So this was my first story as The Blue Nunne, and is now redone in this new account. I think my writing has improved a lot more since then, and I did want to both finish and perfect this story. One thing I noticed was how short the chapter was and how little detail it gave. So please review it, and please compare it to the older story. For those who are newer to this my older story was titled "Return Warrior of the South, Shadow in The East" and leave any reviews on how I could improve the next chapters, I like hearing any ideas and constructive critizims. Thanks again.

Of many wonders that lay in Middle Earth the Great River was one of the oldest. It was always there, from the beginning of middle earth to its present day. It flowed with great strength, near the now abandoned area of Lothlorien in Mirkwood where once the elves had dwelt, to the ruins of Amon Hen and on. It had many mouths that exited to the sea. However there was another part to this river that many of elf, dwarf, and man alike forgot.

This smaller river was a part of the Anduin, however it was different then most rivers in Middle Earth. It drew the water from the river and it traveled northwards. Some old tales said that it was bewitched by evil elves that had been cast out for their ways that went against the Elvin ideals. This story however this was only but a mere myth. Still elves did have a part in its story. There in this smaller channel a boat did float upwards. It was of Elvin make from the woods of Lothlorien, and in this craft there laid a man who breathed no more. He was a captain, a brother, warrior, and a hero.

His name was Boromir, a man from the land of Gondor. There he lay in what looked like a deep sleep up the river. His sword that was grasped in his hands washed out of the boat and into the water. Though he himself stayed, up the channel he went to the end where the water flowed into a small lake. Though this lake was like the river, it was unordinary and enchanted for it healed the wounds of one who truly was worthy.

Someone who was worthy of another chance of life.

This was the lake of Numenor, where once the great kings of men had come. Now the souls of those kings came. For they knew of this mans destiny, to face evil once again. However this time to not be tempted by evils illusions and pay the heavy price for desiring these items of power and malice. There the holes in his chest where the arrows from the Uruk-hai had pierced were no more. The blood that had drained from those wounds was replaced by the lakes waters giving him a mix of his family's and blood from kings of the past, allowing him longer life and greater strength for his age, a gift that only the Dunedain had possessed now was granted for him. The soul from where his body had given life entered him once again.

Boromir had returned!

He opened his eyes and took in a giant breath of air. He sat up suddenly as if waking up from a nightmare, although he was unaware of how the surface he sat upon, the boat tipped and the man from Gondor fell into the lake. It was unusual moving his limbs again, as if he was relearning everything a child learned while growing. Still past experiences helped, and he was able to swim to the surface.

"Where am I!" he yelled out, coughing and spurting out water.

He swam to the shore and collapsed onto the nearby beach. His mind filled with questions. Some answers came to him; others were not so simple of an answer.

"From last I could remember I was fighting with the Uruk-hai and I was pierced by the arrows of one of an archer," he said. He then looked over himself but he couldn't find any wounds or even scars to prove of any existence of injury.

"Was it only dreams?" he asked looking around his surroundings; he had no memory of being here before, or of any known roads that he had taken in the past. "No, it was no dream" Somehow as if the wind answered him he now knew, what had happened. He had died, and his last memory of pledging his allegiance to Aragorn son of Arathorn was too real to be a dream, same with all the memories of the fellowship, his training of the two Halflings in the way of the sword, the fall of Gandalf the Grey, Galadriel's ominous warnings, the ring. It had all happened, and now by some miracle of chance or something higher he was here.

'The fellowship,' he thought. 'I must return to help them' He then cursed. Seeing he had lost his sword and shield. His horn had disappeared as well. He stood and turned and there at the borders of the woods and beach was a stone table. It was as tall as a fence yet it did not stretch out like one. There on the table he saw four items. The first to be seen was a familiar blade sheathed in a scabbard.

"My sword," he cried and picked it up and unsheathed it. On the blade were markings that were not there when first crafted, these markings were not of the words of men or dwarves, but elves. Knowing by the vague memories of his studies as a boy, he translated what he could and read

Burial Flame of the North

Looking at the rest of the blade nothing else had changed, still he recognized the hilt and the blade to be his own. So he sheathed it and attached it to his belt. Next the table lay the horn of Gondor he had carried an heirloom past by the steward to their first born child. Many say that if the horn was blown, it would be heard by the people of Gondor and aid would come. Next to the horn was his shield, sturdy as every no orc blade or arrow had yet broken its frame. He again placed it on his back. The fourth object was different. It was a green jewel. He had seen these jewels before, they were known as Burial Stones. These were markers for elves and the borders of their land. They were also used as weapons for when a burial stone is smashed upon a blade it glows into a flame on the sword itself. Being careful not to break or even crack it, he placed it in a pouch on his belt. Seeing nothing else there, the only thing left to do would be to depart to a more civilized location, he needed answers of what had taken place while he lay in death.

"I must find the others," he said. Boromir soon remembered of his last conversation with Aragorn. He had let Frodo go to Mordor alone.

Perhaps he could catch up to the hobbit and aid him, but a fearful feeling welled inside him. His temptation to the ring, it nearly led to his own destruction, and failure to the fellowship's mission. Frodo would be better on his own.

"No," he said, "I must go to Gondor."

And so he looked back one last time at this place that he awoke upon. Not knowing what reason it had for doing so. He had no true idea where to go, as there were no roads he went into the forest, hoping that the path he was taking would lead him back to his home.