A/N: Tolkien owns, Jackson inspires, and the nuzgul made me do it. By the way, for those of you involved on Henneth Annuin, if bits of this besides the recognizable lines from Beanomir look familiar, did you know that if you rearrange the letters in subtext you get bust ex-(sword symbol)? Or something... The original version of this chapter was written for part of a female!Aragorn AU challenge there. I am (mostly) unrepentant.
"You are no elf," Boromir observed. The library was quiet and dusky, making him ashamed to break the older man's serene silence. The stranger gave him an arch look, but refrained from commenting as Boromir sat down next to him. "You seek something here as well?"
"A place to read in peace," the dark-haired man replied, returning to his book.
"Forgive me for the interruption, but it has been a very long, lonesome journey. I had hoped that I might find a friend here, but if you would prefer not to be bothered, I shall leave you to your book." Boromir bowed, rising regretfully.
"I thank you sir. If you wish for company, there is quite a variety of books. You could find one and make yourself comfortable. The library isn't reserved." His glance did not appear to waver from the text.
Boromir was not quite sure what to make of the stranger's offer. "I may do that." He rose to browse the shelves, somewhat half-heartedly. The great majority was written in elvish of some form or another. They would be right up Faramir's alley, but Boromir had forgotten most of the language, having never had to use it since childhood lessons. Nobles and scholars of the white city spoke it, but soldiers learned their commands in Westron.
Boromir flipped open a book at random, returning towards the man on the bench. "There is also a variety of seats. And this one is reserved," he said without looking up.
So much for interacting with a member of his own race. Boromir sighed and returned the book to the shelf, deciding that perhaps he ought to try to find the dwarf or the halfings instead. The latter, at least, seemed to be quite cheery folk from what little Boromir had seen of them. Almost too cheery. It just made him feel even more homesick, to see such happy-go-lucky little lads. His eyes wandered the library aimlessly as he tried to decide on a course of action. Absently, he noticed a mural upon the wall depicting some ancient battle scene. A closer look revealed that this painting was not focused on elves, for once.
Unconsciously, his fingers reached out to touch the painted figures, locked forever in this moment of combat, on the edge of victory. The Dark Lord was as intimidating as he had been in any of those old picture books Boromir's mother had read to him and his brother as children. Tall and foreboding, his ring hand upon his mace and readying for a downward swing… Boromir's finger lingered upon the golden paint, so bright against the reds, blacks, and greys that threatened to overwhelm the rest of the painting. His eyes turned to Isildur. How small the figure seemed in comparison, barely larger than Boromir's hand. Even if he were to rest his entire forearm against the mural, the man did not think he could cover up Sauron.
"Quite a blade, to manage this," he murmured bemusedly. Unseen, the lanky man's head shot up from his book. He eyed the Gondorian suspiciously from across the room. "And yet, there is nothing of it left." Boromir's thumb, with its oft-abused nail, pushed into the canvass.
"How do you know?" Boromir jerked back to the present, turning to find that he at last commanded the lanky stranger's full attention, his book lain aside unmarked. Those grey eyes were rather disconcerting, actually, much like his father's in their ability to see everything.
"How do I know what, sir?" The Gondorian attempted to keep a civil tone, failing quite miserably.
"If it is gone," the older man prompted.
"The sword? Come, sir, 'twas lost with the last of Elendil's heirs." With a last glance at the painting, Boromir turned towards the door. Better to leave now, when he could spark the man's interest, than later, after he'd made a thorough ass of himself. He stopped at the silky sound of a drawn blade.
"So Isildur's heirs are lost," the strange man said softly, balancing the broken hilt of a sword upon his knees. It didn't look like much, chipped and worn as if someone had continued to use it long after the blade had been broken. There was enough left that it could be used as a club, or a long-handled knife, but the break was jagged and unwieldy. Somehow, though, his hand looked right upon the handle, as if he were meant to use it and had, over the years.
"So they are." Who was he? Boromir asked himself. The dark hair and gray eyes spoke of Numenorean parentage, but his dress was not of any Gondorian court that Boromir had attended. If anything, Boromir would describe the man's clothing as elvish, but the lanky stranger was obviously not one of his host's race. "May I?" Boromir asked, reaching for the weapon upon the older man's lap.
"If you wish," he shrugged, passing the younger fellow the blade, "but a wise man would be cautious with it."
Boromir ran his finger against the edge, drawing blood. "Still sharp."
"Don't say I didn't warn you." There was a light smile on the stranger's face as the Gondorian regarded the hilt with the critical air of a lifelong warrior testing an unfamiliar weapon.
"'Tis a proud blade," Boromir decreed. "The balance is off, but it's light, and not about to shatter any more than it already has. But honestly, who fights with a broken sword?"
"One who must, or one who honors him that must," the man said firmly, putting his hand below Boromir's on the hilt. "You can either complain that your sword's balance is off, or you can find where its balance point is." Boromir allowed the stranger to reclaim the blade, stepping back as he raised it briefly into the light before resheathing it. "It has been the weapon of my forefathers for generations."
"You broke it recently, and have come to have it reforged, then?" Boromir grasped the elder's purpose at last, or so he supposed.
"Half of that is right." The older man nodded agreeably. "It has been long since my ancestors' sword was whole, but its time comes soon. Now, if you will excuse me, sir, I've a book I'd like to read." Without another word, the man picked his elvish tome back up and flipped in search of his lost page. Boromir looked once more between the painting and the strange, dark, skinny man with his elven fashions, Numenorean features, and broken sword. He was an odd one, certainly.