Chapter Text
Boromir awoke in a sweat. It wasn’t the sweat of night terrors, dreams where the Nazguls’ shrieks pierced his heart and orcs brutalized the corpses of his friends in the heat of battle. It wasn’t the sweat of passion, either; nights spent in the embrace of lovers who whispered calming words as their beards scratched his face and chest where they kissed him. It was a sweat he had experienced only twice before – once at six when he dreamt of the fever that killed his mother and hundreds of others in the citadel before it had happened, and once again at 19 before the Nazguls began to enter in the battles between Gondor and Mordor.
Like the previous vision, the spirit of his mother came to him and sang a haunting dirge that stuck with him. The breath from her body was cold, and it hung in the air like white smoke, chilling him even as he perspired. The words she sang appeared like snakes that slithered and wrapped through the air, twisting around his naked arms and tightening like chains. As her voice faded, the words blazed with a blue light and burned into his flesh, burning cold like iced metal against damp skin. Boromir screamed as he woke, the words still reverberating around his skull, pounding in his ears like the drums of war.
Boromir lay in bed for a moment, catching his breath and wiping away the cold sweat pooling near his clavicle and between his ribs. He quickly donned a robe and opened his door, prepared to sprint towards his father’s chambers. Instead, he collided with a smaller form, nearly toppling Faramir.
One look at Faramir’s thin face told Boromir everything he needed to know. Born of the same bloodline, Faramir too had received a vision. With a nod, they both hurried towards their father’s chambers. Neither said anything to the other, not wanting to risk polluting or forgetting the message they had received.
A guard stood outside of their father’s room, almost asleep on his feet. He jerked to attention as the two steward-sons approached, opening the door for them to enter. Though Denethor did not like to be disturbed in his rest, he would want to hear this.
As their father rose and dressed, still Faramir and Boromir did not speak to each other. They would wait until their Father’s council – what remained of it at least – was assembled with a scribe to dictate the message.
After a half hour of hurried waiting, the council was assembled. Boromir left the hall while Faramir recited the message, and then he switched places with his brother to speak what he remembered. His arms ached with cold as he delivered the message the words seeming to burn sigils into his skin. Once he finished, the scribe compared the two narrations, surprised that both men had given the same exact message.
Seek for the Sword that was broken,
in Imladris it dwells
There shall be counsels taken,
Stronger than Morgul-spells.
There shall be shown a token,
That Doom is near at hand,
For Isildur’s Bane shall waken,
and the Halfling forth shall stand.
The words that had been bouncing around his head like a hare darting from burrow to burrow suddenly disappeared from his mind as soon as the scribe finished reading. This had happened on the other occasions as well – as soon as he told someone, the words disappeared like his mother’s cold breath dissipating in the warmth of the halls of the living.
Denethor, his eyes dark with thought, stroked his chin. “Isildur’s Bane in Imladris? It can’t be.” Denethor looked up as Faramir entered the room again, summoned by a tired running boy still rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“My sons, what do you make of this?”
Boromir waited for Faramir to answer. Although he was the elder of the two, Faramir was far more well read. “Perhaps ‘halfling’ refers to a dwarf? You don’t think the dwarves have found Isildur’s ring?”
A few of the council members hissed as that token was mentioned, but Faramir ignored them. “But why would a dwarf hand over something so powerful to the elves, even to Elrond’s house? I know that he had shown kindness to Dwain’s line recently, but even that kindness would not be enough to warrant such a gift.”
Denethor ignored Faramir, turning to face Boromir. “My son, what are your thoughts on this?”
Boromir grimaced – their father’s jealous games had grown especially lurid in the wake of Osgiliath’s recent fall and recapture in the past weeks, and this barbed spat directed at Faramir was especially venomous.
“I think someone trustworthy should be sent to Rivendell to see what comes of these counsels. I suggest we send Faramir.”
Denethor laughed, a hoarse, dismissive chortle that made Faramir’s ears burn with embarrassment and Boromir’s chest burn with defensive anger. “You think I would trust a man who so recently lost to us our sister-city, the key to holding Mordor’s attacks away from our doorstep, with finding our inheritance?”
The hot anger in Boromir’s chest flashed, spreading to his arms and his face, making him lose all ability to hold his tongue respectfully. “Your son was sent to his death on an impossible mission and instead kept his men alive to fight another day. Your son stood with me and gave me the courage to face the enemy. Knowing I had him fighting at my side gave us the strength to reclaim Osgiliath, nothing more.”
Faramir was blinking rapidly, and Boromir recognized the empty look that reflected the pit of sorrow that Faramir held inside. He also recognized that quiet strength that his brother possessed as Faramir raised a hand to quiet Boromir’s raised voice. “Peace brother. What father speaks is true – this is not a mission that should be trusted to me. You are the heir to the Steward’s throne and it is your duty to return to this city what Isildur claimed.”
Boromir hesitated and Denethor took his silence as agreement. “It’s settled, then. Boromir will leave out at first light for Rivendell. I know my son will not fail me.”
Several of the council members bowed and began leaving the candle-lit hall, taking smaller lights with them, dimming the hall. Denethor stood and pulled Boromir by his shoulders into a type of embrace.
“Do not return without the ring, Boromir. The fate of Minas Tirith rests on this.” Drawing back from the hug, Denethor moved from a whisper to a normal volume. “I am proud of you, my son, and our city will rejoice at your success.”
Boromir grimaced but bowed deferentially. “I will do as you say, father.”
But Denethor was already shuffling back towards his chambers, growling for the running boy to carry a lamp to light the way. As the older man disappeared, carrying the last of the mobile lights with him, Boromir was left in the hall with Faramir, barely able to see from the dim light of the hall’s banked fire. A strong hand clamped onto his shoulder, stronger than Faramir appeared at a glance.
Boromir sighed. “One day he will see and appreciate you.”
Faramir laughed, but it was hollow, pitiful even. “Honestly it would probably be better for my health if he just forgot about me. But enough of that talk. You’re going to Imladris to see the elves. Maybe even Mithrandir will be there! Do you think he will recognize you?”
Boromir grunted and put an arm around his brother’s shoulder. “It really should be you who’s going. You probably already have a route planned for the fastest way to get to Rivendell.”
Faramir laughed again, and this time it sounded more like his old self, before their father’s pride turned to arrogance and his firmness turned to cruelty. “Well, we have to send you; if I went, every farmer’s daughter between here and the elf-haven wouldn’t be safe.”
“Ah, yes. Instead their brothers should look out; after all, who can resist the son of the Steward?” Boromir laughed, expecting Faramir to join him. Instead, Faramir paused, turning to look Boromir in the eye. It hit Boromir how tall his brother actually was now – not quite as tall as Boromir himself, but he was certainly taller than their father, and almost met Boromir eye to eye.
“ I hope you do meet some hearty men along the way. But this vision from mother wasn’t a call to reclaim our lost heritage. It was a warning. I feel it to my bones that this will not be an easy journey. From what I know of it, in the end, Isildur wasn’t swayed by the council of the wise, but instead gave in to the whispers of the ring. This is a dangerous thing, no mere token. I fear that if you bring it here, you will bring our destruction with it.”
Boromir’s grip tightened on Faramir’s shoulder as he spun his brother to face him. “What do you want me to do, Faramir? Father made it clear that if I did not bring the ring back with me, it would be better for me not to return at all. I can’t just abandon our city to the whims of a man who lives with the ghosts of the past. I cannot leave you here to hold the line against Mordor alone.”
The orange light of the smoldering embers didn’t hide the uncomfortable shift in Faramir’s posture. “I only know what I feel in my bones, brother. You must do as you see right, and I will hold the city safe until your return.”
Boromir recognized the timid placation in Faramir’s tone, the same tone he took when their father was in one of his moods. Faramir was a good man, and he did not deserve to live in fear of the angry outbursts of the men around him. He loosened his vice-like grip on his brother’s shoulder, and gave a gentle smile and nudge. “I know you will keep the city safe until well after my return, and I look forward to the feast you will throw in my honor. But more importantly, you will keep yourself safe until I return. If you suffer so much as a scratch, I will kick your ass.”
A genuine smile graced Faramir’s face, a rarity for all that Faramir pretended to be happy. “I will. And by the way, it will probably be faster this time of year to travel through the gap of Rohan; it’s not as straight a shot, but the roads are better and I hear that, due to all the time spent on horses, the men of Rohan have very firm asses.”
Boromir laughed, hugging his brother close. Faramir had discovered that Boromir preferred men almost as soon as Boromir did, but his support and kindness had given Boromir the courage to explore his desires and attractions instead of burying them. If it weren’t for Faramir, Boromir shuddered to think who he would be. “I’ll be back in a few months time. If father becomes too much…”
“Just spare a moment to think of your poor suffering brother while enjoying the company of a ruggedly handsome horse man.”
Boromir laughed again, tousling Faramir’s hair. “We’ll pour out a libation for you, then.”
***
A day out from Rivendell and Boromir wasn’t thankful for his brother’s volunteering him for this cursed trip. A few days' ride out from Minas Tirith and Boromir lost his horse. He made it to the gap of Rohan on foot. The Rohirrim had welcomed him gladly, as Faramir had thought they might, and the king’s son, Theodred, was especially kind to Boromir, gifting him a new horse on the promise that Boromir would not lose this one as well.
It wasn’t the only thing Theodred had given Boromir, either. After leaving the king’s hall, Boromir found it easier to walk than ride, at least for a few days. He was grateful for the horse, and had promised himself to return the horse and the favors on the return journey home if there was time.
But ahead of him, there was still the long trek to Rivendell, not to mention needing to actually find the elven city. Any time he asked where Rivendell might actually be, no one could give him an answer. Or they gave him conflicting directions. Perhaps the ancient riddles to find the location was more accurate hundreds of years ago, but now no one knew the archaic references or where the elven city actually was. After traveling for over a hundred days – he had stopped counting after a while – Boromir had crested a hill and had seen with his own eyes the hidden elven city.
It was growing dark, though, and the trip down the mountain pass would be treacherous in the dark, so Boromir made camp in a sheltered crevice. “Last friendly house. How can it be friendly if no one can find it?”
His horse snorted in response as Boromir continued to rub the animal down. Theodred had shown Boromir the most efficient way to do so, before Boromir had taught him a few things while in the privacy of the royal stable in return. It had been the last time Boromir had laid with someone on this annoyance of a trip, and Boromir could feel the agitation under his skin. It always got like this after a while without.
To take his mind off the want, Boromir set about making camp more comfortable. He set to work skinning and cooking a squirrel he had caught in a snare, and then sweeping an area clean of debris to set out his bed roll, making sure to save some of the softer foliage for padding.
Boromir tossed and turned in his bed roll, trying to find the most comfortable position. His discomfort was not just from sleeping on the ground for so long. He would usually try to relieve himself – it helped him sleep better – but he wasn’t sure if he was being watched. To keep Rivendell safe, surely the elves kept a strong watch on its borders.
Boromir awoke with a start, scattering his makeshift bed as he leapt to his feet, knife in hand. No one was visible, but Boromir had the feeling of being watched. Damn these stealthy elves; if there was one watching him, he’d prefer to be approached and greeted instead of forever treading softly, afraid of what creature might be skulking in the shadow.
After a few minutes of scanning the area, Boromir convinced himself that he was imagining things. Living in the shadow of Mordor could do that to a person – make them see things that didn’t exist, make them think their allies were enemies and that shadows held only destruction. He took a few minutes to break down his campsite and saddle the horse. It would be too dangerous to ride down the mountain pass, but the horse should be safe enough to walk alongside him.
The further down the path Boromir got, the easier the trail became. Before the sun was overhead, Boromir was able to mount the horse lent to him and ride the rest of the way down. The mountain pass turned to grass, which turned to moss-covered stone, which turned to stone paths and archways and bridges.
Instead of looming, the elven city seemed to float in front of Boromir. Made of stone and timber, it still had an ethereal air about it. Faramir would be able to explain how the architecture created this effect, but Boromir was just mesmerized by it. He rode over a bridge into a walled courtyard, still not having seen a single other being.
Was he too late? Had he missed the council’s assembling? Had Rivendell been abandoned, no longer holding the wilds back and providing one last bit of shelter for the softer folk to the West? Boromir dismounted, still in awe of the beauty of the Elven city. It was unlike the beauty of Minas Tirith; it was dark and misty and felt safe in a way that his beloved city, strong though it was, hadn’t felt to him in decades.
Boromir’s fears of the abandoned state of the city were assuaged as he looked to his left and, in the distance, saw a handsome dark haired elven man speaking with a dark haired elven woman. The man leaned down to kiss the woman and Boromir turned his eyes away, feeling a bitter jealousy at the freedom that people unlike him felt to show affection where prying eyes could see.
It wasn’t that Boromir begrudged anyone in love. It just made him angry that his kisses always had to be stolen in secret. In dark halls and empty barn stalls, or in hidden tunnels and behind racks and racks of weapons and shields. One day he would kiss a man while standing on a bridge for all to see, just for the joy of it. Perhaps after bringing the ring back to Minas Tirith, his father would be so proud that he wouldn’t care who his son decided to bed with.
“Welcome Boromir, Steward’s son.” A firm voice greeted Boromir, drawing him from the well-trodden thought path. An elf with golden brown hair stood a few inches shorter than Boromir, but his presence commanded attention. Boromir quickly brushed his sweat-drenched hair back from his face and bowed respectfully.
“I’m sorry for the intrusion, but I heard news of the council gathering and sought to represent the race of men in the decisions made here.”
“I know why you have come, Steward’s son. My name is Glorfindel, and you are welcome in the House of Elrond. The council is still assembling, and we expect to begin tomorrow after the first meal of the day. Please, allow me to offer a place to rest for both you and your horse.”
Boromir bowed again, grateful for the kindness shown him. He held out the horse’s reins for Glorfindel to take, surprised that the elf with such a commanding presence was merely a footman of sorts.
Glorfindel raised a severe eyebrow, and Boromir realized his mistake immediately. This elf was probably not a footman, and would probably report his uncouth manners to Elrond directly. Boromir blushed furiously and bowed again. “If you will point me in the direction of a stable, I can house the beast myself.” He half meant the horse, half himself.
The elf caught Boromir’s second meaning and he must have found it amusing. Glorfindel’s laugh was almost melodic as it echoed off of the flowing water below and reverberated around the stone structures which seemed built to amplify and reflect beauty and sound. “No insult was taken, Steward’s son. I’m sure Mithrandir and Lord Elrond will wish to speak with you concerning the state of battle before the council assembles on the morrow. Perhaps we should find you a place to bathe first?”
Boromir bowed for a fourth time. If only they had sent Faramir, he would’ve been so much better at this. “A bath would be most welcome, Lord Glorfindel. Thank you.”
Taking the reins from Boromir and handing them off to a younger elf who appeared silently, Glorfindel’s laugh turned into an amused chuckle. “Come, Steward’s son, and welcome to the last friendly house. Lord Elrond extends his hospitality to you, and the bath is included for free.”
Although the talk of a bath had been a jest at Boromir’s expense, he could not complain at how wonderful it felt to wash the dirt of the road off. After scrubbing himself clean and luxuriating in the heated spring water, he slipped into his sleeping quarters and found his clothes had been cleaned and set out fresh for him, along with a tray of food and wine.
Gratefully, he slipped into clean clothes and ate at a table for the first time in several weeks. The walls of his room were covered in tapestries – Boromir guessed that if you lived forever, one would probably have lots of time to weave tapestries and rugs. After eating, Boromir decided to wander. He had been told that he was welcome to roam the halls, that someone would fetch him from wherever when Lord Elrond was ready to speak with him.
At first, the halls he walked through had large open arches letting in natural light and the foliage hiding and protecting Rivendell. The architecture reminded him of tales of Minas Tirith in her glory days – welcoming, open arches; looms and anvils being used were signs of lives being lived uninterrupted by battle and chaos; hospitality and friendship permeated the very atmosphere as he stumbled upon tables set with food for any wandering hungry guests.
He found a staircase that traveled down into a grotto of sorts. He could hear the musical tones of falling water as he stepped lightly down the stairs. He guessed that this room opened up on one of the waterfalls, and relied on the light passing through the clear falling water to bounce off the bluish-white stone walls. This cavern, though opening up to a waterfall, was quite dry and cool, and seemed to be a natural cavern, as if the elves had sung it into shape instead of shaping it with tools. He caught sight of a large series of paintings that depicted a battle he recognized.
Boromir froze, his breath catching in his lungs. He had known that Elven artists excelled in their crafts - living so long was a boon for mastering any art forms - but he had never expected it to be so vivid. He reached out to touch the mural. He had expected to feel raised paint under his fingers, such was the depth of the image of Isildur raising the broken sword, but it was smooth. Some sort of witchcraft was required to create this sort of masterpiece; Boromir felt his breath hitching in his chest. He wanted to weep, shout, and stand in reverent silence all at the same time.
He was jolted from his reverie by hearing a page turn. He turned, half expecting to see Faramir here, smiling at him over the pages of a dusty book. He was greeted by bright blue eyes under a dark brow, staring at him instead of the contents of the book the stranger was paging through.
Boromir started, and then recognized the stranger, though not by name. This was the figure he had seen on the bridge with the elven woman dressed in white; and what a nice figure he was at that. Boromir took a moment to take in the sharp jaw, lean figure, and the strong hands holding the book.
“You are no elf!” After the words escaped him, Boromir winced. He hadn’t meant to speak rudely, but the emotion of seeing a likeness of Isildur created by someone who probably knew him coupled with the surprise of seeing this man in the place he least expected to see another human had the effect of strongly mixed mead. He felt warm and his face felt tight. He knew he sounded and looked a fool.
The stranger dipped his head in a terse greeting. “Men of the South are oft welcomed here.”
He offered no other introduction or acknowledgement, though his clothes suggested he was a ranger or forest guard. Boromir wondered if he had imagined the stranger looking over his book at Boromir’s own figure. Probably. The first time Boromir had seen him, the man had been staring lovingly into the face of a beautiful woman after all.
Boromir knew that many of the men he felt himself drawn to would never find him as attractive as a feminine silhouette. It had stopped bothering him long ago, so why did he feel a lump in his throat right now?
“Who are you?” Again. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Think before opening your damned mouth. Boromir tried to rein in his emotions. Anger and frustration at himself was a heady and bitter potion when mixed with this lust and jealousy, and Boromir knew it would run away with him if he let it. Boromir felt tears stinging his eyes. Was he, the captain of the guard of the shining city, reduced to tears by an awkward encounter with another man like a maiden rejected at a harvest dance?
The corner of the stranger’s lip danced up quickly - in a smile or grimace Boromir could not ascertain. “I am a friend of Gandalf the Gray.”
Gandalf. A familiar name. Boromir grabbed onto the familiar detail to center himself in the whirl of emotion that was trying to tear him limb from limb. He took a breath to steady himself, to center himself. He had assumed he would be the higher ranking individual in this encounter, but if this man was a friend of Gandalf by name, he might have a rank that rivaled Boromir’s own. He needed to balance the conversation, offer the individual an opportunity to show who was in the higher standing here.
“Then we come here with a similar purpose… friend.” He offered the last word out gentle, hesitantly. He hated himself. A skilled warrior, reduced to quaking and begging like a common street dog. By what? A bright pair of eyes and fitted pants?
He needed to distract himself, move away from this situation. He could feel himself looking pleadingly at the stranger, pleading for he knew not what. The stranger looked over his book but continued to turn the page, pretending to read. He was watching Boromir, but as what? An opportunity? A threat?
Looking around desperately for a way out, Boromir caught sight of a blade, displayed on a shroud held by a delicately carved statue. The blade was familiar in design, but shattered into several pieces. He glanced between the mural of Isildur and the blade once more, and the pieces fitted into place.
“The shards of Narsil.” His voice was breathy, not just because of his proximity to the blade that first defeated Sauron. He reached out to pick up the hilt, careful not to disturb the other remnants.
“This is the blade that cut the ring from Sauron’s hand.” He wasn’t explaining this to the stranger; the man was obviously well-read. It was a mantra, sacred and quiet. Boromir ran his finger along the edge of the blade, and jumped when he felt the blade slice into his finger.
“It’s still sharp!” He exclaimed, looking at the stranger. The man looked familiar. Boromir glanced between the mural and the stranger. There was an uncanny likeness between the two men. Not only in looks, but also in bearing. Boromir felt his stomach turn, bitter and uneasy. This man was hiding something. The sacred mood was broken.
“It’s no more than a broken heirloom.” Boromir bit back bile. He dropped the blade and ran.
Boromir was not himself since leaving Rohan. Since leaving Gondor. Boromir stumbled back to his room like a drunk, ignoring the elves who faded out of the woodwork to offer assistance. He could hear them laughing at him, thinking him drunk on elven wine. It wasn’t wine. There was something wrong here. He had thought the atmosphere here was peaceful. He thought it was untouched by Sauron, by death. Now he recognized this peace. It’s the kind you find in the hallowed halls of your ancestors. A place where all that exists are forgotten memories, suffocating you and drowning out all other sound.
This was a cursed place. A place that death never touched, but also never left. He couldn’t stay here long.