Of Dwarves and Men {Boromir/LOTR}

Chapter 9: Snoring Runs in the Family

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."