Boromir opened his eyes. He could see.

He was lying on a warm substance that seemed to be sand, yet each grain could be distinguished, was of a colour so intense that it almost seemed to vibrate with energy. Boromir raised his eyes. A bright yellow sun in a clear blue sky, dazzling white sparks on a bright blue sea, almost blinded his awakened senses. He drew in a deep breath. The air was fresh and fragrant. It filled him with a new will to live.

He got up and shook his arms and legs. He felt strangely light, almost insubstantial. The pain was gone.

Boromir turned round to face the land. The sandy beach stretched far inland, increasingly strewn with pebbles, then interspersed with rocks and boulders, some of them rather large and bizarre in form. Boromir's eyes wandered further towards huge woodlands. They stroked his eyes with a rich emerald green, breathed the same intensity of colours that rendered everything on this shore so poignant, so alive, so full of vibrant energy. A small stream ran from the forest to the sea like a silver girdle caressing a many-coloured garment. Far in the distance beyond the endless ocean of trees, a range of hills and mountains shone out in tinges of green and blue, with one prominent, roughly conical peak emerging from their midst and melting into the azure sky.

As if this mountain sent a greeting of welcome, a gust of wind ruffled the treetops, fanned Boromir's face and prickled on his skin. In a sudden impulse, he looked down at himself. His once costly, embroidered clothes hung in rags around his body, clearly displaying his wounds. There was no trace of his cloak or his weapons. Boromir suddenly grew uneasy. Ever since he was a boy, he had been inseparable from his sword. He felt naked, exposed, vulnerable.

And in the same instant he somehow had the uncanny feeling that he was not alone. He scanned his surroundings carefully, watching out for the slightest movement. A noise over there – only the fluttering wings of birds. A few mice scurried out of their holes to vanish again behind rocks. Rocks … Boromir got up and walked inland, the pebbles crunching under his feet. Suddenly, he stopped short and quickly withdrew behind a large boulder. Cautiously, he peered around it in the direction of the forest and found his suspicion confirmed.

What he had taken for one of those bizarre rocks was in fact a man, sitting motionless and gazing into the distance. Boromir studied him surreptitiously. His hair was dark, almost black, and hung down to his shoulders in long, flowing, slightly tangled locks. His face seemed proud and kind at the same time, though Boromir could see it only in silhouette. Apart from a long sword lying beside him, he did not bear any weapons. In spite of his simple, rather shabby ranger clothes, he seemed to exude a nobility that Boromir could not pinpoint. Sitting there tall, upright and fearless, he reminded him of the statues of the kings of old he had seen in Rivendell.

Just as Boromir was about to avert his gaze, the stranger suddenly turned round and smiled at him. His eyes were of an intense blue, the colour of a rich summer sky mirrored in a deep lake, and he looked Boromir full in the eye with an inviting, slightly amused expression. Boromir went over to him, suddenly eager for company.

"Mae govannen." He could not explain why he used the Elvish greeting, but somehow this face, young and energetic, yet filled with the wisdom and sad experience of ages, seemed Elvish to him – or at least more than human.

"Well met, my friend," the stranger answered in a quiet, friendly voice.

Boromir sat down on the rock beside him.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"This is Valinor, the True West."

"Valinor! I thought it could only be reached by the Elves now."

"During their lifetime, yes. But you have come directly by the Ocean."

Whatever this meant, Boromir did not inquire any further. He knew he had crossed boundaries, somehow, and in spite of everything he was now glad that was not the end. He did not need or want to think further about it now. He gazed at the stranger again, trying to penetrate the mysterious aura he seemed to exude.

"What is your name, and where do you live?"

"I am in many places, and have many names. In Middle-earth men usually call me Galathorn, so you may use that name for me if you wish."

"So I will. As for me, I used to be Boromir, son of Denethor, Lord of the Tower of Guard. But now, in this strange place and state I am in, I am not sure about anything any longer."

"I know who you are."

"Who has told you about me?"

The stranger smiled. "I have often seen you myself," he said.

Boromir was genuinely surprised. "How can that be? I have never met you before!"

"Yes you have. But you never recognized me. I tried to get your attention many times, but you never noticed."

It did not sound accusing in any way; it was a mere statement to explain things that did not matter any longer now. Again, Galathorn smiled at Boromir encouragingly.

"Are you hungry?"

The thought of food had not occurred to him before, but now that he was reminded of it, he felt famished.

"I have caught some fish earlier on, and I've found a few wild potatoes. It isn't much," the ranger apologized, "but we could get a fire going – ah, and we could pick some wild berries as well – they're delicious!"

While Galathorn was looking after the fish, Boromir gathered dry sticks of beech and fir on the fringes of the inland forest. They soon had a fire going and grilled the fish on sticks while the potatoes were baking in the hot ashes. After dinner, they left their fire burning low and explored the vicinity, eating blackberries straight from the bushes and drinking fresh water from the little brook. The day was drawing to its close, the sun already turning into a majestic orange fireball and nearing the verge of the ocean. Every now and then they encountered small animals that were beginning to get active in the dusk, and they took their time to watch mice and beetles, rabbits and frogs, and to examine plants and flowers at leisure. Galathorn knew all their names and treated them with reverent care.

At length they returned to their camp, and, having put some more wood on the fire, sat down again to watch the dancing flames. Already while preparing the meal, Boromir had noticed a deep scar on each of Galathorn's palms, a little above the wrist, and they caught his eyes in the firelight now, but he did not ask about it, as little as the stranger had asked the Gondorian about his wounds or his past. This was a time for relaxation, and strangely enough Boromir did not feel restless or even curious, but was content to enjoy the moment without casting any thoughts behind or ahead. They recounted funny anecdotes to each other, stories of animals and people (Galathorn seemed to know quite a few of Boromir's acquaintances, including the hobbits), or made friendly fun of each other, their habits, attire and so on, and Boromir soon began to admire his companion's fine sense of humour and quick intelligence. He had not had such a good laugh for ages.

At length he yawned.

"Time to sleep, isn't it?" Galathorn agreed. "You can have my cloak if you want. I don't mind sleeping on the bare ground."

Something in the frank, careless way he said it made Boromir accept his offer without hesitation. He wrapped himself into the large, soft woollen cloth and felt like a small mouse or rabbit in its hole, snug and safe, watching the outside world at will without being watched in return. The last thing he noticed was a graceful dance of tiny glow worms on the fringes of the forest, which seemed to mingle with the twinkling of the stars in the clear sky overhead. Then he drifted off into a deep, dreamless slumber.