Book 3: Of Riddles of Doom and Paths of Love

by Soledad

3rd Boromir story. Final chapter is up. Between returning nightmares, Boromir has some very interesting encounters. Implied mm interaction. Completed.

5. Chapter 5: The Counsel of Elves

OF RIDDLES OF DOOM AND PATHS OF LOVE

By Soledad Cartwright

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 this chapter, mainly for angst stuff.

Warning: don't read this when you are afraid of enclosed spaces! There is one scene that can cause nightmares by claustrophobic people.

Author's Notes:

With this final chapter, this tale, too, is completed, and I can finally go on with the storyline. As you can see below, I pracitcally borrowed the scene between Frodo and Gildor from ''Three is Company'' in ''The Fellowship of the Ring'', as a basis for an in-deep conversation between Boromir and Gildor. Some lines, like the quote why one should never go to the Elves for counsel, are basically unchanged – though spoken by another character.

Also, this is a very different Gildor from that of the book – the reasons for his bitterness are shown in detail in my other tale, the one named ''Innocence''.

I also gave a cameo to another rarely-used character – just because I like him a lot.

No, I won't tell who it is. You'll have to read the story. g

The title of this chapter, of course, refers to Frodo's answer to Gildor Inglorion:

''And it is also said: Go not to the Elves for counsel, for they will say both no and yes.''

The Fellowship of the Ring, Chapter: 'Three is Company'

CHAPTER FIVE: THE COUNSEL OF ELVES

The nightmares returned in the following night and in the night after that, too… and what is more, they even became more intent, more violent every time. They grew so bad that on the third night Boromir hesitated to go to sleep at all, rather giving up the long-missed comfort of a real bed – and such a wonderfully soft one to that – than suffer any more visions of blood and death and fire.

He wandered off in the twilight, walking the cut-in passes that ran alongside the rocky hills, avoiding the dwellers of the valley while avoiding the more lively paths among the graceful buildings that sat in the dents or snugged to the hillsides so seamlessly as if they had not been built by Elven hands but grown naturally like the trees themselves.

Finally, he reached a seat cut in the stone, beside a turn in the path high above one of the waterfalls, and there he sat down, looking tiredly at the pine-woods far up the north side of the valley. The air was fresh, even a little chilly, but it felt good, and the singing voices of unseen Elves somewhere far away melted with the music of the waterfall in the most pleasant and soothing way.

Still, it gave his troubled heart little peace. He felt ill at ease. He did not belong in this realm of old lays and living legend. Mayhap Faramir should have come in his place, after all. Faramir would revel in it, he would understand the hidden meaning of Elven words, he would see through all their schemes. But not Boromir himself. All he wanted was a clear answer to that cursed Riddle and a swift horse back to Minas Tirith.

What am I doing here?, he asked himself. 'Tis useless. I should not waste my time here. Who knows if I gain aught with tarrying?

'''Tis a palce of enchantment and magic; a place of safety if one is there upon Arda(1) in these days'', a melodic yet slightly hard voice said behind him; it sounded like steel ringing against stone. ''A very good place when you have a hard decision to make.''

Boromir turned his head – and rose at once in respect, without being ordered to do so. Behind him a tall, proud Elf stood, clearly one of the nobles of the Eldar, wearing a richly-embroided tunic under his soft grey cloak, with the crest of some ancient Elven House upon his breast, and his hair – undbraided and unadorned, just bound together with a silver cord – had the colour of molten gold, falling down in a thick cub, well below his lean waist.

His angular face was very fair, though his expression bitter and more than a little haughty, with high cheekbones and wide, sea-hued eyes; and a long scar marred his left cheek, from the temple to the strong jawline – an old sword-wound, if Boromir ever seen one. A great sword in a beautifully-crafted scabbard hung upon his back, and he also wore two long knives on his belt.

Unlike the other Elves whom Boromir had met in Imladris so far (save Glorfindel mayhap), this one clearly was a warrior, Lord and leader of other warriors, no doubt. He also was the first one who openly carried any weapons.

''What makes you think I have a hard decision to make?'', the son of Denethor asked in surprise.

''You are walking around in the deepening darkness, risking a fall from the narrow rock paths of a valley you clearly know not'', the Elf pointed out. ''My dealings with Men taught me this being a sign of distraction during heavy inner struggles.''

''Who are you that you had dealings with Men in these days, when Elves and Men mingle little'', asked Boromir with a frown, ''and who is your Lord?''

''I am Gildor'', the Elf answered as if expecting his name to be known by the Man. ''Gildor Inglorion of the House of Finrod. I also am called Lord of the South Haven.''

''You are called that?'', Boromir repeated, for the answer was peculiar, indeed. ''Are you then not?''

''We are Exiles'', the Elf said with a shrug, ''and most of our kindred have long ago departed. We, too, are now only tarrying here a while, ere we return over the Great Sea. But some of our kinsfolk dwell still here in this valley, and so at times we turn this way in our travels and spend here a season or two.''

''So you are a kinsman of the Lord Elrond?'', Boromir asked, but the Elf shook his head, almost angrily.

''Nay, I am related to his departed wife… from fairly afar, to tell the truth. But I do have a niece and a nephew who chose to live here, and I visit them every time and again.''

''Why would you risk to leave your realm unguarded?'', Boromir felt slightly bewildered. He would never leave Minas Tirith behind, once the stewardship passed over to him.

'''Tis no realm'', the Elf answered with a bitter smile, the lines around his hard mouth deepening, ''but a small settlement near the land your people call Dol Amroth. I return there as ofthen as I am needed, but 'tis not our way to have permanent dwellings in Middle-earth. We travel across the lands, carry messages and tidings and share the lives and the work of the people we visit – til our journeys lead us away once more.''

''You dwell near Dol Amroth?'', Boromir asked in surprise. ''Then you must be the Elf-Lord of Edhellond(2), whom I have heard spoken of at times. They say your people pass through Gondor frequently. How come we never met before?''

''We choose paths throuigh fair Ithilien where no folk dwells in these days'', Gildor replied, ''yet I know who you are, Boromir son of Denethor. At times I rest under the roof of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, and we speak of many things; the dealings of your family being one of them.''

Then he brought forth a lamp from under his cloak; and when he unhooded it, it sent forth a clear blue light from a flame imprisoned in a white crystal that hung in a fine chain net of mithril and shone with an inner blue radiance. And Boromir gazed at the small lamp in awe, for those lamps were considered a legend themselves; for they were made of old in Valinor, and neither wind nor water could quench them – and no-one had seen one of them for at least an Age(3).''

''Come'', the Elf-Lord said, ''let me guide you back to the guest house ere darkness falls completely. 'Tis not good to walk unknown paths during the night… not even here.''

Boromir nodded his thanks and followed Gildor, realizing for the first time how far he had walked off and that he most likely would not find his way back alone, for Imladris was a surprisingly wide-spread settlement, that followed the irregular turns of living rock with its paths and could be as confusing as any maze ever built deliberately.

Finally they crossed the bridge of Bruinen again and stepped onto the long balcony of the guest house. There already another guest sat, smoking his short wooden pipe: a Man of Boromir's age or somewhat older even, with dark hair and a short, greying beard framing his high forehead and long face, thin lips and a long, straight nose making him look older than he likely was(4).

''You!'', Boromir said in surprise.

Of course he recognized the Man, though he wore a gold-lined black velvet tunic and a silvery grey shirt instead of the rough green and brown garb from their last (and so far only) meeting. This was the same Man he had met in the ruined city of Tharbad, after having lost his horse in that bloody skirmish with the cursed orcs.

The very same Man who turned his steps into the right direction to find Imladris.

''Hail and well met, Man of Gondor'', the stranger noded, taking the pipe from his mouth for a moment. ''I see you have found Imladris after all.''

''Thank to your advice and the help of the Wood-Elves, I have'', Boromir agreed, ''but I would like to know whom I owe my gratitude. You never told me your name, good sir.''

''Nor have you told me yours, Man of Gondor'', the other replied with a grim smile; ''but be it as you wish. The Dúnadan Halbarad I am, Ranger of the North. And I already know who you are: the son and Heir of the Ruling Steward of Gondor. The honour is all mine; I thought not that I was dealing with such nobility back then.''

Boromir glared at him suspiciously, as if he tried to figure out whether he was being mocked; but the other Man seemed sincere enough.

''He is no mere Ranger'', the Elf added with a faint smile. ''but second-in-command to the chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North and also his kinsman. He has come for the council that will take place in a few days, I deem.''

''A few days?'' Boromir snorted in dismay. ''Twenty of them, mayhap even more; a moon almost, while I have to sit and wait instead of trying to buy a new horse somewhere and racing home where I am needed!''

''You cannot know where you are truly needed'', Gildor said; ''not until you have learnt all that is to learn about the peril that is coming upon us all.''

''I cannot learn aught while the Lord of the Valley is keeping secrets from me!'', Boromir answered bitterly. ''I have only come to seek the meaning of a riddle; to ask for counsel and the unravelling of the hard words of a dream. Yet not even thus much would he grant me so that I could go on my way and mend my own affairs.''

''Sometimes a riddle can hide a meaning so deep that it would affect the fate of many'', said Gildor, sea-coloured eyes darkening with memories. ''Judge not Elrond's wisdom ere all secrets are laid open. Often have I questioned his choices myself – yet so far he mostly have proved right.''

Admitting this clearly was not easy for him.

''I know not if I can tarry here while my sword is needed at home so desperately'', Boromir murmured. ''A hundred and ten days have I travelled, and unless I find a swift horse, it might even take longer for me to get back. I should leave as soon as possible… I cannot waste my time with fruitless waiting.''

''It might not be as fruitless as you believe'', Gildor replied solemnly.

Boromir looked at him with furrowed brow.

''You know something about what happens behind the walls of Elrond's house'', he guessed. ''I believe you even know something about that cursed riddle that sent me on this quest, do you?''

''What I would have to offer is guesswork only'', the Elf shook his golden head, ''for I am no confidant of the Lord Elrond, therefore the nature of your quest is not known for me. The choice is yours: to go or wait.''

Boromir gave him an annoyed glare, and Halbarad laughed quietly.

'''Tis said: Go not to the Elves for counsel, for they will say both no and yes'', he commented drily.

Gildor raised an elegant eyebrow.

''Is it indeed?'', he asked. ''Elves seldom give unguarded advice, 'tis true; for advice is a dangerous gift, even from the Wise to the Wise; and all courses may run ill in these days. I know little of the Heir of Gondor; only what his uncle had told me, and that, too, had been many seasons ago. How then shall I choose better than he?''

''I asked you not to choose for me'', Boromir replied, annoyed that the Elf would speak of him as if he weren't even there. ''I only hoped you would be less aloof than the others of your kin – after all it was you who spoke to me in the first place. But I see now that I have been wrong.''

Gildor shrugged, taking no offense at all; and his eyes were now hard and bitter again and cold as grey ice.

''The Elves have their own labours and their own sorrows'', he said in a clipped tone that buried memories of old pains, ''and they are little concerned with the ways of Men, or of any other creatures upon Arda. Our paths cross theirs seldom and more by chance than by purpose. For darkness is gathering again, and ere long our people shall leave these shores… and our eyes look in different directions, Son of Gondor. May the stars shine upon the end of your road – for you shall need it, badly.''

Boromir felt a dull pain in his heart. Had the Elf mayhap peering into his thoughts? Could all Elves do that? Would his inner secrets ever be safe on this place of Elven sorcery?

Gildor seemed to know what he was thinking, indeed, for he shook his head again with a sigh.

''Nay, Boromir, I cannot look into the thoughts of mortal Men; nor do I desire to do so. Yet I can see a shadow lying upon your heart – you should guard it closely, or you might yield to it and be lost, for ever. This is my only counsel to you, and you should be grateful, for I did not give it gladly, but only for the sake of Prince Imrahil, whom I call an Elf-friend and an ally.''

With that, the Elf-Lord hooded his magical lamp again and left without any further word. Boromir glared after him angrily.

''Elves are the most infuriating creatures on Earth!'', he finally spat.

Halbarad shrugged good-naturedly.

''They are different – in the inside even more than in their looks. And Gildor Inglorion has more bitterness in his heart than the most. It colours his dealings with other people.''

''What bitterness?'', Boromir asked.

''He descends from a House that once gave High Kings to all Elven realms in Middle-earth'', said Halbarad, ''yet he was born in a time when there were no realms left for him to rule. But he is one of the Wise nevertheless(5), and his eyes are keen – he can read the hearts of Elves and Men. So, if he says that you are threatened by the Shadow, you should take his warning serously.''

''He knows naught of me!'', Boromir protested. The thought that the Elf might have been right upset him to no end.

''That might be so'', Halbarad nodded soberly, ''but he knows very much of the Shadow. He is said to have walked the black fields of Mordor at times – if 'tis true or not I cannot know. Yet I do know that he is a great leader of his people; one who can judge the hearts of others rightly. You should listen to him.''

''To what?'', Boromir asked in dismay. ''He told me nothing.''

''He shared his insight with you, and that is something Elves seldom do'', said Halbarad; ''yet if you need simpler counsel, I offer you some. I advise you not to leave the valley before Elrond's council, even if your heart urges you to return home. No-where else can you learn secrets and wisdom like those that would be shared here – and I fear you shall need it all to be of use for your land.''

Boromir sighed in defeat.

''You are right. I have travelled so long and on such perilous roads to come here; it would be folly to leave with questions unanswered. Will you stay as well?''

''For this night, only'', Halbarad answered. ''Then I shall leave for the wilderness to meet other scouts who have been sent out long ago. Time is running short, and Elrond needs all tidings that can be gathered.''

''That is regrettable'', Boromir said, slightly disappointed. ''I hoped to have someone here to talk to… other than those haughty Elves. Or that annoying Strider.''

''I had the feeling the two of you would not get along too well'', Halbarad smiled, ''but that can change still. However, I shall be back for the Council, then I am wanted as the voice of my people – and mayhap we even shall find the time to exchange tidings from the North and the South.''

''Mayhap'', Boromir nodded. ''I would like that very much.''

For indeed, he found the Man reasonable and easy-going – and far less full of himself than Strider had been. That haughty bastard! How did he dare to handle the Captain-General of Gondor like a frightened child?!

''So would I'', Halbarad emptied his pile and rose with a heartfelt yawn. ''But for now, I must take my leave from you, my good sir. Pleasant dreams.''

Better no dreams at all, Boromir thought with a shiver, for the last thing he needed was another night spent among violent nightmares.

He felt weary beyond relief. When he arrived after a hundred and ten days of tiresome travelling, he somehow hoped that the magic that protected this enchanted valley would somehow screen him, too, from the darkness that had grown slowly, steadily in his heart.

From the despair that clutched him with an icy grip, tightening around his chest like a too narrow mail shirt, suffocating him, stealing his breath.

From the shame he had felt all his adult life; ever since he detected the treacherous ways of his own heart.

Yet it was not so.

Finding Imladris only brought him more anguish – and a despair that became even deeper with every new encounter.

And the shame burned him more than ever.

Now that he was far from Faramir, the sharp pain of a forbidden and unrequited love became a dull ache in his heart – more bearable for the flesh, yet leaving a gaping hole in his soul.

Now he was truly, utterly alone.

His shameful secret that had been so ruthlessly revealed for the very two people that should never learn of it – his father and his brother – lay upon his heart like wet clay – cold, heavy and sticky clay, quenching the air out of his lungs.

It felt like being buried alive, moist earth filling his mouth and his nose, making him unable to cry out for help – or even breathe. And the layers of freshly broken earth got thicker and thicker, pushing him down deeper and deeper into the soft, slippery ground, covering him completely, til naught of his body was free any more.

Then he could more feel than hear – for his ears seemed full of dirt as well – the low thumping as the earth was stomped above him by heavy feet to a solid, unbroken lid of some natural coffin…

He jerked awake with a bone-shaking scream.

In his troubled sleep he had fallen from the bed, laying bare on the cold stone pavement, bathed in even colder sweat.

Valar, would this never come to an end?

Sometimes he wondered if he had been cursed at time during his miserably short and hard life.

He crawled back to bed, shivering with a chill that came not from the cold wind that sang outside in the garden, playing the tree branches like some gigantic harp, but from the painful emptiness of his heart.

He never noticed the pair of worried emerald eyes that peered through the ever-open, glassless windows of the balcony.

End notes:

(1) The name the Elves use when mentioning the Earth.
(2) An ancient sea-haven of the Silvan Elves, from where Legolas, too, sat sail much later, to go to the Blessed Realm.
(3) I assumed this to be the last of the Fëanorian lamps still to be found in Middle-earth. It belonged once to Celebrimbor and he gave it to his friend Gildor - at least so it will be, when I come to it in my Celebrimbor-story.
(4) For better visualization, I simply used the man who was sitting on Boromir's left during Elrond's Council in the FOTR movie - there a messenger of Dale, or so it's said, but I promoted him.g
(5) At least according to Michael Martinez. See: ''Who is like the Wise Elf?''