 SERIES: "Boromir's Elves" (7/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 Seven, Boromir's Decision The caverns below the waterfall were alive with activity -- lit lanterns held high, rushing through the labyrinth of passages, fresh-cut greenery and a few early blooms of forest flowers mixing their fresh scent with the pungent smell of cooking meat and brewing cider haunting the corridors -- as the elves prepared for the most important event nearly all of them had lived to see, the crowning of a new Manlord. Every elf had something to do, be it decorating, making food, cleaning or primping. Snippets of elfsong could be heard from several chambers as the better singers practiced their precious art. The elf Fael sat cross-legged, biting his lip, putting the finishing touches of a fur collar and cuffs on a heavy new robe he would present to Boromir later. Brogadan had the most weighty task of all. He had to ready the most important players in the night's ceremony for their parts, and in doing so he had to work to maintain a sense of surprise and awe at each pivotal moment, all the while ensuring that nothing would happen that he, himself, was not completely prepared for. And so, one by one, he sat down with those who would be the focus of the evening. First he went to Elsand, the elf who had already warmed Boromir on most of his nights in the cave and who wanted so desperately to be chosen to bear the Manlord's son. As he explained to Elsand the important role selected for him, the beautiful elf brightened, not realizing until the end of the interview that he would not, ultimately, be receiving Boromir's seed this night. Then he went to Berion, the one he had chosen for that honor, to make sure the brash young elf understood what would be expected of him and would do nothing to shame himself in front of his brethren or his lord. Berion was the most subdued he had been in Brogadan's memory. He sat quietly brushing his thick, dark hair; Brogadan helped pull part of it away from his face in a braid. The florid mark of the cat stood out on his pale chest. He listened to the words of the leader, nodding, saying little, his dark eyes huge. Next he visited the healer, Elnestor, who was busily preparing the cups that would be used for the ceremony. These three small metal goblets laced with gold were the most precious possessions of the elves and had been handed down for several hundred years. They had not been used in over a generation. As Brogadan watched them being polished, he listened to Elnestor's repetition of the instructions he had learned at the side of the last healer, the one who had chosen him to follow in his stead and then trained him in his art. Finally, he took a deep breath, pushed back his wide shoulders and went to Boromir himself. Boromir sat alone in his chamber, smoking the pipe that had belonged to their last Manlord, one of the few possessions left behind. Boromir had seemed touched when presented with this gift, and, though he professed he didn't enjoy smoking all that much, he must know it pleased the elves when he used it. When Brogadan entered, he looked up at the tall elf and smiled, putting the pipe aside. Brogadan sat down beside Boromir in one of the two large chairs in the chamber, rubbing his fingers on the wood of the intricately carved arms, polished wood that had been cut and expertly crafted into furniture years earlier. "So?" Boromir said, looking at Brogadan expectantly. "This must be a difficult time for you." Brogadan's dark eyes widened in surprise. Then he nodded. Boromir seemed to understand him better than his own kind, something he was finding difficult to get used to. "Do you want to know my answer now?" Boromir asked. His eyes were mellow and kind. "Yes," Brogadan said. "I need to know." "First, I have some questions I must ask." Brogadan nodded again, taking a deep breath. Now was the time to reveal everything to this man, to tell him anything he wanted to know. "Why are there no female elves?" Brogadan shrugged. "I'm not sure. There have never been. Our people learned the secret of male procreation generations ago, so none were ever needed, I suppose. And for some reason, we are unable to bring a female child to term." He hesitated a moment. "So, there are none. I myself have never seen a female of any kind, except for animals." Shifting a little on his large, wooden chair, Boromir reached for a mug of juice on a table beside him. He took a swallow, then slowly replaced the mug. Rubbing his beard, he stared at the handsome elf beside him. "Why do you not couple with one another to increase your number?" It was an old question, one that had been asked before, and most recently by Naegion, the elf who had challenged Brogadan for leadership of the group and was currently on a quest for trade and perhaps for a new Manlord. Brogadan shook his head. "It is not our way." "You realize I won't live all that long . . ." "Yes. You are short-lived. But you may have many years of fertility left." One of the lamps in the chamber flickered for an instant, dimming the room. Boromir reached out and gripped Brogadan's wrist. "I am not the best of men," he said, his voice full of emotion. "I am weak in many ways." Brogadan said nothing. "I was a leader of my people, and I failed them. Now the defense of my home will fall to another man, someone stronger and better than I am." Boromir's eyes were wet with tears. "I betrayed my friends when they needed me most." Still Brogadan stayed silent. "I have a brother, a younger brother. He is fair of face and he loves learning. He's strong and he has courage, but he's gentle and he loves peace. Someone like him would have so much to offer you." Brogadan reached over to where the man's fingers bit into his wrist, laying his own hand on top of Boromir's. "I can see the nobility in your face, Lord. I can hear it in your voice. Only a man who has experienced failure can appreciate victory -- that is something even an elf knows. And we learn most from our mistakes." Boromir's sad eyes stared into Brogadan's. "I was the son of the steward. I loved my land more than anything else, and I wanted more than anything to save my people." Clearing his throat, Brogadan sat forward. "Tell me, Lord, can you give it up? Will you stay with us and leave your people, your brother and your friends, behind? Can you do it?" Brogadan's voice was hoarse with desperation. "We will not survive the loss of another Manlord! And the last one we had came from your land -- this Gondor -- and finally left us to return to it. Unless you're sure, it would be best to refuse." "I repeat," he said, "can you give it up?" A tear slid down one of Boromir's cheeks, disappearing into his trimmed beard. "I already have," he answered. Brogadan let out a long breath, his eyes never leaving Boromir's face. "You were meant to come to us, Lord. This was not an accident. Your seed will help to rebuild our ranks and make us strong." Boromir sat back, releasing the leader's wrist, and smiled. "Do you know much of the world, Brogadan?" "No." "There are those who think the days of the elves are coming to an end. I've heard it said. Some of the great elves, like the lord of Rivendell and the lady of the Golden Wood, hold themselves apart from the rest of Middle-earth and don't mix much in its affairs." Brogadan's brows came together. "But you've seen these great elves! You speak of them as if you know them." Boromir's eyes were far-away for an instant, remembering times past -- times, perhaps, when he had visited elves who lived different lives, more worthy lives in places more pleasant than a dusty cave. "I had never seen anything like Elrond, the lord of Rivendell," he began. "I went to a council in his city -- I was sent by my father. I remember how it felt to see that place for the first time, how sure I was that some sort of destiny awaited me there. I had dreamed of it." Brogadan listened, holding his breath, enchanted by Boromir's voice. He was filled with awe at having the man share his experiences and drawn in by the strength of his lord's story-telling. "It's a place of airy houses and terraces, tall trees and falling water," Boromir continued. "It was autumn when I arrived, and colored leaves were falling like rain. I'll never forget it." "And this Elrond," Brogadan said, sitting forward. "What was he like?" Boromir laughed. "He was someone to be reckoned with! He was tall and dignified and puffed up. The first time I saw him, I couldn't speak. He looked down his nose at me like he had stepped in horse dung, but all the while he welcomed me graciously to his city." Laughing again, Boromir rubbed his chin. "His clothing was rich and fine, and his voice was deep and imperious. He wore a crown that looked like it had been soldered to his high forehead." Brogadan watched Boromir closely as the man related his memories. Boromir's voice became very quiet and husky. "He saw right through me," he said. "I think he knew from the start that I'd betray the Fellowship." At this, Brogadan looked down, feeling uncomfortable. Boromir continued, oblivious for a moment to the elf beside him. "He smelled like spice and honey," he said in a near-whisper. "Ah," was all Brogadan could say for a moment. Then, "Perhaps he knew of the elves that live under the waterfall and that you would end up here." Boromir's light eyes narrowed. "Perhaps," he said. They sat in silence for a moment, then Boromir abruptly broke the mood, asking, "So, do you have the answer you expected?" Brogadan nodded his head slowly, starting to rise. "I believe I do, Lord." "And tonight I will be expected to couple with one of the elves?" "Yes, Lord. I have chosen Berion to be the first." Boromir smiled, looking surprised. "An interesting choice. A good choice." Brogadan dipped his head in acknowledgment of the praise. "Thank you." "And what shall I do to prepare?" Boromir asked. "Are you quite sure I'll be able to do what you want -- to impregnate young Berion?" "The elves will come and undress you and wash you, and then they'll cover you in a new robe. Then you'll be taken to the Grotto, the inner chamber where we gather to celebrate." Brogadan walked to where the one recalcitrant lamp was still flickering and smoking. "This needs to be replaced," he said to himself. "The wick is bad." "Brogadan, you didn't answer my question." The leader looked over at Boromir, his face grave. "We know your manhood is responsive and your seed is good, Lord. We can tell by the taste." "The taste?" "Elsand has taken it in your sleep." Boromir's face was impassive for some time, then finally he relented and allowed himself to smile. "You leave nothing to chance," he said, shaking his head. "Nothing, Lord." The man from Gondor stood and reached out a hand to the tall elf, gripping his muscular upper arm. "You are a fine leader for these elves, Brogadan. I will be honored to be your lord." Despite the strong waves of pride and relief flooding him, Brogadan was able to keep his composure. The Elves of Rauros had been saved from the brink of extinction; they had found their new Manlord! "And I will be honored to serve you," Brogadan said. The End, Part Seven Part Eight
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