Notes:

This story is based on a blending of the books by J.R.R. Tolkien and the the films by Peter Jackson.  So, please, feel free to imagine Sean Bean in the part of Boromir.  I certainly have.

Where events conflict, as in the taking of Osgiliath, I have favored the books.  (Only Boromir, Faramir and a few others survived, two weeks before B set out for Rivendell).  However, I chose to ignore completely that in Appendix B of the Lord of the Rings, Boromir arrives in Rivendell one day before the Council of Elrond.

The Elf's name is pronounced Nigh-ee-may, with sort of equal stress on the first two syllables.

Great thanks go to the "Encyclopedia of Arda" website; it is an outstanding resource.

Boromir, the First Son and Heir to the Stewardship of Gondor looked about him.  Everywhere the hidden valley of Imladris glowed with the fullness of Autumn.  The very air shone with a clarity he had never before witnessed, giving each tree in its chosen raiment of red or gold a particular glory.  Even the fading brown and gray warning of winter seemed luminous here.

It displeased him greatly.

He had been an honored guest in the House of Elrond for nearly five days already, though the first few he had spent recouperating from his long journey North.  And although he had been given a large room, well appointed and richly furnished, he left it as soon as he was able.  Close by he had found a wealth in objects, comforts, and amusements fit to rival even the King's House of Gondor in Minas Tirith, the city in which he had been born and had always lived; the city from which he would some day rule Gondor.

In every banquet room he discovered, every library, every hall he explored he had found Elves – Elves laughing, Elves singing, Elves reading, sporting, working, resting and sometimes just standing around.  And though they always welcomed him, accorded him the respect of his heritage and station and often, even, invited him to join them in whatever past time they were occupied they gave him no ease.

Even the house itself made him uncomfortable with its airy passages, translucent ceilings, and walls that were often more openings than, well, walls.  It quickly drove him outside.  He found he missed the plain and confident stone of Minas Tirith, the square streets and quaried stairs, the orderliness of its seven circles, seven offset gates and crowning white tower; The White Tower of Echthelion named for his forebearer and for which the White City in turn was named, the Tower of Guard of which he was Captain.

Boromir found himself muttering the passwords to each gate and circle like a charm as he left Elrond's house and searched out Imladris itself one morning.  He had been loitering about the house too long waiting a summons from Elrond to discuss his mission, his reason for being there.  It was a dream had guided him and like a dream it seemed.  Rivendell he soon discovered was well named:  countless small vales, hollows and leas were to be found within easy distance of the Last Homely House, many with their own sparkling brook or stream chattering secretly to itself as it sought the Bruinen.  He could only imagine it was all even more lovely even than glory that had once been Ithilien, the wooded land of which, as a youth, he had learned every tree though it had long before been spoiled by the Enemy.

In one particularly broad vale Boromir came across a group of Elves contesting at archery.  Many were the dark-haired, silver-clad folk of Rivendell but among them were other Elves, blond and taller, dressed mostly in habits of green and brown.  They all laughed as they sported, teased and called to each other and for some reason their merriment caught Boromir's fancy finally, and he stopped nearby to observe them and their game.

The joy and comraderie with which they vied belied a fearsome competition, the Man soon realized.  Two teams of archers took turns shooting at a group of hoops which swung from a tree some 40 paces distant.  The hoops were of varying size and much decorated; some hung closer and some farther but all were rocked to and fro by the prevalent breeze.  Although Boromir watched for some time the rules and scoring eluded him though he took careful note of the cheers and laughs or sounds of dissapointment coming from both teams.

It was clear to see who was winning, however.  One Elf, in particular, seemed to receive the most cheers and accolades.  The Elf was small, among Elves, but lithe and wore the dark hair and silver-green tunic preferred by the dwellers of Rivendell.  Boromir found himself admiring the Elf's clear face, deep gray eyes, and long legs and then chastised himself when the Steward's son realized he could not be sure of the archer's gender.  Indeed, Boromir had often found it difficult during his stay to tell men from women in the House of Elrond, a fact which only added to his discomfort.

There was a burst of loud applause when the Archer succeeded in launching an arrow cleanly through a remarkably small hoop striped orange and yellow.  As all the players joined in the celebration Boromir surmised that the game must have been won, although he could not have told how or at what score.

Still he stayed leaning against his tree at the edge of the greensward as the victorious Elf was approached by a competitor in green and brown.

"Your skill with a bow is formidable, Naimë.  I would not have said one of our kin of Imladris could best an archer of Mirkwood had I not seen it here today."

Far from taking offence at this reverse compliment, the victor only smiled more broadly and gave a small bow as the others gathered around.

"Indeed," spoke a teammate; "I hardly know why we let her play as she always wins."

"You hope, Thirnen, that my skill will rub off on you as I continue to hope you will become more of a challenge."

As the group laughed freely Boromir, from beneath his tree, noted that Elves seemed to delight as much in teasing and good-natured insults as in more fair conduct.  Perhaps, he thought, there was something to like about them after all.

"Shall we have another game?"  The woodland Elf of Mirkwood adressed the victor.

"By all means" she replied and then, much to his surprise, waved a graceful hand in Boromir's own direction.  "But look.  Nearby I see our gallant visitor from the South.  Perhaps he will join us and we will see what of archery or strategy can be learned from him for I hear he is a mighty warrior."  Then, as the others stood about loosely, the fair archer approached Boromir.  "What say you, Man of Gondor, will you come and play with us?"

The Steward's son straightened politely but sought to wave the archer off even as she neared.  "Nay, I will not, though I must thank you for the invitation."

"Have you found a surfeit of rest and amusement in the House of Elrond that you refuse our game?"

Boromir watched with some irritation as the Elf stopped scant feet from him and planted her bow in the grass.  He could see her ever-present laughter waiting patiently behind a bright smile and her dark-gray eyes glittered with the light that filtered through the leaves over their heads.  Boromir found they reminded him of the river Anduin at dawn off the Quay of Osgiliath.  Then memory of its destruction burst upon his mind's eye and for a moment wiped out all other visions.

"I came here seeking neither rest nor amusement," he replied brusquely.  "I have little skill with the bow and, I must confess, the rules of your game elude me." 

But the fair Archer would not be discouraged.  "But you are unhappy here, that much is plain."

At heart, Boromir bristled her forthrightness.  "I am idle, and idleness always makes me unhappy," he growled.

But she only laughed in reply, a gentle rippling laugh like wine uncorked.  "Come, Son of Gondor; there are many things in Rivendell to occupy the mind or body of any willing to seek them out.  Let me be your guide.  I have never before met a Man from the South, nor many Men at all, and I would be glad of the opportunity to know you better.  Will you meet me on the morrow?  If I can find nothing to amuse you before noon you may discharge me and I will trouble you no longer.  What do you say?"

Despite his black and restless mood, Boromir found himself rising to the challenge.  Waiting for Elrond's summons had been an irritation to him; perhaps he needed a change of strategy.

"I will.  But who shall I ask for about the house tomorrow?"

The Elf laughed and pulled her bow from the earth.  "There is no need.  I will come to you.  And I am called Naimë, which is 'like to a little bird' in your tongue, though I like mine much better."

With another laugh she turned and gracefully loped back to the players waiting for her.  Boromir did not stay to see the next match but stepped backwards until the tree he had been leaning on obscured his view.  Then he turned and pointed his boots back towards the House of Elrond, a curious smile teasing the corners of his mouth.