"The board is set, and the pieces are moving."
Chapter 4 welcomes you; she grows stronger than her sisters before her, but she is still rather vain-she hopes very much that you will receive a favourable impression of her!
The following morning, Boromir woke after a restless and interrupted sleep. He sat up, carefully unfolding himself from his heavy, fur-lined cloak. Blinking several times, he looked over at the figure of the woman, lying several feet away.
She had willingly accepted the additional blanket that he carried, and now appeared to be shrouded in a dense mass of coarse, brown wool. Only her head emerged, her short golden hair splayed wildly as she slept.
Rising, Boromir moved stealthily away from the cold campsite to relieve himself, frowning all the while.
Lady Elanor puzzled him.
Foremost in his mind was his concern for her well-being; the pathetic woman appeared utterly mad at times, though at others her eyes were clear, lucid, and full of sorrow and confusion. She spoke of lands that he knew not, though he did not discount this entirely; he knew very little of the geography west of the Misty Mountains, or to the north. It had been many years since the kingdom of Arnor had been abandoned, and Boromir had never walked it's rugged terrain.
However, swiftly following his bewilderment about this strange noblewoman was the unavoidable question of what to do with her. He could not, in good conscience, send her to a nearby settlement, for he knew of none. His travels had been lonely, and he was again struck with his ignorance of Eriador and Arnor.
No, she must travel with him.
This led to the pressing question of how the two of them would manage to survive on his limited rations, especially as Lady Elanor would undoubtedly be a hinderance. It was without question that he must take her to Imladris, but his impatience to fulfil his promise to his brother made the prospect distasteful.
Having completed his ablutions in private—and with the matter still unresolved in his mind—Boromir returned to his pack.
Elanor was just beginning to stir as he strode back into sight. He watched as she uncurled herself stiffly and rubbed her puffy eyes. She had been weeping, he realised, and slept poorly if the dark circles on her cheeks were any indication.
"Good morning, Lady Elanor," he said, somewhat stiffly, kneeling near his belongings.
"Hey," she croaked, looking about hopelessly.
Her mournful expression was hard to disregard, and Boromir watched her as she stood.
She was tall for a woman, he realised, though still several inches under six feet. Her figure was slim, without being rakish, and she had straight shoulders and a proud tilt to her chin. She would perhaps have been fair, had she been less woefully miserable, and brought to mind the women of Rohan; golden of hair and skin, with eyes of green and blue.
Elanor smiled shakily at him as she stretched.
"Did you sleep okay?"
"Okay?" he responded, brow furrowed as he tasted the peculiar word on his tongue.
"I mean, did you sleep well? Was it a good sleep?" Elanor amended, her face falling a little.
"Oh, indeed," he lied smilingly. "Though the Wild is not where one may expect to rest easiest."
That made her laugh bitterly. "No, not really."
She brushed her hands on her skirt, and looked about.
"We must eat before we set out, though if you wish to walk a little first, I shall save you some fare," he said, hoping to convey his meaning whilst tactfully looking down at the pack.
Boromir saw her flush a little out of the corner of her eye, and nod.
"I'll be quick."
Elanor hurried away from where Boromir knelt, arms folded protectively across her body to ward off the morning chill. She had slept somewhat better than the night before, her mind so weary that she had dropped off quickly. However, the hard ground was beginning to take it's toll, and her back and neck ached painfully.
"What I wouldn't give for a packet of Panadol, a shower, and a real bed," she muttered, glancing over her shoulder to check Boromir was out of sight.
What I wouldn't give to get out of this crazy, horrible dream…
Her stomach knotted at the thought; as little as she tried to think about it, the terror of her present situation lingered like a heavy blanket.
Oh, but I just want to go home!
Attempting to forget that her family probably thought she'd been abducted, raped and murdered, Elanor began the repugnant task of going to the bathroom behind a stunted bush. The chill air sent goosebumps up and down her bare legs, and she fought back tears as she stood up and prepared to return to her improbably rescuer - a fictional character from a book she didn't even enjoy that much.
This cannot get any worse.
Elanor swiftly found that things could, in fact, grow worse.
The day began to blur into a hopeless montage of sore feet, aching legs, and mental exhaustion. Several times she had to blink back tears as she stared at Boromir's broad back, moving with swift purposefulness to the north-east.
She had only realised quite how tall he was as they began their relentless trek across this godforsaken land, "Middle Earth". Elanor guessed he stood at almost two metres, towering above her. Adding to this was the fact that he was built like an Olympic swimmer, with wide shoulders, slim hips, and arms and legs that looked whipcord lean and immensely strong. His stride was effortless and she found herself pattering along in his wake, aching for a respite.
Boromir glanced over his shoulder occasionally, evidently to check that she was keeping up. Each time, Elanor gritted her teeth to prevent herself from begging for a rest. She was starving, filthy, and drowning in hopelessness.
After what felt like forever, Boromir slowed until he fell back beside her.
"We will break for half an hour now, to eat and rest."
"Thank goodness," she muttered, brushing damp strands of hair from her face. She was beginning to sweat from her exertions, but kept the blanket wrapped about her as a chilling wind clawed at her thin dress.
Lunch was, unsurprisingly, bread and dried fruit.
Elanor tried to eat slowly, savouring the food despite her hunger. It had not taken her long to realise that Boromir was short on rations, and that her presence probably meant he would run out of food before arriving in Rivendell. As consumed as she was by an overwhelming sense of self-pity, she couldn't prevent a pang of remorse that she should be such a nuisance to him.
Boromir ate more quickly, before striding off towards a low hill without a word.
Despite being largely indifferent to Lord of the Rings, Elanor could not help a flicker of interest as she watched him walk away. She'd read the book only once, as an early teen, and then seen the movies a handful of times. This Boromir was markedly different from Peter Jackson's version. He was far too other-worldly. His face was chiselled and noble, more like some of the drawings that she'd seen on Georgia's wall.
And then she was struck by the realisation that, at the end of this book, Boromir would die.
You're really losing it. This is some joke, or some crazy hallucination! Book characters don't exist. Georgia's pulling your leg! Boromir isn't real! Get it together, Elanor!
In spite of her mental protestations, she couldn't quite shake a feeling of wrongness that the man should be killed. He was stern, and proud, and rather awe-inspiring, but he certainly wasn't unlikeable. Movie-Boromir had always seemed like a bit of a dick, thinking only of himself and being completely consumed by the Ring. But this guy seemed… normal.
Elanor, you're tripping. Completely, off your head, tripping.
At the very least, he had given her food, and was trying to get her to Rivendell. Gandalf was in Rivendell, and she had a faint conviction that perhaps he'd be able to figure out what had happened.
Man, I hope I make it.
When Boromir returned, Lady Elanor had finished eating and was watching for him expectantly. He smiled slightly, seeing that she looked rather downcast again.
"We had best continue," he said, slowly. He was somewhat unsure how to command this woman. He had regularly given orders, but always to men and comrades-in-arms. Neither of Denethor's sons had taken a wife; both were consumed by duty, and Boromir had only ever interacted with noblewomen in the light-hearted and civil atmosphere of celebrations and feasts. Furthermore, this Lady Elanor appeared to behave in a fashion far different from the women of Gondor and its lands. At his words, however, she merely nodded.
"I suppose so."
He waited while she rose, brushing off her skirt mechanically. As soon as she had placed the peculiar black bag upon her back, Boromir turned towards the north-east and began to walk.
Scarcely a quarter of an hour had passed before he heard her call to him in her peculiar accent.
"Your pardon, lady?" he replied, as he faced her.
She flushed a little, caught between exhaustion and embarrassment.
"I just wanted to ask… how long till we get to Rivendell?"
A small smile playing at his lips, Boromir replied: "I had hoped to reach Imladris within three weeks."
He watched as her countenance swiftly melted to despair.
"So far?" she cried, her voice thin.
"I would not tell you an untruth, Lady Elanor."
She covered her face with her hands and swayed slightly on her feet. Observing her girlish face, Boromir was confronted with just how young Elanor was.
She is but recently come to womanhood. Less than half my years at most; my own child she could be!
Pity evident in every line of his body, he reached out and gently touched her shoulder.
Elanor peered out from between two dirt-stained fingers, her grey-green eyes swimming in tears as he took her in his arms. Half a moment later, she had buried her face in his chest, sobbing into his richly embroidered tunic. He held her gently as her shoulders shook.
"You are troubled," was all he said.
She gave a sad little laugh as she stepped back and met his gaze. "Yes, Boromir, I am troubled. But we must get to Rivendell, I suppose. Gandalf will be there, and he can help us."
"Gandalf?" Boromir replied, his expression lightening. "Great tidings are these, though puzzling; how came you to know his whereabouts?"
Elanor's eyes widened in alarm, and she hesitated before she spoke. "I heard it from my sister," she said finally, looking down at her sleeve and plucking off a piece of grass. "He will know what to do, for both of us I guess."
Nodding slowly, Boromir straightened his heavy cloak. He was disconcerted by Elanor's unexpected prophecy, but could not bring himself to be suspicious of her. Hoping that she would manage to exert her willpower and endure the following days, he turned north-east once more. He vowed inwardly to watch her more shrewdly. If she were to collapse entirely, she would only hinder him further.
To Imladris; he thought, sighing, and by Eru's name I hope there lie the answers for this girl, as well as myself.
October 24th, 3018 (Third Age)
Even as autumn waxed in the north, the Valley of Imladris remained quiet and tranquil. The grass was richly green, and the trees only grew in loveliness as their leaves faded to burnished gold.
The Last Homely House, home of Elrond Peredhel, seemed to whisper words of welcome as you approached the threshold. A stone courtyard, surrounded by trees and flowers, swept to the front entranceway, urging you up the stairs and gathering you lovingly inside.
The house itself was as graceful as only the Elves could make it, with sweeping lines and intricate carvings. It rambled upwards and outwards, with wide, pleasant terraces and lofty ceilings. On its eastern side roared the River Bruinen, tumbling exuberantly over craggy rocks.
Gandalf the Grey stared listlessly at the magnificent trees that grew just beyond the terrace on which he stood. His face was lined and pensive, whilst his thoughts wandered far from his present position.
"You are grieved, meldonya, and I will not urge you to be glad; for I know you treasured the halfling above many."
Gandalf sighed heavily and closed his eyes as a tall, stately figure approached his right hand.
"I failed him, Elrond. He trusted me, and perished at my hand," came a somewhat choked reply.
"Do not blame yourself; Frodo accepted the quest freely. None foresaw his fate, not even I."
Gandalf turned to study his companion. "Indeed?"
Elrond shook his head and frowned. "No, and it troubles me. My sight became clouded ere the beginning of October, though I had no difficulty perceiving the halflings in months past."
"Peculiar," whispered the wizard, returning to his mindless study of the gardens.
Silence fell for a time, before Elrond spoke again.
"How fares Frodo's uncle, Bilbo?"
"Ill, I am afraid," Gandalf replied. "He weeps constantly, and even the other hobbits, Samwise and Meriadoc and Peregrin, mourn him deeply." He ran his fingers down his jawline and turned to Elrond. "Aragorn is roused and suspicious; he senses something amiss, for though he feared for Frodo's life, still he had hope until yesterday. And contrary to all reason, I find myself seeking for an answer to this disruption, as if it were not meant to be."
Elrond, following his friend's gaze beyond the terrace, nodded slowly. "Do not question your reason; for such thoughts are also in my mind." He turned to Gandalf, his countenance grave. "But it shall not be long until we discover, for I sense the approach of answers."
Erestor strode across the courtyard uneasily. A shadow rested upon his thoughts, and traced lines upon his high, proud brow. His hands were clasped behind his back as he walked, and he frowned at the ground close to his feet.
The council of that morning had left him distinctly unsettled. Mithrandír and Lord Elrond had consulted with one another at great length, before drifting away without conclusion. Erestor had full faith in the formidable pair, wizard and elf, but their noncommittal responses flummoxed him.
Adding to this was Erestor's own sense of foreboding, which drew him beneath the trees and towards the narrow stone bridge which spanned the River Bruinen, to watch and to wait.
He had discerned the approach of a mortal - two mortals, he amended - as they had crossed the Ford of Bruinen and moved with painstaking slowness towards the valley's entrance. Lord Elrond could hardly have failed to notice their advance, but Erestor desired to seek out these strange guests first. Frowning, he positioned himself beside the bridge, like a sentinel guarding the path to his master's house.
Rare indeed was the day that Lord Elrond, rich in both knowledge and wisdom, did not have an answer to a puzzle. In all his living memory, time incomprehensible for the race of men, Erestor had never met his lord's gaze and seen fear - until today. And that, more than anything, filled his heart with dread.
As he watched, a tall man emerged from the trees across the river. He walked as one who had endured unimaginable hardship, and in his arms he carried the lifeless form of a woman. The elf-lord was touched with pity, and his stance relaxed somewhat as the pair approached the bridge.
The man trod carefully across, weary feet stumbling a little but still finding their place on the narrow stone walkway. As he reached the far side, he glanced up and appeared to see Erestor for the first time. His eyes were full of soundless pleas, but no word did he speak as he stood there with the woman in his arms.
Erestor paused, studying the desolate pair. Finally, he gave a curt nod.
"Bring her to Lord Elrond."
I do apologise for such a segmented chapter; I seemed to have trouble pushing through with long pieces of writing today!
Chapter 5 promises to be far more fluid though.
Again, give us a favourite/follow/review if you enjoyed reading this!