Chapter 1: The Shards of War
Boromir was close to wishing he had left this journey to Faramir, his little brother might have been suited to diplomatically navigating this eerie realm, at least Boromir was sure he would be. Not that the elves were rude, they were unfailingly polite if aloof and very good at speaking without saying something. When they had arrived at the Hawk's Watch Boromir had believed the elves might not be that different as the legends made them out to be, for the Watch was a sensible fortress covering the steep pass road leading into Rivendell. Their welcome had been assured as well, it seemed that his travelling companions were known to the Elves and had been invited to some kind of meeting at the court of the elven King.
His own arrival had been greeted politely as well – though that was where the unnerving part began. Lindir, some kind of majordomo of the court had told him that Boromir's own search might be linked to a council soon to be held and that Boromir would be heard there, then he had glided away, leaving Boromir to wonder what his words meant. And then there were the stares he was getting, elves looking at him with a most puzzled expression and then heading away swiftly. It had begun at the Watch, where some warriors had stared at him but it became worse inside the valley. At first he had wondered if the elves were simply not used to the presence of strangers, that his presence startled them in the same way an Elf's presence would startle people in the streets of Minas Tirith, but then he had noticed that it was only some who reacted so strangely. He had tried to speak to some of them, to find out what the reason for their strange behavior was, yet if he did not run into the language barrier of not speaking any elven, he found their answers elusive and cryptic, so he had given up on it entirely.
Still the glances were unnerving, as was being told that a council would be held soon and being relegated to waiting. The second evening Boromir found no rest at all and took to wandering about. He wondered where his travelling companions had been quartered, they had been swiftly called away after their arrival, for a meeting with some elven prince. Still, the company of someone reasonable and less cryptic than their esteemed hosts would be wonderful. Walking up a winding stair Boromir could not help but find the entire architecture of this House… this Palace… confusing, wide open arches, rooms that were missing half the proper walls and stairs that seemed to lead nowhere. He had a hard time to feel calm in these rooms, in buildings that were practically indefensible, that had no solid walls, allowed for no cover and left a man exposed from all angles. He briefly wondered if this was what peace was supposed to look like, a place where no one even thought of reasonable safety but he decided against it. No sensible man had built such strange buildings in generations of peace, it had to be an Elven trait.
The winding stair led up into a real building for a change, or a real building as far as things went here, it had closed walls and less arching windows, he allowed himself to relax slightly, to take in the beauty of the halls he walked in. They had a fleeting, otherworldly quality that made him wonder if a soul might stray too deep into these halls and find itself in the world beyond without even knowing it. If Boromir had any picture of the land where darkness and pain were but a memory, this place came close. Ascending another flight of sweeping stairs, Boromir's attention was drawn towards the huge mural adorning the walls. They depicted various battle scenes, of men and elves fighting Orcs and creatures of the Shadow. He walked closer, intrigued how the elves would commemorate their past wars, there were several smaller murals surrounding a large one. The smaller ones held various battle scenes, a combined force charging at an Orc legion, a man battling trolls, an elven warrior falling surrounded my countless foes, all paintings had a depth of detail that told Boromir that the artist must have seen battle himself – there was a precision about the details that could not be attained in any other way. However, there also was a beauty in those paintings that withdrew them from reality and moved them closer to a depiction of legend. It was the faces that gave them away – the fighter's faces all were proud, stern and noble, there was nothing of the desperation, the horror, the wild blood lust and the sheer struggle for survival that Boromir knew marked the faces of those standing in battle.
And then there were the enemies – the Orcs were depicted with precise detail, their appearance and faces exactly what Boromir knew Mordor's legions looked like. But that was were reality ended – for there were too many Orcs and too little other forces depicted. No one, not even Mordor at the height of its power had deployed that many Orcs in the field without having their Haradrim captains and Easterling Elite in the field as well. No one better to make sure an Orc legion performed well in battle, than one of their grim commanders. Yet on the mural he found only two depictions of Easterlings and they looked so much like monsters that they could easily be mistaken for Orcs. Boromir shook his head, it was easy to believe the enemy a monster, a creature of mindless cruelty, only it was not true. He had seen the faces of countless foes, had faced many Easterlings, he even knew a number of them face to face and he knew the true horror of them was that they were not monsters, that they were men, capable and cruel as only men could be.
His eyes went to the great mural, depicting how Isildur fought Sauron himself – it was an impressive painting, the depiction of the dark Lord frightening enough for Boromir to take a step backwards, and yet… he could not tear his eyes away from the battle commemorated on the silent wall. He had heard the story of this battle countless times since he was a child, the lesson of strength and weakness the world of men carried, and he could not help but wonder again what truly had transpired on that field, how it truly had come to pass that the Shadow fell.
He shrugged, the shadow had not fallen, only fled and the war was not over, maybe it would never end. There was no use to dwell on the past, on things that could not be changed. He turned away from the mural and found himself faced with a statue of stone – one of the many mourning statues that he had seen in various parts of the valley. Only this one carried a bier presenting the pieces of a broken blade. Boromir stopped. The shards of Narsil – the elves must have built this hall to commemorate the last battle, the last alliance. How had the shards come here? Or had they been in their keeping ever since the battle? No, he vaguely recalled they had been kept in Arnor, or had it?
He wanted to step closer, but voices and approaching steps interrupted his movement. Two people were entering the hall on the other side. "No, I doubt that there is any hope for that," he heard a familiar, deep voice say. "if the Blacklock fortress is gone along with the Stonefist stronghold, no one pass south of Mt. Gundabad is reasonably safe these days, if they ever were and I'd not hope much for the pass of the winding stair either, Aragorn, the Black Deep is just below and if I know anything of that Orc den, they will be raiding anyone who crosses the Mountains."
Aragorn! That name startled Boromir's attention away from the statue, it was a name he had heard before, spoken by his father, when he told them about his distrust for Mithrandir and about the fallen line of Kings. Boromir had not expected to hear the name ever again. What were the chances that he should encounter the Crownless One here and at this time? Again he recalled the dream, the verse had spoken of Isildur's Bane and the Crownless One, maybe there was no coincidence in this?
"There must be paths across the Mountains that are still open, Kíli. Your people have been crossing the Mountains for decades no matter how many Orcs were roaming them." Boromir heard another voice reply, his eyes training on the two figures walking down the long gallery. One of them was Kíli, his smaller, compact appearance easily discernible; the other one was a man, about Boromir's height with long dark hair and with the proud face that could not deny the Numenorán ancestry. The profile was reminiscent of the statues in the crypts of Kings in Minas Tirith. Thorongil was indeed a living picture of them.
"And we usually send enough fighters to give the Orcs a lesson they don't easily forget," Kíli went on, both of them were still unaware of Boromir's presence. "and we kept focusing our routes on the High Pass, because we know Elrond's sons keep the Orcs on their toes so close from Rivendell's gates."
Both laughed before Aragorn spoke. "You have a point there, Elladan and Elrohir certainly have ensured that Rivendell does not have to worry about Orcs close to their doorstep. But the High Pass is not one Mithrandir would consider easily – he seems to hold bad memories of it."
"Talk about an unscheduled audience with his Malevolence not to mention that the upper path runs right through the Thunder Rift," Both of them stopped when they saw Boromir, who had turned towards them. For a moment there was a tense silence settling on them, Boromir wondered if he had intruded on territory where he was not welcome.
"Boromir, I already wondered where the Elves had sent you." Kíli broke the silence before it could become uncomfortable.
"You know each other?" Thorongil asked, with the strangest tone of voice. Boromir saw the grey eyes dark back and forth between them, from Kíli to him and back again.
"We crossed the Mountains together," Boromir's answer was direct and to the point, he could see the strange way Thorongil regarded him with, akin to the stares he had gotten from the Elves during the previous day. He was tired of it – whatever made them look at him like that, either they should say it or leave it. "and I am neither an evil spirit nor an apparition that will vanish at the rooster's first call." He knew that this man was the wrong person to voice his anger to, but he had seen how Thorongil's hand had sunken to a blade by his side, a short sword only but enough of threat.
The other man relaxed slightly. "You remind me of someone I met long ago," he cast a side-glance to Kíli and Boromir wondered what question he was silently asking. Or was he wondering if Kíli felt the same? "and I had certainly not expected to meet the Lord Captain of Gondor so far from his homeland."
"As much as I had not expected to meet Thorongil in the lands of the Elves," Boromir too relaxed, a mix up of faces, a resemblance with someone else might explain the one or other stare. His mother Findulas of Dol Amroth had been related to the Elves, who knew what vague family resemblance was still visible here? "though maybe I should be less surprised – as history ties you to this place." His eyes went back to the mural, vaguely recalling that Valandil, son of Isildur was said to having been fostered in this mystical realm of the Elves.
"There is truth in that," Thorongil too relaxed on his stance, his hand leaving the weapon. "I had not known that Lord Elrond had sent to Gondor for this Council, the journey must have been arduous especially with crossing the Mountains."
"He did not, it was something else that brought me here, though had I known that the Misty Mountains are nearly as bad as the Mountains of Shadow I might have reconsidered my route." Boromir would not blame Gríma for the dangers of the road, but he would admit that he had underestimated the dangers of the Mountain Pass.
"Which would not have helped at all," Kíli spoke up. "you'd have to cross half the Lone Lands to get to Rivendell, if you chose another path, not to mention Dunland and the Gap of Rohan which might be as bad these days, if I take into account what Aragorn told me."
Boromir's eyes went from the dwarf back to Thorongil. "As far as I know the gap of Rohan is still open, a bit restless but nothing out of the ordinary."
"So you do not know?" Now Thorongil was clearly startled. "I thought it might have been the reason why you came North. With the Nine leaving Minas Morgul the border must have been in disarray."
"The Nine?" Boromir had never heard of any possible instance where all the Nine had left the dread city. They were whispered to have one of their number in Dol Guldur in Mirkwood, but Minas Morgul was their lair, the city they ruled. "They left the dread city? What would bring them out?"
"They rode from Minas Morgul and crossed the Fords of Isen at Midsummer's Eve taking the shape of Black Riders," Thorongil's voice was tense when he spoke of them, and Boromir understood all too well. Those who knew the terror of the dread city never forgot. "they came North hunting for someone and came too close to succeeding."
"It must have been more than someone for them to come themselves and not to send some of their minions," Boromir's mind was racing. The dream... if fate had any reason to call for them like that, this must be it. Something that would also bring the Nine out of their city. "you said you could keep it out of their jaws?"
"Aye, it was a hunt that reached to the very fords of Rivendell, where the Riders lost their shape in the rushing waters and were forced to return back to their city shapeless." Aragorn leaned against the stone railing as he spoke, their talk had relaxed to a conversation between warriors.
"It's a tale you still owe me," Kíli shook his head. "I wish Gandalf had send word that Frodo was in danger – we'd have sent a good number of warriors to protect him at once."
The Ranger shook his head. "Secrecy was the key, Kíli, one man and two halflings could slip past the hunt nearly unseen, while any more companions would have raised the chances of being discovered. We had one close call, but were lucky to escape."
Boromir could see Kíli's frown, it was easy to tell the dwarf did not like that reasoning at all. "How grave is the danger for this place?" he asked "If the Nine returned South knowing their quarry is here, they might not give up easily on it."
A small smile relaxed the stern features of Thorongil. "The danger is real, but not immediate. The Enemy has no reliable army so far North and will not trust the Orcs with such an undertaking, still our time is limited."
"Kíli did mention Easterlings taking command of Orc strongholds in the Mountains," Boromir knew how swiftly any Easterling would transform the Orc rabble into an organized legion.
A shadow flickered over Thorongil's face when the Easterlings were mentioned. "I have reason to believe that they were forced to retract their scouts and commanders when the pressure on them began to be too great," he said, a definite edge in his voice.
"So it is true you and the Rangers went to hunt them down? There were rumors about it, but if there is a rumor about a Ranger it is most likely a garbled distraction." The dwarf had tilted his head slightly, studying Aragorn.
"After learning there was more of them, it is what we did, Kíli." Boromir noticed that Aragorn – like all Rangers – was not a man to like talking about his exploits. "because you were right, the resources of the Misty Mountains are too great and vast to leave to the East uncontested. And while we could not uproot the Orcs, we could hunt their Easterling commanders, after losing too many of their good fighters, the East retracted them. Though I do not presume to know what happened about their outpost in the deeps of Khazad-Dum."
Khazad-Dum, the word struck a strange chord in Boromir, like a tune half-forgotten but still remembered, echoing to him from afar. Why did he feel he knew this word? "Pushing them away from any useful base so far west is an impressive feat," he had to acknowledge that an Easterling stronghold in the Misty Mountains would be more than just a problem; it was a catastrophe waiting to happen. The number of Orcs and resources in their hands… they'd have the strength to open another frontline, one too many to defend against. If that was the reason why Thorongil had left Gondor, Boromir could the sense behind it. "I don't like to imagine how our defenses would look like if they could strike at Rohan from the Mountains."
"How bad is the situation in the south?" Thorongil asked, his voice softening at the words, Boromir could hear the worry in the question as well as hesitation. Did he not wish to ask, or did he feel he should not? Thorongil was nothing like he had expected him to be. He had expected a proud, maybe slightly haughty, heir of Isildur, not an almost shy ranger that reminded him constantly of Faramir.
"The riverline is our main defensive line these days, with fortifications ranging from Cair Andros, over Celanost in Osgiliath down to Emyn Arnen Towers and Pelagir fortress. We had to retreat from Paros eventually, because the River is a natural barrier and easier to defend. There are still a number of fortified settlements in East Ithilien that serve as our staging areas and as a constant base for the Ithilien Rangers. People of East Ithilien are exempt from recruiting because any man, woman or child above twelve is actively fighting or supporting the fight anyway. It's a fact that rankles the Western Provinces, but they are a lost cause if I ever saw one."
"Exempt from recruitment?" Thorongil pushed away from the railing he was leaning on. "How strict is recruiting these days? And what was that about the Western Provinces?"
Boromir was not taken aback by the questions Thorongil asked, he saw genuine interest, maybe even care in them and he had long learned never to underestimate a quiet ranger. "Recruitment age was lowered to seventeen, two fighters per family are compulsory, healers from the same family do not discount the duty for active service any more, a fallen family member will be counted as such for five years before the family will be approached for another. It is hard, but we only have to enforce it in the Western Provinces, who still dream of peace and think they can somehow talk their way out of the war against the Shadow. Along the Eastern border and in Minas Tirith we usually get the recruits through volunteering, but still… it just so compensates for what we lose each year. I was almost relieved when we learned that Haradrim were reluctant to commit their troops to Mordor… though the Easterlings will have cured them of that soon enough."
Thorongil's face had paled visibly. "Two per family?" He asked softly. "That… it must cripple your people to commit such numbers."
Overhearing the 'your people' Boromir raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. "What other choice do we have? The East is raising more and more troops each passing year, the Easterling Empire is ready for war… and when their legions march…" he did not go on, he knew all too well what would follow. "They hold an ancient grudge against us, against all Numenoráns, all Edain, and they will not stop until they have driven us back into the sea."
"The East has been broken, disregarded and shunned for nearly an age," Kíli said, sounding like he was quoting someone. "they are now awakening, their day is beginning to dawn and they know it. Beware the storm that will carry them to war."
"I remember when you told me that," Aragorn said to Kíli, his eyes going from Boromir to the dwarven warrior. "and it proved sadly more true than I ever expected it to be."
"Dwalin told me that a long time ago – and he knew what he was talking about." Kíli replied. "But the East has not won this war yet, so there's no reason to give up."
Boromir liked the dwarf's attitude – dig in and hold until strength runs out. Maybe there would be a chance to put out feelers in regard of alliances while he waited for this mysterious council to happen? "Dwalin?" he asked, another detail catching his attention. "As in Dwalin Bloodbane?" He had read the chronicles of the Great Imperial Succession, because that war had redefined Easterling strategy and military organization. "You knew him?"
"The very same," Kíli seemed confused for a moment, but quickly caught on. "he fought as a mercenary for Emperor Jadhur II during the succession before he came back and helped King Thorin to retake Erebor."
"He was a dwarf?" The Eastern Chronicles never mentioned a species for the famous mercenary leader and Boromir had assumed he had been a Man.
"He is the War-Master of Erebor," Thorongil interjected, something akin to wry amusement sparkling in his eyes. "You must have devoted some time to studying the East to know his name."
"If he still is around the Easterlings will commit some of their Best to wherever he is, when they begin their war," Boromir said. "for he is legend amongst them. And I did study that war, because it shaped the armies they have today. Knowing how the Enemy thinks is the first step to countering his plots."
There was a quiet silence for a moment, not an uncomfortable one though, more like they all needed to think over what had been said, or so it appeared to Boromir. "With things so dire, what brought you North?" Thorongil spoke after a while. "it must have been something so pressing that you could not entrust it to anyone else."
Up to this moment Boromir had not shared the full extent of the dream with anyone, he had kept the knowledge a close secret, something inside him recoiling from sharing the vision he and Faramir had received. And he was surprised that he felt less reluctance to share it now, sharing it with Thorongil would make a certain sense, as he was referenced in the verse but Kíli… strangely he felt even more compelled to share the story of his journey with the dwarven warrior, without knowing why. "The night after we retook Osgiliath my brother Faramir had a dream that kept haunting him for weeks," he began speaking, walking past Thorongil to put his hands on the stone railing and peer down to the lower level of the halls. "and after he began to block the vision from his mind, I started having the same dream, until we had it together. In that dream I saw the eastern sky grow dark and there was a growing thunder, but in the West a pale light lingered, and out of it I heard a voice, remote but clear, crying:
Seek for the Sword that was broken:
In Imladris it dwells;
There shall be counsels taken
Stronger than Morgul-spells.
There shall be shown a token
That Doom is near at hand,
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,
And the Halfling forth shall stand.
And as the voice faded we saw the dark silhouette of a Tower becoming mirrored in twain, their shadows drowning out all light except one last ray shaped like a blade, with us standing on the different sides of that edge in the shadows." Boromir turned around. "The last bit only happened when my brother and I had the dream at the same time."
"Does one of you have the gift of foresight?" Aragorn had stepped closer, there was an expression of worry and compassion in his eyes, like he could understand parts of the dream's twisted meaning.
"Faramir, he has the gift strongly, more pronouncedly than it has appeared in many generations." Boromir met the gaze of the grey eyes calmly. "I would not have worried when Faramir had the dream, he often has visions and he knows which are important and which are just glimpses at things that may yet come to pass… but when I started to have the dream too…"
"…it was time be worried," Thorongil nodded. "fate rarely pushes so hard at someone, but if it does doom is certain to fall behind. Is that why you came here, to this hall?" His raised hand included the hall and the mourning statue into the question.
"Not really, I was just wandering aimlessly, not trying to find anything." Boromir admitted, though now it dawned to him that his own wandering steps had led him to the very hall were the shards of the sword that was broken were kept, only to meet the one who should wield that blade. He pushed that thought aside, if he went on like that, he'd start seeing five sides to any four sided thing and end up peering into cockerel entrails before long. "Though I did wonder how the blade came to be kept here."
"Ohtar brought them here, where Valandil dwelt, after Isildur was slain and they again were kept here when Angmar's forces were threatening to overrun Arnor entirely." Thorongil replied, walking up to the statue, his eyes on the cleanly arrayed shards on the bier.
Kíli had raised his hand like to shield his eyes, though there was no light coming from the statue. "Mahal's hammer… Aragorn… those shards, they are alight, alive with power still, though they must have been broken millennia ago." He whispered, awed.
"I sometimes wonder if there is any man left in the world to wield this blade – were it still whole." Aragorn's words were not an answer to Kíli directly, more to himself, words not meant for others.
Boromir could heard the doubts, the self-doubts in the words and again felt a little reminded of Faramir, who had similar bouts of doubt at times, when the war allowed for a moment of breath, for a moment of thought. "It is said it will not permit the touch of anyone but your bloodline," he pointed out, his voice friendly still. "often we do not know how much strength we have until we are sorely tested."
"This blade was not wielded by my family alone, Boromir," Aragorn looked away from the shards and to him. "Not even my House can claim a lineage that old. Narsil was made by the Telchar of Nogrod during the first age and was wielded by Maglor, who passed it on to Erlos, Elendil's ancestor."
Again Boromir thought that his brother would have loved to see this, or hear all that history, albeit he most likely knew it either way. Before he could reply, Kíli spoke, his stance had relaxed again, maybe he had adjusted to whatever he had seemed to see from the shards. "It is not entirely wrong either, Aragorn. Maglor was foster-father to Erlos, and thus the blade was bound to a line, though a line of choice if not blood. I do not think anyone outside the line could wield it once re-forged, and I doubt the shards will like a stranger's touch."
A smile broke Aragorn's earnest mien. "I should have known that an arcane smith would see much more in the shards than just that. I often wondered why the shards were kept like this – heirlooms they may be, though not much more but a memory."
Again Boromir heard the doubts echo in Thorongil's words. When he and Faramir had discussed the dream, they had wondered if indeed the broken blade of Elendil was meant, or maybe the wielder of the blade was whom the dream told them to seek. If so… if Thorongil… Aragorn… was that, was he too broken in a way that would explain his doubts? He did not know.
"Because artifacts do not fade out of history quietly, they go with enough ruckuses to make an age pale," Kíli's answer held some grim humor, and Boromir was nearly smiling about it until he saw Aragorn's paling at these words. Whatever the Ranger had read into the words, it was not what the dwarf had meant and Boromir wondered anew what this mysterious council, and all the happenings around it, was supposed to mean.
Author's Notes
Help! A poor author is planning a short meeting scene and it eats an entire chapter. *runs and hides under her desk*. This start feels a bit dialog heavy, especially as the council is fast approaching… but I guess it can't be helped.
Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D
