Chapter 9:

Snoring Runs in the Family

The night of Gandalf's "death" is one that hosts a chorusing of farewell songs, on part of the elves and eating on part of the dwarves. It isn't until this moment that I find myself truly grateful for the joyous songs of dwarven origin, much unlike these sorrowing songs of elvish make. Indeed, I have little clue as to what they are saying, but that does not mean I am ignorant to their slow melody.

The majority of the Ring's Fellowship, excluding Boromir and Aragorn, sits within a pavilion of Lothlorien, trees surrounding the clearing as the the fountain trickles in the background. I am the only one refusing to eat at this time, having little desire to move from my perch in a tree and to the tables of rich delicacies. The scenery is all too much: eulogies invading my ears, meats attacking my nose, hobbits squirming down below, rough bark beneath my hands, and not a bite to eat in many days.

"A lament for Gandalf..." Legolas remarks sadly, looking to the trees as if in search of the music's source. I slam my fist against the branch in anger, shaking off some leaves, as his words have prompted me to lose a bet with Ruelin. Seeing as Legolas rarely speaks, we have continuous bets of how many hours or days will elapse before he addresses us again. After the Balrog incident, in which Legolas yelled, Ruelin bet he'd speak within six hours, whereas I said he'd wait at least a day. Goodbye three gold pieces.

"What do they say about him?" Gimli asks for one of his better attributes...his curiosity. I smile at the red-haired dwarf, seeing as he now acts cordially with the elven prince he despised earlier on in this journey. This may just be a start of a great friendship.

"I have not the heart to tell you. For me, the grief is still too near," Legolas remarks in an air of finality, signalling a new occasion in which to bet on his next words. Swinging down from the tree in a large ark, I toss three coins to an awaiting Ruelin, her hands showing "ten" as the next time interval, while I bet for one day.

A nod in each direction, I move from the Fellowship's side, down an outdoor hallway to the bath house of Lothlorien. But that intention is forgotten at the turning of a corner, only to see Boromir sitting upon the wooden path, head swamped in poignant emotions and pain. I move slowly so as to avoid startling him, his eyes rising to meet mine as I come three paces unto him.

"Take some rest. These borders are well protected," I tell him, though my words fall off as I notice the tears streaming down the man's face. The blue moonlight traces his grieving features, giving him an ethereal look and fitting to his every movement. Kneeling down next to him, I lean over to wipe away the tears with my thumbs, his eyes watching my every movement in exhaustion. I smile at him before falling into sitting position at his side, a friendly distance away.

"I will find no rest here. I heard her voice inside my head. She spoke of my father and the fall of Gondor, and she said to me: 'Even now, there is hope left.' But I cannot see it...it is long since we had any hope," Boromir tells me, referring to Galadriel as the voice inside his head. As I have found in my near-sixty-years of life, men have a great mix of emotions, swinging in both directions upon a simple motive or movement. And though he was hopeful just a few hours ago, this man has lost faith with the reminder of his mortality.

"Hope is not seen, but expressed in the whims of mind and pulse of heart," I tell him, leaning over a second time to touch his tunic over which his heart beats. "I can feel it right now, against the very skin of my hand. You are a great man, Boromir, just weakened with the weight of Gondor's fault. We can help you, all you must do is ask."

"Let me tell you a story..." he addresses me after a moment's silence and despair exchanged. I nod in recognition of his words, leaning back so as to get comfortable while Boromir dissolves into memory. "It happened like this:

Upon the great walls of Osgiliath, home of men and taken by the orcish armies of Mordor, Boromir stands with a pride for his people, Gondorian flag in hand and soldiers cheering. It is a day of much loss, yet worthy of celebration. And thus, the warriors of Gondor chant for their general, in relapsing waves of "Boromir" and prompting him to unsheath his sword.

"This city was once the jewel of our kingdom. A place of light and beauty and music. And so it shall be once more!" Boromir exclaims in pride, raising his sword with the crowd's cheering. "Let the armies of Mordor know this: never again will the land of my people fall into enemy hands. This city of Osgiliath has been reclaimed for Gondor!"

The cheers and son of the Steward chorus in cheers of "For Gondor" a deep pride for their heritage and home, a great land to the East. But that is all for naught as two brothers, separated by duty, come in eye contact with one another. Faramir rushes towards his brother, happiness evident in his every pore, only to be embraced in the arms of Boromir. Their chuckles radiate through the crowds, who pay no mind, as this is a day of celebration, and thus, family reunion.

"Good speech. Nice and short," Faramir remarks with a grin much like Frerin Oakenshield's. These two siblings are as close as the first and third siblings of Erebor's royalty, bound together in brotherhood and duty to their kingdom.

"Leaves more time for drinking," Boromir remarks, prompting the younger brother to laugh. "Break out the ale! These men are thirsty!" And just like that, with cups exchanged, the two stand together in a reunited companionship, nevermind the crowds upon their shoulders.

"Remember today, little brother. Today, life is good," Boromir says, raising his cup in a toast before drinking the ale of man. But upon surveying the crowd, a line of worry crosses the face of Faramir, unbefitting of his age, yet understandable with Middle Earth's current situation.

"What?" Boromir laughs at his brother's look, being slightly drunk off victory, not so much alcohol.

"He's here," Faramir says from his worry, though Boromir looks more irritated than anything else.

"One moment of peace...Can he not give us that?" Boromir questions in a slight growl, watching as Denethor converses with soldiers close by. He is adorned in luxurious clothing: fur jacket on his back, jewels around his neck, and ornate stitching to his robes. He is much unlike his two children, for which they should be grateful.

"Where is he? Where is Gondor's finest? Where's my firstborn?" the Steward of Gondor asks, looking around for Boromir and not-so-much Faramir. And though a good many children would take his words as a compliment, the older son sneers at this, given the indirect attack of his only sibling.

"Father!" Boromir exclaims in a faked joy, unbecoming of his great and real smile. By this point, Denethor is near his two sons, though the older one holds his full pride and joy. His younger son, after all, is his disappointment and one unfitting of their familial title.

"They say you vanquished the enemy almost single-handedly," Denethor praises his son, a great and real smile upon his old face. Little does he know, or he ignorantly ignores, Boromir takes more pride in his brother's feats than in his own. His father's words against his brother hurt him as much as they hurt Faramir.

"They exaggerate. The victory belongs to Faramir also," Boromir tells him, looking to his brother who stands slightly behind the two. But his words bear true in any case, as Faramir led a successful attack against the orcs, in addition to Boromir's charge. They are both equally responsible for this victory, just not in Denethor's mind.

"But for Faramir, this city would still be standing," Denethor answers, sending a pointed look to the younger child. Both siblings know that if Boromir had been the one to stand guard over Osgiliath at the time of the attack, the city still would have been taken. The orcs were prepared and overwhelming in number...all the men could do was run. "Were you not entrusted to protect it?"

"I would have done, but our numbers were too few," Faramir remarks in part of his brother's and his own thoughts. Denethor looks hesitant to believe a single word that comes from the mouth of his last child, a disgrace to his name.

"Oh, too few. You let the enemy walk in and take it on a whim. Always you cast a poor reflection on me," Denethor says, walking to face Faramir head on. And though neither of the men see it, Boromir's head droops in anger at his father's evident insanity and Faramir's inability to get in Denethor's good books.

"That is not my intent," Faramir responds, though he should not have to defend himself from his own father. He never understood how other children admired their parents, as he only had this cruel man. It wasn't till he aged to twenty that he realized that he wasn't at fault for being hated, it was his father's madness.

"You give him no credit, and yet he tries to do your will," Boromir addresses his father in an attempt to conclude the conversation with his pacing away. But as destiny works, Denethor follows along behind him, leaving Faramir to his thoughts in the city square. Upon stopping on a rampart, Boromir reminds his father of something every parent should know: "He loves you, Father."

"Do not trouble me with Faramir," Denethor hisses in a tone inhuman and terrifying to innocent children. "I know his uses, and they are few. We have more urgent things to speak of. Elrond of Rivendell has called a meeting. He will not say why, but I have guessed its purpose. It is rumored that the weapon of the enemy has been found."

"The One Ring. lsildur's Bane," Boromir concludes, worry lacing his tone. With mind to Gondor, it is not a bright future if the Ring has been discovered somewhere in the heart of Middle Earth. If anything, it proceeds disaster, that will, most likely, come upon Minas Tirith's gate. The gate of his home.

"It has fallen into the hands of the elves. Everyone will try to claim it: men, dwarves, wizards. We cannot let that happen. This thing must come to Gondor," Denethor tells him, though Boromir doubts his words of ownership, seeing as they know little of this Ring's state. For all they know, this ring could be destroyed...or in the hands of a hobbit. Boromir must admit, that'd be humorously ironic.

"Gondor," Boromir mutters, shaking his head in a disagreeing fashion. Denethor takes this as a good sign, that his son will do what they must. But as it goes with miscommunication, Boromir shakes his head at the horror that'd become of Gondor if his father got ahold of that Ring.

"It's dangerous, I know. Ever the Ring will seek to corrupt the hearts of lesser Men. But you, you are strong," Denethor says, clutching onto the arm of his favorite son. "And our need is great. It is our blood which is being spilled, our people who are dying. Sauron is biding his time. He's massing fresh armies. He will return. And when he does, we will be powerless to stop him. You must go. Bring me back this mighty gift." Boromir looks shocked at this prospective, as he has little desire to be a messenger boy for Denethor. And though his father is insane in most things, his intelligence is unmatched and he speaks words of truth: Sauron will come again and they will need help stopping him.

"No. My place is here with my people," Boromir responds, shaking his head as he walks away from the Steward. "Not in Rivendell."

"Would you deny your own father?" Denethor asks, his insanity getting the better of him. When it comes down to it, Boromir would deny his own father, despite its breaking of tradition. Each day, Denethor falls deeper into his craziness, a sign of bad times to come. So, yes, Boromir will deny his father when the time comes.

"lf there is need to go to Rivendell send me in his stead," Faramir offers upon joining the two, once again. Boromir looks to his brother with pride, seeing as Faramir has a great ability to push past his father's dislike and do what is necessary for their homeland.

"You? Oh, I see. A chance for Faramir, captain of Gondor, to show his quality. I think not," Denethor growls at the intrusion of their conversation. Faramir lowers his head in the pain of his father's words, though they don't end there. "I trust this mission only to your brother. The one who will not fail me."

Boromir is pushed onto a horse at his father's lead, handed a bag and told to leave without a choice of his own. He looks back to his homeland, white marble reaching into the sky like the fingers of a newborn child, and then at his brother, his most prized asset.

"Remember today, little brother," Boromir tells Faramir, a farewell not meant to be permanent though in the original turn of fate, it happened to be. As Boromir gallops out of the newly-reclaimed city of Osgiliath, all Faramir can do is watch, hoping this is not their final encounter, yet feeling like it is...

I stare at the man of Gondor with wide eyes, understanding his motives with the passing seconds. It's not his own wish to claim the Ring, but the desire of his father. And in his loyalty to Gondor, Boromir wishes to take the Ring to his kingdom for the sake of the Gondorian people. It is this aspect of intention that the Ring has clung to, poisoning the loyal heart of the soldier and making him liable to misuse.

"My father is a noble man, but his rule is failing and our..our people lose faith. He looks to me to make things right and I would do it, I would see the glory of Gondor restored. Have you ever seen it, Sidel? The White Tower of Ecthelion, glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver, its banners caught high in the morning breeze...have you ever been called home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets?" Boromir asks, looking deep into my bright blue eyes that shine clear in the moonlight. I reminisce on my return to Erebor, a few years hence, with the trumpets and horns of dwarven forging. It was a rescue mission of some elvish warriors in Dol Goldur, one that was successful in every form. I understand what it's like to return home a hero.

"I have seen the white city, long ago, as a child," I reflect on the day-trip to Minas Tirith, being a mere five years of age. It's true that I don't remember much of the city, just the gleaming towers of armor and heavenly smell of baguettes in the marketplace.

"One day our paths will lead us there, and the tower guards shall take up the call 'the Lords of Gondor have returned' upon seeing me and Aragorn," Boromir fantasizes, looking to me with understanding of homesickness. We've found a confidant in one another, a great friendship blooming within our ribs and in our heart. We are more similar than we previously supposed.

"And I will be there to see it," I tell him with a smile that mirrors his own... a handsome smile that is rare in this time. His eyes break away from mine in his sorrow, only countered upon my hand touching his own. I grab his fingers, pulling him to his feet before leading him towards the Fellowship's campsite. Though I intend to take my hand away, Boromir's fingers slip into mine before I have a chance, prompting a blush to erupt on my cheeks. What is happening?

The others are asleep by the time we arrive back, beds unmade by the wrestling of sheets and much-needed dreams. I take a cot near the end of the row, unwinding my hand from Boromir as he takes a bed on one of my sides as Gimli snores on the other. This is another dwarven aspect I don't appreciate, as it often cuts into my sleep schedule.

"First Gloin, now Gimli. What is with that family and obnoxious snoring!?" Frerin exclaims from across the way, undermining my assumption that everyone was asleep. Then again, it's kind of hard to sleep with a snoring machine buzzing in your ear.

"Quiet, cousin. Are you trying to awaken the Eye of Sauron? Some of us are attempting to sleep," Ruelin mutters, head stuffed in a pillow and attempting to relapse into dreams. I chuckle silently at this, kicking off my boots in a frenzy before collapsing into bed with a potent exhaustion. I send one final grin to the staring Boromir before tucking into sleep, eyes closing on an illuminating, yet heart-breaking day.  

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Hey guys!  I hope you enjoyed this chapter and its sort-of fluffiness!

I recently published a new book of one-shots on my account, and I'd really appreciate it if you checked it out.  It's called A One-Shot Collection: The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit.  I am taking requests at this time and will have a new imagine up within the hour! 

I hope you're all having a wonderful day!

Please vote and comment!

Patagonian

PS: Sorry for the third person segment of this chapter...It's not my typical writing style so it kinda feels awkward...idk.