Chapter Text
Ever since his father had sent him to Rivendell upon his immediate return from Osgiliath, Boromir had been in a foul mood. When he heard this trip involved the One Ring, and there was a chance that it could be used to return Gondor to its former glory, his interest peaked. Upon hearing the location was in Rivendell his heart sank. Boromir disliked the Elves and wanted nothing to do with them.
As soon as he, or his horse rather, set foot in the Elven city, a wave of dread washed over him. Boromir could feel their glassy eyes following every movement he made; every blink of his eyes, every twitch of his nose. They just stood there like marble statues with their unblemished skin and hair without a strand out of place. They disgusted him.
Seeing the altar built as a tribute to Isildur and his conquering of Sauron lifted his spirits, but only for a moment. The broken sword ruined it for him. Boromir hoped that setting his eyes on something so sacred to Gondorian history would ignite a flame of pride in his chest, but it only irritated him even more.
And the fact that some Ranger had the nerve to expose his…existence to this historical artifact, it was insulting. Even more nauseating, he was romantically involved with one of the Elves. Elrond’s daughter, no less. What kind of Man falls in love with an Elf and still manages to hold on to his pride, if he has even managed to do that?
The cut on Boromir’s finger had long since stopped bleeding and all that remained was a dark red smudge on his skin. After leaving the shrine, Boromir decided he would return to his room. No, not his. It would never be “his.” Nothing in this place belonged to him except what he carried on his back. Ever since he arrived his mind had been in a fog. He couldn’t focus and everything he saw had a red tint.
He was almost back to the guest room that had been lent to him when Boromir felt a tug on his sleeve. He was not in a talkative mood, and this unlucky person who dared to worsen his temper was about to pay dearly. Boromir turned around with his arm extended, ready to strike a blow to this pest, when he saw a girl. An Elf, to be exact. She was shorter than him, her head reaching his shoulders. He was slightly put off that she didn’t flinch and she didn’t seem frightened by him. What did she want, anyway?
“What do you want? Why are you following me?” He didn’t mean to sound so rude, he was just tired and frustrated.
She did not answer him, but she extended her arms in front of her. She was holding something in her hands. Boromir looked down and his eyes widened when he saw that it was a horn. The Horn of Gondor. He patted his torso and pulled at his clothing frantically, finding that he had indeed dropped it. He hadn’t even noticed.
Boromir looked at the Elf again and saw that she hadn’t moved, as if she was frozen in that position. It made him uncomfortable. He reached out and carefully took the Horn from her, and he held back a sigh of relief when she lowered her arms. She still hadn’t moved her gaze from his face. Boromir looked down at the Horn and examined it for any damage, then heaved an exasperated sigh.
“The strap broke. It must be from age.”
He shifted his gaze up when he saw that the Elf had her hand out. She wanted him to give the Horn back to her. At his look of hesitation, she moved forward insistently.
‘I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. And if she tries anything she wouldn’t be able to get very far.’
Boromir held the Horn out to the Elf, and she carefully took it into her hands. When she turned and began walking away, a wave of panic washed over Boromir, but it quickly receded when she sat on a nearby bench. Just as a precaution, he followed and stood next to her.
He watched with curiosity, and apprehension, as she began untying the strap and pulling it through the loops. He was about to tell her to stop when she unfastened her belt and weaved it through the loops. Boromir didn’t see what the point of this was. He could have just tied the two ends together into a knot. Now the chain would clang on the Horn and possibly scratch it.
She held the Horn up and he took it, examining the chain. It was warm under his fingers, and surprisingly light-weight. Boromir turned his attention away from the Horn and looked down at the Elf so he could thank her, but she was gone. He hadn’t heard her leave, just as he hadn’t heard her approach. It was eerie, almost as if she was never there at all.
When Boromir woke the next morning, he felt as if he had not slept at all. He did not want to go to breakfast, but his stomach had other ideas. After placing his sword at his waist, he opened his pack and pulled out the Horn of Gondor. Some thought it was strange that he wore it everywhere he went, but this way he always had a piece of home with him.
Boromir was used to running his fingers along the leather strap, worn from age and handling of ancestors past. But when he felt metal rings instead, he did a double-take. He had thought that was all a dream. The strap breaking, the Elf finding the Horn when he dropped it, then using her belt as a replacement. Boromir stroked the chain with his fingers; the metal was cold now.
‘Will she be there at breakfast? If so, what do I say to her? What will she say to me? She left so suddenly that I didn’t have a chance to thank her. She probably thinks ill of me. Why do I even care? Let her think what she wants.’
All of this inner turmoil was making Boromir’s head hurt.
“Too early to think. Breakfast first.”
To Boromir’s relief, she was not present. He figured that only people who were going to attend the Council meeting were allowed to eat at the special meals provided by Elrond. Everyone else was on their own.
‘Do Elves even eat?’
“Boromir!”
“I’m sorry, my mind was elsewhere.”
“That is alright. I was only inquiring as to where you came across that chain,” Elrond spoke calmly.
“Oh, well, last night I was headed to my room, and one of the Elves stopped me because I dropped the Horn. The leather strap broke, so it fell from my shoulder. She replaced it with her belt, and that is about it.”
“Well, I can tell you that you do not have to worry about losing it again. That chain is unbreakable. Even the sharpest blade cannot sever it.” Boromir’s eyes widened at this. “Who was she? What was her name?”
“She did not tell me. She didn’t speak to me at all.”
“Was she barefoot?”
Boromir didn’t know how that was relevant, but he thought it over. He never actually looked at her because he was too busy watching what she was doing.
“She may have been. I did not hear her as she moved about.”
“As I suspected. That was Anael. She is a very peculiar Elf.”
‘Aren’t all Elves?’
“How so?”
“Let’s just say she prefers the simple joys of life. She doesn’t like jewelry or hair pieces, and she never wears shoes. She enjoys the sensation of the earth under her feet. And she doesn’t speak.”
“She is mute?”
“As far as we can tell. None of the Elves have ever heard her voice.”
“That seems…lonely.”
“Some prefer a life of solitude as opposed to one without privacy,” the Ranger said.
Boromir wanted to tell him to piss off and that this did not involve him, but in a way he was right. About the last part, anyway. He suddenly found that he had no appetite. He was still hungry, but he felt that he would not be able to keep his food down. And he sort of wanted a little alone time himself.