FORGOTTEN SONG
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.

Rating: PG – 13, for implied m/m interaction.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

This is the second story of my Boromir-series, called ''Fall Before Temptation''. It describes how Boromir arrived to Rivendell and his meeting with Legolas. We'll also learn some new things about the life in Rivendell and Legolas' family in later chapters.

This story is titled so because of the song Legolas sings by seeing the valley of Imladris again. The lyrics are taken from the Book of Lost Tales, Part I, and is actually the second version of a beautiful poem called ''Kortirion Under the Trees'' by Tolkien himself. I've chosen an earlier version instead of the final one because I wanted to portray the Mirkwood-Elves (who never departed over Sea) as somewhat old-fashioned, more meticulous with traditions – or, as Glorfindel might point out, simply stubborn. Besides, I liked the second version more... The poem (or song, actually), is going to play an important role in this series, having a very deep meening for the Silvan folk.

This is a re-edited version of the original story, which originally only contained chapters 1 and 2. I broke it into chapters in order to make reading it easier. Also, I made a few minor changes where I found the pace too rushed. And, hopefully, eliminated a few nasty typos along the way. I also followed all my beta-reader's stylistical suggestions, save one – not that she wasn't absolutely right, but I've simply grown too fond of that (useless) description. g

Dedication: To Dwimordene, whose excellent story ''From the Other River Bank'', inspired me to write this whole series. Without her, I would never have gotten the idea of making Boromir the hero not only of a story but of a whole series.

Also, thousand thanks to Nadja who has made this chapter enjoyable for native speakers, eliminating some of my rather ''creative'' grammatical solutions and the nasty typos.

CHAPTER ONE: CHANCE ENCOUNTER IN THE WOODS

It was the year 3018 of the Third Age of Middle-earth, the 22nd of October. Amost four months had passed by since Boromir, son of Denethor, heir of the Steward of Gondor, left the White City of his ancestors to follow an uncanny dream and find a place only the lore-masters had ever heard about. A valley in the far North where – as it was told in old legends – Elrond Half-Elven, the greatest of all lore-masters once dwelt... and maybe still did.

Long and torturous his wanderings had been, from Minas Tirith through the Gap of Rohan and alongside the Misty Mountains, for the ways had grown dark in recent years and the woods were swarming with Orcs and other foul beasts, and though many people might have heard about the house of Elrond, no one he asked was able – or ready – to tell him where it lay. Also, his heart was troubled and his mind in turmoil over the manner of his departure from Minas Tirith, loaded with bitter memories of his father and bittersweet ones of his brother.

Just before the North-East Road he was following would have reached the ancient ford at Tharbad, he had run into a small company of hunting Orcs and lost his horse during the skirmish, which made his way even more troublesome, for he was not used to trvelling afoot. But most of all he feared to lose his way, knowing only that the mysterious valley he was sent to seek out lay somewhere in the Misty Mountains.

Some Rangers of the North he had met after crossing the River Glanduin advised him to look for the ruined city of Tharbad, from where he might follow the Gwathló and then the Bruinen, and with the help of one mysterious Ranger he succeeded to reach the western slopes of the Hithaeglir, indeed, where the valley of Imladris was said to be hidden. But after that, he found himself in the unknown woods again, forlorn and helpless, without a guess where he should direct his awkward steps.

Very tired had he grown during his lonely journey, the loss of hope laying heavily on his weary heart. Nothing he had heard or seen on his straying way could give him comfort; he felt cold and starving for company, any company, for talking and laughing and jesting – even for a fight. Anything that could distract him from his gloomy thoughts.

He slept little and shallowly, yet the dreams would not stop tormenting him.

The cold, implacable face of the Lord Denethor, his father, who had sent him out on this errand demanding that he redeem himself for a love that had come to his heart, unbidden but impossible to fend off, so forbidden and disastrous that he was reluctant to admit it even to himself most of the time.

The shock and sorrow on the fair face and in the clear grey eyes of his brother when he understood why Boromir was chosen to go on this errand in his stead, though it was him, not Boromir, to whom the dreams had most often come.

The infinite sadness on the pale brow of Éowyn, the White Lady of Rohan, as she bid him her farewell after that long talk they had in bitter understanding...

All these memories came back to him in his troubled dreams, haunting him, robbing him of what little peace his restless sleep could have given.

It grew dark once again, and he admitted that he would not be able to continue his fruitless journey for the rest of the night. So, he slumped down under a huge, ancient tree, seeking what little comfort he could find among the roots, thicker than the arm of a troll might have been, leaning against the enormous trunk that several grown men could not have embraced with their joined grips, and hoped that, for once, the dreams would let him have some peace.

The forest was surprisingly quiet, as if listening to something only trees were able to hear. No birds talking, no animals moving could be heard, only the almost inaudible dance of leaves high above his head. He listened carefully, trying to decide if it was safe to fall asleep or if he should try and stay awake.

Not that he would have much of a choice, though. Exhaustion was spreading rapidly through his sore limbs like a hidden fever and he needed all his considerable willpower already, just to keep his burning eyes open. Sooner or later, he knew, he would have to submit to the needs of his strained body...

And suddenly, without as much as a faint noise of warning, they were there: strange beings, tall and slender, clad in green and brown, with great bows and full quivers across their backs, moving eerily quiet as if they were ghosts of trees long gone – or young trees, themselves, bowing slightly in a wind only trees could feel or hear. Long auburn tresses framed fair, ageless faces, woven into ceremonal braids above delicately pointed ears and held together on the nape of long, graceful necks by silver clasps wrought into the shape of leaves, flowers or butterflies. Bright eyes shone under fine, dark brows and long, dark lashes. Surreally beautiful they were, but full of strength nevertheless: half-forgotten memories of a different world that was now beond the reach of mortal Men.

In the four decades of his life, Boromir had seldom met any Elves at all. They hardly ever visited Gondor, and when they did, usually went straight to Dol Amroth and beyond that to the Havens, to leave Middle-earth forever. The last time Boromir had seen one of them he was a young boy, but he remembered them well enough to recognise an Elf when he saw one. Still, these were very different from the ones of the legends, clad in the rough garb of wood-dwelling people, not unlike that of the Rangers of the North.

Wood-Elves, he realized. They had to be, otherwise they would not have been able to meld with the trees so completely that not even his keen eyes could detect them, until they moved closer.

Boromir got to his feet, warily, with deliberate slowness, not wanting to agitate them. Wood-Elves were said to be an unpredictable bunch – a lot more dangerous than others of their fair kin, and many of them had presumably gone wicked during the Dark Days, allying themselves to the Nameless Evil and even serving him, for great was their bitterness about what they called 'the treason of the Noldor'.

Also, they were said to handle magic and spells and wizardry more recklessly than any other people who were not actually evil, for their dwellings lay in the most dangerous parts of Middle-earth and they needed all the protection they could master.

So it seemed advisable for Boromir to handle them with the utmost care.

He took a small step towards them, spread his arms sidewise, showing that he was not carrying any weapons (not openly, at least), and bowed in a courtly manner.

''Hail, sons of the Wood'', he said. ''Is there something I might do for you?''

Their leader came forward. Young he looked, even younger than the rest of them, but an aura of authority surrounded his slender frame, clad in soft brown leather and rough green linen. Thin silver ribbons were woven into the delicate network of his auburn hair that was artfully braided away from his ears and woven together in a tight ornamental braid on the back of his head and held together by a delicately-shaped silver ring that mimicked the form of leaves. This one, Boromir saw at once, was used to give orders and be obeyed.

''We do not requre your assistance, Man of Gondor'', he answered in a soft, lyrical voice that contained considerable hidden powers nonetheless, ''But I do thank you for offering it.''

''How do you know where I come from?'' Boromir asked with a slight frown.

''The way you are clad and the way you speak gave you away'', the Elf smiled. It was a faint, thoughtful smile, full of memories. ''Besides, you carry the crest of Minas Tirith on your shield. Which Elf on Middle-earth would not recognize the White Tree of Gondor? But do tell me, good sir, what is a Southern warrior doing in the woods of the Misty Mountains? These are not your usual hunting fields, be it for deer or Orcs.''

''Very true'', Boromir agreed, ''but what my issues might be, they are my own. It would not serve my errand to discuss them openly with people I know not. Not even if they are of the Elder Kin.''

The Elf tilted his head slightly as if he were listening to something far, far away. He looked like a young tree in a light breeze. Boromir could only guess what he might have been listening to, for his own ears did not tell him anything.

''My apologies'', the Elf finally said. ''It seems that in my surprise I did forget my manners indeed. I am called Legolas Greenleaf(1), son of Thranduil, and these here are my fellow archers. We were sent out on an errand of our own from Mirkwood by the King himself.''

Boromir's foggy head jerked up in surprise. Not much was known in Gondor about Mirkwood, for the connections were broken and the news spare – nothing but the fact that Thranduil son of Oropher was its King... and had been ever since the Second Age, in fact. So if this Elf was his son, then he had to be considerably older than Boromir originally thought.

''So you are the Prince of Mirkwood?'' he asked in astonishment. 'Since when does the son of an Elf-King travel with such a small escort in these dark times?''

The Elf seemed to be surprised as well.

''How come that you know the name of my father, Man of Gondor? You cannot be a common soldier then, for few are the contacts between our kingdoms, and I have not seen any of your kin in Mirkwood in my whole life. I did not think that the Men of the South still remembered us.''

''Much is forgotten'', Boromir admitted with some regret, wishing that his brother, who always had much more interest in Elven lore than he did, were here with him at this moment, ''but the Stewards of Gondor still guard some of the old lore and wisdom. And I am Boromir, first-born son and Heir of the Lord Denethor, the six and twentieth Steward ruling in Minas Tirith.''

''And what does the Heir of Gondor's Steward seek in lands strange for him?'' Legolas asked. ''This wilderness does not suit mortal Men. Not even our kin would hunt here alone.''

Boromir hesitated, but the desire to share his deep troubles overwhelmed him. He had been on his own for so long in these strange lands and the Elf looked at him with such a solemn interest that he finally gave in.

''I am looking for a place called Imladris'', he admitted wearily. ''It is said to be a far northern dale where Elrond Half-Elven dwelt once... or perhaps still does.''

To his surprise a faint smile lit up Legolas' fair face.

''Oh, but he does'', he answered. ''Why are you looking for him?''

''I am following a dream'', Boromir replied, tiredness spreading in his limbs again. ''My brother'', his voice trembled slightly, ''my brother is cursed with the bitter gift of foresight. Half a year ago, a strange dream came to him in his troubled sleep; and afterwards a like dream came often to him again; and once to me. In that dream, we 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.
That Doom is near at hand,
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,
And the Halfling forth shall stand.

Of these words we could understand little, and we spoke to our father who is wise in the lore of Gondor. This only would he say, that Imladris was of old the name among the Elves of Elrond's home.''

''And you left your City to find it, without as much as a clue of its whereabouts?'' Legolas asked in awe. Boromir sighed.

''Desperate is the need of Gondor, and we who are her guardians are bound to take any means to keep her safe. Therefore my brother was eager to heed the dream and seek for Imladris; but since the way was full of doubt and danger, I took the journey upon myself. Loth was my father to give me leave, and long have I wandered by roads forgotten, seeking the house of Elrond, of which many had heard but few know where it lies.''

He drifted off, saddened, remembering the true circumstances of his departure from Minas Tirith, from his father and brother. Legolas looked at him intently, as if he had glanced directly into the very depths of his heart with those deep emerald eyes; then he laid a comforting hand on the Man's heavy shoulder.

''There is much more to tell about your departure and much bitterness in your heart'', he said softly, ''this I can tell. But the secrets of your heart are your own and I do not intend to pry into them. Be comforted, though, for the days of your fruitless search are now over. Then we, too, are on our way to Imladris – or Rivendell, as mortal Men call Elrond's hidden fortress – and the Last Homely House.''

Boromir blinked in surprise and relief, trying to blink away the fog of exhaustion that threatened to overcome his tortured mind.

''So you know the way?'' he asked. The Elf, a faint, reflective smile on his beautiful face, nodded.

''I do. Oh, how well I know it, indeed! Many happy summers have I spent among the immortal trees of that fair dale, and my heart is lightened with every step that brings us closer to its shores.'' He leaned closer, his eyes searching the Man's tired face. ''But I can see how heavy your limbs are with tiredness, son of Gondor. Do you believe you can continue your journey a little longer? For Imladris still lies several leagues before us.''

Boromir gave the Elf a bitter smile of his own.

''I am accustomed to hardness, Prince of Mirkwood, having travelled afoot ever since I had lost my horse at the city of Tharbad. Lead on – my feet might be heavier than yours, but they can bear the road no less.''

Legolas nodded.

''As you wish.'' He took the waterskin fom his shoulder and offered it the Man. ''Have at least some feywine first. It will warm you for the tiresome journey.''

Boromir never tasted the feywine of the Elves before but he had heard strange tales of it. His first taste of this legendary drink made all those tales pale. The wine tasted sweet, but fresh and spicy at the same time, like sunshine and wild fruit, and was surprisingly strong for human tastes. As Legolas had said, it warmed his insides rather nicely.

The Elf watched his careful gulp with a wry half-smile.

''I see you do not take risks, son of Gondor, which is a good thing, for the feywine of Mirkwood can knock the strongest Man cold if not taken with care. Come now, follow us. Your strength will last 'til we reach the fair shores of Imladris...''

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

End note:

(1) Yes, I know that ''Greenleaf'' is only a translation of Legolas' name. I simply assumed that by his dealings with Men he got used to translate his name for them.

Chapter 2 will follow seamlessly, with only a little of an alternate ending.