ll tell Frodo on you.  And Gandalf!” he added.

            “But how am I to carry it?” Pippin asked.

            “I don’t really care—put it in your pack if you want to.  But you’d best have not tried to get rid of any of it by the end of the night’s march.  If you try, I’ll know and I’ll make you suffer accordingly.”  And with that the Brandybuck turned away to roll up his bedroll.

            Pippin was left looking between the—nothing—he held in his hands and the clouds overhead that obscured the darkening sky.  At last he set the nothing down, opened up his pack, and tried to fit the nothing in with his extra outfit and his rations to be eaten as they marched and whatever else he had in there.  He apparently managed, but not without having to rearrange things several times from what the Man could tell, and through it all he was muttering about how unfair it was he had to carry so much extra.

            They set off, Aragorn having gone ahead this time as scout and Legolas falling behind and somewhat off to the left, his eyes searching for game as well as for potential enemies or spies, his bow ready to hand those times Boromir could catch a glimpse of him.  Gandalf had his hand on Frodo’s shoulder, and was leaning over and talking with the Ringbearer as they walked, apparently seeking to distract Frodo from the tedium of the march.  Sam and Bill walked in line between Merry and Gimli, both concentrating on not stumbling over stones or roots in the game path they followed.  Pippin was not far ahead of Boromir, and after a mark or so his pace began to slow.  When the Man caught up with the young Took he asked, “What ails you, Little One?”

            Pippin shrugged in a disgruntled manner.  “It’s the extra stuff Merry’s making me carry.  Almost a stone and a half extra weight!  Can you imagine?  And he’s threatened to skin me alive if I try to get rid of any of it, even though it’s not of any use at all for us!  Just because I ate his pear he’d set aside!  I tried to say I was sorry, but he wouldn’t let me speak at all—just handed me this extra weight and told me I was to carry it, and that’s that!  About twenty extra pounds—can you imagine?”

            Boromir felt his mouth twitching.  “Can’t you just get rid of it in the dark?” he asked.

            But Pippin was shaking his head.  “Oh, he’d know the minute I tried—he’s made me carry such things before, you see, and he’ll know if I try to break it up and get shut of any or all of it secretly.  If it’s not the same when I give it back to him when we get to wherever we stop as when he entrusted it to me he’ll tell immediately!”

            Boromir thought briefly, and leaned down and whispered in the young Hobbit’s ear, “Perhaps I could carry it for you for a time.  That would be something he couldn’t know, could he?”

            Pippin looked surprised, as it he’d not thought of such a possibility.  “Would you really be willing?” he asked.

            “For you, Master Pippin, I would do it.”

            Pippin gave a glance forward to make certain that Merry couldn’t see them, but the path had turned and the Brandybuck was out of sight.  “If you would, I’d be ever so grateful.  And anything I can find that is edible as we march, I’d let you have first chance at it.  Would you, please?”

            So Boromir found himself taking Pippin’s pack and slinging it over the shoulder opposite his shield.  Pippin was now darting here and there, now and then pausing to check out rattling foliage and actually finding some onions, which he dug up and stuffed into his pocket. 

            After another mark, however, the Gondorian found the extra weight to be bearing down on his shoulder.  He tried to carry on with no complaint, but when Pippin came to indicate he’d do well for some of the trail rations given to the Hobbits to help them get through the long marches out of his pack, he could tell that the Man was in discomfort.  “I’d best take my pack back in any case,” he said.  “We’re no longer in such wooded country, after all, and Merry’s bound to tell I’m letting you carry my share.”

            Boromir gladly let the Hobbit’s pack drop to the ground.  “If you say so.  I will still be willing to carry the nothing, however.  Perhaps you could manage to stow it in my pack instead of yours.”

            Legolas came even with them just as Pippin was fitting Boromir’s extra trews into his pack.  “There is a problem?” asked the Elf.

            “Oh, no!” Pippin exclaimed breathlessly.  “I was just helping Boromir better distribute the weight of what’s in his pack, is all.  I help Frodo do this on occasion.  He says I’m good at it.”

            Legolas gave them a questioning look, but offered no response to the Hobbit’s words.  He merely looked at the path ahead of them and commented, “You’d best get moving rapidly.  You have dropped far behind the rest by now.”  With that he stepped aside and melted into the low shrubbery that surrounded them.

            Pippin didn’t flit from side to side as he’d been doing earlier, but wasn’t lagging, either.  Boromir shook his head, smiling at the young Hobbit’s imagination and how he’d been able to infect the Man himself with it.  Now that Pippin wasn’t convinced he was carrying nearly a stone and a half’s weight of nothing, he was walking just the same as he had all through last night’s march.  Imagine—just thinking he was carrying that much extra weight had made him convinced that his pack was truly weighing the more on his shoulders and back!  Silly, fatuous child!  Smiling to himself, Boromir resumed the quickened march behind the young Took.

            But the more his pack dragged at his own shoulders, the more Boromir son of Denethor found himself thinking about how much just a little extra weight can wear down at a person’s stamina.  And he could swear that his pack felt heavier….

            He found he had lagged behind again, and that he could barely make out Pippin’s form far in front of him.  He picked up his pace again.  What was wrong with him that he was letting one so small draw so far ahead?  He was a Man, after all, tall, strong, and doughty!  It would not do to let himself be bested by one barely more than a child!

            He managed to catch up with Pippin, who was now not that far behind Gimli, who in turn was now walking even with Merry and apparently sharing some jest with the Brandybuck.  Both Merry and Gimli laughed aloud, the Dwarf’s laughter rolling with mirth and the Hobbit’s high and light-hearted.  Well enough for Merry, Boromir thought sourly.  It wasn’t as if he were carrying twenty pounds or so of extra weight in his pack!

            Pippin was raising his water bottle and taking a drink from it, and did nothing to seek to catch up with his kinsman.  He was determined not to get close enough to allow Merry to realize he’d palmed off those extra pounds of nothing on someone else, or so Boromir read the situation.  But still the Hobbit kept the pace set by the others, and when Merry glanced his way would lift his chin with an air of defiance and stubbornness.  How could the Man help but admire Pippin’s cheek?

            And his own pack seemed heavier and heavier by the quarter mark!

            Sometime after the middle of the night they paused so that all could relieve themselves as needed and they could take a more substantial meal, even if it was in the form of jerked meats and dried fruit and a cake of trail bread.  Boromir was the next to last to enter the area designated as their temporary camp, and let his pack fall with a decided plop! to the ground.  Something in the sound of that fallen pack caught the attention of Frodo, who rose from where he’s settled on a tussock of grass and came to the Man’s side.

            “Did you find something of interest as we traveled, perhaps in that period when you and Pippin fell so far behind?” he asked.  “Your pack sounded heavier when you dropped it than it did in the morning when we stopped to sleep.”

            “Oh, it’s nothing,” Boromir was quick to answer.  “I am just finding myself more weary today after a full night’s march and less than comfortable sleeping.  I fear that I went more than a bit soft while we were in Lord Elrond’s house, what with comfortable beds and full and regular meals.  Give me a few days to harden myself again to life in the wild.  I will do so rapidly enough, I promise.”

            But Frodo shook his head, his eyes on the Man’s pack.  Suddenly he cut his eyes between Boromir and Pippin, and he gave a grim smile.  “He has you carrying something of his, doesn’t he?” the Ringbearer said.  “Let me see it.”

            “But you will find nothing in my pack----” the Man began.

            Frodo’s head lifted in enlightenment, and he looked over his shoulder at Merry, who was suddenly listening with interest as well.  “Is Pippin under discipline?” he asked his cousin.

            “Yes,” Merry answered.  “He took my pear and ate it, and I gave him a stone and nearly half again to carry.”

            Frodo shook his head as he returned his gaze to that of Boromir.  “You are the Captain-General of the troops of your people, are you not?” he asked.

            “Have you not been assured of that more than once?” Boromir demanded.

            “Have you never had to discipline one of your younger men who’d made a gaffe of some sort or another?  How would you feel toward anyone who tried to interfere in that discipline, Captain Boromir?  Pippin knows better than to take someone else’s rations when all is carefully measured and must last an unknown period of time.  He was given a punishment sufficient for his offense, and you would think to lighten it?  Does he not deserve the punishment meted out to him?  Instead, you have weighed yourself down unjustly and unnecessarily, and allowed him to roam free of it.  What has he learned, other than that he can coax you into helping him when he must learn to control his own appetites?  Give me the nothing he was meant to carry.”

            Boromir had to keep himself from gaping stupidly at the Baggins.  A quick glance at Gandalf indicated that the Wizard was amused, while Aragorn, just returning with a hogshead of water from the nearby stream, looked on with curiosity.  “You want the nothing that you say I am carrying for Peregrin here?” he asked.

            Frodo’s eyes did not waver.  “Yes, it was given to him to carry, and he is the one who should do so, not you.  Your own burdens are sufficient to your day, I would say.  If you please, Boromir.”

            Gimli glanced with question toward Aragorn, who shrugged in return.  Feeling foolish, Boromir sat down upon the ground and drew the pack, which even dragged as if it had extra weight in it, to him and untied the sloppy bow with which Pippin had fastened it.  How on earth was he to find something in his pack when he knew that Pippin had packed nothing extra into it?  And why were all, including himself, taking the whole situation so seriously?  Well, all the Hobbits, at least, he thought.  He fumbled his hands through his things before Frodo stepped forward, shaking his head with mild dismissal.  “Give it here,” Frodo said, and so saying he drew it toward himself.  He first brought out the trews and set them aside, and on a second delving he gave a grunt of satisfaction.  “I’ve found it, Merry.”  With a grunt he lifted out—

            --Nothing!

             He held it up to show to Merry.  “Is this what you gave to Pippin just before we started, Merry?”

            The Brandybuck nodded.  “The same, Frodo.”

            “I assure you that it was I who offered to take it.  Pippin did not ask this of me,” Boromir said, and felt even more foolish for going so far into the pretence.

            The Ringbearer’s gaze searched the Man’s face, and finally softened.  “I salute you for your compassion toward this young scapegrace,” he said.  “But do allow him to finish his punishment on his own.  You should not suffer by carrying twenty pounds or more of extra weight when it was his burden, properly meted out to him.  Thank you, but let himself prove himself worthy of forgiveness.”  So saying, he tossed aside the—nothing, and the Man could have sworn he heard a distinct thud upon the ground.  Frodo turned a stern eye on Pippin, and told him, “Now, you pick that up and put it back into your own pack, and don’t let us catch you allowing anyone else lighten your load until Merry says that he is satisfied.  Shame on you, adding to the burdens Boromir has been carrying!”

            Pippin, obviously chastened, nodded, his eyes cast down, and in a moment he was emptying out the contents of his pack and refitting everything around the nothing.

            When Sam came to give him his portion of the meal, the gardener handed Boromir an extra handful of dried peaches.  “You meant well, sir, and good intentions shouldn’t be ignored, no matter how poor the judgment.  Here—you deserve these, if I may say so as one who perhaps shouldn’t.  You’re a good one, I’m thinkin’.”

            Boromir smiled, heartened by the stout Hobbit’s praise.  He’d seen enough of Frodo’s companion to realize that Sam didn’t say things he didn’t mean, and that his good will was not lightly bestowed.

            When the march resumed, Gimli was given the tail of the line, and a wild goat Legolas had shot was laden over patient Bill’s regular load—they might get a hot meal when they stopped for the day’s rest if they could find a sufficiently concealed camping spot.  Boromir joined Gandalf at the front.  Pippin had been set in front of Frodo and Merry, who walked together, and he was shifting his shoulders as if the weight were uncomfortably heavy.  Legolas walked behind the three Hobbits and before Sam and the pony, while Aragorn again went ahead to scout the way.

            Certain that neither Frodo nor Merry were paying any attention, Boromir commented with an exaggeratedly casual air, “It’s quite funny, that young Peregrin has been caught so in the situation that he believes he truly feels the weight of nothing, do you not agree?”

            The Wizard tapped the side of his nose with the end of his staff.  “I have found that each people has its own magic.  Even Men, Boromir son of Denethor, have their own ways of causing confusion to others, and of finding reality in what others dismiss as mere imagination.  Do not discount ways you cannot understand.  I suspect that this form of discipline was devised by Frodo if not by Bilbo, and that the others have fallen into it.  What someone believes in can become reality—and that is a good part of the foundation of my own powers, you will find.  That Frodo has added his own authority to the discipline imposed on young Peregrin there has added to convince the scamp of the seriousness of his transgression.”

            Boromir shrugged, and was amazed as to how much lighter his pack felt now that the nothing had been returned to its original bearer.  But, as he dropped behind Gandalf after a time, he found himself wondering just who it was who might be being gulled, and just how many were involved in the possible prank.  But a glance over his shoulder at Pippin, squirming under the extra weight in his pack, caused him to feel lighter in heart, at least, once more.

First written for B2MEM 2012 and posted in "Through the Eyes of Maia and Wizard."

Yuletide Cheer

            The Wizard drew near to Aragorn in order to murmur into his ear, “We will need a camping place that is sufficiently sheltered to allow for a fire.”

            The Dúnadan met his gaze, his brow creased.  “Do you think it wise, Gandalf?  We are not that many days out of Rivendell, you know.”

            “And we’ve seen no eyes, friendly or unfriendly, for three days.  Nor do I sense any hint of anyone within a day’s march of here.”  At Aragorn’s continued expression of wary concern he continued, “It’s the turning of the year, my friend, and without some acknowledgment of that fact I fear we shall suffer rebellion from at least the Hobbits.”  Gandalf cast a look behind them at the rest of the party, save for Legolas, who had gone before them as scout.  Boromir walked just behind Merry and Pippin, watching the two younger Hobbits with concern of his own.  Merry appeared stoic, his intent to remain steadfast in spite of his personal misery plain to eyes accustomed to reading Hobbit sensibilities.  Pippin was singing softly to himself, but the tune did not appear to give him much comfort.  Sam walked behind those three, patiently leading Bill while looking thoughtfully toward Frodo every few minutes.  Gimli walked at the end of the line for the moment, as far distant as possible from the Elf, attentive to any hint of sound behind or on either side, one of his smaller throwing axes in his hand, his large battle axe strapped for now to his back.  Frodo walked alone, before his cousins and behind Ranger and Wizard, his eyes veiled, his naturally pale features set.

            Aragorn said softly, “Frodo feels guilty, as if he is responsible for his kinsmen and Sam—indeed, all of us—being out here in the wild rather than comfortably among our own as the year turns.”

            Gandalf nodded his agreement.  “Elrond feared this would happen, so he made provision that we should know at least some pleasure this day.”

            Aragorn raised an eyebrow, and then smiled.  “I’d wondered why he sent evergreen boughs,” he admitted, adding confidingly, “That one package has a distinctive odor.”

            Gandalf’s eyes crinkled as he smiled in return.

            A chirp of a nightjar, and Wizard, Ranger, and Frodo looked up to see Legolas standing above them on a limb to the first tree they’d seen for hours.  A graceful slither, and the Elf was on the ground, indicating he’d seen no signs of any other wanderers anywhere near, and no indications that orcs or wolves had been recently in this barren area.  “The only trail I’ve seen is of two riders who came this way perhaps two weeks ago,” he said.  “As the shoes are similar to those of horses I saw among the northern Dúnedain who visited Imladris while we sojourned there, I suspect they were left by those sent this way in search of word of the Enemy.”

            Aragorn nodded.  “Yes, Halbarad sent Halladan and Faradir this way when we were seeking signs of the Black Riders after the flood at the ford,” he admitted.  “Have you seen aught of a place where we can perhaps take refuge for a day and a night, somewhere that is safe for us to have a decent fire?  As the year turns in the coming night, it would be good for morale should we make somewhat of a holiday of it.”

            The Elf cast an understanding glance at the four Hobbits, and nodded.  “I saw a sheltered place ahead perhaps a quarter of a league.  Let me go examine it again.  It’s the most secure spot I believe I’ve seen in this bare land, and what fire we might light will not easily show, as long as our fire is kept smokeless.”  In a trice he’d melted into the surrounding lands, and Aragorn gave the signal to the rest to take a few minutes’ respite.

            “Not even a decent tree to be seen,” muttered Sam Gamgee as he resettled one of the bundles perched on the pony’s back, giving the one Legolas had visited a scornful glance.  “There you be, Bill my lad,” he said, his tone conciliatory.  “Soon we’ll be giving you a decent first breakfast, and then perhaps we’ll have one for ourselves as well.”  He looked up at the greying sky and added, “Not as I’d truly think it first breakfast, seein’ as we was walkin’ all night long,”

            Gandalf, Aragorn, and Boromir all saw the wince that Frodo couldn’t hide at Sam’s words.  Boromir came forward to join Aragorn and the Wizard as Merry and Pippin closed around their kinsman.  “Master Baggins appears even more solemn and withdrawn today than I’ve seen him yet,” he confided.

            Aragorn looked purposely off toward the horizon, murmuring, “He would rather all of us were safely home this day with our loved ones, to celebrate the turning of the year in comfort.”

            “Hobbits celebrate mettarë?” Boromir asked.

            “They certainly celebrate the turning of the year, which they know as Yule,” the northerner told him.  “Tonight there will be bonfires in all of the villages and settlements throughout the Shire, with much feasting, dancing, and music of all kinds.  There will be many parties, and a goodly portion of the inhabitants will wait to greet the first to come over the threshold of their homes with food and drink and gifts.  Families exchange presents, and the children are allowed to be thoroughly spoiled.  Or so Bilbo has assured me many times since he came to dwell in Rivendell seventeen years past.

            “Knowing how the Hobbits especially will be missing their loved ones at this season,” he continued, straightening some, “Lord Elrond made shift to supplement our stores with something appropriate for the holiday, or so Gandalf has just assured me.”

            “Then we shall need wood, I must suppose,” suggested Boromir.

            Gandalf nodded.  “Indeed.”

            Soon the Gondorian and the Hobbits were all busy scouring the area for such fuel as they could find to carry with them to their new camp, and once Legolas returned with reassurance that the place ahead was sufficient to their needs all reformed the line to move forward once more with what little they’d been able to find so far.

            The spot chosen wasn’t far from a gully, at the bottom of which ran a cheerful stream.  Here more wood washed from the slopes overhead could be found, and they soon had enough to keep a fire going all day and through the coming night as well.  While Sam saw to the preparation of a slightly more substantial first breakfast than they’d known for the last few days, Gimli cared for Bill, and Merry and Pippin decorated the hollow in which they were to camp with the greens to be found in an elongated bag from among their stores.  After setting out the bedrolls, placing that of the Ringbearer near the fire as he’d noted was customary, Boromir settled himself near to the Wizard and began going through his gear, making certain all was well with it, while from time to time watching the two youngest Hobbits as they decided just where they should settle the various garnishments they pulled out of the bag.

            Frodo had rummaged about within his own pack and pulled out a bundle that he opened as if to check its contents, closed it and considered it carefully, then stowed it once more.  He offered to help Sam, who made it clear he’d prefer to do things himself this morning, and at last came over to sit near Gandalf.  “And you meant what you said, that we are to hold to this course for forty days from Rivendell, before we will cross over the mountains to the course of the great river?”

            “I fear that we must, Frodo.”

            “But it will be Solmath—February--long before we begin to turn east!  I never dreamt Mordor was so far to the south.”

            “Actually, it is much further south of the Shire than it is east of it.”

            “Aunt Eglantine will surely disown me, having allowed Pippin to come along on this fool’s journey.”

            “I would not be the least surprised to learn she will threaten to do so once this business is finished, Frodo Baggins.  However, once she is assured her son is hale enough, I strongly suspect she will forget about you and focus more on him.  Oh, I am certain he will feel the sharp side of his mother’s tongue some, but at the same time she will be spoiling him terribly to make up for all of the feasts and banquets he’s missed during his travels.  But then, the fault isn’t yours—if anyone’s, it’s mine, and you know it.  I’m the one who assured Elrond that it would be best to allow the two of them to travel with us, after all.  Better than sending him home tied up in a sack as he indicated would have to be done to keep him from following after.”

            Frodo sighed.  “He’d not have made it home in any case, not if I know Peregrin Took.  The first time they released him to relieve himself he would have slipped away from them and would be haring after us anyway.”

            “So, there you have it.  Far better to have him openly with us rather than skulking along behind us and falling into who knows how many scrapes!  Besides, you need him to see to it you laugh at least once a day, my dear Hobbit—you are becoming altogether far too serious, you know.  Not, of course, that you don’t have good reason to be concerned.  But we all do better for a good laugh at reasonable intervals.”

            Frodo grimaced and looked away.

            “Why don’t you go ask Aragorn if you can aid him in finding what might be foraged around here, Frodo?” the Wizard suggested.  “He’s right over there, near the path down to the stream.  I think he’s considering setting a snare or two, if nothing else.”

            The Hobbit muttered something, and shrugging, rose to follow Gandalf’s suggestion.

            Boromir watched after Frodo, remarking, “He does feel responsible for the danger we are all in, I deem.”

            Gandalf drew out his pipe and filled it carefully, husbanding each shred of leaf as if it were infinitely precious.  “That he does.  But then he’s always been a most responsible sort, and from his youngest days as Bilbo has assured me has been true of him.”

            “His—people—must be very proud of him.”

            Gandalf gave Frodo’s retreating figure a thoughtful glance.  “I believe I saw him but once when he was a babe, and not again until he’d come back to Hobbiton to Bag End to live as Bilbo’s ward and heir, over twenty years later.  Even that one time it was from a distance.  I’d met his parents a time or two, not that they were quite—comfortable with our acquaintance.  But then, most Hobbits tend to view me with suspicion, considering me quite a bad influence.  Look what I did to Bilbo, after all—inspired him to becoming involved with the Dwarves and a Dragon, turning him from the height of predictability and therefore respectability into a marked eccentric.  And they blamed me for Frodo’s appearance of sudden change of fortune, when he announced he’d come to the end of his money and would be leaving Hobbiton to go back to Buckland once more. 

            “Merry’s parents fostered him after his own parents’ deaths, and they love him as if he were indeed their first son.  They didn’t want to give him up into Bilbo’s care, but had to admit it was necessary in the end.  They would grieve indeed to see him as he is now, much less what he is likely to come to as the quest requires still more of him.”

            “He may not survive it, you know.”

            The Wizard met the warrior’s eyes.  “This quest is likely to cost any or even all of us our lives.  Would you turn back now, knowing you may never sit in the Black Chair with the Steward’s Rod in your lap?”

            Boromir gave a mirthless laugh.  “I need not have come so far from my home to know that to be true, Mithrandir.  Each time I face Mordor’s creatures that is true.”

            Gandalf sighed.  “You have the right of it.”  He glanced back at Frodo where he now stood speaking with Aragorn, then back toward the campsite where Merry and Pippin were arguing over where a swag of ivy might best be displayed before turning to Boromir once more.  “If they could understand what is at stake, I suspect that Merry’s parents at least would be very proud of Frodo—if they could get over their terror for what might befall him, their son, and their nephew, that is.  As for Paladin Took and his wife—well, they are quite a different kettle of fish.  Paladin thinks himself quite worldly, which means he questions all tales of things he’s never seen himself.  He has no time for tales of Mordor and distant lands and possibly returning kings.  He’s the Thain and the Took now, quite a big responsibility in itself, seeing to it that his extensive family is properly cared for and that the borders of their lands are watched.  He fails to think further afield than Bree, and thinks of that only because he visited there a time or two many years since when it was still safe to travel so far and he was merely concerned to turn a bit of a profit from the excess wool and grain from his farm in Whitwell.  Now that he’s succeeded his cousin Ferumbras as the nominal head of the Shire and as the patriarch of his family, however, he has too many real problems to solve, as he sees it, to pay attention to what he thinks of as children’s fables and ghost stories.  He and Eglantine indeed must be out of their minds with anxiety with their son gone missing along with Merry and Frodo and Sam.  And, when they get back----”

            “If they are able to return,” cautioned Boromir.

            Gandalf shrugged.  “If and when these return, I doubt either of Pippin’s parents will wish to believe a word any of these four should attempt to tell them of what they went through, much less why they left the Shire to begin with.  It’s not going to be an easy return for young Pippin, and he knows it.  But it didn’t stop him from demanding to come along.”

 *******

            They ate the meal that Sam had prepared with better cheer than they’d known after such meals on previous mornings.  One hamper they’d not opened until today proved to hold fresh eggs and sausages, a rather larger ham than they’d expected, some bread that tasted almost fresh, and even some preserved strawberries of excellent quality.  Gandalf offered to take the first watch, and the rest took to their bedrolls soon enough.  Pippin was the first to awaken in the early afternoon, and he set the fire burning merrily once more before taking kettles, pans, and water bottles down to fill them at the stream. 

            The rest were far less gloomy than they’d been at the end of the previous night’s walk, and Boromir awoke feeling quite refreshed.  When Pippin began entertaining the party with what Merry insisted was a most inappropriate version of a typical Yuletide carol even Frodo smiled some.  Sam served them slices of ham warmed in his skillet alongside potatoes that had been cooking in the coals for some hours and fried slices of cored apple.  Bill appeared happy with his share of the apples and the grain poured into his nosebag, and Legolas had managed to bring in some partridges that all expected to eat the following morning.  Meanwhile they had some excellent tubers Frodo and Aragorn had dug up down in the gully to set by for the future, and a sizable haunch of beef was turning on a spit over the fire for their holiday supper.

            Then Frodo came to Sam with a rough cloth bag.  “Bilbo gave me these,” he explained.  “I thought we could all share them with our evening meal.”

            Boromir peered into the bag with curiosity, and his expression soured at the look of what was there.  “Bits of wood?” he asked.

            Sam gave him a glance of reproof, sniffing appreciatively at the contents.  “Wood?  I’d say not!  They’re dried mushrooms, and excellent morels, I’m thinkin’.  Old Mr. Bilbo was most generous, givin’ these to Mr. Frodo like that.  And you don’t know as how great an honor it is to have my Master willin’ t’share in such bounty.  There some things as Mr. Frodo just don’t tend to share easily, you see.”

            The dried mushrooms were combined with sliced potatoes and such dried vegetables as formed part of their stores and the drippings from the roasting meat to make a rich and savory vegetable stew that Sam served that evening alongside the sliced beef, with stewed apples soaked in wine and honey for afters.

            Boromir was eating his stew with pleasure when he found in it his first slice of mushroom.  He fished it out with his knife blade, eyed it distastefully, and casually flicked it to the ground, to the horror of all four Hobbits and a cry of “You shouldn’t waste them like that!” from Aragorn.  Wizard, Elf, and Dwarf all turned to watch the small drama with interest, and Gandalf noted that Frodo’s eyes were wide with both shock and fury.  Frodo Baggins, he remembered, particularly loved mushrooms, and as Sam had noted he did not share his mushrooms with just anyone.  For someone to not realize just how much of a sacrifice Frodo had made in having Sam include these in the meal to the point of throwing them on the ground was an affront that Gandalf feared Boromir could not yet appreciate, but which he very well might rue in short order.  For Gandalf also had heard Bilbo boast of just how inventive his lad could be when taking vengeance….

            “Oh, no you don’t!” Pippin said as the Gondorian speared another mushroom out of the stew, and he reached out and took it from the knifepoint and popped it into his own mouth with all signs of satisfaction.  Merry was looking with interest between Frodo and Boromir, and at one point shared meaningful glances with Aragorn, who merely shook his head, watching Pippin’s antics with a measure of yearning.  The Dúnadan also liked his mushrooms, the Wizard remembered.

            Deciding that it might be best to provide a distraction, Gandalf lit his pipe again, and fell back on his old trick of turning his smoke rings different colors and sending them here and there about the hollow, and even turned the flames of the cook fire green and red.  The others began to laugh, and even Frodo managed to crack a smile, but still he appeared to count every slice of mushroom Pippin rescued from Boromir’s knife tip.  Stories were told and songs were sung, and Aragorn was coaxed into singing a lay about the first meeting between Thingol and Melian and how the Elven lord stood entranced by his first glimpse of the one who had finally stirred his heart.  By the time all were ready to sleep for the night rather than resuming their journey, Gandalf hoped that Frodo would realize that no offense was intended and let the matter go.  Certainly the Baggins returned to his bedroll as if he felt exhausted, returning Boromir’s wishes for a pleasant rest readily enough.

            Gimli took the first watch that night, with Merry set to relieve him at the third hour.  But when Gandalf woke to take the third watch of the night, he found himself relieving not Merry but his older cousin.

            “I was feeling wakeful and thought Merry could do with some more rest,” Frodo said, smiling easily.  “So I rose and took over from Gimli.  It was the least I could do for my Merry for Yule.”

            He’d also apparently done a fair amount of tidying up about the campsite, Gandalf noted.  The mugs from which they drank their morning tea were all washed and set out neatly on a larger stone near the fire pit, and the two kettles, already filled with water, stood near the flames of the cook fire to warm some for washing once all were awake.

            Near each bedroll was a neat pile comprised of a face cloth, toweling, and a bar of scented soap--Frodo’s gift, Gandalf realized, to each of them.  He smiled, and placed a cloth pouch of pipe weed on top of these for each of the Hobbits, Aragorn, and Gimli, and a flask of wine each for Boromir and Legolas.  When he awoke, Merry proved to have a whetstone for each of them, while Pippin had small packets of sweets that he’d brought from Rivendell.  Sam had handkerchiefs for everyone, at least three each—he swore that Bilbo had insisted that these would prove useful for all of them.  Gimli gave each of them a bead on a cord to carry for luck or protection, each bead hand carved of a different gemstone.  Aragorn provided packets of sweet biscuits for them all, and offered in addition a new pair of leather laces to Boromir, who accepted them with surprised thanks.

            They ate a leisurely first breakfast, enjoying the partridges Legolas had taken the day before as well as some fish Frodo brought up from the stream.  Afterwards they reluctantly burned the greens in the fire while Pippin sang a song customarily sung at the lighting of the Yule Log as he scrubbed the pans and metal plates and cups at Frodo’s direction.

            As he brought one of the sprays of evergreens from the east side of the hollow, Merry noted, “That’s rather strange—I could swear I put the yew over there yesterday.”

            It was after they finally resumed their way southward that Boromir cursed.

            “What is it?” Gandalf asked.

            “There appears to be something in my boot,” he was told.  The Gondorian pulled out of line, sat down on a stone, and pulled at the lacing for his right boot—only to have it suddenly break on him.  Three times he shook it out, ran his fingers over the inside of the boot, put it on, took a few steps, then sat down anew before he finally found that a pebble had somehow worked its way under the thick layer of leather that padded the inner sole of his footwear. 

            Once he finally had one of his new laces in place and properly tied they started anew.  Within a short time he was having to remove his other boot, and finally his sock.  Somehow a yew needle had worked itself into the knitted fabric, and it had been irritating the arch of his foot.  The irritation continued, and at last he found a fir needle was somehow caught in the seam of the leather and was poking through the sock into his leg.  Then he found a bit of horsehair through the seam of his trousers, irritating his inner thigh.  And when he stood up, it was to find he’d somehow managed to sit upon a mash of holly berries that no one had seen upon the rock before he’d sat upon it.

            When the lacing of his pants broke as he went to change to his spare trousers, he cursed again.  Aragorn smiled smugly as he caught Gandalf’s eye.  “I suspected that he might well need some new laces today,” he whispered to the Wizard.  “Anyone who is disrespectful toward Frodo’s mushrooms tends to know remarkable runs of bad luck, you will find.”

            Gandalf gave Frodo a suspicious look, but found that the Ringbearer appeared properly commiserative regarding Boromir’s distress, although did he indeed have a sprig of evergreen needles in his hair?

For CEShaughnessey, Julchen, Starli-ght. SivanShamesh, and KayleeLupin for their birthdays.

More than Meets the Eye

            For three days and nights it rained, a drenching rain that left even the Elf Legolas with a testy temper.  There appeared to be nowhere to take shelter from the downpour, and even Boromir’s warm cloak, carefully oiled and lined with fur as it was, became sodden.  Now and then the rain would turn to sleet, and twice to snow, although none of it stuck upon the ground, thank the stars!  The Hobbits reluctantly drew on the boots with which they had been fitted, but none of them appeared to find them comfortable.  Neither Merry nor Frodo made any open complaint, but Sam kept muttering about how such things just weren’t natural, and Pippin repeatedly asked Merry how the Hobbits of Buckland could bear to wear such things while they kept the flood watch along the banks of the Brandywine.

            Boromir found himself growing tired of hearing the complaints, and especially so since he was himself so uncomfortably wet and exhausted.  They’d found no real shelter from the damp in which to camp, and it was impossible to sleep restfully when no matter how well they sought to protect themselves the rain seemed to find its way past carefully strung canvas tarps or layered evergreen boughs to fling itself against their faces.

            Perhaps it was hearing Pippin constantly comment on how hungry he was that for some reason tested Boromir’s patience the most.  Certainly the Captain of Gondor’s armies must have been at least as hungry as the youngest and smallest of the Hobbits, but he wasn’t complaining about that fact several times an hour!  Not that they were stinted on food, of course—Lord Elrond had seen to it that their stores would see them a good long way.  But one did get tired after a time of trail rations such as jerked meats, dried fruits, and various nuts and seeds roasted in salt and oil, particularly as finding dry wood for a fire had proved a thankless exercise for two days.

            Boromir, seated near Gimli at their latest campsite ere they started on the third night’s tramp, shuddered as he heard Pippin once more murmur, “I’m hungry, Merry!” 

            “What is the use of bringing so many Hobbits on this fool’s journey?” he grumbled for the Dwarf’s ear only.  “They are all but helpless, after all.”

            He did not think that the Hobbits had heard him, but Frodo’s behavior toward him through that night’s march was decidedly cool and formal, while Sam appeared to be pointedly ignoring him.

            Sometime after the middle night the rain finally stopped, and as the sky began to go grey with the false dawn it cleared to the point that some stars could be seen shining far toward the western horizon.  “It should be a fair day today,” Aragorn commented.

            “From your lips to the ears of Lord Manwë,” muttered Legolas.  “The Belain have protected us so far from detection, it would appear, but we could be far more comfortable than we’ve been for the past three days.”

            Boromir certainly appreciated the Elf’s observation!

            Aragorn appeared to be quite familiar with the region.  “This area held many of the principle towns and settlements of Rhudaur,” he explained.  “There are many streams throughout the region, and there was a large town built about a series of mineral and hot springs a quarter-day’s journey from where I propose we camp for the next two days.”

            All of them perked up at the idea of staying put for more than a single day.  “You think we need such a rest?” Boromir asked.

            Gandalf shrugged.  “I am not certain about all of us, of course, but I strongly suspect that I am not the only one whose clothing is wet all through.  We need to be able to see our packs dried out and our goods checked to make certain that the rain hasn’t ruined much of our stores.  And we could all do with a change of clothing and perhaps a soak in one of the hot springs of which Aragorn speaks.  I must admit that I’d forgotten about those—personally, I would find them a most welcome break to our journey.  It might give us a good chance to see what we’ve been wearing properly cleaned and dried as well.”

            The line reformed, and all appeared to be far more cheerful for the rest of the night’s walk than they’d been for quite some time.

 *******

            “Was this once a village of some sort?” asked Pippin as they reached the area where Aragorn intended they stay.

            The Ranger nodded absently, turning to help Sam with the unloading of faithful Bill.  “According to some of the maps in the Last Homely House this was once a village known as Standis.  There is something particularly wholesome about it to this day, and evil creatures tend to avoid it.  Our Rangers will camp here when we must venture in this direction, and we find it a welcome respite.”

            “Why not camp closer to the hot springs?” demanded Boromir, who found he would warmly welcome a good hot soak at this point in the proceedings.

            Aragorn shrugged as he handed one of the hampers carrying jerked meats to Pippin.  “The ruins of the town where they are to be found were built in the foothills of the mountains.  We will need to approach them with caution, for more than once I’ve come upon mountain trolls and orcs there.  Why they come there rather than here is the puzzle, I’ve always thought.”

            “Is there a stream nearby?” asked Frodo. 

            Aragorn indicated a slight gully to the west of them with a jerk of his head.  “Down there, and the water has always been good here.  That is another bad side to camping nearer to the hot springs—the water there is so full of minerals that it sours almost everything one tries to cook with it.”

            The pony was quickly unloaded—already their stores were much depleted, Boromir realized, and many of the bags and hampers were empty, being carried on more to avoid leaving signs for possible enemies following in their wake than for any true need of them.

            Boromir found himself examining what could be seen of the outline of the village that once stood here.  One could tell how some of the lanes used to run, and there were two places where stone walls rose breast high on Boromir, well over the head of young Pippin, he noted.  Too bad they’d not reached this far in their journey prior to the rains—they could have strung the tarps over the whole party with the benefit of the walls to two sides and saved them all a soaking!  Ah, but they could not have come much faster than they had, he realized as he settled his pack into a hollow he chose for himself that appeared to have possibly once been a hearth.

            All were surprised when Frodo pulled Sam aside, along with Merry and Pippin.  “I’m sorry, Gandalf, if you’d hoped to have Sam fix our dawn meal today,” the Baggins said, “but you will have to do your own chores this morning.  I fear I need the others to help me, since I have drawn first watch.”

            Gandalf exchanged curious looks with Aragorn, but no one wished to go against the wishes of the Ringbearer, or so it appeared.  But it proved that Frodo was not done.  “Aragorn, you say that the northern Rangers come this far.  Is it like Weathertop?  Is there a cache of wood to be found?”

            “Well, it is likely there will be one in that ruin there, beneath an overhanging slab.”  The Ranger indicated a ruin where the stones were more regular, although they didn’t rise more than two feet from the ground.

            “Pippin, fetch wood from that cache to Gandalf for the breakfast fire, and then you and Merry are to fetch up water from the stream.  Now, go!”  He went on to confer with Sam for some minutes.  Sam gave a glance at the rest of the Fellowship, returned his attention to Frodo, gave a grunt of acquiescence, and set off away from the camp to do whatever Frodo had told him to do.

            “What is going on?” asked Gandalf of Pippin as the young Hobbit brought him an armload of wood.

            Pippin wiped his face with his sleeve.  “I’m not certain, but he’s definitely on his dignity this morning.  I’ve not seen him this much in head-of-the-family mode since he caught Lotho trying to lease one of Cousin Posco’s properties to a Bracegirdle cousin of his as if the place were Lotho’s own.   Posco’s former tenant had been a sweet little old widow, Cornflower Delver, if I recall her name correctly, and she’d been dead about a month.  Posco hadn’t thought to let it again until he consulted with Missus Cornflower’s nieces and nephews as to whether anyone else in her family would like to take it; so when Augustus Bracegirdle asked Lotho about its availability, Lotho pretended it was his.  And if Frodo wasn’t upset about that!”

            “Peregrin Took, if you are done with the wood, go down and help Merry bring up water for cooking and tea!”  Frodo’s voice was sharp with command, and with an apologetic glance at the others Pippin turned away to join his Brandybuck cousin down by the stream.

            Gandalf soon had a thick porridge ready, and with some of the honey they’d brought along and small chunks of dried apple stirred into it as well as a cup of rose hip tea to drink, all felt satisfied.  Boromir found himself feeling particularly tired, and he soon retired to the place he’d chosen on the old hearth, wrapped himself up with his cloak, and with his head pillowed upon his pack he was swiftly—and deeply—asleep, listening to Pippin arguing with Merry as to whether he should wash or dry the metal dishes they’d eaten from before he was aware of nothing more.

 *******

            “Please, Boromir, turn over and take this blanket so I can take your cloak and brush it clean!  Please!”  A period of silence, and the pleading began again.  “Frodo won’t let me do anything else until I see your cloak brushed and aired.  Pleeeaase, Boromir?  Please let me take it!”  Someone was pushing at his shoulder, but it wasn’t worthwhile for him to come completely awake to see what the problem was.  He wrapped his familiar cloak about himself more tightly and turned over, toward the former chimney and away from the annoying hand.

            “No!  No, you can’t do that!  You’re supposed to let me take your cloak and see it aired!  Merry, he just has it wrapped tighter around him!”

            “Well, I don’t know what you expect me to do about it, Pip.”

            “You could try to help!”

            “I can’t exactly force him to roll over the other way and give it to you, you know.  And Frodo has me cleaning people’s boots.  You’re the one he put in charge of brushing and airing cloaks, not me!”

            “Won’t someone please help me?”

            “Here—let me.”  Someone came quite close.  “Here, Captain Boromir, sir—what will your men think if’n they should see you lookin’ like somethin’ as the cat drug in?  Let me take your cloak, and take this blanket instead.  It’s dry and warm, at least.  Sit up, please, now, and we’ll switch them over.  That’s it, sir.  Now, you lie back down and wrap up in that blanket, and we’ll have your cloak back to you afore you even realize as it’s been gone.  Here, Pippin.  That worked like a charm, didn’t it?”

            “I don’t know how you did it, Sam.  That was masterful!”

            “Heh!  Well, it’s not like I’ve not had lots of practice with the Gaffer comin’ home late from the Green Dragon.  Ew!  It will do well for a nice brushin’ and an airin’, too—a nice long airin’, at that.  Smells like sweat and rusty iron!  Must be that metal shirt as him’s a-wearin’.”

            “Thank you again, Sam, and if I can return the favor….”

            Boromir shook himself slightly, pulled the blanket about him, and laid himself back down to return to a deep sleep, barely remembering the interruption to his dreams.  He and Faramir were walking by the river, talking and floating boats made of bundles of reeds in the Anduin’s current, imagining them finding their way through the Mouths of the Sea and all the way to the tip of Meneltarma….

 *******

            It was apparently midafternoon when he awoke, judging by the angle of the light.  The camp was quiet, with no sound of light conversation from the Hobbits, but no sound of their deeper breathing while they slept, either.  He sat up blinking.  “The little ones—where are they?” he asked of Aragorn, who sat nearby, repairing a tear in one of the bags used to carry whatever root vegetables were found as they walked.

            Aragorn shrugged as he finished his work.  “Frodo has had them out doing this and that most of the day.  He appears intent on having the Hobbits do most of what needs doing for our camp today.”  He tied a knot, and used his knife to cut short the thread he’d been using.  He indicated the area where he’d stated the stream was to be found.  “Right now Frodo is down at the stream, I believe, while Merry and Pippin have been told off to fetch in enough wood for tonight and the morning, with some left over to leave in the cache.  Sam set a few snares this morning, and has been out looking for whatever other foodstuffs he might find for the last hour or so.”

            “Who is on watch?” the Gondorian asked.

            “Legolas and Gandalf.  You and Merry are scheduled to go on the next watch, I believe.”

            Boromir nodded his understanding.  He looked down, and was puzzled to realize he was holding one of the extra blankets tight about himself.  “My cloak!”

            The northerner nodded over toward the far wall of the ruin in which they were camped where several cloaks flapped in a light breeze.  “It is there, airing out alongside those of the rest of us.  And a most difficult time did you give Pippin when he tried to take it from you.”  He smiled with amusement.  “I would say that you were the most exhausted I have seen you yet, my friend.  You absolutely refused to awaken enough to give it to him!  It fell to Sam to coax it away from you.  And it would appear that it was indeed deeply in need of a good airing, considering the comments the Hobbits were making about it.”

            “I barely remember.  There is no question that I was but a hair’s breadth from collapse once we settled here.”  Boromir thought for a moment.  “Is it wise for the Ringbearer to be alone down by the stream?”

            Aragorn again shrugged.  “Gimli went after him to keep an eye out for his safety.  Our hardy Dwarf will prove enough of a guard for him, I suspect.”

            “And what is Frodo doing down there?”

            “Proving himself useful, I suspect.  He was muttering something about the Hobbits pulling their own weight whilst we are upon this journey.”  He paused and eyed Boromir.  “You didn’t say anything about the Hobbits being a burden to the rest of us, did you?”

            Boromir shrugged elaborately.  “And why should I speak of such a thing?” he asked evasively.

            Aragorn sighed and rose to his feet.  “Well, I have been more of use than I’ve wished to be this day.  I will now rest, I think.”  He withdrew to where his bedroll was laid out and removed his boots.  “I am glad enough to be shut of these for a time and to allow them to air out,” he grimaced.  “If Merry and Pippin return soon see to it that the fire is kept up, and stack the excess wood in the next ruin over.  Pippin can show you where the cache of wood was found.  It is now my turn to sleep deeply, I trow.”  He was soon asleep, warmly wrapped in two blankets.

            Boromir found the area where the others had been relieving themselves, and soon was back and seeing to the state of the small fire.  A broth was simmering, and he took a mug of it, sipping it gratefully and allowing it to warm his stomach.  He was sitting quietly, enjoying the feeling of warmth, when he heard logs hit the ground, and looked up, startled, to find that Merry and Pippin were back, each wearing upon his back the special carriers worn by those set to fetch larger amounts of wood back to the camp.  Merry had dumped the wood he’d been carrying in his arms upon the ground by the fire, and was shrugging out of the carrier so that he could empty it as well, while Pippin was just beginning to do much the same.  “I think,” Merry said with weary satisfaction, “that not even Frodo can complain that we’ve not brought enough.”

            Pippin nodded his agreement.  “There were a number of limbs about felled by high winds,” he noted.  “And I found a place where the ground is softer where there are a number of cattails.  I’m not certain that the roots are at their best, but they at least are edible.  Sam is checking them out.”  He reached to help Merry unload his carrier, and Boromir found himself bending to aid the two Hobbits.  Each, he realized, had been carrying much the same sized load he would have brought had he been the one fetching the wood.  “Oh----” Pippin added, “you especially are not to help us.  Frodo wants for us Hobbits to do most of the camp work for today.  So you need to go back and sit down over there again.  We’ll take care of the wood.”

            Boromir suspected he was flushing as he returned to the hearth area and took his seat again, pulling the blanket tight around his shoulders once more.  He strongly suspected now that the Ringbearer had overheard his thoughtless comment uttered the preceding night. 

            The two younger Hobbits swiftly had a decent stack of wood by the circle where Gandalf had established their cooking fire, and were soon carrying the extra toward the ruin where Aragorn had indicated the Rangers’ cache had been left.  He looked about and saw that the houseplace in which they were camped had been swept clean of twigs, leaves, pebbles, and dirt, the sweepings contained in a corner from which they could be removed easily to lay over the area before they left to hide easy recognition that someone had camped here.  Several cloaks, including Aragorn’s, flapped from the tree stem leaning against the far wall on which his own hung for airing.  The kettle was filled and sat by the fire, waiting only to be placed over it to provide for tea, as these northerners referred to the herbal drink.  Bill the pony had been comfortably brushed and hobbled, and was contentedly munching from the contents of his nosebag.  Aragorn slept easily enough under his pair of blankets, and at the edge of the village’s ruins he could just make out the outline of the Wizard where he sat almost immobile in the shadows cast by the remains of some ancient chimney, also wrapped in a blanket.  It was anyone’s guess where Legolas might have hidden himself—most probably he was high in a tree’s branches, from which he could see without being easily seen himself.

            He heard approaching voices, one comparably high and the other a low rumble, and realized that Frodo and Gimli were returning from the stream.  Frodo carried a string of recently cleaned fish and had four waterskins slung from his shoulders, while the Dwarf carried three more.  Both were smiling—until Frodo caught sight of Boromir, at which time his expression became reserved.  Oh, yes, there was no question that Frodo had heard him.  “Frodo,” the Gondorian grunted.  “Gimli.  You are seeing to dinner for us, then?”

            “Oh,” Gimli said, his eyes flicking from Frodo’s face to the Man’s and back again, “but this is all Frodo’s doing.  It was all I could do to get him to allow me to carry some of the water bottles back up from the stream.  It’s good water here, I must say.  Good, but cold.”

            “You had morning watch,” Boromir commented to the Hobbit.  “You ought to have slept by now.”

            “I will do so as soon as Sam returns from checking his snares and his foraging,” Frodo responded primly.  “There was much to see to if we are to be comfortable today.  He promised that if I could provide the fish he would see them cooked properly for our supper.”  He set the fish into their largest pot, and filled it with fresh water from one of the skins he’d carried.  “This should hold the fish for the moment, at least.”

            Pippin took the two newcomers’ cloaks and hung them by the others while Merry provided both Frodo and the Dwarf with a blanket each.  “Both your cloaks will be aired by this evening,” Merry commented as he returned to the fireside. 

            It was then that Sam returned, whistling as he came, two grouse and a hare hanging from his belt and with a filled foraging bag slung over his back.  “We’re in luck, Master,” he hailed them.  “I found some garlic in a protected glade, and some more of them onions such as Pippin found yesterday.  And some cattails—Mr. Pippin found those, too.  Most of it’s past its prime, but some of the roots are edible.  We’ll eat well tonight.  How many fish did you bring us?  My, but that’ll provide us with quite the feast!”

            Frodo and Pippin were soon bedded down in the corner the Hobbits had claimed as their own, and Merry and Boromir went to relieve Gandalf and the Elf.  Gimli now took the hearth area for his own sleep, and the Man was glad to see him comfortably snoring as he went out of the houseplace.

            Gandalf gave the Man a sidelong look.  “Did you sleep well, Boromir?” he asked.

            Boromir shrugged.  “Well enough.”

            “What did you say to put Master Baggins on his dignity?”

            Boromir felt himself stiffen.  “And what gives you to believe I did such a thing?”

            Gandalf sighed.  He’d been turning his pipe between his fingers, which he did more and more often lately, pipeweed being in short supply by this time in their journey.  “You forget, Boromir Denethor’s son, that I have known you all of your life, and that I have known Frodo well for thirty-eight years, and knew of him before that.  You said something, although I doubt that you did so to him, perhaps about how little use such things as Hobbits are.  And even though you did not realize it at the time, he heard you.  The hearing of Hobbits is far keener than that of Men, almost as much so as the hearing of Elves, you will find.  But that of Frodo Baggins….”  He paused, casting a quick glance back at the ruins of the long-empty village and the walls that protected those who slept within its bounds.  “Since he was stabbed with the Morgul knife he has demonstrated far keener hearing than is normal even for his kind.  He has indicated he heard parts of conversations taking place outside the House of Elrond, down by the river, conversations he ought not to have heard from the confines of his room or that of Bilbo.  There is little that is said amongst us that he does not hear and ponder upon.  And should he believe that the honor of his people is being judged lightly, he will respond.

            “You are perhaps lucky not to be subjected to another spell of miserably bad luck such as you knew after being disrespectful toward his mushrooms at Yule.  Be glad, I suppose, that he is merely intent on proving that he, Sam, and his cousins are capable of doing all they can for the comfort of the rest of us.  But I suggest that you find a way to apologize fairly soon, or I fear he will work himself and the others into a state of exhaustion.”

            The Wizard rose.  “Well, I intend to sleep some myself while I can.  Keep a good watch on things, and think on the advice I’ve given you.”

            Boromir watched as the Wizard returned to the damaged house, then turned his eyes outward, watching and listening, and wondering how he was to apologize to Frodo Baggins.  He realized he was still wearing the blanket about his shoulders, and wished for his cloak.  When Legolas tapped him upon the shoulder he jumped with surprise, then smiled gratefully as the Elf presented him with his cloak.

            “Sam is certain that it has aired quite long enough,” Legolas said.  “He intends to cook the fish while they are still fresh, and I will gladly bring you some when they are finished.”

            “I thank you,” the Man returned.  “I’ve had but some broth since I awoke.”

            Legolas nodded his understanding, but paused before he returned to the camp.  “I have sensed no other beings about us, not for many miles.  Your watch should remain quiet.  It is a good time to reflect upon the need to be careful in what one says within the hearing of Master Baggins there.  And I have noted that his hearing is remarkably keen, far more so than that of the other Hobbits.  He was not pleased to hear you comment last evening that his people were useless.  I would say that he is intent on proving you wrong.”

            Boromir bit back the retort he first thought to utter, and merely grunted his acceptance of the Elf’s advice.  It would appear that everyone was aware that Frodo Baggins was upset with him, and he realized as Legolas returned to the camp once more that he was even chiding himself for his thoughtless remark.

 *******

            Aragorn and Sam took the next watch, and Boromir returned to the houseplace to find all in readiness for the next day, and a final mug of rosehip tea awaiting him, a welcome touch at the beginning of what promised to be a restful night.  His bedroll lay ready in his chosen place on the former hearth, and even his blankets appeared to have been aired while he was on guard.  He had to admit that the dinner of fish, stewed prunes, and cattail roots cooked in some manner he did not understand had been a pleasant change from what they’d been forced to eat for the last few days while they’d camped and trudged in equally cheerless conditions, their clothing and blankets damp all through.  Certainly the thought that tomorrow they might luxuriate in a hot mineral spring lifted his spirits well, and he suspected the others also looked forward to the proposed trip to the ruinous city where the baths were said to lie with pleasant anticipation.

            Legolas lay somewhat apart from the rest, singing softly to himself as he looked up into a sky that had been swept clear of clouds overhead.  Frodo sat nursing his own mug of tea, listening to the Elf’s fair voice with an expression of intense longing on his face.  Gimli was sharpening and oiling his weapons, while Merry and Pippin lay in their adjoining bedrolls, murmuring quietly between them.  Gandalf sat with his staff leaning against his shoulder, rubbing his hand slowly up and down its length, his thoughts as unfathomable to the Gondorian as they usually were.  Boromir ached to make things up with Frodo, but sensed that to interrupt the Hobbit’s mood at the moment would be perhaps even a greater offense than his comment the previous evening.  He knew that were his brother here, Faramir would be as drawn to the Elf’s song as was Frodo Baggins.  Boromir could not personally appreciate that love of the ineffable that the Ringbearer and his brother unknowingly shared, but he could not deny their desire for what was beyond mortal experience.  At last the Man fell asleep, the quarrel still not made up.

 *******

            Breakfast was rather hurried, for Aragorn wished them to make their journey to the hot springs rapidly and to see what clothing they could see done washed and dried before they resumed their trek southwards at sunset.  He knew of another sheltered spot not far outside the ruins of the old spa city where they might possibly look to remain at rest for much of the afternoon.  Boromir felt rather useless, for Gimli had helped in the loading of their remaining stores on Bill’s back, while Aragorn had seen most of the bedrolls and packs readied and the Hobbits saw to the refilling of the water bottles one last time as well as their dawn meal readied.  He thanked Pippin as the youngest Hobbit brought him his tin plate and mug, and was grateful for Frodo’s ability to cook as he swiftly devoured the rations served him.  All food prepared by the Hobbits seemed equally filling and delicious, but something about Frodo’s cooking was particularly delicate, reminding him more of the food he’d liked best when he was not yet a Man grown.  If only he could cook even half so well!

            Within a relatively short time they were on their way southeast.  They’d been going scarcely half a mark as Gondorians told the time when Frodo paused and raised his hand, indicating a particularly green patch ahead of them. 

            “There is something wrong about the land there,” he said.  “I suspect there is an underground spring, considering the reeds and marshsweet growing about the area.  In winter, however, the growth shouldn’t be this green.”

            Aragorn nodded his agreement, and indicated a route northwards of their previous path.  “Let us give the questionable ground a wide berth,” he suggested, and they turned aside and resumed their march.

            But apparently the ground here had been softened by the recent rains as well as runoff from the mountains ahead.  Suddenly Sam gave a cry of dismay and Bill a neigh of fear as their feet sank down into marshy ground, Bill rapidly sinking to his hocks.

            “More bog!” Sam growled, casting a meaningful glance at the Northern Ranger.

            “At least there aren’t the midges from our last trip through a marsh,” muttered Merry.

            The Dwarf started forward to assist Sam, only to be waved back by Frodo.  “No, Gimli, for you will only sink the faster in those steel-toed boots of yours.  Best leave this to us Hobbits, and perhaps to Legolas.  And thank you, Boromir,” he said, turning his gaze toward the Man, who’d also taken a few steps toward the pony and Sam, “but the same is true of you.  Gandalf, if you’ll use your staff to probe the ground, perhaps you can establish the closest to Sam and Bill where you Big Folk can stand so we can pass the parcels from Bill to you to make it easier to get him out of the mud.”

            Frodo and Pippin picked their way to Bill’s side, and while Sam kept the pony soothed and reassured, the two Hobbits saw to unloading it, passing each package and carrier to Merry, who in turn passed it to whichever person seemed best able to see to its security.  Frodo and Pippin were the lightest and barely sank into the softened ground, while Merry had to carefully pull his feet from the boggy earth more than once, or so Boromir noted.  Legolas was able to carry several of the larger carriers free of the animal without so much as dampening his soft leather boots from what the Man could tell.

            By the time the pony was unloaded Bill had sunk in at least two additional inches.  Now it was combined work by the four Hobbits and Legolas that was needed to get the pony free.  Aragorn used a pair of scissors he carried in his healer’s bag to cut wide swatches of fabric from some of the empty sacks, and Legolas brought them to Frodo, who now stood holding Bill’s bridle, murmuring softly into the animal’s ear.  “Here, Bill—we shall work each foot free, one by one, and make it easier for you to walk out of the soft ground.”  He handed the first swatch to Sam, who examined the pony’s stance and at last placed it carefully where Bill’s right front foot could reach it, once it was free of the earth’s suction.  “Sam will take your hoof now and help work it free.  Don’t fight him—he shall do his best to cause you no further discomfort.  Now, there his hands are, on your leg.  Lift that foot—only that one.  That’s right….”

            The Elf sang as Sam worked to free each foot and as Pippin and Merry set their shoulders against the pony’s haunches to aid its strength as each leg was freed.  It wasn’t finished swiftly, but still it took a shorter time than Boromir had anticipated for Bill to stand trembling on solid ground once more on the other side of the marshy area.  With the swatches of fabric under his hoofs, he was able to step forward without his feet sinking immediately again into the softened earth, and he gathered confidence with each pace forward he made.  Gandalf found the most solid ground for the others to cross over carrying their supplies, and while Sam groomed the pony’s legs and withers, they replaced its load and were soon ready to resume their journey again.

            Before the Sun was much past her zenith they were in sight of a ruinous tower and tumbled walls that Aragorn indicated marked the boundaries of the old city.  They waited again in a thicket as Aragorn and Legolas went ahead to search for possible enemies.  At the Ranger’s signal the remaining seven went forward to join the Man and the Elf, and followed them to the area where the Rhudaurim had established the baths.

            While Sam and the Elf saw to Bill’s further comfort and with Gandalf taking the watch, the others divested themselves of their clothes and immersed themselves in the steaming water.  “I’m glad that the smell of the water isn’t bad,” Merry said as he let himself sink up to his chin.

            “I’ve seen worse in the mineral springs outside Casistir along the way to Dol Amroth in my own lands,” Boromir agreed.  “Ah, but it is good to feel warm all over one’s body, is it not?”

            “It’s the warmest I’ve felt since we left Rivendell,” Gimli said.  “I will admit that were the weather warmer even I would have soon been offended by my own odor.”

            Boromir realized that somehow Frodo had joined them without his noticing.  The Hobbit’s chest was bare, and he caught but a glimpse of gold as Frodo dropped to his knees in the water.  The Man’s attention was drawn to a reddened scar on Frodo’s chest not far from his left shoulder.  “That looks painful, Master Frodo,” he commented.

            Frodo’s face went pale, although his cheeks grew decidedly pink as he glanced at what he could see of the place.  “It is little enough, considering how much it hurt when the Wraith stabbed me,” he said in a tone Boromir judged was intended to be dismissive.

            Aragorn caught the Gondorian’s eye, and indicated it was best to let the subject go, and Boromir nodded his understanding.  Still his curiosity was piqued, although he held his tongue.

            Pippin ducked his head under the surface, and came up again blowing and snorting.  “Oh water hot!” he crowed, once he could speak again.  “I’d not thought to enjoy a warm bath again until we got back to civilized places once more.  Are there any civilized places we’ll pass through from here on in, Strider?” he asked.

            “If we continue on southward we shall pass through Rohan,” Boromir assured them.  “The Rohirrim are not as fond of bathing as are we of Gondor, but they do enjoy a nice hot bath by the fire from time to time.  And once we reach Gondor itself, there baths are very popular indeed.”

            “Once one is through Anórien, at least,” Aragorn commented.  “The people of Anórien tend to be more suspicious of being too clean than do those further south in Gondor.”

            Boromir was surprised.  “And what do you know of the people of Anórien?” he demanded.

            Aragorn shook his head.  “Do not think that I have never visited Gondor,” he said, a wry smile on his face.  “Oh, it was quite some time ago, I will admit, but I made shift to visit most of the known lands of Middle Earth when I was younger, back before I must take up the full burden of my duties to my own people.”

            Frodo leaned back, pillowing his head against a block of stone that partially emerged from the pool in which they lounged.  “I only rejoice that we are comfortable and apparently safe for the moment.”

            “You didn’t answer me,” Pippin persisted, his attention on Aragorn.  “Will we be going through these lands where we can get baths again?”

            This time the northerner’s glance at Boromir was apologetic.  “Not until we are on the east side of the Misty Mountains are we likely to be able to bathe again, Pippin, and I doubt we shall go through either of the lands of which Boromir spoke.  To do so we would have to go far too close to Isengard, and we do not wish to come within grasping distance of the traitor Wizard Saruman.”

            “Is he so terribly bad then?” Merry asked.

            Aragorn sighed, looking upwards at the sky.  “To have as much power as he possesses as the Chief of his order while having allied himself with the Dark Lord as he has gives him far too much potential for evil.  We would do best to avoid him completely if at all possible.”

            “But if we are to avoid going south through the Gap of Rohan, how will we cross over the mountains to the valley of the Anduin?” Boromir asked.

            “There are other passes through the mountains.” 

            But Boromir felt that the other Man’s answer was evasive.  He countered, “Passes that are closed due to the snows of winter.”

            Aragorn shrugged.  “Winter draws to a close more swiftly the further south we go.  Hopefully not all shall be closed when we reach them.”

            The budding argument was drawn to a close when Frodo said, “Enough!  I wish to hear no more talk of crossing to the eastern side of the mountains for now.  Just enjoy the warmth while we can, for we shall have to leave the pool far too soon, I fear, if we are to be safely camped to let clothing dry before sunset.”

            Aragorn smiled at the Ringbearer.  “You are wise, Frodo.  I shall go relieve Gandalf so that he, too, can bathe.”  He grasped a handful of sand and used it to scrub himself clean, ducked under to rinse himself off, and quitted the pool, reaching for the sacking Legolas had left for use as towels.  Boromir followed suit, as did Gimli, although the Hobbits tarried for a time in the warm water.  As the Gondorian looked back, he saw that Frodo was scrubbing at his legs.

            “They did well freeing the pony,” he commented to Aragorn as they donned fresh clothing from their bags.

            Aragorn nodded distractedly as he pulled a clean silk undergarment over his head.  “Hobbits are far stronger for their size than one would believe from merely looking at them.  I don’t know if you have ever tried hefting Sam’s pack, but I would judge that it is far heavier than yours, even.  And each time they gather wood they bring back at least as much as I would normally carry, or so I’ve noticed.”

            Boromir indicated his agreement.  “I must admit I admire their personal strength.”

            Aragorn smiled at him, finished his dressing, and while still fastening his swordbelt was already climbing to where Gandalf kept his watch.  Soon the Wizard was shepherding Legolas and Sam down to bathe with the other Hobbits, and Boromir’s last glance down at the pool before he set to with the Dwarf to reload Bill once more was to see Frodo stroking gracefully across the length of the water.  It would appear that this Hobbit, at least, was a skilled swimmer!

 *******

            The next place where they rested was in a shallow cave on the side of a hill.  Inside was a pool of water so clear one could easily see to its depths.  They washed their most soiled garments in it, and Pippin and Frodo spread them to dry in what daylight remained to them.  Boromir took the watch while the rest drowsed and Legolas saw to the evening meal’s preparation.  By sunset the clothing was mostly dry, and a whispered word from Gandalf had the dampest garments satisfactorily steaming so that they could be packed away ere they set out again with little fear of them becoming mildewed within their packs.

            Boromir found himself kneeling near Frodo as they saw their goods once more packed away, and he at last managed to say, “I wished to tell you how much I truly admire the capabilities you Hobbits show forth.  You have truly demonstrated the wisdom of Lord Elrond in choosing so many of you to take part in this quest.”

            Frodo paused, examining the Man’s face closely.  “So, we are not anywhere as useless as you had once thought?”

            Boromir knew he must be flushing terribly.  “I will state here and now that it was not truly the use of your people so much as Pippin’s constant complaints of hunger that were bothering me.  I perhaps ought to have been more precise in my own complaint.”

            Frodo cast a glance at Pippin where he was already dipping into his night’s trail rations, the youngest Hobbit having paused in his own packing, and sighed.  “Peregrin Took is still in his tweens, although he ought to have left the worst of his appetite behind him by this age.  We Hobbits must eat more than Men, or so it has proved; and younger Hobbits eat more than do those judged full adults.  I’d suspected that this was the real complaint you held, and so I merely sought to give you reason to appreciate that even Pippin is not useless.”

            “Indeed not!  And today there is no question that he has worked as hard as has anyone else.  If you will forgive me my clumsiness of tongue?”

            Frodo smiled.  “I will, at least this once, Boromir.”

            Still, when Boromir found the lace for his favorite shirt breaking on him, he cast a suspicious glance at the oldest of the four Hobbits.  Perhaps Frodo felt he was due at least a bit of chastisement, then.

In memory of Fiondil, and for Cairistiona for her birthday.

Memorials

            “Are we ever going to stop for a rest?” demanded Pippin.  They’d apparently been walking longer the last few days than they’d done earlier in their journey, for already there was light peeking over the mountains to the east.  It would not be that long before full dawn.

            Aragorn and Gandalf, who had been involved in quite a discussion about which path they should take for the next stage of their journey, looked up at his question.  Gandalf appeared disgruntled at the interruption, while Aragorn seemed glad for a break in what was clearly becoming very close to an argument.  Boromir watched with interest to see what answer the youngest of the four Hobbits would receive.

            “Legolas has gone ahead to check how far it will be to what I’d planned as the day’s camp.  I doubt we’re more than three furlongs from the place,” Aragorn said, giving Gandalf a sideways look.

            Gandalf gave a decided, “Humph!” and continued stumping forward, following the line of the shallow gully to his left, refusing to look at either the Man or the Hobbit.

            “Aren’t you ready to stop for a time?” Pippin asked, dancing backwards in front of the Wizard.  “I know I’m tired, and Merry’s been wanting to stop for ever so long, ever since he twist----”

            What else he might have said was lost as he took a half step too much backwards and to the side, directly off the edge of the gully.  He managed to fall sideways, and was swiftly rolling down the slope and into a shallow stream, one whose water was icy, being this close to the mountain slopes.

            Before either of the Men or the Wizard could quite respond to the situation Frodo was there.  “Stay here,” he commanded as he dropped his pack to the ground.  “The slope appears quite soft, and you’d most likely end up no better than Pippin there.”  So saying, he swiftly but competently made his way down the slope, slipping off his cloak and tossing in onto the slanting bank to the stream. 

            Pippin was lying on his back, his pack supporting him mostly out of the water; but his cloak was rapidly growing wet, and he was definitely too surprised at  his sudden, unexpected change in position to do much to help himself.

            “Are you seriously hurt?” Frodo asked as he leaned over his younger kinsman.  “No, stay still for a moment while I check you over.”  He tilted his head.  “You have a good deal of bleeding here at your hairline, but it may not be anything—you know how cuts to the head can bleed when they’re not really all that bad.  Stay, still, won’t you?  I need to see how bad it really is.”  He scooped up some water and used it to wipe at a darkening spot on the side of Pippin’s head.  “It’s too dim to see well, but it doesn’t look serious.  But we’ll have Aragorn check it out anyway.  Can you move your arms and legs?”

            The others, except for the Elf, were now gathered close to the edge of the gully, and could see Pippin demonstrating that his limbs were all capable of independent movement.

            Frodo gave a decisive nod.  “Then I’ll help you up.  Oh, dear, it does appear this arm is badly scraped.  Well, we’ll clean it properly once we have you out of here.  Put your arms about my neck and stand up slowly.  Now, to get this pack off of you, and then your cloak.  Here—let me put my cloak around you now—no reason for you to go without a cloak when you are so wet.  Can you stand properly?  Oh, good.  Then put this arm about my shoulders and we’ll get you back up the slope.  Sam, can you come down and bring up Pippin’s pack and cloak?  And you have a blanket ready for him?  Excellent!”

            Gandalf gave a sigh and extended his staff.  “Here, take hold of this and allow it to steady the both of you as you climb up.”

            In moments the two Hobbits were back on level ground, and Aragorn was wrapping the blanket he’d taken from Sam about Pippin’s shoulders in place of Frodo’s cloak.  He allowed the youngest of the Hobbits to sit on Frodo’s pack and began to examine him.  Boromir glanced at Sam to find the gardener staring down the slope with a grim look on his face, and the Man realized that the Hobbit did not feel comfortable going down that slope without a clearly defined path to follow.

            “Here Sam,” Gandalf said, “Let me aid you.  Take hold of my staff and I will steady you as you go down and come up again.”  He gave Sam a gentle, reassuring smile.  Sam returned the smile briefly, and obviously much heartened, he grasped the end of the Wizard’s staff and carefully started down the steep slope, and was swiftly back again, looking much relieved, wet cloak and pack in hand.

            Pippin was soon sporting a bandage wrapped about his head and another around his left arm where he’d skinned himself on something he’d rolled over going down the gully’s side.  He had a bruise already beginning to show on his opposite leg, and another, larger one that was forming on his back to the right side of his spine where his weight had borne down upon his pack both during his roll down the hill and as he landed at the bottom.

            “Still, you are fortunate you weren’t worse hurt,” Aragorn noted as he rose at last.  “Wear the bandage on your head today and during our next walk, and I suspect you shall not need it after that.  As Frodo said, it’s quite a shallow cut and will soon mend itself.  I’ll check the scrape to your arm before we start on our next tramp, but it shouldn’t give you any real trouble, either.

            “Now, Merry, it is time for me to see what mischief you might have done yourself.  Pippin said something about you twisting something?”

            With a reproving look at Pippin, Merry took his cousin’s place upon Frodo’s pack, and Aragorn bent to remove a bandage from his ankle.

            “It’s nothing, really,” Merry said.  “Before we paused for our last rest I twisted it upon something hidden under the grass, and Sam wrapped it for me.  It’s sore, but not particularly swollen.”

            “You still ought to have told me,” Aragorn said.  “Well,” he added after a moment’s examination, “you are correct that it isn’t much swollen, and there’s little enough hurt done.  Still, had it been worse you could have crippled yourself for several days.  How does this feel?”

            Boromir couldn’t see what the Man was doing, but Merry’s eyes widened as if with surprise.  “Oh, but it feels warm, and a bit tingly,” he commented.  “It does feel much better.  What did you do?”

            But Aragorn simply smiled mysteriously.  “If it is better that is good, but I think I will have you ride upon my back the rest of the way to our campsite.  Gimli, if you will consent to take Pippin?”

            Boromir leaned over to take up Pippin and Merry’s packs, but paused.  “He’s not been under any discipline today, has he?” the warrior asked. 

            Frodo gave him a look that was at first surprised, but that swiftly turned to amusement.  “No, not today,” he said.  “You’ll not feel any extra weight.”

            The Man felt himself flush a bit, but laughed.  “Well enough, then.  Let us go!”

            Soon the line had reformed and they continued on their southward path.  They met Legolas within minutes, and learned that they were very close to a suitable campsite where they could even have a fire if desired.  Within a quarter mark they were nicely situated under an overhang with good cover from any sudden storm that might rise, close enough to the stream they’d been following to have easy access to water, and with the wall of the mountain guarding them on two sides and clear sight the other directions.  It would be a fine, dry, and comfortable place for them to rest—far more pleasant than some they’d known so far upon their journey.

            “If you will please take the first watch, Sam,” Aragorn said, “I will do a closer inspection of Pippin’s wounds and see to our morning meal.”

            Sam gave Boromir a sideways look and shrugged.  “All right,” he said.  “Leastwise we know as what you will cook is likely to be edible.”  So saying, he headed out to find a good spot from which to watch the approaches to their camping place.

            Boromir didn’t mind the implied criticism of his cooking skills—after all, Faramir had often declared that the older of the two sons of Denethor was the only person he knew who was capable of burning water.  He gathered the pans and bottles and went to bring in what water would be needed.

            Merry and Pippin were examined once more, after which Frodo began seeing to it that his younger cousin was properly cleaned up and his clothing changed.  Legolas went out to find what he could scavenge to add to their meals, Gimli unloaded the pony and saw to Bill’s comfort, Gandalf fetched in wood and built up the fire, and Aragorn saw to their morning meal, once he’d left the two younger Hobbits to Frodo’s ministrations.

            At last they settled down to their meal, Frodo insisting on taking Sam’s rations out to where Sam sat on a spur of rock.  “You be certain to get some sleep once you’re done with your breakfast, Master,” the gardener said as Frodo turned to head back to the shelter.

            Frodo waved a hand dismissively.  “Once I’ve seen to Pippin’s dirty clothing.  Is there anything of yours you’d wish to have cleaned?”

            Sam, however, was already straightening in his place.  “Oh, no, Mister Frodo!” he protested.  “It’s not for the likes of you t’do my washing!”

            Frodo turned, his posture sternly erect.  “And why not?  As it is, you take most of my duties.  You are already on watch.  Why should I not do what I can for the sake of the Fellowship?  It’s not as if I didn’t have practice at it, after all.  Bilbo made certain that I had practical as well as intellectual training, you know.  Now, is there anything of yours you wish to have cleaned?”

            Sam had flushed a bright red with embarrassment and mumbled a reply.  Frodo gave a nod, saying, “I will be right back, Sam.”  He turned and returned to their shelter, fetched Sam’s pack, and brought it to its owner, who rooted through it, gave some items into Frodo’s hands, and after securely fastening the pack returned it to his Master, who replaced it where he’d found it and placed the garments given him with Pippin’s clothing to deal with once he was done eating.

            Boromir eyed the Hobbit once Frodo sat to eat his meal.  “You are accustomed to washing clothing?” he asked.  “Do you do this in your home, then?”

            Frodo gave the barest shrug to his shoulder.  “No, we have always employed Sam’s sisters to do our laundry.  But Bilbo insisted I learn how to clean my own clothing when we were out on a tramp through the Shire.  He said we could not look for laundresses while we were camping out in the Binbole Forest or en route between Hobbiton and Buckland.  So he taught me to wash in streams, using rocks and sometimes soap-root if it could be found.”

            Frodo ate swiftly, and after scouring his tin plate and cup with sand, went round to each of the others to gather up a few more items to wash along with what he had already.  With this clothing in hand he made his way down to the stream. 

            Boromir watched after Frodo as the Hobbit went off to the side of the stream.  “I would never think of him working as a washerwoman.  Did his mother do such work, then?”

            Merry laughed.  “My father’s aunt work as a laundress?  Not likely!  After all, her father and then her brother and now her nephew have all been the Masters of Buckland, each in his turn.  As for her husband—Drogo Baggins was the favorite of all the children or grandchildren of old Bilbo’s uncles and aunts, and was the only one who regularly visited Bilbo even after his return from his own adventures.  Drogo’s sister Dora got along well enough with Bilbo, or at least enough to send him reams of letters.  But she rarely walked across Hobbiton to visit Bag End, save for an occasional birthday or when Frodo was so ill the winter he came back to the village as Bilbo’s ward.  And Frodo’s Uncle Dudo moved out of Hobbiton once Bilbo returned, ashamed to admit that Bilbo remained his Family Head after he’d had the bad taste to go off adventuring with thirteen Dwarves and a disreputable Wizard.” 

            He gave Gandalf a pointed look, to which the Wizard gave another decided “Humph!”

            It was Pippin who continued the tale.  “It was Bilbo who saw to it that Frodo learned how to clean clothing in streams.  Bilbo learned the how of it while he was traveling with the Dwarves, and he told us all it was a useful thing for any Hobbit intent on having an adventure of his own one day to learn.  Frodo took to it well, but then he’s always been one who has loved to do useful tasks.  He’d do more on this journey if anyone would let him.  But almost every time it’s his turn to do something Sam will insist on doing it for him, or Aragorn or Gandalf will need him to discuss something or other.  He’s been getting quite testy about it, really.”

            “He probably feels the way he did before Bilbo took him back to Hobbiton,” Merry added.  “My grandmother barely allowed him to do much of anything for much of the time he was growing up with us in Brandy Hall after his parents died.”

            Boromir found his curiosity piqued.  “His parents died when he was young, then?” he asked.

            Merry and Pippin were both nodding.  “He wasn’t quite twelve when they died,” Merry said.  “His family was visiting us in the Hall, and his mum and dad went out boating one evening after Frodo went to bed.  When they weren’t there in the morning and didn’t come in for second breakfast, my Grandfather Rory, who was Master at the time, sent out search parties.  They found the boat, upside down, caught in the bay where we children usually go swimming, with Aunt Primula’s body caught under it.  They didn’t find Uncle Drogo’s body until the next day.  The river had dragged it far downstream, and it was caught in the roots of a downed tree.  Frodo saw it as they brought the body in, and he fainted dead away.”

            “You saw this, too?” asked Boromir.

            “Me?  Oh, no—I wasn’t even born yet!  I wasn’t born until two years later.”

            The Man straightened.  “You are that much younger than Frodo is?”

            Merry nodded.  “I’m almost fourteen years younger than Frodo, while Pippin is almost eleven years younger than I am,” he explained.  “And Sam is two years older than I am.  He was born only a month or two before Frodo’s parents died.”

            “Frodo’s dad carved Sam into that sideboard he made for the Council Hole banquet hall,” Pippin continued.  “He showed Sam’s mother outside Number 3 holding him as a baby, with the Gaffer, Sam’s dad, I mean, up working in the flower gardens for Bag End, and Lobelia standing outside a hole in Hobbiton listening at the window.  Bilbo he showed sitting on the bench outside the door of Bag End, smoking his pipe.  Only none of them much look like the real people.  Cousin Drogo was a good carver, but not so good at making people look like they really do.  The best he did was Lobelia, actually.”

            Boromir didn’t know quite know what to think about all of this information, but he’d found that true of much of what Pippin said.  He finally asked, “Then, did Frodo learn about cleaning clothes in streams from his mother?”

            Pippin gave a deep sigh.  “No!  Frodo already told you—Bilbo taught him, not his mum.  I mean, he was far too young to learn it from Cousin Primula before she died.  Although from what Mum and Dad told us, Primula did her own family’s washing while they lived in Whitfurrow, which is about halfway between Hobbiton and Brandy Hall in Buckland.  They said Drogo had a fine copper boiler made for her to use, and she set it out on the pavement beside their hole where they lived to use on washdays.  She didn’t need to do so—when they lived in Hobbiton I think that Sam’s mother did their washing usually, just as she did for Bilbo.  But she was like Frodo, and loved to feel useful.”

            Merry said, “My grandmother said she was always helping the ones who did the laundry at the Hall when she was growing up, when she wasn’t out helping with the gardens.  Aunt Primula loved working in the gardens, and Frodo used to help her in the gardens in Whitfurrow when he was a little lad.”

            “But Frodo said Sam’s sisters did the laundry for him and for Bilbo.”

            Sam sighed from where he sat outside the overhang.  “That was after my mum died they took over the laundry for Bag End.  Mr. Drogo and Missus Primula, they didn’t live in Hobbiton long after my Mr. Frodo was born, not once old Missus Lobelia started in on her.  Missus Lobelia was that jealous of how Mr. Bilbo made over little Frodo when him was but a faunt, she was, and said all kinds of outlandish things about the bairn and his mum.  Mr. Drogo, he wasn’t goin’ to let the old cow say awful things about his wife and son, and they moved out of Number Five, what used to be the original Baggins hole afore Mr. Bilbo’s dad dug out Bag End further up the Hill to bring his bride to, and moved to Whitfurrow.”

            Boromir considered the gardener, again amazed at how keen the hearing of Hobbits tended to be.  “Then you, too, lost your mother?” he called.

            Sam nodded.  “A couple-three years after Mr. Frodo came to Bag End,” he answered.  “That first winter as him was back, it seemed as everyone was gettin’ real ill, and all in our hole was real sick.  Mum was the worst, and Mr. Frodo—him was took bad—very, very bad.  My Master got over it, but not my mum.  She was frail-like, after the lung fever and all.  A few springs later she said one day, ‘I feel right tired,’ and went into the hole to lie down.   When my dad went in to check on her, he found her dead.”  He turned away, looking off toward the way they’d come.

            Boromir considered Sam thoughtfully.  “So—three of us upon the quest have been bereft of our mothers since our childhood.  Unless,” he added, looking at Merry and Pippin questioningly, “yours are also gone beyond the Circles of Arda?”

            The younger two Hobbits exchanged looks.  “Oh, his parents and mine are still alive, and were in good health when we left the Shire at least,” Merry said.  He looked at Gimli.  “What about your parents?” he asked.

            “Mine are both within Erebor, or so I hope,” Gimli said. 

            Aragorn answered the unspoken question, “My mother was by me all during the years of my childhood, but died less than two decades after I was judged a Man grown.”

            “And you miss her?” asked Pippin.

            Aragorn gave a sad smile.  “Of course.  She loved me perhaps the more deeply since my father died when I was so small, and I miss the knowledge of that certain love very much.”

            Pippin turned his questioning gaze upon Boromir.  “And your mother is gone, too?”

            The warrior nodded.  “I was eight years old when she died.  She’d not been strong since before my younger brother was born.  My father has told us that she felt she had been away from the Sea for too long—too long in the shadow of the walls of the Black Land.  Many find themselves growing fearful as Mordor grows stronger and darker, and he believed that was true of my mother.”

            “So, you were just out of faunthood,” Pippin began, but Gandalf interrupted, shaking his head.

            “A boy of eight years of age is much like a Hobbit lad of eleven to twelve, Peregrin Took.  He would have been much the same as Frodo was when his parents died.”

            “Really?”  They all turned to see Frodo reentering the camp, carrying several pairs of socks.

            Boromir shrugged.  “If Mithrandir says so.  I would not know, this company and Master Bilbo being the only Hobbits I have ever come to know.”

            Frodo gave a single nod as he began laying pairs of wet socks over rocks where they could dry near the fire.  “I know that I was old enough to remember full well what it was like being with my parents before they died, how they looked and smelled and sounded, what they liked best for first and second breakfasts, what they allowed me to do to help them in their work and their play, how they smiled….”

            “Much as it was for me,” Boromir responded.  “Although I do not clearly recall my mother’s face save when I look at the portraits made of her.  Only the expressions in those portraits are different from what I remember of her—she was always so glad to hold us, my little brother and me.  The formal portraits always show her as a great Lady, proud and solemn, which she was save when she was with us, her sons.”

            Frodo and he shared a smile of similar remembrances, both proud and sad at once.  Frodo said, “I remember telling Dad that I should like to know what it is like to fly—to fly like a bird.  So he had me lie upon my stomach and hold out my arms and legs.  He lifted me by one arm and leg and swung me around and around until he was so dizzy he was almost ready to fall down in a heap himself.  But he managed to set me down so—so gently!  It was wonderful fun.  And my mummy taught me to swim.  Those times when I dream of flying, I seem to mix up the two—my father swinging me about and me swimming by my mother’s side in the river when the water was quiet.”

            Gandalf’s smile was particularly gentle.  “Having flown with Gwaihir, the Lord of the Great Eagles, I can tell you that flying is like neither of those, but like them at the same time.  Although,” he added, his eyes suddenly twinkling, “I don’t think that your Uncle Bilbo found his first experience to be anywhere so pleasant.  Certainly Dori did not enjoy it at the time!”

            Frodo laughed aloud.  “Did he truly hang from Dori’s leg the whole way?”

            The Wizard nodded, grinning widely behind his beard.  “That he did.  Although he wasn’t truly in danger.  One of the younger Eagles was flying just below and behind the one that bore Dori, ready to catch Bilbo should he lose his grip.  But Bilbo’s grasp was truly fixed, that time at least.  He found terror gave him strength he’d never thought he possessed.”

            “Dori always maintained that Bilbo’s grip was like iron, and that he’d never realized just how heavy a Hobbit might be until one almost pulled his leg from its socket,” rumbled Gimli.  “Well, I’m done with my meal.  I was supposed to take the first watch today, so I shall go out and relieve Master Samwise.”

            “I’ll do your dishes for you,” offered Pippin.

            “Thank you so,” returned the Dwarf as he rose to his feet.  “And I thank you for washing those—items, Frodo Baggins.”  With a nod he strode off to take Sam’s place on the rocky area outside the overhang.

            Frodo was so solemn so much of the time that the change in him when he laughed was quite amazing, and Boromir noted that both Aragorn and the Wizard appeared quite pleased at having seen him so amused.  Certainly he appeared far more relaxed than the Gondorian had seen him since they’d left Rivendell.

            “What special things do you remember about your mother?” asked Merry.

            Realizing that this question was addressed to himself, Boromir thought.  “She had the most wonderful stories, mostly about the strange things to be found after high tides below the Keep at Dol Amroth where she was born and lived as a child.  She had an amazing collection of shells, many of them so delicate one wonders how the creatures that wore them survived in the possible violence of the waves that would sweep them high up on the sand; and she knew the name of each creature and how it lived within the sea.  She had a rope of large pearls she wore in her hair during affairs of state, each pearl a different color and shape.  She used to let me play with the contents of the box in which she kept her sea glass, and we would hold each piece up to the light of the window and make up stories about what kind of bottle, vial, or jar each one might have come from.  She played upon the flute, and would make up tunes to amuse us.  And my father loved her so—so very much.  After she died he did not laugh again for years, or so it seemed to me.”

            “That is grievous to hear,” Aragorn said softly.  “I know that he doted upon her.”

            “And you know this how?” Boromir asked him.

            “Do you think that I have not borne back tales of how things go in Gondor after my visits to Minas Tirith?” Gandalf asked pointedly.

            “Even you must know that some of those who come from distant lands to serve in Gondor’s armies are from those of us your people have long called the Lost,” added Aragorn.  “To whom do you think they report when their terms of service are over and they disappear back into the Wild?”

            There was no answer Boromir could think to give to that.

            Pippin, who’d just come back from the stream with his dishes and Gimli’s, looked from one Man to the other, and now addressed himself to the Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain.  “So, your mother was with you when you lived in Rivendell as a child.  Do you have any memories of your father?”

            “Pippin, what memories do you think he’d have?  He’s admitted he was little more than a babe in arms when his dad died,” Merry objected.

            Aragorn was shaking his head.  “I’d been walking without having to hold onto things to steady myself for several months, as I was two years old when he died.  I have little memory for his face, but I certainly recognized his boots when I saw them when I stayed in my uncle’s keep after my first patrol with our new Rangers.  But I was amazed at how small they appeared then.  In my earliest memories they seemed so large!  He would return from a patrol and would be singing as he approached the house in which we lived, and Nana would throw open the door and stand in the doorway, straightening her shawl about her shoulders as he rode closer and the singing grew louder.  When he dropped from his horse I would rush out of the house and throw my arms about his legs as high up as I could reach.  His boots were his one true extravagance, and were always finely tooled and dyed with several colors.  And Naneth would embroider the outer seams of his trousers, often with sunbursts or starry shapes, and I would run my fingers along the carving in his boots and the threads of embroidery.  He would reach down and lift me to his shoulder and settle me there, sitting down with my legs dangling, balancing me with one hand on my waist.  And I would place my hand over his and run my finger over the shape of the ring he wore while he would embrace my mother with his free hand and kiss her soundly.  I loved it when he came home from a patrol.  Although I now think some of those rides out were really to other villages where our people lived.  But to me at the time, I always thought he was out upon a patrol when he left us.”

            “And then one time he didn’t return,” Frodo said softly, his own eyes downcast.

            “That is true, but I fear I don’t remember that time.  There had been more attacks upon our settlements, and then there was a virulent fever that was sweeping throughout Eriador.”

            “Like the year the ague and colds and catarrh and lung fever made so many ill in the Shire and Buckland, when we almost lost you, Mr. Frodo,” Sam commented as he, too, returned from the stream where he’d cleaned his dishes.

            “Something similar,” Aragorn admitted.  “Both my mother and I were ill, and had been taken to Uncle Halbaleg’s keep to be cared for.  When the Rangers who’d ridden out with my father returned with Elladan and Elrohir, bearing word of my father’s death, they found me so ill I had become insensible.  One of the women who were attending upon us thought that I had died, and ran out of the sickroom to cry out the loss of the last Heir to Isildur.  Only I was not dead, and the twins were able to bring me back around.  That was when it was decided that they would allow the word that I had died to stand, and Naneth and I were taken to Imladris so that I might grow up safe from the Enemy’s further attempts to destroy the last of the lineage of the Kings from Númenor.”

            “And it was as if Lord Elrond were your father while you were growing up?” Pippin asked, although he knew the answer well enough by now.

            “Yes,” Aragorn said, reaching out a hand and tousling Pippin’s hair familiarly.  “I knew he was not my true father, but ever he treated me as if I were indeed his son.”

            “Then why now do you not speak of or to him as if he were your father?” asked Frodo.

            Boromir was surprised at this, as Frodo rarely asked such personal questions.

            Aragorn looked down at the backs of his hands, those hands that were so clearly those of a swordsman yet were also finely modeled, those perhaps of a musician, those of a healer.  At last he raised his eyes to meet Frodo’s.  “You must understand, Frodo, how difficult it was for me when I returned to my own people after eighteen years spent among Elves.  I dressed much as the Elves of Imladris did, fought as they did, thought much as they did.  Except—except I was a Man, not an Elf.  Naneth warned me that it would not be easy, to return to our own people and to be accepted as Chieftain of the remnants of the Dúnedain of Arnor when I clearly was other than they.  Our people honor Elrond and those who dwell in his protected valley, but although we know that we are kindred from afar, still we know that we are different from them.  We are mortal and must know an end to this life.  We must marry and beget children if we are to leave a permanent mark upon Middle Earth or see our distant aims met.  I would not be accepted as the Dúnadan, the Man of the West, if I bound my heart ever in my thoughts to Elrond as my father.  My naneth told me this, and even Elrond did similarly on the day he declared me a Man grown and ready to return to my true purpose and place as a leader and hopefully one day a high ruler among Men.”

            He sighed, and looked down again, this time looking at his now upturned palms.  “I cannot help but love Elrond for being the father I needed to have as a child.  But my fate is not his.  We are long-lived, those of us who are direct descendants to Elrond’s brother, but we will still die in the fullness of time.  My very mortality estranges us, whether we would have it so or not.  And,” he added, looking up to catch Frodo’s eyes again, “there is another barrier between us, that I must bring to his family the pain of loss, when time must steal away the life of yet another he has loved deeply, even as he loved his brother, my blessed great-father Elros.

            “Think, Frodo, what it must be like for him.  He chose the life of the Eldar, and yet he has, since the return of Elendil to these shores, always succored his brother’s descendants, has seen them born, grow to adulthood, and then age and die—if they were not slain else.  He has told me that not since Valandil dwelt in his house whilst Elendil, Isildur, and Valandil’s brothers went to fight before Mordor has he been drawn to love one of us as if we were his own child, not until I came there with my mother, brought by my Elven brothers.  Those of us who were born knowing that one day we will leave the Circles of Arda know the grief of loss, but hold the hope of reunion in whatever realm to which we shall be removed.  He cannot know such hope before the remaking of the world.  Believe me, I am glad to know that, as a Man, one day I will be able to lay down my life with honor and reach for what comes next and not know the burden of years beyond count without the surety that what has been lost may be found once more.  But for him and his sons, that is what they shall know once I have abandoned my body.”

            Boromir sensed, as he thought that Frodo did also, that there was something more there that had not been said, and that would not now be put into words.  He decided that perhaps he should change the subject that those unspoken truths not be unwisely probed.

            “You said that you remember running your finger over the ring that your father wore.”

            “Yes.”  It was obvious to the Gondorian that this distant kinsman from the north was relieved at the turn in the conversation.

            “Do you remember its pattern?”

            Aragorn’s lip quirked in an amused smile.  “Oh, but of course I do.  But, then, it was given to me on the day Adar told me my true name and lineage.”

            “Then it was not buried with him.  Was it, then, the symbol of your office as Chieftain of the Dúnedain of Eriador?”

            “It is the symbol of my lineage as the Heir of Isildur.”

            Suddenly Boromir knew.  His voice went low with surprise, and he felt a level of awe as he asked, “You mean, the ring was—was the Ring of Barahir?”

            “It is the Ring of Barahir.”

            “Then why do you not wear it now?”

            Aragorn gave a great sigh.  “I will admit that I have not worn it more than it has sat upon my finger.  As a child it was kept by Elrond against the day I should be known by all as my father’s son and heir.  When I returned to the people I was intended to rule, at first I would not wear it openly.  I did not desire to immediately declare myself and have people bow down to me solely because I was the son of Arathorn and now claimed his place as my own.  I wished to test them to see if I would even want to serve as their leader, and I felt that they had the right to test me to learn if I was worthy to follow my father and grandfather as their Chieftain.  So it was that I went first upon a training patrol among the other young Men who desired to join the Rangers of Eriador, and the while I carried what I’d always thought of as my father’s ring in a finely wrought leather pouch hung on a chain about my neck.  The other youths thought that it was an amulet of some kind, and I allowed them to continue to think that until at last they realized just who my father had been.  Then and only then did I begin wearing the Ring of Barahir upon my hand.

            “Later it was deemed wise for me to see more of the world and the peoples I might one day reunite into one kingdom under my rule, and to learn directly of their allies—and their enemies.  Again I carried the Ring of Barahir usually in the pouch hung from the chain I’d worn before.  I walked, rode, and sailed most of the ways of the known world, and learned what I could of all peoples I encountered.  I learned to fight in the manner of many lands, and studied as many of the tongues of Men as I could.  I even ventured into one of the Red Temples in Umbar and another in Harad, and have climbed secret ways up over the walls of Mordor to peer into the Black Land itself.  I visited Mirkwood and was honored there by Legolas’s father.  I have visited the Blue Mountains, the Iron Hills, and Erebor as well as the halls of the lesser Dwarves beyond Fornost.  I have guested among the dwindling tribes of Lindor and stood upon the quays of Mithlond.  I have heard the carillons of Dale and have been feasted by the denizens of Laketown, and have bought the fabled honeycakes of the Beornings.  The citizens of Bree have named me Strider, thinking it perhaps an insult.  But certainly it is descriptive of what I have experienced in the long years since I left the house of Elrond to return to my own people.”

            “But you wear no chain about your neck now,” Boromir observed.

            Aragorn arched one brow.  “No, I no longer carry the Ring of Barahir with me.  But even as the great Finrod Felagund gave the ring into the hands of Barahir in token of the great debt he owed to the Man who had saved his life, promising to aid whosoever might display it to him once more, so I have entrusted it to another in token of a promise made many years since.  One day that promise may well needs be honored, at which time I am assured that the Ring will be returned to me until it might be bestowed upon my son.”

            “Should you ever father a son,” Boromir said.

            “Yes, should I ever father a son.  Yet, hope that that day may one day dawn yet remains in my heart.”

            Gandalf gave a small, warm chuckle.  “It is so fitting that Elrond gave you the child’s name of Estel, my friend.”

            Aragorn smiled in return.

            “Frodo inherited a ring from his dad, too,” Pippin said.  He gave his older cousin a sideways glance.  “But I’ve never seen him wear it.”

            Frodo shrugged.  “It is much too big for me to wear comfortably, and it would be a shame to have to cut out enough silver for it to fit my finger.  My dad had a far wider hand than I do, with thicker fingers.”  He was silent for a moment before continuing in lower tones, “Besides, it’s hard to imagining me wearing it after having seen it last on his hand as it was when they brought him back from the river.  I hate to imagine what they had to do to get it off of his finger.”

            Remembering that Frodo’s father’s body had been in the water for at least a day and a half, Boromir could imagine what a task that must have been, and experienced a shudder of sympathy for the Hobbit.  He cleared his throat, saying, “I do not look forward to the day I must don the Ring of the Steward of Gondor.  To be honest, I would wish never to have to sit upon the Black Chair.  I am too much the soldier and the captain.  My brother would make a far better Steward than I ever will.  He is much wiser and better at reading the hearts of other Men, and far more politic than I am capable of being.”

            “Then you don’t wear a ring to show you are the heir to your father?” Frodo asked.

            “Oh, no.  This,” he said, patting the horn he carried, “has long been the token borne by the heir to the Steward of Gondor rather than a ring or a particular sword.  The Steward’s ring is actually his seal as the ruler of the land in the absence of the King, and is received along with the White Rod as he is established as the Steward and seated for the first time upon the Black Chair.  Although I never understood when I was younger why my father was seen as a Steward rather than a King, considering that he serves the people as does a—good—King.  But to choose anyone other than those who were proper heirs to Elendil is simply not done in Gondor.”

            “And so it is true in what remains of Arnor as well,” agreed Aragorn.

            “Sounds plenty complicated to me,” Sam commented in a low voice to Merry.

            Merry said thoughtfully, “We don’t have rings for the Master of Buckland.  The Master has the Seal of Buckland, and the Sword, of course.”

            Boromir was intrigued.  “You actually have swords in the Shire?  But I thought you said your weapons came from elsewhere.”

            “They did,” Aragorn said.  “Tom Bombadil gave them each a long knife from one of the barrows of my ancestors in the Barrow-downs between Bree and the entrance to the Shire at the Brandywine Bridge.”

            “Save mine broke when I raised it against the Black Riders at the Ford of the Brúinen,” Frodo added.  “As I said, Sting Bilbo carried from the troll hoard they found before Thorin’s company arrived at Rivendell, and he gave it to me there soon after I recovered from the Morgul wound.  It is said it was forged in Gondolin.”

            “Which it was,” commented Gandalf, “as was Glamdring here which I now carry, and Orcrist that Thorin took and that lies now upon his tomb.”

            “An Elven sword atop a Dwarvish tomb is a novel concept,” Boromir noted.  He turned back to Merry.  “What is this sword that you speak of that is a symbol of the Master of Buckland?”

            “It was given to Bucca of the Marish by the heir to Arvedui Last-king in token of his great service offered in the war against Angmar,” Merry said.  “He was the only one of the Hobbits who went out of the Shire to fight for the King to survive, although it was said another Hobbit, one from the Breelands, returned home with him when the war was done and the Witch-king had fled away.”

            “Indeed,” Gandalf said.  “And full worthy was he to receive it.  It was a beautiful weapon that Aranarth had worn during his youth, and again a long knife rather than a true sword, but fully useful as a sword for a Hobbit, of course, much as is true of the weapons you, Pippin, and Sam carry.”

            “And you know this how?” Boromir challenged.

            The Wizard straightened where he sat.  “Do you truly believe that these and Bilbo are the first Hobbits I have known in the better than half an Age of the Sun I have walked in Middle Earth, Boromir son of Denethor?  I stood by Eärnur’s side to witness the honor paid to those considered heroes of the conflict, including Bucca of the Marish and his Breeland companion.  And you have here at least three of Bucca’s most worthy descendants.”

            Pippin’s mouth was open in an O of astonishment, and he pulled his small frame up taller at that realization.  Merry’s eyes were shining.  Frodo merely looked more thoughtful at Gandalf’s pronouncement.  Sam was looking at his Master with open pride, and for a moment Gandalf’s gaze fell upon the gardener and grew considerate, his eyes widening briefly before he gave a small nod to himself as if he’d made a realization of his own.  “Another line come full circle as well,” Boromir heard him murmur under his breath.  He wondered what the Wizard might mean by that, but knew from experience he was unlikely to get an explanation, or not now, at least.

            Instead, he focused his own attention on the Ringbearer.  “The ring you inherited from your father, the one you do not wear, was it an heirloom of your house?”

            Frodo appeared surprised to find himself addressed.  “No,” he began slowly, “not precisely an heirloom.  When I was quite small I believed my mother had given it to him as a marriage token, but Bilbo said that this was not true.  He said that he gave it to my father at his first birthday after his return from his adventure.  It had been given to him by Balin, who had recognized it in Smaug’s hoard.  Balin himself had wrought it as a gift to his sister’s firstborn son.  Neither his sister nor his nephew survived the assault by the Dragon.  He gave it to Bilbo, he said, in honor of the great integrity Bilbo had shown in seeking to stop the pending battle between the Dwarves and the Men of Laketown and the Elves of Mirkwood over the Dragon’s treasure, much of which had come from Dale and the Men and Elves who traveled through the region as well as what Smaug had gathered within Erebor after he took the Lonely Mountain as his own.”

            Gimli, Boromir noted, had turned to listen to the talk, and his eyes were now wide at the tale of his kinsman’s gift to Bilbo Baggins.

            Frodo continued, “There were some other pieces of jewelry that were family pieces, but they were mostly for lasses and ladies rather than for gentlehobbits.  Bilbo gave most of them to my dad to give to my mum, and I’d hoped to give them to whosoever I might marry.  Only that did not happen in the end.”

            “Perhaps you shall meet the woman of your dreams when you return from this journey,” Boromir suggested.

            “Perhaps,” Frodo returned, although Boromir thought that the Hobbit feared it unlikely he would ever return to his homeland.  Who could blame him, though, for such thoughts, considering where he was going and what he was supposed to do?  Again he felt himself giving a shudder of sympathy, glad that he had decided he would go no further than his own land.  Not for him to walk through Mordor!

            Merry looked toward his younger cousin.  “What I am glad of, Pip, is that I won’t have to wear the Thain’s Ring.  It’s a heavy thing.  How Uncle Pal can bear it I don’t know.”  He looked at Gandalf.  “Was that from the King’s son, too?”

            Gandalf shrugged.  “I am not certain.  He did not give Bucca a ring or chain to mark his appointment as the Thain, merely the Sword.  Although the Thain’s Ring might have been in the chest of treasure he presented to Bucca.  There was some jewelry as well as a good deal of money in the chest he gave to the Hobbit from Bree.”

            “You got to see what was inside that chest?” Pippin asked.

            “Yes—I accompanied Holmwise to Hobbiton, and saw him give the chest into the hands of the widow of his closest comrade for her to use to help the families of those in the region whose loved ones had died in the defense of Arnor.  Bucca proposed to do much the same with the similar chest of treasure he was given by Aranarth for those families from the East- and South-farthings.  Thirty-nine brave Hobbits of the Shire died fighting the armies commanded by the Witch-king of Angmar; none was forgotten by Bucca or Holmwise.”

            Sam had cocked his head at this talk.  “How come a Bree Hobbit would come to the Shire?” he asked.

            “His friend from Hobbiton gave him a holding he owned in the North-farthing.  It was the least that Hobbit could do for the one who had chosen to follow him in the battles.  Besides the chest of treasure Aranarth gave this Hobbit, who had been very valiant beyond the expectations of anyone, particularly beyond those of Holmwise himself, was an empty book in which to write his own story, although I never heard of such a volume in any of my visits to the Shire since that day.”

            “But why would Hobbits of the Shire fight for the King of Arnor?” Boromir asked.

            He was surprised when it was Pippin who answered him.  “When King Argeleb the Second gave the land of the Shire to Marcho and Blanco, part of the agreement as recorded in the Charter written to mark that gift was that we would speed the King’s messengers through our lands, we would see the roads kept properly so that they should travel safely, and if the King should call for an army we would send forth a levy to his needs.  Bucca of the Marish lived near to the Brandywine Bridge, which the King’s people call the Bridge of the Stone Bow, and he was the first to be advised that Arvedui needed that levy, and he asked for only forty who were willing to fight.  Bucca was ancestor to both Merry and me—and to Frodo as well.  After all, all three of us are descended from the Old Took, and Merry’s a Brandybuck besides.”  The young Hobbit turned to ask Gandalf, “So, they had a levy from the Breelands also?”

            “Yes, and more Hobbits voluntarily answered that call than did Men.  Those from the Breelands mostly were sent southward to fight in Rhudaur and against the Dunlendings.  I was told that this Holmwise bound himself to fight with the Hobbits of the Shire, who fought in the forces commanded by Arvedui and his sons, ending under the command of Aranarth in the last battles.  Holmwise was befriended by one who’d come from Hobbiton, and they were almost inseparable, or so it was explained to me.  Together they defended Aranarth’s mother Fíriel, and when his friend died in that defense Holmwise fought the harder in memory of the one he’d thought of as his Master.”

            Is he deliberately avoiding looking at Sam? considered Boromir.  Sam’s eyes were round with wonder.  I think that somehow Sam reminds him of this Holmwise.

            The Gondorian looked from one to another.  He’d never thought of these Hobbits as possibly joining an army, but obviously their ancestors had done so and had fought with distinction.  He tried to imagine Sam fighting in defense of their Fellowship, and had to smile at the idea of it.

            Still----

            Aragorn interrupted his thoughts.  “I grieve that your mother died when you were so young, Boromir.  My mother saw me well into adulthood, at least, although she had no heart to stand fast to see the final battles of our times.  You, Sam, Frodo, Legolas, and I have known loss of our mothers, and Frodo and I have both lost our fathers as well.  I pray that they will be proud of the defense we give to the Free Peoples of Middle Earth.  I certainly have dedicated my sword and myself to do honor to the memory of my parents, and I would now include all of our beloved dead with them in that dedication.”  He rose to his feet, and held his sword, its tip grounded on the earth before him, and the rest followed suit.  “May those who have loved us ever find only honor as they examine our actions from this day onward.”

            “May it be so,” the rest answered.

            It was at that moment that Legolas joined them, a brace of ducks in his hands.  “There is a pool not far to the south, and these were swimming there.  It would appear that the winter will not long linger in these lands!  But what are you all doing yet awake?  I’d thought to find you all walking the path of dreams by now.”

            Gandalf nodded.  “Wise advice, Legolas.  The rest of you, get out your bedrolls.  The days grow longer, but the nights are yet longer than the daylight hours, and we will need to walk far tonight.”

            But as the warrior set out his bedroll not far from where Gandalf laid out his own, Boromir could hear the Wizard murmuring quietly, “The pattern repeats itself.  And if it come to a similar ending?  What then for our beloved Sam?”

            How Boromir wished he could plumb the depths of Mithrandir’s memories of those battles so long ago.

~0~

Gandalf speaks of characters and incidents told in "Stirring Rings."

For Armariel and RiverOtter for their birthdays, with much love and respect.

Discord

            It started with a sighting by the Elf of a train of wagons heading north a mile or more west of the path the Fellowship was following southward.  Aragorn and Mithrandir both agreed they’d best move up into the foothills of the Misty Mountains, hiding their own presence in the folds of the land.  For two days they climbed and scrambled, and then what could be seen to be rain in the lowlands below them fell as snow up in the higher ground they’d reached.  They were able to find a hollow in the midst of a tumble of rocks in which to take shelter, but all were cold as they made camp during their third day.  The rocks gave them some shelter from the west wind that had blown the clouds across the wastes of Eriador, but during the day the wind shifted to come at them out of the north and down from the heights of the mountain peaks, and it moaned as it sifted through the stones and wrapped itself about them, blowing the drifting snow onto and under their blankets.

            “It is no blizzard, but it is certainly persistent,” observed Aragorn as he shook out his cloak and blankets for the fifth time.

            “Is there a pass of some sort above us?” Boromir asked.

            Aragorn was already shaking his head.  “There was, but a major rockslide two years ago that split the peak just south of us blocked it, and the pathway upwards is now unstable.  Not that the snows above us would allow us passage over the mountains if it were clear.  As was stated when we were in Elrond’s house, all of the passes north of Caradhras and the Redhorn Gate are closed until full spring opens them once more.  And I am not certain that the Redhorn Gate itself will be passable when we reach it.  The mountains that far south are known for their chancy tempers, and especially Caradhras itself.”

            “Then we should go back the way I came, through the Gap of Rohan,” Boromir again suggested.

            Aragorn and Gandalf just shook their heads, indicating they would not engage again in that debate.

            They were forced to stay a second day in the tumble of rocks, and with a windbreak of canvas constructed on the east side they were somewhat more comfortable.  The Hobbits now slept together in a single bed, sharing both their rugs and blankets, with Merry and Sam on the outside on either side of Pippin and Frodo.  “So they slept as we made our way from Weathertop to Rivendell,” Aragorn explained quietly, “after Frodo received his Morgul wound.  Young Hobbits often sleep in this manner as children, or so Bilbo has told me, sharing warmth and their presence both for physical and spiritual comfort.” 

            Each of the Hobbits took his turn on watch, and Boromir realized he no longer questioned their fitness for this task.  Frodo was allowed to do his part in preparing meals, although the ones they took had little warmth to them, for the Wizard allowed them only the smallest of fires to heat water, and there was little enough of that up here save for what snow they could melt.

            Boromir awoke at the end of the second day with a start as he realized his bedding was suddenly soaked with icy water.  The Hobbits were also rising rapidly, Merry looking with dismay at his left side, on which he’d been sleeping.  “I’m all wet!” he exclaimed.

            “The wind has changed again,” sighed Aragorn as he rose from where he’d been huddled in his own blankets.  “The snow is now melting and running down through our camp!”

            Gandalf, who’d been on watch, gave a cry of dismay and hurried to check his own bedroll.  But once the snow above them began to melt, the water seemed relentlessly intent on soaking into everything.

            They had no choice but to quit their current camp and head back down to lower ground in search of a place where they could dry out their bedding and much of their clothing.  Boromir and Merry were wettest, and had to change before they even moved.

            “What a miserable turn of events!” grumbled the Gondorian as he undid the buckle of his sword belt and tossed it to Aragorn.  “Oh, the Powers save us!” he exclaimed as he pulled his shirt over his head and the cold wind blew straight onto his mail shirt.  “I think my skin is sticking to it!”

            “Don’t you have a leather garment to wear under it?” Frodo asked as he held a dry silk shirt ready to pop over Merry’s head once he had the damp one off with Pippin and Sam’s help.  “I mean, Bilbo had such a thing to wear under his Dwarf mail.”  Unconsciously he drew his hand to his breast before catching himself and returning his attention to his cousin.  “Here, Merry—we shall have you dressed and warm again as swiftly as we can!”

            “Yes, I do.  But it is being made cold by the wind on the mail, and feels as if it will peel away my own skin should I pull on it.  And the silk shirt under all does nothing to protect me from the cold!”

            Legolas was holding out a fresh shirt, but it did little to warm the Man as he pulled it around him and reached for the thick surcoat Gimli held ready.

            “We must get fresh stockings upon your feet,” Aragorn insisted. 

            But once his bare feet touched the stone floor of the hollow Boromir howled with pain.  “I should have put new ones on over the old ones!  My feet—they will never be warm again!”

            Aragorn declared to the Hobbits, “You four should put on the boots provided for you.  This is too much cold and dampness even for Hobbits.”

            “We’d best not put them on until we are further down,” Frodo responded, his brow uncharacteristically furrowed as he surveyed the path they would be forced to take.  “Only the Brandybucks use them back home, and then only on the flat along the river bank when the Brandywine is running high and there is mud due to flooding or cracked ice underfoot.  They would only make us clumsier as we move down over the scree.”

            Aragorn finally agreed, but with obvious reluctance.  “Then you must take care where you set your feet,” he cautioned them.  “Many of those stones are cracked with the cold, and I fear that they might slice through even the thick sole of a Hobbit’s foot.   And you are all cold already, especially Merry.”

            They nodded their understanding.

            Gandalf had readied Bill, and indicated he would guide the pony.  “If he should start to slide at least I could do something about it,” he assured Sam.

            Aragorn gave a quiet chuckle.  “I doubt he will do so, Gandalf.  He proved most surefooted as we climbed over the ridges of the Ettenmoors to reach the road to the Ford, even with Frodo upon his back.”

            At last they were ready, but even with clean, dry stockings and his boots on Boromir’s feet still ached with cold, and they felt clumsy as they started their descent.  He was the first to slip, landing heavily on his hip and sliding better than a hundred paces down the slope before he could stop himself.  The Elf reached him first—there was one, Boromir realized with envy, who was unlikely to fall even here on this unstable ground.  He took Legolas’s hand and allowed the Elf to help him rise again to his feet, muttering a grudging thanks as he set himself to picking his way downward once more.

            For a time they did well enough, although the wind shifted yet again, bringing more rain from the west, a cold rain mixed with sleet that froze as it caught in their hair.  The hoods of their cloaks proved useless, for the wind blew them back as swiftly as they were drawn over their heads.

            Gimli was the next to lose his footing, and he ended up rolling quite a ways before he fetched up against an upthrust stone that broke his fall.  Again Legolas was the first to reach his side and helped him both to regain his feet and to gather up his scattered weapons and his small, round shield and helmet.  The Dwarf grunted what Boromir must assume was his own thanks before resuming a slower, more careful descent.  It was hard to tell, but Boromir suspected that the Dwarf was limping some with each thoughtful step he took.

            The path became more stony, and thus more sure underfoot, allowing them a swifter, surer pace for better than a quarter of a mark.  But then the stone gave way to bare earth, and at last Frodo made a misstep as he trod upon wet clay and both his feet went out from beneath him.  He was slammed upon his back and went down the slope feet first.  Vainly he tried to dig in his heels to stop his career, and then they all heard him cry out in pain even as he finally slowed down as the slope flattened out once more into a wide ledge.

            As the rest of the company came even with him Boromir could see red blood staining the brown of dead winter grass.  Their chief guide had correctly prophesized what could well happen.  Frodo had struck his heel against a shard of obsidian, and was bleeding steadily.

            Legolas found a far better place to camp than they’d known up in the heights they’d quitted.  It was a depression against the hillside with a screen of tilted boulders to block the wind from north and west.  Aragorn and the Elf again used the sheet of canvas to put some sort of a roof over them, and Gandalf allowed a fire to be built sufficient to both warm them and to dry their wet clothing and bedding.  “No one will be able to see the fire from any distance with those great stones before us,” he announced, “and we shall not be able to go further without everything being thoroughly dried and all of us warmed completely, inside and out.  And we need to see how bad the injuries might be that Boromir, Gimli, and Frodo have sustained.”

            The two younger Hobbits went down into a gully below them to bring back firewood, and Legolas fetched water for the use of Sam as he brewed a pot of tea and prepared a warm meal, and for Aragorn as he cleansed Frodo’s foot and checked to see how bad the cut might be.

            “It is deep, but it does not require any stitching,” he declared at last.  “It should heal quickly enough, and we should be ready to move on after a day or so here.  We will soak it for a time in hot water to make certain no sand or dirt remains in the wound, and then I shall wrap it.  You will need to wear the boots for at least two days as we travel, however, Frodo.”

            Frodo nodded, his face set.  He allowed Aragorn to check his rump and the backs of his legs, but refused to allow the Man to check his back.  “It does not hurt at all, Aragorn.  Leave it be, and see to Boromir.  I suspect he has quite the bruise on his hip, and undoubtedly has scrapes and perhaps some gravel on the leg he fell upon.”

            For some reason he could not later explain even to himself, Boromir found the Hobbit’s tone of voice to the northern Ranger offensive, even patronizing.  Aragorn straightened some at this dismissal, but there was nothing in his expression to indicate that he felt Frodo’s words to be either rude or unwarranted.  He merely said, “All right, Frodo, since you are certain that you are unhurt otherwise.  Only the cut to your foot requires anything more than cleansing, after all.”

            With that he turned to Boromir, who allowed the northern Ranger to attend to him with marked bad grace.  He did indeed have a nasty scrape that was easily dealt with, and Gimli had a few bruises, the worst being where he’d landed against the stone; but with the application of some arnica both Man and Dwarf seemed well enough.  Frodo soaked his foot as ordered, and once it was wrapped took rapidly to his bedroll, lying turned away from the rest of the Fellowship.  As for Boromir, he found his bruised hip aching more as the day progressed, and he sat his watch that afternoon in miserable silence, wishing he could be done with the whole procedure.  If only they’d gone back down the Greenway instead of lurking in the foothills to the mountains as they’d done!

            They spent not only that day and night resting but much of the next day as well, and all seemed much restored once they gathered up their newly dried clothing and bedding and saw them carefully packed away a few hours short of sunset.  Only Boromir was still wont to grumble as he repacked his kit once more, although he did his best to keep the worst of his complaints to himself.  But he found himself watching with some satisfaction as Aragorn checked and rewrapped Frodo’s cut foot and saw first stockings and then the boots put on the Hobbit’s feet, Frodo being obviously uncomfortable with the whole affair.  “What’s wrong, Master Baggins?” Boromir asked.  “Unwilling to follow the healer’s orders?”

            Surprised at the Man’s tone, Frodo looked at the Gondorian with wide eyes.  “I am fully willing to do as Aragorn has required of me, Captain Boromir,” he answered, his own voice controlled, “but it does not mean that I have to like it.  We Hobbits tend to feel most stable with the earth under our feet, after all, and these boots, although comfortable enough, are still foreign to us, even to those of us who use such things during the flood watches along the Brandywine.”

            There was little more than an errant breeze as they moved further downward and south once more, unlike the insidious wind they’d known in the higher elevations.  The rain had stopped, the clouds a pinkish grey high above them.  The way was now smooth enough, although Frodo frequently tripped slightly as the toes of his boots encountered obstructions that everyone else readily accommodated for.  Boromir laughed at each stumble, and after a time Frodo began to look back at him with a considering light to his eyes.  Aragorn and Gandalf began watching the growing tension between soldier and Ringbearer, but Boromir pointedly ignored them.  After the fifth stumble by Frodo and Boromir’s repeated laugh Sam commented to Merry, “He’d best guard himself, Mr. Boromir should, or my Master will set him right soon enough.”

            Both Boromir and Gimli were limping at least slightly, although the stolid Dwarf kept his mouth firmly shut regarding his own discomfort.  The Man did not complain, either, but his winces as he encountered slight bumps or dips in the path spoke to the pain his hip was giving him.

            They crossed the path of the party they’d seen a few days earlier, and Aragorn knelt to check it out.  “Rhudaurim,” he said.  “Most likely they are some of those who came down from Angmar some three generations or so ago, looking at the style of their boots and the manner in which they coop their wheels.  The horses they drive are of local stock—there are a few herds that run wild through the lower hills and upper plains areas hereabouts.  One of the horses is lame on the front left leg, and if they don’t remove it from harness soon it will need to be put down within a week.  There is nothing to indicate they took note of us at all.”

            After that they moved more swiftly and with greater assurance that they were not being watched or stalked.

            They paused for an hour not long after the Sun had gone to her rest, taking a short meal of dried meats and cold root vegetables found by Pippin, who’d proved to have an eye for such things.  As they prepared to move on Aragorn came to Boromir to offer him a brew of willow bark he’d prepared over the small fire that Gandalf had grudgingly allowed, but the Gondorian refused it.

            “You are definitely in pain, my friend, and this should help both with the pain and the swelling where you fell,” Aragorn began, but Boromir interrupted him.

            “I am not so badly off I must take a draught,” he insisted.

            Gimli, however, looked up, his eyes considering.  “If the fool won’t take it, I will,” he said.  “I’m not too proud to admit that my side still hurts where I hit that rock.”

            After another gesture of rejection from Boromir, Aragorn shrugged and offered the draught to the Dwarf, who drank it greedily enough.  “Thank you for this, Dúnadan,” he said.  “I shall undoubtedly march the better for it.”

            Soon enough they were again on the move.  Frodo was now stumbling more frequently as they moved through the darkening night, and at last fell headlong over a tussock of dried grass.

            “That is enough of this!” Frodo fumed.  “I cannot walk any further across the turf with these foul boots upon my feet!  I’ve done nothing but trip and stumble for the last three miles, I swear!”

            Reluctantly Aragorn agreed to allow the Hobbit to remove his footwear, although he made certain that the bandage about the cut was tightly and firmly bound into place.  Frodo made much better time now that he walked unshod, and he showed no obvious discomfort, so the Ranger did nothing more than to keep an eye upon the Ringbearer to make certain he did not begin limping.

            An hour ere sunrise they paused again, and once more Gandalf allowed a small fire, Pippin this time producing a dish involving porridge and pear juice with dried raisins mixed in it.  All felt better for the warm food in their bellies, and soon they were walking again, more circumspectly as the light strengthened and they sought good cover for the day’s rest.  They were approaching an area where there were many holly trees, and both Aragorn and Gandalf appeared more heartened by the change in vegetation while Legolas lifted his head with interest, sniffing the breeze as readily as was Bill.  The grass here was already showing renewed green, indicating spring was creeping steadily, if slowly, into the land, and Pippin and Merry both pounced upon certain greens as welcome additions to their intended menu.  At last they found shelter in a stand of mixed birch and fir trees, and with the ground softened by evergreen needles underfoot they would undoubtedly rest well.  Aragorn unbound the bandage about Frodo’s foot and indicated that although there had been some minor bleeding, it was nevertheless healing satisfactorily and had taken no serious further injury from the removal of the boots.

            Boromir was reluctant to allow Aragorn to check his own injuries, however, and chose to focus on the bleeding reported of Frodo’s wound to criticize.  “Why are you insistent on examining me when you have allowed Master Baggins there to go against your orders, Aragorn?  If it is sufficiently serious enough to bleed, should he not do as you have instructed him to do—to wear those boots to protect the wound?  Should he not have done as you said there as we descended and worn his boots then?  Had he done so he would not have cut his foot to begin with!”

            “And had I done so,” objected Frodo, “it is likely I should have broken my ankle, arm, or worse rather than merely cut my foot.  We Hobbits do not have as tender of feet as do you of other races, but our legs and ankles and other limbs are as vulnerable as anyone’s.  You have seen how difficult it has been for me to walk through this grassland wearing such things!  Without feeling the land over which I walk with the whole of my foot I’ve done little but stumble.  Had I fallen on the scree while wearing the boots it is likely I should have injured myself far more seriously than I did.”

            Man and Hobbit glared at one another for a few moments before Boromir turned away to set out his bedroll.  Frodo set his bedroll far to the back of their sheltered area, and Sam, Merry, and Pippin set theirs beside his.  Aragorn took the first watch, and as he lay down Boromir was aware of the Ranger eyeing him thoughtfully.  Gandalf settled away from the others and sat murmuring to himself in some language the Gondorian did not recognize before finally lying down and rolling up in a blanket.  Boromir knew he hadn’t shown himself in a good light during the night’s walk, but assured himself that it didn’t matter as he waited for sleep to take him.

 *******

             Boromir awoke to find himself sitting up, dagger in hand, seeking to protect himself from some enemy that wasn’t there.  Frodo paused in the act of rolling his blankets, watching him over his shoulder with concern, and once again the Man found himself resenting the Hobbit’s attention.  Gandalf was on watch, and Gimli was stirring up something in a pot over their low fire.  Aragorn, who was returning to the camp carrying several of the water bottles and the kettle, all of which he’d just filled, stopped just as he entered the camp area, looking between the Hobbit and Boromir as if gauging whether he might need to intervene between the two of them.

            It was Pippin that distracted both Frodo and the Gondorian from their awareness of one another.  He returned to the camp from the area where they’d chosen to relieve themselves yawning and refastening the straps that held up his trousers, followed by first Merry and then Sam.  “I am so tired still!” the youngest Hobbit said through his yawn.  “I had the strangest dreams while I slept, of great, ugly dogs and strange snaky things that came out of the water when I was looking into it in search of frog spawn.  But one wouldn’t find any frog spawn here, would one?  I mean, it’s far too cold as yet.  And the spawn wouldn’t hatch into tadpoles for a month or more, would it?”

            “I dreamt of one of the older lads in the Hall deviling you, Frodo,” Merry said.  “You’d think you were only in your early tweens, the things I was dreaming of.”

            Sam returned to his own bedroll and was preparing it to go onto Bill’s load once all were ready to begin the night’s tramp.  What he might have dreamt of he did not tell.

            As the party shouldered their packs Boromir could hear Aragorn commenting softly to Gandalf, “I, too, had disturbing dreams during the short time I slept.  You?”

            Gandalf said even more softly, “I am not happy to hear that the dreams of so many are being disturbed.  It indicates that the burden is awakening more.”

            Aragorn gave a wordless nod, and moved to speak quietly with Legolas before taking the point for the first portion of the night’s walk.

            The few trees they passed were more commonly conifers, both firs and pines of more than one variety, with few of the holly trees they’d seen the previous day.  Their travel was unremarkable for over an hour.  Frodo’s foot had a fresh bandage upon it, indicating that the Ranger felt it still needed a degree of protection.  Gimli’s limp was less discernible, and even Boromir noticed less pain in his hip than the previous evening.  His back, however, began to ache as the night grew darker and the air colder.  The breeze strengthened and whirled their cloaks about their legs.  If they’d been frustrated to have their hoods swept from their heads when they were descending the mountains, they now found them constantly pushed forward by the wind, often obscuring their vision.  When it began raining once more all were cursing, even the Hobbits. 

            When Aragorn suddenly called out, “Hold!” all froze except Boromir, who kept on for several more steps, keeping his eyes on the Ranger even as he passed the Man.

            “What is it?” Boromir started to say, only to find his feet were sinking into cold water and mud.

            “The river has changed its course since I last came this way,” Aragorn said.  “What was solid ground slightly over a year ago is now a mire!”

            Pippin’s eyes widened and his ears literally twitched at the expletives Boromir uttered, while Frodo’s cheeks could be seen to pale and the Dwarf openly laughed aloud.  It took a few moments for the Gondorian to work his feet free, only to find that the mud had kept possession of one of his boots and the sock he’d been wearing.  The expletives doubled in volume as well as content as Boromir finally worked his way back onto solid ground, his right foot now bare save for a decided coating of muck.

            The Elf knelt carefully and reached down into the mud in search of the missing footwear, and finally retrieved it.  Gandalf eyed it with interest.  “I doubt that you will wish to put it on again until it has been thoroughly cleaned, dried, and oiled,” he commented.  “Perhaps it is time to wear the other pair and to part with this one?”

            The Man agreed, and they had to spend some time retrieving Boromir’s other boots and readying to continue the night’s march.

            Legolas ranged ahead and found a place where they could rest in an abandoned house.  The roof was mostly sound and the chimney drew well enough, and all seemed much heartened by being within walls and under cover with a cheerful fire and with a warm meal and tea inside them while the wind and rain raged outside.  Even Bill seemed happy to find shelter in a lean-to with his nosebag full.

            Once they had finished their food and Pippin took the dishes to see them washed, Frodo unrolled his bedroll near the far wall, announcing, “I believe we can all do with a little extra rest, and particularly Boromir, who has been groaning with pain much of the evening.”

            Again, for some reason he could not afterwards explain, the soldier felt that the Ringbearer was patronizing him, and he eyed the oldest of the Hobbits coldly as Frodo crawled under his covers and lay on his back, rubbing at his left shoulder as if it ached.

            “I’ve not uttered any complaints,” Boromir stated, his tone perhaps harsher than it ought to have been.

            Aragorn looked at him with surprise.  “No one said that you did, my friend,” he responded.  “But seeing you standing with your hands pressed so to your back, the pain is obvious.  If you will allow me to give you warm stones to place against it as you rest, it will most likely be less painful once we are ready to move on again.  Or, better yet, I could massage it, which could offer more immediate easing.”

            Giving Frodo a glance, the Gondorian said, “If anyone needs such a thing, I’d say he needs it more than I.”

            Frodo stiffened under his blankets.  He glared at the Man, but did not remove his right hand from his left shoulder.  “This pain does not slow me down as does the pain in your back,” he retorted.

            “If you are saying that I am slowing down our travels—” Boromir began with heat, but Aragorn interrupted him.

            “There is no need to speak as if either of you were slowing us down—the weather has done that far more effectively than any distress any of us feels.  That and the slips coming down the mountains, for which none of you is responsible.”

            “He might have worn the boots as you suggested before we started down,” Boromir pointed out.

            “The other Hobbits wore no boots coming down the mountains, and none of the others fell.  Anyone might have slipped on that patch of clay that led to Frodo’s slide, boots or not; and, as he said, had he worn the boots it is possible that the final injury could have been far worse.  Certainly they proved anything but useful once he was walking over tufts of grass here on what ought to be level ground.

            “Now,” he added pointedly, “if you, Lord Boromir, will remove your shirt and mail and lie face down on that pile of bags there, I will see what I can do to ease the pain in your back, after which I will do what I can for Frodo’s shoulder, although I doubt I can do much to relieve the residual pain of a Morgul wound.  Merry there is seeing to it that we get another kettle of warm water, at which time I will prepare a draught for each of you, and I will accept no excuses from either of you.”

            “Who is on watch?” Boromir asked, crossing his arms across his chest and refusing to do as he was instructed, or at least for the moment.

            “Sam and Gimli have taken the first watch.  You will have the third, along with me.  So, if you wish to get some rest before your watch begins, you will do as I have instructed you.”

            The northern Ranger’s tone was such that Boromir did as he’d been ordered, and Aragorn knelt beside him and began kneading the muscles and tracing the line of his spine.  He worked for some time before telling Boromir to stretch his arms down at his sides, and he asked Legolas to hold the Man’s head straight as he pushed down with both hands several times, each push further down the spine than the last one.  There were several audible clicks and a grunt of discomfort from the prone Man each time the move was repeated, after which Aragorn asked Legolas to fetch him a particular jar from his pack, and on receiving it resumed massaging the other Man’s back with the strong-scented balm it contained.

            Boromir was half asleep by the time the Ranger was finished, his back much relieved and the muscles warm, more supple than they’d been in days.  He crawled to his bedroll, which Pippin had spread out for him, and fell into it, barely noting the care with which the smallest of the Hobbits covered him over.  He could hear a low-voiced argument between Aragorn and Frodo, with Frodo apparently refusing to allow the Man to check his shoulder, although he did agree to rub some of the balm into his own skin.  Merry brought Boromir the promised draught, and Gandalf saw to it that Frodo drank his share while Aragorn checked Frodo’s foot one last time.  “It is healed enough that I will not require you to wear a bandage tomorrow, Frodo.”

            “Thank you, Aragorn,” the Hobbit said with courtesy.  “And thank you for the balm—the pain is eased at least some.”

            “Then sleep, mellon nín, and be ready for our next march.”

            With a soft flicker of flames on the long abandoned hearth to soothe him further, Boromir son of Denethor fell into the deepest sleep he’d known in some time.

 *******

            When roused to take his watch, Boromir noted that Sam and Gimli were now sound asleep, both snoring audibly as the Man donned his mail, shirt, and cloak once more.  Merry had taken the middle watch, and offered the Gondorian a mug of herbal drink to take with him as he went outside.

            Aragorn was apparently relieving the Wizard, who merely moved over to allow the Man to sit beside him so that they might speak before Gandalf returned inside for his own allotted rest.  It was quiet enough that Boromir could hear a good part of what they discussed.

            “Frodo is much on his dignity of late,” Gandalf observed.

            “Indeed.  He will not allow me to examine his torso at all, and I wonder why he will allow me to check his feet and rear but not his back or shoulder.”

            “I suspect that you have an idea as to why that is so.”

            “I could check his back with no danger of seeing the burden he bears.”

            Burden?  The Ring, considered a burden?  What kind of burden could a simple ring of gold suspended upon a silver chain be?  Boromir eyed the Wizard and the Ranger obliquely, pretending to keep his attention on the horizon but straining the harder to hear.

            “I will admit that I rejoice to know he keeps It as secret as he does,” Gandalf observed thoughtfully.  “I have no desire to see It ever again.  Oh, but It would rejoice to capture me, I think.”

            “It would be glad to corrupt any or all of us,” Aragorn said in low tones.  “I do not wish to see It again, either.  But I do wish It would sleep more deeply.  I can sense It at times, and It is not benign.”

            “You said that the river has shifted its bed.”

            “Yes.  It was some leagues further south of where we came out of the mountains the last time I came this way.  I suspect that the flood that Boromir spoke of sweeping him from his horse at Tharbad was to blame for the change in the river’s course here.”

            “You are undoubtedly right.  When I rode north I came through Tharbad myself, and those who work to rebuild the town told me of the flooding in the late summer.  I wonder if the Enemy had anything to do with that flood.  He has long experimented with controlling the weather.”

            “So I have been told as well.  Certainly I resent the need to retrace part of our path.  Enough of this—you must rest, too.  And I will not argue over which route we should take once we are in Hollin proper—certainly not now.  Go now, and see to it that Frodo remains asleep, if you can manage that.  He has been as restless as our Boromir there.”

            Again the Captain-General of Gondor’s armies felt irritation at Aragorn’s tone.  He sipped from his mug, noting with disgust that its contents were now much cooled.  He ought to have drunk it the sooner.  Another mark against the account of Frodo Baggins, he thought, with no realization that Frodo had done nothing to earn the growing level of resentment Boromir knew.

            Not long afterward Frodo himself appeared from the house, his cloak drawn close about himself as he headed for the jakes.  So much for Mithrandir keeping him in his bedroll, Boromir thought. 

            When the Hobbit emerged at last he paused at the well to wash his hands, someone having left the well bucket full of water beside the well’s curbing.  Afterwards he looked about himself before reaching down to poke his fingers into the earth at his feet.  “This must have been an excellent farm,” he commented as he smelled his fingers.  “It’s good soil, and most here appears to be in good order.  The house wasn’t fired as were so many we’ve seen in our journey, so apparently the farmer and his family weren’t attacked by enemies.  And considering one of the seats in the jakes is lower than the other, it would appear there were children here.”  He looked up at Aragorn.  “Why would they leave the place, do you think?”

            Why would he ask the Pretender and not me? Boromir wondered, although he had no idea why this farm might have been abandoned.

            “I cannot say for certain, but there are signs that way of a few graves.”  The Ranger nodded in the direction of a slight hillock to the west.  “I would guess that the wife died, and with no one to watch over the little ones while he worked the fields, the husband decided he should return to where they had close family to help with the children.  Perhaps he will return should he remarry or when his children are of an age to assist him.”

            Frodo nodded.  “That would make good sense,” he said.  “I shall return to my rest, then.  Thank you both.”

            “Is your shoulder paining you?” Aragorn asked.

            “Not at the moment, for which I am grateful.  I will use a bit more of the balm before we go on, if you think it advisable.”

            With the Ranger’s assurance that this would be proper, Frodo returned inside and closed the door.

            “How about your back?” Aragorn asked Boromir.

            “Much better.”

            “That is good.  If you wish, I shall use a bit more of the balm on it before we leave.  The oils within it tend to warm and ease the muscles, encouraging the back to heal properly.”

            After a time Boromir asked, “Have you ever visited this farm before?”

            “I have passed it a few times, but never closely.  It seemed well run and orderly, and few enough of the Enemy’s creatures tend to come this way.  We are too close to Hollin, which at one time was settled by Noldor Elves.  The orcs of the Misty Mountains may have followed Sauron when he destroyed those lands, but they still avoid the places that Elves once ruled if they can.  Perhaps they are afraid that some of the houseless Elves still linger to exact vengeance on those who slew them.”

            Boromir found himself shuddering at the thought.  Afterwards he imagined he saw subtle movements at the edges of his vision, but he saw naught when he turned his head.

 *******

            Sam had a fine meal prepared for them once their watch was over, and they prepared for the next march slowly and with some reluctance on the part of most to leave such a comfortable situation.  Only Boromir appeared to feel impatience to be on their way once more.  He knew that the Nameless One was readying his next stroke against Gondor, and wished to return home as swiftly as possible so as to warn his father as to what had been discussed in the Council of Elrond before returning to his place at the head of Gondor’s armies.  He had responsibilities to return to even if the others had the leisure to contemplate the impossible task of entering the Black Land and finding their way across the plains of Gorgoroth to reach Mount Doom!  He shook his head at the irresponsibility and impossibility of such a plan, and turned to checking the state of his weapons so as to not waste his time whilst his companions dawdled in their preparations.

            When Aragorn came to apply the aromatic balm once more, however, Boromir felt that the Man was perhaps hasty in his work.  Still, he had to admit that his back felt warm as he pulled his mail back into place over the quilted silken shirt he wore against his skin and redonned his outer garments once more.  Frodo again applied his own balm, and once again Aragorn offered no comment on this, although now Boromir understood why the other Man made no protest.  Boromir, however, could not understand why Aragorn son of Arathorn, of all people, should fear such a thing as the Ring.  I refuse to allow such a baseless fear to rule me, he decided.

            It was late afternoon when they set out once more.  Bill, Boromir noted, had been groomed thoroughly by the devoted Sam.  A waste of time, he thought, forgetting that he had sharpened his dagger to fill the time of waiting more purposefully and thus Sam might have done much the same.  All of the Fellowship had brushed their hair fully, including the Dwarf, and Aragorn had apparently evened his beard.

            They also came away with more provisions than they’d had when they arrived.  Merry and Pippin had discovered a root cellar, while Gimli and Sam had found a rock-lined granary, from which they’d taken a goodly measure of oats and corn.  Many of their excess bags had been hidden amidst similar items in the barn.

            “It would seem,” Frodo commented as they formed their line once more, “that the farmer planned to return within a year or two at most, or I doubt he would have left as much food and seed as he did.  I regret we must take so much.  So, I left a couple of gold pieces for him within the salt cellar that hopefully he could replace what we have taken.”

            “You did what?” objected Boromir.  He would have returned within the house to fetch out the money again had the Wizard not restrained him.

            “There is no need to refuse to compensate the farmer should he indeed return to his steading here,” Gandalf said.

            “But how is it that you have money to leave to absent landlords who may never return to their farms?” Boromir demanded of Frodo.

            “Did you think that I left the Shire with no thought taken for taking rooms when the chance offered itself?” Frodo said, plainly offended by the Man’s tone of voice.

            “We will undoubtedly use what we have taken, and have compensated him, should he ever return, with the bags and carriers we left him.”

            “But he may not have need for bags and carriers, but will undoubtedly need seeds and onion sets and the like,” Frodo pointed out reasonably.  With that he turned away and determinedly took his place near Gandalf.

            “Do you begrudge Frodo the right to do as he pleases with his own money?” asked Aragorn quietly.  “True, it may be pointless to have left the coins, but it does not diminish the rest of us and gives him peace of mind, knowing he has done what little he can to perhaps aid our unknown benefactors in the future.  Certainly we cannot look to purchase more supplies, and should not need to do so once we come to Gondor.”

            Grudgingly Boromir admitted his fellow Man was undoubtedly right, but still the thought of those gold pieces lying idle in the empty salt cellar within the house niggled at him for the rest of the day and much of the night’s march, and he found himself muttering about it from time to time as he walked.  Each time he did so Merry and Pippin, who walked before him, would turn, Merry eyeing him critically and Pippin with concerned glances toward Frodo, apparently hopeful that his older kinsman wasn’t hearing the comments that the Man wasn’t quite keeping quiet.  Frodo gave no outward sign he heard anything, but the Ringbearer had already proved to have far too keen of hearing even for a Hobbit, so it was impossible to say how much awareness he might have of Boromir’s continued grumbling.  Had he bothered to look behind him to where Sam walked beside Gimli, Bill’s halter rope in his hand, the Man would have seen that Sam heard every mutter he uttered and was growing increasingly angry at Boromir’s attitude.   Aragorn had taken the rear guard while Legolas ranged ahead as he so often did, leaving Gandalf and Frodo to lead the rest as they worked their way westward, hoping to find a place to cross the unnamed tributary to the Greyflood whose change of course had stymied them earlier.

            Near dawn Legolas led them to a portion of the stream sufficiently shallow to allow them to cross it with relative safety.  It was deeper than had been the ford of the Brúinen and the current was stronger, but was nowhere as wide.  It was decided that Legolas would lead the way with Frodo at his side, with the Elf to help break the current that might pull at the smaller Hobbit, after which Gandalf would lead Bill across.  Gimli would follow with Merry, then Boromir accompanying Pippin, and finally Aragorn would escort Sam, who was the only member of the party who was clearly fearful of the crossing.  Gandalf, Aragorn, and the Dwarf would wear their boots and would change once they were across to their other, dry footwear.  Boromir, however, had little choice but to take off his own boots and walk across as barefoot as the Hobbits, as he’d already disposed of the boots he’d worn into the mire, a decision he was now ruing intensely.

            Legolas carried some of the sacking they’d retained for such use as this, and he and Frodo made it across without any incident that Boromir could see.  Once across, Frodo turned back and called, “The first of the way is over rounded pebbles.  At about the halfway mark you will step up upon a flattened stone.  It was not slimy underfoot, so it should not be too slick for any of you.  But when you step down off the stone, the bottom on this side is thick with silt, so be careful.  I did not sink any too deep into the silt, but I do believe there might be a branch down there, so you will need to test each step so that you do not injure the soles of your feet.  I doubt that Pippin will have any difficulty, Boromir, as small and light as he is; but you are likely to sink deeper than he, so do be ready to lift your foot and find another placement for it if you encounter that branch I suspect is down there.”  With that he took the sacking that Legolas was holding out to him and began thoroughly drying his legs and feet.

            Bill snorted at the water under his feet, balking briefly and looking back at Sam until Frodo began calling him from the other side of the stream.  “Come on, Bill,” he coaxed, and after fixing its gaze on Frodo the pony suffered itself to be led across.  It maneuvered its way over the flat stone they’d been warned of, but apparently did not like the feel of the silt once he was over it.  All of them expressed relief as the pony scrambled up the bank on the other side and allowed Frodo to fuss over him and dry his hoofs.

            “I’m not certain about crossing this stream even with my boots on,” Gimli grumbled.

            “We will have one another,” Merry said.  “You can always use my arm or shoulder to steady yourself.”

            Gimli gave the Hobbit a thoughtful look, nodded with decision, and said, “Then let us begin.”

            “Soonest begun, soonest done,” Sam agreed, and after a joint glance at him the Dwarf and Brandybuck together entered the water.  Gimli almost lost his balance as they stepped down off the large rock, and clutched at Merry’s shoulder until he was steady again.  After he’d floundered up the opposite bank he called back, “Frodo was right about there being something down there in the muck this side of the flat rock.  Be careful!”

            Boromir had been unlacing his boots and now slipped them off.  “I will throw them over!” he called.  “Do not let them fall back into the water!”  So saying, he balled the pair of socks up together and stuffed them into one of the boots, then carefully threw them, one after the other, over the stream.  Legolas caught one and Merry the other. 

            “We have them,” Merry called back, “and your stockings are in this one!”

            Boromir gave a nod.  “Then we start now.”

            The pebbles felt hard and uncomfortably lumpy under his feet.  It was a relief to find the shelf of stone they’d been told of.  Before they stepped off the other side, however, Pippin reached up and took the Man’s arm.  “If you feel anything under your foot that feels as if it’s the least bit sharp,” he said, “lean upon my shoulder and lift it again and put it down to one side or the other.  Frodo taught me that, back when I was a little one.  We don’t want your foot injured when you’re still healing from your slide down the mountain.  Now, you step down slowly, carefully.”

            It was not easy for the Man to accept such direction from the youngest of the Hobbits, particularly when he knew it came originally from Frodo Baggins, but he had to recognize the wisdom in Pippin’s words.  “I will do as you say,” he said, suppressing the irritation he felt.  He stepped down with his right foot, and managed to find firm footing in spite of the silt beneath his sole.  As he shifted his weight upon it, he realized he was indeed stepping upon a sunken branch, feeling the roughness of its bark turning slightly under him.  Before he could step down with the other foot Pippin took the Man’s near hand and set it upon his shoulder, then nodded to indicate Boromir should step down with his left foot.  It was a good thing this had been done, for the soldier found the sharpened end of a broken branch under the arch, and it was only due to the support he had from Pippin that he could lift the foot some and move it more to the left before putting his weight upon it.  Now he turned and lifted Pippin up, setting him down before him, beyond the branch, and the two of them waded safely ashore.

            Frodo was smiling with satisfaction as he stood with some of the sacking ready to surrender to the Man.  “Well done!” he said, but instead of accepting the Hobbit’s words, again Boromir felt as if Frodo were patronizing him.  His muttered response was obviously surly, and Frodo stepped back in surprise, turning to cover how disconcerted he was by focusing his attention on his two cousins.

            Sam was obviously anxious as he prepared to cross the stream with Aragorn, and it took a couple of false starts before he trusted himself to enter the water.  He was breathing hard and shaking, his face pale with strain, when he finally reached the other side and Aragorn at last released him to the care of the other Hobbits.  It took several minutes before all legs were dry and those who wore boots were shod in dry footwear once more.  Sam took possession of Bill’s halter rope again, and finally they resumed their march, once again headed southward.  But as they walked Aragorn, Legolas, and Gandalf kept a close eye on Boromir, with side glances at Frodo.  Frodo’s expression was closed, and he avoided looking at the Gondorian at all.  As for Boromir, his expression was grim as he walked behind Merry and Pippin.

 *******

            They camped in another circle of trees, this time a mixture of hollies and other evergreens.  Boromir and Merry went out together to fetch water, and as they knelt together over the stream where they filled the bottles and kettles Merry commented in low tones, “I’m not certain why you are being so critical of Frodo, but I would suggest that you stop it.  He is a very patient person, but there are limits to how much disrespect he will tolerate, and I have a feeling he is nearing that limit.”

            “And just how am I being disrespectful towards your kinsman?” Boromir demanded.

            “For the last three days and nights you’ve barely been civil toward him, and you are still apparently resentful that he left coin to reimburse the people who lived on that farmstead for the supplies we took.  I cannot for the life of me understand why you resent him leaving money from his own store—it’s not as if he insisted you do such a thing!  Until he mentioned it, you didn’t even realize he had any money with him, after all.  Then when Pippin told you it was Frodo who’d taught us how to balance ourselves so we didn’t hurt our feet crossing streams with muddy bottoms and sharp branches or rocks or such your face went all pinched, and you just took the sacking Frodo had ready for you as if he were insulting you.  You had best begin being courteous to him.  You already know he will avenge himself.”

            Boromir felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.  He suppressed his unease with an urbane shrug.  “I have done naught to earn the ire of the Ringbearer.”

            Merry gave a most unmannerly snort.

            Suddenly angry, the Man stood up and declared, “On my own head be it if I somehow manage to anger Frodo Baggins!”

            Merry shook his head.  “Oh, but it will be on your head, my Lord Captain Boromir.  Here—fill these two bottles.”

            When they returned to the campsite Frodo was setting out the blanket rolls.  Boromir murmured, “And did you give yourself the warmest spot, Master Baggins?”

            Frodo turned in shocked dismay while Merry’s look would have cut deeply had it been able to hold an edge.  Again Frodo moved his own bedding to the far side of the site from where he’d set Boromir’s.

            “Frodo, Legolas—you two have the first watch,” Aragorn advised them.

            “I will take the first watch for you, friend Legolas,” Boromir said.

            “There is no need,” the Elf responded, but Boromir interrupted him.

            “I would merely be watching for my own best welfare.  Frodo simply has the reputation for seeing to it that others know perhaps greater discomfort than they might have known.”

            “And what have you done to perhaps bring Frodo’s anger down upon yourself?” asked Gimli.

            Boromir shot the Dwarf a dark glance.  “What indeed?” he asked in a tone that made it plain he desired no answer, and he left the camp to take the watch, settling south of the others while Frodo found a place to the northward.

            Sam brought him his meal, and the Man detected decided disapproval in the gardener’s attitude, although not a word was exchanged between them.  He was close enough to hear Pippin asking, “How long has it been since we left Rivendell?”

            “A fortnight tomorrow,” Aragorn responded.

            “It feels far longer ago than that,” Merry commented.  “What were those ruins we passed during the night?”

            Ruins?  Boromir had noticed no ruins.

            “A watchtower from those who first settled these lands.”

            “That tumble of stone—a tower?  It wasn’t particularly tall.”

            “It was leveled long, long ago, and those who leveled it had wished to leave nothing to mark those who once dwelt here.”  Boromir could hear the grief and anger that the Ranger felt toward those who’d attacked the place in days long past.

            “How do you know about it?” asked Pippin.

            “I have looked over the maps of this area alongside those who saw these as living lands, alongside Erestor, Master Elrond, and others.  My Elven brothers have ridden through them at their adar’s side, and they have shared with me the tales they were told then.  We are entering lands that once were fair, with marvelous buildings and farms and forges.  But now they are desolate and few seek to live here, not with the one who razed the place again seeking supremacy.”

            Boromir felt himself shudder.

            Gandalf took his place some hours later with but a nod to indicate he should find his rest.  Not long after Boromir covered himself about with his blankets and his cloak Frodo reentered the camp and crawled gratefully into the place where the other Hobbits lay together.  Legolas had apparently chosen to spell the Ringbearer, for Boromir could see Aragorn lying to one side and he could hear Gimli’s snores.  There would be little chance, the Man knew, of Frodo playing at mischief towards him.  He was soon asleep, and in his dreams he saw Frodo, much smaller than he was in life and somewhat hunched over, gleefully planting holly leaves and pine needles within the seams of his trousers and boots.

            When Boromir awoke it was to a distinct smell, and he realized that Bill had made his way in spite of his hobbles about the campsite and had just dropped a load of dung near the Gondorian’s pack, on which the Man had been pillowing his head.  He rose with alacrity and swatted the pony upon its backside.  “Off with you, you scurrilous beast!” he cried, awakening the others.

            “He didn’t mean nothin’ by it!” Sam objected, rising from his blankets and hurrying to Bill’s side.  “Come on, Bill—you shan’t be struck if’n you should stay over here by us Hobbits!”  Glaring over his shoulder, he led the pony across the campsite.  Frodo had risen on his left elbow, and his eyes were thoughtful as he eyed the Man.  Pippin rolled over with a loud sigh, and Legolas, who was stirring up their small fire to prepare the herbal drink for their coming meal, looked at him, then turned away, shaking his head.  Gandalf gave a snort and pointed to the small shovel with which they cleaned up after the pony, and although no one save Sam had spoken aloud the Man knew he was under the displeasure of everyone in the Fellowship.

            Within an hour they were upon their way again, and this time after their night’s march Aragorn led them to a deep hollow encircled by great holly trees of surpassing beauty.

            So, this land was known now as Hollin, was it, and had once been settled by Elves?  Dim memories of history lessons long ago were stirred in Boromir’s memory—something about the Nameless One destroying the land founded by one of the Noldor Elves and taking that one’s treasures for his own.  And those three mountains stood over the remains of the Dwarves’ first great home?  Legolas, Gimli, and Gandalf all knew those stories, too, as did Aragorn.  Boromir felt almost as left out as were the Hobbits, of whom he suspected only Frodo truly appreciated the words spoken by the others of the laments of the stones. 

            The plan was for them to remain here an extra night, and Boromir sensed that the long-standing argument as to which route they would take to come east of the mountains would come to its head today. 

            Aragorn was restless, and as they ate their supper-breakfast he set his metal plate aside and climbed up under the trees, looking and listening intently.  There was a breeze from the north that bore upon it the scent of distant snow—they’d reached this place just in time, or so Boromir thought.  He doubted that snow would fall about them here so far south, and hopefully they would swing west toward the Greenway and soon pass through the Gap of Rohan and be within those lands he knew well, where his knowledge would be better appreciated.

            That their route would change on the basis of the lack of birds about the region was unwelcome.  “Over the mountains?” Boromir muttered to himself as he lay down to rest.  “What folly is this?”  He was just drifting off when the calls of crebain could be heard from the south, and instinctively he rolled closer under the trees where he could not be so easily seen.  He was glad that the three Hobbits not on watch had chosen to lie again pressed together for warmth deeply under the trees.  Gimli was nearby the Man, and he obviously also was awakened by the harsh cries of the birds quartering the skies, going stiff and straight in his blankets.  Legolas could not be seen, and the Man suspected the Elf had climbed up into the boughs overhead where few eyes, friendly or otherwise, could discern his presence.  Gandalf had sat up, grasping his staff, leaning as far back under the spiky leaves overhead as he could.  Frodo at least was awake, as he clasped his right hand to his shoulder in what was becoming all too familiar a gesture anymore.  Bill had been tied under the cover of the lowest limbs of one holly, a nosebag over his muzzle—Sam apparently was intent that the pony should not leave his mark any too close to Boromir this day.  The pony snorted, but made no noise that the birds were likely to hear.

            Aragorn hurried back into the dale once the great crows were finally gone, going first to awaken Gandalf, not that the Wizard was asleep after all.  “Hollin is no longer wholesome for us; it is being watched,” the Ranger reported.

            Mithrandir nodded.  “And in that case, so is the Redhorn Gate, and how we can get over that unseen, I cannot imagine.”

            Boromir son of Denethor sighed.  A climb into the mountains, then, he thought.  Well, what must be must be endured.  Will they take heed for a fire, for if we climb up into the snow line we shall surely need that.  With that thought in mind he considered what else they might need next, although he also managed to notice that Frodo had rolled onto his side and was laying a protective arm over Pippin, the youngest of his companions.  And just what protection does he imagine he can give anyone else? the Man wondered.  He returned to his sleep with troubled dreams, although he no longer dreamed of Frodo Baggins.

            *******

            Pippin was the most voluble in his disappointment that they would be moving on that night after all.  He took the third watch with greatest disgust, and Boromir found himself pitying the youthful Hobbit.  In the late afternoon the Man gave up any pretence at resting, rearranging the contents of his pack yet again, making certain those items most likely to be needed in the mountains were uppermost.  When he came north he’d merely grabbed his campaign pack, knowing that it contained most items he was likely to need as well as a few that were less commonly used but could be a life-saver in the few situations where they might prove needful.  He hoped he would not need them in the next few days, but made certain they were on top of all other items other than extra gloves and stockings and the soft but warm scarf that had been his last gift from the Lady Arwen as they left her father’s house.  He thought of her as he buried his hands in the scarf’s warmth, remembering the worshipful gazes that Frodo Baggins had given her, and wondering again if there was an understanding betwixt the Elven Lady and the Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain.  For all that Aragorn rarely spoke of her and had been careful not to be alone with her overmuch whilst they’d remained in Imladris, Boromir suspected that the Pretender was as enamored of Elrond’s daughter as was Frodo, if not more so.  What hope he might have of winning the love of the only daughter of one of the great Elven Lords remaining in Middle Earth the Man had no idea, and he certainly did not find himself thinking of her as a possible wife—not even as a leman.  But remembering her caused him to think of other women he’d known, and the few who might be considered appropriate Ladies for the future Steward of Gondor.  Will I ever marry? he wondered.  But his mistress had always been Gondor—Gondor and the Citadel of Minas Tirith.  Strange, he could easily see Faramir in his mind’s eye wielding the White Rod and with a wife and children by his side, but not himself.  He found himself remembering the moment of foreknowledge he’d known in the wake of the riddling dream he, Faramir, and their cousin Húrin had shared, that the one who made the journey northward would most likely be sacrificed for the good of the realm, and found himself glad he’d taken the quest for the Sword that was Broken for his own, leaving Faramir in Gondor where he would most likely in time be needed, and come into his own.

            Frodo rose with a groan, clutching at his shoulder, which appeared to be quite painful at the moment.

            “What is wrong, Master Baggins?” taunted Boromir.  “Life in the wild not up to the standards you are accustomed to as Master of Bag End and the Hill?  Perhaps you ought to have remained at home in the Shire rather than wandering out into the wilderness of Eriador.”

            Frodo gave him a stern glance and headed for the agreed area where they were to relieve themselves.  Boromir, however, could not seem to govern his own tongue.  “Why they should allow such a soft creature as you to serve as the Ringbearer----” he began, but was interrupted when the Hobbit suddenly turned and threw himself at Boromir’s knees, knocking the Man sideways onto the ground.  He had Boromir face-down in a trice, an arm drawn behind him in a shockingly strong grip.

            “I have had enough and more than enough of your constant taunts, glares, and jibes of the last few days,” Frodo said into the Man’s ear.  “I may not be anywhere as tall or strong as you are, and perhaps being raised within the Shire, growing up in Brandy Hall and Bag End, has prepared me to be softer than the soldiers of Gondor.  But I am no weakling and am tired of being spoken down to.  I will allow no one to disparage me.  The chance to bear the One Ring was offered to all, and the one who was moved to accept the role of Ringbearer was me, and I assure you that it was not all of my own doing.  It was another who spoke through me, leaving me, Frodo Baggins, to carry this cursed thing.  If you think that I overrate my standing as the Ringbearer, you are most wrong.  It is not an honor—it is an increasingly heavy burden I bear, believe me.  Why I have been cursed to carry the Enemy’s Ring I don’t know, but had I my true, selfish will I would gladly surrender it to another, but that is not permitted to me.”

            With that he gave one last painful twist to Boromir’s arm before letting go and rising once more to his feet, leaving the Man still lying prone on the fallen, prickly leaves of the holly trees about them, not certain how he’d managed to come to that position. 

            Merry was just entering the circle of trees, his eyes wide and a half smile of admiration on his face as he turned to follow Frodo’s progress out of the area.  Pippin had stopped with a handful of nutmeats halfway to his mouth, the food momentarily forgotten in the surprise of Frodo’s successful assault on the big Man.  Sam had paused in reloading Bill, and he gave Boromir a single, dismissive glance before he returned to his work.  Gimli and Aragorn returned to their self-imposed task of rolling up blankets and rugs once more.  No one appeared willing to add to the discipline administered by Frodo, and Boromir found himself glad of it.

            Except—except that he felt now that he deserved more.  Certainly Frodo had done nothing to deserve the antagonism he, Boromir of Gondor, had shown him the last few days!  The Man could not now recall what had begun his feelings of discontent towards the Ringbearer.  He rose slowly, painfully to his feet, and moved to sit heavily upon his pack, his arms lying across his thighs and his hands limp, his head bowed as he considered the enormity of what he’d been doing.  The thought that he ought to strike back at Frodo and prove himself the stronger being crossed his mind, and he considered it with surprise and dismissal, forgetting it even as it fled his current attention.  How could he, the son of the Steward of Gondor, have so forgotten his oath to protect those who were lesser in body and mind than he?  He was there as a member of this Fellowship to support the Ringbearer, not to belittle and bait him!

            He realized someone stood beside and slightly behind himself, and he looked up to see Aragorn standing there, the jar containing his aromatic balm in his hands.  “I thought that perhaps you would appreciate a final administration of this,” the Ranger said.  “As I pointed out before, Hobbits are far stronger than they appear, and obviously this is true of Frodo.” 

            He helped Boromir to shed his outer clothing, his mail, and finally the silken shirt he wore under all else, and began rubbing the balm down the side where Boromir had slid, even slipping his hand under the waistband of the soldier’s trousers over the hip.  He worked back upwards, ending at the shoulder that Frodo had so wrenched.  At last he spoke in a near whisper as he massaged the balm into the skin there.  “I, too, have heard the Ring speaking within my heart, seeking to inspire me to strike out at Frodo, to take It for my own.  It has tried telling me that I am the strongest here and have the greatest of reasons to take It and seek to claim It.  It speaks of how I could use Its power to rebuild Arnor into a kingdom all would bow down to, although they would do so out of fear rather than honor.  It would remake me into Sauron’s image, Boromir.  And Gandalf says much the same.

            “Beware!  It is awakening more fully by the day, and It will torture us all if It can.  Frodo does what he can to dampen down Its power, but as strong of will as he is, his own strength is finite, mortal.  One day It will be stronger than he, and I grieve for what It will do to him then.”

            “He told me,” Boromir said in tones as soft, “that it was not his own will that claimed the duty to carry the Ring.  He says that another spoke through him.  Was that the Ring?”

            Aragorn had paused in his ministrations, his eyes troubled as he searched Boromir’s face.  “He told you that?  I cannot say who it was, then, that spoke through him, although I doubt that it was indeed the will of the Ring.  As Lord Elrond said, Frodo was appointed to bear the Ring—this Gandalf and I both agree upon.  And the Ring is not happy with this state of affairs.  It would rather be in the hands of one born and prepared to exert power and rule, for It can more easily corrupt such a being.  To what It will reduce Frodo in the end I cannot begin to imagine, but when It realizes there is no other whom It can convince to take It by force It will begin eating at him from the inside out.  I doubt not that he will be but a mere husk of himself ere It is done with him.”

            “Then why not take It and save him from such a fate?”

            “Do you think It has not already begun using that argument upon me?  Once It should be in my hands, I doubt I could resist Its power and evil will long, Boromir.  Oh, but It wishes that you, Gandalf, or I should take It!  It wishes to destroy the Fellowship, and should one of us give in and do what It wills, that would be the end of all of us.  It will have us at one another’s throats, and then bring down upon us the Enemy’s creatures to finish us off and take It to see It restored to Its proper place.  We cannot hope to have It leave us alone, but we must not give It purchase upon our honor or that will be the end of all.”

            So saying, Aragorn returned his attention to Boromir’s shoulder, and the Gondorian felt a tingling warmth where the Ranger’s hands worked upon the muscles and sinews.  At last Aragorn capped his jar, laid his right hand briefly upon Boromir’s shoulder, and went back to restore the jar to its place in his goods.  And Boromir sat thinking upon what Aragorn had said for some time before Gimli came, mixed amusement and respect in his eyes, to help the Man redon his mail and garments once more.  Once Boromir had regained his feet and accepted his shield from the Dwarf’s hands, Gimli said in a low growl, “It has been working upon you.  Know this, Boromir, It has been working upon all of us, even, I suspect, the Elf.”  With that Gimli turned away. 

            As he lifted up his pack and slung it over his back, Boromir did his best to keep in mind that from this time on he was under siege from the will of the Ring, and he found himself shuddering once more at the thought.

Written for the LOTR Community "Animal Friends" challenge.  For LindaHoyland, SugarAnnie, theArc5, Bodkin, Tracey_Claybon, Dawn_Felagund, and Jeannette for their birthdays.

Ascending the Pass with Pony

            No matter how calm it had been down in the circle of trees where they’d camped in Hollin, as they ascended the pass the wind blew to hound them, twisting and turning amongst the rising cliffs and boulders, now coming at them from one side and next from the rear.  Boromir knew that Aragorn was concerned for their safety, but was doggedly convinced that this was yet the safer path to take to reach the eastern side of the Misty Mountains.  What must the other path neither the Pretender nor the Wizard will name openly be like? he wondered. 

            He sneezed, smelling the snow coming on the moving air.  He was glad he’d insisted they each carry what wood they could as they ascended.  If the Wizard was correct that it would take at least two marches to reach the top they would most likely need all they’d brought with them and more ere they were out into the valley of the Anduin.

            A cold wind whipped around the corner, driving them backward.  Determined, the Fellowship pushed on, Sam and Bill walking just before Boromir.  The Man was amazed at the surefootedness displayed by the pony, and found himself glad that it was with them, as by walking between the pony’s flank and the mountainside he found himself spared much of the energy of the gale that now assaulted them.

            “I wish I had Bill’s hairy hide,” he heard Merry saying to his younger cousin.  “This wind keeps blowing my cloak open at the most inopportune times!”

            “But Bill has nothing else to shelter him save for what he carries,” answered Pippin.

            They were coming to a place where there was an open drop to their right when they heard a dull rumble ahead of them, just around a curve in the mountain to their left.

            “An avalanche!” Aragorn called back down the line.  “Wait here while Gandalf and I go ahead to assess the path!”

            Legolas, who’d been walking as rear guard, came forward, slipping easily past the others and Bill as he joined the Ranger and the Wizard.  “I can see more easily in the darkness,” he said as he went forward, and in minutes the three of them, Man, Wizard, and Elf, were out of sight.

            It was growing colder by the moment, and it seemed colder still now that they stood unmoving, exposed from both behind and on their right to the searching wind.  Boromir’s pack had been chafing at his left shoulder, so he carefully shrugged out of it, intending to adjust the strap so that it rode properly upon his back while he had time to do so.

            “I wonder how far up we are?” Pippin said, and the Man was surprised to realize the young Hobbit stood now by his side.  So many times the quiet of Hobbit footsteps had taken Boromir unawares.  What scouts such individuals would make, as small, quiet, and unobtrusive as they were.

            “We’re not that far up into the mountains as yet,” he advised the Hobbit.  “Perhaps we might have climbed two thousand feet or better by now, but no further.  We have yet far to go to reach the crest of the pass, I fear, and the snow will be falling ere we get anywhere so high.”

            “Really?” Pippin responded, and he danced over toward the curb of the path to look down.

            “Pippin!” Boromir called, fearful for the young creature’s danger, and he dropped the pack and went forward to catch at the Hobbit’s shoulder to draw him back.  Once he had Pippin pushed up against Bill’s side the Man turned to look down on him.  “You have no experience in traveling in mountains, or you would know that the rocks, particularly along the edges of paths such as this, are often so weathered they could give way at any time.”  Without thinking he took a half step backwards so as to more clearly see what he could of Pippin’s face.  “You don’t wish to find yourself sliding off the path without warning should the edge of the path start to slip----”

            But at that moment he found that the danger he’d been intent upon impressing upon Pippin had overtaken him instead.  That last movement of his foot had caused a good foot or better of the outer edge of the path to break away and begin to slide downwards, and it was all he could do to stay upright as the rocky ground below him crumbled away beneath his boots.  He remembered at last he ought to throw himself forward and was grateful that the wind aided in this maneuver, but he’d slid so far by then his hands were some five feet below the level of the path even as the slide came to a halt against a lower shelf.  Shaking, he turned as best he might to assess his danger, and realized he had but a few inches against which the toes of his boots held him—for the moment at least; and beyond that was a sheer drop of several hundred feet.  If this narrow ledge gave way, too, it was unlikely he would survive the further fall.

            “Boromir!” he heard from above.  He wasn’t certain which Hobbit it was who called his name, but suspected it was more than one.  He was only glad that the wind kept him pressed against the slope against which he half stood, half lay. 

            Then he heard Frodo’s voice clearly ordering, “No, Pippin—he’s right.  Stay back!”

            “But if it’s dangerous for me----”

            “I, at least, know what I’m doing.  I’ll lie down, and if Gimli will hold my ankles, staying well back, it should be as safe as possible.  I need to see if he’s all right.”

            “I’m here!” Boromir called up as Frodo’s pale face peered down at him.  “So far I’m safe enough.  Does someone have a rope about them?”

            “Rope!  I knew as we’d need rope!” he could hear Sam exclaim.

            Frodo looked back over his shoulder at his gardener.  “You don’t have any, Sam?”

            “String I’ve got, and even a pair of scissors, but no rope.  I was a right ninnyhammer not to of brought some, Mr. Frodo, sir.  All we have about us as I know of is Bill’s lead rope, and there’s but six feet of that as far as I can tell.”

            Frodo looked down again, gauging the distance to Boromir’s arms.  “I doubt that’s long enough to reach him and still leave us with enough to draw him upwards,” he advised the others.  He called down to the Man, “Can you stand upright?”

            Boromir swallowed, shaking his head.  “No.  The ledge against which I’ve stopped is too narrow, and I don’t know if it would support my weight were I to stand upright even if it were broad enough for me to do so.”

            The Ringbearer nodded his head in understanding.  He examined the face of the slope as well as he could.  “I can see a few places I could use to climb down to you, but am uncertain what good it would do.  Perhaps we ought to let things remain as they are until Aragorn, Gandalf, and Legolas return.  They might see a solution I cannot.”

            The soldier felt his stomach roil at the thought of having to be rescued by Aragorn, and then felt a shift under his left foot.  “I dare not wait that long,” he whispered.  “The rock beneath me is almost ready to slide yet again.”

            After a few moments he remembered the contents of his pack.  “I know of something that could help me,” he said.  “In my pack, nearly at the top, is a bundle wrapped in oiled cloth.  It contains iron spikes intended to be used in climbing rock faces, both the spikes and the special hammer to be used in driving the spikes into the wall.  If you could lower that bundle to me….”

            Frodo gave another critical look down and shook his head.  “Once we have the rope wrapped about it, there’s not enough length to get it near your hands, I fear.  But, if I could bring it down to you....”

            Their eyes met in the gloom, and Boromir realized he had little choice.

            “You’d best let me do it,” he could hear Pippin saying.

            “Nonsense!” objected Merry.  “You’re shaking like a leaf, and would not be able to sustain the climb.  I’ll do it!”

            But Frodo had rolled into a sitting position.  “No, Merry—for all the Took blood in your veins, you simply don’t have the skill or experience either Pippin or I have at climbing, and I know well enough you don’t have that much of a head for heights.  As for Sam—he’d go stiff with fear and would most likely fall and in doing so sweep Boromir off that ledge as he went by.  No, it has to be me.  Merry, can you find that bundle for me?  And, Sam, best see if you can get that rope about Bill in such a fashion that he can help draw Boromir the rest of the way up once we get him high enough to grab the lead rope.  That I know you can do best.”

            “Yessir, Master.”

            “Are these them do you think, Frodo?”   Merry’s voice sounded uncertain.

            Boromir could hear the clink of metal grow clearer as Frodo unfastened the bundle to check.  “It has to be them.  Boromir, does the hammer have a spike of its own on the reverse side from the head?”

            Feeling relief, the Gondorian answered, “Yes, that is the climbing hammer.  Can you fasten the bundle sufficiently to bring it down to me without the danger of losing the spikes?”

            “That should be no problem.”  There were a few moments of incomprehensible speech amongst the four Hobbits and the Dwarf, but at last he heard Frodo say, “I’ll hold onto the rope for the first few toeholds, and then climb free from there.  Sam, use that string of yours to tie the packet to my chest—I’ll need my hands free, after all.  There, that should do it.”  He gave a last call down the face of the drop, “I’m coming down now, and should arrive just to your right.”

            “Good enough!  The ledge to my left feels as if it were in danger of giving way, also.”

            The Man heard the quick intake of breath before Frodo said, “All right, then.  I am turning around now.  Merry, give me the rope to hold.  Sam, don’t allow Bill to come any closer to the edge than that.  Now, I’m starting.”

            Peering up into the darkening night, Boromir could just see a pair of bare feet seeking a place of purchase before it appeared one found just enough of a crack or small ledge to allow Frodo to place his weight upon it.  Then the other foot was questing for a similar advantage….

            It took almost a quarter of a mark for Frodo to make his way down the steep slope until his chest was even with the Man’s head.  He smiled to see that Boromir had not slipped any further downwards.  “Let me stand beside you, and I can perhaps place the first spike for you.  Once you feel it is able to hold you safely you should know a good deal of relief.”

            In moments Frodo stood to Boromir’s right.  On examining the situation regarding the Man’s feet he sighed in relief.  “It’s the scree from the slide that’s slipping out from under you now, Boromir.  The ledge itself appears quite stable.”  He was unfastening the packet and drew out a spike and the hammer.  “Now, what do I look for so as to place the spike properly, and how far should I hammer it in?”

            Soon Boromir was able to climb up on the first spike, stabilizing himself with a grip on a second one, and he was directing Frodo where to place the next spike, then the one after.  In a short time he was up far enough to reach the rope that had been lowered to him.

            “You have that?” Sam called down.  “Got it wrapped proper about your arm?”

            “I am ready!” Boromir answered.

            “Good enough, then.  Come on, Bill.  Come on, back this-away, and we’ll haul him up, slow but steady.  There, that’s the lad, Bill.  Keep it up. Another step, and another one.  One or two more….”

            Soon the Man was standing once more on the path, feeling solid, stable earth and stone beneath him, and then Frodo had scrambled up after him.  “I couldn’t get all of the spikes out again, but have six of the ten.  Is that all right?” the Hobbit asked.

            “All right?  I bless you, Master Frodo Baggins!” Boromir gabbled, almost sick with relief.  “We often must leave most of our spikes behind us when we must climb rock faces.  But I could not have done it without you, you and dear, stalwart Bill here!”

            He clapped Frodo upon his shoulder, then threw his arms about the pony’s neck.  “I have heard of how helpful of a beast you have proved in the past, Master Bill, and no longer do I question your strength or stamina.  May the blessings of all of good will rain down upon you, good creature.  Thank you!”

            He could swear that the pony was smiling with pride at him.

            He donned his pack again, glad he’d drawn the climbing pack out of his saddlebags to bring with him when he left Tharbad for the further journey north.  Of all his survival gear this was one package he’d considered leaving behind, and yet had he done so he was certain he’d not have survived the night.  Between the realization it was the one piece of gear he’d thought probably he could have done without that, along with Frodo’s skill and courage and Bill’s strength, had allowed him to continue on with the quest, he felt so much relief that he was able to greet the return of Aragorn with Gandalf and Legolas with aplomb.

            “The road before us needed but little enough clearing,” the Ranger was saying.  “But we will have to watch for further falls of rocks as we go forward.”

            “Rocks and snow,” Gimli grunted as the first flakes of the latter began landing on their shoulders.

            Gandalf nodded.  “Yes, the snow has caught up with us at last.  Let us go on then, friends.”

            Boromir shepherded Merry and Pippin ahead of him, with Bill sheltering the two younger Hobbits as well as his legs as they traveled onwards.  How glad he was that Elrond had allowed the pony to travel with them along this road!