Chapter Text
Boromir had never been one to put very much thought, if any, into dreams. On the rare occasions that he did remember his dreams upon waking, they were soon forgotten in the following days, for there were no reasons to dwell on them any longer. But that all changed on the nineteenth of June, in the year 3018 of the Third Age. Never before had his dreams been so vivid, nor had they left him so shaken. In this dream, as he looked eastward, darkness filled the sky and seemed to consume everything in its path. Then, turning towards the West, a faint light pierced the shadows, filling him with a small glimmer of hope. The voice that he heard next, and the words that were spoken, would plague his every thought in the coming days.
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 first line of the riddle was easy to understand. Everyone in Gondor knew of Narsil, the sword that was broken by Sauron before Isildur used a part of it to cut the One Ring from the Dark Lord’s hand. Narsil was being kept in a place called Imladris, but that was a name that Boromir had never heard before.
The second part was what disturbed him the most. Doom is near at hand. Whose Doom? Gondor’s? The Doom of Men? All Middle-earth? And what was meant by Isildur’s Bane? Isildur, son of Elendil and brother of Anárion, was slain by the arrows of Orcs from Mordor. Perhaps his father would have some answers, for he was well-versed in the lore of Gondor.
Unable to fall asleep again after his strange and disturbing dream, Boromir awakened and got ready for the day. He had fully intended to tell his father about his dream, and to ask him if he had heard of a place called Imladris and what Isildur’s Bane could be. What Boromir did not expect, however, was for a large force from Mordor to attack the city of Osgiliath.
Victory did not come easy for the Men of Minas Tirith, for the soldiers were weary and the Orcs were fresh and untested. But this did not mean the enemy was weak or ignorant in the matters of war. Orcs were bred by the thousands for war and destruction, and their purpose was to annihilate the Free Peoples of Middle-earth and conquer lands for their master, Sauron.
At the cost of many lives, the sons of the Steward of Gondor led their men into battle, and they fought bravely and held the forces of Mordor at bay. Gondor was able to hold its control of the river, and Osgiliath did not fall into enemy hands. Once the city was secured, Boromir placed the banner of Gondor, bearing the White Tree of the Kings, and gave a speech to raise the morale of the survivors of the battle. He promised them that the enemy would never capture the city, and the men who were gathered cheered and shouted his name.
He then found his younger brother, Faramir, and they joyfully embraced before partaking in the celebrations with ale. Far too soon, however, their father, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, the Ruling Steward of Gondor, appeared and snuffed their brief moment of happiness out like the flame of a candle. While he loved his father, it pained Boromir to witness his unfair treatment of Faramir. This time, he could not bear to listen to his father’s insults, and he had to walk away. His father pursued him, and the subject of Faramir quickly turned to a matter of great importance.
“Elrond of Rivendell has called a meeting. He will not say why, but I have guessed its purpose. It is rumored that the weapon of the enemy has been found.”
“The One Ring.” The riddle from his dream replayed in his mind. “Isildur’s Bane…”
“And it has fallen into the hands of the Elves,” his father whispered. “Everyone will try to claim it. Men, Dwarves, Wizards… we cannot let that happen. This thing must come to Gondor.”
“Gondor…”
Boromir’s eyes shifted uncertainly. The One Ring was Isildur’s Bane, and it was possible that Imladris and Rivendell were one and the same. Surely, it was not mere coincidence that Boromir would have his dream on the eve of his father’s news. The one question that remained unanswered was the Doom that was mentioned. And yet, Boromir had doubts. Could the One Ring really aid them? Could it be used to destroy Sauron, its creator, and save his people? Would the One Ring obey anyone other than Sauron, or would it betray them in its desire to be reunited with its master? Just as it had betrayed Isildur so long ago.
“It’s dangerous, I know. Ever the Ring will seek to corrupt the hearts of lesser men, but you… you’re strong, and our need is great,” his father said and grasped his arm. “It is our blood which is being spilled. Our people who are dying. Sauron is biding his time. He’s massing fresh armies. He will return, and when he does, we will be powerless to stop him. You must go.”
Boromir took a step back. Denethor leaned in closer, and there was a strange gleam in his eyes that Boromir had never seen in them before.
“Bring me back this mighty gift.”
Boromir knew and recognized the tone of a desperate man. Desperation was not what he heard in his father’s voice. It was something that made him uneasy, and it was the only thing that stopped him from obeying his father’s orders without question. Boromir shook his head and pulled out of his father’s grip before he turned and entered the courtyard.
“No. My place is here with my people. Not in Rivendell!”
How could his father expect him to leave at a time like this? They may have been victorious today, but the battle was not easily won. The Orcs would attack them again, and soon. Gondor could not afford to lose him, now. And what business did he have in Rivendell, anyway? It was so far away from his home. He was needed here, to lead his men and to protect the city he loved.
“Would you deny your own father?” Denethor asked, close on his heels.
“If there is need to go to Rivendell, send me in his stead,” Faramir offered. Their father let out a bitter chuckle at the suggestion.
“You? Huh, oh I see.” His lips curled into a sneer. “A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to show his quality. I think not.” Boromir spared a glance at his brother, but he could not find it in himself to defend him. “I trust this mission only to your brother. The one who will not fail me.”
Even though he knew that doing so would seal his fate, and that he would have no choice but to go, Boromir told his father of his dream. His father confirmed that Imladris was the Elvish name for Rivendell. Then, he told Boromir that this dream, this riddle, was a sign that he was meant to go. This mission could not be given to anyone else, because Boromir was the one destined to bring the One Ring back to Gondor.
What Boromir was not aware of was that his brother had had the same dream as he. And Faramir would have the dream twice more, but he would not speak of it to anyone. If he had spoken up, Boromir would have begged his father to allow Faramir to go in his place. Faramir knew more about the Elves and their language than he did, and because he was so soft-spoken, Faramir would be better at negotiating with the Elves. Boromir spoke the language of the sword, not the language of diplomacy.
In the end, Boromir could not go against his father’s orders. Before he set out for Rivendell, Faramir saw him off. The sadness that filled his brother’s eyes almost made him change his mind. Boromir looked up once more at the banner he had placed two weeks before, committing the image and the sense of pride it elicited to memory. After he was certain he would not break down, he lowered his gaze to Faramir’s.
“Remember today, little brother.”
He had uttered those same words after the enemy had been driven out of Osgiliath. The tone, then, was one of joy and celebration. This time, it felt like saying goodbye. Faramir did not speak, and his somber expression remained unchanged. Boromir forced a thin smile, and he snapped his horse’s reins before his emotions overwhelmed him.
As he rode through the front gates, Boromir held the Horn of Gondor to his lips. He blew a long, low tone. It had always been a tradition of his to blow the Horn before he set out on a new journey. The Horn, which had been crafted before the line of kings was ended, was passed down to the eldest son of the Steward. It was said that the Horn could be heard from anywhere within Gondor, and that the carrier need only blow it in times of peril and its call would not go unheeded. Boromir saw it as a promise, every time he put it to his lips, that he would return to his homeland, triumphant in whatever quest he was about to undertake.
He wondered if the Horn would be heard when he departed from Rivendell. The Elven realm would be the farthest from home he had ever been. Boromir hoped that after traveling all that way, his efforts would not be wasted. He also hoped that he would be able to save his people.
~*~
Boromir’s journey to Rivendell turned out to be much longer and more challenging than he’d originally anticipated. After passing through the Gap of Rohan, he discovered that the North-South Road was nearly nonexistent, and the bridge at Tharbad was in ruins. Although the Greyflood had a slow and shallow current, the river was wide and perilous. It was there that Boromir lost the horse he had borrowed from Edoras, and he had to travel the remainder of the way to Rivendell on foot. The journey took one hundred and ten days.
He arrived in Rivendell at night, on the twenty-fourth of October, several hours after the Hobbit who carried the One Ring was brought to Lord Elrond for his skills in healing. But Boromir knew nothing of this. After being shown to a guest room, Boromir asked where he might find the shards of Narsil. He placed his belongings on the bed and left the room, bringing only the Horn of Gondor, which he wore across his chest.
His footsteps echoed as he entered the hall. It must have been fairly late at night, because Boromir had not come across anyone, Elf or otherwise, except for the attendant who led him to his room. Everything was so still and quiet. Boromir came to a stop as he neared the mural on the far wall. It depicted Isildur lying on the ground and raising the broken Narsil towards Sauron. Boromir’s eyes narrowed in on the sword clutched in Sauron’s hand, prepared to end Isildur’s life.
Someone was watching him.
Boromir shifted his gaze to the left before turning around. Seated on a bench, holding an open book, was a man with dark hair to his shoulders. He was dressed modestly, like one of the Northern Dúnedain Rangers—yet there was a sort of regal air about him—and wore a silver ring on his left index finger. The feature that roused Boromir’s curiosity was the thin layer of facial hair.
“You are no Elf.” He didn’t even need to see this person’s ears to know that he was not an Elf, since they did not have beards.
“The Men of the South are welcome here,” the stranger said as he gestured towards Boromir.
“Who are you?”
“I am a friend to Gandalf the Grey.”
Boromir knew of Gandalf. The Wizard was the one who taught his younger brother of the Elves and their language. Whenever Faramir spoke of him, he used his Elvish name, Mithrandir. He heard his father’s warning that Men and Wizards would come to Rivendell and try to claim the One Ring. This Man, whoever he was, must be one of them. The fact that he was a friend of the Grey Pilgrim only confirmed his suspicions.
“Then we are here on common purpose… friend.”
The other man continued to stare at Boromir, unmoving. It made him uneasy. Boromir tore his gaze away and he faltered for a moment. Opposite the mural was a statue that appeared to be holding something. He moved towards it, and as he ascended the small staircase, his eyes fell upon six pieces of a broken sword. He picked up the hilt and held it in a firm grip.
“The shards of Narsil. The blade that cut the Ring… from Sauron’s hand.” He touched his finger to the tip and hissed as it drew blood. “It’s still sharp.”
Boromir’s eyes shifted. How was it possible that the sword could maintain its sharpness after three thousand years? Was it due to some Elvish spell? Just as the line of Kings had been broken, so, too, had the King’s sword. And yet…
Boromir turned towards the other man again, and his mouth fell slightly open. He was still staring at him. But this time, when Boromir gazed upon his face, it was as if he was looking upon a ghost. Boromir swallowed thickly and drew a shuddering breath. He could not afford to show weakness. Not when he had come so far. Not when the people of Gondor were counting on him.
“But no more than a broken heirloom.”
Boromir laid the sword down without looking, and as he was walking away from the altar, it clattered loudly on the floor. The noise had probably woken up every Elf in Rivendell. He paused for a moment, pondering about whether or not to pick it up. He turned his head as if to look back at the altar, but he did not want to meet the Ranger’s gaze again. Another second passed and Boromir continued on his way. He brought a hand to his forehead, as if trying to will away the dark thoughts that were creeping into the forefront of his mind.
Although Boromir had memorized which directions to turn in order to find his room, it was a miracle that he made it at all due to how clouded his mind was from anger. He should never have come here. Faramir should have been the one to carry out this important task, because he was better suited for it. There was nothing he could do about that, now. It was far too late to change anything. He could feel the blood boiling beneath the surface of his skin, and his ears were ringing so loudly that he gritted his teeth from the pain. Boromir didn’t even know why he was so angry. It was probably from several sources.
He was furious about the presence of Mithrandir and that Northern Ranger. What business did they have here, anyway? The Wizard was powerful enough on his own, and the Ranger lived far from Sauron’s reach. Gondor needed—no, deserved—to have the One Ring. The Men of Minas Tirith were the ones who were bleeding and dying. They were the ones giving their lives in order to keep the rest of Middle-earth safe.
And, of course, he was not overly fond of the Elves. He knew that they would refuse to give up the One Ring should he ask for it. The nearest Elven realm to Mordor was Lothlórien, but even they couldn’t see the armies of Orcs from their doorstep. The air of Lothlórien was not thick with the smoke and ash of Mordor. Who did the Elves think they were? Just because they had lived longer, that did not mean that they knew what was best. They had no right to tell him what should be done with the One Ring when they had magic while mortal Men only had their physical strength and swords to depend upon for survival.
As his guest chambers came into view, the fog in Boromir’s mind suddenly dispersed when he noticed something hanging on the doorknob. His chest seized upon recognizing the Horn of Gondor. He had still been wearing it when he was shown to the shards of Narsil, or so he thought. He picked up the Horn and examined it in the moonlight for any scratches or cracks. After finding no signs of damage, it was then that he noticed an unfamiliar chain of tiny gold rings attached to it. It seemed that the leather strap had finally broken, though that could have been due to the amount of time he’d spent wading through rivers after he’d lost his horse. That must have been how he lost it, and yet he never heard it fall to the ground.
Boromir stroked his calloused fingers along the chain. It was still warm.
He stepped into the small courtyard and searched for signs of anyone out and about. The person who had picked up the Horn of Gondor, and the owner of this chain, was still nearby. But no one else was there. It was as if they had turned into smoke and vanished.
Boromir turned and entered the room, the weariness from his long journey finally catching up with him. As he got ready for bed, he wondered if he would ever learn the identity of this person. He hoped it wasn’t an Elf, since he had no desire to speak to them longer than necessary. Even if it turned out to be an Elf, he wanted to at least thank them for finding and returning such an important and beloved heirloom. One that did not have a shameful history. One that was not broken.
