Tuor contemplates his captivity.

***

I must be patient.  If I am patient, my chance will come.

These chains that bind me are hard to bear, an ever-present reminder of my captivity and thraldom -- but I can bear them, for it is not forever.  If I am patient, my chance will come and I shall escape this slavery.

Lorgan the Easterling, who claims to own me, treats me evilly.  He thinks that by breaking my pride and my spirit, he will strike a blow against the House of Hador. But I cannot be broken. I shall endure everything, for I am strong.  If I am patient, my chance will come, and freedom shall be mine.

They are heavy, these chains.  I feel the cold, biting weight of them about my ankles, my feet held fast by iron shackles that bruise and chafe -- yet I can bear the pain and the limitations they bring, more easily than I can bear the weight of the grief and despair my enslaved people wear like fetters.  Such oppression is heavier than any physical binding.  Yet it is not forever.  If I am patient, my chance will come, and I shall rescue my people.

Patience... My chance comes....

*****

A/N:  The image Feet in Chains was used to inspire this story, which was written for B2MeM 2014

Hours before the Council it set to convene, Elrond is told of the arrival of a messenger from afar.

***

Dawn was not yet breaking, but the sky above the sharp line of mountains that towered over Rivendell was beginning to turn grey as night receded.  Elrond had been busy throughout the night in advance of the Council that was to be held later that day -- not so much with preparations for the gathering, but rather with contemplating all that had come to pass in recent days and how it might affect the outcome of the council and the future of the free peoples of Middle Earth.  There was much to consider and much that was still yet unknown, but even so, Elrond felt a thrill of anticipation -- even hope -- that something exceedingly important would result from the coming day's work.  It was not by chance that so many had gathered in Rivendell in recent days, each one bearing a tale that was somehow with the Enemy and the Ring of Power.  No, it was not by chance that they came, and chance would not govern the decisions they would make.

As Elrond watched the slowly lightening horizon, he found himself wondering what more might take place in the intervening time before the council meeting was set to begin.  What piece of news might yet come to him that would impact his counsel?  What messenger might appear in these final hours, with a report of some happening in the world that would be of significance to their decision-making?

At that moment, there came a knock at the door of his chamber.

"Come!" called Elrond.

An Elf entered, bowing his head to Elrond as he delivered his message.  "My lord Elrond, a messenger has just now arrived -- a Man from the South, requesting an audience with you."

"A Man from the South?" Elrond exclaimed.  "He has traveled far, then, to deliver his message!  Did he inform you of his name and what his business with me might be?"

"He was reluctant to share the details of his errand with anyone but you, but he did tell me some of what has brought him here.  He is Boromir, son of Denethor of Gondor, who comes with news of war in the South, and he seeks counsel and the wisdom of Elrond.  He claims to have been directed specifically to seek out Imladris.  He has been traveling some time, it would seem; his journey has been long and difficult, for the road was unknown to him."

"Has he eaten and rested as yet?" Elrond asked thoughtfully.

"Nay, he refused both food and drink, and will not rest until he has seen you and spoken to you of his errand."

"Very well," Elrond replied.  "Show him in at once, then go and bring wine and food, and see that a chamber is prepared for him.  I will hear what he has to say, and bid him be present at the Council.  It is not a coincidence that he has come so far, with so much difficulty, to arrive at our doorstep on this day of all days."

As the Elf hurried away to do his lord's bidding, Elrond again felt a sense of anticipation.

Indeed, he thought to himself.  His arrival on this day at such a time is by no means a matter of chance -- it is a portent of great things to come.  Boromir, son of Denethor, has been drawn here for a purpose, and therefore his errand must be of great significance.  Not lightly do the proud men of Gondor seek the counsel of others!  Perhaps Boromir's news is the last piece that is needed to form a complete picture of the task that is before us, that we might change the course of events and thwart the plan of the Enemy.  May it be so!

Boromir and Aragorn struggle to make a path through the snow on the Caradhras mountainside.

***

The going was slow through the deep snow as Boromir and Aragorn together sought a path back down the mountain; before long, they were both toiling heavily. The snow was breast-high in places, and Boromir felt more like he was swimming than walking. He thrust the snow aside as he went, and tramped it down underfoot; Aragorn, following, did the same.

They advanced slowly, forcing their way through drifts, ice and snow to a broader way below the precarious path they had been traversing when the storm had first begun. The going was somewhat easier there, for a time, as the expanse of snow had been partially swept clear by the strong winds. But as they approached the shoulder of rock that marked for them the bottom of the steep path, the way soon became difficult again.

When Boromir and Aragorn reached the spot, they stopped, dismayed. The protruding shoulder of rock had caused the wind to drop its load of snow in a great drift that blocked their path. The drift was flung like a sheer wall across the path, its crest sharp as if shaped by knives. Boromir stood catching his breath as he contemplated the wall of snow.

The snow was heavy and wet, which made for a wearisome task as they plowed their way forward; yet that was also an advantage, for the snow remained where it was put as they passed through.  Gazing upwards, Boromir tried to judge the height of the drift.  It was more than twice his body length, and he was a tall man.  Even so, working their way over the top was preferrable to trying to tunnel through the drift of snow.  There was no telling how wide it was, and the danger of being buried if the tunnel collapsed was too great.

Having made his decision, Boromir waved to Aragorn to follow as he pressed on.

Slowly, surely, they beat a passage forward and up through the middle of the drift. Arms and legs became heavy, and breath painful in the thin air as they labored to make a path. They were no more than a third of the way up, when their fears were realized. An avalanche of snow cascaded down from atop the high drift.

Aragorn shouted, but Boromir had no time to do more than draw in a quick breath and duck his head before he was buried. His face was pushed down and his mouth filled with snow. He struggled and kicked to get free, but the snow weighed heavily on him. He was trapped.

In spite of his fear, Boromir forced himself to lie still. He would only make matters worse by struggling. He would have to trust that Aragorn could come to his aid. The sounds were muffled by the heavy snow, but he could hear Aragorn digging above him. Suddenly the weight of snow was removed, and he felt Aragorn's grip on his cloak. He gasped and choked as he was pulled up and out into the air.

Boromir grinned gratefully at Aragorn as he brushed himself down and shook snow out of his hair and cloak.  It was good he had not been alone, with no companion to dig him out -- and good that Aragorn had not been buried as well!

Aragorn slapped Boromir on the back and waved to him to fall in behind; he was going first now, and would bear the brunt of forging the path.  Boromir did not mind.  He was content to follow for the time being.

*****

A/N:  This tale is an edited-down version of a story I wrote a number of years ago, called Forcing a Path.  This current version was written for the LoTR Community's "Show Don't Tell" Challenge, using the element waved.

The brothers stood together atop the Citadel, gazing northward.  It was their last night together ere Boromir left upon his long, uncertain journey.

"I wish Father trusted me as he does you, Boromir," Faramir said.  "His consent was given grudgingly; I fear he does not believe me capable to lead in your stead.  He was willing to entrust to me the quest for hidden Rivendell before you convinced him the task was yours, but he is less willing to trust my abilities as a captain of men in the face of impending war."

"Perhaps he trusts you less than he used to, Faramir," Boromir conceded.  "But you are already proven capable and he knows it.  You will have his full confidence and trust once I am gone!  I trust you as eminently capable, and you trust yourself, as well -- what more is needed?"

Faramir watched his older brother closely as he cut off a portion of the meat on his plate and placed it in his mouth, chewing and swallowing with relish.    Looking down at his own plate, he gazed forlornly at his untouched portion.  

"Boromir?  I know you tell me that liver is good for making the body strong, and you like things like that, but do you truly love eating liver so much?"

Boromir set down his knife and fork.  "No, Faramir," he replied with a smile.  "I actually dislike liver very much.  I would be happy if I never had to eat it again!"

"But... but..." Faramir sputtered in confusion.  "You always seem to eat it happily!  And you always eat it first, before everything else!"

"Ah, so you have been watching me as I eat, have you?  Observing my habits, perhaps?"

Faramir grinned.  "Yes, brother.  I thought that if I do things the same way you do, I could grow big and strong like you.  And Father, too.  You follow Father's habits of eating, so I want to be like that, too -- though it is hard to want to eat liver...."

"Father's habits of eating?"  Boromir interrupted, his look questioning.

"Yes," answered Faramir.  "Both you and Father always eat the liver first, leaving all the tasty food, all your favorite things, on the plate. Only after you have eaten the liver do you eat the good food.  Why is that?  I always want to eat my favorite things first!"

Boromir laughed.  "I want to eat my favorite things first, too!  It is a hard thing to eat something you dislike, liver in particular.  But you are right, I learned a good lesson from Father.  He taught me that eating liver -- or some other food you hate to eat -- is like doing battle.  The best strategy is to be brave and take out the worst enemy first; the fight that follows will always seem easy after that.  To do battle with liver, it is not enough to believe that it is good for making your body strong; you have to make your will strong as well.  Being brave and eating something that tastes so vile is one way to strengthen your will!"

"So if you think liver tastes so vile," Faramir said slowly, "why do you always look so happy when you are eating it?"

"I am thinking about how wonderful my favorite food will taste after the liver is finished!" Boromir grinned.  "It is truly the only way I can face the thought of eating it, sometimes!"

Faramir looked down at the piece of liver he had been hesitating over and resolutely picked up his fork and knife.  "I want to be as strong in body and in will as you, Boromir!" he exclaimed.  "It also helps to know that Father does not like liver, either!  I may not be able to smile as I eat it like you do, but I will definitely be looking forward to my dessert after this!"

"The reward of the victorious warrior is sweet!" cried Boromir.  "To battle, and then to dessert!"

Author's note:  Written for the LotR Community Lyrical Love Challenge, this poem -- in which Boromir yearns for his beloved homeland -- is in the traditional cinquain form (twenty-two syllables in the following pattern = 2-4-6-8-2).

Gondor,
so far away!
I wait, I yearn, I hope;
will I ever see you again?
My home!

Written for the LotR Community's Fixed-Length Fic challenge, "Arrivals and Departures" with the prompt of 315 words.

Boromir had traveled many days, following the river northwards.  Surely he must now be drawing nigh the region where Elrond dwelt in Imladris!  At last his hope was confirmed when he came upon a road that followed the river for a time, before plunging into dark pine woods.  It was good to be back on a road again.  Night was falling, but Boromir determined to press on, even if it meant walking through the night.  He felt certain his destination was close.
 
After some miles, Boromir emerged suddenly from a shadowy ravine into the sunlight; a long flat incline was before him, leading down to a ford. The water was wide and flowed calmly over the stones of the ford, but there was evidence on both sides of the bank of a recent heavy flood. He wondered at that, for he had seen no sign downstream of floodwaters swelling the banks of the river.
 
He stopped at the edge of the water, strangely reluctant to go forward. Was it really safe for men to pass this way? If the river was under the control of Elrond, would it rise up against him, a mere mortal? Then he chided himself for a fool; surely it was safe!  It was rumored in Gondor that the line of the Princes of Dol Amroth claimed Elvish blood; he shared that bloodline, through his mother. Whether such a heritage would make any difference to these Elves of Rivendell, Boromir did not know.  But it was enough that he could claim his heritage as a proud son of Gondor and a faithful servant of the White City and her Lord. He was an honorable man and an ally against the Enemy, sent here by a dream on a special errand.  He could go forward in confidence.

Boromir stepped forward into the water, and thus passed into the hidden vale of Imladris.

Written for the LotR Community's "June Bug" challenge, with the prompt of "gnat".

The setting sun glowed behind the clouds on the horizon and a faint breeze stirred the vast fields of tall grass.  Boromir raised his head, seeking the breeze to cool his hot face.  He had been trudging across the grassy plain all day, his progress broken only by a few small streams that meandered through the grasslands.  It had been a hot, miserable day, made worse by the clouds of gnats that swarmed above the heads of waving grass, just at face height.  Boromir had been forced to cover his mouth and nose with a spare shirt from his pack to keep the insects from tormenting him, but they continued to plague him in spite of the protection.  These flying insects were a foe he could not defeat.  He sighed in vexation as the lowering sun lit upon a large cloud of the insects just ahead; there was no way forward except through the army of gnats amassed against him.  He had no choice but to face them, and hope that his path would soon take him out of the grass fields to a hill where he could feel wind upon his face once more and be rid of the annoying gnats that continually swarmed about his face.

Boromir tied his shirt more tightly over his nose and mouth, and plunged forward into the cloud.

Written for the LotR Community's 2016 Spooky Atmosphere challenge, the prompt being Gollum's third riddle.

It cannot be seen, cannot be felt,
Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt.
It lies behind stars and under hills,
And empty holes it fills.
It comes first and follows after,
Ends life, kills laughter.

Pippin wished fervently that he could stop running over in his mind the riddle he had heard old Bilbo repeat time and time again as he recounted the tale of his encounter with Gollum so many years ago.  Bad enough it was to be thinking of Gollum when Pippin was surrounded by darkness on all sides with not even a spark to relieve the heavy blackness pressing in on him.  For all he knew, that wretched creature was out there somewhere, waiting to attack or to grab him from behind when his guard was down.  Far, far worse was the thought of empty holes filled with darkness.  He had just such an empty hole yawning wide and dark behind him, as he sat by the door of the chamber, on watch while the others slept, and he could not stop thinking about it.

What if something crawled up out of the hole?  Would he hear it in time to warn the others?  Or would that thing creep silently out of the old well, to catch him from behind before he even knew it was there -- grabbing him with sharp claws, perhaps dragging him away, ending life, killing laughter?

Pippin swung around and stared in the direction of the hole, but nothing was visible in the pitch dark.  He strained his ears to listen for the slightest sound -- of the movement of stones as something crawled up out of the depths, of breath whistling through sharp teeth, or of something slithering closer and closer out of the darkness -- but there was only the quiet sound of his companions' even breathing as they slept.

He turned back, and tried to think of something less frightening, but it was no use.  Fear made him shiver as the pit behind him poured out darkness so that he could almost feel it approaching in order to engulf him.  If only he could cover it with something, to keep the darkness inside!  He hunched his shoulders, struggling to not look, to not turn around.  If something was coming, he did not want to see it...

A hand on his shoulder made his heart leap in his chest and he jumped in fear -- but it was only Gandalf.  "Get into a corner and have a sleep, my lad," he said kindly.  "I'll do the watching."

Pippin complied with relief.  Gandalf would make certain no evil creature crawled up out of that hole, he would be safe now.  As he settled himself in his corner, a spark of light flared up as Gandalf lit his pipe.  The darkness receded, and Pippin saw that all was as it should be.  The mouth of the well was just a hole in the floor, nothing more.  Nothing crawled up out of it, for there was nothing there.  He was safe and his friends were safe, sleeping within reach if he needed them, and Gandalf was on guard.

He closed his eyes and the darkness that came as sleep took him was welcome.

Written for the Back to Middle-earth Challenge 2016, from a 2011 Passport to Middle-earth prompt.

The Mines of Moria were unimaginably vast. The Company followed twisting passages, first ascending, then descending for a long while, then once more walking on the level. They caught glimpses as they passed of stairs and arches, of passages and tunnels that branched off in other directions, sloping up or descending sharply down.  Currents of air flowed from some of the passages, giving some relief from the stifling warmth of the passage they followed.

They had been walking for some hours when they came upon the first real check in their progress: a dark fissure, more than seven feet across, cut across the path.  From its depths came the faint noise of swift water far below. One by one the members of the Company leaped over the dreadful gap, but Pippin balked, frightened by the wideness of the gulf and the long drop into emptiness.

Boromir looked on him with pity, as Pippin struggled to gather enough courage to jump across.

"Take your time, Pippin, if time is what you need to find your courage," Boromir said, laying a gentle hand on Pippin's shoulder. He could feel the hobbit trembling underneath his hand. "If you wish, we can cross together."

Pippin looked up at him gratefully, but then he shook his head.

"No," he said firmly, with only a faint tremor in his voice. "I don't want it said later that I was the only hobbit who couldn't make the jump!"

Pippin took a deep breath, but still he hesitated. Borormir clapped him on the shoulder.  "Spoken like a true soldier of Gondor!" he said proudly. "Allow me to go first, then, and I will be there to give you a hand on the other side if you need it."

Without waiting for an answer, Boromir grasped the strap of his shield in one hand and his horn on its baldric in the other to keep them from impeding his jump, and sprang confidently across. He turned and beckoned to Pippin.

"See?" he said with a smile. "Not so difficult, even for one so weighed down as I am; you, being lithe and light, should find it even easier."

Pippin drew in a quick breath, and before he could change his mind, leaped across. He teetered for a moment on the edge, but a sharp tug on his sleeve by Boromir pulled him forward, and he was safe on the other side.

"Well done, Pippin!" said Boromir, as the other hobbits gathered around him in relief. "It is a difficult thing to bring oneself to act in spite of fear, but your courage was the stronger today."

"I didn't feel very brave, I must admit!" Pippin laughed, his voice still shaky from the ordeal.  "It helped to know that you were there to catch me, Boromir, even though the thought of jumping still made me feel sick.  But I knew I had to do it, or be left behind -- so I just went ahead and did it!"

"True courage, Pippin," Boromir replied, "is doing something even when you are so afraid, you feel sick.  Perhaps next time you face such difficulty, you will remember this success and your fear will not be so strong."

"I hope you're right, Boromir!" Pippin said fervently.  "But I'd sooner not face difficulty like that again for a long, long time!"

Written for the Back to Middle-earth Challenge 2016, from a 2011 prompt -- the consequences of refusing to change.

"No!" said Denethor emphatically.  "I refuse."

"Please reconsider, Father!" Faramir begged.  "What will they say when...?"

"I care very little for what people say about me," interrupted the Steward.  "When I choose a course of action, it is because I know the circumstances and I make my decision accordingly.  In this case, time is of the essence, and all other matters take second place, even personal matters.  I know my own mind, and it is made up.  I will not change."

"You are being stubborn, Father! cried Boromir angrily.  "Faramir is right; you cannot go forward on this course.  It is folly!  I know you care nothing for how people might talk, but if you do not change, you will certainly regret it.  No matter how important arriving on time is, what good is it if you make a bad impression?  You really must listen to us, and change, or the consequences will be grave indeed."

"What grave consequence could there be, other than arriving late to an exceedingly important council session and making a bad impression due to my tardiness?  I cannot afford the time to change!"

"Which is worse, Father -- arriving late or having the council members laugh at you?"

"L..laugh?" Denethor faltered.  "Surely they will not laugh..."

"How can they not when you go dressed like this!"  Boromir stooped down, and lifting the edge of Denethor's robe, he indicated the long jagged tear in the hem of the garment.

"It is nothing." Denethor dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand.  "No one will notice."

"Father, you can barely walk without tripping on it." Faramir's words were gentle but firm.  "They will definitely notice."

"Take the time to change, Father.  It is not too late to do so," Boromir urged.  "You will not regret it.  You are the Steward of Gondor, you have the right to be late to a meeting you have called yourself.  But you cannot arrive looking like this!  Even if the Council does not laugh, they will not be able to pay attention to your presentation due to wondering why you are at such an important session in torn clothing.  It will distract them so much that they will not hear your words."

"He speaks the truth, Father," Faramir agreed.

Denethor hesitated, scowling.  "It is of utmost importance that they listen to what I have to say," he said at last.  "I cannot afford the Council's inattention."

"And you do not want them to laugh at you," Boromir added.  "Or to go home to tell their wives, so that they too will laugh..."

Denethor shuddered.  "No, that must be prevented at all costs!  Very well, then.  I will change, even if it makes me late."

"A wise decision, Father!"  Faramir said reassuringly.  "If you hurry, the Council will hardly know you are late."

"But have a care on the stair," Boromir called after his retreating father.  "Do not trip, or then you will have to deal with more than being late!"

Written for the November 2016 challenge "Gratitude" with the element obligated. 150 words as counted by Jarte.

Elrond had received him kindly and bade him sit while Boromir related the reason for his long journey.  His extreme weariness no doubt showed upon his face, but Boromir had felt obligated to stand while he spoke of the dream and his quest to seek out hidden Rivendell and the Elven lord Elrond.

As he was shown the room that Elrond had ordered prepared for him, Boromir saw a hearty meal laid out on a small table, next to a soft bed piled high with blankets and pillows.  But it was the large pan of steaming hot water set next to a chair that brought a long, grateful sigh to Boromir's lips.  Elrond had known, in spite of Boromir's determination to stand before him without flinching, that the traveler wanted nothing more than to get his boots off as quickly as possible and bathe his aching feet.  At last, relief!