The morrow dawned fair and warm.  Boromir had little time to wonder what his new Elf companion might have in store for him before his musings were interrupted by a knock on the door.

It was Naimë, as promised, smiling brightly and, as Boromir was learning, characteristically.  Trays and bowls of food covered every inch of her open arms and seemed to drape across her chest even as an earthenware pitcher dangled from one dainty pinky finger.  She nodded to the Steward's son in greeting and then brushed past him as he moved to divest her of her burden.  Almost before he had turned around she was laying her provisions out on a small table he had all but ignored on his balcony.

There was fresh fruit, small oatmeal-like cakes, soft butter and jams along with a sweet yellow bread – thick and spongy at the center – heavily flavored with honey and spices.  The pitcher turned out to contain a brewed herbal drink softened with milk that Boromir found palatable and warming.  After a short period of much eating and very little talk the Elf maid and the Man both pushed back their chairs and stretched out their feet in the morning sunshine.

"So," Naimë was the first to break the satisfied silence.  "What shall it be?  I can only think that your unhappiness here must spring from your ignorance of our ways and our valley since all others who visit or dwell here are joyful.  So I have planned an extensive tour to broaden your view.  But it is you must choose the starting point, take the first step, as it were.  What will you have?  Indoors or Out?  Choose well, Mortal, for my continued company depends on your satisfaction and I would see more of you."

The ancient pride of the Steward's son rose up in Boromir at the Elf's imperious tone even as its owner leaned abruptly forward in his chair.  But there he was met by a mischievous smile dancing over Naimë's delicate lips, forcing them from a mock frown and back to her usual look of merriment.  Boromir could not help but smile himself, then and sat back to consider his invitation more closely.

"Indoors, I believe, Elf.  We will leave outside for the full warmth and blossom of the day.  What say you?"

Across the table the Naimë smiled happily and nodded her head as she rose from the table.  "I would not have known a Man could have such fair words and well-measured thoughts.  You see, My Lord?  You are teaching me something already!"

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

Boromir felt his spirits begin to lift even as he followed Naimë out his door, along many corridors, through the House of Elrond and beyond.  He was finding the company of this Elf to be unlike any other; since crossing the Gap of Rohan and leaving familiar country – could it have been over two months before? – he had felt as though he were walking among legends and dreams.  At her side he was beginning to get his footing again.

And, perhaps more important, thanks to her he was no longer waiting about Rivendell for Elrond's summons like an errand boy in an antechamber.  The farther Naimë led him away from his room the more his nobility return.  His back straightened, his head rose, his stride lengthened.  Still he had to work to keep up as Naimë could barely contain the skip in her walk as she went before him, the diffuse light of morning shining along the long coiled braid of her black hair. 

Before long the Elf maid had brought Boromir to what he could only guess was the very bottom of the gorge that was Rivendell.  There, along the banks of the Loudwater they came upon several clusters of buildings.  Some were low, some tall but all clearly of Elvish design and purpose.  Through their open doors Boromir glimpsed Elves hard at work, though to him their work appeared very similar to their play as they joked and argued good-naturedly amongst themselves.  His spirits fell somewhat as he thought "what is there here I have not already seen?"

Naimë recaptured his attention with a broad gesture.  "Here dwell and work many of our finest artisans:  glassblowers, potters, weavers, gold- and silversmiths as well as many others.  Here we create all we need to live amongst ourselves."  Indeed, along the Loudwater Boromir saw representatives of all the trades he had ever known from Minas Tirith or the Pelennor surrounding.

He raised a brow in surprise.  "I was not aware Elves performed labor at occupation or engaged in commerce of any kind."

"No," Naimë's answering laugh echoed off the nearby buildings.  "Here we do as we please!  Some take pleasure in exercising their minds, some in working their hands in steel or clay.  Is it not so where you come from?"

Despite his good mood Boromir could not stop a darkening frown.  "Where I come from we do as we must," he growled.  The thought went unfinished that fulfilling his duty was all that stood between their pleasure and the Enemy's.

But Naimë's hand alighting gently on his arm roused him again.  "Here is our destination." She pointed upland to another grouping of workshops.  "Come."  She spoke calmingly, and when Boromir looked up he was surprised to see concern in her dark-gray eyes.  But a bright smile quickly replaced it as she began to move away, gesturing to him.  "Here I believe you will see much to delight you."

The Elf maid turned and led Boromir upland to a group of buildings somewhat larger and darker than the rest.  Black smoke pushed its way out of their chimneys over windows set high in walls that otherwise had no feature.  There strange sounds came to Boromir's ears – the ring of hammers, breath of bellows, whine of sharpening wheels – sounds of industry almost forgotten in the more than 100 days he had passed since leaving Gondor.

Without announcement his Elf guide pushed upon a heavy oaken door and gestured for Boromir to proceed.  Inside, the warrior recognized a forge, an armory even, though it was unlike any he had ever seen.  The light filtered in from above to illuminate an airy and orderly workspace and reflected, to Boromir's wonder, off countless pieces of burnished arms and armor.  As he stepped in his eyes landed on a long curved blade that dangled near the door; but they couldn't rest there.  In a few short moments he glutted his sight – in each blade he thought the maker to have found the perfect marriage of artistry and deadly strength until he beheld the next.  He felt rather than saw Naimë slip past him, her feather-like hand barely brushing his back.

She called out:  "A-Ho, Master Smithy!  I have brought to you a Master of the Sword – a great warrior and leader of armies from the South come to test your skill at arms-making.  What say you?  Will you let him test your wares?"

Out of the shadowy depths previously unnoticed came an Elf.  Though it was obvious to Boromir he could not have said how he knew the Elf was old even among Elves.  There was something in his eyes, his delicately lined face, his very bearing that bespoke of years spent on this earth.  He stared at Boromir for a moment with unapologetic hostility, resentful that the contemplative solitude he guarded so jealously had been disturbed.  Then he turned his back and nodded to Naimë.

"Archer."


"Swordsmith."

"What is it?  Why do you bring this man to me?"  Boromir heard undisguised bitterness in the Elf's voice, almost spitting out his race.  "Men long ago 'outgrew' our teachings and ceased to be interested in our work."

But his only answer was Naimë's characteristic smile, now tinged with a shade of fond indulgence.  So the aged Elf turned directly to Boromir.

"You are the first of your countrymen we have seen here in many hundreds of years.  Are you in need of a new blade?  Well, you could hardly find better in Middle Earth.  Is that what has brought you here to Rivendell?   Hmmm?"

Boromir felt his ever-present pride begin to rise like hackles on a hunting dog.  Did everyone know his name and his business?  But now Naimë stepped forward, winking one moonstone eye to the Steward's Son.  "He is in need of an education, Megilin.  I encountered him yesterday as we played at Leikkiä and now he thinks that games are all we Elves concern ourselves with."  Nodding to Boromir complicitously she took a seat and withdrew it demurely to one side of the forge, leaving him alone to face the smithy.


"Games!  Games … "  Frowning angrily Megilin the Swordsmith reached down a particularly deadly looking piece, enscored with the image of a dragon riding down its blade that glowed red in the firelight.  "Would you use this for a game?"

Boromir, recognizing an invitation, stepped forward and took the sword from the Elf's long hand.  It was surprisingly heavy, but finely balanced and seemed almost to vibrate as if waiting impatiently in his hand.  He stepped back and swung the blade a few times and then held it out again to marvel at its craftsmanship.

"No, indeed!" he almost crowed.  "This I would use to carve a path to the Black Tower from the gates of Minas Tirith itself though all the hordes of Mordor stood about me.  It is a fine blade!"

"Fine!  'Fine', he says, and such bold words."  Frowning, but not totally displeased, the old Elf turned and made his way to the back of the room muttering to himself.  "Such brave words!  He forgets, the young manling, that others here may have seen such a host.  No, Steward's Son," he turned back to his guest.  "For such a battle you would not use that, you would use this!"

So saying he produced yet another blade, more finely carved and fashioned than the last for Boromir to try.  Thus through the morning the swordsmith brought out blade after blade, each one eagerly and tested by the soldier until they came to sit, Megilin spinning stories, telling of each blade's making, for whom it was wrought, the meaning of each symbol, leaf and whorl, Boromir listening intently.

Thus the morning passed quickly and unnoticed.  Through it all Naimë sat back listening, her eyes sparkling with the firelight of the forge and the risen flame of Boromir's happiness; a flame of spirit she seen in him from the first; a smoldering flame left dangerously unattended.  But now it glowed brightly and steadily and Naimë was pleased to share in its warmth.

Too soon, it seemed to Boromir, his Elven guide gently extracted him from the forge and the old smith's company to continue their tour.

As they left the forge the Elf Maid addressed him.  "Well, my friend, I think we have succeeded in feeding your spirit somewhat.  What say you we feed our bodies?  Are you not hungry after so much talk and good company?  I myself am starving and I have only watched and listened this whole morning.  Come!"

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

Naimë brought Boromir out of the valley and back into the depths of the last Homely House.  Here the smell of fresh-baked bread, roasting meats and sweet things assaulted him and the soldier found his stomach rumbling and his mouth watering most uncontrollably.  Naimë guided him to a small refectory table standing empty in a sun-drenched alcove not far from the kitchens and left to gather their lunch.

When she returned the pair eagerly tucked into a tray full of cold roast chicken, cider, pears and a fresh loaf of the honeyed bread they had so enjoyed with breakfast.  Between mouthfuls Boromir grunted happily.

"Naimë, you almost make me feel young again.  When I was small, my brother Faramir and I roamed our city freely, but most often spent our mealtimes tucked into a corner of the great kitchen of the King's House not unlike this.  The cooks and servants spoiled us most satisfactorily."

His remembrance made Naimë laugh becomingly.  "This place is dear to me;  I am pleased you share my feelings.  But I am surprised that you were allowed such freedom as a youth, even in your own city.  I would have thought the Steward's Sons too precious to go unguarded."

Then a shadow fell over Boromir's fair countenance and reigned in his speech grown full and easy with the morning's company.  "It was the year my mother fell ill; the attentions of many were elsewhere.  She died at high summer and my father grieved for her most sorely.  Faramir and I …" he paused to choose his words; "preferred to absent ourselves in those long days."

For a long moment silence settled in between them, the Elf and the Man.  Then Naimë spoke quietly.

"Indeed, even in Rivendell is the beauty and kindness of the Fair Finduilas remembered.  The loss of such a soul is often felt far beyond its dwelling."

Her words brought Boromir back from the world outside their window to find Naimë's eyes shining.  He reached across and covered her small hand with his for a moment, and then withdrew it, surprised at himself.

But in another moment the Elf-maid's customary lightheartedness returned.  She leaned forward with a teasing smirk.  "And what of your brother, Faramir?  Into what manner of man has that errant youth grown?"

Boromir grunted again, and shared her smile.   "My little brother?"  Then he sat back and Naimë was pleased to see pride growing in Boromir's mind's eye.  "He is a valiant leader and much admired by his men, and by rights he should be sitting here instead of me.  But Faramir's heart lies more in books and old scrolls than in steel and hard living.  He has oft been a pupil of Mithrandir the Wizard, much to my father's displeasure.  Sadly, there is much enmity between them."  Then a thought brought him forward again, a proud and cocky smile teasing his lips.  "I do not think it is his fate to rule Gondor!"

"O Boromir!"  Laughing, Naimë reached across the narrow table and tapped her companion's forehead with a warm and gentle finger.  "Such sensitivity!  Such prescience!  You have been too long among Elves, my friend!  I feel we must leave this place at once!"

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

After dispensing with the detritus of their meal Naimë brought Boromir to the stables of Rivendell, selected a mount for him and the two spent the afternoon exploring the slopes of the Misty Mountains away from Rivendell and Elven kind.  They contentedly kept the warm sun, sharp air and clear day only to themselves.

But before long Boromir's gentle mood began to give way.  Even the rocky slope of the Misty Mountains near Rivendell had an orderliness that Boromir found disquieting.  Over frequently he and Naimë would happen on a diminutive glade or patch of wild flowers which bespoke the meddling hand of the Elves had been at work.  As they continued to ride Boromir thought more and more of Mount Mindolluin and the White Mountains of his homeland.  Their treacherous scree, sudden storms and barren rock faces showed the had had their own way in the world for many an age.   Boromir found he missed them acutely.

Before long he suggested to Naimë that they turn back, and when they returned the sun had set and lamps were being lit in the many halls and chambers of Rivendell.

Still, as they walked the halls together back to his room Boromir found he was well and truly tired for the first time since his arrival and he looked forward to a quiet, simple meal, perhaps even a bath.  He suspsected he would sleep well and uninterrupted for the first time since leaving Minas Tirith.

When they reached his door Naimë turned to address him.

"Well, My Lord, have you enjoyed your day?"

Boromir inclined his head in gratitude.  "Yes, Naimë, I thank you I have."

"Then will you permit me to attend you again tomorrow?  We have put your body at ease, I think.  Now it is time we exercised your mind, and to that end I have planned several indoor pursuits."


"Indoor?"

And Naimë gave one last trilling laugh.  "Yes"  She lifted her hand toward his balcony and the sky outside. Boromir's eyes followed to see stars just beginning to show.

"Tomorrow it is going to rain!"