Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: Recalled to Life (#158)
Author: Julie327
Chapters: 4

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Archive: Tolkien
Category: Alternate Universe (AU)
Description: Boromir has been brought back from the dead, but does it bode well for Gondor???
Published: 03 Aug 2003
Updated: 04 Mar 2004
Warnings: Character Death, a ritual
Type: Angst
Characters: Boromir; Faramir; Eowyn; Elladan


Chapter 1 - Return to the Istari

Author’s Note- First of all, a little history of the Blue Wizards. They came to Middle Earth, and left for the East, never seen again in Middle Earth. Tolkien theorizes that they started pagan traditions. Second, the language that Alatar uses is a mixture between Latin, Spanish, Irish Gaelic, and German. Thirdly, I simply cannot find enough information on Elladan. All I know is that he is Elrond’s son, and he remained behind when his father departed. Who’s to say what happened to his wife, and who’s to say what happened to his son?
Also, I have made this story an AU for timeline reasons, and for the fact that Eowyn has suffered no ill effects from her battle with the Witch-King of Angmar.

Chapter I: Return of the Istari

It had been many years since any man had willingly stepped foot onto the desert land of South Gondor. It had once been a beautiful land, grassy and full of trees. The Great River, the Anduin, had supported the Gondorian people who had long resided there. Though it bordered the dark country of Mordor, it seemed unaffected by the evil of Sauron.

Evil, however, came to it in the form of the Corsairs. The dark men of Umbar came on their black boats with their hands clutching evil swords and their hearts lusting for destruction. With these sinister weapons, the Corsairs drove the people of Gondor over the Anduin, and South Gondor became a debatable and desert land. No one wished to live in it unless he were mad or marooned.

In the year 3019 of the Third Age, someone stirred in South Gondor's deserted wilderness. It was neither a bloodthirsty but marooned Corsair, nor a brave but mad Gondorian. It was a man, no less than six feet tall, but was grotesquely emaciated. He seemed to be no more than a skeleton, but moved with astonishing grace and rapidity. Perhaps it was fine dark quarterstaff that gave him such liveliness, or perhaps he moved in haste, for he had a very important task before him. The man was bent on a mission, and that mission was to find the sole area for water, the Anduin. Had any other living soul been present, he would have easily spotted the man, for his midnight blue garment and silvery beard became most pronounced in the beige milieu.

After several more minutes of the walking, the Anduin, the mighty sapphire river, lay before him. The man smiled, pleased, and yet did not bend to drink from the waters. He seemed to be waiting for something.

"'Tis all a matter of timing," he murmured to himself. Suddenly, something appeared in the river. It was a small boat, an Elvish one, seemingly unmanned. The old man saw this and cackled with glee.

He stepped no more than a foot into the chilly water and raised his staff. The staff was beautiful, a deep brown color with a strange bluish tint.

"Venite! Dormitus fada laethe, dormitus fada oiche. Venite. Shiúlaim na laethe beo!" Suddenly, the boat halted in its course down the river which would ultimately lead it to the sea. Slowly, the boat began a steady path towards the man.

The man smiled as he saw the cargo which the boat carried. In the boat lay the shell of what once had been a mighty warrior of Gondor. His face was pale, and his light brown beard barely concealed a three-day-old rivulet of dried blood, staining his mouth. His face was noble, and his attire was that of a ranger. His sword lay on his chest, its blade broken. The body's chest was also smeared with dried blood, and three puncture holes, no bigger than a man's thumb, gave evidence of an archer's weapons.

The man studied the corpse carefully.

"Where is thy horn? No matter, thou will not have need of it. When I have awakened thee, thou shalt not require anything!" Then stepping into the boat, the old man crossed the river, with Lord Boromir, future heir to the Stewardship of Gondor, as his cold companion.


Chapter 2 - The Missing Companion

Chapter II: The Missing Companion

In the emerald land of Gondor, five friends rode together on horseback. It was a beautiful spring day, full of happiness and vivacity, and the sun shone brightly on the five riders.

"It is certainly pleasant to see the sun after so much rain!" Arwen Evenstar, daughter of Elrond Half-Elven, and wife of King Elessar of Gondor, commented to her husband. Elessar, known to his close friends as Aragorn, smiled back and nodded. Riding next to him was the fair golden-haired Eowyn, Princess of Rohan, who glanced at her future husband, Prince Faramir of Ithilien. Faramir returned the warm glance half- heartedly, inciting a frown from his future wife.

"What is wrong?" Eowyn asked, her gray eyes filled with concern.

"Nothing, my love. I am merely fatigued."

"Or perhaps you are in need of a challenge!" The fifth rider shouted. He had separated himself from the foursome, for both he and his horse disliked the leisurely pace. He was a few lengths ahead, his grey mare’s nose in the air.

"And just who would challenge him, Urya?" Arwen asked teasingly. Urya pretended to wipe a tear from his eye.

"My dear aunt, you have deeply offended me. I offer to race him!" Urya Half-Elven, youngest grandson of Lord Elrond, was an energetic young Elf, far too energetic for an Elf of his age. He was nothing like his parents, always stirring up trouble and then finding someone else to blame for it. Elladan, his father, feared that the youth would never completely mature, as he was nearly a century old.

"If you wish to lose," Faramir said mirthfully, though sadness still pierced his eyes.

"Go!" Eowyn shouted, and the two began the race. The threesome laughed as Faramir and Urya raced over the hills. It was obvious that Faramir would win, for his horse was of Rohan breed and he had years of experience.

"We had better go after them, the feast for my brother is less than three hours hence," Arwen reminded Aragorn. "Elladan entrusted him to me to keep him out of trouble."

"It was both wise and foolish of him, I think," Eowyn said. "You were a wise choice, but he should have known a ride with my dear betrothed would end with mischief."

"And how is Faramir?" Eowyn frowned.

"I cannot tell. He seems happy, but sometimes, when he does not know that I am present, I see him lash out at objects. His servants tell me he cries out in the night." Eowyn’s fair face creased with worry.

“His father’s death, perhaps?” Arwen asked, for she knew very little of the man.

“No,” Aragorn, “His brother’s. Faramir has come to me many times in the past, seeking counsel. His dreams are filled with Boromir, and with every dream, Faramir finds it hard to retain his composure.”

***

"Surrexi!" The body lay cold and still, unresponsive to Alatar's call.

"Cuivo!" his voice echoed through the tiny cave in Gondor that the old man had lived for the past four years. Still nothing. Alatar paced back and forth, his dark blue robe rustling as it gently struck his fine quarterstaff.

"What do I lack? I have given thee many a chance to revive, and yet thou still breathes not. What is missing?" The old man paced back and forth, recalling all his spells. For three months, Alatar had spent the majority of his days chanting spells, trying to bring his fallen companion back to the living.

"Of course!" He cried suddenly. "How could I have forgotten? Thy spirit hath fled into shadow, for thy body has lost the beating of thy heart. But fear not, Lord Boromir, I shall recall thee to life yet!" Boromir's body had not changed since Alatar had first discovered his body on the Anduin. There were no signs of decay, as Alatar had cast a preservation spell on the warrior's corpse.

"I shall require a heart. It must be Elvish. But what Elf would be found in Gondor? Queen Arwen, but she is a woman. I need a male." Just as the old man murmured these words, the faint echoes of laughter reached his ears. It was youthful laughter, filled with excitement and naïve hope. Alatar suddenly wished to know from whom the laughter emanated. Perhaps it was because he had seen a living being in ten years. Or perhaps it was the youth and joy he heard in that laugh, for he had experienced neither youth nor happiness for the past three hundred years.

He quietly left the cave with his dead companion, and looked out on the grassy hills of Gondor. Two men on horseback were but three hundred yards from his abode. The closest was a man of Gondor, clearly one of power, for his attire and steed had a costly appearance. Alatar was quite shocked as his sharp eyes detected a shocking resemblance between the man and Lord Boromir. Boromir was taller, burlier, and slightly older, but the two could have been twins.

The second rider truly delighted Alatar. He was young and lacked the experience in riding that his companion had. His long black hair hung loosely, shining in the wind as he desperately attempted to draw alongside the other man, possibly his guardian. As his glossy hair blew back, revealing his ears, Alatar saw a solution to his problem.

The youth was Elvish.

Smiling, Alatar quickly began to chant, beckoning with his staff toward the Elf. The Gondorian rider failed to notice the old man as he passed by him swiftly.

"Venire, puer, ad silvam de tu chroì. Venire, filius," Alatar whispered to the boy. The horse came to halt, as the Elf saw him. The youth shook his head in denial, fighting with all his being.

"Why do you fight against me?" Alatar murmured. "You know not who I am. You know not my interest in you. Venire." Still he did not move. Alatar sighed, and turned his power to the horse. "Venire equus!"

***

Urya forgot about Faramir, his father, Elrond, everything. All he could do was stare at the man clad in dark blue only a few yards away from him. He sensed great power, and great evil in the man. Yet he felt himself desiring to come closer to the man. Urya resisted, calling on his barely harnessed Elvish power.

Then his horse began to hear the man's call.

Urya tried to dismount from the horse, but he was too weak. He was too young to truly utilize his power. The man before him was as skilled as he was ancient.

When Urya reached the man, he felt himself dismount. But he did not run.

"Do not fear, young one. You are about to do a great service to Gondor. What is your name?" The man's midnight blue eyes were icy, though his voice was full of friendship and warmth.

"Urya Half-Elven," Urya said slowly, knowing that resistance was useless.

"Come, Urya. Enter my humble abode, and meet the man who you will die for."

"Who are you?" Urya whispered, tears beginning to fall down his cheeks, knowing the man’s purpose was ill.

"You may call me Alatar, the Blue Wizard."

***

"Where is he, Faramir?" Arwen asked. Faramir shook his head, confused.

"I do not understand. He could not have been more than fifty yards behind me. When I looked back a few minutes ago, he was there," Faramir said, pointing to the beginning of a hill. It was strewn with boulders, but Urya could not be seen.

"Then, about a minute ago, I looked back- and he was gone."

"Perhaps he is hiding amongst the rocks, jesting with us," Eowyn suggested weakly.

"I have looked everywhere," Aragorn said, returning from his search. "There was a cave, but its entrance was too small for Urya to pass through." Arwen turned her horse scanning the horizon.

"Urya!" She cried, calling on her Elvish power. Surely, Urya could sense her dismay. Yet, his voice was nowhere to be heard, and his youthful face was nowhere to be seen.

"He must be in grave danger," she murmured. She turned to her husband, her eyes misting with tears.

"We must go to Elladan. If anyone can find him, it is he."

***

Urya lay face up, shivering on a flat gray stone, just wide and long enough for him to fit. His shirt had been taken, and his hands were bound by leather. The cave was dark and silent.

What is to become of me? He wondered. He knew that he would eventually die, but for what purpose?

"You are exceptionally brave, even for an Elf," came the deep voice Urya had learned to dread. "It is hard to face oblivion as you are about to." Suddenly, the smiling but cruel face of Alatar appeared before him. For a moment, Urya stared into the wizard's eyes. The eyes were a dark shade of blue and glittered like those of a predator about to slay his victim.

Urya broke eye contact and turned away. In doing this, he caught a glimpse of a pale and apparently unconscious creature beside him. It was a man, and looked frighteningly similar to Faramir, save for a broader chest. His eyes were closed, and his hands lay folded on his naked chest. Urya suddenly realized the man was dead.

"Who is he?" Urya whispered, his inquiry directed to no one. Alatar, however, overheard him and answered.

"He is Lord Boromir, son of Denethor and Finduilas, and brother of Faramir. He is also to be your undoing, as well as his kingdom’s. Now, bid farewell to your world, Urya Half-Elven, for you are about to depart from it."

A moment after speaking, Alatar drew a knife. It was beautifully made, the blade curving, almost forming a scythe. The handle was gilded, and figures of a strange language had been engraved in both the handle and the blade. It was a ceremonial knife.

Before Urya could utter one word, the blade came flashing down, cutting through skin, muscle, bone, lodging itself in the elf's left lung. Blood blossomed from his chest as he let out a sigh of pain; he could not scream for the pain was too great.

Ruby blood began to spurt, spray, splashing Alatar as he carefully carved a perfect circle in Urya's chest. He grunted in effort as the sharp blade slowly carved through the elf’s sternum and ribs.

Eyes dimming, heart failing, Urya knew his end was near. He grabbed Alatar's robe with one shaky hand.

"Curse you by fire, water, and adamantine," he gasped. Alatar laughed cruelly.

"My name has been buried on stone; your curses mean nothing." Urya's eyes the closed as his spirit fled from his bloodied body.

"Haha, there it is!" Alatar cried triumphantly as he ripped from the dead boy what he had been searching for. In his hand he clutched the heart still dripping with blood.

Alatar then turned to Lord Boromir, whose own chest lay broken. Plunging the heart into the dead warrior's chest, Alatar cried out a string of words.

“The heart of an immortal now lies in thy chest
Put breath in thy lungs, put life in thy breast
The forfeited life is one of Elf kind
Make finger to move, put spark in thy mind
Make sinew to twist, make bones now to turn
Give the eyes sight, give brain will to learn
Give these to thy body, O dead one accursed
Put life in thy corpse, and dead heart now burst!”

And suddenly, two emerald eyes gazed upon a world they had not seen for a long time.


Chapter 3 - An Exchange

Chapter III: An Exchange

The next day, a search party for Urya was organized by Elladan himself. Five men, including Aragorn, were to search the area that Urya had disappeared. Faramir was to stay behind, as his duties were to watch over the city when Elessar could not be present.

“I will return with my son soon,” Elladan announced to his sister. Arwen nodded half-heartedly. Elladan took his sister gently by the chin.

“Do not fear,” he said softly, and kissed her cheek. She returned the gesture.

“Namaarie,” she said in farewell.

She watched as the Rangers and her brother left the White City with sadness in her heart. She knew the search would not end well.

“Do not worry, my lady, Urya will be found. He is much like his aunt; not easily overwhelmed by any evil,” Eowyn comforted. Arwen turned and smiled at the lady.

“Thank you, dear Eowyn, for your words of encouragement,” she said in gratitude.

***

“We have searched every inch of ground in the three miles surrounding the caves and we have found nothing,” Aragorn stated with frustrated disbelief.

“Something evil has been here,” Elladan said quietly. “Can you not feel it? All sound has ceased; the birds refuse to sing.”

“Yes. And there are no animal tracks whatsoever. I cannot even find horse tracks from yesterday’s ride.” The two sat in silence for a time, considering all possibilities. Corsairs of Umbar, wildmen of the Rhun, even Orcs from Moria. Nevertheless, both felt that none of these creatures could have been able to clear every single footprint.

“We must go back to the caves. Perhaps we overlooked an entrance.”

***

Minutes later, the two found themselves crawling and climbing over rocks, attempting to push their bodies into tiny little caves. More than once, Aragorn had to defend himself against the spiders that were inhabitants of the caves.

“Aragorn, I think I found one that can be entered,” Elladan said, and suddenly disappeared into a three foot wide and tall mouth. Aragorn followed him, and was startled when he entered.

It was a small cave, but both Elladan and Aragorn could stand at their full height. In the center was a large, flat stone. The cavern was strangely illuminated, and the verdant glow cast shadows on Elladan’s worried face.

“This stone has been touched by man,” Aragorn commented. “See how smooth the top is? And there are on the edges.”

“I do not recognize these markings- wait! There’s a bit of Elvish over here,” Elladan said from the other side of the stone. Aragorn began to join him, but suddenly stopped.

“There’s some sort of stain, maybe blood here.” Elladan saw it and paled.

“It is blood.” He put his hand on the large stain and shuddered.

“Oh, Urya,” he whispered. Aragorn glanced at his friend, startled.

“It could be animal blood, or not even blood at all,” Aragorn suggested weakly. Elladan shook his head.

“It is my son’s.” Both knew that the amount of blood on the stone was far too much for an Elf- or Man, for that matter- to live. Elladan bowed his head for a moment, his fists clenched so tightly that his hands became bloodless. Then he snapped back up, face taught with restraint.

“Get me away from this evil place,” Elladan gasped. Aragorn obliged and the two left the cave, forgetting the Elvish words on the stone:

From death to life, from life to death
An unfair trade, a taking of breath
To recall to life, a life must give
For body and soul and heart to live

***

“No,” Arwen whispered when the search party returned. She ran down from her room, nightgown fluttering, wishing with all her heart that she had seen Urya amongst them.

“Where is he, Elladan? Where is Urya?” Elladan flinched at the mention of his son’s name.

“Arwen,” he began but could not find the heart to speak. Instead, he embraced his sister, chest heaving with repressed emotions.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. He broke the embrace and kissed her on the cheek, his eyes shining with unshed tears. Aragorn led him away after kissing his wife.

“I’m so sorry,” Arwen murmured again, though she knew her apology could not bring back his son.

***

“And so it begins,” Alatar murmured as he watched creatures from afar gather on a hill near Minas Tirith. It was the funeral for Urya.

“The time to strike is near. The army is massed and waiting. Waiting for you, my dear companion.” Alatar glance at Boromir, who lay in a deep sleep, unaware that he would play a key role in the destruction of his beloved Gondor and the rest of Middle Earth.

“Sleep now, Boromir. Dream of your father, your mother, and brother. Dream, and forget me. Forget your maker, so that you may do my work.”

***

The funeral ceremony began at sunset and lasted three hours. The guests remained silent through those three hours, gazing into the symbolic fire, which represented Urya’s soul.

Eowyn stared into the fire, and the all too familiar feeling of grief swept over her. She could still remember the day Theoden, her dear uncle, had fallen. He had been a father to her, and she had wept much for the late king.

But Urya’s death was different. Theoden had been an old man, and had died in battle. Urya however, was a young Elf, practically a child, and no one was certain of the cause of his death. Elladan and Aragorn refused to speak of their discoveries in the cave.

“I thank all who attended tonight,” Elladan said quietly. Eowyn suddenly realized that it was not Elladan, but Elrohir, his twin brother, who had spoken. Arwen and Elrohir were at either side of their brother, and Eowyn could easily mistake one for the other.

“If anyone wishes to honor Urya in song, he or she may do so now,” Elrohir’s gray eyes swept across the guests. Elves, men, and one Dwarf named Gimli. Many of them were gifted with song, but few knew Urya.

Eowyn, who could not consider herself gifted, stepped forward. She knew Urya well enough, and perhaps that familiarity would guide her words.

“I would like to sing,” She said, and all eyes fixed upon her.

“Please proceed, Lady Eowyn,” Elrohir said, appearing somewhat intrigued. He had heard of Eowyn, and how fierce a warrior she was, but never once had anyone spoken of her gift as a singer.

Eowyn nodded, licked her lips nervously, and began to sing. The words came naturally, as she had hoped; Urya’s character forged their way.

“I once knew a lad of great spirit
He had a fire in his soul
He lived his life with love and joy
But this lad is now gone

Even though I’ll never see again
This wonderful, spirited lad
I ne’er forget his fiery soul
Now gone to shadow land.”

There was a long stretch of silence before Elrohir spoke again. His voice was not as firm as it had been before.

“Thank you, Lady Eowyn. Your song was beautiful.” He turned to face the rest of the guests. “Thank you for attending. My sister, brother, and myself, should like to be alone now.” The guests made their way back to Minas Tirith.

Eowyn turned to leave with Faramir, but Arwen stopped her with a warm hand. Eowyn turned, and saw the tears on Arwen’s face.

“Thank you, my friend,” Arwen said, embracing Eowyn.

“Your welcome,” Eowyn said in return. The two had come to know each quite over the past four years.

Eowyn turned to see a somewhat pained expression on Faramir’s face. She moved toward, him perplexed by his expression, but he escaped her grasp. Eowyn quickly bid her farewell to Arwen and pursued her betrothed. He slowed but did not turn when she called his name.

“Faramir, please, tell me what troubles you?” She asked. Faramir finally turned, his eyes shining. The pain in his eyes was so horrible Eowyn could not help but wince.

“It is your song, fair Eowyn. It haunts me.” The words were choked with grief.

“Do not blame yourself for Urya’s death, Faramir. It was not your-” Eowyn began.

“I do not,” Faramir half-whispered. “Though your song was meant for Urya, I could only find myself thinking of…” his voice trailed off, and his hands clenched into fists, as if it took all his will not to utter his brother’s name.

Eowyn stood there, unsure of what to say to her betrothed as he suppressed his rising sorrow. He was not like most men she knew. He was quiet, scholarly, and spent most of his free time in the library, reading ancient scrolls. He did not enjoy the outdoors as Aragorn did.

He rarely ever spoke of himself, but was always willing to listen, to comfort. He seemed strong, in both body and will, but preferred to exercise his mind more so than his body and will. Eowyn was not certain if the marriage arrangement between the two would be proper. After all, Eowyn was a huntress; always ready to participate in a strenuous sport. She disliked remaining indoors, she could mostly be found outside, riding with Prince Imrahil or Aragorn.

She was nothing like Faramir, and could not find a way to bond with him. Perhaps Boromir could create a link between the two.

“Will you accompany me to the gardens?” Eowyn asked suddenly. Faramir blinked in surprise.

“Of course, Eowyn.”

***

The gardens were lovely in the moonlight, and it shone on the bench on which Eowyn and Faramir sat. She took his hand, smiling gently.

“Tell me about Boromir.” The words were gentle, but Faramir still flinched. “Faramir, please. You cannot live with this anymore. You must let him go. For me.”

“He… he was much- like you,” Faramir managed to get out. “He was a warrior, fierce and cold. But I loved him, Eowyn. I loved him more deeply than he ever knew. And I know, that in his heart, he loved me also. But now, now I’ll never…” Faramir rose abruptly, wrenching his hand away from Eowyn’s, putting it to his face.

“Forgive me, my lady. I must go.” Eowyn watched her betrothed flee, and finally understood what was in his heart. She knew what exactly tormented him in his dreams at night. It was a question surrounding the one creature Faramir loved more than life itself. Had Boromir truly loved his brother?

Eowyn watched the figure flee into the night, and prayed that Boromir had.

Meanwhile, Faramir ran through the garden, searching for the place he had always found solitude. He ran, tears threatening to flow, heart bursting with grief. He would not cry, he would not! After all, he was a warrior, and warriors did not cry. He could almost hear his father’s words, telling him only the weak cry.

Not much later, he found his sanctuary. It was a statue, no more than six feet tall, shaped in the image of a noblewoman. Her arms were stretched out, beckoning to Faramir. Gazing up at the woman’s face, he sat down at her feet, trembling. Finally, Faramir could no longer hold back. His resolve fell at the sight of the statue. He drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms about them, and began to weep. He had not consciously cried in years, and had not sobbed so violently ever since he was a boy.

And so, Faramir sat under the image of Finduilas, his fallen mother, body shaking, tears pouring, heart wishing for the only person who could truly bring him joy.

His brother.

***

Three days after the funeral, the feast to honor Elladan was held. The funeral guests were invited to stay, which Thranduil, Legolas, Gimli, Eomer, and his wife Lothiriel accepted. Arwen was glad at this, for what Elladan needed was fellowship; the kind of fellowship only Elves could have together. She purposely placed Elladan between Thranduil and Elrohir, with Legolas and herself across from him.

At first, the feast was as solemn as the funeral, for the atmosphere surrounding Elladan was grim. But when Gimli “accidentally” flipped a plate of strawberry pie into the air that barely missed Legolas, laughter echoed through the hall and the merriment began.

Eowyn felt strangely shy, for she sat next to Thranduil, Lord of Mirkwood and Legolas’ father. He was a fine-looking Elf, tall with blue eyes and long blonde hair like his son, but he was a bit more muscular. He lacked the lanky form that was common amongst Elves; his broad chest and large arms gave him an almost Mannish look.

And yet, when he spoke, there was no doubt that he was an Elf. His words were graceful and filled with thoughtfulness, as he made polite dinner conversation with Eowyn and Elladan.

Legolas was the exact opposite of his father, Eowyn soon decided. While Legolas’ physique could be taken for nothing but Elvish, he was impetuous and rash, and quick to make a jest, usually in reference to his diminutive companion, Gimli.

Eowyn glanced over at her fiancé. He had been avoiding her gaze most of the night, and was continuing to do so. She sighed in frustration. Faramir should not be grim on such a night.

Angrily, she thrust her foot atop his. He started and glared at her, his eyes asking for what reason had he deserved such an action. Eowyn merely glared back at him, daring him to speak.

“Excuse me, I hate to interrupt, but I must say, I have never seen such an angry couple so lovingly play with each other’s feet,” Legolas commented, smiling. Thranduil nearly choked on his meat, and both Faramir and Eowyn’s face grew red.

“Legolas! Who taught you your dinner matters?” Thranduil scolded.

“I’m sorry, father, I’m afraid I’ve been around the Dwarf for far too long.”

“No, you had those bad manners long before I met you,” Gimli said in his own defense. Legolas laughed.

“You speak to me of manners? Look at yourself! Is that chicken in your beard?” Gimli glanced down.

“I don’t see it,” he said. The a small strip plopped soundly from Legolas’s fingers.

“Why you, fiendish, disgraceful, malicious-”

Eowyn and Faramir exchanged glances. Those two could argue- or, rather insult each other- forever, and would do so if no one put a stop to it.

“All right, all right,” Faramir said. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Eowyn asked sarcastically.

“Don’t rub it in, love,” Faramir said, taking Eowyn’s hand. She stared at him expectantly. “I apologize for ignoring you.” Eowyn laughed.

“It’s all right, Faramir. It really wasn’t any of my business anyway. And I apologize for trampling your foot.”

“It was a most deserved and enjoyed trample, my lady,” Faramir smiled faintly for a moment, then kissed her lightly on the cheek. His smile grew as she colored a little.

“What?” She asked, still embarrassed.

“Before this night, I thought I had seen your full beauty. But that moment, when your face flushed ever so slightly, it was like the budding of a rose, the moment when it goes beyond beauty and into perfection,” he said softly.

“Thank you,” Eowyn managed to say.

“Elladan, how goes the estate of Rivendell?” Thranduil asked, dabbing his shaven chin daintily with a napkin. It was fascinating to watch Thranduil, for his catlike grace did not match his large body.

“All is well at home,” Elladan answered solemnly. “Though my brother agrees with me that there are more Orcs about than usual.”

“Orcs?” Eowyn interrupted as politely as possible. Elladan nodded.

“The foul beasts from Moria are growing used to the sunlight. At first, they were only seen at night, and there were very few, but their numbers are growing.” Elladan’s voice was weary.

“Do you fear an attack?” Thranduil asked, concerned.

“No. The Orcs are disorganized, always squabbling amongst themselves. And they do not linger long in Rivendell. They leave in boats down the Bruinen, heading towards the sea.”

“If they meant to go to the sea, then why go so far from Moria only to turn around at Rivendell?” Eowyn asked.

“An interesting question that I’m afraid I cannot answer. Who can predict the foolish and evil minds of the Orcs?” Elladan’s voice was bitter.

“Please, let us not worry ourselves with outside troubles,” Elrohir suddenly said, placing a hand on Elladan’s shoulder. He turned to look at Eowyn and Faramir and smiled.

“How long have you been betrothed, might I ask?” Eowyn blushed as she answered.

“For some time now. Almost three years.”

“Three years?” Legolas repeated in disbelief.

“I’m afraid so. We agreed to be wed at the Festival of Light.” Thranduil, Elrohir, Elladan, and Legolas all appreciatively nodded in tandem, making Faramir and Eowyn laugh. The Festival of Light had been created by King Elessar not long after the end of the War of the Ring. It would be celebrated every four years, where the good creatures of Middle Earth were invited to gather at the Pelennor Fields to celebrate the victory over Sauron. Ents of Entwood, Men of Rohan and Gondor, Elves of Rivendell and Mirkwood, Hobbits of the Shire, and Dwarves of the Misty Mountains had all been invited. It was to be the greatest peaceful gathering of creatures that Gondor had ever seen. Though the festival was six months away, preparations had already begun.

“An excellent choice, Faramir!” Legolas said heartily. “It will surely be the most fantastic wedding of the Fourth Age.”

“I look forward to it with much anticipation,” Faramir said, taking Eowyn’s hand. His smile was warm, and Eowyn was glad for he was finally happy.

“As do I,” she replied.

***

At the gates of Minas Tirith, a knocking came. The knocking came as a knell to all inhabitants of the White City. It came as a lie, a false insurance. It came as a prophecy of doom.

One man knocked at the door. He was tall, but not particularly so, and was dressed in a long ragged cloak, hiding his hair and face.

But nothing could hide his stance. Any man watching him could easily determine that he was a warrior. Perhaps he was a wildman, searching for sanctuary for the night. Perhaps he was a Ranger, returning to his home that he might meet his king.

The gatekeeper did not know which, but it was not his job to know so. It was only his job to see if the man was friend or foe.

And when the stranger revealed his face, the gatekeeper gasped in recognition and allowed the man to pass through.

***

After dessert had been served, and the guests had eaten to their full, Aragorn signaled for the wine. It was time to toast Elladan.

“Elves, Men, and Dwarf, friends of old and afar, tonight we have gathered to give honor and recognition to the new Lord of Rivendell. We have come together to toast an Elf of great courage and great love. We have come to give comfort and fellowship to our noble friend. But, most important of all, we have gathered together to toast something far greater than ourselves!” Everyone let out cheer, and raised their goblets.

“And so, ladies and gentlemen, a toast: to Lord Elladan, and to the eternal peace of Middle Earth!”

At that very moment, just before anyone could bring the wine to their lips, the outer door of the hall opened, and a man, hidden by his hooded cloak, stepped in.

Every male creatures hands went to their weapons, as did Eowyn’s. Aragorn, his palm resting on Anduril, spoke calmly.

“Step forward, and reveal yourself, stranger, and you shall not be harmed.” There was a small sound, almost a huff of laughter. Faramir froze. He recognized that sound.

“I do not wish for anyone to be hurt.” That voice, though slightly muffled, sounded familiar. Faramir’s heart was pounding. Could it be?

All watched as the man stepped forward, and drew back the hood of his cloak to reveal the comely bearded face of Boromir, son of Denethor and Finduilas, long thought dead.

Faramir’s goblet slipped away from his nerveless fingers and crashed the ground as his brother’s green eyes settled on him.

And so began the fall of Gondor.


Chapter 4 - Reacquainting

Chapter IV: Reacquainting

“This cannot be,” Aragorn murmured, staring in shock at Boromir.

“What cannot be? My presence? I admit my appearance is a bit unsuitable for such an occasion, but that does not deserve such shock, especially from you, Strider,” Boromir smiled as he used King Elessar’s old nickname. He had not yet recognized that Aragorn was no longer the Ranger from the wild, but rather the King of Gondor.

“And where is my father? Surely he would be here.” Boromir looked around, and confusion began to grow on his face. “Why are you here anyway, Aragorn? The last I knew it, a young hobbit was in your charge.”

“Brother,” Faramir said, his face pale in shock. “You…”

“You have been thought dead for three years,” Thranduil said flatly. Startled, Boromir turned his gaze to the king Elf.

“Dead for three years? That cannot be possible, as you can see. I assure you I am not dead.” His laugh was light. Surely, they jest with him! But the look of disbelief on his brother’s face told him otherwise.

“I saw you die!” Aragorn said. “You died lying against a tree, pierced by many arrows. I placed your body in a boat and you were swept down the Rauros Falls. No man could have survived either experiences.” All could see the pain on Elessar’s face as he remembered the day Boromir had fallen. The two had become close, the day of his death, as close as brothers.

“Then what do you suppose I am?” Boromir cried, confusion slowly growing into anger. “A ghost? Touch me, Aragorn! Touch me, Faramir, and see that your brother is alive.” Faramir stepped forward hesitantly, his body trembling as it had never before. Did he dare believe his dear brother had returned to him?

But when his shaking hand made contact with the warm, living face of his brother, all apprehension washed away and an incredible surge of joy flooded through Faramir. He embraced his brother, a huge smile on his face, a joyous laugh upon his lips.

“Oh, brother, it is so good to see you home!” He cried, and Boromir returned his embrace just as heartily.

“It is good to be home,” Boromir replied.

“But how is it possible?” Thranduil asked as the brothers embraced. “Who could have the power to recall a fallen man to life?”

“Radagast the Brown?” Arwen suggested, watching as her husband embraced Boromir as well, disbelief lost in happiness.

“He does not have such power. Not even Gandalf the White could have performed such a feat,” Thranduil answered, as Legolas and Gimli approached Boromir.

“Where are the hobbits? Do Merry and Pippin still live? And what about Frodo and Sam?”

“They all live. Frodo has gone over the seas, Sam lives in the Shire, and Merry and Pippin are well…”

“Then the Ring is…” Faramir’s smile disappeared when he saw the guilt on his brother’s face. Faramir had learned of Boromir’s betrayal of the Fellowship, and how he had tried to take the Ring from Frodo.

“It has been destroyed, Boromir,” Aragorn answered softly. Boromir closed his eyes in relief. The cursed Ring, the evil that had haunted his dreams and had dictated his actions was finally gone.

“Well someone has, and we must discover who that is, for a creature with such power could be a danger to us,” Elrohir said calmly.

“Perhaps it was no one,” Eomer argued. “Perhaps he was not truly dead.”

“No could have survived the Falls of Rauros,” Thranduil said in response. The men surrounding Boromir turned, realizing that a heated debate had grown while they had greeted Boromir.

“We should not worry ourselves for the moment,” Eowyn suddenly interrupted. All eyes settled upon her, including Boromir’s.

“The important thing is that Boromir is here with us again. My lord,” she said, for while speaking she too, had approached Boromir. “I am Lady Eowyn.” She curtsied low before him, for though as a princess she was higher than him, she was honored to meet Boromir. She had always wondered what Faramir’s brother would be like.

“I have heard much of you, Lady, from my father. I am surprised, though.”

“Oh?” Eowyn asked. She gazed into his piercing green eyes, and suddenly her heart began to beat faster.

“He spoke of your grace and of your skill, but never once did he speak of your great beauty.” Boromir took her hand and kissed it softly. Eowyn blushed deeply. Boromir was indeed not his brother.

“And speaking of him, where is my father?” Boromir asked.

***

“Dead? When did he die?”

“A few days after he learned of your death.” Faramir went on to tell the tale of Denethor’s death, the destruction of the Ring, and the final days of the War of the Ring. Boromir felt guilt pierce his heart as he learned of Denethor’s death.

“I do not know what drove him mad,” Faramir said sadly.

“I warned him,” Boromir said. “As did you. It was the Palantir, was it not?”

“Yes,” Faramir admitted finally. “I did not want you to know.” Boromir had known about the existence of the Palantir, as had Faramir. Many years ago, Boromir had tried to make Denethor get rid of the Seeing-Stone, but Denethor had ignored his pleas. Faramir knew his brother would feel guilty about his death.

Faramir decided not to tell Boromir about how Denethor’s madness had almost gotten Faramir burned alive, and continued with his tale.

“And that is what has happened since your ‘disappearance,’” Faramir said once he had finished. “Now, I believe there are some other men who want to greet you.”

***

That day and those following were filled with bliss as Boromir greeted his friends. Some were old soldiers and laughed as they embraced Boromir, tears in their eyes.

“There is no greater bond than the bond between soldiers. They have stared death in the face together, and have returned from the greatest hell man can create for himself,” Boromir had once said to Faramir. His closeness with the men who had fought under his command proved his statement.

But with the happiness also came grief. Many men had died in the War of the Ring, some of which had Boromir’s closest friends. Captain Orostan, Boromir’s first commander, had died on Pelennor Fields, surrounded by the numerous bodies of Orcs and Haradrim he had slain. He had been stabbed nearly ten times by at least two spears.

Boromir visited his grave, saluting his Captain. Orostan had been a good soldier, and a man of violent passion. He had treated Boromir and Faramir like sons until the time came for them to become captains themselves.

After visiting his grave, both Boromir and Faramir were summoned by Elessar. The time had come to resolve Boromir’s past.

Aragorn’s study had a very comfortable atmosphere; it was nothing like it had been when Denethor had held the Stewardship. The austere, white room with only a solemn black metal desk had been changed into a room filled with books. Three of the four walls were lined with bookcases filled with scrolls and notebooks. A large painting of a dark-haired Elvish woman, presumably Arwen, was the decoration of the back wall.

In the center of the room was a large mahogany desk, littered with scrolls. Elessar sat behind the desk in a leather chair, with small brass epaulettes with engraved pictures scrawling up the arms and legs of the chair. In this room, Aragorn was no longer a king or a warrior. He was a scholar, and searched through his library, yearning for knowledge.

“The last I remember is hearing the cry of Orcs and thinking that I had to get to Merry Pippin. Then the next thing I knew I was in the Grey Woods, alone, and without my sword. I came to Minas Tirith, and went to my fath- your hall.” Aragorn nodded.

“Boromir, if we cannot determine your past, we must create one. At least until we find out what truly happened- which I doubt will happen.” Elessar leaned back in his chair, and they began to talk.

After several hours of discussion, the threesome finally decided that Boromir’s wounds had not been fatal- but so close that Aragorn had not been able to detect whether or not Boromir lived. His fall down the Rauros had caused him to lose his memory. After years of aimless wondering, the memory had come back to him, and he had come back to Minas Tirith.

“It is a highly unlikely that it is the true tale, but it will serve. Now, Boromir, now that we have settled your past, we must look to your future. Three years ago, you were Heir to the Stewardship. But I have given that position to Faramir.”

“I am willing to give it up if you desire the position,” Faramir said quickly. Boromir glanced at his brother, somewhat surprised. He recalled how, many years ago, how Faramir had told his brother how much he had wanted the Stewardship. He had only been a boy of sixteen, and had thought that maybe his father would know his wish and grant it. Denethor had indeed known Faramir’s desire, and had chosen to ignore it.

“King Elessar, I would be a fool to ask for the Stewardship. I have never enjoyed politics and I do not think Gondor would benefit from my political views, if I indeed have any.” Aragorn smiled. Of the three men, Boromir was certainly the best warrior and the worst politician.

“Then what position do you desire, Lord Boromir?” Aragorn asked as knowing smile crossed his face.

“Only to be a Captain of Gondor, my lord,” he said humbly. Elessar laughed heartily, startling Boromir.

“I had expected much. Very well, Boromir, you shall be Captain Boromir, Keeper of Osgiliath.” Aragorn opened up a drawer of his desk, and took out three small goblets with a small bottle of wine. He poured the wine, handed Boromir and Faramir each a goblet, and rose.

“A toast. To Lord Boromir, Captain of Gondor, and to Lord Faramir, Steward of Gondor.” The brothers lifted their glasses in response.

“Now, gentlemen, I’m afraid I have bad news. Elrohir and I will be leaving Minas Tirith for a spell. Faramir, are you ready to assume your duties?”

“For what reason do you leave, my Lord?” Faramir asked, surprised.

“We are going to investigate Urya’s death.”

“Urya? But he is not dead,” Boromir said, confused.

“I’m afraid he is.” Aragorn told him how Elladan and he had discovered the cave and the blood.

“I intend to go back to the cave and decipher some markings I found there. I do not know when I shall return.”

“I shall watch over Gondor until you return,” Faramir said in return.

“As will I,” Boromir said.

“Then you had better reacquaint yourself with a sword,” Aragorn said chidingly.

“I suppose I should,” Boromir said, realizing he had not touched a sword in three years. He took a sip of his wine and resolved to “reacquaint” himself the next day.

***

The next day, Faramir took his brother to the Training Hall, a large, single-room building on the outskirts of Minas Tirith. That day the atmosphere of the hall sang with the clash of metal against metal. Every day, hordes of young men and boys, searching for an outlet for their reckless, youthful energy, came to the hall, where they were trained how to use a sword. Both Eowyn and Eomer were there as well. Eomer was teaching a few of the young boys proper footwork, while Eowyn encouraged the more awkward fighters.

“Good morning, Lord King!” Faramir greeted upon entering the hall. Eomer turned and bowed.

“Good morning, Lord Faramir, Boromir.” Eowyn, patting a youth on the head, approached the brothers, a warm smile upon her face.

“Good morning, my love,” Eowyn said, kissing Faramir lightly on the cheek. Faramir coloured slightly, but returned her action.

“Good morning, Lord Boromir.” Eowyn said, and Boromir nodded his greetings. She found herself staring into his green eyes again, trapped by their intensity. Boromir realized she gazed at him, and returned the stare with uncertainty.

What a strange woman, Boromir thought. Faramir had told him very little of his fiancé. He had been told that she was a quiet woman, but very passionate. Her silence had once been accompanied but coldness, but that coldness had seemingly thawed with her engagement to Faramir.

“How are you, Eowyn?” Faramir asked, not noticing the elongated eye contact between his betrothed and brother.

“I am well,” Eowyn said, breaking contact with Boromir. “What brings you to the Training Hall?”

“I had been hoping to find a partner to spar with. I haven’t fought in years, or so I am told.”

“You shall have to practice first, brother, before any real sparring.”

“Yes, but with who?”

“I’m afraid I am not in the mood for battling with you, brother. Perhaps Eomer-”

“I will fight you,” Eowyn interrupted suddenly.

“You?” Boromir asked, caught off guard. He glanced over Eowyn, studying her carefully from her feet to her head. She was a tall woman, with somewhat slender hips, small breasts, and strong arms. She was wearing a dress, hiding her long legs, but Boromir could already tell she was well built for battle, like a thin but deadly spear.

I’m sorry, Lady Eowyn, but I do not spar with women,” Boromir said finally. “I shall ask you brother instead.”

Eowyn blushed in embarrassment. But she refused to give up.

“I understand. I try not to fight with old, inexperienced men myself.” Faramir raised his eyebrow in surprise. He knew Eowyn was spirited, but not pugnacious.

Boromir stiffened, and turned. He was not of the sort of men who took insults lightly.

“That was not called for, Lady Eowyn.” He stared at the young woman whose eyes burned with passion. He hardly new his future sister-in-law, yet she already seemed inclined to dislike him.

“I believe it was. I find it insulting that you would fight my brother, but not me. I am as much as an accomplished warrior as Eomer is.”

“That may be, my Lady, but as I said before, I do not fight women.”

“Why?” Eowyn asked, anger beginning to burn hot within her.

“It is impolite to place a lady in unnecessary distress.”

“It is also impolite to shun a lady’s polite request. I do not think manners are the reason for your refusal to fight me.”

“Oh?” Boromir said, his temper beginning to rise. He was beginning to care less and less for his brother’s future wife.

“I think you are afraid to fight me. You are afraid that I, a seasoned warrior, will defeat the great Boromir.”

“I am not afraid!” Boromir exclaimed.

“Then fight me.” Eowyn’s grey eyes flashed with defiance.

“Very well,” Boromir replied venomously, drawing his sword. It was unwise for him to enter a battle cold, but his pride had been wounded and it demanded immediate treatment. He began to circle Eowyn, who stood calm and ready. She would let him make the first move.

A large crowd of men and boys had gathered, anticipating the two warrior’s battle. A few cheered for Boromir, but it soon became obvious Eowyn was the favourite. All had heard of her deed at Pelennor Fields, and mostly all were already held captive by her beauty.

“You had better be careful, Boromir,” Faramir called out in glee. “There are rumours that she killed a Nazgul single-handedly!”

“Really? The poor bugger must been having a bad day.” It was the final insult. Eowyn leapt forward, her war cry echoing in the large room. Boromir, caught off guard by her fury, had no choice but to block her attack.

The first clash was powerful. Eowyn grimaced as the shock streaked up her arm, but she refused to cry out. She would not let Boromir see any signs of weakness. She pushed against his blade, using it as a springboard to leap back.

Boromir groaned as the combined weight of Eowyn and her sword pushed into him. His arms already ached, and he cursed himself for being an impatient fool. He should have practiced before engaging with Eowyn.

He threw up his blade to block another attack, and he saw Eowyn smile. She had forced him to take up the defensive position, a position he loathed. He, like most soldiers, liked to control the battle, and in his mind the battle could only be controlled by the one on attack.

But he knew he had to wait, had to wait until Eowyn grew overconfident and began thrusting. Impatience had gotten him into the fight; now only patience could give him victory.

The moment finally came. Eowyn thrust her sword forward, hoping to force Boromir further back. Instead, he brought his under hers, and swiped upwards. Eowyn stepped back, surprised. Boromir then swung his blade across, forcing Eowyn to block it. Now he was on the attack!

I hate being on the defensive, Eowyn thought angrily. She would not let this annoying, insulting, and terribly arrogant Captain defeat her!

Eowyn knew she was losing. She had grown too confident while Boromir had taken his time, waiting patiently for her to make a mistake.

Suddenly, Boromir accelerated his pace, and Eowyn found herself driven back to the far wall. She could see him grinning, enjoying her frustration. Then suddenly, Boromir’s blade smacked at her hands. Surprised, Eowyn let go of the blade. She dropped down, trying to pick up her sword. Before she could even grasp the handle, Boromir’s blade was at her throat. She froze, her heart stopping for a few terrifying moments.

“Do you yield, Eowyn?” Boromir asked, his voice filled with pride. Silence filled the room as Eomer watched intently, worriedly.

“Never.” Eowyn’s voice was defiant. Boromir wrinkled his forehead in frustration.

“Stubborn… Shieldmaiden,” He said, knowing very well that his attempted insult had transformed into a compliment. Having no other choice- other than to kill her, which he was tempted to do- Boromir lowered his blade. Cheers broke out, for though Boromir had won the battle, Eowyn had won the war.
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