Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: In FOTR, after Boromir first encounters Aragorn at the Statue of Narsil, he ponders the broken sword and the man that watches over it.
Author's Note: A plot bunny attacked and would not let go. It was easier to write this than try to struggle.
So Ohtar had brought the shattered sword to Rivendell, instead of returning it to it's rightful place in Gondor. How many other heirlooms of Elendil's house were hidden away in the walls of this elf haven.
And that man…He had skillfully evaded Boromir's question without actually lying. Yet Boromir did not believe he was a man of the south. He had Númenorean blood in him, or Boromir was not the son of Denethor.
But if he was not from the south, then where? Could there still be a remnant in the north of the people of Arnor? Boromir supposed it was possible, but if so, it was worrying to know there were men of Arnor still alive in which the blood of old seemed to run nearly true.
And neither did he seem to be a stranger here. In fact, the man had looked quite at home, and unless Boromir was much mistaken the book the man had been reading was elvish. Boromir himself spoke little of the elven tongue, but Faramir was the scholar. This man must be nearly fluent. And he was dressed like an elf as well.
Strange. Very strange.
Boromir wandered from the house and out into the gardens. The sky was black, but dotted with a thousand stars, and the soft glow of torches lent an ethereal feel to the place.
He absently picked a path to follow; his mind still churning over the encounter.
The elves obviously kept the sword with reverence. A statue had been carved to hold it, and a painting skillfully done to hour Isildur's valiant deed. But why would the elves care so much? Had Isildur not failed but claiming the Ring? Had he not brought sorrow to the elves that were even now forsaking the evil of Middle-earth for the Undying Lands? Why would they reverence a man who caused such folly?
Perhaps Faramir would better understand, but he was a long way away. Once more, Boromir debated his father's choice. Had it really been the right one?
Boromir no longer knew.
He glanced around to get his bearings, and his eyes fell on a bridge across the stream his path was following. He was still some distance away and half hidden by trees and he was suddenly very thankful.
For there stood the man he had just met, and with him was a woman more beautiful than any Boromir had ever seen. And then he realized that she could not, therefore, be a woman, but rather an elven-maid more fair then any he had yet seen in the city so far.
They stood close, hands clasped, and Boromir knew that it was love he saw between them. The tale was suddenly becoming stranger yet. And elf-maiden and a mortal man in love? Were such things allowed?
They were speaking too softly to hear, but Boromir did not dare move closer. But he beheld the flash of torchlight as it struck the necklace the elf gave in to the hands of the man. And Boromir felt compelled to turn away as they kissed.
Silently the couple walked from the bridge towards the house, and Boromir caught, even from a distance the sound of sweet singing.
Now he was simply confused. And the son of Denethor hated to be confused.
He slept little that night, and was nearly late for the council the next morning. He could never, even in his dreams, have imagined the truth.