SEAL ON MY HEART
by Soledad Cartwright
Disclaimer: see Introduction
Warning: this story contains implied m/m interaction – don't read it if it's not your thing.
Rating: PG, for this chapter – I think.
Author's notes:
This is an alternate version of the original second part of ''A Heart for Falsehood Framed'', which I have taken offline, having the original 3-parter put together to one multi-chapter-story, so don't look out for it in vain. If you like this AU, though, it might be interesting for you to read the whole thing, if only to see the changes more clear. But it might be worth the sweat anyway. (Or so I hope – I'm rather fond of the original, actually.)
What has changed?
I added an opening scene – an Elladan POV, as I was asked by several people (and because I felt the need, myself);
I changed the infamous sword scene, bringing it closer to the movie;
I shortened this part of the Council scene, too, adding a very short movie scene (Gimli, trying to destroy the Ring);
Finally, I added a final scene, parallel to the Council events – the one between Elladan and Elrohir.
Many thanks to Deborah for providing the poetic translation of the Bible quote and to Isabeau of Greenlea for beta-reading.
ELROND'S COUNCIL
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I arose to open for my beloved
My hands filled with myrrh
My fingers dripping perfume on the door-handle.
I opened for my beloved
And my beloved was gone.
My soul went out to seek him.
I sought him and did not find him.
I called him, and he did not answer me.
Song of Solomon 5:6 (Deborah's translation)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Part Two
I know not how I got over the Bridge blindly. It must have been pure instinct.
For blinded I was by the unshed tears that burnt in my eyes like fire.
Like on that long-gone day of my childhood when I visited the smiths in their workshop and stared at the glowing iron in fearful amazement.
I nearly lost my eyesight on that day. Had one of the smiths not spotted me, I might be the only blind Elf in Imladris now.
Mayhap it would be better so; for were I blind, I would have never noticed him, never fallen for him – and he could not have broken my hart.
He called me a whore. He accused me of sharing my bed – of sharing myself – with him only for Father's purposes and for Estel's sake.
I wish it were so. That would certainly be a lot less painful.
Valar, I never thought love could hurt this much.
I knew that losing Mother nearly made Father flee his body and seek relief in the Halls of Mandos – but they had been married and very much in love for two thousand years. I only met him mere weeks ago. How could I have fallen for him so deeply?
He called me a whore.
He thinks I would deceive him. He thinks Father would send his children to the beds of mortal Men, in order to gain power and influence over the remains of fading Westernesse.
What a horrible father must his be if he can assume such thing from mine? And that he would accuse me of doing thus at Father's orders? Does he truly think so lowly of me? Or was he just lashing out in his pain, in his wounded pride and I happened to be there – at the wrong time, in the wrong place?
I cannot say.
'Tis true, we never spoke of love. I offered him solace and sought the same thing for myself. And that was what I have found. Naught else. He loves me not, and I knew this and accepted this.
Why I had to fall in love with him, I cannot understand. And yet there is naught I can do against my own, foolish heart. I fell for him on our first night together and I cannot undo this. Nor do I wish to do so.
Love is beyond our reach to gain or to quench.
For love is as strong as death and passion is as harsh as the grave, or so the songs of mortal Men say.
I seem to take after my mortal ancestors even more than any one had thought – including myself.
And that is my curse.
Were I Elf enough, I could die of a broken heart and heal my fëa(1) in Mandos' Halls. Yet I cling to this life with a mortal stubbornness, and not even Death itself could make me forget him.
Nor would I want to. Despite how much he hurt me, I love him, and I always will. What we had was more than a simple, merry tryst in the hay. Our souls have mated as well, somewhere during our first night of beautiful, shared passion, and even if we shall never touch each other again – which is likely after what just happened – we are now bonded for eternity.
By the Lady's grace(2), he knows that not. Mortals bond themselves not in such way – 'tis very rare among them at best. So, at least he shall be able to forget and go on with his life.
If he survives what lies before him, that is.
For I can see the darkness deepening in his heart, and now that I cannot shield him any more, he is in greater peril than ever.
And when he falls into darkness, then so will I. I cannot walk this Earth without him. Not any more. I might endure losing him as long as I know that he is still around. But once he is gone, there will be naught that would tie me to Arda.
Passion is as harsh as the grave.
Valar, but it hurts.
How grateful I am that we shall be gone in mere hours. While we scout out the way to Lothlórien, I might recover a little. Time and distance will heal the wounds – as well as they can be healed.
My brother is coming.
Of course he feels that I am deeply troubled, no matter how hard I try to shield my feelings. We always can feel each other's emotional turmoil and never let the other suffer if we can be of help.
But I cannot face him right now. I cannot admit that he was right when he told me that I would get hurt, sooner or later, when I gave my heart to this Man. Of course he was right. But does it matter now? I have lost my heart and it shall be his, for ever.
''Go away, Elrohir,'' I murmur, without looking at him. ''Leave me alone. You cannot help me. No one can.''
He says something I hear but do not understand; then he sits down beside me and lays an arm around my shoulders, holding me tightly.
And my tears finally begin to flow.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
After that short but very ugly fight with Elladan – if one could truly call it a fight, for Elladan did not even fight back, nor did he defend himself, simply endured being unjustly hurt and then left with quiet dignity, never uttering as much as a harsh word, only his clear eyes darkening with bewilderment and sorrow – Boromir had time enough to wallow in guilt and self-hatred, for Elrond had called a luncheon break of nearly an hour.
He wandered off into the vastness of Elrond's house and came upon a great hall. At the first sight, it reminded him of the secret archives of the Stewards in Minas Tirith, where no-one but the Lord Denethor was allowed access – not even his own sons, to Faramir's great displeasure. But this one was bigger – almost thrice the size –and older, much older. Scrolls and books, written in tongues probably not even Elrond himself could understand, filled the delicately carved shelves that reached from the marble-paved floor up to the shadowy heights of arched ceilings. Small writing desks and longer reading tables were scattered along the great hall.
Down a handful of stairs and along the pillared gallery that circled the chamber he went, his steps slow as his eyes travelled about the hall. Several graceful statues there stood, gazing sorrowfully at him from across the aisle, carved in stone in the likeness of the heroes of half-forgotten Elvish lays.
His eyes swept over the gallery again, eager to find out on their own what the Master of the House was reluctant to tell him, and saw that some of the statues held wide trays in their outstretched hands. And on the trays, there lay a scepter, a ring, a white gem formed like a star and – on the farthest one, gleaming against a white cloth – the broken remnants of a great sword. A sword out of legend.
Boromir felt a thrill of awe and dread at the sight of them. They were the symbols that had guided his life since early childhood, when he began to learn the lore of Númenor and its Kings – the ancient heirlooms of the North-kingdom and the embodiment of High Kingship among the children of Westernesse: the Ring of Barahir, the shards of Narsil, the Star of Elendil and the scepter of Annúminas.
Crossing the gallery, he climbed two shallow, stone steps to reach the platform where the farthest statue stood. Drawn to the broken blade almost against his will, Boromir reached out and took the hilt in his hand. It fitted beautifully, as if he was meant to wield it. He was raised to rule over the last city of Númenorean Kings, after all.
''The shards of Narsil,'' he murmured, believing it truly for the first time. ''The blade that cut the Ring from Sauron's hand…''
He caressed the shard with his free hand with respect and admiration, ere he realized that he had just spoken the name of him who was never named in Minas Tirith. He shuddered involuntarily; his hand slipped, and the broken blade cut deep into his flesh.
''Still sharp,'' he noticed absently, starring at his own blood, dripping slowly from the wounded finger upon the marble pavement. The bright red blood of Númenor wasting away, slowly but inevitably.
He shuddered again, his face hardening back to its usual tense alertness.
''But no more than a broken hilt it is.''
As he stood with Narsil's hiltshards in his hand, something touched him: a sense of being watched, that sent a cold shiver down his spine. He slowly, carefully turned, to find a Man seated only a few paces away, on a stone bench, a book open on his knee. It was Aragorn; his eyes were focused on Boromir, vivid and intense, burning him with their gaze.
''Not yet,'' he agreed in a low voice. ''Too long it has rested. Fifteen Chieftains there were, until I was born, less than a year later than your own father. And I have had a hard life and a long. The leagues that lie between here and Gondor are a small part in the count of my journeys.''
Boromir only half-listened to him. The bleeding stopped; yet the other cut, the one in his very heart, was deeper. Now that he had given proof – for the Star of Elendil, the scepter of Annúminas and the Ring of Barahir were well-known in Gondor, and he would have recognized them from the pictures he had been shown in his childhood even in his dreams – he had to come to terms with the truth. And it was not easy.
It meant that the time of the Ruling Stewards had come to an end. The Heir of Denethor would not take over the White City from his father as his sires did before him, back to Mardil Voronwë. For ere he could do that, Isildur's Heir would come and take it from him.
Take everything from him.
''I have to give these things some thought,'' he said abruptly and – not waiting for an answer – left.
The sword fell when he tried to replace it on the statue. Aragorn stood with one smooth movement, picked it up and returned it to its place, his face grim and his eyes unreadable.
* * * * * * * * * *
But none of them could give much thought to all these recent events, for the bell called them back to the Council again. All were gathered there already when Boromir arrived and took his seat next to Halbarad, and the older of the Halflings was asked to finally tell the story of the finding of the Ring.
And tell he did, at full length, recounting his adventure with one foul creature called Gollum, and from the surprised, even somewhat angry looks the Dwarves cast him Boromir guessed that he must have told them a different story earlier.
On and on he went, and Boromir grew increasingly bored, for the scratchy voice of the little goblin cut into his already tortured mind, not letting him at think of anything else.
Like mending fences with Elladan? the cruel little voice from inside inquired.
Finally Elrond took pity on him and raised his hand.
''Well told, my friend,'' he said to the Halfling, ''but that is enough at this time.'' With that Boromir whole-heartedly agreed. Another five minutes and he would have strangled the little thing. ''For the moment it suffices to know that the Ring passed to Frodo, your heir. Let him now speak.''
The little fellow with that innocent, Elvish face and deep blue eyes stood less willingly than his kinsman, yet he did it nonetheless, and told all of his dealings with the Ring from the day it passed into his keeping.
Boromir listened to him with rapt interest, and could not help feeling sorry for this troubled little creature who so clearly did not want to do anything with Rings of Power and wars and weapons. And yet on he went, leaving behind anything that was dear to his little heart, hunted by the same nameless horror that touched him under the ruined bridge of Osgiliath, and reached his goal against all odds. How could a born warrior like Boromir not admire the little one? Such selfless bravery deserved respect, at the least.
After the young hobbit finished his tale, the silver-haired Galdor of the Havens, who sat nearby, wrapped in a grey cloak against the cooling weather, turned to Elrond in doubt.
''The Wise may have good reason to believe that the Halfling's trove is indeed the Great Ring of long debate, unlikely though that may seem to those who know less. But may we not hear the proof?''
A few of the others nodded in agreement. Boromir did so, himself, though he had seen more than enough proof of things he did not want to learn, for not only one day but for a whole lifetime.
Do not think about that now, he warned himself, forcing his mind to listen to the council. He could not let himself miss aught. The fate of Minas Tirith might be at stake with every morsel of tidings these people offered so very reluctantly. His city, no matter who might be called King over her one day. No birthright would make Isildur's Heir bound to her every stone the way the Heir of the Stewards was bound to her – through countless centuries of love and faithful service his father's fathers had left him as a legacy.
''And what of Saruman?'', the grey-cloaked Elf from the Havens added. ''He is learned in the lore of the Rings, yet he is not among us. What is his counsel – if he knows the things that we have heard?''
What, indeed?, Boromir thought grimly. Is there more behind the wizard's treachery towards Rohan than the hunger for even more power? If Curunír knows about the Ring, then mayhap his moves in the Mark are but preparations for a much bigger war. And if Théodred's guess is right and Isengard is now in league with the Dark Tower, then we are truly lost. Tarrying here instead of preparing for war is folly. One that we might regret deeply, ere the day of battles shall dawn.
Yet he said naught, waiting for these oh-so-wise people to finally tell what they truly knew. This was something he needed to learn.
''Some, Galdor,'' said Mithrandir, ''would think the tidings of Glóin, and the pursuit of Frodo proof enough that the Halfling's trove is a thing of great worth to the Enemy. Yet it is a Ring. What then…?''
So Mithrandir continued the tale, telling them how he tried to find Gollum, for he desired to know how the Ring came to such a pitiful creature, and how long he had possessed it; yet the shrewd little thing escaped him and was not found. After that he let the matter rest, watching and waiting only.
As you and your precious Elves have done all the times while Gondor fought and bled, Boromir commented in his heart.
''That was seventeen years ago,'' Mithrandir continued. ''Soon I became aware that spies of many sorts, even beasts and birds, were gathered round the Shire, and my fear grew. I called for the help of the Dúnedain, and their watch was doubled: and I opened my heart to Aragorn, the Heir of Isildur.''
All eyes turned to the Ranger with unveiled curiosity. Aragorn shifted on his seat, clearly uncomfortable with all that attention paid to his person, and said:
''And I counseled that we should hunt for Gollum, too late though it may seem. And since it seemed fit that Isildur's Heir labor to repair Isildur's fault, I went with Gandalf on the long and hopeless search.''
How noble of you, Boromir thought grimly, and just what were you hoping to find? Which proof did you truly desire, battered offspring of fallen Kings: that the Ring would be the One or that it would not: What hope of yours still lies with it?'
His mind got sidetracked again, not caring much for the long story of how Mithrandir and the Ranger hunted the creature. Yet his ears perked up again when the wizard quoted Curunír's words.
''The Nine, the Seven, and the Three,'' he said, ''had each a proper gem. Not so the One. It was round and unadorned, as if it were one of the lesser rings; but its Maker set marks upon it that the skilled, maybe, could still see and read.''
Mithrandir paused and shook his head slowly.
''What those marks were he had not said. Who now would know? The Maker. And Saruman? But great though his lore may be, it must have a source. What hand save Sauron's ever held this thing, ere it was lost? The hand of Isildur alone.''
Here the wizard paused again, and Boromir rolled his eyes. Could the old trickster not come to the point and tell what he was about to tell, without all those little games? People were already listening to him anyway…
''With that thought, I forsook the chase and passed swiftly to Gondor,'' Mithrandir finally continued. ''In former days the members of my order had been well received there, but Saruman most of all. Often he had been for long the guest of the Lords of the City. Less welcome did the Lord Denethor show me then than of old, and grudgingly he permitted me to search among his hoarded scrolls and books.
'If indeed, you look only, as you say, for records of ancient days, and the beginnings of the City, read on!' he said. 'For to me what was is less dark than what is to come, and that is my care. But unless you have more skill than even Curunír, who has studied here long, you will find naught that is not well known to me, who am master of the lore of this city.' ''
Boromir had to force himself not to laugh. How very like his father, the strong-willed, ill-tempered, heavily burdened with worries over his city Lord of Minas Tirith this sounded!. A small wonder itself, indeed it had been, that he had allowed Mithrandir entrance to his secret archives at all. Usually he would let no-one even near those rooms, not even his own sons, no matter how much Faramir tried.
''So said Denethor,'' the wizard continued. ''And yet there lie in his hoards many records that few now can read; even of the lore-masters, for their scripts and tongues have become dark to later Men.'' Now he turned directly to Boromir, for the first time since the Council had set on anew. ''And Boromir, there lies in Minas Tirith, still, unread, I guess, by any save Saruman and myself since the Kings failed, a scroll that Isildur made himself. For Isildur did not march away straight from the war in Mordor, as some have told the tale.''
''Some in the North, maybe,'' Boromir replied, thoroughly fed up now with the wizard's lecturing tone. ''All know in Gondor that he went first to Minas Anor and dwelt a while with his nephew, Melendil, instructing him, before he committed to him the rule of the South Kingdom. In that time he planted there the last sapling of the White Tree, in memory of his brother.''
How much more fleeting your memory is, brother mine! Only a touch of light breeze on my brow, a fleeting taste of strong wine, sweet honey and bitter tears on my lips… once and forever, never to be tasted again. A parting gift, so cool and vanishing as a handful of snow in hot palms – it fades away swiftly, yet long does it burn afterwards. And burn I do with never-ending fire, whomever I might try to quench my thirst with…
He lost his track on Mithrandir's tale, not caring how the wizard found the scroll of Isildur that described the secret marks on the One Ring – and how they could be made visible again. Only when he heard the name of his father mentioned once more did he turn his focus outwards again.
''At once I took my leave of Denethor,'' Mithrandir was saying, ''but even as I went northwards, messages came to me out of Lórien that Aragorn had passed that way, and that he had found the creature called Gollum. Therefore I went first to meet him and hear his tale. Into what deadly perils he had gone alone I dear not guess.''
''There is little need to tell of them,'' said Aragorn, and Boromir could only shake his head in disgust over this false modesty. ''If a man must needs walk in sight of the Black Gate, or tread the deadly flowers of Morgul Vale, then perils he shall have.''
And just who are you to lecture of that? Boromir clenched his teeth in barely repressed fury. Who of all this Council is the one who faces the Black Gate every single day? Who can see the fire of Mount Down while merely standing on his watchpost? Who had to fight the Orc-hosts of Minas Morgul and endure the Nameless Fear under that broken bridge in Osgiliath, buried under the dead bodies of good men whom he had grown up with?
He stopped listening to the tale, told with far too many words by Strider – by Aragorn, he reminded himself, say Aragorn, at least you do not have to say majesty yet –, how Gollum was finally found and dragged to the Elves in Mirkwood who had agreed to keep him, until Mithrandir came and endured a long speech with him, learning, that Gollum's ring, indeed, came out of the Great River, nigh to the Gladden Fields where Isildur was slain. And that Gollum had possessed it long, many lives of his small kind, for the power of the Ring had lengthened his years far beyond their span.
A power that only Great Rings wield.
''And if that is not proof enough, Galdor,'' the wizard turned back to the Elf, ''there is the other test that I spoke of. Upon this very ring, the letters that Isildur reported may still be read, if one has the strength of will to set it in the fire for awhile. That I have done and this I have read:
Ash nazg durbatulúk, ash nazg gimbatul,
ash nazg thrakatulúk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.
The change in the wizard's voice was astounding. Suddenly it became menacing, powerful, harsh as stone. A shadow seemed to pass over the high sun, and the porch for a moment grew dark. All trembled, and the Elves stopped their ears – all but Legolas, who only paled a little and glared at Mithrandir defiantly, as someone who is used to face great perils.
The words, though the evil tongue was not known to him, jabbed through Boromir's heart like daggers of white-hot iron; yet they were as cold as ice. He doubled over in excruciating pain, his breath caught in his aching chest, the unbearable weight of darkness slamming down onto his heart. It was as if the long, wordless wails of the Nameless Fear suddenly had taken on shape. As if a curse, floating above him for a long time, finally had been spoken. As if he had been marked by the shadow, forever.
Through pain-veiled eyes he could see the Lord of Imladris jerk to high alert in his seat. For the first time, he truly could believe that once Elrond had been a great warrior who faced the Enemy itself on the slopes of Mount Doom and stayed back when all fled, nearly alone, to protect the slain body of his fallen King. That fair, ageless face was now pale with barely restrained wrath, the storm-grey eyes gleamed with cold fire, and even in his pain-hazed state Boromir was glad that Elrond's fury was not aimed at him.
Not yet, at least, that merciless voice in his heart commented. Wait till he learns how you have treated his firstborn…
''Never before has any voice dared to utter words of that tongue in Imladris, Gandalf the Grey,'' said Elrond in a dangerously low, silky voice, as the shadow passed and the members of the Council breathed once more.
''And let us hope that none will ever speak it here again,'' answered Mithrandir in his usual, unshakable manner. ''Nonetheless, I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond. For if that tongue is not soon to be heard in every corner of the West, then this thing is, indeed, what the Wise declared: the treasure of the Enemy, fraught with all his malice; and in it lies a great part of his strength of old.''
Boromir looked at the fine, Elvish face of the young hobbit, Frodo, and once more, he felt great pity for the little creature, burdened with such an evil legacy. Small wonder he tried to pass it over to Strider – Aragorn, get used to it! –, who rather skillfully avoided taking it upon himself. What kind of King could such a man become? One who would not take the burden from the weak and weary? What could the White City hope from such a ruler?
Were it up to me, I would lessen your burden, little one, Boromir thought, watching that pain-ridden, small face. He never saw Elven children – no-one in Middle-earth had seen any for at least three thousand years –, but he guessed this would be what they would look like. 'Tis not right that you have to carry it. You ought to be merry and free of all concerns about evil. 'Tis Men who are made for great burdens, not innocent little Halflings. How I wish that I could help you!
And that crack-brained wizard was still not done with his tale!
''Know also, my friends, that I learned more yet from Gollum,'' he said. ''He was loath to speak and his tale was unclear, but it is beyond doubt that he went to Mordor, and there all he knows was forced from him. Thus the Enemy knows that the One is found; that it was long in the Shire; and since his servants pursued it almost to our door, he soon will know, already he may know, even as I speak, that we have it here.''
All sat silent for a while, until at length Boromir spoke, unable to hold back any more, for his patience was running out, and the only thing he wanted was to be done with all this wailing and pondering over things he could do naught about. Now that all parts of the Riddle of Doom were finally revealed (and their meaning was aught but pleasant for him *or* for Minas Tirith), he only wished to return home and defend his city with every means he could laid hand upon.
''He is a small thing, you say, this Gollum?'' he asked. ''Small, but great in mischief, it seems. What became of him? To what doom did you put him?''
''He is in prison but no worse,'' said Aragorn. ''He had suffered much. There is no doubt that he was tormented, and the fear of Sauron lies black on his heart.''''
Boromir winced involuntarily. Why in Middle-earth would these Northern people need to call the Enemy by his name every time they mentioned him? Were they not taught that names, even the lesser ones that were only taken for a certain time to wear, carried great powers and might invoke great evil if spoken lightly? Was even the so-called Heir of Isildur taught nothing? Not even in Elrond's house – who was said to be the greatest lore-master of this age? Or was he so haughty already that he dared to challenge the Dark Lord in his folly? Then the fate of Minas Tirith was sealed, for sure.
''Still I for one am glad that Gollum is safely kept by the watchful Elves of Mirkwood,'' the Ranger added. ''His malice is great and gives him a strength hardly to be believed in one so lean and withered. He could work much mischief still, if he were free. And I do not doubt that he was allowed to leave Mordor on some evil errand.''
Must they really speak this much, all of them? Boromir thought, somewhat irritated, for the custom of his King-to-be to make many more words than necessary, made him edgy. Valar, should he ever come to Minas Tirith, he and Father would be at each other's throats all the time.
For the Lord Denethor was known to have his ways with words as well (just as did his younger son, but not his firstborn), wielding them with merciless strength like sharp weapons, and he had little patience for those who wasted his time, even if they were his own sons. Boromir had no doubt that his father would not be frightened by Aragorn's birth or claim once his cold rage awakened.
Gondor shall be divided and fall, he realized with numbing fear, if no-one comes between the two of them. Tis something I cannot let happen – yet how shall I keep them from tearing at each other? And whom I shall side with? The Lord Denethor is not only my father, he is the Steward of Gondor and has served his land faithfully all his life. Yet I cannot deny that the claim of Aragorn is just, at least by the laws of both Kingdoms… What can I do to keep them fighting each other and thus bring our land to fall?
A sharp Elvish cry of great distress jerked him out of his troubled thoughts.
''Alas!'' Legolas cried, and his fair face darkened with concern. ''The tidings that I was sent to bring must now be told. They are not good, but only here have I learned how evil they may seem for this Council. Sméagol, who is now called Gollum, has escaped.''
''Escaped?'' cried Aragorn. ''That is ill news indeed, after all our trouble to lay hand upon him. We shall rue it bitterly. How come the folk of Thranduil to fail in their trust?''
Fool, Boromir thought with despair, you were brought up by Elves, how can you openly insult one of them, a Wood-Elf and a Prince above all? Or do you think that Legolas shall endure it for the sake of your old friendship? I very much doubt it.
And Legolas turned very pale indeed, green eyes gleaming cold like a naked sword in starlight, and every one around became troubled, for he seemed dangerously near to losing control. Rarely did it happen with Elves that they would give in to their cold wrath, but when it happened, it could have dire consequences. Even more so with Wood-Elves, who always had had more of the Wild in their hearts and possessed a certain amount of wickedness – and a great deal of wounded pride, having been often looked down upon by the Noldor and others who had seen the Blessed Realm. Boromir felt awfully certain that the Prince of Mirkwood could tear the Ranger apart with his bare hands if provoked beyond his endurance. He silently promised himself not to make Legolas angry at him. Ever.
At that moment Elrond silently reached out and laid a calming hand upon the shoulder of his lover. Legolas took several deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down – he was a child no more, not even in Elven terms, and it would have been beneath his dignity to lose his calm.
''T'was not through look of watchfulness,'' he told in an even voice, though his eyes were still burning in cold fury, ''But mayhap through over-kindliness. And we fear that the prisoner had aid from others, and that more is known of our doings than we could wish.''
He gave a short report about Gollum's time in Mirkwood and how the vile little beast was freed by the Orcs – which cost him the deaths of three of his close friends: trusted archers who had fought in many battles against the fell creatures haunting the Forest during hundreds of years.
''We have failed to recapture Gollum,'' he admitted reluctantly. ''We came on his trail among those of many Orcs, and it plunged deep into the Forest, going south. But ere long it escaped our skill, and we dared not continue the hunt; for we were drawing nigh to Dol Guldur, and that is still a very evil place; we do not go that way.''
Boromir could only guess how hard it for the proud Elven Prince might be to admit that they were outnumbered and the horrors of the Necromancer's Tower simply too great to face, even in his obvious vengeful grief for his slain friends. Yet Legolas did not spare his own pride in order to reveal the truth, and that was more than what could be told of most Men.
Mithrandir, on the other hand, did not seem to be very impressed with the honesty of the Elf. He simply shrugged and accepted the failure as it happened.
''Well, well, he is gone. We have no time to seek for him again. He must do what he will. But he may play a part yet that neither he nor Sauron have foreseen.''
And with that customary vague comment he turned back to Galdor again.
''And now I shall answer to your other questions. What about Saruman? What are his counsels to us in this need? This tale I must tell in full, for only Elrond has heard it yet, and that in brief, but it will bear on all that we must resolve. It is the last chapter in the Tale of the Ring, so far as it has gone yet.''
And so he told in great length how he was lured into a death trap by the very head of his own order, and how he escaped with the help of Radagast the Brown and Gwaihir the Windlord, swiftest of the Great Eagles, and was brought by the Eagle to Edoras, where the Lord of Rohan sits in his halls.
''And I was glad,'' he added, ''for in the Riddermark of Rohan the Rohirrim, the Horse-lords dwell, and there are no horses like those that are bred in the great vale between the Misty Mountains and the White. And, knowing of the treachery of Saruman now, I was worried about the Ring-bearer and his burden, and needed to get to Imladris, fast.''
''Are the Men of Rohan still to be trusted, you think?'' Elrond asked.
Boromir raised his head in sudden anger, but ere he could rush to the aid of his faithful allies, Mithrandir answered the Elf-Lord.
''The same question I asked the Eagle, for the treason of Saruman had shaken my faith. He said the Rohirrim paid a tribute of horses, and sent many yearly to Mordor, or so it is told. And in Rohan I found evil already at work: the lies of Saruman; and the King of the land would not listen to my warnings. He bade me to take a horse and be gone; and I chose one to my liking, but little to his. I took the best horse in his land, and I have never seen the like of him.''
''Then he must be a noble beast, indeed,'' said Aragorn; ''and it grieves me more than many tidings that might seem worse to learn that Sauron levies such tribute. It was not so when last I was in that land.''
''Nor it is now, I shall swear,'' said Boromir, his big fists clenching involuntarily with anger, for it greatly troubled him that the honor of the Rohirrim, that of the Prince Théodred the Brave above all, was being stained here, by the very people who weren't able to see through the lies of that cursed wizard. ''Tis a lie that comes from the Enemy. I know the Men of Rohan, true and valiant; our allies, dwelling still in the lands that we gave them long ago. With no help from others have they fought the Orc-hordes of Isengard and are still fighting to keep their land free.''
''The shadow of Mordor lies on distant lands,'' answered Aragorn. ''Saruman has fallen under it. Rohan is beset. Who knows what you shall find there, if ever you return?''
''Not this at least,'' Boromir countered hotly, ''that they will buy their lives with horses. They love their horses next to their kin.''
That silenced the Ranger for awhile, so that Mithrandir could finally come to an end of his story, telling how he followed the trail of Aragorn's company, without having been able to find them in the wilderness. So he changed paths and came straight to Imladris where he met them again, to his great relief.
''Well, the tale is now told, from first to last,'' he finished. ''Here we all are, and here is the Ring. But we have not yet come any nearer to our purpose. What shall we do?''
There was silence. At last Elrond spoke again.
''This is grievous news concerning Saruman,'' he said; ''for we trusted him and he is deep in all our counsels. It is perilous to study too deeply the arts of the Enemy, for good or for ill. But such falls and betrayals, alas, have happened before.''
Tis all you have to say, Lord of Imladris? Boromir asked silently. Unfortunate for the brave Riders of Rohan to live in the neighborhood of a treacherous wizard? Ought you not to do something about Curunír, who was, after all, part of your precious White Council?
''What power still remains lies with us, here in Imladris, or with Círdan at the Havens, or in Lórien,'' Galdor said. ''But have they the strength, have we here the strength to withstand the Enemy, the coming of Sauron at the last, when all else is overthrown?''
Strength, Boromir snorted, what strength? What have the Elves done ever since the beginnings of this very age? Mayhap the Wood-Elves fought the Orcs, for they had no other choice, but all those noble others have simply run to the Havens, every time when the sky darkened with peril. Strength, indeed…
''I have not the strength,'' Elrond admitted ruefully; ''nor have they.''
All eyes turned to the Lord of Imladris, and the members of the Council became very silent. Boromir, too, glared expectantly at his host – what in Middle-earth was he about to suggest, after he had already stated that they had no way out of this disaster? Would he choose to wield the Ring after all, no matter how much he disagreed with Isildur's choice?
''The westward way seems easiest,'' Elrond continued. ''Therefore it must be shunned. It shall be watched. Too often the Elves have fled that way.''
Too often, indeed. Leaving the younger, weaker people to their fate, good or evil alike. Little did the Elves ever care for others than themselves. Mayhap now the mortal blood in Elrond's veins would prove strong enough to overcome his Elvish haughtiness and make the right choice.
The Lord of Imladris sighed, as if he had read Boromir's thoughts. A hard choice it was, indeed. And he was doomed to make it, for he alone – aside of Gandalf mayhap – had all the right strings in his hand. And being the host of this Council, it was as much his right as it was his duty.
''You have only one choice. The ring must be destroyed,'' Elrond said.
It seemed to Boromir as if he heard a faint, displeased murmur in the darkest corner of his heart. As if the Ring itself would have protested against this advice.
Ere someone could have offered other advice, one of the Dwarves leapt to his feet – it was the youngest one with that fiery beard whom Boromir had seen from his balcony at their arrival.
''What are we waiting for?'' he cried, and he rushed upon the Ring with his axe swinging.
Boromir held his breath anxiously. For a moment it seemed an unforgivable sin for his heart to destroy a thing of such beauty and power, and he almost rose from his seat to catch the wiry arm of the Dwarf. But in the next instant, the axe burst asunder, Gimli was hurled back onto the flagstones, and the Ring still lay, untouched, in all its beauty. Boromir breathed a tiny sigh of relief.
''The ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli, son of Glóin, by any craft that we here possess. Now at this last we must take a hard road, a road unforeseen'', Elrond announced solemnly.
Then, in a clear, low voice, stressing every single word meaningfully, he added:
''The ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came.'' In the sudden, stunned silence, Boromir almost laughed. ''One of you must do this.''
''There lies our hope, if hope it be. To walk into peril – to Mordor. We must send the Ring to the Fire.''
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Elrohir could feel that something was wrong. His brother, who had been floating on a cloud of happiness and utter satisfaction for days – ever since he spontaneously decided to take the Heir of Gondor in his bed – suddenly had raised his inner shields, blocking him completely.
Something most certainly was wrong. Elladan had never shut him out before. Not until the night when he had given himself to that mortal. That was the very moment when they started to drift apart. After two and a half thousand years, they became slightly estranged.
Elrohir knew he was not without guilt in this himself. He could not accept Elladan's choice, though he was careful enough not to show his disapproval before the eyes of the Man. He had been certain that Elladan would be hurt. And he had been right, it seemed.
Coming to a sudden decision, Elrohir left his chambers through the adjoining balcony that connected them with those of his brother's.
Elladan sat on the paved floor, his long legs pulled up to his chest and he hugged them tightly, his brow laid on his knees to hide his face.
He was as still as a statue. He did not even seem to breathe.
But he felt Elrohir's approach, of course. Even now, after he had shut him out from his troubled feelings. They always felt each other, even through their inner shields. They were much too close not to.
Elladan, however, was not in the mood to share his feelings.
''Go away, Elrohir,'' he murmured, without looking at his brother. ''Leave me alone. You cannot help me. No one can.''
Elrohir sighed, sat down beside his twin and laid an arm around his shoulders, holding him tightly.
''Try me,'' he said quietly.
But Elladan was beyond listening already.
He was beyond speaking, too.
Only the deep, wracking, soundless sobs that shook his whole body proved that he was still alive.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Well, this chapter became a rather lengthy one, after all. I was forced to keep more of the Council speech intact than originally planned, because otherwise the whole part would have lost its coherence. But the next one shall be shorter, I promise.
End notes:
1) The Elven equivalent of a soul. The physical part of an Elf's being (= his body) is called the hröa.
2) Meaning Elbereth (or Varda), Queen of the Valier and patron of the Elves, to whom they usually pray.