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:
Last time I decided to break my stories into multiple chapters to make it easier to read them. I also hope to have eliminated a few nasty typos that tend to stay in the text, even after several checks.
Ah, and by the way, reviews are still much appreciated!
Chapter Two: Tales and RevelationsThen all listened while Elrond in his clear voice spoke of Sauron and the Rings of Power, and their forging in the Second Age of the world long ago.
It was a long tale, and Boromir grew more and more impatient, for a good part of it was known to him already, having been taught the lore of the Kingdoms of Men, both in the North and in the South.
So he listened only with half an ear, his mind wandering around the badly threatened borders of Gondor – until Elrond finally came to speak of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, that had overthrown the Dark Lord at the end of the Second Age.
''I was the herald of Gil-galad, last High King of the Noldor, and marched with his host'', the Lord of Imladris said. ''I was at the Battle of Dagorlad before the Black Gate of Mordor, where we had the mastery; for the Spear of Gil-galad and the Sword of Elendil, Aiglos and Narsil, none could withstand. I beheld the last combat on the slopes of Orodruin, where Gil-galad died and Elendil fell, and Narsil broke beneath him; but Sauron himself was overthrown, and Isildur cut the Ring from his hand with the hilt-shard of his father's sword and took it for his own.''
At this, Boromir suddenly felt as if a ray of sunlight fell through a broken window into a large, shadowy room. All the searching and guessing Faramir had done back home, at once became a whole new meaning.
''So that is what became of the Ring!'', he cried. ''If ever such a tale was told in the South, it has long been forgotten. I have heard of the Great Ring of him that we do not name; but we believed that it perished from the world in the ruin of his first realm. Isildur took it! That is great tidings, indeed.''
And his mind began working in frenzy with the new promises of this, wondering, how he could use these news for the good of his city.
''Alas! yes'', said Eldrond. ''Isildur took it, as should not have been. It should have been cast then into Orodruin's fire nigh at hand where it was made. But few marked what Isildur did. He alone stood by his father in that last mortal contest; and by Gil-galad only Círdan stood, and I. But Isildur would not listen to our counsel. He took the Ring to treasure it. And soon he was betrayed by it to his death; and so it is named in the North Isildur's Bane…''
Elrond paused, looking at Boromir's unreadable face again, fearing how these tidings would touch the heart of a Man, darkened already by the Shadow of Mordor. When he continued, his voice became soft, almost gentle.
''Only to the North did these tidings come, and only to a few. Small wonder it is that you have not heard them, Boromir. From the ruin of the Gladden Fields, where Isildur perished, three men only came ever back. One of these was the esquire of Isildur who bore the shards of the Sword of Elendil; and he brought them to Valandil, the heir of Isildur, who being but a child had remained here in Imladris. But Narsil was broken and its light estinguished, and it has not yet been forged again.''
''That much I have already learnt'', Boromir muttered under his breath, remembering his first encounter with the Lord of Imladris, shortly after his arrival.
But no-one listened to him, save maybe Strider, whose eyes never seemed to leave his face, and Elrond went on to tell the tale of the North and South Kingdoms of Men – a tale of little interest for Boromir who had been taught the history of his sires and his city in great detail from his early childhood on, and indeed, he could have told a lot more about Gondor's struggles and bravery than Elrond did.
And so once Elrond ceased to speak, Boromir suddenly stood up, tall and proud before the Council, for he felt the need to speak.
''Give me leave, Master Elrond'', he said, ''first to say more of Gondor; for verily from the land of Gondor I am come, as many of you might already know. And it would be well for all to know what passes there. For few, I deem, know of our deeds, and therefore guess little of their peril, if we should fail at last.''
He paused, looking around the cold, detached faces of all the Elves sitting there; then at the wide-eyed, clearly frightened face of that… hobbit? sitting between Elrond and Mithrandir, who seemed, at least, worried enough to listen; and finally at Strider, and their eyes met in a brief struggle of wills. And he continued, aiming his words directly at the Ranger.
''Believe not that in the land of Gondor the blood of Númenor is spent, nor all its pride and dignity forgotten. By our valour the wild folk of the East are still restrained, and the terror of Morgul kept at bay; and thus alone are peace and freedom mantained in the lands behind us, bulwork of the West.''
Even as he spoke, he could remember having uttered these very same words in the Golden Hall of Meduseld, before King Théoden and his court. But there, among the faithful allies of Gondor, people at least listened to him; and he had the support of his dear friend, Théodred son of Théoden, who shared his concern for the lands of Men in a way Elves, who might flee over the Sea when the peril grew too close, could never have done.
''And yet the hour of our fall, maybe, is not far away'', he added bitterly. ''The nameless Enemy has arisen again. Smoke rises once more from Orodruin that we call Mount Doom. The power of the Black Land grows and we are hard beset. Osgiliath has fallen, finally, the last bridge destroyed. We are fighting with our backs against the wall.''
''Is that why you came here to find the meaning of a dream that was sent to you and your brother as a foresight?'', Legolas asked, speaking for the first time. ''The right place you have chosen, it seems. For you have learnt of Isildur's Bane, finally, and what it might bring for us all.''
''And here, in the house of Elrond, more shall be made clear for you'', said Strider, standing up. He cast his sword upon the table that stood before Elrond, and Boromir saw that its blade was broken in two pieces. And parts of the riddle that had haunted his mind for a hundred and thirty days, finally began to fit together, though there were still some that stayed unclear for him – Strider being one of those.
''And who are you and what have you do with Minas Tirith?'' he asked, looking suspiciously at the lean face of the Ragner and his weather-stained cloak.
For he did not forget the feast that had been held to greet the return of Elladan and Elrohir – where Strider was clad like an Elven-prince, sitting on the side of Elrond's daughter, the Lady Undómiel of the songs, like someone who had the right to be that close to her.
''He is Aragorn son of Arathorn'', said Elrond; ''and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur Elendil's son on Minas Ithil. He is the Chief of the Dúnedain in the North, and few are now left of that folk.''
Boromir glared at the Ranger in disbelief… not that he could not have imagine him as a descendant of the Northern Kings, for Strider certainly showed all the outer signs of high Númenorean blood – he was only reluctant to accept the possibility that someone from that bloodline would still be walking on earth. The North-kingdom had fallen eighty years earlier than the last King of Gondor vanished, after all.
''This is Isildur's Heir?'' he repeated doubtfully.
''And Heir to the throne of Gondor'', Legolas quietly added. ''You owe him your allegiance.''
Strider – no, Aragorn – seemed uncomfortable with the Prince of Mirkwood speaking up on his behalf.
''Not now, Legolas'', he murmured.
But Boromir only sat there, unmoving, for what seemed to him forever. Now he believed to understand the game that was played here – and Elrond's role in it – and the need of secrecy that had kept him in the dark so long. Yet he thought it wiser not to show his full understanding, and he only stated in a low, but very clear voice:
''Gondor has no King. Gondor needs no King.''
No-one but Elrond, Mithrandir and Aragorn himself seemed to have heard this statement, and the deep eyes of the wizard became even more worried for a moment. The others, however, turned towards the little, bare-footed creature Elrond had named Frodo, who sprang to his hairy feet in amazement and cried to Aragorn:
''Then it belongs to you, and not to me at all!''
Strangely, this seemed to bring the little fellow great relief.
''It does not belong to either of us'', said Aragorn; ''but it has been ordained that you should hold it for a while.''
To that, the Elvish face of the little one clouded again with sorrow, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. Strange, Boromir thought absently, feeling almost sorry for him.
''Bring out the Ring, Frodo!'' said Mithrandir solemnly. ''The time has come. Hold it up, and then Boromir would understand the remainder of his riddle.''
Oh, but I do understand it, Mithrandir, the son of Denethor thought, while the small, trembling hand of the hobbit held up the gleaming and flickering golden circle. I understand it better than you might believe. 'Tis not the first finely-plotted game of power I have seen in my life… being the son and Heir of one of the greatest game-masters of Middle-earth. Indeed, I understand all too well what has been going on for years here, in the North.
''Behold Isildur's Bane!'' said Elrond.
Boromir's eyes glinted as he gazed at the golden thing before him.
''The Halfling!'' he muttered. ''Now I have all parts of the Riddle of Doom that sent me here from the far South. Yet what good could us do a Sword that has been lying in shards for three thousand years?''
He looked at Aragorn with more than mere doubt in his eyes. The Ranger did not answer. But the other Halfling that was sitting aside (a very old and withered-looking fellow), suddenly stood and burst out impatiently something that maybe was meant to sound like a verse of forgotten lore, yet sounded clumsy, like a lullaby rhyme, in Boromir's ears.
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall the blade that was broken:
The crownless again shall be King.
''Not very good perhaps'', the battered old Halfling added (which, in Boromir's opinion, was an understatement), ''but to the point – if you need more beyond the word of Elrond. If that was worth a journey of a hundred and ten days to hear, you had best listen to it.''
He sat down with a snort. Boromir did not answer. The Halfling was of little importance for him, though it bothered him that the little goblin seemed to know everything he had told of himself in Elrond's house. Yet his true adversary was the one in that weather-stained cloak.
Strider – Aragorn, he reminded himself, say Aragorn, you get better used to it – felt his sharp gaze and turned to him.
''For my part I forgive your doubt'', he said.
How gracious of you!, Boromir thought with a snort.
''Little do I resemble the figures of Elendil and Isildur as they stand carven in their majesty in the halls of Denethor. I am but the Heir of Isildur, not Isildur himself. The days of our House have darkened, and we have dwindled; but ever the Sword has passed to a new keeper, in a long line unbroken from father unto son, for many fenerations.''
''Hiding in the wilderness like frightened children while the Stewards ruled the White City and kept the enemy at bay'', Boromir countered in a low voice that only the Ranger could hear – or maybe some of the Elves, for Elrond gave him a sharp look, and Legolas seemed disturbed.
Aragorn frowned but controlled his rising anger.
''You might see us like that. But this I will say to you, son of Denethor, ere I end. Lonely men we are, Rangers of the Wild, hunters – but hunters ever of the servants of the Enemy; for they are found in many places, not in Mordor only.''
''For how great a fool do you hold me, son of Arathorn, if that is who you truly are?'' Boromir replied coolly. ''Am I not the son and the Heir of the Steward? Minas Tirith has dealings with many countries far from our shores, and the Lord Denethor has often means to come to tidings lesser Men might not have. Well aware I am of the peril that is threatening us all – save the ones that Elven secrecy kept hidden from my eyes.''
Aragorn sighed, clearly tired of his accusations.
''If Gondor, Boromir, has been a stalwart tower, we have played another part.'', he said. ''Many evil things there are that your strong walls and bright swords do not stay. You know little of the lands beyond your bounds. Peace and freedom, you say? The North would have known little but for us. Fear would have destoyed them. And yet less thanks we have than you. Travellers scowl at us and countrymen gave us scornful names.'' His storm-grey eyes glinted. ''But now the world is changing once again. A new hour comes. *Isildur's Bane* is found. Battle is at hand. The Sword shall be reforged. I shall come to Minas Tirith.''
And we shall see just how that would help anyone!, Boromir thought darkly, imagining the wrath of his father upon hearing these ''good'' tidings. Nay, son of Arathorn, you shall not simply come down South and take our precious city that our sires had cared for and kept safe and defended with their lives, ruling it with great strength and wisdom. If you believe that Denethor son of Ecthelion shall step down to be the dotard chamberlain of an upstart, then you are even bigger a fool than I have thought of you.
But out loud he only said this much:
''Isildur's Bane is found, you say. I have seen a bright ring in the Halfling's hand; but Isildur perished ere this age of the world began, they say. How do the Wise know that this ring is his? And how has it passed down the years, until it is brought hither by so strange a messenger?''
''That shall be told'', said Elrond.
''But not yet, I beg, Master'', the older one of the Halflings said. ''Already the Sun is climbing to noon, and I feel the need of something to strengthen me.''
''I had not named you'', said Elrond smiling. ''But I shall do so, soon. Yet you were right about the pass of time. We shall take a short break from our Council – for much needs to be spoken of yet, and it could reach into the evening hours. We shall return here in one hour's time.''
With that, he rose and left, and his counsellors followed him. The others trailed out as well, leaving Aragorn and Boromir alone behind. The Ranger, too, stood up and turned towards Boromir, but Denethor's son could not bear another word with him. So he turned away harshly and stomped out in silent fury.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He returned to his room in the guest house, trying to keep his temper under control, for much of what he had learnt so far made his blood boil with anger. Thinking of the way these Elves lulled him into a half-dream of peace and safety while secretly working on taking his inheritance from him and putting that… that lowly Ranger on the throne of the greatest City of the Third Age…
''Oh, here you are'', the soft, pleasant voice of his lover jerked him out of his dark thoughts.
Elladan stood in one of the open arches that served as windows and entrances likewise. He wore the rough grab of the Rangers already, to conceal himself from prying eyes while on his way in the Wild, and his long, raven hair was bound in a tight ponytail on the back of his head. He looked annoyingly young and innocent, even for an Elf, and for some reason this angered Boromir even more.
Elves, he thought in disgust, what do they know about the struggles of short-living Men? What has it been that awoke his interest in me? What might his part be in all this?
''How did it go, I wonder?'' Elrond's eldest continued; then, taking a look at Boromir's face, he frowned. ''Not well, I guess.''
''Oh, but it went better than your people might have expected'', Boromir replied in a voice that sounded unusually harsh, even for his own ears. ''I have learnt many things, indeed. More, mayhap, than I was meant to learn – or even understand.''
''And just what have those things been, if you do not mind my asking?'' Elladan raised an arched eyebrow even higher.
''I shall tell you in a moment'', Boromir said. ''But first answer me a question of some importance: What in Middle-earth does your sister, the Lady Arwen, have to do with this Strider… I mean, Estel… I mean, Aragorn, Isildur's Heir?''
Elladan did not seem to consider the question unseemly – at least not from someone he shared his bed with. It was a family matter, after all.
''Why, the two are betrothed to each other'', he answered with a shrug. ''Long and hard has been their way toward happiness, and whether they ever shall be able to reach fulfillment, I cannot say. For our father, though he had always loved Estel as if he were his own child, announced, that Arwen Undómiel shall not diminish her life's grace for a cause less than the second and final victory over the Shadow. She shall not be the bride of any Man less than the King of both Gondor and Arnor. Yet we all fear that even if we might be victorious, to Arwen the Doom of Men may seem hard at the ending.''
This revelation, though not fully surprising for him after all what he had learnt and observed on this very day, did not serve to sooth Boromir's boiling anger.
''So this is how your father intends to unite Middle-earth under his own rule?'', he spat, fuming. ''Through the groin of his children? Letting his daughter wed the self-exclaimed King of Arnor and demanding from him Gondor as a wedding gift? And allowing you to bed Gondor's Heir, in hope that you can distract me with your skills enough to make me accept that ursurper on Gondor's throne?''
Elladan did not even ad much as flinch to these horrible accusations, only his face became very, very pale and his lips tightened to a thin line.
''I have heard that Men often feel the need to hurt those who love them most deeply'', he finally said in a strangely flat voice, ''yet I could not believe it – until now. Are your pain and anger truly so great that you need to hurt me in such a cruel way? I gave you everything I could. I do not regret that. I only regret that it was not enough to lift the shadow off your heart.''
With that, he turned around and left – not disappearing in that unnerving Elvish way but with the slow, faltering steps of the mortally wounded. A very… mortal departure it was, indeed.
Boromir slumped into a big chair, still trembling with anger and bitter disappointment over all what happened in the Council. It took him some time till the true meaning of Elladan's words sickered through the thick layers of fear, mistrust and pain that guarded his heart – and when it finally happened, it struck him like an iron fist.
He never thought that Ellandan might fall for him this deeply. Theirs was an affair of convenience, limited by time, the narrow-minded customs of Gondor and his own heart that was no more his to give… for it had been given a long time ago, once and forever.
But he did not want to cause the same anguish and pain he had suffered most of his life the brave and gentle Elf who had so unexpectedly offered him comfort only a few weeks ago; who healed him and lifted his spirits as far as it could be done in such a short time.
Now, curse to his stubborn pride, he destroyed the best thing he had ever been given. Tonight, he would not lie in the safety of Elladan's arms, would not feel the warmth of that tall, slender body spooned up against his back. No soft, low voice would sing to him in his sleep, keeping the nightmares of that shadow away that fell upon his heart under the ruined bridge of Osgiliath.
At that thought, Denethor's son hid his face in his hands, breaking down in tears, for the first time since his mother's death.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
End note:
Originally, there would have been the end of Part One. I wrote this story in three major parts, because at that time I still haven'' figured out how the chaptering system worked. Now, that I've mastered the secrets of online wizardry (to this extremely low level anyway), I'm putting the story together again, adding some more scenes of importance.