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It was early into the journey South, nearly a fortnight since departing from Rivendell, and the Company had just stopped to set up camp. The Sun had risen an hour ago, giving its warmth to combat the crisp winter chill. They found refuge in a hilly area with a lot a shrubbery and rock formations to conceal themselves if needed, within the shadow of the White Mountains. Though Orcs could not travel in sunlight, the birds and beasts that spied for the Enemy did not share the same weakness.
Boromir was given the first watch, to which he had nothing to comment. Unlike those from The Shire, particularly the youngest two who tended to grumble when it was their turn, he was accustomed to being constantly on alert, never being able to fall into a deep and peaceful slumber. In order to pass the time, he went through his routine of polishing his sword and shield, checking his provisions, and periodically adding a few sticks to the small campfire. He listened to the sounds of Gimli’s steady snoring and the occasional rustle of cloth whenever a Hobbit would turn over to get more comfortable on the hard ground, once in a while finding a small stone underneath and blindly tossing it away. And, as he had done ever since he first left for Rivendell, he thought of home, wondering if his father and brother were well and if Osgiliath was still unconquered.
Every so often, Boromir’s gaze would drift over towards the Ring-bearer. In the beginning, he was unaware that he was doing it, but as his watch was nearing its end, his looks were more intentional. Frodo was leaning against a rock with his arms wrapped around himself, staring into the fire. Sam slept to his right while Merry and Pippin were curled up side-by-side to his left. Frodo’s brow would tense and he would shift slightly before becoming still again.
“Frodo?” Boromir internally winced when Frodo flinched.
“Yes?” came Frodo’s quiet reply as he slowly turned his head toward him.
“Are you not going to get some sleep?” Frodo’s gaze fell and he looked forward again.
“I cannot. Sleep, that is. Every time I shut my eyes, I see…”
“I understand, all too well.” Boromir fell silent before he could darken the mood any further. He had hoped to encourage Frodo to get some rest. Telling him about how he saw the faces of fallen comrades behind his eyelids was not going to help. Frodo shifted again, causing part of his cloak to move. Boromir’s eyes fell upon the sword on his hip. “Your sword. It looks different from the ones your friends carry.”
Frodo’s head whipped towards him. His blue eyes lowered to the Elven blade, and he traced his fingertips along the sheath.
“The blades my friends carry were made by the Northern Dúnedain. I had one as well, but it was broken on the way to Rivendell. This was given to me by Bilbo.”
“May I see it?”
Frodo hesitated for a few seconds before he carefully got to his feet, trying not to awaken Sam or the others. He removed the sheath from his belt and held it out. Boromir nodded in thanks, but Frodo did not sit back down.
Boromir slowly unsheathed the sword, almost reverently. Even though he had not yet seen the blade, he could tell by the stitched patterns on the sheath that it was not made by Men. His eyes widened in awe as they traveled over the details of the hilt and blade. He had never seen an Elvish blade before, but even without having known what one looked like, he somehow recognized the craftsmanship.
“Was this a gift from the Elves of Rivendell?” He sheathed it and returned it to Frodo, who sat down once more, but slightly closer than before, on Sam’s right.
“No. Bilbo found it on his own quest, which he spoke about at the Council of Elrond. It was made in Gondolin, long ago, but somehow ended up in a troll cave West of Rivendell. Amongst the treasure found in the cave was this sword.”
“How do you know where it was made?”
“Bilbo said it is because the blade glows blue when goblins are near, which is a tell that it is a weapon of Gondolin.”
“I see. ‘Tis a shame that the knowledge of such craft has been lost. It would be of great use for the soldiers of Gondor.”
“Gandalf’s sword was also found in that cave. Glamdring, which was once the sword of Turgon, the High-King of the Noldor. The sword Orcrist, the mate of Glamdring, was wielded by Thorin Oakenshield and now rests upon his tomb.”
“Your kinsman seems to have encountered many noble folk.”
“Yes. He knew three kings. Thranduil, the King of the Woodland Realm. Bard, the King of Dale. And Thorin, the King Under the Mountain. And he was a friend to them all.” A hint of a smile appeared on Frodo’s lips, as he recalled hearing Bilbo’s stories about the Quest for Erebor with fondness.
“Has the sword a name?”
“Bilbo named it Sting, which he thought of while he fought the Spiders of Mirkwood.”
“I have seen many blades in my life. Your Sting is a fine sword.”
“Thank you.” Thinking that the conversation was over, Boromir threw some more sticks onto the fire. His watch would be ending soon. Needless to say, he was taken by surprise when Frodo spoke to him again. “What is your sword called?”
“My sword does not have a name.” His answer seemed to disappoint Frodo. “This was not my first sword. Nor my second, or even my tenth. It could be because of my own recklessness in my youth, or perhaps because the skills of our smiths are lacking. I do not wish to speak ill of our swordsmiths, but they do not have the luxury of making weapons with great care to detail. The swords they make are meant to last, for a time, but not to be beautiful.”
“I would have thought that a noble lord such as yourself would have a sword with a great name.” Boromir couldn’t help but chuckle, somewhat bitterly, at that.
“Mayhap if I were a prince and my father a king. But though my city is the City of Kings, the throne has sat empty for nearly a thousand years. I may be a prince in all but name, but it is the title of Captain-General that I value most.” Boromir trailed off, and a sense of longing—longing for home and for his brothers—filled his heart. He cleared his throat and added some more wood to the fire, though it did not need it. “Besides, most swords have Quenya names, and I must admit that I was not attentive in my studies.”
“Bilbo taught me Quenya. At least, a little bit.”
“Is that so? Then perhaps you might be able to help me.”
“Help you?”
“In giving my sword a name.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose I could try.” Frodo moved a bit closer so that they did not have to speak so loudly to hear each other. “What did you have in mind?”
“To be honest… nothing,” Boromir admitted shamefully.
“Can you tell me about it? How long have you had it?”
Boromir picked up the sheath from where it lay next to him and grasped the silver and black hilt. The blade sang as it was drawn, and the reflection of the campfire gave it a warm glow. Compared to Sting, the longsword looked like it ought to belong to a giant. Though it did not bear any special markings or runes like Andúril, there was a regalness to it.
“It was gifted to me by my father when I became Captain-General. Of all the swords I have owned, this one has served me the longest. But compared to the great Elven swords and the sword of Elendil or the one Aragorn now carries, it is far less noble.” He laid the sword across his lap and the sheath on his right side. They were both quiet for a while—Frodo trying to think of Elvish words that might tie into what Boromir had just shared, and Boromir simply being trapped in his own thoughts. Then, an idea came to him. “I mistakenly told you that swords are given Elvish names, but that is not true for the Men of Rohan, whose swords are named in their mother tongue. Herugrim, the sword of Théoden King, and Gúthwinë, the sword of Éomer, the Third Marshal of the Riddermark. Their hilts bear the imagery of horses, and their sheaths are made of rich leather and gold.”
Frodo detected a hint of pride whenever Boromir spoke about the Rohirrim, and he recalled how Boromir had come to their defense at the Council of Elrond when others speculated that they were paying tribute to the Enemy. Unfortunately, Frodo did not know Rohanese, so he could not fathom what the names meant.
“What do they mean?” he asked.
“Éomer told me he named his sword ‘battle-friend.’ As for the king’s, it is said to mean ‘fell.’” Boromir fell silent again, but the tension in his brow indicated that he was thinking deeply about something. “Do you know the Quenya word for ‘battle?’” Frodo mouthed a few words and syllables, but he then shook his head.
“I never learned it, I’m afraid.”
“No matter.” He hummed low in his throat as he stared at the fire. “Hanaroth…”
“Pardon?”
“It is Sindarin. But it may serve.”
“‘Hanar’ means ‘brother,’ if I remember correctly,” Frodo mused. “I am not familiar with the suffix ‘-oth.’”
“It may not be a proper translation, but it is a combination of ‘hanar’ and ‘auth,’ the word for ‘battle.’”
“‘Battle-brother?’” Boromir nodded.
“This sword and I have been through much together, just like the men under my command back home. Every foe that I slay is one less enemy who would seek to do them harm.”
“I think it is a fine name. It has a special meaning to you, and I think that is what matters most.”
“Thank you, Frodo.”
“I am not sure what for. I did nothing,” Frodo said and looked away.
“My sword would still be nameless, had you not asked for it.”
“Oh. Well, in that case, you’re welcome.”
Boromir sheathed his sword once more and looked around at their companions. The Hobbits were still sleeping soundly, and Gimli’s snoring had grown in volume. Gandalf, Aragorn, and Legolas were all lying still, but because they all slept with their eyes open, it was difficult to tell whether any of them were awake or not. Boromir sighed and moved to get up.
“It would seem that my watch has ended. I should try to rouse one of the others to take over.”
“I will do it. I will not be able to sleep, anyway.” Boromir sat down again and nodded.
“Very well. But I hope when it is time for your watch to end that you will try to get some sleep, even if it is hard. We all must be at our best should we encounter any foes.”
“I understand.”
Frodo moved back to his original spot between Sam and Merry and Pippin, who only stirred a little bit before drifting off again. Boromir turned onto his side, facing away from the fire so that he could look outward. Sleep did not come easily for him, so he closed his eyes while still listening to the sounds nearby. He blindly reached out and pulled his sword closer, and as he replayed the conversation in his mind, his heart did not feel as heavy as it had for the past few months. It was a feeling that likened to the day he first was gifted the sword, as though giving it a name had both strengthened their bond and renewed it all at once.