THE BITTER GIFT OF COMPASSION
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:
This is Book 4 of ''Fall before Temptation'', my Boromir story arc. As the few people who read the first version can certainly notice, I have drastically twisted the plot while working on it.
These events happen shortly after Boromir's arrival in Rivendell. Unlike in the book, I postponed Elrond's Council about a month, to make it possible for Aragorn and Boromir to become friends. Unfortunately, it did not work out. Those guys stubbornly resisted my feeble approaches, and I almost abandoned the whole story because I felt I could do nothing new with this pairing. But then someone whom I would never have dreamed of came along, with his own needs, and suddenly the whole thing worked like a charm!
The betrothed of Elrohir is called Aquiel. She is my creation, but I very much doubt that she would play any significant role in any of my stories. I just felt that at least one of Elrond's children should marry within his own Kin. And someone of Gildor's family seemed a proper spouse.
Also, this is a re-post of the story, without any changes. I only managed to eradicate some more of the nasty typos.
And now, on we go.
CHAPTER ONE: EVENSTAR
Boromir spent the next few days in his own room, across Elrond's home, on the other side of the rocky river bed. He suspected that something was going on in the main house, not the least for Glorfindel had mentioned something about Strider not having come to Imladris alone, but he knew better than ask. The Elves would never tell him anything. That much he had understood from his first, awkward encounter with the Lord Elrond.
He sat on the large balcony of the guest house, watching the valley turn into the soft golden and copper and rosty brown tints of autumn in the fading light of the setting sun. No-else than him and Legolas' escort – of whom he only heard the soft raining of songs in the tongue of the Wood-Elves which he did not understand – dwelt in this house, and though he welcomed the timeless peace of his dwellings after all the horrors of war that were all too vivid in his troubled mind, it, too, made him angry, for it was clear that the Elves trusted him less than that lowly Ranger and his so far unseen travelling companions. Him, whose ancestors had protected the South with their lives for countless centuries! Him, who had spent all his life in battles – minor skirmishes and bloody, vicious fights against cruel Orc-hosts that outnumbered his own troops at least thrice at any given time.
How well he remembered that last battle, defending the last bridge that still stood amid the ruins of Osgiliath! The hopeless struggle against an enemy so powerful they had not the slightest chance to win… the anguish and terror when the shadow of dark wings fell upon the battle-weary men, filling their brave hearts with madness and fear… The pale, pained face of Faramir when that evil force hit him, piercing his heart with darkness…
Boromir was in the company that held the bridge, until it was cast down behind them. Four only were saved by swimming: his brother and himself and two others. So many good men were slain – and for what? They could not even hold the bridge. And even the four of them who escaped came not away untouched. For a dark shadow clouded their hearts from that very day on, and no-one of them was the same they used to be before that battle. The least of them Faramir.
Faramir, his beloved brother, keeper of the unfortunate gift to see the future – or, at least, to see strange dreams about what might come. From early childhood on was the younger son of Denethor gifted – or cursed – with those dreams that caused him great pain but that sometimes helped him to save himself and his men, too. It was a gift, common in the House of Stewards; their father, too, had been haunted by it all his life (and a long and hard life it was). Only Boromir himself had been spared – til the shadow fell upon his heart, too, under that ruined bridge.
Were Faramir here, on his stead, might he be able to win the Elves' trust with his soft words and controlled manners and untimely wisdom? Boromir could not know, nor could he guess. But he found it unsettling – and insulting – for Gondor's Heir to be held less trustworthy than a mere Ranger, even one that had been raised by the Elves of this very dale, and his grudge grew with every passing day.
He longed for an end to his involuntary visit – and errand he was only sent on for the wrath of his father about something he could not rule willingly: his own heart, the feelings that dwelt in it, a forbidden love he could not bleed out, no matter how hard he tried. He longed to learn the meaning of that cursed riddle and return to Minas Tirith, his shining city under the evil shadow of the Dark Realm. There he was needed. There were his people who trusted him, who respected him, who counted on him. No-one would dare to shut him out in Minas Tirith when important decisions were made. Now he understood more Faramir's bitterness over their father's treatment. If it bothered him so much to be mistrusted by these people who meant naught to him, what could it have felt like to be rejected by one's own father?
How very hard and unjust your fate has been, brother mine, he thought sadly, and no innocent in it I have been, I fear. For were it not for my doomed love, Father might have been less cold, less unforgiving towards you. I have failed you, brother, who had no part in my shame, no part at all. Just as I am about to fail my city and our people. Just as I would, undoubtedly, fail the White Lady of Rohan who gifted her trust and hope upon me.
How right you were to demand that you were sent out on this errand in my stead, Faramir, truer son of the Stewards than I might ever be! Surely, you could have made these people share their secrets with you. If not those haughty Elves, then, at least, that Ranger. You would have outwitted him by now. For no one, spare our Father, is as well-versed in the lore of Gondor as you are…
He sighed. There was no use pondering over things he could do naught about. And naught, indeed, could he do against his own heart, nor could he change the hearts of all those Elves around him. He would have to wait 'til the Lord Elrond was ready to reveal his secrets. Then he would do what could be done for Gondor, the last stronghold of the Kings of Westernesse – the land that his father's fathers had defended with weapons of war and wisdom and their blood, ever since the White Tower was built. Whatever it would take to keep Gondor safe, Boromir son of Denethor, Heir of her Steward, would do it.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Across the bridge, from one of the many open, gracefully arched stairways of Elrond's house, one of ''those haughty Elves'' was watching him with keen, worried emerald eyes. Legolas Greenleaf, the Prince of Mirkwood was, in truth, worried about his former travelling companion. Little had they talked during their less-than-two-days-long journey through the Wild, but all that time clearly had he felt the despair in the Man's heart.
''You might need to do something about him, Estel'', he warned the Ranger in a soft voice. ''You have to earn his trust now, ere your claim shall be announced. For we cannot know how he shall answer once he learnt about your true self.''
Strider shook his head in a helpless manner.
''I know not what I could do about him'', he admitted. ''His stubborn pride would not let me come any closer, and that we have to keep our secrets for awhile does not help. All he cares about is the safety of his precious city; for he thinks of Minas Tirith as his own, as have done his sires before him, ever since King Eärnur was lost. The Stewards of Gondor might rule in the name of the King; but they do not believe that the King might return one day – nor do they wish for it to happen, I fear.''
Legolas looked thoughtful for a moment; then he smiled, and it seemed to Strider as if grey rain-clouds had been lifted from the golden evening sky. Thus great the skill of Mirkwood's Prince was to ease other people's minds in times of trouble and doubt.
''If that is so, than you might need to show him that the hands of a King are the hands of healing'', he said. ''For he has been carrying a deep, festering wound in his heart for what seems a very long time… longer, in truth, than any lesser Man could have endured. But my heart tells me that he has come to an end of his strength, and is in desperate need of healing.''
Strider frowned. ''You speak in riddles again, my friend.''
''Well, I am an Elf'', Legolas laughed quietly, ''What else would you expect from one of my kin? I know naught about the nature of this wound, for Men are strange creatures for me, and he chose not to share his pain with someone he had just met; but he seems heartbroken and hopeless – and he needs help.''
''But would he be willing to take any help from me?'' Strider asked, full of doubt. ''A very proud Man he is, Legolas – shall he ever trust me enough to let me lift the shadow from his heart? Shall I be able to heal him, even if he lets me try?''
Legolas shrugged. ''That, my friend, is yours to find out. And I suggest you to do it soon, should you want to avoid another Kintwist in Minas Tirith.''
''The safety and prospering of the White City is as dear for my own heart as it is for Boromir's'', the Ranger said solemnly, ''and I fear nothing more than become his rival in this very quest. He seems to have taken an interest in you, though, and you are more skilled in the ways of a royal court than I am, Legolas. Would you not talk to him first?''
But the Elf only shook his head gravely.
''Nay, my friend. For 'tis you who shall have to win him over, should you ever come to reclaim what is your birthright. I have naught to do with the inner struggles of your House – nor is it allowed me to interfere with the fate of other kingdoms. This much I have learnt in my long life and through my dealings with the Men of North.''
''You could, at least, give me a hint how to approach him'', the Ranger said. ''Many years have passed since I entered a court the last time – other than that of your own father which is very different from the castles of Men –, and I am no longer used to their customs.''
''I doubt that you could win him over with sweet words'', Legolas answered, ''for he would think them but Elvish lies. Yet though he might mistrust us – all of us – deeply, he still would not reject a lady's invitation to an evening feast in the Hall of Fire. He was raised to become a Ruling Steward, after all. Courtly manners are in his blood.''
Strider eyed him warily. ''Are you telling me… What is it that you are telling me, my Prince?''
Legolas batted his lashes in mock innocence. ''I only thought that you sould ask your lady to invite him to the feast. Once he is among us, you can approach him more easily. Besides'', he added with a wicked grin, ''I heard that the little ones shall not join us tonight. The Ring-bearer is still weakened and Glorfindel promised the others to take them to a moonlight dance.''
Strider stared at him, half amused and half annoyed. ''You are full of mischief, Legolas Greenleaf. More so, indeed, than I had ever believed.''
''Of course'', Legolas laughed again. ''I am a Wood-Elf, remember? We are a merry folk.'' He hopped from the reiling he had been sitting on. ''Which reminds me that I have to take my leave from you now. My people are waiting. There still are many trees in this dale we haven't come to greet yet, and trees, moreso the older ones, can be very… sensitive. I wish not to hurt their feelings or make them angry.''
''Would the Lord Elrond not miss your presence?'' Strider asked. ''You have barely arrived and you already want to leave?''
''Elrond has enough other duties to attend to'', Legolas said merrily, ''and I am not leaving. I just have to visit some old friends – very old ones, indeed – in the walley, who cannot come and visit me themselves.
With that, he jumped down from the third-level stairway, landing smoothly on his feet like a big cat, and – still laughing – sprinted light-footed towards the bridge. Strider looked after him, shaking his head. Now matter how much time he spent among them, Elves never ceased to astonish him. And Wood-Elves were a strange folk, indeed, even as Elves go.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Boromir had, of course, recognized the Prince of Mirkwood, running over that perilously narrow bridge like a steady-footed deer – though while in Imladris, Legolas abandoned his rough grab and wore clothes that matched better his true heritage. For a moment he almost hoped the Elf would come to visit him – for Legolas seemed a lot less haughty to him than the Elfes of the dale, and surely great fun, moreso when he went on to talk of his beloved trees –, but soon enough he understood that the Prince only came to collect his escort.
A few heartbeats later all five Wood-Elves left the guest house again, wearing long, soft cloaks that were coloured somewhere between silver and moss-green and made them look like young birches. To his surprise they set off not towards the main house but away from it, deeper into the walley.
''They shall be out in the woods all night, singing to the trees they had not spoken to for many seasons, and dancing in the moonlight'', a soft, lyrical voice said, followed by the quiet laughter of a woman.
Boromir turned, surprised that he had not heard her approach, for his keen ears got used to the light footsteps of Elves in those recent days. On the other end of the balcony, where an open archway led to the main gate of the guest house, a tall and slender woman stood, clad in a mantle of silver and blue, fair as the twilight in Elven-home; her dark hair strayed in the light breeze, and her brows were bound with gems like stars.
Young she was and yet not so, her pale face flawless and smooth, and the light of stars was in her bright eyes, grey as a cloudless night; and thought and knowledge were in her glance, as of one who has known many things that the years bring – and a faint shadow of deep sadness that seemed so unlikely on such a beautiful face.
''Forgive me, my lady'', the son of Denethor said with a slight bow, ''I did not hear you coming. How can I be of service?''
The woman smiled; a soft, ethereal smile, yet queenly and somehow full of hidden sorrow. In a way it reminded him of the Lord Elrond, who, too, carried the marks of mortality on his ageless face.
''I came on an errand of my father'', she answered mildly.
''Your father?'' Boromir frowned. Certainly she could not be… But the woman nodded simply.
''Forgive me, my good sir, for I forgot my manners. Awen, Elrond's daughter is my name, though I am also called Undómiel.''
''Undómiel… the Evenstar of the Elven people'', Boromid murmured in astonishment. ''Aye, I have heard about you, lady… from my brother, who, at times, could make Mithrandir teach him Elven lore. Yet I always thought you were but a myth.''
''That is true… for all those songs that were sung about me have little to do with who I truly am'', Arwen responded serenely. ''And were I born to another family, there would not be many minstrels who felt the need to make songs about my beauty. Were I not the daughter of Elrond, no-one but my own family would notice me.''
''That I doubt greatly'', Boromir answered, ''and it would be a great loss for us all.''
For though no woman had caught his eye in his whole short and harsh life (for what were forty years of brutal struggle in the eyes of Elves?), the Lady Arwen filled his heart with awe. So unlike she was all the Elves he had met during his stay in this walley – and yet so very Elven, more so than even the others of her kin. And she seemed to know the hearts of mortal Men more deeply than anyone else.
''What does the Lord Elrond require from his humble guest?'' he then asked, recovering a little from his mild shock. Arwen smiled.
''There shall be a feast on this eve in the Hall of Fire. My brothers have returned from their long hunt in the Wild and shall be properly greeted, with food and songs and wine. My father asks you to join us tonight.''
''All of a sudden?'' Boromir suspiciously asked. ''Does he not worry that I might hear things that were not meant for my ears?''
''Unlikely'', Arwen quietly laughed, ''unless you consider the lays about the Elder Days as such things. 'Tis a feast only. But my father realized that he had been neglecting his duties as your host, and my brothers would like to share stories of Orc-hunts with you.'' She paused, then added with mischievously twinkling eyes. ''I would understand if you hesitated, though. Elladan and Elrohir can grow tiresome at times. Moreso when they get into one of their tall tales about hunting.''
Boromir shifted uncomfortably. ''I am certain that your brothers are among the finest Elves in Middle-earth, lady'', he said. ''Yet I do not feel like going to a feast tonight.''
''All too well can I understand your anxiety'', Arwen replied with a smile. ''It is not easy to be the only Man in a valley full of Elves. Even Estel feels the need to escape us every time and again, though he was brought up under my father's roof. And yet, it would honour us greatly if you decided to join us tonight. Not very often do we have the delight to greet someone from the South-kingdom at our table.''
''Truth is'', Boromir told her'', I have been here for several days by now. No-one seemed to desire my company greetly.''
''Nor have you been very forthcoming, either'', Arwen countered without a beat. ''You managed to shake off Estel on your first day here – not many people could have achieved that.''
''I did not mean to insult him'', Boromir began, a little ashamed, but Arwen quieted him with a small wave of her graceful hand.
''Yes you did. But never mind; 'tis good for him to meet someone who can resist his will. Too long has he been giving orders and making decisions for those under his lead. Sometimes he forgets that not everything – or every one – around him can be controlled.''
''And you, lady, surely are one of those yourself'', Boromir said gallantly, yet he meant it. Arwen Undómiel seemed not the woman who could be ordered to do aught she wished not. In a way, she even seemed more steely than the Lady Éowyn – and certainly a lot more powerful, without the need to wield a sword.
''Truly, I am'', Arwen replied, ''much to my father's dismay.'' Then she added with a smile: ''Now that we do agree on this one, would you not change your mind and come to our feast? I would very much like you to meet my brothers… I do believe that Elladan would be more to your liking than all the other Elves in this dale.''
''He would?'' Boromir said, doubtfully. Arwen nodded with a knowing smile.
''He would. And he, too, would love to meet you, I am certain of that as well. For though never had Imladris any dealings with Gondor, often has my brother spoken with longing of visiting your white city one day.''
Boromir still hesitated a little. What Arwen had said about her brothers was intriguing, but he truly did not want to spend more time among all those haughty Elves than he had to. Nor did he want the Lord Elrond feeling better about himself for inviting him to his table. On the other hand, of course, he might unintentionally catch some news with all the Elves chatting around merrily.
''If it is your wish, Lady Arwen, I shall obey'', he finally gave in, and Arwen smiled again.
''Truly, it is. And grateful I am that you generously grant me this little wish. I shall send Lindir to guide you to the Hall of Fire.''
With that, she retreated – not like any other woman would retreat; Boromir rather had the feeling she had simply vanished into thin air. If it was some Elven magic or simply skillful grace, he could not guess. But it was, in truth, a little unsettling.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
You want to see whom he shall meet on the feast? Go tho Chapter Two!
