Of Riddles of
Doom and Paths of Love
By Soledad Cartwright
Author's Notes:
1) This is Part 3 of my Boromir storyline called ''Fall Before
Temptation''. This one happens in real time again, on the 25th of
October, in the year 3018, in the Third Age of Middle-earth, in
Rivendell.
2) To Legolas' age: Tolkien offers us no information whatsoever,
but there are two vastly different opinions among fanfic writers
about his age, from a mere 500 to over 3000 years. Since it
serves the purpose of my story better, I opted for the second
solution, choosing a more mature Legolas (in Elven terms), who
was born around the end of the Second Age, while his Grandfather,
Oropher, still ruled the Wood, but was much too young to partake
in the Great Battle upon Dagorlad. This makes him considerably
younger than Elrond (his lover) but still older than Elrond's
children - and Aragorn's whole House!
3) To Legolas' betrothed: I made her up out of thin air, for I
felt necessary for the crown Prince of Mirkwood to get married
some day and have an heir. But the Noldor princess won't play any
role in this story arc, she is merely mentioned here.
4) Legolas' song is the second part of Tolkien's poem ''Kortirion
Under the Trees'', taken from ''The Book of Lost Tales, Part 2''.
As in my first story, I've chosen the second version instead the
final one. There are also certain paragraphs quoted almost
literally from the books, for continuity's sake.
5) By the description of Elrond's House I leanded on the movie
appearance.
Of Riddles of Doom and Paths of Love
In the next morrow after his arrival in the legendary Elven valley, Boromir son of Denethor awoke early, despite the weariness cauised by his long, tiresome journey. Though he had slept from dusk till dawn, he still felt bone-weary and wished he could stay in this soft bed forever. Valar, he had not slept in a bed since he left the Golden Hall of Meduseld, almost a hundred days ago!
He opened his eyes and looked around in the large, airy room that obviously served as his bedchamber. Long and wide it was, and the soft curves of its ceiling arched towards each other gracefully and met high above his head like the fingers of two hands, touching gently at the fingertips. Like the soft touch of lovers in the morning after. Beautifully carved, slender pillars framed the windows on the right longer side of the room; windows, high and narrow, that reached from the stone-pawed floor up to the ceilig, turning the whole room into an airy archway and letting the first rays of the early morning sun and the light breeze in.
Slowly, carefully, Boromir piulled himself into a half-sitting position among smooth sheets and soft pillows, admiring the Elvish craftsmanship of the ethereal sculptures aforning the pillars, the slender candlestick on his right, with long, thin, scented candles burning low on it, and that of his large bed, with its headboard wrought into the shape of a peacock, set with sapphires and emeralds; it made him think of the sad and beautiful song that Legolas had sung the previous night upon having his first glimpse of Imladris, and that made him and his fellow Wood-Elves cry... with joy or sorrow, Boromir could not tell.
Faintly he remembered the ancient, gold-haired Elf, Glorfindel, escorting him into this guest house, saying that he would not risk crossing the bridge with him in this weary state, and that someone - maybe Legolas? - shall come for him in the morrow to bring him to the Lord Elrond, where he can speak of his errand. But everything else was just a blur in his foggy mind, for still he felt so very tired that not even hunger or thirst could reach him. Blissfully tired even for feeling sorrow or guilt, his ever-present company.
He was about to fall back onto the pillows when he felt the presence of someone else in the room. In a heartbeat, his keen instincts kicked in, and he jerked awake in no time. His eyes swept around the room, and soon he found the source of the strange feeling of being watched.
For the first glimpse he could see that the other one was not
an Elf either. A strange-looking, weather-beaten man it was, clad
in the rough, dark green greab and soft, grey leather shirt of
the Rangers of the North. His long legs were streched out before
him, showing high boots of supple leather that fitted him well,
but were as worn as the rest of his clothes. His shoulder-long,
slightly wavy hair was raven-dark, but interwoven with grey
strings, his pale face stern and his keen eyes grey. Full of
sorrow and wisdom those grey eyes were, reminding Boromir of his
brother and, surprisingly, his father as well.
The pain returned wtih full force to his heart at that thought.
''Do I know you, huntsman?'', he asked, for the strange familiarity of the other confused him. But his visitor simply shook his shaggy head.
''Nay, I do not think so, heir of Gondor. Though I visited Minas Tirith in my youth long gone; but that was a long time ago. The Lord Denethor had not even wed your mother back then.''
''In that case'', Boromir said, ''I might ask wo you are and what you are doing in my room, I believe.''
''I am called Strider'', the other answered, ''at least among the folks of the North. And I have been sent to escort you to Elrond's halls.''
Boromir frowned. There was something in this man, something that he could almost grab with his very hands, but in the last moment it eluded his grasp.
''I thought the Prince of Mirkwood was supposed to come for me'', he said. The faint smile that swept over Strider's grim face was beyond his understanding, though.
''Legolas got... distracted'', the Ranger replied. ''Many years has he been kept away from Imladris, and many people here want to share songs and wine and news with him. I am one of those people, myself.''
''Have you known him for a long time?'' Boroir asked, getting up regretfully and looking around for a washing basin. ''Are you some sort of Elf-friend the old tales tell us about?''
''Bath is behind that silver curtain'', Strider guided him with the familiarity of a recurring guest. ''Take your time. Elrond does not expect you before the third hour of the day.''
Boromir followed his lead and found not only hot and cold water aplenty for his disposal, but also towels and scented oil and his own clothes, cleaned and laid out, ready to be put on. He took a quick bath (after a hundred days of perilous wandering it was too good an offer to let it pass), rubbed himself dry with a large linen towel, got dressed and combed his still wet hair. Then he returned to the bedchamber.''
''You did not answer my question'', he said, sitting down at the small table across Strider and eyed the waiting break fast eagerly. He had not had a decent meal (or a decent bath or even a decent bed) since he left Edoras.
''No, I did not'', Strider smiled, wide and open this time, and that smile, strangely, made his chiseled features look so much younger, that Boromir started guessing just how old the Ranger might be. ''Not that it would be a secret, though. I have known him a long, long time indeed - as mortal Men would count time, at least. For him and his Kin, however, it is but a wink of an eye. But do eat first... you must be famished. We can talk later all you want.''
Suddenly Boromir realized the ravenous hunger that had been eating him up from the inside all those recent days (having lived on cram and feywine alone), and had to admit that Strider was right. So he slid closer to the table and carefully tasted what the Elves had prepared for him. Used to the food in the mess-rooms of Minas Tirith, where he would eat in the company of his men every time his presence was not required at the Steward's table, this meal seemed to him like a walking dream. There was bread, surpassing the savour of a fair white loaf to one who is starving; and fruits sweet as wild berries and icher than the tended fruits of garden; and he drained a cup that was filled with a fragrant draught, cool as clear fountain and golden as a summer afternoon.
Strider watched him quietly, with a half
smile on his face, and that remainded Boromir of long-gone days
of his youth, when his brother had sat across him in their
childhood chambers, watching him with those clear, grey eyes, older
and wiser than such a young boy should have had. For though the
younger of them, Faramir had always been the wiser, more somber
and grave - mayhap the way their father had treated him all his
life had made him age untimely.
And the old pain and guilt grabbed Boromir's heart in that tight
grip again, too tight to let him even breathe; and the smile
faded away from his face and his storm-grey eyes grew sad again.
So deep had he sunken in his misery that it took him a few moments to even realize that the Ranger had been talking to him. He felt ashamed and shook his head in regret.
''Forgive me, huntsman. My mind was elswhere.''
''And not a happy place that was, it seems'', Strider answered in a not unkind voice. ''Never mind me, though. I was just wondering why my presence might bother you so much. You seem... uncomfortable in my company. Mayhap I should send for Legolas, after all. He is known to have the skill of soothing other people's troubled minds.''
''Nay, naught of that'', Boromir protested, still ashamed of his own behaviour, ''You do not bother me at all. You just... remind me of someone.''
Strider looked at him with that strange understanding again - with the sorrow-worn glance of a Man who had seen too much, good things and bad things alike, but, at the end, mostly bad ones. Their glances met, grey eyes staring into grey eyes, the heavy burden and bitter wisdom of long-gone Westernesse mirroring in each other, secrets and legacies known only by those who had the blood of Númenor in their veins. Finally, the Ranger smiled faintly again and asked:
''Is that good or bad?''
''Bitter'', Boromir answered and turned his eyes away.
''Sometimes it is'', the older man agreed quietly; then he stood. ''Have you had your fill yet? Then let us walk through the valley. I wish to show you its beauty. Mayhap it would ease the pain of your heart.''
''That I very much doubt'', Boromir sighed, ''But I am willing to follow you nonetheless. So very rare the times are when I can enjoy unspoiled beauty in peace.''
They walked through the room, crushing the fallen, windswept leaves that were rolling back and forth on the stone floor, beneath their feet, passed one of the tall, narrow windows that led outside and came to a long, open terrace that looked, over the deep, rocky bed of the stream, straight to Elrond's house. Built on great pillars hewn from the living rock itself, like an exotic southern flower, the many-towered house of Elrond shimmered pearly white and pale gold in the early morning sun, in the nest of beautiful trees and thick bushes that had already turned red and gold in their autumn glory. Some of the towers were angular, others looked like ripe spring blossoms, and high roofs and gracefully spiralling archways bound them together to a single, ethereal construction, open for sunshine and wind and even for the rain in some places, but still strong enough to withstand the stronges army, for its strength came not from the weapons and walls that defended it, but from the powers and strong-will of its Master.
Strider lead Boromir through a hidden path to the very brink of the river. It was flowing fast and noisily, as mountain-streams do. There was only a narrow bridge of stone without a paraplet, that connected the two parts of the valley, and Boromir looked at it doubtfully, for the bridge was very narrow, indeed, and arched up rather high, and he was still a little unsure on his feet.
''Be careful'', Strider warned, guiding Boromir over their dangerous path, ''it is not an easy way for us who are not as light-footed as Elves are.''
''Yet you do not seem to falter'', Boromir noticed, admiring the smooth, graceful moves of the other. Strider smiled slightly.
''The paths of this dale are well-known to me'', he said, ''for I was brought up here. When my father was slain, my mother gave me in Elrond's care, and I grew up almost Elven.''
''Never have I heard that Elves would take the sons of mortal Men in foster care'', Boromir wondered, ''not since the Elder Days.''
''It is rare, indeed'', the Ranger nodded, ''but my father was an Elf-friend, one of the few that in these days still remained; and an ally of Elrond, who always held the Dúnedain of the North in his good graces.''
Passing the bridge, they crossed several arched corridors, each open in both sides, each different yet each beautiful in its own way, and came to Elrond's inner gardens, bathed in early sunlight and deep autumd gold. There was a round, stone table in the middle of it, and low benches were standing in a loose circle around the table, and the whole garden was encircled by tall, narrow windows that led, instead of doors, to various parts of the Last Homely House on every side.
''We came early'', Strider stated, looking across the garden and up to a certain window, somewhere on the second level. ''The Lord Elrond is still occupied, it seems.''
Boromir followed his glance and - to his great surprise - he discovered the Prince of Mirkwood, sitting on the windowsill, turned halfways towards the garden. He wore a shimmering, silver embroided shirt rather than his usual green and brown garb of soft leather and rough linen, and his long, auburn hair was not ornamentally braided either; it fell freely upon his back and shoulders.
His eyes were shut, his head tilted back as he sang softly, almost inaudably to the trees and the morning sun. In this relaxed state, strangely, he did not seem as youthful and innocent as usual, though no less beautiful; a fair, ageless creature of great power and wisdom... and of great sadness, too. Boromir listened intently, for he recognized the song, through this time the words were different.
Thou art the inmost province of the fading isle,
Where linger yet the Lonely Companies;
Still, undespairing, here they softly file
Along thy paths, with solemn harmonies,
The holy people of an elder day,
Immortal Elves, that singing fair and fey
Of vanished things that were, and could be yet,
Pass like a wind among the rustling trees,
A wave of bowing grass, and we forget
Their tender voices like wind-shaken bells
Of flowers, their gleaming hair like golden asphodels.
Once Spring was here with joy, and all was fair
Among the trees; but Summer drowsing by the stream
Heard trembling in her heart the secret player
Pipe, out beyond the tangle of her forest dream,
The long-drawn tune that Elvish voices made
Foreseeing Winter through the leafy glade;
The late flowers nodding on the ruined walls
Then stooping heard afar that haunting flute
Beyond the sunny aisles and tree-propped halld;
For thin and clear and cold the note,
As strand of silver glass remote.
Tehn all thy trees, Kortirion, were bent,
And shook with sudden, whispering lament:
For passing were the days and doomed the nights
When flitting ghost-moths danced as satellites
Round tapers in the moveless air;
And doomed already were the radiant dawns,
The fingered sunlight drawn across the lawns,
The odour and sthe slumbrous noise of meads,
Where all the sorrel, flowers, and pluméd weeds
Go down before the scyther's share.
When cool October robed her dewy furze
In netted sheen of gold-shot gossamers,
Then the wide-umbraged elms began to fail;
Their mourning multitude of leaves grew pale,
Seeing afar the icy spears
Of Winter marching blue behind the sun
Of bright All-Hallows. Then their hour was done,
And wanly borne on wings of amber pale
They beat the wide airs of the fading vale,
And flew like birds across the misty meres...
The desperate loging and infinite sadness of that song made
Boromir's heart ache.
''What is this song?'', he asked. ''And why does it seem to bring
the Wood-Elves such sorrow?''
But Strider only shook his head in reply.
''It is a long and sorrowful tale, son of Denethor, but it is not
mine to tell. Ask Legolas when you feel close enough to him to
risk such a question.''
''How could I ever hope to get close enough to him for such a question?'' Boromir asked. ''I only travelled with him a day or two... and I know naught about Elves. He might be older than those huge trees over there, even if he looks like a youngster for the mortal eye.''
''That he does, indeed'', Strider smiled again. ''I know not the year, but Legolas was born around the end of the Second Age, ere the Dark Lord was overthrown.''
''That long?'' Boromir was hard-pushed to believe it.
He knew the Elf had to be centuries older than he but never
thought him that ancient. At least as Men counted. For an Elf it
was not such a high age.
Strider nodded.
''A great source of both, pride and sorrow, those years for the Silvan folk were. For not long after the first-born of their crown Prince came to the light of this world, Oropher King of the Wood was slain upon the dark plains of Dagorlad and the crown went to Thranduil, his only son. Many hundred years afterwards had Thranduil nursed a grudge against Elrond, last Lord of the Noldor remaining in Middle-earth. For he blamed them - and their failed leadership as he saw it - for the untimely death of his father and the heavy losses of his people in the Great War.''
''Justly so?'' Boromir asked, intrigued by the intricacies of
Elven politics. Never in his life had he thought of Elves as real
people, guided by the same urges and passions as mortal Men - and
suffering from the same flaws.
The Ragner sighed.
''Nay, I would not say so. Wood-Elves are the greatest archers Middle-earth has ever seen, but they are less great in following orders - and their weapons are light. Yet in his grief and anger Thranduil was not willing to admit that the free-spirited way of his people led to many unnecessary deaths in battle. For he led home only the third of the army that was following Oropher to war.''
''But surely it has changed since those days'', Boromir said, ''for Legolas seemed overjoyed upon seeing Imladris again; and he and his people were welcomed by the Elves in the dale with open arms.''
''It was Legolas who changed it'', Strider answered. ''It began more than a thousand years after the Battle upon Dagorlad.. about the same time as Hyarmendacil, King of Gondor, conquested Harad. Surely, you were told about those events in your youth.''
Now it was Boromir's turn to sigh heavily.
''Aye I was. That must have been the most glorious of times for
Gondor... and for the whole of our Kin...''
''Yet an old evil reappeared as well'', Strider replied sadly, ''and has made a stronghold at Dol Guldur. A shadow fell on Greenwood the Great, home of the Silvan folk, and Men began to call it Mirkwood, for nameless fear haunted its paths and strange deaths happened under its trees. Thranduil became worried and finally gave in to the urgings of his son. He overcame his pride and allowed Legolas to seek out the guidance of the White Council. There Legolas met Elrond, almost two thousand years ago, befriended him and his family, and the long-held grudge between the Forest and the Dale came to an end.''
''As simple as that?'' Boromir wondered. The Ranger nodded.
''As simple as that. Legolas can be very persuasive if he puts his mind to it - and a remarkable mind it is! Do not let yourself be fooled by his easy-going manner. He might be a mere Silvan Elf on his mother's side, but his fathernal ancestors were Sindarin princes and belonged to the family of Elu Thingol, King of Doriath, the greatest Sindar King who never left Middle-earth and whose daughter, Lúthien, helped to defeat Morgoth himself.''
Boromir glanced upwards again, watching in awe as Legolas finished his song and got lost on his own thoughts, filled with deep sorrow as it seemed. A mere mortal could only guess how many memories unfolded in his mind in that very moment, reaching across over three thousand years. Then another one, a tall and strong man clad in a deep burgundy robe emerged from the shadows of the room, the curtain of his long, raven hair hiding his face from the watching eyes. Quietly he approached the saddened Wood-Elf and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.
Light and gentle was his touch, a simple gesture between two old friends, yet it told of more intimacy than a fierce embrace between two young lovers. Legolas sighed, leaning his forehead against the other'' shoulder for a fleeting moment; then he looked up again and smiled, the sorrow fading away from his fair face like snow in the heat of the midday sun, and he seemed young again, young and fresh as a green spring leaf he had been named after, all those countless centuries ago. After that, the hand of the other fell aways from his shoulder, and they retreated into the shadows of the room again.
Boromir felt his chest tightening with pain. That touch, so
natural, so unashamed of...
''That was...''
''The Lord Elrond, yes'', the Ranger nodded. He did not seem to have taken offense on the subtle but undoubtably intimate interlude they just watched. ''We can go to his antechamber now, for he has no doubt noticed our presence.''
''But they... you said they were friends...''
''They are. They only becane lovers after Elrond's wife departed over Sea, some five hundred years ago'', he smiled again, fondly this time. ''Though I do suspect that Legolas had been in love with Elrond a lot longer.'' Seeing Boromir's shell-shocked face, he solemnly added: ''Elves live very long, and they see things differently than Men do, Son of Gondor. They celebrate love in many forms and ways, and their heart is often wide enough for more than one person, though they seldom share themselves with different lovers at a given time. Great was Elrond's grief after his wife parted, his heart barren and full of pain. His household, and even his children, feared that he would fade away and die of broken heart as many Elves do when they lose someone very dear to them. So Glorfindel sent for Legolas, knowing how close he and Elrond always were, and Legolas healed Elrond's heart.''
''His children approved him bedding another male?'' Boromir could still not believe what he was hearing, remembering all too well the cruelty his father had reacted after detecting the 'indiscretion' of one of his councillors. ''And someone that much younger?''
''You must not look at this through the narrow-mindedness of your own people, Denethor's son'', the Ranger warned. ''Even if Legolas only offered Elrond the comfort of flesh, his children would have been grateful. For more than anything did they fear the loss of their father, so shortly after they had to say farewell to their mother. But Legolas gave him his heart, his loyalty and his free-spirited soul as well. And every time he comes in this valley, the Elves who dwell hear sing with joy, for the burden of endless centuries seems to fall from Elrond's heart.''
''But is Legolas not the crown Prince of his father's
kingdom?'' Boromir asked, confused. ''Would he not have to sire
an heir to continue his bloodline?''
Was it not the same thing his father demanded from him?
''He is and he would'', Strider nodded. ''In fact, he has been betrothed to a Nandorin princess for quite some time.''
''And she is willing to share his husband-to-be with a male lover?'' Elven customs proved to be more confusing than Boromir would ever have thought. Strider shrugged.
''They have an understanding. As long as Elrond remains in Middle-earth, Legolas shall remain with him. But after the Lord of Imladris departs over Sea, Legolas shall return to his father's realm and wed the princess.''
''Do you know this princess?'' Boromir was getting curious. Nandor Elves had become rare in recent centuries - moreso than other Elves -, and hardly ever had he heard about them but in ancient legends. Strider nodded.
''I met her once, last time I visited Mirkwood on Gandalf's errand. She is rather young as Elves go - and very beautiful, a rare gem even among her fair Kin. I do not know her well, though. Nandor Elves are very secretive; they live apart even from their own Kin and do not trust mortal Men, not even Elf-friends.''
''I did not know that there still were Green-Elves in Middle-earth at all'', Boromir marvelled. ''I was told that their last ships took off from their haven near Dol Amroth more than a thousand years ago.''
''That is very true'', the Ranger said, ''Yet there are still those who remained, hidden among the others of their Kin; and some of them even returned to the woods, eastern from the Misty Mountains. I know very little of them, though. Mayhap Legolas shall be willing to tell you their story one day; he seems to have grown rather fond of you during your journey together. Come now. It would be unseeming to make the Lord Elrond wait.''
They left the garden and - through
another gracefully arched corridor - entered the huge, somewhat
shadowy antechamber of Elrond's house. It was paved with hewn
stones in the colour of deep copper and pale gold; heavy,
rectangular pillars held its board stairways that led to the
upper levels, high under the arched ceiling that was yet hidden
in the shadows. There were small writing tables of deep golden,
polished wood, and tall, slender candlestics of copper with
honey-coloured, thin beeswax candles - everything in the rich,
golden and brown colours of autumn, except a white marble bust of
an ethereally beautiful Elven woman in front of the main
staircase.
Boromir looked at the Ranger in askance.
''The Lady of Imladris'', Strider said quietly, ''Elrond's wife, Celebrían. Glorfindel says, in the happier days she used to welcome the guests to Elrond's house on this very spot. That is why Elrond wished to have at least her likeness there. For him, she never really left.''
He drifted off, for his keen instincts, sharpened in this very house many years ago, told him that someone was approaching them. And indeed, only a few short moments later, the Lord Elrond descended the main stairway with the customary grace of the Elven race. He was fully clad now, wearing a gold-embroided, pale yellow undershirt beneath his heavy velvet robe, as it was custom among Elves of royal birth, and a delicately-woven golden ring adorned his brow: the symbol of his power and heritage.
Boromir looked at him in wonder, for he never really believed that, at last, he would come to see Elrond with his own eyes - the Half-Elven of whom so many tales told, and whom he had thought a legend only a few months earlier.
The face of Elrond was ageless, but not the same way as Glorfindel's or even Legolas'. Ageless, indeed, neither old nor young, though in it was written the memory of many things, both glad and sorrowful. His hair was dark as the shadows of twilight and fell open upon his back, with only two ornamental braids above slightly pointed ears, held together by delicate golden clasps, and his eyes were grey as a clear evening, and in them was a light like the light of stars. Venerable he seemed as a king crowned with many winters and yet hale as a tried warrior in the fullness of his strenght. He was the Lord of Imladris, mighty among both Elves and Men, and seeing him Boromir suddenly understood where the noble strength of the King of Westernesse came. For Elrond's own brother, who chose the fate of mortal Men, gifted it upon all his progeny, the Kings of Númenor, and those who came after them, the Kings of Arnor and Gondor.
Many years earlier, as a boy, learning with his brother the tale of their sires and the history of their city, Boromir, who was displeased that his father was not King, asked him:
''How many hundreds of years needs it to make a Steward a Kind
if the King returns not?'' And his father answered gravely:
''Few years maybe, in other places of less royalty. In Gondor ten
thousand years would not suffice.''
At that time, young Boromir could not fathom this answer. Now, almost thirty years later, facing the living proof of that royalty, it became all very clear in a mere moment.
Elrond looked at the big man, saw his aching heart and his tortured mind and great pity overcame him, for his eyes looked deeper than even those of most Elves, and he could see the invisible mark of death that was burned upon his tormented soul. Many had he met and known from this sort among the Dúnedain of the North: single-mindedly focussed on their task, the battles and the defense of their homes, betrothed to death, without a single place of peace in their heart. If Denethor's son didn't find his path out of the darkness of pain and self-doubt, and soon, there was no power great enough in Middle-eart that could save him.
The Lord of Imladris reached the bottom of the stairway, greeted Denethor's heir with the usual grave kindness of his people and offered him some miruvor - the same clear and fragrant draught Boromir had already tasted in that very morrow for breakfast.
''Legolas has already told me of your errand'', he then said, ''but I wish to hear about it from your own mouth. What is it that you require from me?''
Boromir swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry, and wanted desperately again that his brother would be there with him, weaving a pretty braid of sweet words as he always did. Making this ancient, mighty Elf-lord understand, how dire the need of Gondor was, how much their depended on counsel and wisdom and hope, more so than on weapons of war.
''I do not seek allies in war, my lord'', he finally said. ''We know that the might of Elrond is in wisdom, not in weapons; or so the legends say. I came to ask for counsel and the unravelling in hard words. For those might hide the secret of Gondor's fate; and mayhap even her last, best hope.''
''Then counsel may you be given and hope shall you find in this house'', Elrond nodded solemnly. ''For the strange words of your dream, as Legolas repeated them for me, are not at all strange for the lore-masters of the North.''
Boromir looked at the agaless face and the shadow of despair
seemed to clear up a little from his heart.
''So tell me, Lord Elrond'', he asked, ''do you know about the
Sword that was Broken? Is it truly to find here, in your house?''
''It is'', Elrond answered, ''for it has been, among the other heirlooms of Arnor, given into my custody after the end of the North-Kingdom. I shall ask Estel to show it you'', with that, he looked at the quietly watching Strider with a smile. Boromir, too, turned to the Ranger in awe.
''You are Estel? The same one Legolas and Glorfindel spoke of upon my arrival?''
Strider shrugged.
''I was called Estel in my youth, yes. It was a name my mother
gave me, for I was all the hope left her when my father was
slain, and the Elves in this dale still call me that. But it is
no name I would answer anywhere outside Imladris.''
''Why is that?'' Boromir asked. Strider looked at him solemnly.
''I am no Man's hope, Boromir, heir of the Steward of Gondor. Not even my own. For dark times are waiting before us, and foolish it would be to put one's hope in any mortal Man.''
''So it is true that Isildur's Bane would emerge again?'' Boromir asked. ''Is then the doom of Minas Tirith come at last? But why then should we seek a broken sword?''
''The words were not the doom of Minas Tirith'', Elrond said. ''But doom and great deeds are indeed at hand. For the Sword that was Broken is the Sword of Elendil that broke beneath him when he fell. It has been treasured by his heirs when most other heirlooms were lost; for it was spoken of old among them that it should be made again when Isildur's Bane was found. Now we shall show you the sword that you have sought; when you have seen it, what would you ask? Do you wish for it to return to the Land of Gondor?''
''I was not sent to beg any boon, but to seek only the meaning
of a riddle'', answered Boromir proudly. ''Yet we are hard
pressed, and the Sword of Elendil would be a help beyond our hope
- if such a thing could indeed deturn out of the shadows of the
past...''
He looked at Strider, and doubt was in his eyes. The Ranger
looked back at him soberly.
''We shall see'', was all he answered.
''And what about Isildur's Bane?'' Boromir asked. ''Has it, in truth, reemerged? Do you know, what it is - and where it is?''
''We do'', Elrond said, ''and so shall you, in a short time. But I cannot speak of it, not yet. I have to withhold the truth a little longer... til the messengers of other people, that had been announced, arrive. Are you willing to wait til the Council? I promise that all your questions shall be answered there.''
''What other choice do I have?'' Boromir replied bitterly. ''I cannot force you to tell me what you would not; and I cannot leave your house ere I have learnt the meaning of that riddle. Therefore, I shall wait. How long then?''
''Twenty days'', Elrond said. ''Mayhap a few less - or a few more.''
Boromir shrugged, He did not like it, but he did not have any
other choice, either.
''A hundred and ten days I have journeyed, over many dangerous
leagues between Minas Tirith and Imladris, most of it alone. I
can wait twenty more lays in the leasure of this house.''
Elrond gave him a faint smile again.
''I shall see into it that you find some much-needed rest under
my roof'', he said. ''Surely, Estel would prove a good host for
you during your stay; for this house had been his home for a long
time.''
Strider bowed in agreement, and Elrond took his leave from his somewhat displeased guest. The Ranger looked after him for a moment, his eyes thoughtful. Then he turned to Boromir again.
''So, do you wish me to walk you around the dale, my friend? There are many wonders, hidden for the naked eye, but I know every single one of them and can point out them to you.''
''Nay'', Boromir replied, ''not today. Right now, I wish to go back to my room and think.''
''Were a hundred and then days alone in the Wild not enough for you to think?'' the Ranger asked. ''Would it not be better to share your thoughts with a friend?''
''Mayhap it would'', Boromir nodded, ''but I have no friends in this elven dale. Nor do I need any. I am no spoiled princeling who needs to pour out his wee heart to the first Man who comes across. I am the heir of the Steward and the Captain-general of Gondor... accustomed to bear my burden alone.''
With that, he turned away to cross that narrow bridge again, this time without any guidance, leaving a thunderstruck Ranger behind.
Here endeth this story
back to the white lady of rohan