A Heart for Falsehood Framed
by Soledad
Disclaimer:
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.
Warning: this story contains implied m/m interaction – don't read it if it's not your thing.
Rating: PG – 13, just to be on the safe side.
Author's notes:
This is Part 5 of my Boromir-storyline ''Fall Before Temptation''. There will probably be three more parts until it is completed.
Though I generally follow the books, this time I adapted a few lines of dialogue from the movie: the whole scene where Boromir sees the shards of Elendil's Sword for the first time; some in Elrond's Council. The only reason for this being that said scene helped me explore Boromir's character more deeply.
Other scenes from the Council, including Bilbo's verse, are taken from ''The Fellowship of the Ring'', re-written the whole scene from Boromir's point of view. I also messed up a bit with the timeline, both the movie and the books, otherwise I wouldn't be able to reach the emotional climax I had been working towards.
To the relationship of Boromir and Elladan and to the Lady Aquiel see my 4th Boromir story, ''The Bitter Gift of Compassion''.
The title of this story has been borrowed from a season 2 episode of the science fiction-series Andromeda.
Chapter One: Summoning to Council
The end of October passed and November came with cold winds and needle-sharp rains, turning the golden glow of Imladris to twilit grey, and even most Elves retreated into the confining safety of their houses, watching the changing of the season deep inside their airy rooms where the moody attacks of late autumn weather could not reach them, not even through the open archways that let one side of each room without protection.
Still, these days were probably the best ones for Boromir since his early childhood. When not truly happy – for that he would have needed the love of another one who simply could not love him that way –, he at least found some sort of peaceful contentment in Elladan's love. Even if it only was the comfort of flesh, for both of them.
Or, at least, so he believed.
For they were, in many ways, truly alike, in spite of the countless centuries Elladan had already known, compared to Boromir's short-lived mortality. Of high birth they both were, growing up in the shadow of intimidatingly powerful fathers, struggling to find their own path, constantly compared to younger brothers who were considered finer, more easy-going than themselves, finding comfort only in the harsh, fleeting love of another men – indeed, they were alike a lot.
After their first, somewhat frenzied encounter, Elladan went on with that customary (and, truth to be told, unnerving) Elvish eagerness to show him the wonders of Imladris – and wonders there were to be shown, no doubt about it! Boromir was a lot less artistic than his brother, yet not blind for beauty, and Elladan took him to all the hiding places of his long-gone childhood: to ancient trees and crystal waterfalls, through twilit alleys and huge, shadowy halls full of old treasures where no-one had dwelt for hundreds of years.
To his mild dismay, Elladan even insisted to introduce him to his friends who still dwellt in the valley (there were not many of those, though), but first and foremost to Elrohir and his betrothed, the Lady Aquiel.
Boromir found Elrohir easy enough to get along with, and they told each other tall tales of battles and orc-hunting, Elrohir being better with words than his twin, just as Faramir was better than Boromir; and he had the heart of a minstrel and his hands were as skilled with the strings of the harp as they were with the strings of the bow – which painfully remainded Boromir how his brother had to give up his harp lessons to touch nothing else but weapons of war for the rest of his life.
But the Lady Aquiel was tall and slender and as quick as a deer, and her long hair like molten gold and her sweet voice like the tune of a silver flute – and she was called Lalaith, too, which means laughter, for when she laughed, it sounded like the music of silver church bells, and even the rain and the wind stopped to listen to it. And though she seemed to be a friend of the Lady Arwen – and, as Elladan revealed, was even older than her –, Lalaith truly seemed as merry and unconcerned as old tales spoke about Elves. Elrohir surely seemed to lit up with relief in her company, having had to endure his father's brooding mood all day.
Sometimes Legolas, too, would join them on their rides outside the valley, admiring the wonderful, light-footed Elven horses that were kept in airy, open stables at the north end of the valley, or challenging the archers of the dale to firendly competitions which he won every time with practiced ease. For in spite of his love for the ancient trees and old lays, in the heart of his undying hearts the Prince of Mirkwood was a warrior, too, just as the two of them.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
''My mind is still troubled over the Heir of Gondor'', Legolas said on one greyish morrow, half-sitting and half-lying upon Elrond's huge, beautifully carved bed, trailing long fingers through the raven hair of his lover of old.
He had just returned from the dawn-greeting ceremony that he and his people traditionally celebrated every morrow under the oldest trees of the valley, adamantly stating that they would hear the song of trees at sunrise – something no other Elf was able to achieve and most of them considered a myth.
''And my heart is troubled over Elladan as well'', he added. ''We might have made a grave error to conceal Estel's true heritage from Boromir. Men are strange creatures. He might believe that we betrayed him… and lied to him.''
''That I, too, fear greatly'', Elrond admitted, resting his forehead on Legolas' shoulder.
There were days he wondered how he would be able to go on, carrying the responsibility for the fate of Middle-earth on his shoulders, if not for the soothing presence of Thranduil's son. However rare Legolas' visits might have been, he still anchored Elrond's soul and saved him from falling into darkness from all that evil and pain he had seen in his long, long life.
''Yet it would be perilous to talk about Estel's birthright ere the time comes'', the Lord of Imladris continued. ''Not even your own escort knows who he truly is – and they had hunted Orcs with him in Mirkwood for years.''
''True'', Legolas nodded, ''but my people are Elves. They have the time to wait till they are told what they need to know. Boromir is granted only a short span of years, as we see it. No wonder he is less patient in times of doubt.''
''Or in any other time, I fear'', Elrond sighed. ''And I do share your worries about Elladan, too. So strong the blood of mortal Men sings in his veins… so much more alike them he grows with every passing century. I always let him choose his own paths, in choosing his battles as well as in choosing his lovers, yet he still is restless, and I doubt not that could he not ride out to hunt Orcs, this very valley would break his spirits and kill him. With this one, however… I fear he shall get hurt, badly.''
''The son of Denethor is more than a match for him, in many ways'', Legolas agreed thoughtfully, ''for he cannot be controlled and restrained, nor would he respect Elladan the same way the Dúnedain of the North do: for his birth alone. This one is proud and stubborn and strong – Estel shall be hard-pressed to win him over… or put him on his place.''
''Yet what causes me even more anguish, is, that Elladan is slowly falling in love with him'', Elrond said. ''I very much doubt that he wants to or that he would even be aware of it. I would not mind him seeking distraction or rebonding with his mortal self – we both know he needs it or else he would be driven mad. But this Man has a deeply wounded heart – and should he lash out in his pain, it would hit Elladan hard. For he cares for him too much already.''
''You cannot be certain of that'', Legolas offered mildly.
''Oh but I can'', Elrond sighed. ''I can see it shining in his eyes. Never in nearly three thousand years have his eyes shone this bright for any one. 'Tis the same light that shines in my eyes every time I look at you.''
''Which used to make my father worry and scowl and grumble for at least a century'', Legolas laughed lightly, and Elrond felt how his mood, too, lightened a little.
It was very hard, indeed, to brood with Legolas around.
''I fear that King Thranduil shall never really trust me again'', he said. ''We might have put an end to the old grudge between our two realms on the White Council – only to create a new one when you came to me after Celebrían's departure.''
Legolas nodded, turning serious again, for Thranduil's disapproval truly clouded the joy they found in each other.
''You have to let Elladan follow his chosen path, just as you ever had'', he then said. ''He might get hurt, 'tis true. But we all get hurt sometimes. And your son is no tender elfling any more. He is almost as old as I am. Old enough to face the risks of love.''
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
So the days of early November passed by in some unexpected peace and the day of Elrond's Council arrived. Boromir woke early on that day, feeling somewhat anxious again, torn between excitement and foreboding at the thought that he would finally find out the meaning of what he came to think of as the Riddle of Doom – and found, to his dismay, that Elladan was already gone. Then he remembered that the sons of Elrond were, ideed, meant to leave shortly after the Council and certainly had preparations to make.
He got up and ready in mere moments, and after a short breakfast he left the guest house to walk along the terraces above the loud-flowing Bruinen and watched the pale, cool sun rise above the far mountains, and shine down, slanting through the silver mist: the dew upon the yellow leaves was glimmering and the woven nets of gossamer twinkled on every bark. He stopped again and again, glaring with wonder in his eyes at the great heights in the East. The snow was white upon their peaks and remainded him of the white locks of old Mindolluin, the great mountain of his homeland.
On a set cut in the stone beside a turn in the path he came upon the Lady Aquiel, who, too, seemed to be looking toward the East; and her eyes were worried, for the first time since he had met her.
''Good morrow'', she greated him friendly, but absently. ''Feel ready for the great council?''
''I have been ready for at least a month'', Boromir replied, somewhat gruffily.
The Elf-Lady nodded in understanding. ''We have tempted your patience long enough, I believe. Now, hopefully, you shall find the answers you were so desperately seeking for.
''What about you, lady?'' Boromir asked. ''Do you not want to hear the tiding and decisions this council might offer?''
But the Lady Aquiel only shook her head, smiling. ''Nay, I do not want to sit through long and boring discussions. I shall learn everything of importance soon enough.''
This surprised Boromir, for he always thought – and his unexpectedly long stay in Imladris only strengthened him in this belief – that Elves as a rule were utterly curious people.
But ere he could voice his amazement, a single bell rang out.
''That is the warning bell for the Council of Elrond'', Aquiel said. ''You should go now, for you are wanted. Do you need me to escort you?''
Boromir shook his head in polite refusal and hurried along the winding paths back to the house – directly to the porch that Elladan had shown him the day before, in order to make him able to find his way alone.
The light of the clear autumn morning was now glowing in the valley. The noise of bubbling water came up from the foaming river-bed. Birds were singing, and a wholesome peace lay on the land. And yet, a feeling of impending doom overcame Boromir's heart again, and the shadow that had cleared up a little during those cheerful days he had spent in Elladan's company, settled down heavily upon him again.
Elrond was already there, of course, and several others were seated in silence about him. Boromir saw Glorfindel with several other counsellors of Elrond's household, of whom he only knew Erestor, their chief; and with him was Galdor, an Elf from the Grey Havens who had come on an errand from Círdan the Shipwright only two days ago. And there was also Legolas, clad in green and brown again, as a messenger from his father, the Elven-King of Northern Mirkwood.
But not all of the Council were Elves. In a corner alone Strider was sitting, clad in his old, travel-worn clothes again; and Boromir saw the two Dwarves he had gotten a glimpse on that feast several weeks ago, so alike in their looks that they could only have been father and son… and hardly had Boromir found a seat for himself, a little apart from the others, as an all-too-familiar figure of an old man appeared in one of the arched doorways, wearing a long, grey coat and a big, grey hat; and leading, seemingly, a young, Elvish-looking boy by the hand. Yet the boy's clothes were anything but Elvish, and his feet were large and bare, covered with thick, soft brown curls, not unlike those upon his head.
Boromir was so amazed over this never-heard-of little creature that it took him a moment to recognize the grey-clad old man with that long, white beard and those deep, piercing eyes of his.
Mithrandir!, he thought, full of awe, now I am certain that I tumbled into something important – and possibly perilous. Every time when the old wizard is involved, strange things are going to happen. What shall Father say when he learns that Mithrandir's path has led to Imladris, just as mine?
To his utter surprise, the Lord Elrond drew the boy to a seat by his side and presented him to the Council, saying:
''Here, my friends, is the hobbit, Frodo son of Drogo. Few have ever come hither through greater peril or on an errand more urgent.''
Then he went on and pointed out and named all those the boy – the *hobbit*? – had not met before, starting with the younger Dwarf, one Gimli son of Glóin, and finishing with Boromir himself, who could not stop glaring at the strange little creature with that Elvish face, the ominous words of the Riddle of Doom rumbling in the back of his mind.
''Here'', said Elrond, turning to Mithrandir, ''is Boromir, a man from the South. He arrived a few weaks ago, in the grey morning and seeks for counsel. I have bidden him to be present, for here his questions shall be answered.''
Or so I hope, Boromir added in his mind, still not be able to trust the Master of Imladris completely.
''We have met'', Mithrandir replied in a quiet voice, and his eyes seemed to burrow through the younger man's mind, ''yet that was many long years ago. And it was rather his brother I had some dealings with. I hope Faramir is faring well?''
''As well as it can be expected in times of war'', Boromir replied glumly, asking himself what his brother might be doing right now and if he, indeed, was well and safe.
With that, Elrond opened the Council, and it went on and on, seemingly with no end at all. Much was said of the events in the world outside, especially in the South, and in the wide lands east of the Mountains, and Boromir listened with avid interest, for with what he already had known from the scouts of Minas Tirith and from his brother's dealings with Éomer of Rohan, he finally began to put the greater picture together – and a very dark picture it was, indeed.
It seemed that the long arm of Mordor had already reached out to take the remaining free lands in a tight grip, and there was little hope that they would be able to break that grip, ever. For it appeared, that even the hearts of the most resilient Dwarves of the far away Lonely Mountain were troubled.
Three times were they already visited by the messengers of the Dark Lord, who lured, then threatened them to win their service again, in one thing above all: to find a *hobbit* who had apparently stolen a ring from him – which, in Boromir's ears, who had faced Mordor's wrath all his life, sounded rather unlikely. So must have thought the Dwarves, too, for they gave no answer the messengers, no yes and no nay – knowing though, that they would come back, before the ending of the year.
''Heavy have the hearts of our chieftains been since that night'', Glóin, the elder of the Dwarves finished his tale. ''We needed not the fell voice of the messenger to warn us that his words held both menace and deceit; for we knew already that the power that has re-entered Mordor has not changed, and ever it betrayed us of old. And so I have been sent at last by Dáin, King Under the Mountain, to learn, if my be, why he desires this ring, this least of rings. Also we crave the advice of Elrond. For the Shadow grows and draws nearer. We discover that messengers have come also to King Brand in Dale, and that he is afraid. We fear that he may yield. Already war is gathering on his eastern borders…''
Boromir felt the weight of darkness growing upon his heart. What the old Dwarf was telling, made all his hopes – to find counsel and allies and maybe even some help in the far North – fade into nothingness. He would fail, and this time his shining city might fall with him.
He shivered, wishing to be at home once again. Whatever upcoming doom threatened Middle-earth, he wanted to face it at home, protecting his own people – and his brother – with his last breath.
Yet it would have done no good for him to show his fears before these people. Early had he learnt in the court of his father, that a leader had to show strength, did he want to master his duties as he should. So he gathered himself again and forced his straying mind to listen.
''You have done well to come'', was Elrond saying to the troubled Dwarf. ''You shall hear today all that you need in order to understand the purposes of the Enemy. There is naught that you can do, other than resist, with hope or without it. But you do not stand alone. You shall learn that your trouble is but part of the trouble of all the western world. The Ring! What shall we do with the Ring, the least of rings, the trifle that Sauron fancies? That is the doom that we must deem.''
Boromir shuddered again. Now the time has come that he learnt the meaning of that cursed dream that had haunted both him and his brother ever since the last bridge of Osgiliath collapsed behind them. The dream that robbed Faramir his sleep, that crept over his heart with dark foreboding, that made him wake up screaming when hefinally managed to fall asleep.
Now, if the Valar grant it, it might be over.
''That is the purpose for which you are called hither'', Elrond continued, with that annoying calm of his Kin. ''Called, I say, though I have not called you to me, strangers from distant lands. You have come and are here met, in this very nick of time, by chance as it may seem. Yet it is not so. Believe rather that it is so ordered that we, who sit here, and none others, must now find counsel for the peril of the world.''
And saying that, he looked straight at Boromir, as if his next words had been directed at him, and him only.
''Now, therefore, things shall be openly spoken that have been hidden from all but a few until this day. And first, so that all may understand what is the peril, the Tale of the Ring shall be told from the beginning even to this present. And I shall begin that tale, though others shall end it.''
* * * * * * * * * * * *
End note:
I chose to make the chapters shorter for better reading. Didn't change anything that concerns the Council itself, though.