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Dawn was shrouded in dark, seemingly endless clouds, but the birds heralded the early morning. The Fellowship had marched in the dark, as Lord Elrond had advised; the wind had sung with the owls and the beasts of the night as they traversed the vast land.
"We should stop here," said Aragorn, who knew the way in and out, "there are many bushes and a large oak tree here that can conceal us, such as we shall not see again for many miles."
The hobbits breathed a sigh of relief, their feet already tired and heavy from hours of walking. They sat down around the tree and took food from the saddlebags to Bill, the pony, who had now bent down to the grass.
"Cold food again," Merry muttered at the sight of dried meat and a carrot. "That would make such a good stew."
"Light the fire, eat your stew, and not long after, you'll be eaten yourselves," Gandalf grumbled, annoyed by the complaints. Even during the march, he had overheard Pippin quietly whining that his feet hurt.
"A cold supper is a crime," Pippin whispered to Merry once the wizard had turned away.
"This isn't supper, it's our breakfast," corrected Frodo, having overheard.
"But supper is eaten at the end of the day and breakfast at the beginning," Pippin argued. "And though it is morning, for us it is the end of our day, for we must sleep while the sun is up. Everything has changed—even mealtimes.”
"Everything has changed except the landscape and the weather," added Frodo. He was right; though they wore many layers, the wind was treacherous, finding every gap in their clothing to brush against their skin like a cold, ghostly breath. "It will grow warmer again," promised Aragorn, "You must have patience; soon you shall see the world change."
They ate in silence, interrupted only by a few murmurs among the hobbits.
"I can never sleep as well during the day as I do at night, even though I'm weary from the long march”, finally Pippin said, trying to involve the other companions in a conversation.
“I don't like it either, how we steal through the darkness like a prowler and sleep in the daylight. However I am awake enough to keep watch”, offered Boromir. To him, this was a matter of duty, not just talk.
“You kept watch yesterday, I can take over today. I don't need as much rest as you mortals”, said Legolas.
"That's true, I've never seen an elf sleep. Do you think they ever sleep?" Sam, who was particularly curious about the Elves, whispered to Frodo, because he didn't dare ask Legolas directly.
“We elves also need rest, but not as you are used to, and far less. Besides, we have excellent hearing”, Legolas explained, his lips curling up in amusement as Sam blushed, as if he had been caught.
"That makes me realize I don’t know much about other races”, Merry said. "I mean, I learned a little about the Elves during our stay in Rivendell, although there's certainly much more to hear. I also heard something about the Dwarves from Bilbo's stories, and there were a few Dwarves in Rivendell who told us some tales. But I haven't heard much about the Men yet.”
"And I haven't heard much about the Hobbits yet, but I can tell you something about my homeland, Minas Tirith", replied Boromir.
“Although it is called the White City, its lowest wall is made of obsidian-black stone, just like the tower of Orthanc. It is unbreakable, built in ancient times with the knowledge of the Numénor, which has been forgotten over time. Six levels are divided in the middle by a great pier of rock facing the East like the prow of a ship into south and north halves, connected by tunnels that go through the rock. On top of it is the seventh level, with the citadel and the tower of Ecthelion, piercing the clouds like a silver needle. But not everyone can enter; it is strictly guarded by the Guards of the citadel, the best among all gondorian soldiers. The White Tree stands before it, in the days of kings in all its splendor, now only a dead tree... but it still stands”
"That sounds like a huge city," Pippin marveled, his eyes wide. Boromir laughed.
"It is grand, but Osgiliath upon the Great River was grander still, now only a ruin and battlefield between Mordor and the west. The white city was formerly called Minas Anor, Tower of the Sun, with its twin city Minas Ithil, Tower of the Moon, which is now called Minas Morgul after the Nazgûl conquered it. Now, as is well known, it is Minas Tirith, Tower of Guard, and it fights against evil with all its might. Though the old knowledge is lost, the blood of Númenor still flows in our veins—a thin trickle, perhaps, but with our will and valor enough to keep us steadfast.”
"Much of the old splendor has been lost," Gimli murmured.
"Not in the Shire," Pippin cut in, sensing the mood darkening. “There may not be any grand, magnificent cities, but there are the best gardens, fields, and dishes! And the beer at the Green Dragon is, of course, the best. It never gets boring with all the stories and riddles we invent, and starving like in the wilderness here will never happen because we eat seven times a day.”
“Seven times?”, Boromir asked incredulously, “But you're much smaller than us, wouldn't you need less food then?”
“No, there's nothing wrong with enjoying good food. It's more of a mystery why you big folks eat so little. There are breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses, luncheon, afternoon tea, dinner and supper”, Merry explained.
“Although elevenses is more of a snack than a hearty meal”, Frodo added with a smile.
"Nevertheless, I would say that it is quite a lot," said Aragorn who had been listening silently until now.
"Well, I suggest you go to sleep soon, so that you'll have the strength to walk and talk tonight," said Gandalf at length.
“We can tell you about the Longbottom Leaf then,” Pippin promised proudly. “We hobbits were the first to come up with the idea of smoking—the best invention!”
"I don't understand why one should be wreathed in smoke," Legolas murmured before beginning to sing a soft Elvish melody.
Finally, the Hobbits lay down beneath the great oak. Gandalf leaned against the trunk, Gimli settled behind a bush, and Aragorn crouched in the thicket. Boromir lay beneath the shelter of a shrub, his eyes closing as the daylight grew bright.
His own gasps echoed metallically in his heavy helmet, the stench of rotting flesh stinging his nostrils from the small openings as he inhaled deeply, seeking fresh air. A clang to his right made him jump. Boromir thrust his blade at the attacker, his sword piercing the layers of skin, tendons, and muscle with unusual ease, spurting a burst of red blood. He didn't hear the next one coming; rather, he smelled him on his putrid breath. He drove the blade deep through the tough, leathery skin, red and black mingling.
Boromir hadn't looked around yet, too busy trying to stay alive, but for some reason, he knew he was in Osgiliath that June. Amidst the din of a storm, he heard a desperate cry:
"To the bridge! To the bridge! Get across!"
Some of the troops meant to defend the eastern region came running, their eyes wide and screaming. They ran disoriented, stumbling; one ran straight into the enemy's spear, his hands outstretched one last time as if hoping someone would come to his rescue. The ground sent waves of tremors that could be felt to the bone, beneath the terror-stricken horses that galloped towards them at top speed, and the first soldiers to cross the bridge struck the timber wildly like berserkers.
The Haradrim, Easterlings, and orcs took advantage of this sudden chaos and followed them across the great Anduin, which would carry them to the side of Minas Tirith.
"Hold your positions! Fight and don't run away like cowards! Hold the bridge and don't let the enemy cross it to our city!" Boromir shouted, rushing to the bridge himself to stop as many as possible.
“Brother,” he heard Faramir call out tensely and immediately turned around, “Don’t you feel it? There’s something bigger, more powerful, evil here.”
“A black rider!” a soldier running past interrupted, his voice high with terror. “It’s over, run! Run and save yourselves!”
Then a shadow fell upon him, as if a dark veil were being drawn across the sun. A bitter cold seeped into his heart, spreading through his chest until it settled deep within his very marrow. His limbs turned to lead, and the strength of his spirit withered; he stood frozen, not by a blade, but by a dread he could not name.
“The Shadow must not cross,” Faramir called to him, bringing him back to reality and he nodded.
“Destroy the bridge and let as many men escape as possible!” Boromir roared, trying to make his voice ring out strongly, like an anchor in the din, certain that most hadn't heard him, but they were already running anyway. He didn't let the last dozen soldiers pass, however.
“Hold the enemy until the bridge is destroyed,” he ordered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the first man fall forward, stabbed in the back, a final, stuttering breath escaping him. The oppressive weight now hung heavy in the air, the battle seemed to dissolve into an eerie roar and evil whispers, and Boromir tried to suppress the rising despair that overwhelmed him from the depths of his heart. With a deafening crash, the bridge suddenly slammed into the swift current behind them.
“What about us? Are we supposed to die here?” a soldier shouted urgently at him, shaking him by the shoulder, his sword lying forgotten on the ground, staring at him with wide, fearful eyes like he had never seen before.
“Fight,” Boromir replied, pushing him back as another orc charged, but the soldier wouldn't let go. Boromir felt the resounding blow vibrate through him as the soldier's head sank heavily onto his shoulder, the helmet uselessly crushed beneath the axe. He yanked the body away and heard it fall into the Anduin as he beheaded the orc.
The next moment, he heard someone cry “Swim, swim!” and they leaped into the deep water.
The cold shocked him, and Boromir saw Faramir and three soldiers swimming ahead. He flailed his arms frantically, the armor gradually growing heavier and weighing him down. His cry for help was swallowed by the water; he gasped for air, but instead felt the cold liquid fill his lungs. A lifeless, arrow-pierced soldier floated toward him, pushing him back under the surface and staining his vision red with the seeping blood.
Boromir's eyes snapped open, his arms still hanging high in the air as if reaching for a helping hand. He lowered them quickly, covering his face with his hands, his gasps trapped inside as if trying to stifle everything that had happened. A crack made him twitch, his grip shifting to his sword, ready to kill.
It was only Legolas. The Elf, who usually moved with a silence that defied the ear, stood now at a distance, having allowed a stray twig to snap beneath his boot, scrutinizing his face and posture. Boromir closed his mouth, lowered his shoulders to appear relaxed, and hoped Legolas wouldn't notice the sweat on his forehead.
"I mistook you for an enemy," Boromir declared, attempting a tone of indifference, and laid his sword back. "One can never be safe here in the wilderness."
"Indeed, we are hunted by shadows," replied the elf, taking a step closer, “and not everyone is free from their grasp while they rest.”
Boromir's face hardened. Legolas must have witnessed his nightmare.
"We cannot choose what we dream," Boromir replied. "One may have better dreams on a different day than another. But as I say, it is only a dream, and it will pass."
Legolas smiled gently.
"All things must pass in their time. The days of Númenor have faded into memory, and even now my kin depart across the Sea to Valinor; the ancient glory leaves this world. Yet, that which passes is not truly lost, for it lingers in the heart long after the song has ended."
Boromir avoided Legolas's gaze and instead turned his head toward the clouds obscuring the sun, changing the subject.
"It is already midday. I don't know how much sleep Elves need, but you have kept watch long enough," he said, rising. "I am awake enough to relieve you."
Legolas inclined his head and leaned against a nearby small beech tree. Boromir sat down on the cold ground, his gaze sweeping over the path they still had to travel. Amidst the wind, he heard a soothing, elven humming that slowly wove its way into his spirit, lifting its oppressive heaviness.