A/N: First off, any author note I post will-after this chapter-be at the end of the chapter. Now secondly, please understand I am not being pugnacious when I say this: I am a fan of the movies and books alike, but am I perfect and do I know everything about them? NO. I DO NOT. So with that said, save your raging flames if you will-I simply will not read them. This is a fanfiction based on a character I wished to use and create and give life to-not yours to tell me how awful YOU THINK she is. For those of you reading this, seeking pure enjoyment and feel the need or want to comment or review, I will take constructive criticism as well as the next author.

On THAT note: I don't really care whether if this fiction is considered tenth-walker or whatever it is called. She isn't traveling with the fellowship because of Frodo or the Ring: You will find out why if you continue to read. I will give nothing away, but understand EVERYTHING I write that is vague or seems to be totally random will be explained. This is a story with a purpose and a plot and an end. Give me credit...this is the first fic I ever wrote at 13-obviously a bit different since then-but it has been years and years in the making. Remastered, I have at least seven chapters I can post of this before I start re-writing which is what I am undertaking at the moment.

Please do not expect this to be perfect Tolkien lore, alright? For instance, I refer to Boromir as a 'Gondorian' though nowhere is that ever used as a proper term for those people. Some readers can be assholes, if shit like that bothers you, just don't read it.

This is a slow burn I guess you could say. I wrote it with the idea of friendship being the core of the first book *yes this is an installment of three fanfiction 'books'* and if you ask me, people don't fall in love without having friendship first. So kiss my lily white butt if you disagree. LOL.

This might be considered AU- if you consider Boromir living to be AU. I don't know. Anyway, I'm going to let you read now. If you feel the want to leave a review, you shall make my heart soar.

Really, I'm not a jerk like I sound above...I just hate when people bash others' hard works. Just be respectful and even if you can't: Blessing to you all. -Aranel

Chapter One:

Bitter Green He Called Her

Boromir grew weary in his saddle as he traveled down the old road, leading west. The journey to Rivendell had proved more difficult than initially anticipated; he found himself lost numerous times, only to believe he had found his way again, ruling that where he was now put him further away from his destination than where he had been merely days prior. Albeit it wasn't for his lack of wits nor could it be chalked up to pure laziness…the truth was simple: he had no idea where he was. Denethor's directions along with his wondrous discretion as Steward were less than vague. This left his son to bank on an old legend and leads that proved false. Boromir's journey had turned into a hundred days of meandering along the countryside, with little more to do than admire the wildflowers. He had been in that saddle so long, he had almost forgotten what it was like to use his own two legs—which felt like lead in his boots. At such a rate, he would never reach the Last Homely House before snowfall, which could be expected within a month's time. In which case should that happen, Boromir would find himself not only lost but freezing as well. He did not relish the thought.

The road that carried him westward held no sign of heavy use, to which the Gondorian believed to be a good sign—mostly for the fact that no one in the town he passed through mentioned it. He told himself that wherever it led to, it could fair no worse than all of the other wrong paths he had taken. Of course it was difficult to stay optimistic with so many failed endeavors, even recalling—as he attempted to remain the idealist—the saying which recited, not all those who wander are lost. Truly, there was no other option than to see the trail to its destination. Boromir sighed, reconciling to the fact that he would most likely be turned around once he reached the winding road's end.

Above him, the evening sky rumbled lowly. Plums of indigo and violet of the night sky mingled with the pinks, crimsons, and oranges from the setting sun which swirled under the cold hand of an approaching storm. The heavens seemed to cry out, its anger forming in the flashes of lightning which danced across the skies. It wouldn't be long now. From where Boromir sat atop his horse, the rain would be on him within a few hours time; cutting into his steady travel pace at ten miles a day. Pulling the hood of his cloak over his head, he shivered at the drop in temperature, trying to espy a safe place to rest his tired body for the night. It wasn't until he'd reached further down the path that he found what he had been looking for.

Off and to the left, just below a drop from the hill was a glade of pines, reaching taller than any Boromir had seen. With such luck on his side, the great timbers formed a perfect cocoon, sheltering anyone who might seek to sleep under them from any storm the skies could summon. What was more to his liking—as if staying dry wasn't well enough—a creek bed ran from one end of the glade to the other side of the small wooded area forming a small pond; its source coming from the mountains of the east. Cold and clear mountain water meant he could refill his water-skin, replacing the bad smelling stuff acquired at the inn he had taken refuge in nights before. Boromir's horse could also drink his fill from the stream, which it gladly did once the reins had been removed and the saddle stripped from its back. Boromir patted the horse firmly and ran his fingers through its mane when the hairs on the back of his own neck stood on end.

Glancing around the Gondorian saw nil but nonetheless the feeling of having eyes upon him did not cease to send him into a state of paranoia. Even while setting out his sleeping pelt, he kept his sword at his side. Boromir's fingers twitched at the thought of having to use his blade—the sentiment of having to render flesh coursing over his palms. For wicked things lived in the wilds of the world, lingering in the darkness they called home. You could never be too careful. However that night proved to be something entirely different than what he expected. For although the sensation of being espied from somewhere in the darkness never amounted to anything, all the same it was there. Even as the fire burned late into the night, dry and comfortable in his small haven as the world beyond it roared with rain, Boromir swore something stared back at him from the other side of the tree line; its eyes yellow and otherworldly. Somewhere in the dead of night, a whisper on the wind sang through the pines… I am the lily on the briar…the silver hidden in stone…I am the moonlight upon the dove…the darkness from below…I am the song sung by Elves…the doom of mortal men…I am the earth and the sun…I am the lily on the briar…I am this and this and this… Carried by the wind which fell short of his camp, the voice was unlike any he had ever heard before. Boromir believed it belonged to the creature with the yellow eyes. He did not sleep.

That morning, Boromir dragged himself from his pad and groggily saddled his horse. In a haze from lack of slumber, he then packed his belongings and tied them in their secure positions before clumsily hoisting himself onto the beast and regrettably setting off at a trot back to the road. The earth was sodden; everything around him had a swollen look about it. Trees drooped low, their leaves and branches reaching out, begging to be dried and grasping at what little warmth the cold, distant autumn sun projected down on the land. It was colder outside that day than the one before. With each breath sucked in and released, plums of air burst from his nostrils. He could feel the heat of his own breath against his beard. Boromir never thought to be so thankful for his fur-lined clothing, nor for the warmth that his steed provided him. It seemed that day would be as long as the night he'd endured and just as quiet; save the sound of rain replaced by hooves beating against the dirt worn path. In that time alone with his thoughts, Boromir pondered on what he had seen the night before.

It was the eyes that he simply couldn't shake from his memories, for despite the color—so bright and luminescent, they were lifeless. Like a doll's eyes they were lifeless as they stared back at him, ripping him to his core and rebuilding him on the shakiest of foundations. Never had he seen such eyes as those, ones that seemed to hover over the darkness of the trees. They made him recall all of the horrors he faced throughout his life, starting with the death of his mother and ending with a prophecy of the fall of Gondor. Yet for all their wondrous capabilities of rendering him frozen, Boromir did not feel as though they belonged to any creature that harbored maliciousness intent. No not evil, but perhaps very old…misunderstood. Whatever it had been, wherever it may have gone, the only thing Boromir knew to be fact was that it had watched him lay there, never moving. It wasn't until his exhaustion overtook him for the briefest of moments that it had ceased its gazing. He was lurched from his sleep and the eyes that had been scrutinizing him had vanished. As if they had never been there at all…but he knew they had been. He had heard it—the singing. Though no one was there to confirm it, he knew it all the same. Dwelling on those events had him uneasy. Boromir son of Denethor was a warrior—a man capable of slaughtering anything formidable, tangible, mortal. What he was not was a slayer of mysticism and magic or things even older than those. Boromir did not like what he could not hold in his own two hands. Things like that made him uneasy and afraid. Peering over his shoulder, the man of Gondor released a sigh of relief to see that nothing but puddles left from the rain were behind him. He couldn't shake the feeling of being followed.

Somewhere in the sixth mile of the day, between walking his steed and riding, Boromir had espied from afar what appeared to be the silhouette of a person meandering down the same path. At first, he had dismissed it as a trick of the eye or his weariness—the day's journeying taking a toll on his already sore, sleep deprived body. But when he shook his head and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, Boromir was shocked to see that the figure was still there, far off into the distance. Strangely, he had seen no sign of another traveler for miles; not in front of him or behind. How could anyone simply travel through muck and mud without making some sort of indentation or attestation of having been there? Yet there was the person was, no more than half a mile off from Boromir now sat atop his horse, trying to make sense of it all. His conclusion—or his assumption perhaps—was that the figure looming in the distance must have been an Elf. Were they not the only ones light enough to avoid sinking into the sludge without leaving evidence of their trek behind them? And if it were an Elf, did that mean his conjecture regarding the path he took to also be correct? Was this the road to Rivendell? For the Gondorian, there was only one way to know for sure. The sooner he possessed that knowledge, the sooner he could be rid of this unsettling forest—of that incessant feeling of being observed. Giving a click of his tongue, a soft nudge of his boot, and the loosening of the reins, he urged his horse forward into a steady two-beat trot.

Even as he closed in on what he now could see was a hooded traveler, the natural instinct for them to look behind them did not fester. Either they were deaf, did not care that someone was on horseback behind them or—to Boromir's unsteadiness—they had known he was there the entire time. From up where he sat and from what he could see, it was easy enough to say that whoever this person was, they were not Elf-kin. Boromir's curiosity had caught the better of him, his mouth opening before he had time to reconsider. "Who travels a sodden road and leaves no footprint in this wake?"

The figure stopped abruptly, as though his voice had startled them; whoever it was, they turned to face him and although no answer came forth, what Boromir had seen shocked him. For it was a young woman, small in stature, her face upturned toward his. Not an Elf nor any other race but his own—by appearances at least—and a woman at that. Boromir sighed, pulling the reins of his horse to stop him so that he might ask further inquires. Like for instance, what in the name of the Valar was she doing roaming the open wilderness alone? The girl stared at him without an answer to his question. She stared with her insipid grey eyes…the dullest eyes he had ever seen. As he patiently waited this time for an answer to his inquiry, Boromir grew tired of staying idle. He was already put out by his condition and hadn't needed anymore added to his plate to fuel his agitation. He simply got to the point. "Is this the road to Rivendell?"

The young girl still did not answer; her eyes fixed now on the shield strapped to his steed's side, trailing then the sword that lay tucked into his sleeping pad for traveling. Boromir took this as a sign of intimidation and raised his hands to show he meant no harm. "I will not harm you," He said. "You have my word as the Steward-Son of Gondor."

A frustrated laugh escaped from behind his teeth as this traveler gazed up at him, her brows pulled together in confusion. This was going nowhere fast. His temperament was wearing thin. "Pray tell, is this the way to the home of Elrond Half-Elven?"

Her grey eyes softened then, her eyebrows falling back into place. She smiled softly shaking her head indecipherable, never saying a word. It had only frustrated the Gondorian immensely. "Do you mean to say this is the road to Rivendell or that it is not, but that you know the way?"

Again, her young face pulled together in a swirling debate of confusion, as if she hadn't known herself which question was answered. Boromir was forced to wonder how someone so green in age with such an inadvertent way of handling conversation with others could be left alone to wonder the forests. Pity is what gripped him then, his rage melting away at the sight of her. He had mistakenly taken her silence for slowness of the head. Trying a simpler more basic approach, Boromir dismounted his horse—taking note the girl took two steps backward for each of his attempts to move forward—and extended an introduction. "I am Boromir of Gondor." he put his hands up, nodding his head in a manner that he hoped would tell her he meant her no ill. "What are you called, child?"

Apparently she had not taken kindly to being called a child, for the same ridiculous visage where she had pulled her eyebrows together and frowned adorned her face again. This time though, she had at least made an attempt to communicate, albeit not in the way Boromir expected. Once she shook off his insult, the dark haired girl placed a hand to her throat and tapped it delicately three times. She shook her head side to side, as one might in answering a question silently with a no. It became painfully apparent to Boromir why she had not responded before. "You are dumb…forgive me…I hadn't known…"

Selfishly all he could think of was how in the light of things, getting answers to where—exactly—in Arda he was, was going to be more difficult than before. Watching as she merely shrugged off his idiocy, Boromir tried again, this time using only questions that could be answered with either a yes or a no. "Is this the road to Rivendell?" His voice may have come off a tad more irritated than what he wished it to, but the girl hadn't seemed to pay mind to it.

She only smirked at the lost fool and tiled her head to the side, slightly moving it to and fro it to indicate a 'no'.

He smiled wide then, his own misfortunes extremely comical in his own eyes. Boromir's laughter boomed in the stillness of the wood, all the while the young girl looking at him as if he were mad. He shook his head and wiped the tears from his eyes before placing his hand firmly on his hip. Boromir clear his throat. "I would say it is safe to assume that my latter query was correct? You know the way to the Last Homely House?"

Pulling away with the slightest of ease, drawing back towards the end of the road, the girl paused in answering. After Boromir's display, she was questioning his sanity. Slowly, she nodded a yes.

Well, at least he was getting somewhere; though he never thought it would be at the digression of a mute girl. Which he considered, would make it extremely difficult to receive directions. Unless she could read a map or write the way in ink; he considered this. "Can you read?"

No.

Boromir felt his brain pulse with steadying beats of a forming headache. Nothing in the world had compared to the trial of finding this place. Not a damn thing. Albeit after bearing in mind that trial, he was forced to wonder, how much of a burden could one lame girl be? That aside in true chivalry, Boromir in good conscience could not leave her in the wilderness alone—her inability to speak set aside—she was only a girl. "Would it be too great a good turn to ask that you might show me the way? I would pay you for your services if you'd like or at the very least leave you in the care of the Elves…" His invitation could not have sounded more doleful. He might have kicked himself for it—hard. Her answer either meant his success or failure; he may well have at least tried to sound more convincing.

Surprisingly, the girl shrugged her shoulders and nodded a yes. Unsure if what he saw was correct, he asked again—and again she curtly shook her head to indicate a yes. Her frustration releasing in a heavy huff, which was visible as her breath swirled in the cold air.

"Yes well," Boromir was still trying to grasp her eagerness. It was unsettling…was she always so willing to help complete strangers? How sure was he that he could trust her? Was he supposed to trust to fate she actually knew the way to Rivendell, when no one he had come across in his journey had? Boromir reminded himself that he hadn't even known her name. "Very good then…"

She stood there, her arms crossed over her chest, waiting.

"I suppose there is no way you might be able to tell me what they name you?" He sighed heavily.

Her face squared up resentfully as if she had tasted something bitter. Clearly if she had a name at one point or another hadn't mattered. In her stubborn youthfulness she would not extend him a hand in trying to decipher it.

"Very well then," his brows raised in innocent defense of her acknowledgment towards him. There had to be some way of addressing her without making things terribly awkward in their voyage ahead. Then suddenly, a coy smirk pulled at the corners of his lips and he knew then exactly what he might call her. "If you shan't tell me, I will call you Green—Bitter Green for every time you make that horrendous face."

At first Boromir was unsure of how her temper might react to being called young and astringent at the same time, but as her eyes narrowed and a wide smirk sprawled over her features, he knew he had made the first step at reconciliation for his mistake in the first place. "Bitter Green it is."