Mae govannen,

I hope you haven't waited too long. Between the Holidays and the coming exams, I haven't had much time for myself. Anyhow, let me present you without further ado the completion of Chapter 1. I hope you'll like it.

Namarië,

Laurethiel1138

CHAPTER 1

PART B

Boromir was bored. Excruciatingly bored. He had never cared much for parties, anyway. Ah! to be in a battlefield! Now that was time well spent! Feasts... boring social events where one was supposed to smile at every given person that went into one's path. His father Denethor had hopelessly tried to ingrain the notion that at such parties were formed the connections he would need as a Steward of Gondor, that he needed to polish his social skill with as much enthusiasm as he sharpened the edge of his sword. But Boromir could not care less.

He was a man of action, a man who made quick and efficient decisions that did not need to be discussed for hours. The simplest path between two points was a straight line, not some complicated twists and turns the weak ones used to worm their way into power circles. Boromir liked to go forward, not clumsily advancing two steps and fearfuly backing one.

So when he had arrived at Rivendell, he had expected to have his questions answered, and then to go back home. He had not expected an Elf Lord to ask him to stay for a while, and enjoy his house's hospitality in the meantime. Boromir had thought it quite fine at the beginning, for he had been greatly tired from his non-stop three-month trip from the White Citadel, but he was beginning to regret it. Lord Elrond had never mentioned there would be any party!

He was jolted from his musings by the sound of music. He gathered someone important was entering the great hall, but he could not know who it was. They did not teach the refinements of Elvish music in Minas Tirith. They were far too busy pushing back whatever evil the land of Mordor vomited.

The great doors opened.

And Lord Elrond entered.

At his side was the most wondrous sight of all: his beloved daughter, Arwen Evenstar, who, by her mere presence, seemed to bring into the hall all the light of Valinor. Behind her was another lady, who seemed far plainer in comparison to the Lady of Rivendell. Boromir would have been at a loss to explain why she suddenly captivated him so, even as he suspected he would have found her beautiful in her own right, had he seen her alone.

But what a wealth of hair she had! Shorter than Elven standards dictated, it nevertheless reached down to her hips. And what a glorious colour! It reflected every single ray of light in the room, setting fire to the pale chestnut strands. Boromir didn't know how such a wonderful colour existed. Neither in the fair-headed people of Rohan nor in the dark-haired people of Gondor had he seen such a unique shade.

Laurethiel had entered the great hall of Imladris with a practised ease that hid well her nervousness. For all the world, she truly had not expected to sit at the high table! She had imagined she would have to find herself a spot at one of the secondary tables. But she could not complain, so she set herself out to enjoy the evening to its fullest. There would be enough worrying come tomorrow, she thought, so she might as well enjoy what respite was given to her.

Suddenly, she felt strange. She knew she was being observed, and slowly, she let her eyes wander on the crowd.

It did not take her a long time to pinpoint the source of her discomfort. A Man was there, at the far end of the high table, observing her. She knew better than to let him suspect she had caught him, however, and followed Elrond and Arwen to their seats, before trying to locate her brother.

She was quick to locate his fair head, and stepped over to the empty seat near her brother's.

"Hi, Legolas," she said as she sat down. "Missing some company here, aren't you?"

"Laurethiel! I was presently wondering when you would come to join me."

"I have been with Arwen, as you might well remember. She has changed so much. I swear I almost did not recognize her. But you know that already, as you have just seen her make an entrance with Lord Elrond."

"Indeed." Legolas smiled at his sister. Every day, he thanked Iluvatar for having given him such a wonderful sibling. Because whatever you did, your kin were still your kin. And you were stuck with them all your life. So you had better be in good terms with them, for an Elven life was a long life indeed: spending an eternity hating someone really was too much a waste of good energy.

Unbeknownst to Laurethiel, Boromir had kept following her with his eyes. He had seen her gracefuly bow to Lord Elrond and Lady Arwen. He had seen her locate her seat, then start an easy conversation with her male companion.

He concentrated his attention back to his plate, and did not notice the time pass, nor the Elven lady raising up after a while, asking for Elrond's permission to retire, and head out of the hall. When he raised his head, she was gone.

An evening of songs and storytelling was held afterwards.

Boromir, not feeling up to it, quietly slipped out of the hall to walk a bit around Rivendell. It was a rare chance he got to see the Last Homely House, and he intended to profit from the night to have an undisturbed visit.

He walked for a long time, not really caring where his steps were leading him. He simply took in the calm of the place after the noise of the Great Hall. He did not like to be with too much people. He much prefered to be with his score of soldiers raiding the borders of Ithilien than with his father learning the fineries of diplomacy. He liked his father well enough. That was not the problem. He simply felt that he was very much ill-suited for the duties he would have to endure as Steward of Gondor. He, for one, thought that his brother, Faramir the scholar, would make a better Steward than he. Was that his fault that Denethor did not understand? Was that his fault that he was cursed enough to be born the first?

If he could, he would gladly give the stewardship over to his younger brother. But tradition dictated the firstborn son took the title. And unfortunately for him, he had to uphold this absurd tradition as well.

He did no notice his steps had carried him in the Hall of Remembrance until he raised his eyes. He let his gaze trail over the magnificent murals the Elves had painted in memory of the War of the Last Alliance. Everything was light and airy, lending a dream-like quality to the scenes depicted there.

A particular mural retained his attention: Isildur vainquishing Sauron.

He heard a noise in a corner of the room, and, with knife-sharp instincs, he turned toward the source of the noise. A Man was there. Surprised, Boromir said, "You are no Elf."

The stranger's eyes studied him attentively. Then the Man said, "Men of the South are welcome here."

Startled at the hidden authority behind that voice, and wondering how its owner would have so easily determined from where he came, Boromir asked, "Who are you?"

And the Man enigmaticaly answered, "I am a friend of Gandalf the Grey."

Gandalf the Grey, Boromir thought. Well, this at least explained that the Man would speak in riddles. Nevertheless, Boromir found strange that this Man would not name himself. Uneasily, Boromir concluded this exchange saying, "Then we are here on common purpose," and he hesitated, not knowing how to address this stranger, before quickly adding "Friend" at the end of his sentence.

He turned his back to his mysterious interlocutor and again directed his attention to the mural of Isildur. He knew the legends, knew Isildur should have thrown the Ring into the fires of Mount Doom. Yet in his heart he could understand Isildur's reaction to the Ring. How could anyone stay of ice in front of such an object? How could anyone turn one's back from the source of such power?

He walked towards the statue holding the shards of Narsil, not truly believing the legendary sword was really there. He had heard so much of that sword!

He took the handle in his hands, needing to feel it in his palms, to feel the weapon that cut the finger holding Isildur's Bane, Sauron's ring. He ran his finger on the edge of the blade. To his surprise, he cut himself.

"Still sharp," he uttered. He had expected the edge to be dull after so many years.

Suddenly, he felt a shiver running down his spine. What was he doing? He could not hold Narsil! The great sword wasn't his to take. It was the King's sword, and his alone! No one but the rightful Sovereign Ruler of Gondor had the right to touch it.

For a nauseating moment, Boromir felt sacrilegious.

He sensed the stranger's gaze on him, boring through him like a knife. Boromir looked at him, feeling much like a child chastised by his father.

"Nothing more than a broken heirloom," he said in pure bravado.

He dropped the sword.

And without so much of a glance at the Man, he fled from the hall.