I don't own any characters/places/things you recognize...that should cover
everything else I don't feel like typing.
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And while he slept, he dreamed.
Boromir was no longer in the great hall, he thought, as he looked around at the battlefield filled with the most bizarre creatures one could imagine. Tree men and women, and creatures half man and half horse, or half man and half beast, and in this midst, a great lion, proud and terrible, and four children, two boys and two girls, the oldest of the group not perhaps Faramir's age.
All of them seemed to be fighting the fell sprits in the glade beside this river, shadows and shades, hags and crones, ogres and dark creatures that lurk still in the deep places. Commanding them, wand in hand, and curvy dagger in the other, was a tall woman, cloaked entirely in white, her voice screeching and shrill. The older girl raised a horn to her lips, and a not altogether unfamiliar note resounded over the battlefield, and the creatures presumably fighting for good seemed renewed.
As Boromir looked at the horn, he could see that it was that of a great ox, bound in gold and silver, etched with hunting scenes, and other fair things to look upon. And he looked from the horn to the bearer's face, and saw another not all-together unfamiliar face. Framed in hair of sable, with eyes of gray as piercing when angry of those of a falcon at hunt, and as soft and warm when joyful as the wondrous cloth of Lórien, he could have sworn that the face he had seen before.
But the lion called to the girl, who could not have been fourteen, and she turned, and ran after him, a bow in her hand. And the vision faded to another distant time.
The girl was older now, her black hair running a river of soft curves almost down to her knees, and she was wearing a crown of silver on her head, and a dress of rich design and means, the cut emphasizing her figure, fuller in her womanhood. At her sides sat the other children she had been with, all of them much older and noble in their face and garb. They sat enthroned in a grand hall, with great banners of all the manner of color and a great many beasts besides.
And then the vision changed again, to a man, kneeling at the Queen's feet, holding her snow-white hand, and looking up at her in admiration. Oh, Boromir thought, if only to be that man, to behold this perfect womanhood in light of love unhidden. She bade him rise, and laid in his hands the horn which she herself had bourn so many years ago, neither mottled with age or unkempt; it still shown with a certain light of divinity, as if sent by Gods for a heavenly purpose. He took it, and kissed her check in farewell. And as he left, she began to weep.
And the scenes shifted yet another time, and the man held out the horn to his son, who passed it down to his son, shifting through time and generation showing no real wear, still glowing with the air of sanctity. It passed several times to women, dark haired and fair and proud of glance, Númenoreans all.
And then to a man, who gave it to his son, who took with it, and other precious things besides, and sailed away from a sinking land, and set foot in the earth of a far oft shore, and claimed it as his own. The horn passed for many generations along, from father to son, son to grandson, never seeming to lose its god given glory. Then the father had no sons, and gifted it to the youngest of his councilors, who had been like a son to the aging king, and so that horn passed along another line. And then, Boromir felt a hand on his shoulder, and was roused from his dreaming.
He looked up to see the face of his father, wreathed in smiles for what this day meant to him. He looked to his other side to see Faramir, his squire and brother-one bond that would never break till the world ended- also smiling in the joy he knew this would bring his elder brother.
He heard the words, and spoke the oaths, and let himself be girded with the scabbard and belt he knew had lain long in a chest, made by his mother for her son, but his mind was not here until his father held with open hands out to him the horn of the Stewards, the great horn, and then he awoke from his half dreaming state to take it with trembling hands, and rise to great his lord and father.
As Boromir looked at it, his mind went again to the dark haired woman, letting forth from the instrument of war that clear, resounding note. And her face seemed to change as the world spun, changing from the battlefield to the white rampart of the city, and now the black haired woman had tears in her eyes, eyes that he knew so well...
And with the horn reverberating in his mind, his eyes flew open.
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Ah, a cliffhanger. Gives me more of a chance to give you some of the plot AND leave reviews. WHICH YOU WILL DO. I'm kidding...but I would be grateful.
-*-*-*-*-*-
And while he slept, he dreamed.
Boromir was no longer in the great hall, he thought, as he looked around at the battlefield filled with the most bizarre creatures one could imagine. Tree men and women, and creatures half man and half horse, or half man and half beast, and in this midst, a great lion, proud and terrible, and four children, two boys and two girls, the oldest of the group not perhaps Faramir's age.
All of them seemed to be fighting the fell sprits in the glade beside this river, shadows and shades, hags and crones, ogres and dark creatures that lurk still in the deep places. Commanding them, wand in hand, and curvy dagger in the other, was a tall woman, cloaked entirely in white, her voice screeching and shrill. The older girl raised a horn to her lips, and a not altogether unfamiliar note resounded over the battlefield, and the creatures presumably fighting for good seemed renewed.
As Boromir looked at the horn, he could see that it was that of a great ox, bound in gold and silver, etched with hunting scenes, and other fair things to look upon. And he looked from the horn to the bearer's face, and saw another not all-together unfamiliar face. Framed in hair of sable, with eyes of gray as piercing when angry of those of a falcon at hunt, and as soft and warm when joyful as the wondrous cloth of Lórien, he could have sworn that the face he had seen before.
But the lion called to the girl, who could not have been fourteen, and she turned, and ran after him, a bow in her hand. And the vision faded to another distant time.
The girl was older now, her black hair running a river of soft curves almost down to her knees, and she was wearing a crown of silver on her head, and a dress of rich design and means, the cut emphasizing her figure, fuller in her womanhood. At her sides sat the other children she had been with, all of them much older and noble in their face and garb. They sat enthroned in a grand hall, with great banners of all the manner of color and a great many beasts besides.
And then the vision changed again, to a man, kneeling at the Queen's feet, holding her snow-white hand, and looking up at her in admiration. Oh, Boromir thought, if only to be that man, to behold this perfect womanhood in light of love unhidden. She bade him rise, and laid in his hands the horn which she herself had bourn so many years ago, neither mottled with age or unkempt; it still shown with a certain light of divinity, as if sent by Gods for a heavenly purpose. He took it, and kissed her check in farewell. And as he left, she began to weep.
And the scenes shifted yet another time, and the man held out the horn to his son, who passed it down to his son, shifting through time and generation showing no real wear, still glowing with the air of sanctity. It passed several times to women, dark haired and fair and proud of glance, Númenoreans all.
And then to a man, who gave it to his son, who took with it, and other precious things besides, and sailed away from a sinking land, and set foot in the earth of a far oft shore, and claimed it as his own. The horn passed for many generations along, from father to son, son to grandson, never seeming to lose its god given glory. Then the father had no sons, and gifted it to the youngest of his councilors, who had been like a son to the aging king, and so that horn passed along another line. And then, Boromir felt a hand on his shoulder, and was roused from his dreaming.
He looked up to see the face of his father, wreathed in smiles for what this day meant to him. He looked to his other side to see Faramir, his squire and brother-one bond that would never break till the world ended- also smiling in the joy he knew this would bring his elder brother.
He heard the words, and spoke the oaths, and let himself be girded with the scabbard and belt he knew had lain long in a chest, made by his mother for her son, but his mind was not here until his father held with open hands out to him the horn of the Stewards, the great horn, and then he awoke from his half dreaming state to take it with trembling hands, and rise to great his lord and father.
As Boromir looked at it, his mind went again to the dark haired woman, letting forth from the instrument of war that clear, resounding note. And her face seemed to change as the world spun, changing from the battlefield to the white rampart of the city, and now the black haired woman had tears in her eyes, eyes that he knew so well...
And with the horn reverberating in his mind, his eyes flew open.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Ah, a cliffhanger. Gives me more of a chance to give you some of the plot AND leave reviews. WHICH YOU WILL DO. I'm kidding...but I would be grateful.