Book 2: Forgotten Song

by Soledad

2nd Boromir story. After 110 days of looking for Imladris, Boromir meets a small company of Wood-Elves who lead him the right way. Completed.

2. Chapter 2: The Forgotten Song

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:

As I continued writing my Boromir story arc, certaing details underwent some changes, so that I felt necessary to retrospectively re-edit and even re-write some earlier stories. There will be added chapters to some of them, to give a necessary counterpoint to Boromir's POV and show how the others saw him; and to add some necessary backgournd information as well as certain hints that tie in these stories with the later ones and even with other storylines.

Nevertheless, basically all the stories can be read alone. They are just more interesting when someone knows the hinTs placed in the other ones.

This particular chapter has now a different - soemwhat extended - ending, in order to lead forth to a 3rd (and even a 4th) chapter. It's not yet beta-ed (nor are the other chapters), but my wonderful Nadja is working on it, may the Valar bless her. As soon as she is done, I'll re-load the chapter.

CHAPTER TWO: THE FORGOTTEN SONG

Legolas took the lead and Boromir, flanked by the quiet archers of Mirkwood, followed him even deeper into the woods. They walked all day, in a considerable but steady pace, with few and short breaks, long enough only to eat a few wafers of cram, the food of the Dale-men for journeys in the wild, and to take another sip of feywine.

The way to the heart of the mountains was longer than Bromir had expected, especially for him who had been cloaked and booted for a journey on horseback, not for a long walk among trees where his long, fur-lined cloak and his great horn got hooked on the tree-branches every time and again, and his long sword and large shield proved to be a rather heavy burden as well. He envied the Elves in their light tunics and cloaks, made for such journeys, and their easy walk and light strides among their beloved trees.

Still, his pride let him not ask for longer rests, but fortunately, the young-looking Elven prince found his way through the wilderness with the unwavering instinct of light-winged birds returning home from the South after the cold winter had gone. He took his clues from familiar trees whom he greeted like old friends, whispering to them and singing softly while he petted their rough skin with the gentle fondness of a lover - and from irregularly-shaped white stones, most of which were covered with moss or heather so thickly that only the keen eyes of an Elf could have detected the stone under all that guise.

* * * * * * * * * *

And so the end of the second day came after they had joined for their journey, and when the day began to fall, they finally reached the end of their search as well. There were mots flattering about now, and the light became very dim, for the moon had yet not risen. Boromir, near to the end of his strength already, began to stumble over roots and stones, and when they suddenly came to the end of a steep fall in the ground, he nearly slipped down the slope.

Cool, slender hands grabbed him with surprising strength as two of the Elven archers helped him back onto his feet, supporting him from both sides.

''Here it is at last!'' Legolas took a deep breath, his fair face shone in the twilight with joy and anticipation. ''How has my heart longed to see you again in the silver glow of starlight, oh Imladris, fairest of all places where our kin dwells in the North!''

Boromir followed his glance, looking over the edge, and saw a valley far below, gleaming softly in the starlight in pale whites and golds. In spite of his tiredness he could hear the voice of the hurrying water in a rocky bed at the bottom - he would learn later that the river was called Bruinen and was under Elrond's command. The scent of the trees grew stronger in the air, and ther was a light on the valley-side across the water, soft and pale and beconing.

Later, he could not remember the way they slithered and slipped in the dusk down the steep zig-zag path into the secret valley of Imladris. At least he did the slithering and slipping, for the light-footed Elves did not seem to suffer from the way. The air grew warmer as they got lower, Legolas gripping his arm firmly to bid support, for the smell of the pine-trees made him drowsy, so that he nearly fell. But Legolas' cool hand kept him from stumbling, and as they went down and down, a feeling of awe filled his heart. The trees changed to beech and oak, and there was a comfortable feeling in the twilight, almost comfortable enough for him to drop all his defenses.

The last green had almost faded out of the greass when they came at length to an open glade not far above the banks of the stream. On the other side of the river Boromir could see the large, arched windows and slender pillars of beautifully carved pearly white and pale gold buildings that stood largely open to the sunshine, the winds and the starlight, yes, even to the rain, on every side, their shape mimicking the slender, upward-stretching form of young trees. Then such is the love of Elves to the trees and birds and every fair creaure that they want to be among them, even if they rest under their own roof.

And Legolas stopped for a moment, his eyes wide with longing and bright with nearly unbearable joy, and he sang in a soft voice - a song, so ancient that even Boromir, better versed in the Elven tongue than most Men, had a hard time to undersand it.

O fading town upon an inland hill
Old shadows linger in thine ancient gate,
Thy robe is grey, thy old heart is now still;
Thy towers silent in the mist await
Their crumbling end white through the storeyed elms
The Gliding Water leaves there inland realm,
And slips between long meadows to the Sea,
Still bearing downward over murmurous falls
One day than another to the Sea,
And slowly thither many years have gone,
Since first the Elves have built Kortirion.

O climbing town upon thy windy hill
With winding streets, and alleys shady-walled
Where now untamed the peacocks pace in drill,
Majestic, sapphire and emerald;
Amid the girdle of this sleeping land,
Where silver falls the rain and gleaming stand
The whispering hos of old deep-rooted trees
That cast long shadows in many a bygone noon,
And murmured many centuries in the breeze.
Thou art the city of the Land of Elms,
Alalminórë in the Faery Realms.

Sing of thy trees, Kortirion, again:
The beech on hill, the willow in the fen,
The rainy poplars, and the frowning yews
Within thine agéd courts that muse
In sombre splendour all the day;
Until the twinkle of the early stars
Comes glinting through their sable bars,
And the white moon climbing up the sky
Looks down upon the ghosts of trees that die
Slowly and silently from day to day.
O Lonely Isle, here was thy citadel,
Ere bannered summer from his fortress fell.
Then full of music were thine elms.
Green was their armour, green their helms,
The Lords and Kings of all thy trees.
Sing, then, olf elms, renowned Kortirion,
That under summer crowds their full sail on,
And shrouded stand like masts of verdurous ships,
A fleet of galleons that proudly slips
Across long sunlit seas...

He trailed off and Boromir saw with mild shock the tears that were streaming down not only his but also his companions' face. He could only guess what a meaning this song must have had for the Wood-Elves.

''What song was that?'' He whispered, more to himself than to the Elves, but Legolas heard him, of course.

''A very old and mostly forgotten one'', he answered, wiping his tears away without the slightest embarrassment. ''Those were only the first verses, though.''

''And you sang the old and clumsy verses, as usual'', a new and (for Boromir) unknown voice said, and a tall Elf, clad in a gold-embroided white robe and a deep burgundy cloak came out from the trees, bowing slightly towards them. His hair, unlike that of the Wood-Elves, was not braided, and it framed his ageless face like molten gold. He had the clear, ringing voice of all Elves, but something in it told about power and experience and very, very high age.

''I sang them as it is customary among the Silvan folk'', Legolas replied, smiling; it had to be an old argument between the two of them, Boromir guessed, for neither looked truly upset about it. ''We prefer to keep our songs as tradition gifted them upon us, instead of twisting them to match every new fashion.''

''Most stubborn they are, the haughty Tree Children of Mirkwood'', the golden Elf countered, making them both laug, ''But their voices are softer than summer breeze among the golden leaves, so we forgive them.''

They laughed again, then clasped each other's forearms in a warrior-like manner before embracing like the old friends they obviously were. Then the golden Elf added:

''Welcome in the valley. Legolas. Too long it has been since your feet touched ground under our trees. Your return will be, no doubt, the source of great joy for the whole valley - but most of all for its master.''

''I do hope so'', Legolas replied with a sigh. ''Long have I craved to see him again as well; albeit he might not be overjoyed about the news whose bearer I was chosen to be.''

''We are used to all kinds of black news nowadays'', the golden-haired Elf shrugged with feline grace. ''Though the Prince of Mirkwood arriving in the company of a stranger - and a mortal Man above all - is certainly not something we would see every day.''

''No, indeed, it is not'', Legolas laughed to the slight rebuke, ''and you, dear friend, were right to remaind me of my manners. But Boromir son of Denethor has come all the long way from Minas Tirith to seek out Elrond's wisdom, so I thought it only fair to bring him with me.'' Then he turned to Boromir and gestured towards the other Elf. ''And this is Glorfindel who dwells in the house of Elrond.''

Boromir glared at the Elf whom he had heard of in ancient legends only, told him by the nurses and teachers of his early childhood, realizing that Glorfindel had to be at least eight thousand years old - probably much older even - and had fought enemies of such power and evil he could not even imagine, himself.

And he was overwhelmed with amazement and disbelief, for Glorfindel's face was youthful and fair and fearless and merry as that of a young child, not a sign revealing his true age, if not the troubled depths of his eyes.

''Hail and well met, son of Denethor!'', said the Elf-lord to Boromir. ''You chose the time of your arrival well; for Elrond has summonded a Council for the near future, and he will, no doubt, be relieved that the Steward of Gondor can be told of its decisions.''

Legolas furrowed his smooth brow. This slight sign of concern, strangely, belied his youthful looks for once. Boromir could not help wondering just how old the fair Prince of Mirkwood might be. As young and innocent as he seemed, there was a wisdom in his eyes and a hardness among his features that told of experience, good and bad alike.

''Has Estel returned yet?'' he asked. Glorfindel nodded, relief clearly written in his face.

''Two days ago; and the Messenger with him. I left Imladris two weeks earlier, sent by Elrond to look for them, for we feared that they were in grave danger upon the road. Elrond received news that troubled him. Some of our kindred, journeying in the lands beyond the Baranduin, learned that things were amiss and sent messages as swiftly as they could.''

Legolas nodded sharply, lips pressed together in a thin, grom line, emerald eyes glittering cold and hard like frozen water.

''We, too, got a message from Gildor Inglorion, saying that the Nine were abroad and the Messenger astray without guidance, for Mithrandir had not returned.''

''There are few, even in Imladris, who can ride openly against the Nine; but such as there were, Elrond sent out north, west and south'', Glorfindel added. ''It was my lot to take the Road, and I came to the Bridge of Mitheitel and left a token there for Estel to guide him. Three of the servants of Sauron were on the bridge, but they withdraw and pursued them westward. I came also upon two others, but they turned away southward. After that, I searched for Estel's trail. Two days it took me to find it, and until great peril we crossed the Ford. But alas! The Nine, reunited, found us and trapped us between themselves and the river, and the Messenger was wounded.''

''Wounded!'' Legolas cried. ''By a Morgul-blade? Would he live?''

''Elrond says yes'', Glorfindel answered soothingly. ''He found the splinter of the blade in the wound, deep and moving inwards, and removed it. And now, that Mithrandir is due to arrive as well, we finally can take counsels.''

Mithrandir! Now that was a name that made even a tired Boromir alert again. It had been only a year ago that the Grey Pilgrim, as Gondor's Men called him in Elf-fashion, visited Minas Tirith and got leave of Denethor to look at the secrets of the Steward's treasury again, as he had done many times earlier.

Ever he would search and would question the lore-masters of Denethor's house, above all else concerning the Great Battle that was fought upon Dagorlad in the beginning of Gondor when the Dark Lord was overthrown. And he was eager for stories of Isildur, though of him even the Wise of Minas Tirith had less to tell; for nothing certain was ever known among the Men of Gondor of his end.

But Faramir, ever the scholar and of curious mind, had learnt (in the rare times when Mithrandir would teach him), or guessed, and he had kept it ever secret in his heart since, sharing it with Boromir only, that Isildur took something from the hand of the Unnamed, ere he went away from Gondor, never to be seen among mortal Men again.

Here, Faramir thought, was the answer of Mithrandir's questioning. But it seemed then a matter that concerned only the seekers after ancient learning, and Boromir, not being one of them could have not cared less, so Faramir abandoned the thought as well.

Nor when the riddling words of their dream were debated among them did the brothers think of Isildur's Bane as being the same thing. For Isildur was ambushed and slain by orc-arrows, according the only legend that they knew, and Mithrandir had never told them more.

Now though, as Legolas and Glorfindel of the ancient legends were talking about some old evil he could not even fathom, the elder son of Denethor began to think about all those events once more, wondering if they had the answer before their very eyes, but were cursed with blindness so that they didn't even realize it.

He only listened to the discussion of the Elves with half an ear, for the people and places they were talking about said naught to him, his mind pondering about that dream again. Would he ever come to understand its meaning? Would it help him to protect the White City of the Kings against peril? Or had he made this long and torturous journey for nothing and will have to return to his father in shame?

He shook his head in glumness and defense as if he could have shaken off his tiredness and doubts. but even this small gesture proved to be too much for his spent strength, and he wayed on his feet and almost fell. Only the two pairs of strong Elven hands kept him going.

''Do show him to a room in the guest house where he can rest and summon back his strength, Glorfindel, I beg you'', Legolas said. ''I need to see Elrond at once; but in the morrow, I shall come and bring him to the Lord of Imladris, for they will have much to discuss.''

There was a look of quiet understanding between the two Elves, a meaning much deeper behind their words of courtesy than a mere mortal could have guessed. Then Glorfindel simply nodded and - wrapping a supporting arm around Boromir's slumped shoulders - shepherded the Man of Gondor to a nearby guest house, leaving it to Legolas to come for him and escort him to Elrond's house on the next day.

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

After Glorfindel had left with his already half-asleep mortal charge, other Elves came out from the trees, greeting Legolas and his escort with soft, musical voices. One of them, though ageless in his appearance, wore that far-away look in his eyes that could only be seen on Elves of high age, who had know much peril and sorrow in their long lives.

It was Erestor, the head of Elrond's counsellors and the seneschal of his house. Not very old for an Elf, actually, but aged beyond his years, for he had seen much pain and death in his life already.

''Welcome to Imladris once again, my Lord Prince'', he said, clasping Legolas' forearms in a warrior's greeting; for despite his rather tame occupation in the valley, Erestor was a seasoned warrior, just as well as Glorfindel, and together they rode with Elrond's host against the Witch-King of Angmar once, almost two thousand years ago. '''Tis good to have you here one more time.''

''Thank you, Master Erestor'', replied Legolas smiling. ''Is the Lord Elrond available?''

The chief counsellor nodded.
''Most certainly, my Prince. He ordered me to escort you to his chambers as soon as you arrive...'', he paused for a moment. ''Truth be told, we expected you sooner.''

''We were delayed'', Legolas explained. ''Two days ago, we met a Man from Gondor, who was seeking out Elrond's house, so we took him with us.''

''From Gondor, you say?'' Erestor repeated in surprise. ''How strange! Never had Imladris any dealings with the South-kingdom and Anárion's heirs.''

''Alas, there had not been any heirs of Anárion left in the South-kingdom, for almost five hundred years'', the Prince of Mirkwood remainded him.

Erestor shrugged.
''They had their Ruling Stewards, and rumour is, they kept their land safe - with considerably more luck than the Kings of the North, if I may say. So... who is this Man of Gondor you have brought to our valley?''

''Boromir son of Denethor is his name'', Legolas answered, ''and he is the Heir of the Steward of Gondor.''

At once, Erestor became worried.
'''Tis no good'', he said. ''Having him under the same roof as Estel might be disastrous. You know how easily Men's will falter and how jealous they can become when it comes to what they think of as theirs.''

''That might be true'', Legolas nodded, ''yet sooner or later they have to meet, and Imladris is as good a place for that as any other. Mayhap even better.''

''Let us hope it is'', sighed Erestor. ''But do forgive me, my Prince, for delaying your reunion with the Lord of the Valley. I shall bring you to him at once.''

''My escort...'', Legolas began, but Erestor raised a soothing hand.

''They shall be taken care of. The guest house stands almost empty, since the Messenger has been given a chamber in the main house, who Lord Elrond can tend to his injuries. So your people shall have all the free room they might desire.''

''Go with them'', Legolas turned to his fellow archers, inclining his head toward the Elves of the dale who had come to greet them. ''I shall not join you for the Dawn Greeting tomorrow, but I shall seek out you during the day. Rest and enjoy the peace and the beauty of the valley.''

The Mirkwood Elves bowed to their Prince, low and graceful as young trees in a slight breeze, then followed the sentries without a word. Legolas, for his part, joined Erestor, who led him through the narrow bridge of the Bruninen and up to a secret stairway of grey stone - a short-cut path to Elrond's chambers.

* * * * * * * * * * *

As you can see, not much of a change in this chapter. The Dawn Greeting is a Wood-Elven ceremony that will be shown eventually, in a much later tale, by the way.

The Messenger is Frodo, of course. Originally I had Glorfindel call him the Ring-bearer, until Anglachel rightly pointed out that the case of the Ring would not have been discussed openly in Rivendell.