Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings, it belongs to Tolkein and Peter Jackson & co. (Evergreene turns and stomps away angrily)

Additional disclaimer: Some of the phrases in this story are taken directly from Peter Jackson's amazing work The Fellowship of the Ring and The Two Towers. They are marked and are not my words, they are his. No offence is intended by their use.

Yet another disclaimer (this is getting silly): I made up pretty much everything about archery, so my apologies to any archers out there!

Thank you so much to all of you who reviewed! I'm sorry it's taken me so long to post a new chapter, but first exams got in the way, and then…well…then I don't really have an excuse. (Hides) Well anyway, here's the new chapter, enjoy!

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Chapter Two: Man of Gondor

Boromir of Gondor strode down one of the many paths which wandered through the gardens of Rivendell. Soft gravel crunched under his heavy boots as he walked, the sound harsh against the peace of the usually tranquil valley. Many of the birds who had made their homes in the elven sanctuary were startled from their perches, and circled above the treetops, complaining to each other about the noisy intruder. Yet the subject of their disapproval was lost deep within his own thoughts, unaware of the disturbance his presence had caused.

A slight frown creased the man's forehead as he considered his most recent battle, one in which, although he was reluctant to admit so, he had not emerged victorious. He felt slightly comforted when a proud voice in his head argued that he had not been defeated…not exactly. Yet, returned another, annoyingly persistent voice, he had been met, engaged, and dealt with swiftly, and seemingly without any conscious effort from his opponent. What was defeat, if not that? Reluctantly consenting to the fact that he had indeed suffered a defeat, the man tried to pinpoint the exact moment his opponent had gained control of the contest, yet quickly found himself lost amongst the subtle, yet effective techniques employed by his foe.

He had struck first. A direct attack, he was unwilling to be delayed by this battle for any longer than necessary. Yet his adversary had met him easily, and he was forced to pull back to maintain his equilibrium. Another strike, this one more forceful, yet it too was parried effortlessly. Circling briefly, Boromir had used the time to strategise, waiting for the right time to attack. His opponent however, had seemed almost distracted, his mind on other matters, but when Boromir had cautiously tried for another blow, seeking to break through his enemy's defence, he had been pressed back once more. His opponent had then switched to the offensive, apparently having decided not to waste any more time with this contest, however one-sided it might have been. Before Boromir knew what had happened, a series of lightning fast attacks had forced him to concede defeat, fortunate to have been allowed to retreat with his dignity intact… to an extent at least. A rematch, scheduled for the next day, had been graciously offered and grudgingly accepted.

The crease on Boromir's forehead deepened. Although he was loathe to admit it, his recent encounter with the elven ruler of Rivendell could not be truthfully perceived as anything but a defeat. Lord Elrond had been gracious, kindly even, yet not for one moment had Boromir felt at ease in his presence. Instead he had felt off balance, clumsy, almost like a little boy allowed to sit in upon a meeting between the grownups. The elf lord's gaze had been piercing, directed straight at Boromir yet seeing all that was around him and more. Despite this however, Boromir had felt that his host's mind was on other matters of far more importance. Lord Elrond had welcomed him, enquiring about the situation of Gondor, yet had skilfully avoided talking about the business of the upcoming council. Determined to discover the answers which his father sought, Boromir had persisted with his questions, only to find himself subtly diverted onto other topics and, before he realized it, leaving Lord Elrond's chambers to "rest after his long journey."

Again, Boromir frowned. His encounters with elves had been few and far between, yet none had managed to unnerve him as had Lord Elrond, nor dissuade him so easily from his set purpose. Not for the first time in the past few hours, he found his thoughts straying towards his brother, considering yet again how Faramir would have fared had he come in Boromir's place. It was an acknowledged fact between the two that Faramir was the one more suited to diplomacy and politics, able to remain courteous yet at the same time secure the desired settlement or information.

Boromir, on the other hand, found that he lost his temper all too easily, quickly frustrated by the circuitous nature of politics. He preferred to be out in the field, commanding Gondor's troops in the unending war against Mordor. Battles were something he understood, excelled at. Weapons, manoeuvres, predicting and outwitting enemy captains; those skills came easily to him. Certainly, he was no novice in the councils which his father presided over as Steward. He and his brother had both been brought up within the systems of dealings and alliances upon which a nation was run, any of which could change without warning. It was just that he had always tended towards the more direct methods of accomplishing a task.

Perhaps it would have been better if Faramir had come to Rivendell in his stead, as he had offered. Quite besides his political skills, his younger brother had always been fascinated by the elves. A slight smile came to Boromir's face as he recalled the many occasions in which a young Faramir had come running up to him, clutching a heavy book and eagerly regaling his older brother with his latest story of elves or dragons. Faramir would have enjoyed being a guest in a real elvish house, whereas Boromir could not help but feel uncomfortable in the presence of so many of the ethereal creatures who had the appearance of humans, yet in other ways bore only the slightest resemblance to the race of man.

Boromir's smile dimmed. Their father, the steward of Gondor, had wanted his first-born to go to Rivendell, trusting only he to bring him back a mighty gift…and denying his youngest child the much-desired chance to prove his quality. His mind took him back to the last time he had seen his family…

The flag of Gondor flew high in the strong winds which swept through the stone streets of Osgiliath. Long had the city situated on the banks of the River Anduin exchanged hands between Gondor and the forces of Sauron. Many a battalion had disappeared within its walls, many a child had lost their father in the attempt to prevent the shadow of Mordor from encroaching any further into the region of man. Today however, the effort had been rewarded. Osgiliath was restored to its rightful owners and all the free people of Gondor rejoiced.

Two brothers celebrated amongst the crowd of soldiers, enjoying the increasingly rare chance to rejoice in a victory over the immeasurable forces of the enemy. Ale flowed as cheers and laughter lit the broken city, and every now and again, a ray of light broke through the heavy clouds, illuminating the blemished white stone and glinting off bloodstained armour. The captains of Gondor moved from group to group, celebrating, congratulating, offering comfort where it was needed, and receiving many thanks from men who had seen more of war than anyone had the right to ask of them. Together, Boromir and Faramir had relished their shared victory. Yet a shadow was soon cast by one dear to both their hearts.

Weeks later, in a sunlit terrace in Rivendell, Boromir found it all too easy to recall the look of intense excitement on his father's face as drew his eldest son aside…

"The weapon of the enemy has been found…Isildur's Bane…This thing must come to Gondor!"

…His father's hands, clutching at him…

"It is our blood which is being spilled, our people who are dying!"

…His own voice, echoing loudly amongst the ruined stone…

"My place is here with my people!"

…A surge of guilt at his father's next, accusing, words…

"Would you deny your own father?"

…His brother's voice, quiet, hopeful…

"I would go in his stead"

…His father's bitterness as he glared at his youngest son, his pride as he looked upon Boromir…

"I trust this mission only to your brother. The one who will not fail me."

Boromir shook his head abruptly, forcing the troubling images out of his head. It was no use dwelling on the past. It was best to leave the matter well alone until he returned to Minas Tirith and could talk to his father, and Faramir. Until then, he would concentrate on the task at hand.

Satisfied with his decision, Boromir turned his attention to his surroundings, but quickly came to a halt. He took a few steps forward then stopped again, confused. So absorbed had he been in his thoughts that he had lost track of the twisting paths and walkways of Rivendell and no longer had any idea from which direction he had come, much less wanted to go. He looked around carefully. To either side of the path was dense green woodland which hid any trace of the main building. Here and there amongst the trees were twisting pillars and half-hidden lattices, forming a third nature of elves and the living world. An unseen stream trickled somewhere to the right, the sound mingling with echoing bird calls. None of this however, provided him with the slightest clue to which way he needed to go. Boromir hesitated for a brief moment, then reversed his direction and began to follow his own footsteps in the gravel, a tactic which worked well… at least until he came to a paved patio. Squaring his shoulders, Boromir determined not to let a little thing like being lost in a foreign elven maze of trees, archways, paths and plants concern him. He picked a direction and started to walk.

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The sun was well in the western sky when Boromir heard the musical sound of elvish voices carried on the wind. Encouraged by the thought of finding someone who could direct him back to the Last Homely House, even if that someone was a slightly unnerving elf, Boromir headed in the direction from whence the fair voices came.

Within minutes he found himself at the perimeter of a long open field, with archery targets lining one end and a handful of elves gathered in groups at the other. Taking a deep breath, Boromir relished the fresh smells of the lush grass. Beautiful though the White City was, greenery was scarce in Minas Tirith, and more often than not, when the occasion came that he left the city, it was to go to battle. He knew all to well how the smells of war erased those of nature.

Again he inhaled, and was surprised at the faint whiff of smoke which tingled on the air, reminding him of the scent of dark soils and cosy hearths. Sounds of merriment drew his attention however, to one of the smaller groups on the field, and he was startled to see the man he had spoken with the previous morning in the chamber of Narsil. The man was gesturing vehemently at a blonde elf, whilst two dark haired elves looked on. Boromir wondered who the man was, able to interact so casually with the firstborn. He had thought him a mere ranger, a friend of Mithrandir as the man himself had claimed. But maybe, thought Boromir, watching the sole other human in the vicinity giving the elf next to him a light shove, he was of more import than he first appeared.

"Can you move, please?"

Boromir was interrupted from his musings by a high, rather annoyed, voice. He turned around and found himself confronted by two small beings, each only half the size of a normal man. They had large, furry feet and curly hair which nearly hid their ears, which, Boromir was curious to see, had slightly pointed tips. They were sitting on the grass behind him with their legs stretched out in front of them, both holding long, wooden pipes from which rings of smoke were rising gently, and had clearly been watching the events on the field. Searching his memory whilst attempting to hide his surprise, a glimpse came to Boromir of a young Faramir excitedly telling him about these creatures, halflings, he thought they were called. But they had not been seen in Gondor for many a year. He wondered what sort of council he was going to tomorrow.

"My apologies…" he began but quickly found that neither of the creatures was paying him any attention. Instead one was chastising the other, having pulled his pipe from his mouth to wave at his companion for further emphasis.

"Pippin! You can't speak to him like that!"

"Why not?"

"Well, he's a lord!"

"A lord?"

"Yes Pip, a lord. You can't just tell a lord to move."

"How do you know he's a lord?"

"It's obvious, isn't it? I mean, just look at him."

A bemused Boromir felt a smile tugging at his lips as two curly heads swivelled as one to stare at him, before swiftly returning to their original positions.

"I think you're right, Merry, he does look like a lord. But how do we know if he is a lord?"

"Well, we could ask him."

"Can you do that? Ask a lord if he's a lord?"

"I think so. Otherwise how do people know if he's a lord or not."

There was a brief pause in this rapid deluge of conversation as Pippin, as he was apparently called, considered his companion's words, whilst the other chewed on his pipe impatiently.

"Go on then Pippin, ask him!"

"Me? I'm not asking him! It was your idea!"

"Well…yes…but you're the one who wants to know."

"You're the eldest. It should be your responsibility."

"And as the eldest I think that you should do it." Merry gave the other a quick shove. "Go on, ask him."

Two heads turned once more in Boromir's direction.

"Excuse me?"

"Yes?"

"My cousin Merry here was wondering if you happened to be a lord?"

Boromir fought to keep a straight face as he looked down at the innocent, yet curious gazes of the small creatures. "I am a lord, master halfling. I am Boromir, son of Denethor, the stew-"

But the two heads had already turned back to each other, leaving Boromir, son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, to his own devices once more.

"See, Pip, I told you he was a lord. And you shouldn't tell lords to move. It's against protocol or something. And it's rude."

"Well, you're being rude at the moment," accused Pippin.

"Am not!" Merry objected, apparently offended at the very thought. Indeed, it was a well-known fact, at least amongst those who had the pleasure of being acquainted with the small creatures, that hobbits prided themselves on their manners, particularly in being gracious hosts to any company, whether in their own homes or not.

"Are too," replied Pippin. "You haven't even introduced yourself to Boromir."

"Lord Boromir."

"Yes, him."

"I was just about to when you interrupted me," claimed Merry.

"I interrupted you? You interrupted me. And that was rude in itself. Not to mention that you still haven't introduced yourself." The younger hobbit folded his arms, and, skilfully blowing a large smoke ring, looked at his companion expectantly.

"Fine," replied Merry. "If you'll excuse me, I have a lord to make the acquaintance of."

The eldest of the two halflings stood, and, turning to face Boromir, swept into a low bow. "My apologies, my lord, for not introducing myself sooner. I am Meriadoc Brandybuck, son of Saradoc the Master of Buckland." Gesturing to the younger hobbit, he continued. "And may I present my cousin Peregrin, son of Paladin, as he seems to have neglected to introduce himself." He smirked at the other's affronted expression. "And over there are Frodo and Sam," he added as an afterthought, gesturing further down the field.

Boromir looked in the direction the halfling had indicated and saw two more curly heads, one brown, one blonde, both watching the field and intent on the group which Boromir had noted earlier.

"Are they also your kinsmen?" enquired Boromir curiously, unfortunately unaware of the consequences of such a question, at least where hobbits were involved.

Both of the halflings immediately brightened, pleased by the revelation that one of the big folk was interested in the complex, but fascinating business of family relations.

"Frodo's my second cousin, once removed on his mother's side," said Pippin, removing his pipe from his mouth. "And he's my third cousin, twice removed on his father's side. "

Seeing the man's confused expression, Merry nudged his cousin, who halted rather unwillingly, only having covered a couple of the numerous leaves of his family tree. "Let me explain," said Merry. "I'm more closely related to Frodo than you are." At Pippin's reluctant nod, he began. "Now, Frodo's my first cousin, once removed, on his mother's side. That means that his father is my mother's brother and my mother is his aunt, got that?"

Boromir nodded, completely lost.

"Excellent! Now, in Pippin's case…"

As the halfling continued with his explanation, backed up by Pippin's frequent nods and even more frequent interruptions, Boromir quickly became more and more confused by the mix of mothers, brothers, aunts, uncles and cousins three, four and five times removed. Despite his best intentions, his mind wandered, and was once again drawn to the group with the human in their midst. He tensed upon seeing that the ranger had drawn a knife, and had it levelled at the blonde haired elf. Did he not realise the risk he was taking? Often had Boromir heard soldiers telling stories round the campfire about those who had fallen ill of elves. Many a man had claimed that bad luck followed, with sickness and injury plaguing them and their families. He had previously dismissed such rumours, taking them for mere folklore, a way for the men to distract themselves before battle, but now, having experienced the unnervingly powerful presence of the Lord Elrond, found that uncertainty had crept inconspicuously into his mind.

To his surprise however, the lithe elf only laughed and danced out of reach of the ranger's blade. His musical voice rang out, nearly drowned by the merry voices of the two hobbits, who had now moved onto how Sam was related to Pippin, quite distantly by the length of the explanation. As the hobbits seemed to desire no more than the occasional nod to fuel their discussion, Boromir continued to watch the small group. The blonde elf, still avoiding the man's knife, ducked behind his elven companions, whom, Boromir was startled to see, were identical to one other. The blonde elf leant forward momentarily to whisper something to them before once again darting out of reach, and the two elves broke into laughter. Giving up his attempts with the blade, the ranger began shaking his head; it looked as though he was protesting whatever the elf had just said, but quickly he was reduced to simply glaring at the offender, who had begun talking loudly about someone called Arwen.

The hobbits paused midway through their explanations and glanced over at the group.

"It looks like Legolas told the twins then," said Merry with a chuckle.

Boromir frowned; the name Legolas seemed familiar. Again, his brother's tales served him well and he questioned the halfling curiously. "Master Meriadoc? When you mentioned Legolas, were you referring to the prince of Mirkwood?"

"Well, Strider says he's a prince," answered Merry, slowly. "Legolas didn't seem too happy about it though, did he, Pip?"

As the younger hobbit shook his head, Boromir's thoughts were circulating quickly. A council with the Lord of Rivendell, the Grey Wizard, one of the mysterious rangers of the north, the son of the ruler of Gondor, apparently a halfling or two, and now the prince of yet another elven realm? Not to mention that he thought he had seen a group of dwarves wandering around the main house, carefully examining the elven artefacts. This would be a strange gathering indeed! A new thought occurred to him. Perhaps the rumours were true? The finding of the Ring of Power must surely be one of the only reasons to warrant a meeting such as this.

Three elves, the prince amongst them, were now moving to the front of the gathered figures, each equipped with a bow and a quiver of arrows upon their backs. Boromir and his small companions watched as the first of the three, who was clothed in muted red and brown, positioned himself opposite a target to the left of the field, and after nocking an arrow, drew his bow. He paused, lining up his shot carefully, and released the arrow which went speeding to strike the target in the centre ring. Twice more he drew and fired, both arrows impacting not far from the first. There was smattered applause from the gathered crowds, and the elf bowed lightly before stepping back to allow the next elf, who was wearing the same colours, forward.

Boromir, silently amazed at the skill of the elven archer, became aware of Merry and Pippin conversing quietly between themselves as the second elf positioned himself. The two hobbits were discussing whether or not to ask Boromir to explain what was happening, because he was sure to know, being a lord and all.

Swiftly, Boromir turned to the hobbits, anxious to help the merry little creatures, not to mention hoping to avoid another convoluted discussion about to which halfling fell the responsibility of asking him.

"I was wondering, master halflings, whether you desired me to explain the finer points of this archery match?"

The hobbits nodded eagerly.

"Are you an archer, my lord?" asked Merry.

"Nay, I am afraid I am not, I favour the sword. It is my younger brother, Faramir, who is the archer of the family." Seeing the hobbits' disappointed faces, Boromir hastened to reassure his new acquaintances "Yet I have not lived with him for so many years without picking up a few of the finer points of the bow and arrow. He has even taught me a little about the practice in elven realms, though it differs slightly from that of Gondor."

"What do you mean?" asked Pippin, watching as the new archer fired three times in quick succession, the first two arrows striking the centre circle, and the last just outside. The applause was slightly louder this time.

"In Gondor, accuracy is the deciding factor in a competition. Yet Faramir says that elven archers place equal importance on speed and grace, as you can see. I believe that the second elf was judged superior to the first because although his arrows were slightly less accurate, he was faster and smoother than the first."

Both hobbits nodded, clearly impressed by the knowledge of their new friend.

"Now it's Legolas' turn!" said Pippin excitedly, and both halflings stood to their feet in order to gain a better view.

Boromir watched curiously. Although Gondor had not had contact with Mirkwood for centuries, he recalled tales of the prince of Mirkwood, supposedly one of the finest archers of Middle Earth.

It seemed that the rumours were true. The elf lined up almost casually, still exchanging teasing words with his companions. He nocked an arrow, drew, and stilled for the briefest of seconds. Once, twice, thrice. Faster than Boromir could follow, the elven prince had fired each of his arrows. Boromir looked to the target; the first arrow had hit the very centre, the second was next to it and the third had split the first!

All four hobbits were now on their feet, applauding loudly. "Well," said Merry, "I suppose he's quite good then, isn't he?"

Boromir nodded wordlessly, staring from target to elven prince in amazement. Never had he seen such archery! His own brother was considered one of the finest archers Gondor had to offer, but Boromir had never seen him split an arrow, and certainly not at such speed. He looked again to the prince who had bowed graciously to each of his opponents, giving them some sort of salute with his hand over his heart. Hearing the hobbits' applause, he gave an extravagant bow in their direction, much to the hobbits' delight, before being swamped by his earlier companions and lost from view.

Boromir looked curiously at the hobbits, surprised that they were known to the elf prince.

"We met Legolas earlier this morning," confided Merry to Boromir. "He was stalking Strider."

"Strider?"

"The man who's with Legolas and the twins," answered Pippin, pointing at the human. "He ambushed Frodo in Bree and Sam threatened to fight him and then he saved us and we followed him into the wilds even though we didn't trust him and Frodo said he smelled bad and then he saved us again and brought us to Rivendell." Pippin paused for breath. "He's a ranger, you know."

"So I see," Boromir replied. "I believe that we met earlier." Fortunately, he was saved from having to elaborate when the other two hobbits wandered up, and introductions were made. Boromir could not help liking the new halflings. Frodo, though he looked slightly worn out, was polite, and was soon chatting easily to Boromir, asking about the White City, a topic which the man was only too happy to discuss. Sam, although quiet at first, seemed a gentle creature who, Boromir was amused to see, kept a close eye on Frodo and seemed to be his self-appointed bodyguard.

The crowd on the archery field had started to disperse as the sun began to sink low in the west. The small group consisting of prince, ranger and twins was approaching the hobbits. About to excuse himself, Boromir felt a small tug on his sleeve.

"We're going to go up to the house to find some supper," said Merry. "Would you like to come, my lord?"

The man nodded, a smile upon his face as he looked down at the merry little creatures, of whom he had quickly grown fond. "I would be glad to join you, master halflings, if you would not object to my company. But please, it is Boromir to my friends."

And so it was that in the growing darkness, Boromir, man of Gondor, found his way back to the warmth and light of the Last Homely House with a couple of hobbits by his side.

TBC

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That's it for now; hopefully the next chapter will be up quicker than this one was! In accordance with new rules, (growls) I've emailed reviewer responses, so if you want one for this chapter, be sure to leave your email!

Thanks for reading and pleeeease review!

Evergreene