SEAL ON MY HEART

by Soledad

Disclaimer: The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Rating: PG-13 to R in different chapters, for violence, angst and m/m, and eventually some m/f interaction. Nothing too graphic, though.

Warnings: If you are and Aragorn fan, you would do better not to read this. Also, if you are offended by same-gender relationships, please, go away. There are many other wonderful stories for you to read.

Summary: An AU, based on my own Boromir-series, ''Fall Before Temptation'', with the significant difference that this time Boromir does not die, but gets the girl instead – well, sort of.

Dedication: To Isabeau of Greenlea, who had asked for this AU for a very long time. This is my gift to you, for all your support and for being such a good friend.

Oh, and happy birthday! By then, maybe this story would develop some interesting plot twists.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Set me as a seal on your heart
Set me as a seal on your arm
For love is as stong as death
Jealousy (or passion) is as harsh as the grave

Its flashes are flashes of fire
A burning fire of God (or a raging flame).
Many waters cannot quench love
And rivers will not flood it.

If a man would give all the weath of his house for love
He would be turned away in disgrace.

Song of Solomon 8:6-7 (Deborah's translation)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

INTRODUCTION

As the summary says, this is an AU. Unlike my other fics. However, it still follows the LOTR-canon to a certain extent, and so far I don't plan an alternate ending – not while the fate of the Ring is concerned, anyway. With the characters… well, you'll see - and hopefully enjoy.

The events are identical with my Boromir-storyline up til the Council of Elrond. It would do you good to read the earlier parts, at least ''The Bitter Gift of Compassion'', to understand why certain characters handle the way they actually do.

For those who won't do it (their loss), two basic facts are important to know:

1. I have postponed the Council of Elrond from the End of October 3018 (3rd Age) to the end of November. The date is not important for canon storyline, but the delay gave me enough time for personal interactions.

2. Somewhen during this time, Boromir and Elladan, Elrond's eldest, became lovers.

The story, however, continues differently from that point on, starting with the Council of Elrond, where a slightly different Fellowship will be chosen. Still, there will be certain paragraphs that I take over from my canon stories, especially from "A Heart For Falsehood Framed", because I wanted to stay as close to the original as possible. I apologize in advance for those who know the original and promise that the big differences will come later (around chapter 5, according the plans).

Actually, the idea came from my faithful readers (all five or six of them, who are now officially declared to be my muses), especially from Isabeau of Greenlea, who literally begged me for an AU where Boromir and Elladan could live happily ever after.

So, in this story, there will be a happy end. For the two of them, anyway. But be warned: this is still a very angsty fic, with lots of violence and several other canon characters biting the grass (as we in Hungary would say; I'm told the correct English expression would be "biting the dust"). Not everyone of the modified Fellowship will live to see the Fall of Mordor, while other characters who were killed off by the Great Master will be alive and kicking. And since Merry and Pippin will be sent back to the Shire, there will be some differences, too.

Also, in order to avoid quoting myself too much, I moved the dialogue a little away from the books and towards the movie – this is and AU-fic, after all!

I want to express my sincere thanks to Deborah for gifting the above-written translation from a verse of the Song of Solomon upon me. I have no English Bible, and I cannot do any poetry, not even in my own language. But this was the quote I wanted to stand before my story, and this is where the title of the story is from.

ELROND'S COUNCIL

Rating: PG – 13, for dirty Elven talk

Author's notes: This is an alternate version of the original first part of „A Heart for Falsehood Framed", concentrating more on the Boromir/Elladan relationship and partially from Boromir's POV. The main structure has been a little changed, too – but not overly so.

Many thanks to Isabeau of Greenlea for beta-reading.

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''You have ravished my heart
with a glance of your eyes [...]

How sweet is your love [...],

how much better is your love than wine,
And the fragrance of your oils than any spice!
Your lips distil nectar [...],

honey and milk are under your tongue;
the scent of your garments is like the scent of [Lebanon]''

Song of Solomon, 4: 9-11

Part One

The end of narbeleth(1) passed and hithui(2) came with cold winds and needle-sharp rains, turning the golden glow of Imladris to twilit grey, and even most Elves retreated into the confining safety of their houses, watching the changing of the season deep inside their airy rooms where the moody attacks of late autumn weather could not reach them, not even through the open archways that left one side of each room without protection.

Still, these days were probably my best ones since my early childhood. I cannot say that I was truly happy – for that I would have needed the love of the one who simply could not love me that way – but at least I found some sort of peaceful contentment in Elladan's love.

Even if it was only the comfort of flesh.

For we were, in many ways, truly alike, in spite of the countless centuries Elladan had already known, compared to the mere four decades I had seen. Of high birth we both were, growing up in the shadow of our frighteningly powerful fathers (and the Steward of Gondor, on his own account, was no less intimidating than the hero of the First Age), struggling to find our own path in a world where we both were considered outcasts – I for what my father called my twisted nature, he for the blood of mortal Men that flowed in his veins –, constantly compared to our more agreeable younger brothers, finding comfort only in the harsh, fleeting love of another men – or, in my case, occasionally in the joyless embrace of cheap war whores or desperate widows in half-destroyed settlings.

Indeed, we were much alike.

After our first, passionate night of lovemaking, Elladan went on with that customary (and, truth to be told, unnerving) Elvish eagerness to show me the wonders of Imladris – and wonders there were to be shown, no doubt about it! I am a lot less artistic than my brother, yet not blind to beauty, and Elladan took me to all the hiding places of his long-gone childhood: to ancient trees and crystal waterfalls, through twilit alleys and huge, shadowy halls full of old treasures where no-one had dwelt for hundreds of years.

To my mild dismay, Elladan also felt the need to introduce me to his friends who still dwelt in the valley – some permanently, others only in certain seasons, for they belonged to Gildor Inglorion's people, and it seemed to be their way that they traveled from one place to another all their long lives.

They were friendly enough to me, most of all his twin brother and Gildor's niece, the Lady Aquiel, if for naught else than for Elladan's sake, and to my great relief, they seemed to hold our relationship a natural one, unlike my own people. As the Lady Aquiel explained me, Elves cherished love in any form, and even marriages between people of the same gender were allowed.

Still, I felt a little ill at ease among all those tall, slender and elegant Elves – like a big oaf among light-footed deer. But my lover only laughed when I told him about my uneasy feelings and kissed me soundly before all eyes.

"A big oaf?" he repeated, and the others were laughing with him, the laughter of the Lady Aquiel ringing clear like a silver bell; "Nay, no oaf you are but a magnificent stallion whom I enjoy riding very much!"

Valar, I hate it when he makes me blush in public.

I am a child no more, yet he never fails to make me beet red.

A stallion, indeed!

Who would have thought that these cold and aloof Elves liked dirty talk?

And Elladan was not the only one! His twin brother was little better than he, having always a matching remark. Which was no wonder, considering that they had shared a womb and spent the last three thousand years in each other's company. They could read each other's thoughts effortlessly when they were in the mood of sharing.

They also looked very much alike – like mirror images of each other, identical and yet different. Also, Elladan had a slightly upturned nose – not overly so, but enough to make a barely visible difference between the two of them – making him less perfect than Elrohir, mayhap in Elven eyes… yet not in mine. For me, that little lack of perfection made him even more desirable.

Yes, I desired him still. That first night of shared passion only blunted the edge of my desperate hunger to love and to be loved, if not with the deepest feelings of the heart (for my heart belonged to my brother still), at least through the sharing of bodies.

And he seemed just as much in need as I was, for he came to me every night to share my bed and to share himself; and when I finally fell asleep, worn out and more content than I ever had been in my whole life, he would hold me in his arms and he would sing to me in the darkness, keeping the nightmares of blood and fire away.

During the day, we would sometimes ride out on the wondrous, light-footed Elven horses that were kept in airy, open stables at the north end of the valley. Elladan told me that they were thought to have descended from Nahar, the immortal white steed of Oromë the Great, and that no-where in Middle-earth were the likes of them to be found. Riding these beautiful steeds made me understand that Elladan's comparison actually had been a compliment – and not a small one.

Still, I hated it when he made me blush.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

So the early days of hithui passed by in unexpected peace and the day of Elrond's Council arrived. Boromir woke early on that day, feeling somewhat anxious again, torn between excitement and foreboding at the thought that he would finally find out the meaning of what he came to think of as the Riddle of Doom. Elladan was already gone, for the sons of Elrond were meant to leave shortly after the Council and he had preparations to make.

Boromir got up and was ready in mere moments, and after a short breakfast he left the guest house to walk along the terraces above the loud-flowing Bruinen and watch the pale, cool sun rise above the far mountains. He stopped for a moment, glaring with wonder at the great heights in the East. The snow was white upon their peaks and reminded him of the white locks of old Mindolluin, the great mountain of his homeland.

He suppressed a sigh, ordering the homesick feelings sternly back to the securely enclosed part of his mind from which they had crept forth and continued his way towards the porch that Elladan had shown him a day earlier.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

''The council was held in a high glade among the trees on the valley-side far above the house. A falling stream ran at the side of the meeting place, and with the trickling and blubbing of the water was mingled the sound of many birds. There were 12 seats of carved stone in a wide circle, and behind them many other smaller seets of wood. The groud was strewn with many red and yellow leaves, but the trees above were still clothed with fading green; a clear sky of pale blue hung high above, filled with the light of morning.'' (HoMe 6: The Return of the Shadow, p. 395.)

Elrond was already there, of course, and several others were seated in silence about him. Boromir saw Glorfindel with several other counselors of Elrond's household, of whom he knew only Erestor, their chief; and with him was Galdor, an Elf from the Grey Havens who had come on an errand from Círdan the Shipwright only two days ago.

Across from Elrond sat Gildor Inglorion, clad in a heavy, royal blue velvet robe, as his rank and birth demanded on such occasions, and there was also Legolas, clad in green and brown again, as a messenger from his father, the Elvenking of Northern Mirkwood.

But not all of the Council were Elves. Among Elrond's counselors Strider was sitting, in a golden-patterned silk shirt and a black velvet tunic; and Boromir saw the two Dwarves he had gotten a glimpse of on that feast several weeks ago, so alike in their looks that they could only have been father and son.

Hardly had he found a seat for himself between the venerable-looking, silver-haired ambassador of Dale and Halbarad, this time as richly clothed as all the others, when an all-too-familiar figure of an old man appeared in one of the arched doorways, wearing a long, grey coat and a big, grey hat; and leading what seemed to be a young, Elvish-looking boy by the hand. Yet the boy's clothes were anything but Elvish, and his feet were large and bare, covered with thick, soft brown curls, not unlike those upon his head.

Boromir was so amazed at this never-heard-of little creature that it took him a moment to recognize the grey-clad old man with that long, white beard and those deep, piercing eyes of his.

Mithrandir! he thought, full of awe, now I am certain that I have tumbled into something important – and possibly perilous. Every time the old wizard is involved, strange things are going to happen. What shall Father say when he learns that Mithrandir's path has led to Imladris, just as mine has?

Now the Lord Elrond rose from his seat and addressed the Council, saying:

"Strangers from distant lands, friends of old. You are summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-Earth stands on the brink of destruction. You will unite or you will fall. Each race is bound to this fate, this one doom."

Then he drew the boy to a seat by his side and added, "Here, my friends, is the hobbit, Frodo son of Drogo. Few have ever come hither through greater peril or on an errand more urgent."

With that, Elrond opened the Council, and it went on and on, seemingly with no end at all. Much was said of the events in the world outside, especially in the South, and in the wide lands east of the Mountains. It seemed that the long arm of Mordor had already reached out to take the remaining free lands in a tight grip, and there was little hope that they would be able to break that grip, ever. For it appeared, that even the hearts of the most resilient Dwarves of the far away Lonely Mountain were troubled.

Three times had they already been visited by the messengers of the Dark Lord, who lured, then threatened them to win their service in one thing above all: to find a hobbit who had apparently stolen a ring from him – which, to Boromir's ears, who had faced Mordor's wrath all his life, sounded rather unlikely. So must have thought the Dwarves, too, for they refused to answer the messengers, neither aye nor nay – knowing though, that they would come back before the ending of the year.

"Messengers have come also to King Brand in Dale," the silver-haired old Man on Boromir's right added, "and he is afraid. If the peril grows too great, he may yield. For already war is gathering on our eastern borders…"

Boromir felt the weight of darkness growing upon his heart. What the old Man was telling, made all his hopes – to find counsel and allies and maybe even some help in the far North – fade into nothingness. The North had enough worries itself, it seemed. He would fail, and this time his shining city might fall with him.

He shivered, wishing to be at home once again. Whatever upcoming doom threatened Middle-earth, he wanted to face it at home, protecting his own people – and his brother – with his last breath.

Yet it would have done no good for him to show his fears before these people. Early had he learnt in the court of his father that a leader had to show strength, did he want to master his duties as he should. So he gathered himself again and forced his straying mind to listen.

"You have done well to come," was Elrond saying to the troubled messenger of Dale. "You shall hear today all that you need in order to understand the purposes of the Enemy. You shall learn that your trouble is but part of the trouble of all the western world. The Ring! What shall we do with the Ring, the least of rings, the trifle that Sauron fancies? That is the doom that we must deem."

Boromir shuddered again. Now the time had come that he was to learn the meaning of that cursed dream that had haunted both him and his brother ever since the last bridge of Osgiliath collapsed behind them. The dream that robbed Faramir his sleep, that crept over his heart with dark foreboding, that made him wake up screaming when he finally managed to fall asleep.

Now, if the Valar grant it, it might be over.

"That is the purpose for which you are called hither," Elrond continued, with that annoying calm of his kin. "Called, I say, though I have not called you to me, strangers from distant lands. You have come and are here met, in this very nick of time, by chance as it may seem. Yet it is not so. Believe rather that it is so ordered that we, who sit here, and none others, must now find counsel for the peril of the world."

And saying that, he looked straight at Boromir, as if his next words had been directed at him, and him only.

"Now, therefore, things shall be openly spoken that have been hidden from all but a few until this day. And first, so that all may understand what is the peril, the Tale of the Ring shall be told from the beginning even to this present. And I shall begin that tale, though others shall end it."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Then all listened while Elrond in his clear voice spoke of Sauron and the Rings of Power, and their forging in the Second Age of the world long ago… and about the Last Alliance of Elves and Men that managed to overthrow him – but at what cost!

"I was the herald of Gil-galad, and marched with his host," the Lord of Imladris said. "I was at the Battle of Dagorlad before the Black Gate of Mordor, where we had the mastery; for the Spear of Gil-galad and the Sword of Elendil, Aiglos and Narsil, none could withstand. I beheld the last combat on the slopes of Orodruin, where Gil-galad died and Elendil fell, and Narsil broke beneath him; but Sauron himself was overthrown, and Isildur cut the Ring from his hand with the hilt-shard of his father's sword and took it for his own."

At this, Boromir suddenly felt as if a ray of sunlight fell through a broken window into a large, shadowy room. All the searching and guessing Faramir had done back home, at once became a whole new meaning.

"So that is what became of the Ring!" he cried. "If ever such a tale was told in the South, it has long been forgotten. I have heard of the Great Ring of him that we do not name; but we believed that it perished from the world in the ruin of his first realm. Isildur took it! That is tidings, indeed."

"Alas! yes," said Elrond. "Isildur took it, as should not have been. It should have been cast then into Orodruin's fire nigh at hand where it was made. But Isildur would not listen to our counsel. He took the Ring to treasure it. And soon he was betrayed by it to his death; and so it is named in the North Isildur's Bane…"

Elrond paused, looking at Boromir's unreadable face again, fearing how these tidings would touch the heart of a Man darkened already by the shadow of Mordor. When he continued, his voice became soft, almost gentle.

"Only to the North did these tidings come, and only to a few. Small wonder it is that you have not heard them, Boromir. From the ruin of the Gladden Fields, where Isildur perished, three men only came ever back. One of these was the esquire of Isildur who bore the shards of the Sword of Elendil; and he brought them to Valandil, the heir of Isildur, who being but a child had remained here in Imladris. But Narsil was broken and its light extinguished, and it has not yet been forged again."

"That much I have already learnt," Boromir muttered under his breath, remembering his first encounter with the Lord of Imladris, shortly after his arrival.

But no-one listened to him, save maybe Strider, whose eyes never seemed to leave his face, and Elrond went on to tell the tale of the North and South Kingdoms of Men. And once Elrond ceased, Boromir suddenly stood up, tall and proud before the Council, for he felt the need to speak.

"Give me leave, Master Elrond," he said, "first to say more of Gondor; for verily from the land of Gondor I am come, as many of you might already know. And it would be well for all to know what passes there. For few, I deem, know of our deeds, and therefore guess little of their peril, if we should fail at last."

He paused, looking around the cold, detached faces of all the Elves sitting there; then at the wide-eyed, clearly frightened face of that… hobbit? sitting between Elrond and Mithrandir, who seemed, at least, worried enough to listen; and finally at Strider, and their eyes met in a brief struggle of wills. And he continued, aiming his words directly at the Ranger.

"Believe not that in the land of Gondor the blood of Númenor is spent, nor all its pride and dignity forgotten. By our valor the wild folk of the East are still restrained, and the terror of Morgul kept at bay; and thus alone are peace and freedom maintained in the lands behind us, bulwark of the West."

"And yet the hour of our fall, maybe, is not far away," he added bitterly. "The nameless Enemy has arisen again. Smoke rises once more from Orodruin that we call Mount Doom. The power of the Black Land grows and we are hard beset. Osgiliath has fallen, finally, the last bridge destroyed. We are fighting with our backs against the wall."

"Is that why you came here to find the meaning of a dream that was sent to you and your brother as a foresight?" Legolas asked, speaking for the first time. "The right place you have chosen, it seems. For you have learnt of Isildur's Bane, finally, and what it might bring for us all."

"Have I?" Boromir asked. "I have heard unclear words and long-winded tales that I had learnt as a small child already – but naught has been said so far that would help me to solve the words of the riddle that led me to this place."

"Then we should speak even more openly, I deem," Elrond replied; and he looked at the little creature on his side.

"Bring forth the Ring, Frodo!" said Mithrandir solemnly. "The time has come. Hold it up, and then Boromir will understand the remainder of his riddle."

Oh, but I do understand it, Mithrandir, the son of Denethor thought, while the small, trembling hand of the hobbit held up the gleaming and flickering golden circle. I understand it better than you might believe. 'Tis not the first finely-plotted game of power I have seen in my life… being the son and Heir of one of the greatest game-masters of Middle-earth. Indeed, I understand all too well what has been going on for years here, in the North.

"Behold Isildur's Bane!" said Elrond.

The others turned towards the little, bare-footed creature, who put down the Ring on the round, stone table in the middle of the Council's circle, seeming strangely relieved to get rid of it, and they murmured in amazed and frightened voices:

"So 'tis true – the Ring of power – the Doom of Man has returned."

Boromir's eyes glinted as he gazed at the golden thing before him.

"The Halfling!" he muttered. "Now I have all parts of the Riddle of Doom that sent me here from the far South. 'Tis a gift, a gift to the foes of Mordor. Why not use this Ring? Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of my people are your lands kept safe. Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy. Let us use it against him."

But Strider shook his head sadly and answered, "You cannot wield it. None of us can. The ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master."

"And who are you and what have you do with Minas Tirith?" Boromir asked, looking suspiciously at the lean face of the Ranger.

For he did not forget the feast that had been held to greet the return of Elladan and Elrohir – where Strider had been clad like an Elven-prince, sitting at the side of Elrond's daughter, the Lady Undómiel of the songs, like someone who had the right to be that close to her.

"What would a Ranger know of this matter?" he added, in a voice full of venom.

"He is no mere Ranger," Legolas corrected sharply.

"He is Aragorn son of Arathorn," said Elrond; "and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur Elendil's son of Minas Ithil. He is the Chief of the Dúnedain in the North, and few are now left of that folk."

Boromir glared at the Ranger in disbelief… not that he could not have imagined him as a descendant of the Northern Kings, for Strider certainly showed all the outer signs of high Númenorean blood – he was only reluctant to accept the possibility that someone from that bloodline would still be walking the earth. The North-kingdom had fallen eighty years earlier than the last King of Gondor had vanished, after all.

"This is Isildur's Heir?" he repeated doubtfully.

"And Heir to the throne of Gondor," Legolas quietly added. "You owe him your allegiance."

Strider – no, Aragorn – seemed uncomfortable with the Prince of Mirkwood speaking up on his behalf.

"Not now, Legolas," he murmured in Sindarin, thinking probably that Boromir would not understand.

But Boromir only sat there, unmoving, for what seemed to him forever. Now he believed to understand the game that was played here – and Elrond's role in it – and the need of secrecy that had kept him in the dark so long. Yet he thought it wiser not to show his full understanding, and he only stated in a low, but very clear voice.

"Gondor has no King. Gondor needs no King."

No-one but Elrond, Mithrandir and Aragorn himself seemed to have heard this statement, and the deep eyes of the wizard became even more worried for a moment.

"And even if the White Queen of the South would need a King again," Boromir continued, still keeping his voice dangerously low, but now audible enough for the other members of the Council, "what good could a Sword that has been lying in shards for three thousand years do us?"

He looked at Aragorn with more than mere doubt in his eyes. The Ranger did not answer. But the other Halfling that was sitting aside (a very old and withered-looking fellow), suddenly stood and burst out impatiently something that maybe was meant to sound like a verse of forgotten lore, yet sounded clumsy, like a lullaby rhyme, in Boromir's ears. Nay, his nannies knew lullaby rhymes that were much better than this.

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall the blade that was broken:

The crownless again shall be King.

"Not very good perhaps," the battered old Halfling added (which, in Boromir's opinion, was an understatement), "but to the point – if you need more beyond the word of Elrond. If that was worth a journey of a hundred and ten days to hear, you had best listen to it."

He sat down with a snort. Boromir did not answer. The Halfling was of little importance for him, though it bothered him that the little goblin seemed to know everything he had told of himself in Elrond's house. Yet his true adversary was the one in that black velvet tunic and golden shirt.

Strider – Aragorn, he reminded himself, say Aragorn, you get better used to it – felt his sharp gaze and turned to him.

"For my part I forgive your doubt," he said. How gracious of you, Boromir thought. "Little do I resemble the figures of Elendil and Isildur as they stand carven in their majesty in the halls of Denethor.'' Which was absolutely true, too. ''The days of our House have darkened, and we have dwindled; but ever the Sword has passed to a new keeper, in a long line unbroken from father unto son, for many generations."

"Hiding in the wilderness like frightened children while the Stewards ruled the White City and kept the enemy at bay," Boromir countered in a low voice that only the Ranger could hear – or maybe some of the Elves, for Elrond gave him a sharp look, and Legolas seemed disturbed.

Aragorn frowned but controlled his rising anger. "You might see us like that. But this I will say to you, son of Denethor, ere I end. Lonely men we are, Rangers of the Wild, hunters – but hunters ever of the servants of the Enemy; for they are found in many places, not in Mordor only."

"ow great a fool do you hold me, son of Arathorn, if that is who you truly are?" Boromir replied coolly. "Am I not the son and the Heir of the Steward? Minas Tirith has dealings with many countries far from our shores, and the Lord Denethor has often means to come to tidings lesser Men might not have. Well aware I am of the peril that is threatening us all – save the ones that Elven secrecy kept hidden from my eyes."

Aragorn sighed, clearly tired of his accusations.

"If Gondor, Boromir, has been a stalwart tower, we have played another part," he said. "Many evil things there are that your strong walls and bright swords do not stay. You know little of the lands beyond your bounds. Peace and freedom, you say? The North would have known little but for us. Fear would have destroyed them. And yet less thanks we have than you. Travelers scowl at us and countrymen gave us scornful names." His storm-grey eyes glinted. "But now the world is changing once again. A new hour comes. Isildur's Bane is found. Battle is at hand. The Sword shall be reforged. I shall come to Minas Tirith."

And we shall see just how much that will help anyone, Boromir thought darkly, imagining the wrath of his father upon hearing these 'good' tidings. Nay, son of Arathorn, you shall not simply come down South and take our precious city that our sires have cared for and kept safe and defended with their lives, ruling it with great strength and wisdom. If you believe that Denethor son of Ecthelion will step down to be the dotard chamberlain of an upstart, then you are even bigger a fool than I have thought you.

But out loud he only said this much, "Isildur's Bane is found, you say. I have seen a bright ring in the Halfling's hand; but Isildur perished ere this age of the world began, they say. How do the Wise know that this ring is his? And how has it passed down the years, until it is brought hither by so strange a messenger?"

"That shall be told," said Elrond.

"But not yet, I beg, Master," the older one of the Halflings said. "Already the Sun is climbing to noon, and I feel the need of something to strengthen me."

"I had not named you," said Elrond smiling. "But I shall do so, soon. Yet you were right about the passage of time. We shall take a short break from our Council – for much needs to be spoken of yet, and it could reach into the evening hours. We shall return here in one hour's time."

With that, he rose and left, and his counselors followed him. The others trailed out as well, leaving Aragorn and Boromir alone behind. The Ranger, too, stood up and turned towards Boromir, but Denethor's son could not bear another word with him. So he turned away harshly and stomped out in silent fury.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I returned to my room in the guest house, trying to keep my temper under control, for much of what I had learnt so far made my blood boil with anger. Thinking of the way these Elves had lulled me into a half-dream of peace and safety while secretly working on taking my inheritance from me and putting that… that lowly Ranger on the throne of the greatest City of the Third Age…

"Oh, here you are," the soft, pleasant voice of my lover jerked me out of my dark thoughts.

Elladan stood in one of the open arches that served as windows and entrances alike. He wore the rough grab of the Rangers already, to conceal himself from prying eyes while on his way in the Wild, and his long, raven hair was bound in a tight ponytail on the back of his head. He looked annoyingly young and innocent, even for an Elf, and for some reason this angered me even more.

Elves, I thought in disgust, what do they know about the struggles of short-living Men? What was it that awoke his interest in me? What might his part be in all this?

"How did it go, I wonder?" Elrond's eldest continued; then, taking a look at my face, he frowned. "Not well, I guess."

"Oh, but it went better than your people might have expected," I replied in a voice that sounded unusually harsh, even to my own ears. "I have learnt many things, indeed. More, mayhap, than I was meant to learn – or even understand."

"And just what have those things been, if you do not mind my asking?" Elladan raised an arched eyebrow even higher.

"I shall tell you in a moment," I said. "But first answer me a question of some importance: what in Middle-earth does your sister, the Lady Arwen, have to do with this Strider… I mean, Estel… I mean, Aragorn, Isildur's Heir?"

Elladan did not seem to consider my question unseemly – at least not from someone he shared his bed with. It was a family matter, after all.

"Why, the two are betrothed to each other," he answered with a shrug. "Long and hard has been their way toward happiness, and whether they ever shall be able to reach fulfillment I cannot say. For our father, though he had always loved Estel as if he were his own child, has announced that Arwen Undómiel shall not diminish her life's grace for a cause less than the second and final victory over the shadow. She shall not be the bride of any Man less than the King of both Gondor and Arnor. Yet we all fear that even if we might be victorious, to Arwen the Doom of Men may seem hard at the ending."

This revelation, though not fully surprising to me after all that I had learnt and observed on this very day, did not serve to soothe my boiling anger.

"So this is how your father intends to unite Middle-earth under his own rule?" I spat, fuming. "Through the loins of his children? Letting his daughter wed the self-proclaimed King of Arnor and demanding from him Gondor as a wedding gift? And allowing you to bed Gondor's Heir, in hope that you can distract me with your skills enough to make me accept that usurper on Gondor's throne?"

Elladan did not even so much as flinch at these horrible accusations, only his face became very, very pale and his lips tightened to a thin line.

"I have heard that Men often feel the need to hurt those who love them most deeply," he finally said in a strangely flat voice, "yet I could not believe it – until now. Are your pain and anger truly so great that you need to hurt me such a cruel way? I gave you everything I could. I do not regret that. I only regret that it was not enough to lift the shadow from your heart."

With that, he turned around and left – not disappearing in that unnerving Elvish way but with the slow, faltering steps of the mortally wounded. A very… mortal departure it was, indeed.

I slumped into a big chair, still trembling with anger and bitter disappointment over all that happened in the Council. It took some time till the true meaning of Elladan's words filtered through the thick layers of fear, mistrust and pain that guarded my heart – and when it finally happened, it struck me like an iron fist.

I had never imagined that Elladan might fall for me this deeply. Ours was supposed to be an affair of convenience – limited by time, the customs of my own people and my own heart that was not mine to give… for it had been given a long time ago, once and forever.

But I did not want to cause the same anguish and pain I had suffered most of my life to the brave and gentle Elf who had so unexpectedly offered me comfort only a few weeks ago; who had healed me and lifted my spirits as far as could be done in such a short time.

Now, cursed by my stubborn pride, I had destroyed the best thing I had ever been given. Tonight I would not lie in the safety of Elladan's arms, would not feel the warmth of his slender body spooned up against my back. No soft, low voice would sing to me in my sleep, keeping away the nightmares of that shadow that had fallen upon my heart under the ruined bridge of Osgiliath.

At that thought, I hid my face in my hands, breaking down in tears for the first time since my mother's death.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

End note:

1) The Sindarin name of the month roughly identical to October. According to Appendix D of The Return of the King, the Sindarin names of the moons were only used by the Dúnedain – I assumed the custom was kept in Gondor as well as in Arnor.

2) November. See above.