Author's Note: I meant to return to this story much sooner, but I at first lost motivation to write and then I lost time to write. Such is the life of the nursing student. And goodness, I didn't expect this to get so popular! Ah, my lovely readers, you bring me such joy! I hope to return the favor with this long-awaited chapter. I offer my most sincere apologies for the wait, and while I can't promise there won't be more delays, I shall at least endeavor to make them not as long as this one.

Chapter 5

Boromir approached Thorin nervously, dipping his head in respect. When Thorin nodded at him once in acknowledgement, Boromir took a deep breath. He had thought about how to phrase his request without seeming suspicious. He decided that the best way was to be honest, or at least as honest as he could be. Boromir considered himself to be a man of integrity, so even his necessary lie about how he'd arrived in the Shire had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Still, he doubted that "I was sent here from the future to keep you and your nephews alive" would go over very well, either. Boromir had to admit that if someone were to say something like that to him, he would definitely write them off as mad.

So, Boromir decided to appeal to something he and Thorin had in common: their love for their homes.

"My lord Thorin," he said solemnly, "I wish to offer my services in the quest to reclaim Erebor. You have said your kin claim this quest is yours and yours alone. I say that is not how it should be." Boromir took another deep breath to steady himself before soldiering on with his case. "The Oath of Eorl bound Rohan and Gondor together long ago. We swore to give aid to each other should need arise. Our realms consider each other, if not kin, then the closest of allies. If Minas Tirith was taken from Gondor and Rohan refused to help, the Oath of Eorl would be broken, and our countries would likely fall into war."

Boromir looked Thorin directly in the eyes. "I know not the custom of Dwarves in this matter, and far be it from me to speak against your kin. However, since you have not their aid, I beg you will take what help I can offer you in their stead."

Thorin and Balin were silent for a long moment. Finally, Oakenshield turned to the old Dwarf and said, "We shall have to restructure the contract; the treasure must now be divided into fifteen equal shares instead of fourteen."

Boromir cleared his throat. "My lord, please, that is not necessary," he explained. "I may be no better than another traveler now, but in Gondor, I am not without my own wealth. I have no need nor desire for the gold within the Lonely Mountain."

Balin smiled at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Well, be that as it may, laddie, we'll still see you given some compensation. At the very least enough to see you safely home."

Thorin also gave him a small half-smile. "And you may dispense with the 'my lord' business. I am no king until Erebor is reclaimed. You will address me as Thorin, like the rest of my company."

Boromir nodded once. "As you wish, Thorin. And I thank you for allowing me to join your company." Before Thorin could form a reply, the three of them watched Bilbo march out of the sitting room down the corridor.

"It appears we have lost our Burglar," Balin observed somberly. "Probably for the best. The odds were always against us. After all, what are we?" His gaze turned toward the Dwarves lounging about Bag End. "Merchants. Miners. Tinkers. Toy-makers." He scoffed, turning back to Thorin. "Hardly the stuff of legend."

"There are a few warriors amongst us," a slightly amused Thorin pointed out with a gleam in his eye.

Balin sighed. "Old warriors," he countered, clearly referring to himself. He looked up at Boromir. "And even the younger ones would stand little to no chance against a dragon."

Thorin stood up straight from the wall. "I would take each and every one of this Company over an army from the Iron Hills. For when I called upon them they answered, or else volunteered based solely upon a common love for our homes. Loyalty. Honor. A willing heart." Thorin allowed the barest hint of a smile to touch his lips as he concluded, "I can ask no more than that."

Balin moved closer to Thorin, a pleading look on his face. "You don't have to do this. You've done honorably by our people. You have built a new life for us in the Blue Mountains, a life of peace and plenty." When Thorin looked away, Balin added pointedly, "A life that is worth more than all the gold in Erebor."

Fishing the key out of his pocket, Thorin said to Balin, "From my grandfather to my father, this has come to me. They dreamt of the day when the Dwarves of Erebor would reclaim their homeland. There is no choice, Balin. Not for me."

Boromir thought back to when he had first met Aragorn, when he had been admiring the shards of Narsil. Many times after the Council of Elrond, Boromir had wracked his brain for the reason Aragorn had chosen not to reveal his identity to him. His words to Isildur's Heir on the Anduin may have been spoken in anger, but they were no less true. Aragorn was afraid, but having gone through his ordeal with the Ring, Boromir now truly understood what that fear was.

Aragorn was afraid not of being king, but of succumbing to the same weakness his ancestor had. In many ways, Thorin was what Boromir had wanted Aragorn to be like: someone who saw his destiny and, rather than try to hide from it, faced it head-on. However, whereas Aragorn was burdened by his predecessor's failings, Thorin seemed burdened by their expectations. He firmly believed that if he did not at least attempt to take back Erebor, he would be viewed as a failure, even though his mission seemed doomed to failure.

And Boromir knew Thorin's fate. Erebor was reclaimed, in the end, but the price? Thorin perished, along with his two nephews, the young Dwarves that reminded Boromir so much of the Hobbits he had come to love and cherish so deeply, his little ones. If he remembered correctly, in his time, the Lonely Mountain was currently under the rule of Dain Ironfoot. Boromir was unsure of Dain's relation to Thorin, but he knew that if he succeeded in his mission, that was one thing about the future that would change.

A hand on his shoulder made Boromir turn around. Gandalf fixed him with a look before beckoning him into the sitting room Bilbo had exited earlier. Once inside, the Wizard bade Boromir sit down, which he did, despite the comical size of the chair. His curiosity about why Gandalf had wanted to speak with him was soon dispelled in a very disquieting way.

"The horn you carry on your belt," Gandalf said. "It's a curious item. I have seen one exactly like it before…in the possession of Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor. How is it you have come to carry it?"

Boromir could think of no lie that would sound believable. The Horn of Gondor had been passed down through the line of Stewards for generations, from father to eldest son. He should have known better than to think Mithrandir would not recognize the relic.

Deciding there was nothing for it, Boromir opted to tell the truth and hope Gandalf would believe him. Keeping his voice low, he replied, "I carry the Horn of Gondor because, 80 years from now, I am Ecthelion's grandson."

Boromir did at least have the rare treat of seeing Gandalf look surprised. From what he had seen of the Wizard, that was something that did not happen often. For a long moment, the pair was silent.

Finally, Gandalf remarked, "There is no lie in your eyes. You do not have the look of a madman, therefore the only alternative is that you are telling the truth, as impossible as it sounds." He pursed his lips in thought before continuing, "I can only assume that you are here for a purpose, and that it has something to do with the Company of Thorin Oakenshield. For now, I shall keep my questions to myself. However, I will be keeping an eye on you, two eyes when I can spare them."

Boromir placed a hand to his heart. "You do not know me, Mithrandir, but I do know you. I swear on my honor as a Man of Gondor that I mean no harm to Thorin or indeed any other member of this Company." He took a deep breath before saying, "Illuvatar gave me a task to complete. If you ask it of me, I will reveal it to you. However, if you do not, I will keep as much information as I can to myself. I know not what may affect the future I come from, and there are some things that must not change."

Gandalf seemed to accept this explanation. He nodded once, satisfied. "Very well. You will forgive me, however, if I do not trust you immediately. Still, I can appreciate a need for secrecy, especially in a delicate matter such as this. It speaks to your character that you have won Thorin over; trust me when I say, that is no mean feat."

They were interrupted when Bilbo suddenly appeared in the entrance to the sitting room, an armful of blankets in his arms. "It's getting a bit late," he explained. "I thought you might be ready to settle in for the night. Thorin said they want to make an early start, so you'll need your sleep."

Boromir gratefully took the blankets from the Hobbit. "If I had known I would find such a gracious host," he complimented, "I would have gotten lost in the Shire far sooner. My thanks, Master Baggins."

Bilbo smiled at the remark. "No trouble at all. And please, call me Bilbo. I hope you sleep well, Boromir." The Hobbit turned to Gandalf and asked, "Will you also be needing a pallet, Gandalf?"

Gandalf smiled kindly at Bilbo. "That would be much appreciated, Bilbo, thank you. These old bones would welcome a chance to sleep under a warm, dry roof after all the traveling I've done of late."

As the pair exited the sitting room, Boromir spread out the blankets on the floor and began preparing for sleep. He used his Galadhrim cloak for a blanket, since all the ones Bilbo had brought were Hobbit-sized and therefore much too small. Boromir resolved to acquire a pack tomorrow to stow the cloak in; he had little doubt Gandalf would also recognize a gift from Lothlórien, and he'd had quite enough of the Wizard's perceptive questions for now.

As Boromir began drifting off into sleep, the sound of singing filtered down the hall, singing from deep-voiced Dwarvish throats.

The pines were roaring on the height
The winds were moaning in the night
The fire was red; it flaming spread
The trees like torches blazed with light