 SERIES: "Boromir's Elves" (3/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 Three, His Coming
Boromir, new lord of the Elves of Rauros, stirred and muttered in his sleep. Elsand, the young elf assigned to sleep next to the man, lifted his head and stared over at his lord. Was he waking? Should Brogadan, the leader, be summoned? He lay for a moment in confusion, afraid of what he should do next. "Lord? Did you speak to me?" he asked softly. "I thought I heard the voice of a friend," Boromir said in a hoarse whisper. "It was a dream." "Do you need food or drink, Lord?" "May I have some water?" Elsand got up from the mat of well-softened rushes and poured a cup of water from a jar nearby. He then carefully lifted Boromir's head and held the cup to his mouth. It was a joy for the young elf to watch the man drink; he seemed to realize he should sip carefully and not take too much all at once. With every swallow the Manlord grew in health and strength, Elsand knew, as water was the constant of all living matter on earth, Brogadan often told them. And couldn't this be seen in everything -- the streams, the lakes, the Great River and the rain which fed them all, and all elements of both elves and men, their blood, their seed, their waste and their tears. Elsand saw the skin of Boromir's mouth was rough and parched. "I'll find a salve for your lips, Lord. You need some tending." When he had finished drinking, Boromir spoke again. "Can you find something to raise my head? I can't see in this position." Many of the elves had pillows to support their heads while resting or sleeping. Elsand reluctantly left Boromir long enough to go and find one. He looked around the different chambers of the intricate cave where the elves made their home and decided to take Aradol's pillow; the young elf would be the least likely to complain. "What are you doing?" asked Brogadan. The leader never seemed to be far away, especially when one of the group was engaging in some sort of mischief. Elsand blushed and pointed to the inner chamber. "Lord Boromir is awake. He asked for a pillow." "Give it to me. I'll go to him." Elsand seemed disinclined at first to hand his leader the pillow, but when he saw the stern expression on Brogadan's face, he held it out. "Go tell Melvidir to prepare a meat broth. We must bring back his strength." Elsand hesitated, and Brogadan pushed past him. "Brogadan?" The tall elf turned around. "Yes?" "His skin is rough. He needs an ointment." Brogadan nodded. "Tell Elnestor." When Brogadan entered the darkened chamber, he could see Lord Boromir was, indeed, awake. The man's light eyes blinked a great deal as he stared upward; he moved his fingers, as though testing his body's reflexes. Brogadan turned up the lamps, then approached the bed. "Let me make you more comfortable, Lord." He raised Boromir's head and settled the small pillow beneath it. Aradol's pillow was made with a fine, smooth cloth he had found in an abandoned chest; it should serve their Lord well, Brogadan noted. "Who are you?" Boromir asked, his eyes studying Brogadan. "I am Brogadan, the leader of these elves. We found your boat washed up on the river bank, and brought you to our home beneath the falls." Boromir's brows drew together. "My boat? I don't remember much. I thought I heard a friend speaking to me." "You were injured, Lord. Your body held a poisonous arrow. Our healer brought you back from the very brink of death." Boromir sighed, then groaned. "I feel weak." "Is there pain?" The man nodded. "A little." "Elnestor can give you an elixir to help with the pain. You need to rest and build back your strength." "Who are you?" Boromir asked again. "Lord? I am Brogadan, as I said." Boromir took a deep breath. "Yes, but who are you elves?" Brogan hesitated, not sure how much to say. Boromir was just arrived and still weak; it was not the time to tell him too much about the Elves of Rauros. "We are wood-elves who long ago split from our kind near Lothlorien," he finally said. "We are just a small group, 18 in full." "So you are not tied to Lorien? You do not answer to the Lord and Lady there?" Brogadan shook his head. "I have never seen them -- only heard of their beauty and wisdom." Boromir closed his eyes for a moment. "Good. I was in Lorien not long ago . . . and it filled me with dread." Brogadan tried not to show his surprise. Had their new lord been cast out of the Golden Wood and cursed by the Lady of Light? The arrow Elnestor had removed from his chest had looked like an Orc weapon, but could it have come from the skilled elven archers who crept among the mallorn trees? If this were indeed a curse on Boromir, it was none-the-less a blessing for the Elves of Rauros. "You speak the common tongue." Brogadan nodded. "This is the language of our people. We have spoken it for as long as we can remember. I don't know another." "Strange . . ." Brogadan gave a little laugh. "We are strange elves. We keep to ourselves. We honor the race of men more than any other." Elnestor came in, followed by Melvedir who carried a small, steaming pot. The aroma of meat and mushrooms immediately richened the room. Melvedir was a good cook, and he knew how to use many roots and herbs to flavor his meals. "I hear our lord is awake," Elnestor said. "I would like to inspect him and see about his progress." "You are the healer?" Boromir asked in a soft voice, as Elnestor pulled back the Grey cloak that covered him. Elnestor nodded. "Thank you for what you did. You saved my life." A dark blush crept up the elf's cheeks; he kept his eyes down as he surveyed Boromir's wounds. "They drain well and seem clean," he announced. "I will dress them now, and then our lord can eat." Melvedir put down the small pot and stirred its contents, waiting his turn to serve the new lord. As Brogadan watched the two elves dedicate themselves to Boromir, his face showed his pride. The Elves of Rauros would prove themselves worthy of this man, and soon he would gift them with his seed and increase their number. Elnestor spooned a clear elixir into Boromir's mouth. "This will help with pain, my lord." Then he smoothed a soothing unguent on Boromir's lips. Boromir said nothing, his light eyes following the gentle elf's ministrations. Brogadan allowed Melvedir to be the one to feed Boromir. It was important that each elf attach himself to the Manlord in his own way. Elnestor would be his healer and tend his wounds; Melvedir would learn all his favorite foods and how to prepare them -- and for a time he would feed him with his own hands; Berion would stand guard when Boromir was finally able to leave the confines of the cave; Fael would sew comfortable garments, learning the length of their lord's arms and the width of his shoulders; all the elves would fetch various necessities and luxuries to present to Boromir, as well as bathe and clean him and carry away his wastes; they would all sing to him, writing elfsongs in his honor -- Boromir would declare his favorites and reward the best ones; and Elsand would probably be the first to feel the touch of Boromir's mouth and take his precious seed. Brogan swallowed and restrained his thoughts. It was his responsibility to make sure Boromir understood his place in their world and was never overly taxed or annoyed by the elves, who sometimes played and bickered like children, becoming sullen or petulant. Brogadan was long used to dealing with the group; he had been their leader for many years, and the most recent contest had affirmed that leadership. He understood each and every elf and knew well their qualities and dispositions. Boromir needed to be well-rested and vigorous, and his seed needed to be nurtured and nourished above all else. This, too, would be the duty of every one of the Elves of Rauros. "That's good," Boromir said of the meat porridge. "I didn't realize I was hungry." Melvedir beamed with pride. "It has many elements to bring you health and strength, Lord," he said. Boromir glanced at Brogadan. "Why do you all call me 'Lord'?" he asked. Brogadan didn't answer. He gestured the others to leave the chamber, while he himself fiddled with one of the lamps that had begun to smoke. It was important that he explain the history and the needs of the elves in a way that would preclude the man making a decision to return to his own world. Boromir needed to understand that the life of a Manlord was one of joy and fulfillment. He needed to feel the same commitment to the group that he, Brogadan, felt. He needed to embrace his role, that of king, albeit of a small and unworthy kingdom. Brogadan remembered well the loss of their last lord, who had become dissatisfied with his life with the elves and had finally chosen to leave it and return to the world of men. This had been a disaster to their group; many had been lost due to their own sadness or to encounters with predators stronger than they were. Naegion had blamed this on their own unreadiness and their former lord's desire to keep them weak and servile. But Brogadan felt it was due more to the poor choice of a king, though small choice they were ever offered. The qualifications of a Manlord were even more important than those of a Leader; it was not enough to simply be a man and produce the precious seed. Brogadan wanted to believe that Boromir had the qualities they needed. He was clearly brave enough; he must be a fierce fighter if it took three arrows to fell him! He was evidently loved by his friends, who had taken special care to lay him out and set him on the Great River. He was handsome and well spoken -- even his weakened voice had a throaty richness and a pleasant rhythm. Boromir spoke now. "Brogadan, I think I remember you telling me I was a king. But I'm not sure. I remember being in Parth Galen and fighting Orcs, and I remember feeling pain and trying to talk to my friend." His voice wavered with emotion, and he paused for breath; Brogadan watched him in awe. "I failed the Fellowship. My actions sent Frodo away and the Orcs took two of the Little Ones." "You were in some sort of fight," Brogadan offered. "You clearly fought bravely and were valued by your friends," he said, ready to defend his new lord's honor, even against himself. "Aragorn said he would not let the White City fall. I remember that. And I heard him say, 'they will look for his coming, but he will not return.' But it was he I called 'King.'" Brogadan approached the bed and knelt down next to Boromir. He took one of his lord's hands in his own. "I don't know what happened or why. I only know we elves have been waiting for a Manlord -- a new king -- for a long time. Our kind is dying, and without you we will perish." Tears spilled down his cheeks, but he felt no shame. Boromir looked at him. "But you're elves. You're immortal." Brogadan shook his head. "We are Man-loving Elves. Without a man as king, we are nothing." Boromir lowered his eyelids and sighed. "It's all so new, and I'm tired. Very tired." Brogadan stroked the hand he held. "Sleep, now, my lord. We will speak of all this in the days to come." Elsand and two other elves, Adan and Fael, quietly entered the chamber. "We have prepared a song for our new lord to rejoice his coming," Adan said. Brogadan turned his face away so they would not see his tears. It would not do for the leader to appear weak. "Then sing it now," he said, his voice husky, "so he will hear it in his sleep." The End, Part Three Part Four |