An Unexpected Ring

Chapter 11

Stirrings

What I have learned since arriving in Osgiliath:

One: Stir soup clockwise, not counterclockwise. It is far more satisfying

Two: Do not let Boromir have seconds. He starts to smell afterward

Three: Do not let Faramir have seconds. He burps then.

Four: Orcs smell worse

Morgan slurped the broth from her wooden bowl. Most of the soldiers nearby grumbled when they were told that their meal would be nothing more than shavings of mystery meat and broth. She, however, found the entire meal wonderfully warm and delightful. Perfectly satisfying. Although, it did lack the proper amount of meat in her opinion. What the proper among was exactly, she didn't know, but she knew she needed more.

Regardless, she didn't complain. Instead, she patted her chest, belched, then grinned at the dumbfounded expressions around her.

"Didn't think a sound like that could come from little old me, hm?" She snickered. Around her, the other Gondorian soldiers joined her laughter.

And lingering far in the corner, Faramir snorted in mild amusement. He sipped on his broth, grimacing as the salty liquid worked its way over his palate and down his throat. At least it was warming. It was a frigid night beside the Anduin. Even the Orcs did not seem eager to emerge from their holes on the other bank as frost crept across the still waters.

Morgan belched again. More laughter, followed by her tossing her bowl to the side, hopping up, and sparking a small flame on one finger, then two, then all ten. She then juggled them, and the men clapped. Faramir smiled a little more.

He jumped when a hand clapped his shoulder. Boromir chuckled beside him.

"The city seems a little livelier now, doesn't it?"

"A fair bit," Faramir admitted. He sipped his broth. Boromir nudged him.

"Don't be so dour brother. Enjoy her little show."

"Her little show is amusing, but it also gives away our position."

"Indeed, it does. I think the Orcs might actually be enjoying it too." Sparks rolled from one hand to the other, across Morgan's shoulders. Boromir's grin widened. "It's quite fascinating don't you think? An elven mage here, of all places."

"Fascinating, intriguing, strange, I'm starting to think those three different words are becoming synonyms. Incredibly, they all apply to a little elven girl that we still know nothing about. Do you suppose she might ever remember who she is or where she is from, beyond her name, of course?"

Boromir shrugged. "Does it matter?" Clapping interrupted their conversation. Morgan bowed to the group of soldiers as she finished her little performance.

Faramir grimaced. "I suppose not. Although… what does father think?"

Boromir drew back. "You actually asked me that?"

Faramir sighed. "Yes, I-"

"Have the Valar returned?" Faramir closed his eyes. "Did Sauron suddenly decide to take a holiday?" Faramir scoffed at his brother. "Have you finally decided to stop staring at books and instead take a look at a lovely maiden?" Faramir groaned, making Boromir laugh. "Come now brother, I jest."

"I know you do," Faramir admitted, a tired smile tugging on his lips. "I'm simply weary, is all. But, I am genuinely curious."

"About maidens?"

"About father?"

"Right, right." Boromir's chuckling ebbed away. He drew in a deep breath and then nodded. "He's not exactly pleased to have one of the Eldar among us here. Although, I think he is as puzzled as we are by her appearance."

"She did appear out of the mists."

"No, her appearance," Boromir clarified. "You know father. All he does all day is sit in the Tower and study. One scroll after another. Book after book after book. He might be the most learned man in all of Middle-Earth, at least until you reach his age. You know what he told me? Of all the tomes and texts he has scoured, none mention an elf like Morgan."

"What does that mean?"

"Her ears are too long, at least that's what he said," Boromir continued. "That and an elf that young shouldn't be roaming the wilds at all. She's not fifty. At fifty, she wouldn't be making the men laugh, she would be making them stare."

Faramir frowned. "What does that all mean?"

"When was the last time any of the fair folk came this far south?" Boromir waited for an answer that did not come. "Exactly. So, it cannot mean that she is of an elven people we know. She is not from Rivendell, Mirkwood, Lothlorien, or the Gray Havens. And, as far as we know, there are no elves in Harad, which is the only other place she could have possibly come from besides…"

"Mordor," Faramir frowned. "Father thinks she's from the enemy?"

Boromir was quiet for a moment. Faramir could see the uncertainty in his brother's eyes.

"Father's becoming… overly anxious."

"Paranoid?"

Boromir shot Faramir a sharp look. Faramir bowed his head.

"That was my emotions getting the better of me."

Boromir nodded slowly, then exhaled as Morgan began chatting with the men. "I pray you're right about that." He muttered.

"Tell us a tale, Morgan Fireweaver!"

Faramir blinked. The men had already given her a nickname? Fireweaver? It made sense. Morgan seemed to enjoy playing with those unnatural flames she conjured.

"A tale? Of what?" Morgan questioned.

"Of your homeland!" One shouted.

"Family and friends!" Bellowed another.

"A myth, a legend, something you've seen in your years!"

Morgan pointed at the last. "Now, I resent that one, as even though I'm apparently an immortal, which was news to me, I'm not old. Not yet at least. In fact, I'm pretty sure most of you are still older than me. So, ha! Youth wins again. But, a story? Hm… a story?" She tapped her chin and paced back and forth. Faramir watched her smile slowly fade as her brow knitted. She swallowed hard. "Come to think of it, I can't think of anything."

Her usual mirth was gone, replaced by simmering frustration and melancholy. Faramir recognized it in the way her eyes fell as her posture stooped. He saw it in how she stared at her feet rather than the soldiers whose company she had been enjoying, and how she pursed her lips and pulled her hands behind her back, pulling on her fingers.

As always, Boromir came to the rescue.

"A tale is what you want?" Boromir announced, making Morgan's head snap up. A faint smile crossed her face. A thankful one. "And of what kind, my good men? Tales of valor and glory? Honor? Tragedy?" He sniffed and shook his head. "No to the last. We've had enough of that I say. Tonight, I think Faramir should regale us with a story of his own. What do you say?"

The men cheered. Faramir's cheeks reddened, then he smiled as Boromir gestured at him to come to the fire. When he did, Boromir threw his arm around his brother. He raised his bowl of broth.

"A story for our last night in Osgiliath!"

Faramir grinned. He cleared his throat and began a tale some of the men knew well, and others did not know so much. Beren and Luthien, something to inspire their hearts and quiet their minds at the same time. As he spoke, he spotted Morgan slip away from the others, slowly walking toward the river.

Boromir followed her.

Boromir found Morgan sitting by the water's edge, her feet dangling over black ripples as she flicked a pebble into the unmoving Anduin. For a moment, he stayed back, watching her, wondering. His father's words of caution rang in his ears. The unnatural magic, her ears, her age, the strange coat with arcane, fell symbols etched all across them in indigo and gold, it reeked of the Enemy. His father wanted nothing to do with Morgan.

But, his father had not met Morgan. True, Boromir had only known the girl a few weeks at best, but he could not see any evil in her. She was a sprite, always ready with a smile, a quip, a joke, or a barb that lightened the mood. Always ready, except for tonight, when the men wanted her to reveal something from her past and her home. For the first time, he saw Morgan unhappy.

And that is why she walked away.

Wordlessly, Boromir took a seat beside her. While he was worried about her, he still scanned the opposite bank. No movement in the darkness. No sign of Orcs. The frost must have driven them back for now.

They sat in silence for a moment, watching mist curl above the rippling Anduin. Then, Morgan spoke.

"I can't remember."

Boromir glanced at her. Her cheeks were wet. She had been crying.

"I can't remember a thing." She sniffed and reached up with a sleeve, wiping her eyes. "I remember my name, and that's all. I don't have any stories. I don't have any friends. I have… I have a father and mother, obviously, but even they are fragments, like a shattered mirror that can't be put back together. I see colors, I hear their voices, but I can't place them." She shuddered as her lip trembled. "Everyone here has so much history, and me, the immortal, I have none." She tucked her knees to her chest. "What does that make me then? Just the strange girl. The oddity for everyone to look at. I don't mind the attention… but I do wish it was occasionally for a different reason."

Boromir shifted over and put an arm around Morgan. She sniffled and drew closer, like a child seeking the comfort of a parent. The thought made Boromir freeze, but he shook it away just as quickly. Like anyone, even elves needed comfort sometimes.

"I spoke to my father earlier today," he began, making Morgan's ears twitch. "He told me something. Something that I could not tell a soul."

"Not even Faramir?"

"Not even Faramir."

Morgan flicked her green eyes up at Boromir. "You're gonna tell me, right?"

Boromir chuckled. "He told me that I needed to go to Rivendell, to the House of Lord Elrond for a Grand Council."

"Of?"

"Of people. The first of its kind since the last age. He believes that something of great importance has been discovered. Something that can change our fortunes in the war against Sauron."

Morgan nodded, her brow furrowing. Her melancholy was gone, replaced by curiosity and deep thought.

"Why are you telling me?"

"Well," Boromir gave her small shoulder a shake, "now you know something that no one else does. There, you have a piece of your own history, shared only with me and my father."

"I do?" Morgan's eyes widened. She shot back from Boromir, eyes alight. "I do! Ha ha!"

It amazed Boromir how swiftly her mood could shift. She was a happy spirit, even if she was a loud one.

"Wait!" Morgan held up both hands. "I wasn't supposed to know."

"Correct."

"Does this mean you have to kill me now?"

Boromir gave her a puzzled look.

"I'll have you know; the men call me Fireweaver for a reason."

And Boromor threw his head back, laughing. Morgan gave him a confused look.

"Indeed, they do, and I do not doubt the prowess of Gondor's Fireweaver. Sit down already, you rascal. I'm not going to kill you. The thought would never cross my mind. But, you are correct, you were not supposed to know that tidbit of information."

"So, what happens now?"

"Well…" Boromir bobbed his head to and fro, "it seems I must keep a very close eye on you, just to make sure your running mouth doesn't say anything. But, alas, I must go to Rivendell. What shall I do?"

Morgan gasped. "I'm going with you!? To see elves! To see my people!"

"Indeed, you are."

Morgan grinned ear to ear. "B-But what about, the Grump?"

"Faramir?"

"Your dad."

"Father?" Boromir drew back and then winked at Morgan. "It'll be our little secret." He then rubbed his chin. "I think you might just be small enough to be stuffed into a tent roll."

Morgan froze.

"Huh?"

Later that night, Boromir sat beside a small campfire. Next to him, Morgan slept in her bedroll. Occasionally, she murmured, stirred, then rolled over before curling into a tighter ball beneath her thin blanket. She was supposed to be on watch with him. A consequence for abandoning the men while they had a story from Faramir. Instead, he let her sleep. She would need it for the long journey north to Eriador and Rivendell.

Boromir drew in a deep breath and gazed into the flames. The sticks that made up his small campfire crackled and popped, cold sap hissing from the heat. The noise made his hair stand on end, reminding him of the snarling hiss of attacking orcs. His heart skipped a beat. Did they cross the river?

He looked up. Nothing there. Not even a ripple on the water. Still, his hand drifted to his sword, resting on the pommel.

Morgan was a good child. He knew that in his heart now. It was impossible for her to be from Mordor. The Enemy was not capable of creating something as curious, kind, and light-hearted as Morgan, nor someone as deeply feeling as her. His conversation with her earlier in the evening illuminated a depth to her he had not anticipated.

She was lonely and afraid, and she did a wonderful job of masking it. But, story time made that mask crack. When it did, she turned to Boromir for help patching it up. It made him feel strange.

It must be that feeling Father told me about when I was younger. He mused, shaking his head. When I was a bull-headed child and he was rearing me to be a man. Is it pride? No. I'm not sure. Perhaps I will learn later on?

Another snap and hiss from the fire. The cold bit deeper despite the warm flames. Boromir shivered.

A moan drifted over the Anduin, making his hairs stand on end. Slowly, he rose, eyeing the opposite bank. He expected to see stooped shadows darting through the ruins of Osgiliath. Evidence of orcs on the move.

Instead, he saw something that chilled him to the bone.

A pair of red eyes glowed like bright rubies… before suddenly being snuffed out like a candle in the cold wind.