 SERIES: "Boromir's Elves" (2/WIP) Prologue: Volume Two of the Chronicles of Aster, found in the great and ancient library of the White City, Minas Tirith, tells a story of one of the heroes of Gondor and his adventures before, during and after the War of the Ring. This hero was a member of The Nine who went out from Rivendell to destroy the One Ring before it could fall back into the hands of Sauron. He was Boromir, son of Denethor, and he was believed killed during the journey to Mordor while trying to defend two hobbits, members of the Fellowship, from marauding Orcs who bore the mark of the white hand. The traditional tale has Boromir felled by Orc arrows and his body set upon the Great River Anduin in a boat holding his shield, his sword and the Horn of Gondor, which had been split in two during his final battle. When members of the Fellowship last see Boromir, his boat is headed toward the cataracts of Rauros. The Chronicles pick up the tale after Boromir has been set adrift, when his body is discovered by a group of elves who live in a cave beneath the falls. These elves are rarely found in any of the histories of Middle Earth, and their very existence holds a sense of legend. The Elves of Rauros were descendents of the Nandor who had taken to the woods and settled near Lorien. At the beginning of the Third Age, several dozen of these sylvan elves had broken off and founded a colony of their own, which became a sort of elven cult later spoken of in whispers as the Worshippers of Man or Man-Loving Elves. Gifted with the secret of male procreation, they were known to take a man as their king and to mix their blood with his. Before they found Boromir, their number had dwindled greatly, many having been killed by Orcs or dangerous beasts in the surrounding woods. Several had pined away and died after the loss of their most recent lord many years earlier. Without a new Manlord, the Elves of Rauros would soon cease to be. When one of their number found the boat containing the son of Gondor, their fate was left to be decided by he alone. They were forevermore to be known as Boromir's Elves. Part Two, Dandelion Wine "Lie him down there," said Himmion, a tall blonde elf with a square jaw and even features. "We've made a place." Brogadan carried the man from the boat into an inner chamber of the cavern; he gently placed him on the mat of rushes indicated. The cave was dry and well lit by lamps that reflected off the luminous walls. Several elves gathered and formed a circle around the man, gazing in wonder, saying nothing. Elnester swept them aside with a wide gesture of his arm. "Let me work on him! Bring a lamp closer, and bring water and wine!" Elnestor was a perpetually youthful looking elf, but he was actually one of the elder of the group. He had large eyes, a high forehead and a small nose, and his skin had a tendency to turn a reddish color in the sun, so he often seemed flushed or embarrassed. His hair was neither blonde nor brown, but something in between. He, like a few others, had been born of the Manlord back two generations, and he had been schooled in his art by the healer before him. He had personally witnessed the miracle of the male birthing rite, but he had never actually officiated, only assisted. Elnestor's duties usually consisted of mending cuts and setting bones, but occasionally he had been faced with mortal injuries in the wake of an attack by an Orc or a woodland beast. Twice he had tried to stay the death of elves who were pining away, and his inability to exact a cure for this fatal elf ailment had left him with a solemn demeanor that belied his youthful face. It had been a terrible thing to watch these elven brothers die of sadness. Elnestor was an elf who knew his import to the group, but recognized his limited abilities at the same time. Now he acted without thinking too much; he could not afford to hesitate or speculate on whether his skills were enough to help the man from the boat. They simply had to be. "Help me undress him," he ordered, and Himmion complied, unfastening the man's cloak held by a broach in the shape of a leaf, clearly the work of elf hands. Himmion pulled the cloak away and handed it to Brogadan, who studied it carefully. "This cloak is from Lorien, I would stake my life on it," he said in a whisper, seemingly to himself. Two other elves exchanged glances. To mention death, even in a figure of speech, was against their Code. When the man was completely undressed, which took some time -- far too much time -- Elnestor ran his hands up and down the strong body, counting the wounds. The man had been felled by arrows, it seemed, and one of those was still inbedded in his lower chest; whoever had placed him in the boat had either broken or cut it off rather than pull it out. "He has three wounds that I count," Elnestor announced. "In one place, there is still an arrow. I will have to cut this out." "Does he live?" Berion asked from behind the group that circled the man on the mat. He had deposited the shield and sword just inside the opening of the cave, and now he approached with curiosity. "He is still warm," said Elnestor, lowering his face to the man's chest, "but his breath is very shallow. I can barely make out movement inside, but there is something. He is in a very deep sleep, the sort that takes a person after a terrible injury or fever, just before death." At the mention of death, there was an intake of breath from the group. Brogadan motioned to Elnestor with impatience. "There was very little blood," he argued. "At least not in the boat or on his clothes." "I don't believe he bled all that greatly from these wounds. He clearly is a warrior with a strong constitution. If no vital place in the body is damaged, he may recover. But I must remove the arrow." "At least he will not feel the pain," whispered Brogadan, gazing at the man sorrowfully. "If he dies, I would not have him suffer anymore." The elf Melvedir, responsible for most of the food preparation and cooking, handed Elnestor a bowl of fresh water and a sharp knife. Then he quickly turned away, clearly unwilling to watch the healer do his work. Elnestor used his fingers to trace the path of the arrow as best he could. It had lodged near the ribcage but been deflected by these strong bones from its deadly course. Now Elnestor must use all his skill to make a perfect cut that would not cause the man to do what he had seemingly not done up until now -- bleed to death. He lifted the weapon to his nose and sniffed. "The arrow definitely held some sort of poison. And if the man lives, I think this poison is partially responsible, because it slowed his heart and stayed his blood loss." He looked down at the passive face of the large man. "Whoever did not remove this one arrow, saved his life." Berion made a little click with his tongue. "Right before they put him in a boat and sent him over the falls to drown." Brogadan gave Berion a dark look. While he was used to the irreverent language of this young elf, he tired of correcting him. This was certainly not the time for another lesson in decorum, standing over the still body of what might be their lord. "Finish gathering the wood for the fire," he ordered. "The rest of you get about your business. Elnestor and I will see to the man now." Reluctantly the group of elves dispersed, many of them glancing back toward the supine form of the man on the mat. A few had never seen a man before, at least not this close up. Brogadan, who had both seen and been touched by men before, now crouched beside Elnestor. He looked at the healer quizzically. "I don't know, Brogadan. I just don't. He may die of his wounds or die of the poison." "Hand me the dandelion wine," Brogadan said. He took the rough cup handed him by the healer and poured some of the amber liquid on the fresh cut. Then he handed the cup to Elnestor while he leaned over and fastened his mouth on the spot. He slowly sucked at the seeping wound, pausing every few seconds to spit the blood and fluids he drew from the wound. Finally he straightened up, took back the cup and used the wine to wash out his mouth. "We need to try to rouse him," Elnestor said. "If he doesn't wake, he'll die in his sleep. We need to try to get him to take some of the dandelion wine. It has healing powers." Brogadan stared at the handsome face of the man for a few moments before answering. "How will we rouse him?" Elnestor shrugged his thin shoulders. "Maybe Elsand could do it." Brogadan nodded. Elsand was one of the most beautiful of their group, a young elf with a pleasing personality and good singing voice. His dark golden hair, soft blue eyes and fetching smile had been noticed and commented on nearly every day of his life. He was often called 'Elsand the Beautiful' or 'Elsand the Lover.' It was expected if ever a new Manlord were found, Elsand would be the first to take his seed. "Get him. And give me the man's robe and I'll cover him with it." Elnestor handed the strange cloak to Brogadan, then walked out of the chamber to search for Elsand. In his absence, Brogadan gently draped the cloak over the naked form, then reached down and stroked an errant lock of hair on the man's forehead. "You are a beautiful lord," he whispered. "You must have been sent to us, because there is no other explanation for your being here. This is a test for us, to see if we can heal you . . . and if we succeed, you will bring us back into the sun of Middle Earth." He paused and sighed. "And, if not, we will surely perish." He brushed angrily at his eyes, forestalling a stray tear. "Please, Lord -- try," he said. There was a slight stirring on the mat, and then the man's eyes opened. They looked grey and rheumy, but to Brogadan, they were beautiful. "Where--?" the man tried to say in a hoarse voice. Brogadan reached out and put two fingers on the man's cheek. "Shhh, my Lord. Be still. You are safe with the Elves of Rauros." The man mouthed the words back to Brogadan, a question in his eyes. "The Elves of Rauros," Brogadan repeated. "We live here under the falls." Elnestor walked over, the elf Elsand following. Brogadan gestured for them to stay back. "He's awake." Elnestor looked over at the man, surprise showing clearly on his expressive face. "This is wonderful! We must get him to drink." Brogadan refilled the cup and held it up to the man's mouth, lifting his head with one hand. "Drink, Lord. This will strengthen you." The man sipped and looked up at Brogadan gratefully. "This is good," he whispered. "What is it?" "Dandelion wine. We make it ourselves. It has many healing properties and works well against fever or flux." The man sipped a little more, then started to choke. Brogadan eased his head down. "You must stay still," he said, "or you'll start to bleed. You've been hurt, but our healer has used his skill to help you. "I thought I was dead," the man said, speaking to no one in particular, his eyes wandering around the cave. "No, my Lord. You have not died. You have been reborn. You are now the King of the Elves of Rauros." Elnestor and Elsand both sank to their knees, lowering their heads. "King?" Brogadan smoothed the cloak that lay over the man. He nodded. "Yes." He paused, then asked, "What is your name?" The man's eyes were closing, sleep taking him again. "Boromir, son of--" he trailed off, unable to finish. Elnestor and Elsand raised their faces and looked at the man. "Lower the lamps," he ordered. "He must rest." Elnestor came over and gently pressed one ear to the man's chest. "His breathing is regular and strong. He sleeps a natural sleep," he announced. Elsand covered one of the lamps, and the small subterannean chamber was draped in soothing semi-darkness. Brogadan sat for a moment beside the man, until his eyes had adjusted and he could once more clearly discern the handsome face. He reached out again and stroked the man's cheek. "Boromir," he said, "Our Lord, Boromir." The End, Part Two Part Three |