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I have had the same dream for three nights in a row. So I will set it down here. I do not know what it means, but if it is more than mere dreaming — if it is truly some portent or guidance — then I had best not forget any of the details, if only so that I can share them with more learned men than myself.
In the dream, I stood upon the Tower of Guard, with the wind whipping around me. A darkness grew out of the east and enveloped everything, so that I could not see, and the world felt uneasy, as though I were standing on a ship's mast, drowned in starless night. I looked towards the west, and a pale light bloomed there, a seam of silver hope that breached the lowering clouds. And I heard a voice, saying words which I have set down elsewhere. Seek for the Sword that was broken, in Imladris it dwells…
Then the light from the west became stronger and sharper. It took the form of a window, and streamed through it, the clear cool sun of an autumn day. The familiar battlements were gone, and instead I was looking out of an arched opening in a stone wall, beautifully carved, onto a deep valley. The wind was fresh with the sighing of pines on the high slopes, and water chattered merrily somewhere out of sight.
I turned. I was standing in a bedroom — and I was not alone there. A man was sitting on the bed, and in his lap he held the pieces of a broken sword.
Gondor has no king. We have been without a king for many generations, and I flatter my lineage that our unbroken stewardship has done right by the people we serve. I have heard men say in semi-jest (and have thought, myself, in treacherous semi-earnest): why should the line of stewards not be king in name, as we are already in action?
And yet, I recognised the man sitting on the bed. I have dreamed of him before. Throughout my whole life, since I was a child, I have had the same recurring dream. Sometimes it comes only once or twice a year, but I am never free of it forever. In this dream, I have been in battle. I am exhausted, and wounded, but I know I must keep fighting, beyond all hope. But it is no use: I am overwhelmed at the last. I fall, and my eyes close — and then I hear my name. He holds me in his arms, and all my wounds are healed, and I follow the bright thread of his voice back to awakening. I open my eyes, and he smiles at me, and I know him.
The king's face is never constant, in these dreams. Often he looks like the storybook images of Isildur and Anárion that I remember from my childhood. Sometimes he is as stern and proud as the Argonath, sometimes as gentle as a woven tapestry of the kings of old.
But however he looks, I recognise him, and my words to him are always the same. My lord, you called me. I come.
It was this same man that I saw in my dream of Imladris, holding the Sword that was Broken. The sword that cut the Ring from the Dark Lord's hand! A token of kingship, thought lost forever! And, even more miraculous, out of the depths of time: the man the blade belongs to, an heir to the line of kings.
I do not know if any of this is possible. But the words of the dream seem too significant, and too relentless, to be ignored. So I will speak to the lore-masters, and to my father (for whatever good that may do). And I will record any further dreams.
***
Another dream of that same beautiful house in the valley. Imladris, it must be: the Last Homely House. I attempted to look it up, but no lore that we possess can name where it lies, only that it is somewhere far to the north and west, a hidden vale in the mountains. It will be a dangerous journey alone. And I must go alone, since no other man can be spared from our defenses here. But it will be well worth the danger to see a house so fair, if my dreams are to be believed.
I saw the bedroom with its view of the pines once more last night, but the man — the king — was not there. I went to look for him, and wandered through many halls and chambers and gardens, but I could not find him.
***
I dreamed that my father would not wake. I went into the throne room to bid him goodbye, and he was sitting upon his cold seat as rigid as a tree root, and though his eyes were open he did not see or move. At first I feared he was dead, but he still breathed. I spoke to him, attempting to wake him up, but he did not hear. I shook him: nothing. He could not be stirred, though I began to shake him more and more desperately, and to cry and shout — I know not what. Anything, everything. I told him the worst things I could. Things I would never have said to him in waking life, things I only half meant, and things I meant too deeply. I was furious, and afraid, and I woke with the stinging residue of tears on my face.
I went to his chambers early this morning to make my farewells, since a return to slumber escaped me. I mounted the steps as the grey dawn was still stealing upon the citadel, and though it was early he was sitting upright in his chair, gnarled and still. But awake. He looked at me when I spoke.
He told me I was a fool to go. Trusting Gondor's future to dreams and storybook wishes, when I was needed at home. Then he laughed and said no, perhaps I was wise to leave, before the tide came in.
"What tide?" I asked.
"The iron tide of Mordor," he answered, "before which Men cannot stand." He was not angry. He spoke as simply as though he were comforting a child.
"It will come," he said. "Depart, if you will. It may save you a little longer. But the tide will reach even the valley of Imladris, in the end."
I wish I could have shouted at him. I envy my dream self, who could shout and rail and empty his burning lungs, his heart. I could not. I said my respectful farewells, and left him.
***
I sleep in snatches as I journey in the wild, or toss and turn fitfully in the rough-blanketed beds of inns. My dreams are always of a light in the western sky. I cannot deny that it is handy. When I wake up, I can usually spot some detail of the far horizon that I saw in my sleep, and it steers my course for the next day.
I have not dreamed of the king again, though. It is ridiculous, but I miss him. It is lonely, journeying by oneself, and it would make the desolate days easier if I knew that I would have a friend when I slept.
***
Well, I am here, and the valley of Imladris is as fair as I dreamt it. And there is no sword, and no king. Only Isildur's Bane, the One Ring. The doom of us all, if the Council is to be believed.
The Council! It was interminable, and every fresh piece of news was more grim than the last. Everyone, it seemed, had some trouble or calamity to add to the pile of complaints. Everyone apart from the green-clad man. A Ranger of the North, I found out afterwards: Strider. It is an apt enough name, I suppose. He sat silent, listening keenly, with his long legs stretched out next to mine, but he did not speak until the end — and then he spoke directly to me, and asked me to join their quest.
"You are famous for your courage," he said in his gentle voice, and he looked at me with kind entreaty, as though he truly sought my help.
As though I have help left to give! I am already stretched far too thin as it is. I came here to look for aid, not to offer it, and I have been bitterly disappointed. My dream was just a dream; the Sword that was Broken is lost forever, and my city and its people will have to carry on as best we can, unaided.
I was seconds away from refusing to join the Company. But something changed my mind. The Ring must go south, after all, and so must I, and there is no reason we should not travel together. Perhaps the bonds I make will turn to future alliances. I know the paths and can assist them with my strength — and they will require assistance: even if the Ranger has hidden talents, the halflings are a peculiar and unwarlike bunch, in need of defending.
I am prevaricating. All these are sensible enough reasons, but they are not what made my decision. I joined the Company because, face to face with Strider, I could not deny him. He asked me, and I came at his call.
After the Council, I strayed about the house. I found a corridor that I recognised, although I had never set waking foot there, and my heart flooded with fear or anticipation. I opened the door and saw it: a carven window arch overlooking the valley, and distant pine trees, blue in the setting sun. A bed, with its soft coverlet.
The room was empty. Empty of occupants, and nearly empty of belongings, only a wooden pipe and a little pouch beside the bed, and a pack by the door.
I snooped. I admit it. I had opened every cupboard and was turning spare linen over in my hands, when the door opened behind me, and a gentle voice said, "Good evening."
I took a long step back from the cupboard, still holding a pillowcase. The Ranger — Strider — was leaning against the doorway, watching me.
"Is everything all right?" he asked. "Did you need me for something? A message?"
"No. I wasn't looking for you." Curse his quiet tread! What gave him the right to pop up like that, uninvited?
"But you were looking for something."
I paused, shaken — what did he know? — until he indicated the pillowcase in my hand.
"I did not mean to intrude." It was a stiff, ill-mannered remark, but the best I could manage under the circumstances. I had to ask, then. "Is this your room?"
"Yes, when I am here in Imladris." He must have seen my disappointment and confusion, because he gave a wry smile. "There are many others very like it, all along the western side of the house. I wouldn't blame you if you were lost."
"I see." I made to leave, covering my embarrassment with a brisk retreat. As I passed him in the doorway, he stopped me. His hand closed on my wrist, suddenly, as though unplanned.
His touch was warm and rough, an ordinary man's touch. There was no reason for it to take me aback so, but I felt it run all the way through me. I can still feel it now.
"Wait a moment," he said.
I waited. He did not continue. I twitched my arm in his grip, and he shook himself and let go.
"Sorry. I only wanted to tell you that I am glad you will be travelling as part of our company. I look forward to knowing you better."
Surely the warmth in his eyes and voice was not — could not be — an invitation. But there was something he was not saying, all the same. Something unspoken lies between us, buried like a splinter in flesh, and I cannot help trying to worry it out.
A mere Ranger, yet one who spends time frequently in Lord Elrond's house, and makes the councils of the great his business. An ordinary, weatherbeaten man, who speaks with the same quiet authority to Dwarf-lords and Elven princesses.
If he was a man of my company I should have called him forward, presumptuous — although his quiet manners do not seem in keeping with someone who presumes to take liberties. He had certainly put himself forward with me, to touch my hand and stay me, unlooked for. I wondered what sort of a man he was, and fell asleep wondering.
And, inevitably, dreamed. That dream I will not recount here in full. It shames me to recall. In the dream, he did not release my hand, but took my wrist, held it, stepped closed, until I was crowded against the wall and could feel his heart and mine beating in the space between our chests. He kissed me and commanded me, all together, and I could do nothing but obey, because his wants were my wants.
I awoke confused and shivering in my own bed, alone. And now I must somehow face him, today and every day hereafter, on our long march south.
***
The march has been longer, and colder, than I could have expected. My nights have been restless and chilled, but thankfully without dreams. Or so I thought, until last night.
The heavy stillness of Moria ought to have been a respite, after the biting winds of Caradhras. But it is hard to find comfort in these old halls. We each took to different corners to try to rest. At last I must have fallen asleep, because I was awakened suddenly by a touch on my shoulder, and a rough finger pressed lightly to my lips in the darkness.
"What —"
"Shh." It was Strider, barely visible, a whisper of shadow against the deeper shade of the Mines. His finger did not move. "It's all right."
"What is?" I hissed against his skin, irritated.
"Everything." He moved his hand away. Perversely, now that it was gone, I wanted it back. "You were crying out in your sleep. It's better if we don't make too much noise, while we're down here."
"Did I wake you?"
He shook his head, a slight rustle of movement. "It's my watch. You need not worry — I don't think we disturbed anyone. Were you dreaming?"
"I don't remember." I was reluctant to ask, and made myself bite through the cowardice. "Did I say anything?"
"You were calling for your father."
"I am sorry." Embarrassment seethed in my stomach. "For a grown man to —"
"There is no shame in it."
He moved. I thought he would leave me entirely, go back to watching by the entryway, but instead he merely settled himself alongside me, leaning half against the wall and half against me as I sprawled under my blankets. His long legs pressed into my side.
"Go back to sleep," he said quietly. "I will watch here, and wake you again, if you have any more nightmares."
"I cannot ask you —"
"You did not ask." I felt the lightest brush of fingers, as he moved a lock of hair from my overheated face. "Rest. We will all need your strength."
I was bone-tired, and confused, and his presence was soothing. I did not know what else to say. So I closed my eyes, and slept.
***
The Golden Wood is as alarming as the old tales say, full of eerie echoing calls and whistles. I cannot tell whether the noises come from the throats of Elves, or birds, or the trees themselves. It is all one voice, the voice of Lothlórien, and it speaks little comfort to me.
I did not think I would be able to sleep here, despite my grief and exhaustion. But sleep I did, in the end, pillowed on the cool grass of the lawn. And I dreamed.
Rats in a trap, at first. Unsurprising, after our ordeal in Moria. We were running in the dark tunnels, hearing the drums, smelling fire on stone. We could not get out. Then the dream shifted, and I was there among Gimli's ancestors, trapped by the twin horrors of fire and water. The city was burning, and in the dream it looked just like my city: I was witnessing the destruction of Moria and Minas Tirith all in one.
I needed to cross the bridge to escape. Strider was standing on the other side, and I could see him clearly as though lit by a shaft of sun, although all else was dark. He was beckoning me, holding his arms out wide. I ran, but the bridge was endless, and I could get no closer to him, and then the stone cracked beneath my feet and I fell, down, into the unknown pit.
I struck the bottom. When I was next aware of anything, I thought at first that I had truly woken up, it felt so real. I swam into consciousness to find myself in utter blackness. Tunnel walls pressed closed about me. The echo of dripping water was the only sound. I was lost, somewhere beneath the roots of the mountain, utterly alone and friendless, and so cold.
I moved, blindly, trying to drag myself along. My hand landed upon It.
The Ring. I hesitate to even write the words. I had not touched it on purpose, but I was touching it now, and it was not dreadful. It was a piece of metal only, a friendly thing, and it it did not burn me or whisper in my ears. It was warm under my palm, but it was a natural warmth, like another hand in mine.
I was not alone any longer; not lost any longer. I could return home, and my father would rise to welcome me and smile as he used to, and not a single person more would die facing the ranks of Mordor: they would all come home. I could hear the song rising from the walls as we rode back in the sunset, and see the banners blowing freely at the top of the tower. And the song was a song of joy. An old tune, one that I had not heard since childhood, almost forgotten in waking life.
Raise our song, welcome the dawn
City of Kings, rise with the sun, here reborn…
Then suddenly I was aware of another presence in my dream. The joy faded, becoming small and far-distant, blotted out by the prickling sense of invasion. Someone was watching me, a figure of gold, shifting like the pattern of light half-obscured by dancing leaves. A radiant star was shining through its fingers. It spoke, and its voice was the voice of the Lady Galadriel, low and sad.
"So this is the desire at the deepest part of your heart," she said. "Must I warn the others? Must I hold you back? Man of the Lands of Men, the power of the Lady may be diminishing, but it is still very strong. If I were to work my will against you, you would remain caught in the snares of Lórien. And you would find it as perilous a trap as your people believe. Yet fair, perilously fair."
I started, and reached for my sword. She seemed surprised at that. She came closer, and the light dimmed and the shadows adjusted, until I could make out her still features, her short brown hair gleaming with its golden circlet.
"You have clear sight in dreams, beyond the common measure," she said. "I should not be revealed to you. I meant only to watch, unheeded. But lower your sword: you need not fear my snares. The future is not certain. Too often many an evil deed has been set in motion by the rash acts of those who sought to prevent it." She sighed. "And, besides, how could I pass judgement upon you? I, who share your desires… But I have passed my test. Now I must let you go, and hope that when your own test comes, you too may weather it."
"What test?" I demanded. But the light was growing again, so that I had to shield my eyes against the searing glare, until I woke with a cry.
***
The world seems grey, after leaving the brightness of the Golden Wood behind. I dreamed of the Ring again, in fitful bursts between watches. I felt its weight on my finger, so that when I woke up my hand seemed painfully light, as though I had lost something I had carried for a long while.
***
It, again. I cannot describe it. There is no point.
***
Again and again, the same dreams. We are drawing very near now to the point at which the Company must divide, unless the Ring is to come to Minas Tirith. I do not know what to do.
***
Finally, something different. I should be grateful for the variety. But I feel the pain of this vision more deeply than all the rest before.
It began like my old, long-remembered dream. I had lost a battle, the most important fight of all. I could taste blood, rich and metallic, welling up from my mouth and smearing my hands. I sank to the ground, desperate, hoping only that he would come, so that I might forget my pain in his arms.
I felt him arrive. His arms closed around my body, sustaining me. I opened my eyes, ready to see his face, the king that I had been waiting for my whole life.
It was Strider's face.
Not pure, noble features. Not a shining figure of legend, or a stern and dreadful monument. Only the man I knew, and his familiar touch. He looked as weathered as ever, with tousled hair, and his expression was one of great concern. His hands were rough as they took my face, but they soothed me still.
He was not the same changeable figure of legend that I was used to see in dreams. He was real. And I knew him, nevertheless, for who he was.
"Boromir," he said, and his voice was distraught, aching. Why should he be sad?
The response came easily to my tongue, as though I had said it a hundred times before, and to say it to him was not strange.
"My lord. You called me."
He bent his head, and kissed my brow.
I awoke with the heat of that kiss still burning there, like a fever. My heart is beating too quickly.
Today is the last chance, the last opportunity before our paths divide. I must find Frodo, and speak to him. Only words. I will offer to help him. It is all I can do.
My dreams are merely dreams. Nothing more.