The Beginnings
Summary: On a lonely journey to one of the renown, if troubled cities of Gondor, Borlas meets a stranger on the road.
Disclaimer: Me? Tolkien? Ye lost yer marbles.
Rating: T simply for safety.
All of my stories are interconnected unless stated otherwise but you do not have to read one to read the other.
My stories are now available in the form of a list in chronological sequence on my bio.
Enjoy!
~S~
Gondor,
Fourth Age,
His horse came to a resolute stop. Borlas pulled back his hood, snagging some of his strands in the rough wool as he did so.
"What is it, boy?" He asked his gelding. Naturally, he did not answer. Borlas tilted sideways and craned his neck to look in a vain attempt to meet his eyes. "Do you not want to go any further?"
The gelding huffed in answer. Borlas grinned at his temperamental horse and straightened. He dug his backside firmly in his saddle and chuckled when the gelding refused to move another inch.
"Alright then, have it your way. We stop here." Borlas looked up the stars speculatively. "We have covered enough distance as it is."
He made camp not far from where his horse decided to rebel, by a small stream. He gathered dry grass and rocks before using his tinderbox to start a fire. He removed the saddle from his horse. He was alone but there was no one else around him. He doubted he would need to leave in a hurry.
His dinner was a small one, made of cold, cured meat and some dry nuts. It was a lonely road, whenever he decided to travel on his own. But he welcomed the solitude. He had more time for his silent musings. Borlas enjoyed meditation; it lessened the turmoil of his thoughts and gave him new purpose when the older ones were fulfilled.
His gelding brought him out of his reverie, as he lay flat on his back and rubbed it happily against the grass. Borlas grinned as he watched him.
"Still a foal at heart," Borlas said with gruff affection. He set down his bowl, intending to wash it later before he slept. He leaned back, supporting himself on the palms of his hands and looked up at the sky.
Stars always fascinated him, even at a tender age. The thought of creations as beautiful as white gems so far out of reach of any man, common or royal, astounded him. Songs were written about their beauty. Maps were drawn, using the stars as navigation. Some claimed to read the future in their patterns, and others simply said they were lanterns of light and nothing more.
There was no traveller nearby and he supposed there was no one for leagues around. The plains were most flat, with shallow dips where one ended and another began. The grass that grew on the plains was dull green in colour, with shots of gold where the blades were old or dead. All of it was tinted silver from the moonlight. Crickets hummed their symphonies. One hopped on his fingers before darting again in the grass. Borlas remained calm. He was not fond of insects, but he did not mind their presence. He met worse enemies.
His eyes stayed on the sky above him. There was not a single cloud in the sky and of that, he was very grateful. He named the constellations in his head; the butterfly, just above Eärendil. The twins, a warrior and an archer, just below it. The lady, dancing elegantly across the sky opposite to Eärendil. He hummed a tune under his breath. It was an old song he once heard his mother sing long ago, about the making of the world and the blessings of Gondor. It spoke of Elves of old, whose blood later mixed in the line of Kings of Gondor. He sang softly as he tended to the small fire before him.
"Please, stranger. Is there any warmth by your campfire to share with a weary traveller?"
Borlas jumped and turned around, his hand going for the sword he did not have within his reach. The newcomer made Borlas uneasy. The shrouded stranger stood without a word. He saw nothing of his face or figure. Borlas glanced around him warily. He had unobstructed view of the land around him. His horse was trained not to trust anyone other than himself. How did this stranger come so close without raising any alarm from his horse?
Borlas glanced at his belongings and silently cursed. He forgot to unbuckle his sword from the pommel of his saddle.
"There is no need to be afraid." The stranger murmured. Borlas nearly jumped. The voice was soft, slightly deep but undoubtedly feminine. What was a woman doing out here in the wilderness alone at night?
She turned her head slightly towards his campfire.
"May I sit? It is a long and weary road to tread on."
"Of course," Borlas spurred to action. He raised himself to his feet and gestured at her to sit. She inclined her head, probably as a way to thank him and gracefully settled in front of the fire. The shroud created folds as it met the ground. Borlas saw that the cloth was fine, dyed in deep blue and the edges hemmed with silver stars connected to each other with long intricate lines. Clearly the woman belonged to a higher rank. Was she a noble, who lost her companions on a journey? Did her escort meet an unfortunate end? If so, then why did she seem so calm and untouched?
The questions churned in his mind. It did nothing to explain how she approached him without any warning. His mind returned to the strange fables he heard in taverns, about spectres roaming the plains of Gondor and the perils if one ever crossed them. His eyes strayed again to the sword hanging from his saddle.
"Would it comfort you if you had the hilt of your sword in your hand?" The lady asked. Borlas started and tried to school his feelings. Something about this newcomer threw him off. He felt unbalanced and strange, like a child learning its footing on the deck of a ship. Yet somehow, she seemed harmless even as power churned about her and covered her as thickly as her cloak.
"I doubt it." Borlas said. "If you are more dangerous than what you seem, then you would kill me in a single sweep."
He inwardly swore that he saw a smile hidden in the shadows of her hood.
"That is indeed true." She murmured. "You are not deceived by looks. That is good. One must be wary of things that are unfamiliar to them, yet should not react with fear. I am indeed dangerous like you are dangerous to some. But my purpose for visiting you is quite different." She tilted her head towards him. He caught the bright light of her eyes flickering in the firelight. "Do you not know who I am?"
She spoke just as gently as she did when she first introduced herself. Borlas shook his head warily. The sense of power and strength did not fade from her. Instead it seemed her aura grew stronger and more dangerous. She was something far more than what he imagined her to be, he was sure. She did not keep him in suspense for long. She pulled back her hood with one pale hand and revealed her face to him.
A single glance was enough to take his breath away. She was breathtakingly beautiful. Her pitch-black hair was braided and coiled in an elegant bun at the nape of her neck. While she wore no circlet, her hair was dressed in flawless white gems that resembled bright stars on a black sky. Her eyes were angled and catlike, tinted deep blue. Her lips were red against porcelain skin, slightly curled in a small smile.
Borlas was not a scholar, but neither was he an ignorant. He read enough books and saw enough portraits to know who stood before him.
"Varda," he whispered. His heart stilled for a split moment and then began anew, thudding hard against his ribs. The woman smiled. "Impossible. The Valar do not move among the Free People."
Varda laughed. Her teeth flashed white, stained red by the campfire.
"You may find that they do, at times." Varda turned her head away, the firelight playing over her profile. "But I do not journey through Arda like Oromë or Yavanna. Only when it is necessary." Borlas realised belatedly that he showed no respect. He clumsily knelt and bowed his head to her. Varda laughed gently again. "Rise, my warrior. There is no need for such actions."
He complied, his heart still racing like a cavalry of stallions on a stampede. Borlas looked upon her in awe. What does one say when in company of a Vala?
"Tell me," Varda arranged her robes until they spread wide around her, like the starlit sky above them. "What kind of love do you beat for this land?"
The question wrenched him out of his awe; he was like a man newly awakened.
"Gondor?" He asked. She nodded and then he paused. "I bear it the same love as a child would for his mother. This kingdom is my home, my birthplace and I give my loyalty to it." She smiled at him.
"Like a child would for his mother?" She mused. "There is truth in your words. You do not lie to me."
"Never, my lady."
"Do you mean you will forever be honest to me?"
"I simply mean that my sentiments for Gondor are not the kind that I would ever hide."
Varda laughed. It was gentle and pleasing to hear.
"Good." Varda praised him. "Your loyalty for Gondor will be to her benefit. The Men like you will be the ones who may save her from ruin."
"Ruin?" Borlas asked with his ears pricked. His heart shook a little. "What do you mean by ruin?" Varda' smile disappeared.
"All cities see their fall, after they rise." Varda looked into the burning flames. Her face was thrown in sharp contrast as the light from the fire played across her features. "All nations must see a downfall, after they reach their peak."
"But is Gondor not close to the Valar's hearts?" Borlas asked urgently. He leaned forward, closing some distance between them without realising what he did. "The King is the descendant of the great houses of Elves. Is he not dear to them, like Elves are?"
"Elves were dear to us too, long ago," Varda said. "But our love had a weakness. And the Elves took advantage of it to sail to Arda Marred against our wishes."
"But they paid for their mistakes," Borlas persisted. "And they grieved for their losses long after."
"Mistakes do not fade, child, even if the ones who made them feel sorry for what they did."
"That is cruel."
"That is truth," Varda corrected him, as if she were commenting on the weather. She smiled at him tenderly. "Oh, my child, you do not know much of the world yet. Such is the way this world was made! Death arrives quickly to the Race of Men and it steals their lives before they learn much wisdom." She sighed. "And so they make mistakes, again and again and yet again. They never learn from their forebears, nor from history. To the young, the tales of the old are nonsense."
Varda rose elegantly and walked to the furthest corner of the campfire. Her back was to him.
"There is an evil rising," she murmured but he heard her clearly. "Darkness falls upon the lands like a cloak. The tendrils of the cloth reach outward, searching and conquering. Soon, Gondor will fall."
Borlas' throats became dry but emotion made him speak.
"Gondor survived the coming of Sauron. It will not fall."
Varda turned her gaze upon him, compassionate.
"Innocent child," she said gently. "Every kingdom must rise and then fall. Such is the way of the world."
"Well, then it will not fall now!" Borlas sprang to his feet. "What must be done to save it for darkness? Tell me."
"It will be a lonely road." Varda cautioned.
"I do not have any fear for it." Borlas said grimly. He walked alone before. This will be no different. Varda smiled gently. And then she turned away.
"Nay, you are right. You will have nothing to fear." She called over her shoulder. "You are in my hands now."
She paused and turned her head. She held herself proudly, but there was a kind smile on her face.
"You will fear neither sickness or death. Time will be slow to touch you. But heed my words. My gift comes with the price. You will suffer the aches the Elves once suffered; your loved ones will pass before you. The world will tilt and shift until all that you knew changed completely before your eyes. You will know happiness and grief and happiness again. And when your work is done, you may join your kin in the Halls of Mandos, and depart to the outer circles where you will meet your fate."
"And what waits for the Race of Men beyond the outer circles?" Borlas asked.
"I do not know." She answered.
"Tell me."
"Indeed, I do not know." Varda repeated. "Such knowledge is not shared with the Valar, or any creature lesser than us." Varda studied his figure while Borlas thought. "What day you, son of Man?"
Borlas was silent. He was not sure whether he was being given a blessing or a burden.
"My loyalty is to Gondor." Borlas thought to himself "I shall protect her with any means."
As if she heard his thoughts, Varda smiled.
"One thing is commendable about the men of Gondor," Varda whispered as she stepped back. Shadows grew long over her face and silhouetted her body. Slowly her figure became dim. "They are resilient." She took another step back and she vanished except for her starlit eyes. When Borlas blinked, she was gone.
Frowning, he returned to the fire and thought for many long hours afterward.
~S~
Author's Note:
I seem to enjoy the Valar interacting with the Free People more and more. The idea of their interaction came from reading the Silmarillion where they played an active role. Yet in LoTR you see very little mention of them and almost no interaction.
The idea of Varda being the one speaking to Borlas came from the emblem of Gondor, of the white stars above a white tree. It somehow made sense to have Varda in place.
Borlas is a strange character to play. During the Return of the King, he is but a young boy and by the time of the Shadow War, he is an elderly man well respected and well known. It made little sense to me, since he seemed to have lived a long life and yet remained... Robust? Healthier than you expect him to be? I had two choices; either he was old and decrepit and to portray him that way or to have him "preserved" by the Valar until the time he completes his task. I went for the latter, because that seemed more fantastical.
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