"Fact is," Pippin told Eowyn's sons confidentially, "I was a bit nervous of your Uncle Boromir at first. I hadn't known many Big Folk in those days and he is very tall and rather intimidating." Cirion and Aglahad turned to look consideringly at their uncle, as did his namesake, Boromir Brandybuck, young Faramir Took, and Merry-lad and Pip Gamgee.

Boromir smiled at Pippin. "I hadn't known any Hobbits before either, I wondered if they were all so pert and impudent."

"Only the ones with Took blood." said Sam, and went 'oof' as Master Merry hit him square in the stomach with an apple. "See what I mean, Is that any way to treat the Mayor of the Shire?"

"If he insists on being rude about the family of the Thains, yes!" answered Pippin.

Boromir laughed and the three adult Hobbits exchanged looks of covert satisfaction which did not escape him. He realized his small friends had taken on the job of cheering him up and did his best to respond as desired. They were sitting in the embrasure at the tip of the great pier of rock that bisected the circles of the city. Boromir's eyes strayed, as they often did, eastward. Strange to see clear blue sky over the Mountains of Shadow instead of fire and lowering darkness.

"Of course after Merry and I'd given your uncle a few good thrashings I quite got over my awe of him." Pippin continued blithely, drawing the Man's attention back to his companions. The boys were giving the Thain looks of open skepticism and he raised his eyebrows. "What, you don't think we could do it?"

"Well..." Cirion was clearly struggling for a polite way to call a Hero of the War of the Ring a liar to his face.

"We'll just have to prove it then. Merry, Boromir."

"No, please, Pippin!" the Man protested in mock terror. Merry patted his shoulder. "Don't worry, I won't let him hurt you."

Boromir allowed himself to be tugged down the steps to the gravelled area at the foot of the embrasure and accepted the wooden practice sword Pippin shoved into his hand. "Two against one is scarcely fair." he murmured as they squared off.

Merry snorted softly. "Says the Man who took on Orcs by the score!"

"Not by choice I promise you!" The Man managed to keep the two Hobbits in play for a time, but it wasn't easy, not easy at all despite his advantage in height and reach. It was always a delight to see how well his Little Friends had shaped up as swordsmen. He remembered their favorite trick very well but still they took him by surprise. First Merry put him off balance with a lunge and sideways cut to the knees, then Pippin hit him from the other side and down he went with the two of them on top of him.

"Pin his legs! pin his legs!" Merry panted.

"Ow! he's got my head, he's got my head!" wheezed Pippin. They were too intent to heed, or even hear, the order to desist and when hands reached down to separate them their owner was promptly pulled off his feet and into the fray. Pippin struggled upright, caught his breath, and realized he was sitting on his King's chest. "Oops, sorry, Strider." he hastily climbed off and helped Aragorn to sit up.

The King pushed his hair out of his face as Merry retrieved the royal circlet that had rolled from his head and handed it back to him. "Someday I'll learn." he said resignedly. "I am sorry to interrupt your sport, gentlemen, but I have need of Boromir's advice."

"My advice?" the other Man echoed blankly, clearly astonished.

Aragorn answered with one of his darkling looks. "If you can spare the time." the King got to his feet brushing gravel dust from his blue and silver surcoat, the circlet slipped casually over one arm.

Boromir levered himself upright with a hand on Pippin's shoulder and glanced around. The boys were standing on the steps of the embrasure, looking both delighted and appalled, with Sam shaking his head resignedly beside them. "If you will excuse me, gentlemen." The two Men strolled off in the direction the Tower of Ecthelion. "I'm sorry about that, Aragorn." Boromir offered. "Merry and Pippin were just trying to cheer me up."

"I would have thought they were too old for such games." the King snorted, then smiled almost unwillingly and gave Boromir a sidelong look. "Did they succeed."

His friend laughed. "They usually do."

"That is so, and I am grateful to them for it."

"So am I." Boromir hastily veered away from the personal. "You said you need my advice?" The note of incredulity in his voice clearly displeased Aragorn.

"I have had a letter from Near Harad asking safe conduct for an embassy." He took the scroll from his sleeve and handed it to Boromir. "It is to be led by a Lord Esarhael, Faramir says you know him well."

"As well as a soldier may know an accustomed foe." the other Man replied, skimming the letter.

"We have had a certain amount of trouble with Haradim embassages in the past," Aragorn understated, "can this Esarhael be trusted?"

Boromir let the letter roll closed and looked up. "I have never known him to break his word or the laws of war." he said slowly. "Yes, I would trust him."

"Then we will let him come." the King decided. "I would like you to be present at the audience, Boromir, your insight might be useful to me."

"As you wish."

--

Sam Gamgee always enjoyed a bit of pageantry, as long as he was a spectator that is. He didn't like it nearly so well when he was an actor, always turned red as a tomato and never quite knew what to do or say. He looked up at the King on his throne, crowned and robed and looking more like one of the looming statues of his ancestors than Old Strider. Then their eyes met and one of the King's closed in a wink. Sam grinned and winked back. He should know better, King or no Aragorn would always be their Strider.

Queen Undomiel was sat beside him, all in white with jewels glittering in her hair. And standing with the other ladies on the Queen's side of the dais was his own Elanor, lovely as the Elven flower she was named for in her green gown. A Gamgee maid of honor to a Queen! what would his old Dad have had to say about that?

Faramir was on the King's side of the lowest step of the dais, with the white rod of the Stewards in his hand, looking stern and proud. And the rest of the Hall was filled with tall, glittering folk brightening the gloomy place up a bit with their colorful robes and gowns. But all in all Sam still preferred the King's Hall at Annuminas with its golden pillars and painted walls and great silver tree. It had an Elvish quality that lifted up your heart instead crushing it under massive black columns and giant statues.

The Hobbits and their ladies had a place of honor to the right of the dais and Boromir stood behind them, hidden beneath his Ranger's cloak. Frankly Sam was surprised he'd agreed to come at all being so dead set against letting anybody in Gondor know he'd come back. Sam understood why, maybe even better than Aragorn, but he thought Boromir was being to hard on himself. Maybe it was time he told him so.

An eerie music of horns and drums floated through the open door of the hall growing louder until the musicians finally entered two by two. Young boys, not much taller than the Hobbits, with skins the color of strong tea wearing short scarlet tunics with golden collars around their necks and heavy rings of the same on their bare arms and legs. Their heads were wrapped in turbans of red cloth bound by golden cords and decorated with sprays of green and blue feathers. Four of the eight were pounding away on big drums hanging from a strap slung round their shoulders, while the other four blew into long twisty horns of pale ivory.

Sam heard a soft chuckle from somewhere above his head and looked up to catch the smile on Boromir's face under the shadow of his hood. "He always did like to make a show." the Man murmured almost fondly.

The boy musicians were followed by about a score of tall Southron warriors wearing bright blue and green robes over spikey golden armor with long spears in their hands and small, gold studded shields on their arms, faces half hidden by veils dangling from twisted blue and green turbans. Musicians and warriors alike separated to make way for a tall, lean Man all in white from turban to toe except for a bright red sash around his waist. Behind him came four more soldiers wearing scarlet and black over silver scaled armor and bearing a small, glittering, gold encrusted canopy over a fifth Man, all in black, with a large casket of intricately carved silver his arms.

As the white robed Man came to the foot of the dais and bowed the musicians finally stopped their noise, to Sam's relief. Their master unfastened the veil over the lower part of his face to show a strong boned face about the same color as his attendants, with a close trimmed jet black beard and eyes of an incongruous light blue (1) Aragorn had risen from his throne to greet the envoy. He returned the bow with a slight inclination of the head and made a short speech in an outlandish language that wasn't Elvish or anything like Westron. The Haradrim, blinked and gave the King a piercing look then answered in the same tongue ending on a questioning note.

"I travelled in the Southern lands, long ago." Aragorn replied in the Common language.

Sam looked curiously up at him. Strider'd never given away the fact he could speak Haradic before. 'He likes this fellow.' the Mayor thought, then looked thoughtfully at Boromir. 'And so does he.'

"The letter requesting our safe conduct gave no reason for this embassage. What is your business with us, my Lord?" Aragorn was asking.

"I have been commanded by my King to deliver a gift to the Lord of Gondor." Esarhael answered. The black robed man with the casket came forward to stand beside him. "An heirloom of the Downfallen and reminder of our common heritage."

The King's face revealed nothing but Sam sensed a sudden tension in him, and in the Man standing behind him, as the Haradrim Lord opened the casket revealing a mace. Its black handle was inlaid with arabesques in culurin and mithril and its head was a globe of cold blue-white adamant. The never to be forgotten cold of Mordor seemed to radiate from the thing, chilling Sam to the heart. Faramir stepped forward to take it and he opened his mouth to cry a warning but his voice wouldn't come.

"Hold!" Faramir froze in his tracks at that pr-emptory command. A large hand moved Sam gently to one side and a tall cloaked figure moved past.

He knew it was Boromir, could be no one else, but all he could see was a great white light dazzling him. Sam looked aside, Merry was squinting as if he were staring into the sun but Pippin, Rosie, Estella and Diamond merely looked startled. The Mayor squeezed his eyes shut and when he opened them he could see straight again. Boromir passed Faramir, who stared at his brother as if transfixed, and firmly closed the casket lid over the thing inside. The Man holding it shrank away, eyes white rimmed above the black veil.

Boromir turned to Esarhael. "This is not your doing." he said quietly, with conviction. "Sorcery was never your way."

The Haradrim Lord swallowed. "Nor was it yours, once." he husked.

"Your King's gift, like his sword, has two edges it would seem." Aragorn said coolly. "Take it for us, Boromir." and as the elder brother obeyed. "Faramir, see Lord Esarhael and his train to the quarters prepared for them, this audience is ended." the King offered his arm to the Queen who looked pale and shaken. "Boromir, attend us." the three of them left the Hall by a door at the back of the dais. It closed behind them and the assembled gentlefolk burst into agitated conversation.

Sam, feeling weak at the knees, sat down on the bottom step of the dais and put his head in his hands. "Dad?" He looked up to see his eldest daughter gazing worriedly down at him. "What happened? The Queen got such a look on her face and you're as pale as your shirt."

He swallowed. "The mace, it was some kind of Black Sorcery." Elanor's lips rounded in a silent 'Oh.'

"Sam," Merry's voice was thin and strained, "did you see it too, or have I gone completely mad?"

"If you're talking about the light, yes I saw it," the Mayor answered, adding softly, "Mr. Frodo used to shine like that too sometimes."

"But what does it mean?" Merry asked forlornly.

"I don't know for sure." Sam admitted. "But it's got something to do with fighting the Ring."

--

Aragorn, Boromir and Arwen stood around the great council table. The two Men at the head and the Woman at the foot as far away from the mace, lying in its open casket, as she could get.

"So it was not just by evil council Sauron gained control over Ar-Pharazon." the King said musingly. "This thing, made for him by Sauron's own hand must also have played a part. I wonder how it came to survive the Downfall." he looked at Boromir. "You were wise not to let Faramir touch it."

"This is not Esarhael's doing." the other Man said firmly. "You heard him speak of the Downfallen when he made the presentation, it was meant as a warning."

"That was my feeling as well." Aragorn agreed. "How much do you think he knew?"

Boromir shook his head. "He has little Sight, less even than I, he would have known nothing for certain but suspected much. He has always hated sorcery."

"Its influence is a subtle but powerful poison." the Queen said from her end of the table. "Even locked in our deepest vault it could still do mischief, it should be destroyed."

"I hope that doesn't mean another trek to the Cracks of Doom." Boromir said drily.

Arwen smiled a little in response. "A good, hot smithy furnace should be sufficient for the handle. The head should be broken and the fragments cast into the river."

Aragorn nodded. "See to it, Boromir. Let no one else touch it."

"I won't, never fear." the Man shut the casket lid, picked it up, bowed to Aragorn and the Queen and left the room. It didn't dawn on him that he had quite thoroughly given himself away until he saw the white face of the guard outside the Council Chamber. "I'm no wraith, Edrahil." he said gently and proved it by laying a firm and very material hand on the Man's shoulder.

He covered it with his own and his eyes filled with tears. "Captain - I don't understand, King Elessar saw you die. He and his companions laid your body in a boat and Prince Faramir saw it pass Osgilliath on its way to the sea."

"All that is true, I was sent back." as the Man's eyes widened. "It's a long story." briskly. "Are the smithies still where they were?" Edrahil nodded. "Good. I have an errand there."

--

The King sent for those Councillors of the Realm presently in the city. These were the Steward of Gondor, Faramir Prince of Ithilien; his kinsman Hurin of the Keys, Warden of the Citadel; Turgon, Captain of the White Tower; the Lord Earnur, governor of the White City, and Anordil, Steward of Anorien, for his Princess. Twenty years ago Aragorn had broken custom and outraged convention by appointing not only his Queen but two other ladies to his council.

"The Lord Esarhael is a herald and so protected by the laws of war." Aragorn told the his councilors calmly.

"But surely this attempted treachery - " Lord Earnur began.

"Was not his doing." Aragorn interupted firmly. "Or that of his King. We know who is behind this."

"Herumor." said Faramir grimly. "He is the true ruler of Near Harad, not King Jeruth."

Queen Undomiel agreed. "And a most potent Black Sorceror."

"As this proves." said Aragorn. "The mace, I think, was meant to weaken us from within before yet another assault. The question is will Herumor continue with his plans now his ploy has failed?"

"Judging by his past actions I would say yes." that was Eowyn, the Lady of the Shield Arm, sitting beside her husband. "Once he begins to move he is not easily turned aside."

"But already his plans have gone awry twice." Faramir pointed out. "There can be little doubt he originally planned to time his attack with Draugoth's in the North. But thanks to my brother the Wolf-lord's uprising was discovered before he was ready and quickly crushed. Clearly the mace was another attempt to undermine us from within. Now that it too has failed might he not abandon his plans?"

"More likely he will concoct yet another plot against us." said Eowyn.

"I fear your Princess has the right of it, cousin." said Hurin wryly.

"And what of the Lord Boromir?" Captain Turgon demanded. "For twenty years we have mourned him as dead. Now, out of nowhere, he reappears to save us from our enemies. How can this be?"

"Boromir died as I said, twenty years ago." Aragorn began and the Captain turned crimson.

"My Lord, I do not question your word!"

The King gave him a reassuring smile. "I know that, my friend. Boromir indeed died but the Lords of the West have seen fit to return him to us - and it seems we have need of him."

Lord Earnur shook his head, awed. "The Dark Lord falls. The King Returns. And now Gondor's greatest hero is vouchsafed back to us. Truly this is an age of wonders!"

"But what of the Stewardship?" Anordil asked, troubled. "Prince Faramir has served nobly for many years yet the Lord Boromir was the elder and the heir. The White Rod is his by right."

"I agree." Faramir said promptly. "I have already told King Elessar that I would stand aside for Boromir." he blinked back tears. "Indeed I would gladly give far more than the White Rod to have him back."

"But Boromir has no wish to disposses his brother." Aragorn finished.

"Faramir would remain Prince of Ithilien and a Councilor of the Realm if such is the King's pleasure." Earnur pointed out. "Certainly Anordil's not suggesting he be turned out in his shirt!"

"I'm glad to hear it!" said Eowyn, causing a few chuckles round the table.

"I had intended to make Boromir Steward of my Northern Domains and Constable of Annuminas - " the King began.

He was interrupted by a heartfelt "No!" from Captain Turgon. The Man flushed again. "Forgive me, my Lord, but the North has many fair Princes and Captains of her own. Boromir belongs to Gondor." There were emphatic nods of agreement from both Earnur and Anordil. Hurin frowned, troubled.

"Boromir himself surely should have some say in this matter." Aragorn temporized. "We will delay our decision until he has had a chance to make his wishes known."

--

(1) Esarhael, like many highborn Haradrim, has some share of Numenorean blood accounting for the blue eyes and the fact that, at seventy-odd, he still hasn't a grey hair on his head.