Legendarium [ Tolkien One-Shots ]

Dream Riddles

He had made his journey first by horse and then on foot. Weary and weakened like often he felt after hours upon the battlefield, Boromir walked through the gardens of Imladris. He felt his feet dragging as he crossed a great bridge over the roaring of a massive waterfall. So often these days he felt the pressure of his stature.

His brother had always been the one gifted in riddles and lore; why could Faramir not have been there beside him now? He had learned much that morning when the Council convened. Even Boromir could not deny that the Valar worked actively in their favor. For none had been called, yet all arrived. Elves of Mirkwood, halflings from their country, and that ranger from the North. He claimed to be Aragorn, of Elendil’s line.

The long paths of Imladris gave Boromir plenty of time to think. And none of it pleased him. Faramir’s dream riddle troubled him even more now than ever before.

“Seek for the sword that was broken: in Imladris it dwells; there shall be counsels taken stronger than Morgul-spells. There shall be shown a token that doom is near at hand, for Isildur's Bane shall waken, and the halfling forth shall stand.”

Evidently the sword that was broken meant Narsil reforged, the sword the ranger bore. Isildur's bane clearly stood for the Ring. But it was Aragorn himself that troubled him most.

The ranger of the North seemed a formidable warrior. Tall and fair and strong, like others of Gondor who bore strong Númenorean blood. But this man wished to claim kingship over a land he had never seen, never fought for. Boromir seethed as he looked at the pleasant flowers in the moonlight. He loved Gondor. He would gladly die for his people. He would gladly live for his people too. How could a man who had never set foot in Gondor hope to lead its people?

Boromir was no fool, he knew Gondor’s strength waned. The days of great joy and strength had passed long ago, and yet even in her diminished state, Gondor stood firm. Ever a beacon of hope, Boromir knew Gondor. This stranger did not.

Even had he been Elendil himself, not a man of his line, Boromir would not have felt it right for him to become king. Gondor needed people who understood it.

Suddenly a presence nearby jerked him from his ruminations. A tall figure, clothed in greys and a blue hat, walked towards him. “Boromir.”

“Mithrandir,” he nodded quickly. “What brings you out this night?”

“You,” said the wizard, staring at him intently. “You need rest.”

Boromir snorted with laughter. “After what I have learned today, I fear sleep will elude me.”

“Maybe.” Gandalf walked forward, his staff making a steady beat upon the ground as he matched Boromir’s pace. “Even so you must try. You lost track of your horse at Tharbad you say? That is a long walk.”

“You need not remind me,” assured Boromir quickly.

Gandalf chuckled. “Go, Boromir. Rest. More will be made clear while you rest at Imladris.”

“It must,” Boromir replied, turning quickly to the Wizard and halting his steps. “For I do not understand much at all, and that which I do understand serves only to cause more confusion!”

Gandalf nodded. “Go rest.”

And so Boromir agreed, walking back across the bridge over the falling water, and through the gardens until arriving at the guest house he had been allotted. Questions swirled in his mind as he lay down. But the weariness of months in the wild granted him much needed rest.