A Heart for Falsehood Framed 2
by Soledad Cartwright

Disclaimer:
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Rating: PG - 13, for some major angst.

Author's notes:
This is Part 5 of my Boromir-storyline ''Fall Before Temptation''. There will probably be four or five more parts until it is completed. For all the background trivia check out Part Pne.

Many, many thanks to all those who reviewed Part One - you really gave me inspiration, people!

Isabeau: thank you for allowing me to use Faramir's harp lessons - I just couldn't resist, with Elrohir being an excellent harp player the comparism was simply too hard to avoid.

Deborah: I promise, I will fix things between our star-crossed lovers - as far as it is possible. Actually, I planned it to do right here, for I never intended to do a three-parter, but the need to give Boromir some proof of Aragorn's heritage was more urgent; plus the Elves talked too much in that darn Council. But I'll do it in the final part, I swear!

And now on with the story!

A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD FRAMED
by Soledad

Part Two

After that short but very ugly fight with Elladan - if one could truly call it a fight, for Elladan did not even fought back, nor did he defend himself, simply endured being unjustly hurt and then left with quiet dignity, never uttering as much as a harsh word, only his clear eyes darkening with bewilderment and sorrow -, Boromir had little time to wall in guilt and self-hatred. Hardly had he somewhat collected himself, when Legolas appeared almost magically from the nearby trees and knocked softly on one of the pillars framing the arched entrance.

''The Lord Elrond requires to speak you before the Council sets on anew'', he said. ''He asked me to escort you to the old library.''

His deep emerald eyes searched Boromir's face worriedly, and the Man gave him a wry grin. With red, puffy eyes and reddened cheeks, he must have been quite a sight for those curious Elven eyes.

''Yet the time might not... suit you'', the Prince of Mirkwood added, already turning away. ''I shall tell Elrond that you are... otherwise occupied.''

''I fear that would give him the wrong idea'', Boromir muttered ruefully. ''Nay, I shall go with you, my Lord Prince, and face whatever the Master of the house has yet to tell me.''

Legolas accepted his decision without a comment, and they made the well-known way to Elrond's house in silence. Before they had reached the east wing, though, the Elf held on for a moment and said with quiet honesty:

''Whatever you might think of us, son of Denethor, and I fear naught of it is good at the moment, we are not your enemies. Try to keep an open mind, listen to your heart, not your fears... for if you surrender to the darkness, no-one shall be able to bring you back.''

With that, he disappeared into thin air again - or so it seemed -, leaving Boromir wondering whether Wood-Elves were unjustly accused of messing with magics.

But there were more pressing matters at the moment than Legolas' possible pastime wizardry, so he knocked on the heavy door (the first one, in truth, that he could remember having seen in Imladris), and entered a large, shadowy room that was Elrond's old library. Or so Legolas had said.

At the first sight, it reminded him of the secret archives of the Stewards in Minas Tirith, where no-one but the Lord Denethor was allowed access - not even his own sons, to Faramir's great displeasure. But this one was bigger - almost thrice at size -, and older, much older. Scrolls and books, written in tongues probably not even Elrond himself could understand, filled the delicately carved shelves that reached from the marble-paved floor up to the shadowy heights of arched ceilings. Small writing desks and longer reading tables were scattered along the great hall, and here and there beautiful statues stood, carved in stone in the likeness of the heroes of half-forgotten Elvish lays.

Somewhat farther from the doors, near the fire, three men were seated around a small table: Elrond himself, Isildur's supposed Heir and Mithrandir, who seemed the most upset of them all. Boromir still could not fully understand what Mithrandir's role might be in this game, but, as his father often quoted: Do not meddle in the affairs of Wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger.

And, on more than one occasion, the Lord Denethor added: And this Mithrandir is the worst of all. I do not care for Curunír - for though he might be called the White, there is darkness in his heart, and locked doors and closed windows in his mind, and dark rooms behind them; and Radagast, the Brown is a fool. But Mithrandir never ceases to stray around like a rabid dog and meddle in the affairs of Elves and Men - and naught has ever turned out good from all his meddlings.

Faramir, for his part, had never agreed with their father's opinion concerning the old wizard, for he admired Mithrandir and was glad if given the chance to learn from him. Yet Boromir could not help guessing whether it might be, in truth, not Elrond but the wizard himself who guided the pathways of fate from the background.

Sure, he always showed the face of a friend, but again, so did Curunír and now the Orc-hosts of Isengard were roaming the Mark, threatening the very gates of Rohan, and Théodred and Éomer were fighting desperately to keep the fords against them, while the King of the Mark was fading under a strange spell and the Lady Éowyn left alone to try keeping the House of Éorl from collapsing.

He did reveal naught of these thoughts, of course, forcing his hand back from clutching tightly Éowyn's clasp upon his throat. Among all this madness, his word given to that brave woman was the only thing he still could hold on to. He let his hand fall along his side again, greeted Elrond with due curtesy and asked for the purpose of this separate meeting.

''We wish to speak with you about the more... private matter of Aragorn's ancestry'', the Lord of Imladris responded gravely. ''I admit that it was not one of my wisest decisions to keep you in the dark about him. Legolas has warned me several times, ever since your arrival, yet I did not found the time proper, not before the Council where every secret was meant to be laid open.''

''You should have listened to him'', Mithrandir said. ''Legolas has an almost uncanny gift to read in other people's hearts.''

''I readily admit my error'', Elrond said, but his words were aimed at Boromir, not the wizard, ''and I intend to make up for my wrongdoing right here, right now. We all understand that you would need more proof ere you would accept Aragorn's claim - it has been so long that the line of the Northern Kings seemingly got lost. But ever since the death of King Arvedui in the Bay of Frochel his son and their sons' sons have lived in hidden places in the North, waiting for their time to return.''

Elrond paused, took a heavy, leather-bound volume from a nearby shelf and laid it open before Boromir upon the small table. The slightly crackled leaves got a slightly yellowish colour from high age and were written upon and upon with the beautiful, ancient Tengwar runes, used only by the high lords of the Noldor and only for ceremonial matters. Therefore, the tongue in which it was written had to be Quenya, Boromir concluded. He understood very little of the Ancient Tongue of the Eldar, but he could figure out as much that it was some sort of list, with short comments to each name listed there.

''These are the Annals of Northern Kings and Rulers, written here, in my house'', Elrond said, ''and by the hand of my people, during long generations of Men's lives. For after Arvedui, the North-Kingdom ended, the Dúnedain were now few, and all the peoples of Eriador diminished. Yet the line of the Kings was continued by the Chieftains of the Dúnedain, of whom Aranarth son of Arvedui was the first. Arhael, his son, was fostered in Imladris, and so were all the sons of the Chieftains after him; and, as I have already told you once, there were also kept the heirlooms of their house: the Ring of Barahir, the shards of Narsil, the Star of Elendil and the sceptre of Annúminas.''

He touched Boromir's arm lightly, leading him to one of the statues, the figure of a fair but sad maiden, who kept the shards of Elendil's sword upon her lap.

Drawn to the broken blade almost against his will, Boromir reached out and took the hilt in his hand. It fitted beautifully, as if he was meant to wield it. He was raised to rule over the last city of Númenorean Kings, after all.

''The shards of Narsil'', he murmured, believing it truly for the first time. ''The blade that cut the Ring from Sauron's hand...''

He caressed the shard with his free hand with respect and admiration, ere he realized that he had just spoken the name of him who was never named in Minas Tirith. He shuddered involuntarily; his hand slipped, and the broken blade cut deep in his flesh.

''Still sharp'', he noticed absently, starring at his own blood, dripping slowly from the wounded finger upon the marble pavement. The bright red blood of Númenor wasting away, slowly but inevitably.

He shuddered again, his face hardening back to its usual tense alertness.

''But no more than a broken hilt it is.''

The sword fell when he tried to replace it on the statue. Aragorn stood with one smooth move, picked it up and returned it to its place.

''Not yet'', he agreed in a low voice. ''Too long it has rested. Fifteen Chieftains there were, until I was born, less than a year later than your own father. And I have had a hard life and a long. The leagues that lie between here and Gondor are a small part in the count of my journeys. I have crossed many mountains and many rivers, and trodden many plains, even into the far countries of Rhún and Harad where the stars are strange.''

Boromir only half-listened to him. The bleeding stopped; yet the other cut, the one in his very heart, was deeper. Now that he had given proof - for the Star of Elendil, the sceptre of Annúminas and the Ring of Barahir were well-known in Gondor, and he would have recognized them from the pictures he had been shown in his childhood even wthout help - he had to come to terms with the truth. And it was not easy.

He might not be as good around books as Faramir, but even he could see that the Annals were not fake, either. Which meant that the time of the Ruling Stewards had come to an end. The Heir of Denethor shall not take over the White City from his father as his sires did before him, back to Mardil Voronwë. For ere he could do that, Isildur's Heir shall come and take it from him.

Take everything from him.

''I have to give these things some thought'', he said abruptly and - not waiting for an answer - left.

* * * * * * * * * *
Elrond looked after him, his usually calm face troubled.

''You still believe it was wise to call him to his meeting?'', he asked Aragorn. The future King of Gondor nodded.

''Now more than before. Legolas was right. It was an error to keep the truth from him - an error we might come to regret yet. He is an honourable man. He shall accept the changing of times. Yet we have mistrusted him, and that is something he shall not forget easily.''

But the wizard shook his head in doubt.

''Sometimes, Aragorn, being a man of honour might not be enough. He is driven by many forces that pull him toward opposite ways, and his sense of honour could be the downfall of him - of us all. Were we dealing with his brother, my sleep would be less troubled. But him - being raised to rule, not to serve - I know not what he is capable of.''

''His only concern is the safety of Minas Tirith, the White City that he loves with all his heart'', said Aragorn, ''and indeed, I am concerned about it, too. Thus we already have something in common. I intend to build upon that.''

''Then you might be building upon quicksand'', the wizard warned.''

''I know that, Gandalf'', Aragorn replied with a sight, calling his old friend by his common name for the first time; ''but whom should I trust if not the future Steward of my kingdom? I cannot hope to take my throne and rule the lands without his help.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
But none of them could give much thought all these recent events, for the bell called them back to the Council again. All were gathered there already when Boromir arrived and took his seat, and the older of the Halflings was asked to finally tell the story of the finding of the Ring. And tell he did, at full length, reconing his adventure with one foul creature called Gollum, and from the surprised, even a little angry looks the Dwarves cast him Boromir guessed that he must have told them a different story earlier.

On and on he went, and Boromir grew increasingly bored, for the scratchy voice of the little goblin cut into his already tortured mind, not letting him at least think of something else.
/Like mending fences with Elladan?/, the cruel little voice from inside inquired.

Finally Elrond took pity on him and raised his hand.

''Well told, my friend'', he said to the Halfling, ''but that is enough at this time.'' With what Boromir wholeheartedly agreed. Another five minutes and he would have strangled the little thing. ''For the moment it suffices to know that the Ring passed to Frodo, your heir. Let him now speak.''

The little fellow with that innocent, Elvish face and deep blue eyes stood less willingly than his kinsman, yet he did it nonetheless, and told all of his dealings with the Ring from the day it passed into his keeping.

Boromir listened to him with rapt interest, and could not help feeling sorry for this troubled little creature who so clearly did not want to do anything with Rings of Power and wars and weapons. And yet on he went, leaving behind anything that was dear to his little heart, hunted by the same nameless horror that touched him under the ruined bridge of Osgiliath, and reached his goal against all odds. How could a born warrior like Boromir not admire the little one? Such selfless bravery deserved respect, for at least.

After the young hobbit finished his tale, the silver-haired Haldor of the Havens, who sat nearby, wrapped in a grey cloak against the cooling weather, turned to Elrond in askance.

''The Wise may have good reason to believe that the Halfling's trove is indeed the Great Ring of long debate, unlikely though that may seem to those who know less. But may we not hear the proof?''

A few of the others nodded in agreement. Boromir did so, himself, though he had seen more than enough proof of things he did not want to learn, for not only one day but for a whole lifetime.

/Do not think about that now/, he warned himself, forcing his mind to listen to the council. He could not let himself miss aught. The fate of Minas Tirith might have been at stake by every morsel of tidings these people offered so very reluctantly. His city, no matter who might be called King over her one day. No birthright would make Isildur's Heir bound to her every stone the way the Heir of the Stewards was bound to her - through countless centuries of love and faithful service his father's fathers inherited upon him.

''And what of Saruman?'', the grey-cloaked Elf from the Havens added. ''He is learned in the lore of the Rings, yet he is not among us. What is his counsel - if he knows the things that we have heard?''

/What, indeed?/, Boromir thought grimly. /Is there more behind the wizard's treachery towards Rohan than the hunger for even more power? If Curunír knows about the Ring, then mayhap his moves in the Mark are but preparations for a much bigger war. And if Théodred's guess is right and Isengard is now in league with the Dark Tower, then we are truly lost. Tarrying here instead of preparing for war is folly. One that we might regret deeply, ere the day of battles shall dawn./

Yet he said naught, waiting for these oh-so-wise people to finally tell what they truly knew. This was something he needed to learn.

''Some, Galdor'', said Mithrandir, ''would think the tidings of Glóin, and the pursuit of Frodo, proof enough that the Halfling's trove is a thing of great worth to the Enemy. Yet it is a Ring. What then? The Nine the Nazgúl keep. The Seven are taken or destroyed...''

At this Glóin stirred, but did not speak, and Boromir silently wondered what might have become of the Rings the Dwarf Kings were given. There, he suspected, lay another dark tale, full of blood and sorrow, yet he doubted very much that he would ever hear of it. Dwarves were no more forthcoming when it came to share tidings about themselves then Elves were.

''The Three we know of'', Mithrandir continued, not giving any details, to Boromir's dismay. ''What then is this one that he desires so much?''

Mithrandir went on, telling them how he had searched for tidings about the Great Ring, facing even the newly-awakened Enemy in his lesser dwelling, the black tower of Dol Guldur in Southern Mirkwood, and how he made the White Council to put forth its strength for one last time and drive Sauron out of there - in the very year of the finding of this Ring.

Which, as Boromir himself new all too well, happened already too late. For it was his father, the Lord Denethor, who had to face both Minas Morgul, where the Nameless Fear dwelt, and the Dark Tower itself, to where the Enemy returned shortly after fleeing from Mirkwood, and the lands of Gondor had been suffering savage attacks from the East ever since.

Yet though the White Council knew that the Enemy was seeking ever more eagerly for the One Ring, they let themseles be lulled by the words of Curunír, who kept repeating that the One would never again be found in Middle-earth.

The fools. Trusting a shrewd old wizard, just for he was once part of their Council. Little, indeed, knew the Elves about the hearts of Men. The young Third Marshal of Rohan, who never laid hand on one of their old books of lore, saw through Curunír's deeds more easily.

''We were all at fault'', said Elrond to the clearly guilt-ridden Mithrandir, ''and but for your vigilance the Darkness, maybe, would already be upon us.''

/And without the Men of Gondor holding it at bay with their lives and bravery and blood/, Boromir added in silent anger. /At least Mithrandir, who had visited Minas Tirith many times during the past, should have admitted that much./

But Mithrandir only went on with his tale, telling them how he tried to find Gollum, for he desired to know how the Ring came to such a pitiful creature, and how long he had possessed it; yet the shrewd little thing escaped him and was not found. After what he let the matter rest, watching and waiting only.

/As you and your precious Elves have done all the times while Gondor fought and bled/, Boromir commented in his heart.

''That was seventeen years ago'', Mithrandir continued. ''Soon I became aware that spies of many sorts, even beasts and birds, were gathered round the Shire, and my fear grew. I called for the help of the Dúnedain, and their watch was doubled: and I opened my heart to Aragorn, the Heir of Isildur.''

All eyes turned to the Ranger with unveiled curiosity. Aragorn shifted on his seat, clearly uncomfortable with all that attention paid to his person, and said:

''And I counselled that we should hunt for Gollum, too late though it may seem. And since it seemed fit that Isildur's Heir labour to repair Isildur's fault, I went with Gandalf on the long and hopeless search.''

/How noble of you/, Boromir thought grimly, /and just what were you hoping to find? Which proof did you truly desire, battered offspring of fallen Kings: that the Ring would be the One or that it would not: What hope of yours still lies with it?/

His mind got sidetracked again, not caring much for the long story how Mithrandir and the Ranger hunted the creature. Yet his ears perked up again when the wizard quoted Curunír's words.

''The Nine, the Seven, and the Three'', he said, ''had each a proper gem. Not so the One. It was round and unadorned, as if it were one of the lesser rings; but its Maker set marks upon it that the skilled, maybe, could still see and read.''

Mithrandir paused and shook his head slowly.

''What those marks were he had not said. Who now would know? The Maker. And Saruman? But great though his lore may be, it must have a source. What hand save Sauron's ever held this thing, ere it was lost? The hand of Isildur alone.''

Here the wizard paused again, and Boromir rolled his eyes. Could the old trickster not come to the point and tell what he was about to tell, without all those little games? People were already listening to him anyway...

''With that thought, I forsook the chase and passed swiftly to Gondor'', Mithrandir finally continued. ''In former days the members of my order had been well received there, but Saruman most of all. Often he had been for long the guest of the Lords fo the City. Less welcome did the Lord Denethor show me then than of old, and grudgingly he permitted me to search among his hoarded scrolls and books.

'If indeed, you look only, as you say, for records of ancient days, and the beginnings of the City, read on!', he said. 'For to me what was is less dark than what is to come, and that is my care. But unless you have more skill than even Curunír, who has studied here long, you will find naught that is not well known to me, who am master of the lore of this city.' ''

Boromir had to force himself not to laugh. How very like his father, the strong-willed, ill-tempered, with the worries over his city heavily loaded Lord of Minas Tirith this sounded!. A small wonder itself, indeed, it had been, that he allowed Mithrandir to mess up his secret archivwes at all. Usually he would let no-one even near those rooms, not even his own sons, no matter how much Faramir tried.

''So said Denethor'', the wizard continued. ''And yet there lie in his hoards many records that few now can read; even of the lore-masters, for their scripts and tongues have become dark to later Men.'' Now he turned directly to Boromir, for the first time since the Council had set on anew. ''And Boromir, there lies in Minas Tirith, still, unread, I guess, by any save Saruman and myself since the Kings failed, a scroll that Isildur made himself. For Isildur did not march away straight from the war in Mordor, as some have told the tale.''

''Some in the North, maybe'', Boromir replied, thoroughly fed up now with the wizard's lecturing tone. ''All know in Gondor that he went first to Minas Anor and dwelt a while with his nephew, Melendil, instructing him, before he committed to him the rule of the South Kingdom. In that time he planted there the last sapling of the White Tree, in memory of his brother.''

/How much more fleeting your memory is, brother mine! Only a touch of light breeze on my brow, a fleeting taste of strong wine, sweet honey and bitter tears on my lips... once and forever, never to be tasted again. A parting gift, so cool and vanishing as a handful of snow in hot palms - it fades away swiftly, yet long does it burn afterwards. And burn I do with never-ending fire, whomever I might try to quench my thirtst with.../

He lost his track on Mithrandir's tale, not caring how the wizard found the scroll of Isildur that described the secret marks on the One Ring - and how they could be made visible again. Only when he heard the name of his father mentioned once more turned his focus outwards again.

''At once I took my leave of Denethor'', Mithrandir was saying, ''but even as I went northwards, messages came to me out of Lórien that Aragorn had passed that way, and that he had found the creature called Gollum. Therefore I went first to meet him and hear his tale. Into what deadly perils he had gone alone I dear not guess.''

''There is little need to tell of them'', said Aragorn, and Boromir could only shake his head in disgust over this false modesty. ''If a man must needs walk in sight of the Black Gate, or tread the deadly flowers of Morgul Vale, then perils he shall have.''

/And just whom are you about to lecture of that?/ Boromir clenched his teeth in barely repressed fury. /Who of all this Council is the one who faces the Black Gate every single day? Who can see the fire of Mount Down while merely standing on his watchpost? Who had to fight the Orc-hoasts of Minas Morgul and endure the Nameless Fear under that broken bridge in Osgiliath, buried under the dead bodies of good men whom he had grown up with?/

He stopped listening to the tale, told with far too many words by Strider - by Aragorn, he remainded himself, say Aragorn, at least you do not have to say majesty yet -, how Gollum was finally found and dragged to the Elves in Mirkwood who had agreed to keep him, until Mithrandir came and endured a long speech with him, learning, that Gollum's ring, indeed, came out of the Great River, nigh to the Gladden Fields where Isildur was slain. And that Gollum had possessed it long, many lives of his small kind, for the power of the Ring had lengthened his years far beyond their span.

A power that only Great Rings wield.

''And if that is not proof enough, Galdor'', the wizard turned back to the Elf, ''there is the other test that I spoke of. Upon this very ring, the letters that Isildur reported may still be read, if one has the strength of will to set it in the fire for awhile. That I have done and this I have read:

Ash nazg durbatulúk, ash nazg gimbatul,
ash nazg thrakatulúk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.

The change in the wizard's voice was astounding. Suddenly it became menacing, powerful, harsh as stone. A shadow seemed to pass over the high sun, and the porch for a moment grew dark. All trembled, and the Elves stopped their ears - all but Legolas, who only paled a little and glared at Mithrandir defiantly, as someone who is used to face great perils.

The words, though the evil tongue was not known to him, jabbed through Boromir's heart like daggers of white-hot iron; yet they were as cold as ice. He doubled over in incruciable pain, his breath caught in his aching chest, the unbearable weight of darkness slamming down onto his heart. It was as if the long, wordless wails of the Nameless Fear suddenly had taken on shape. As if a curse, floating above him for a long time, finally had been spoken. As if he had been marked by the shadow, forever.

Through pain-veiled eyes he could see the Lord of Imladris jerk to high alert in his seat. For the first time, he truly could believe that once Elrond had been a great warrior who faced the Enemy itself on the slopes of Mount Doom and stayed back when all fled, nearly alone, to protect the slain body of his fallen King. That fair, ageless face was now pale with barely restrained wrath, the storm-grey eyes gleamed with cold fire, and even in his pain-hazed state Boromir was glad that Elrond's fury was not aimed at him.

/Not yet, at least/, that merciless voice in his heart commented. /Wait till he learns how you have treated his firstborn.../

''Never before has any voice dared to utter words of that tongue in Imladris, Gandalf the Grey'', said Elrond in a dangerously low, silky voice, as the shadow passed and the members of the Council breathed once more.

''And let us hope that none will ever speak it here again'', answered Mithrandir in his usual, unshakable manner. ''Nonetheless, I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond. For if that tongue is not soon to be heard in every corner of the West, then this thing is, indeed, what the Wise declared: the treasure of the Enemy, fraught with all his malice; and in it lies a great part of his strength of old.''

Boromir looked at the fine, Elvish face of the young hobbit, Frodo, and once more, he felt great pity for the little creature, burdened with such an evil legacy. Small wonder he tried to pass it over to Strider - Aragorn, get used to it! -, who rather skillfully avoided to take it upon himself. What King shall such a man become? One who would not take the burden from the weak and weary? What could the White City hope from such a ruler?

/Were it up to me, I would lessen your burden, little one/, Boromir thought, watching that pain-ridden, small face. He never saw Elven children - no-one in Middle-earth has seen any for at least three thousand years -, but he guessed this would be what they would look like. /Tis not right that you have to carry it. You ought to be merry and free of all concerns about evil. Tis Men who are made for great burdens, not innocent little Halflings. How I wish that I could help you!/

And that crackened wizard was still not done with his tale!

''Know also, my friends, that I learned more yet from Gollum'', he said. ''He was loth to speak and his tale was unclear, but it is beyond doubt that he went to Mordor, and there all he knows was forced from him. Thus the Enemy knows that the One is found; that it was long in the Shire; and since his servants pursued it almost to our door, he soon will know, already he may know, even as I speak, that we have it here.''

All sat silent for a while, until at length Boromir spoke, unable to hold back any more, for his patience was running out, and the only thing he wanted was to be done with all this wailing and pondering over things he could do naught about. Now that all parts of the Riddle of Doom were finally revealed (and their meaning was aught but pleasant for him or for Minas Tirith), he only wished to return home and defend his city with every means he could laid hand upon.

''He is a small thing, you say, this Gollum?'' he asked. ''Small, but great in mischief, it seems. What became of him? To what doom did you put him?''

''He is in prison but no worse'', said Aragorn. ''He had suffered much. There is no doubt that he was tormented, and the fear of Sauron lies black on his heart.""

Boromir winced involuntarily. Why in Middle-earth would these Northern people need to call the Enemy by his name every time they mentioned him? Were they not taught that names, even the lesser ones that were only taken for a certain time to wear, carried great powers and might invoke great evil if spoken lightly? Was even the so-called Heir of Isildur not taught anything? Not even in Elrond's house who was said to be the greatest lore-master of this age? Or was he so haughty already that he dared to challenge the Dark Lord in his folly? Then the fate of Minas Tirith was sealed, for sure.

''Still I for one am glad that Gollum is safely kept by the watchful Elves of Mirkwood'', the Ranger added. ''His malice is great and gives him a strength hardly to be believed in one so lean and withered. He could work much mischief still, if he were free. And I do not doubt that he was allowed to leave Mordor on some evil errand.''

/Must they really speak this much, all of them?/ Boromir thought, somewhat irritated, for the custom of his King-to-be to make many more words than necessary, made him edgy. /Valar, should he ever come to Minas Tirith, they would be at each other's throaths with Father all the time./

For the Lord Denethor was known to have his ways with words as well (just as his younger son, unlike his firstborn), wielding them with merciless strength like sharp weapons, and had little endurance for those who wasted his time, even if they were his own sons. And Boromir had no doubt that his father would not be frightened by Aragorn's birth or claim once his cold rage awakened.

/Gondor shall be divided and fall/, he realized with numbing fear, /if no-one comes between the two of them. Tis something I cannot let happen - yet how shall I keep them from tearing at each other? And whom I shall side with? The Lord Denethor is not my father only, he is the Steward of Gondor and has served his land faithfully all his life. Yet I cannot deny that the claim of Aragorn is just, at least by the laws of both Kingdoms... What can I do to keep them fighting each other and thus bring our land to fall?/

A sharp Elvish cry of great distress jerked him out of his troubled thoughts.

''Alas!'' Legolas cried, and his fair face darkened with concern. ''The tidings that I was sent to bring must now be told. They are not good, but only here have I learned how evil they may seem for this Council. Sméagol, who is now called Gollum, has escaped.''

''Escaped?'' cried Aragorn. ''That is ill news indeed, after all our trouble to lay hand upon him. We shall rue it bitterly. How come the folk of Thranduil to fail intheir trust?''

/Fool/, Boromir thought with despair, /you were brought up by Elves, how can you openly insult one of them, a Wood-Elf and a Prince above all? Or do you think that Legolas shall endure it for the sake of your old friendship? I very much doubt it./

And Legolas turned very pale, indeed, green eyes gleaming cold like a naked sword in starlight, and every one around became troubled, for he seemed dangerously near to lose control. Rarely did it happen with Elves that they would give in to their cold wrath, but when it happened, it could have dire consequences. Moreso with Wood-Elves, who always had had more of the Wild in their hearts and possessed a certain amount of wickedness - and a great deal of wounded pride, having been often looked down upon by the Noldor and others who had seen the Blessed Realm. Boromir felt awfully certain that the Prince of Mirkwood could tear the Ranger apart with his bare hands if challened ower his endurance. He silently promised himself not to make Legolas angry at him. Ever.

At that moment Elrond silently reached out and laid a calming hand upon the shoulder of his lover. Legolas took several deep breaths, forsing himself to calm down - he was a child no more, not even in Elven terms, and it would have been beneath his dignity to lose his calm.

''Twas not through look of watchfulness'', he told in an even voice, though his eyes were still burning in cold fury, ''But mayhap through over-kindliness. And we fear that the prisoner had aid from others, and that more is known of our doings than we could wish.''

He gave a short report about Gollum's time in Mirkwood and how the vile little beast was freed by the Orcs - which cost him the deaths of three of his close friends: trusted archers who had fought in many battles against the fell creatures haunting the Forest during hundreds of years.

''We have failed to recapture Gollum'', he admitted reluctantly. ''We came on his trail among those of many Orcs, and it plunged deep into the Forest, going south. But ere long it escaped our skill, and we dared not continue the hunt; for we were drawing nigh to Dol Guldur, and that is still a very evil place; we do not go that way.''

Boromir could only guess how hard it for the proud Elven Prince might be to admit that they were outnumbered and the horrors of the Necromancer's Tower simply too great to face, even in his obvious vengeful grief for his slain friends. Yet Legolas did not spare his own pride in order to reveal th truth, and that was more than what could be told of most Men.

Mithrandir, on the other hand, did not seem to be very impressed with the honesty of the Elf. He simply shrugged and accepted the failure as it happened.

''Well, well, he is gone. We have no time to seek for him again. He must do what he will. But he may play a part yet that neither he nor Sauron have foreseen.''

And with that customary vague comment he turned back to Galdor again.

''And now I shall answer to your other questions. What about Saruman? What are his counsels to us in this need? This tale I must tell in full, for only Elrond has heard it yet, and that in brief, but it will bear on all that we must resolve. It is the last chapter in the Tale of the Ring, so far as it has gone yet.''

And so he told in great length how he was lured into a death trap by the very head of his own order, and how he escaped with the help of Radagast the Brown and Gwaihir the Windlord, swiftest of the Great Eagles, and was brought by the Eagle to Edoras, where the Lord of Rohan sits in his halls.

''And I was glad'', he added, ''for in the Riddermark of Rohan the Rohirrim, the Horse-lords dwell, and there are no horses like those that are bred in the great vale between the Misty Mountains and the White. And, knowing of the treachery of Saruman now, I was worried about the Ring-bearer and his burden, and needed to get to Imladris, fast.''

''Are the Men of Rohan stillto be trusted, you think?'' Elrond asked.

Boromir raised his head in sudden anger, but ere he could rush to the aid of his faithful allies, Mithrandir answered the Elf-Lord.

''The same question I asked the Eagle, for the treason of Saruman had shaken my faith. He said the Rohirrim paid a tribute of horses, and sent many yearly to Mordor, or so it is told. And in Rohan I found evil already at work: the lies of Saruman; and the King of the land would not listen to my warnings. He bade me to take a horse and be gone; and I chose one to my liking, but little to his. I took the best horse in his land, and I have never seen the like of him.''

''Then he must be a noble beast, indeed'', said Aragorn; ''and it grieves me more than many tidings that might seem worse to learn that Sauron levies such tribute. It was not so when last I was in that land.''

''Nor it is now, I shall swear'', said Boromir, his big fists clenching involuntarily with anger, for it greatly troubled him that the honour of the Rohirrim, that of the Prince Théodred the Brave above all, was being stained here, by the very people who weren't able to see through the lies of that cursed wizard. ''Tis a lie that comes from the Enemy. I know the Men of Rohan, true and valiant; our allies, dwelling still in the lands that we gave them long ago. With no help from others have they fought the Orc-hords of Isengard and are still fighting to keep their land free.''

And he reached for the clasp upon his throath again, as if it were the hand of that brave woman who had pledged herself to him, not of love to him, but of love to her land, and to whom he was due to return after this errand was over, should the Valar allow him. Then they would ride into battle, together.

''The shadow of Mordor lies on distant lands'', answered Aragorn. ''Saruman has fallen under it. Rohan is beset. Who knows what you shall find there, if ever you return?''

''Not this at least'', Boromir countered hotly, ''that they will buy their lives with horses. They love their horses next to their kin. And not without reason, for the horses of the Riddermark come from the fields of the North far from the Shadow, and their race, as that of their masters, is descended from the free days of old.''

That silenced the Ranger for awhile, so that Mithrandir could finally come to an end of his story, telling how he followed the trail of Aragorn's company, without having been able to find them in the wilderness. So he changed paths and came straight to Imladris where he met them again, to his great relief.

''Well, the tale is now told, from first to last'', he finished. ''Here we all are, and here is the Ring. But we have not yet come any nearer to our purpose. What shall we do?''

There was silence. At last Elrond spoke again.

''This is grievous news concerning Saruman'', he said; ''for we trusted him and he is deep in all our counsels. It is perilous to study too deeply the arts of the Enemy, for good or for ill. But such falls and betrayals, alas, have happened before.''

/Tis all you have to say, Lord of Imladris?/ Boromir asked silently. /Unfortunate for the brave Riders of Rohan to live in the neighborhood of a treacherous wizard? Ought you not to do something about Curunír, who was, after all, part of your precious White Council?/

The Elves were arguing about some strange, ancient creature he had never heard of, and whether it should be asked to keep the Ring in its custody, then and abandoned the idea at the end. Boromir felt tired. Tired of this Council, tired of this very errand, tired of worrying. Not even the comfort of returning home, soon, was left him. For he would not return alone, and he knew not what he coud do to keep a new Kintwist from ripping Gondor apart, once Isildur's Heir had set foot in Minas Tirith.

''I know little of this Iarwain'', Galdor of the Havens said; ''but Glorfindel, I think, is right. Power to defy our Enemy is not in him, unless such power is in the earth itself. And yet we see that Sauron can torture and destroy the very hills.''

There he looked at Legolas, who suddenly turned unbelievably sad and hung his head. This must have had to do something with that strange song that made Wood-Elves cry, Boromir guessed. Sooner or later he should make the Elf tell him what it is all about. No more secrets - everything should be laid open.

''What power still remains lies with us, here in Imladris, or with Círdan at the Havens, or in Lórien'', Goldor continued. ''But have they the strength, have *we* here the strength to withstand the Enemy, the coming of Sauron at the last, when all else is overthrown?''

/Strength/, Boromir snorted, /what strength? What have the Elves done ever since the beginnings of this very age? Mayhap the Wood-Elves fought the Orcs, for they had no other choice, but all those noble others have simply run to the Havens, every time when the sky darkened with peril. Strength, indeed.../

''I have not the strength'', Elrond admitted ruefully; ''nor have they.''

''Then'', said Glorfindel, ''if the Ring cannot be kept from him for ever by strength, two things only remain for us to attempt: to send it over the Sea or to destroy it.

Boromir could not believe his ears. Were they all out of their minds? The greatest power of their Enemy had fallen in their very hands - and they would not use it against him?

''But Gandalf has revealed to us that we cannot destroy it by any craft that we here possess'', said Elrond. ''And they who dwell beyond the Sea, would not receive it: for good or ill it belongs to Middle-earth; it is for us who still dwell her to deal with it.''

/Understood he has it, at last/, Boromir sighed, relieved. /Now we can decide how to use the Ring against its Maker. Not without reason is Elrond counted among the Wise. It seems./

Yet the other Elves seemed distracted. Glorfindel shook his head in apparent distress.

''Then let us cast it into the deeps and so make the lies of Saruman come true'', he said. ''For it is clear now that even at the Council his feet were already on a crooked path. He knew that the Ring was not lost for ever, but wished us to think so; for he began to lust for it for himself. Yet oft in lies truth is hidden: in the Sea it would be safe.''

In the Sea. They wanted to throw the greates weapon ever forged, mayhap their only hope against the Enemy, into the Sea. What a new treachery it might have been? For Elves were known to travel the Sea all time - who could be certain they would not take the Ring from its hiding place to use it, after all?

''Not safe for ever'', said Mithrandir. ''There are many things in the deep waters; and seas and lands may change. And it is not our part here to take thought only for a season, or for a few lives of Men, or for a passing age of the world. We should seek a final end of this menace, even if we do not hope to make one.''

/A final end, indeed/, Boromir groaned inwardly, /a final end to all our hopes. Why cannot they see how right Isildur has been to keep the Ring as a weregild for his father and his brother? What other means can we have against an Enemy thus powerful but his own weapon?/

''That hope we shall not find on the roads to the Sea'', Galdor said. ''My heart tells me that Sauron shall expect us to take the western way, when he learns what has befallen; so flight to the Sea is now fraught with greatest peril.''

''He soon shall learn of it'', Glorfindel added. ''The Nine have been unhorsed, indeed, but that is only a respite ere they find new steeds and swifter.'' He gazed at Boromir, adding with a slight, respectful bow of his golden head: ''Only the waning might of Gondor stands now between him and a march in power along the coasts into the North; and if he comes, asssailing the White Towers and the Havens, thereafter the Elves may have no escape from the lengthening shadows of Middle-earth.''

/Then give it us to wield it/, Boromir silently prayed. /Tis a gift, a gift to the foes of Mordor, why cannot you see it? By the blood of my poeple are your lands kept safe, so do help us with this at least! Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy! Let us use it against him!/

But out loud, he only said this much:

''Long yet will that march be delayed. Gondor wanes, you say. But Gondor stands, and even at the end of its strength is still very strong.''

''And yet its vigilance can no longer keep back the Nine'', said Galdor. ''And other roads he may find that Gondor does not guard.''

/And what have you done to guard those ways?/ Boromir thought. /What have you ever done during this whole age but to run to your precious Haven?/

''Then'', said Erestor, ''there are but two courses as Glorfindel already has declared: to hide the Ring for ever; or to unmake it. But both are beyond our power. Who will read this riddle for us?''

/Would they never cease this useless babbling?/ Boromir closed his eyes, trying to restrain his temper before bursting. /Are they all blind that they cannot see the only path that may lead out of darkness? What else could we do with the Ring? Why would they not let us wield it when they have become too cowardly to do so themselves?/

''None here can do so'', Elrond finally said. ''At least none can foretell what will come to pass, if we take this road or that. But it seems to me now clear which is the road that we must take.''

All eyes turned to the Lord of Imladris, and the members of the Council became very silent. Boromir, too, glared expectantly at his host - what in Middle-earth was he about to suggest, after he had already stated that they had no way out of this disaster? Would he choose to wield the Ring after all, no matter how much he disagreed with Isildur's choice?

''The westward way seems easiest'', Elrond continued. ''Therefore it must be shunned. It shall be watched. Too often the Elves had fled that way.''

/Too often, indeed. Leaving the younger, weaker people to their fate, good or evil alike. Little did the Elves ever care for others than themselves. Mayhap now the mortal blood in Elrond's veins would prove strong enough to overcome his Elvish haughtiness and make the right choice./

The Lord of Imlardis sighed, as if he had read Boromir's thoughts. A hard choice it was, indeed. And he was doomed to make it, for he alone - aside of Gandalft mayhap - had all the right strings in his hand. And being the host of this Council, it was as much his right as it was his duty.

''Now at this last we must take a hard road, a road unforeseen'', he announced solemnly. Then, in a clear, low voice, stressing every single word meaningfully, he added: ''There lies our hope, if hope it be. To walk into peril - to Mordor. We must send the Ring to the Fire.''

End of Part Two

End note:
I know, I promised to end this tale in this part, but my characters were in such a talkative mood! So, instead of working on one monster chapter for weeks, I broke it up in two again. Since - fortunately - there isn't that much left from Elrond's council to re-write, I will hopefully bring this long tale to a conclusion in Part Three. The matter between Elladan and Boromir has to be settled, after all, and Elrohir, too, has somehing to say about it (which is the only thing of Part Three I've already written).

Now, I feel that this chapter came out extremely uneven - there are some parts I like, but with the others I'm not entirely happy - I could sense several unwanted changes of style myself, but was simply unable to work all the kinks out. Maybe I'll have to re-write the whole chapter backwards, after I've finished the series, but right now, I just needed these things to be put up for the sake of continuation.

And yes, I know that Tengwar are technically letters, not runes, but runes simply sounded better.

Tell me, what you think!

Many thanks,

Soledad

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