At Tharbad. by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

   There was a jolt, then Degil's leg broke with a snap that Boromir could hear even above the roar of the river. The horse screamed and reared, and threw him into the roiling water. By the time he had pulled himself to safety the horse had gone, swept away by the spate. Mitheithel was in flood, the stones of the old ford scarcely to be seen above the churn, and Boromir groaned in anguish, recalling the long years he had been with Degil, from sprightly colt to stately maturity; impassive in battle and tireless in chase, a horse in a thousand.
   As he sat on the shore mourning Degil, hunched in grief, he realised that blood mingled with the water running fom him, and he put his hand to his head, which only then began to stab him with pain. His hand came away crimson, but his sight darkened and he swooned, thinking that his adventure had ended, as his father had predicted, with him perishing in the wilderness.

  He awoke to hear voices, but kept still, uncertain whether he had fallen among friends or foes. 
   "That horn is not from Gondor."
   "No, but the sword is, and these garments, they are after the manner of Gondor."
  "He might have stolen them, he might be a rogue, fleeing his crimes. He might be a spy."
   "With this horn?"
   "Hm. Ha, he is awake!"
   Boromir sat up, he was wrapped in a colourless old blanket, but beside a warm fire. Night had fallen, the Swanfleet marshes were alive with frogs and the calling of birds, and above them the vast sky of the open plain glittered with stars. His rescuers (or captors?) were goodly Men in dark green cloaks, nearby their three horses slept quietly. Boromir smiled "I am in your debt, you have aided me in my time of need, I am at your service."
   The oldest of the three looked closely at him "What brings you to the north, son of Gondor?"
   "I am an emissary of Denethor, Lord of Gondor, to Elrond Peredhil."
   Two of the three rose to their feet, but the third sat still, watching him, then after a time he spoke "The servants of the enemy come to us in fair guise. They would give much to find the dwelling place of Elrond." He looked up at his companions and they sat down again. "But friend or foe, you are alone, and we will set watch upon you, though you will not see us, while we send word to our kin in the north, and hear their judgement of your fate."
   Boromir struggled as though to rise indignantly, but the blanket hampered him, and he contented himself with an angry exclamation "You would thwart the emissaries of Gondor? Do you do the work of the Enemy for him?"
   "Calm yourself, stranger. These are dangerous times, and the Enemy is a Liar. Do the Men of Gondor give easy trust to strangers?"
   Boromir shook his head. The Man nodded "Even so. But we do not thwart you, though we will have you tracked, for you are dangerous, any fool could see that, and even alone could do much mischief. But we shall reveal nothing to you concerning Elrond." He looked sad for a moment "Indeed, I myself have no knowledge of his whereabouts, though I have travelled the length and breadth of Eriador, and beyond, many times. It is rumoured that there are those of our kin who travel at whiles to Rivendell, but they do not speak of it."
   But at that point, Boromir felt his stomach turn over inside him, and he struggled hastily out of the blanket and hurried to the water where he was very sick. The younger of the three helped him, wrapped him back in the blanket and put another blanket rolled up under his head. "Rest now. We shall watch over you this night."

   When Boromir awoke the sun was already high. The older Man was sitting in the same place, cutting swan feathers into fletching. He smiled at Boromir "You hurt your head quite badly, I fear. I encourage you to rest, and to remain still. My companions have found the body of your horse, and are bringing what they found of your possessions."
   "I am grateful to you for your kindness. On behalf of the Lord Denethor I offer you gratitude and service."
   "There is no need. We did little but bandage your head. I myself am uneasy at the sight of blood, and you were making a mess everywhere..." he smiled then, and Boromir understood that he was a shy person, uncomfortable with praise.
   "Can you tell me nothing of my course then? No clue at all?"
   The Man sighed "There is a part of me that would leave my fellows and follow you, for the joy of seeing Elves. But it seems to me that the Elves may not find such joy in seeing us. Therefore I do not seek overlong for a place where I might not be welcome."
   Boromir gaped at him "But surely Lord Elrond would welcome a renewal of the ancient friendship with Gondor!"
   "Would he? Do his emissaries flock to your door? Have you yourself ever seen one of the Eldar?"
   Boromir bowed his head "No, they do not come to Gondor. They are as myths to us, figures from a past so distant they are like shadows in mist. But Mithrandir knows them, though he speaks more to my brother than to me. Alas, it may be that my brother should have undertaken this adventure, but I... I thought only of the dangers of the journey, forgetting in my folly the purpose of the quest."
   But the Man was looking at him with narrowed eyes "Mithrandir is a name I did not expect to hear from you, stranger. Dangerous words. If you are a spy and seek to provoke me into revelations, you will fail. But if you are truly that which you seem to be, a man of consequence on an errand for Lord Denethor... Alas, I have naught to reveal."

   But when the others returned with the saddlebags from poor Degil, and Boromir had eaten and dressed, the older Man sighed and smiled sadly at him. "I have been searching my mind for all that I know of elvenlore, and of Rivendell. I can find nothing, I have no knowledge of it beyond the riddling songs that are known to all. But one thing is certain, there is much water there, a river flows through the dell. It seems to me that one way to find Elrond would be to follow each stream up to its source in the mountains."
   The third Man, who had scarcely spoken, laughed aloud and gestured to the Swanfleet, the vast marshland where land and water mingled, and a thousand streams merged and divided, pleating at last into the torrent of the Greyflood. "Follow each stream, southerner! And hope that Elrond gives you welcome and not arrows in your chest!"