Water and Stone - A walk through the city with Boromir

The room reeked of herbs and ointments, a smell Boromir wished he could rid his nostrils of forever. Some of the same ointments had been applied to his own flesh in the past, but that was weeks ago, now- yet still the odor followed him from the room whenever he left, it soaked his clothes, his skin.

Father lay abed today. His face was turned aside, and the bandages hid all his features from this view but for part of the curve of his nose. He did not respond to Boromir’s farewell until his hand reached the door.

“I ask not your forgiveness,” said Denethor.

“No?” said Boromir. “Yet you have it, without the asking. But it is not my forgiveness you ought to desire, for my life would have been freely given.”

A moment of silence lay between them, and then Denethor said: “Go now. Whether you do what I have asked is your choice; I cannot stay you or force you.”

Boromir bowed his head respectfully, and left.

He had been accused- gently at some times, and with more force, at others- of pressing his body too hard because he could not bear to appear weak. Twas not pride, however- had not Boromir humbled himself in every way open to him? Twas simple impatience. He walked as quickly as he could manage because he did not wish to linger. How the herbs stunk! It was a mystery to him how Faramir could voluntarily learn the healer’s art, how he could bear the smell, the presence of suffering. A glad mystery, for Faramir and his like were much needed- but a mystery, nonetheless.

When Boromir reached his next destination, he sank into his chair with tight pressed lips, after greeting the King with the proper respects.

It was his lot to hear the scheduled excursions for the clearing of Barad-dur, and discuss strategems. Boromir would not fight these battles nor lead the men who fought them, and he grew impatient, at times, in his mind, and did not hear this detail or that one.

Many men had come to be heard today and not all would require Boromir’s advice. The first matter for his personal attention: it seemed there was some question about a certain guard station, for it was not known whether this station had been emptied or if it had still defenders. There was reason to believe a supply tunnel may exist that allowed orcs to remain in the area indefinitely.

“Tis best, of course,” said Boromir, “to behave as if it were defended. After all, what is the hurry?”

“There may be captives in the area, Lord Boromir.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. If anyone has survived to this day I am certain a few hours’ delay will make no difference, and I would not risk men I know to live for others who may or may not exist.” He looked to Aragorn. “What is your thought, my King?”

Aragorn gave him an odd, knowing look. “Unless more knowledge can be gained I think you are right.”

Boromir nodded and turned away. “In that case, the approach seems clear to me. We must assume they have crossbowmen.” Orcish arrows were not to be taken lightly.

Aragorn’s voice spoke softly in his ear. “I have sent for a consultant.”

“That is well,” said Boromir. “The more that is known, and not merely guessed, the better.” He leaned over the map. “Has this wall been breached?”

“It has.”

“If it cannot be seen that the place is deserted, I think it not overcautious to send our own arrows before venturing in. I would rather spend a thousand arrows than one man. Arrows can be replaced, can they not?”

The man bowed his head, frowning.

“The consultant is here,” said Aragorn. Boromir raised his head and saw no one in the doorframe above the height of the table.

“Look down,” the King murmured. Boromir realized, then, who had been called- he stood from the table, and went to the doorframe to meet a small, crouching figure whose eyes glinted from under his cloak.

Sméagol hung back shyly until Boromir approached, then stood up and spread his pale hands, chortling.

“Sméagol! Your knowledge is much needed,” said Boromir, letting the creature fawn at his knees with a pale, damp touch. “I am pleased to see you- come here!” He beckoned Sméagol into the room.

“Pleased, he is!” the creature croaked, shambling after him. “Pleased to see poor old Sméagol! And we’re pleased too, aren’t we? Hasn’t called us in so long!”

“I was told you were ill.”

“Not too ill for Boromir,” the shrill little voice chided. “O no! Never!”

“I shall remember it,” said Boromir. Though he knew, in truth, Sméagol had really been too ill for these discussions, as Boromir had visited him on his sickbed and though Sméagol had known him, and snuffled affectionately at his hand, like an ingratiating dog, he had also by turns warned Boromir about the orcs that lived in a place called Goblin-town in the caves above, and called for his grandmother or Déagol to come meet the important Man from Gondor.

With a series of curious froglike hops, Sméagol transported himself to the top of the table by way of Boromir’s chair. “Maps, it is, yes,” he said to himself, crawling forward. Boromir approached to stand where he could be of assistance at once, if needed, thought Sméagol was deceptively nimble and sure-footed. “What is it they needs to know, eh?” He looked over the map, muttering under his breath too low for understanding, and a haunted look came over his face as he saw the hated land of the Shadow.

Boromir planted one hand on the table, to take a little of the weight from his leg and hip, and said: “You will see a guard station marked specially, near the center. We have concerns that it is not abandoned.”

“Yes, yes, that one there,” Sméagol breathed.

“Are you familiar with it?”

“Seen it before, we have, yes.”

“Do you know if there is any tunnel running underneath it, or any supplies that it can reach?”

Sméagol nibbled on his fingernails and frowned deeply. “Sss… not sure. Perhaps. There are ditches… here. And here. Saw them. Didn’t see under that fat little tower… no…”

“Ditches?” Boromir leaned in a little closer. “Where did you say there are ditches?”

“Do the Men not know?”

“Anything not on the map is not known to us. Quickly,” he said, raising his head, “give him something to write with.”

There were, Boromir saw, some at the table who did not know of Sméagol and had not seen him, and those who had seen him before were not all happy to see him now. Disciplined men of Gondor, they let little of this show- but Boromir knew the men of Gondor well. He had worked with many of the men here for years- and although they looked strange and distant to him, sometimes, now that the endless War had found an end somehow, he still read their faces easily. 

It was the King who had invited Sméagol and it would be the King’s place to explain his appearance at the table if he so chose. Boromir was no longer in charge. Boromir would never be the Ruling Steward- he would never be in charge of all Gondor. He felt his shoulders physically relax, and he repeated: “A tool for writing. There- is that a pencil? Pass it to him at once.”

The man he had addressed rolled the pencil along the surface of the table instead of passing it to Sméagol’s hand. This was for the best as Sméagol had a horror of being touched by strangers, particularly on the hands. He deftly caught the item and hovered over the map, looking uncertain.

“Please,” said Boromir, “add any structures or items to the map that are lacking. You have done this for us before.”

“Yes…”

“Do not be hasty. Think as long as needed, it is more important that your notes are accurate. We can wait.”

“Indeed,” said Aragorn.

At his voice, Sméagol’s body jerked, and the pencil fell to the surface of the table with an audible clack. He scooped it back up in a hand that was trembling.

“What troubles you?” Boromir asked, leaning in.

“Didn’t see the King there, that’s all, that’s all,” said Sméagol. “Should have bowed, when we came in, to the King, that’s all, that’s all it is.”

“You are forgiven,” said Aragorn. “And indeed, it is more needful for you to be accurate than swift, even if we must wait. But perhaps while we wait, we can discuss something else that does not rely on this map and use our time better.”

“Yes, yes yes, can talk and draw pictureses at once, clever Sméagol.”

“There is no need for that. We will talk of things you need not discuss.”

“Yes, yes! That is even better,” said Sméagol, and he applied himself to the map, keeping his face downturned. The subject of conversation moved, and Boromir monitored Sméagol’s progress with the map, intervening only once: “Hold, Sméagol- there was a wall there but is no longer, we have removed it. You need not put it back.”

“Sss,” said Sméagol, tilting his head thoughtfully against his shoulder. “Anything else that was there before may not be there now. And who knows if the Orcses have been tunneling?”

“We are aware of these possibilities and can require no more from you than you know,” said Boromir. “Please, draw what you remember.”

At another point, when fortifications were discussed, Sméagol chimed in to point out that a certain building had a cannon stored beneath it.

“Unless they sent it somewhere else,” he mused, without emotion. “For the War.” He bent his head back over the map.

When he finished adding notes, he set the pencil down and looked silently up at Boromir.

“Very good!” said Boromir. There was a new overlay of rough drawings and notes.

“That is all we remembers,” Sméagol said.

“That will help us a great deal. I am pleased.”

“But we do not know anything about this- sss- this place they wanted us for.” He gestured at the guard station. Boromir noticed that the other men had stopped talking and were listening to this.

“You have done all you can.”

“All? No, not all,” said Sméagol. “We might go and look at it. Do you wish it? Shall I go?”

Send this blighted, starved thing into Mordor? Boromir would almost rather send Pippin Took, who at least could hold a sword. “There is no question of that,” said Boromir.

“Hold,” said Aragorn. “Sméagol is his own creature, and when he offers his service we ought not to deny him without giving the matter thought. What do you think you can do for us, Sméagol?”

“Can see if there’s any digging near the tower,” said Sméagol, “and sniff out the place- orcs won’t see us. But I am frightened. I don’t want to.”

“As we will not deny you out of hand, neither will we force you to do what you have offered,” said Aragorn. “Perhaps for now we will give the matter thought, and you as well.”

“We’ll go if they needs us, don’t need to think. Gollum! I know already I do not want to, but who else will do it? Who?” Sméagol looked rather defeated.

“We will consider whether you are needed, then,” said Aragorn. “And now you may depart, if you wish. Do you know the way back?”

“Yes.”

Aragorn’s eyes met Boromir’s. “As we have discussed all that I required your thoughts on, you are no longer needed, either, Lord Boromir, unless you wish to stay. But perhaps you would prefer to see the creature back to his rooms.”

“I believe I would,” said Boromir, thinking of the night air and how favorably it compared to the stuffy meeting-room.

Sméagol scampered to the doorway and looked back at him, in way that made Boromir recall that Sam had once described the creature as ‘looking back at me and the Master as if he were a dog that wanted to be walked’, though Sam had shuddered to recount it and Boromir did not shudder to see it. (Then, of course, Boromir was a great deal larger than Sméagol, and was not standing between him and the Ring.)

After bidding a polite farewell to all that had attended and thanking them for their time and effort, Boromir hurried out of the room.

Sméagol seemed anxious to get outside, though after a moment his pace slackened. “Ha, ha, no hurry anymore, is there?” he said amiably, and drew close to Boromir’s side. “Sméagol’s back hurts him dreadful when he’s too fast, yes it does.”

“And yet you are often quite fast,” said Boromir. His leg also ‘hurt him dreadful’ when he moved at too quick a pace, but he would never announce it so candidly.

“I have places I would like to be,” Sméagol hummed. “I wants to be there now. Eh?” He blinked placidly up at Boromir.

“Eh,” Boromir agreed.

His hands and feet made a strange pattering sound on the smooth floor of the hall. “So, all of that in there is what Boromir’s been up to?”

“For much of my time, yes. And looking after my father, when he allows it. How has your time been spent of late?”

“Sleeping. Reading. Practicing our letters. Eating, eating! They stuffs us!” He said this with the utmost glee. “No hunting, no prying, no searching, no spying.”

“I see. I am pleased to hear it. I heard you were ill for some time.”

“O yes, so we hears too,” said Sméagol, without care. “Just didn’t want to do nothing but sleep, and I don’t remember it. They says it was fever. Over now, yes. They fussed over us! Fussed and fretted as if we was-“ He hesitated, unable to find the words for what he meant.

“Something to be honored and carefully tended,” Boromir suggested.

“Yes… perhaps.” He sounded wary.

They had reached the door outside. Sméagol took a deep breath of the night air, and began to cough; Boromir helplessly watched his thin frame shudder.

Sméagol cleared his throat, and shook his head, and moved out into the open, taking an unhurried but direct route towards his quarters. Boromir followed.

“Have you seen any more of fair Minas Tirith since we last saw one another?” he asked.

“The city? No, no. We was shut up inside. How is it doing?”

“It fares well.”

“The fountains are dancing?”

“I presume they must be, though I regret I have not seen them as of late. I have been preoccupied myself.”

“Is there still no Gate?”

“It is not as it once was,” said Boromir. “There is talk of the dwarven folk building another.”

Sméagol perked up at that. “Dwarveses, Dwarveses, is it? Who are they? Where will they come from?”

“Gimli, son of Gloin, who traveled alongside myself in the Fellowship of the Ring, has spoken of rebuilding the Gate and choosing a group to do it. The Dwarves are master craftsmen and surely the new Gate will be splendid but I confess it troubles me, Sméagol, to think of my city so altered. Much I knew of old was destroyed or altered as I slept. I cannot rightly say the old was better, but the new seems to have no part of me. You know it better than I.”

“I do?” Sméagol asked, taken aback.

“Surely you do,” Boromir persisted, “to have been driven out of your home by the Great River and to return to find it gone entirely, as you have said transpired. I believe we feel something that, if not quite alike, has at least a resemblance.”

Sméagol had by now turned to look at him with open astonishment. “We does? We does, perhaps,” he said. “That great Gate made a cavern of a hole, it did, in your great wall. Gollum! All of Sméagol’s dead aunties stacked on each other would be smaller than that gate, perhaps.”

To Boromir this manner of speaking was not much more unusual than the manner of any other Halfling, if a trifle more uncouth. “Suppose your village were to be rebuilt in finer style,” said Boromir, “would you not yet feel you had no part in it?”

“Yes, yes, we would, but they forced us out,” said Sméagol uncertainly. “No one made Boromir go away forever and ever, so it is not quite the same, no. But yes, it is strange to find everything different.”

Boromir nodded, and spoke no more for a time; he felt perhaps he had said wrongly. It was Sméagol who spoke next:

“And does he find it strange too, when those nasty places are gone?”

“Nasty places? Do you speak of the land of Mordor?”

“Yes- sss. Of course we thought, many times, ‘how nice it would be if they all killed each other, and these wretched lands were gone, and the towers cast down, and everything smashed to bits- gollum! But when it happens it feels as if it is not possible, and so it feels as if it is not happening. And then when it is gone I think maybe it was never there and it was all a nasty dream, and then-“ He raised one of his hands, and looked dubiously at the scars on his fingers.

“Yes, you may be right,” said Boromir, “I have opposed the Shadow all my life. Now it is collapsing. I never thought to outlive it.”

“Yes- that is it. Never thought the Eye could shut forever and Sméagol’s shiny eyeses still open. And Boromir has nothing to fight anymore.”

“Not in the same way.”

“Of course, of course, always someone to fight, but not like Him. Never.”

“No, never again in my lifetime or in yours. And while I suppose there is always someone to fight there is not always fighting and I am no longer worthy to take an active part.”

Sméagol looked up at him through wisps of tangled hair. “Worthy? He must be worthy.”

“I am no longer able, then. It is odd, to have other work- and at times to have no work. And that too you feel, I suspect, now that you have nothing to search for, and as you said, no hunting. Your time must have been spent almost wholly in those pursuits until now.”

“Yes,” Sméagol said. “Searching, hunting, and hiding. Mustn’t forget hiding. This time last year, if we saw a big Man like Boromir, he would have put his sword to us. Ach! Tear it all down!” He gestured East. “Blast it- gollum- burn it! ”

“There will be a time very soon when none of it stands,” said Boromir quickly. “But this city will stand- stranger than before, perhaps, but fairer.”

Sméagol said nothing a moment, and looked as if he were either thinking or pouting. At last he said: “Will the Dwarveses build another fountain? And make the city richer?”

“I have heard of no other plans aside from the Gate, but if they should offer to do more I would think that the King will accept.”

They had reached the building Sméagol was housed in. He went to the window of his room- a cellar room- and sniffed at it inquiringly, before turning a bashful gaze up to Boromir.

“You are dismissed,” said Boromir. “You have worked well- I am pleased with you, and you will be called on again.”

“Maybe Sméagol will make his own maps,” he suggested, somewhat shyly.

“That would be excellent!” said Boromir, driven to enthusiasm by this shyness though he knew not whether any document Sméagol created would be of use. “And now you are free to depart- fare well.”

“Goodnight, goodnight!” Sméagol wriggled in through the window. From his impatience Boromir suspected he was hungry, or had some other need to attend to that he preferred not to discuss.

It was not long after he embarked on the return path that he heard the crunch of approaching footsteps. It was Aragorn, who surely had wanted to alert Boromir of his approach, for he could be as stealthy and silent as a cat when he chose.

“I am glad for a chance to see you, my friend,” said Aragorn, pulling Boromir into a hearty, unselfconscious embrace, and then taking a step back. Boromir stood with his head bowed, unused to submission, still more unused to submitting to one who deserved it. Aragorn spoke as to a friend: “You have been close and downcast as of late.”

“Have I?” Boromir laughed bitterly. “It is the old trouble- my father. I fear he cannot make up his mind whether he wishes to live or whether he still wishes to die- he lingers in a state between one and the other. At times he is clear and sane, and I rejoice, feeling that he may yet enter with us into the new age of Gondor. The next day, as if he caught wind of my secret hopes, he is raving and angry and knows me not. And ever I fear he will somehow slip from the room again and spread his misery elsewhere.”

Aragorn looked solemn. “I have him watched well. As for your other troubles I grieve that there is no more I can do for them.”

“Let the matter rest,” said Boromir, “it is unchanged, and I can bear it. Has the meeting concluded?”

“It has, and earlier than I feared, as we had many questions answered in one stroke from an unexpected source, if one with difficult handwriting. I thank you once more for trying Sméagol’s abilities- he has been quite a help tonight.”

“Am I to be thanked for the work of another, my King?”

“In part, I deem. No one but you thought to ask him to share what he knew of the Shadow, and no one but you had the patience to sit with him long hours and learn how to understand his talk of such matters, and how to make him understand what was wanted, and how to make him trust enough in you to speak honestly. He too has merited my thanks but I ask you to convey them on my behalf, as the creature dislikes having speech with me.”

“I am certain that is not so. Sméagol enjoys speech greatly, and is not particular in whom to share it with!”

“But I am an exception. I blame him not,” Aragorn added with a wry twist of his mouth. “He and I have an understanding; he bit my hand to the bone, and fought me every step to the Greenwood, and kept me from sleep and comfort, and assaulted my senses with cruel speech and vile odor. For my part I threw him to the ground, bound him, starved him, and I am sure I did him more injury than his malice would permit him to show me, at that time, for I used my full strength against him and he is only a Halfling. He and I will never be friends. And so I am grateful that he has a friend in you.”

“I find it an easy task,” said Boromir. “But I regret that I too seem to only meet with Sméagol when he is required to do unpleasant work. I like not the look that comes into his eyes when we speak of the land of Mordor.”

“You make an excellent point, I feel,” said Aragorn. “Perhaps it would be profitable for you to spend time with him on other business. In fact, Boromir, I already wished to put a notion of that kind to you.” He turned and looked Boromir in the eye. “It has been many weeks since you brought the creature to me and he asked to be tried in court.”

“Indeed so! The time has passed swiftly.”

“I am sure you recall that Sméagol wished for this trial so that he would be able to go about in the city without shame, or secrecy. It has come to my attention, however, that he has not since then ventured any farther than this courtyard- not until tonight; and has only had speech with the guards outside the window and those who enter his room.”

“Yes, he told me just now that he has been shut up inside, as he put it.”

“He was unwell for part of that time but is now recovered, and he is becoming livelier as autumn approaches and the air grows cool.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Boromir. “I feared I had judged poorly, in advising him as I did. It seemed for a time as if his mind was lost.”

Aragorn shook his head. “Do not think yourself at fault, I believe your advice was the best thing for him. But he is far from an adjusted citizen of the city. I fear that if left alone, Sméagol will suddenly find his quarters too confining, and as he has in the past he will venture out- and will range too far, and do something he ought not, and get into some mischief. Thus I ask you a favor: will you offer to take him on a tour of the city- in short, will you exercise the spirit from him before it leads him into an unwise path?”

“I would gladly do so, but would not the ones appointed to tend him be more suitable?”

“I am afraid they would not excite him so much and therefore not tire him enough,” said Aragorn with a smile. “And I confess too, I would like to give Sméagol the best chance to be accepted, and what better chance can I give him than to allow him to be seen in your company? Your endorsement did well for my own reputation.”

“I am sure it was not needed so vitally as you seem to think! The people of Gondor love you easily. You were born for them,” Boromir argued, “and they for you.”

“I was born to my place, and trained for it, but the respect that attends it must be earned.”

“It has been earned already. As for Sméagol, I would gladly accept the offer to show him about the city- I would find it an honor, to escort the destroyer of Isildur’s Bane. And I, too, have been too long away from all the parts of Minas Tirith that were not used for her defense- with the exception of certain pubs that I was compelled to visit by the Prince of Halflings!”

“Boromir,” said Aragorn, “I would like also to ask you if you believe Pippin to have truly been a prince. Your brother wished to lead me to believe such was the case, but a younger brother’s word about the elder brother cannot always be taken as truth.”

“My understanding is that he is the son of the Thain, which is the nearest thing to a prince that the hobbit-folk have among their number,” said Boromir. “Which is not to say that he is a prince of the sort that men would call by the name, but rather a hobbit-prince. And would you expect a ruler of hobbits to be unlike Pippin?”

“I cannot contradict you,” said Aragorn. “The hour grows late, and I must depart.”

“Ah yes,” said Boromir, “there is someone awaiting you, is there not?”

Aragorn playfully clapped him on the arm and strode away. Boromir rubbed the stinging place on his arm, blinking in confusion- he had only meant that Arwen may grow anxious if her husband was gone too long without word.

Boromir grew absorbed in his everyday cares, and some days passed where he saw neither Aragorn nor Sméagol and forgot his promises concerning them. He was reminded by a grimy, sticky envelope, which arrived mysteriously and silently on his writing-table at some time when he was not attending to it; surely Sméagol had not taken it upon himself to make his way to Boromir’s quarters but perhaps he had enlisted someone to do him a favor.

The envelope contained a letter which read as follows- once all of the smudges, blotches, and scribbled-out phrases had been navigated.

To Boromir, who is a lord, from his friend Sméagol

They tells us he will come and show us around the sity. I will be here whenever you want s to take me because Sméagol does not go out just stays in his room. They tells us me to say that you must talk first to the hound-master Eardwulf before you takes us anywhere becaus he will help me dress nice and have an extra bath so that we doesn’t stink. I don’t want to be foul and ugly so will do what they says.

We thanks the nice Man for thinking of poor old Sméagol and we drew him maps es they are in the packet too. Good night. I hope he is well.

There were four crumpled maps, all of which had been drawn rather badly but with much detail and many notes, and with many smudges, and also with small marks here and there that looked like the stains left by tears. One of them was of the Greenwood, which Boromir found at first confusing, but then he noticed that Sméagol had marked quite a few locations as ‘SPIDER NEST’ or ‘THIEF CAVE’, or suchlike. He had made a note on the back:

The Men never asked us about the woodlands but Sméagol knows such lots of things he does and we won’t make them ask. We thought they would want to know.

And perhaps they would, Boromir mused. These lands did not belong to Gondor, but the King was a friend of Elves. Boromir had not yet learned to love the company of Elves, they yet seemed to him to know too much and tell too little; again his secret heart was glad that the responsibility of diplomatic relations fell to Aragorn and not himself.

No, his responsibility was to Sméagol, at the moment. He had some free time after the noon meal and used it to pay a visit to the hound-master, who rose to greet him with a bow. Eardwulf was a bit of an oddity- his father had been from Rohan, hence the name, and he had hair the color of sand and eyes of a calm blue shade, and a sturdy frame, but he was oddly short. He might even have been under six feet. He had always had the restless air of an outsider, and a dour aspect that softened only when he was in the presence of an animal.

It had been Boromir who advanced Eardwulf’s name when capable caretakers for Sméagol, who was then called Gollum, had been urgently needed. Faramir had in long-ago days been fond of going to visit the puppies when his life as Denethor’s son seemed cheerless, and Boromir had never forgotten the man who made that possible. He had seemed then to be the kind who would treat something like the badly-injured Gollum-creature with compassion, which had proved true.

“My lord,” Eardwulf said now, “I have been told to expect you, are you here to discuss Sméagol?”

“Yes, it is my desire to take him for an outing. I should like to know which time would be best. I know the creature is delicate, and often ill, and I will not put him to any hardship on my account.”

“He will not find it a hardship,” said Eardwulf. “He is delicate in some ways, but hardy in others, and an outing is well within his power, I feel. But he still cannot bear full daylight.” Eardwulf was the only one Boromir knew who always spoke of this condition as if it may someday prove to have been temporary. Sméagol had been hiding from the light for half a millennium, and had never shown signs of improvement. “He is able to tolerate the twilight of evening or dawn, at which time you both would be able to see. Which would you prefer?”

“If the morning,” said Boromir, “he will be chased home by the rising sun, which I do not wish.” Then too Boromir had grown used to staying awake long past dark.

“He may prove reluctant to return home if not so chased,” said Eardwulf.

“He has always been tractable with me.”

“Very well, then, the evening.”

“Very good. Tonight would be too soon, I fear. Tomorrow eve would not be.”

“I shall have him ready when the sun touches the horizon.”

“I shall meet you outside the building.”

“Yes, milord. Sméagol is well known to you already, so I am sure you know something of what to expect, but I wish to caution you that he has been looking forward to this outing, and he will be excited and may be… frolicsome.” The slightest hint of a smile came onto his face, visible only to those who knew the man. “I wish to remind my lord that Sméagol can climb walls, and with astonishing swiftness.”

“I shall remember it,” said Boromir.

“He may lose his way if he parts from you, and become difficult to retrieve. Do you wish for anyone to accompany you?”

“No, I do not wish it,” said Boromir, perhaps a little too quickly. “I shall simply try to keep him entertained enough to stay at my side. Is there anything else I must know?”

“No, milord.”

“Then farewell until tomorrow.” Boromir turned, but another consideration coming to mind, he paused. “But wait- I would like to know something from you. What would the creature most enjoy seeing in Minas Tirith?”

“The fountains,” said Eardwulf.

“Indeed,” said Boromir. “Does any other place occur to you?”

“He was very much interested in the fountains.”

“Then that is where I shall take him.” Boromir tarried a moment, saying nothing. There was a guarded quality about Eardwulf that was much like the one servants had always shown around Denethor. Boromir liked it not, but he saw no way to get around it, and in truth he had never been able to tell whether it might not in his case be natural reticence. Yet he felt keenly that it was the best thing for Gondor to pass to the heir of Isildur, and away from the heir of Denethor. “Farewell, for now.”

Boromir found his companion for the evening waiting in the courtyard of his building of residence, looking anxious and thin, with Eardwulf waiting by his side.

“Good evening,” said Sméagol in a small, constrained voice. “They’ve neatened our hair and helped us into nice clothes. Yes, very nice, we are very proper- aren’t we?”

He looked much the same as always and his lank hair could not have been called neat. “The improvement is marvelous,” said Boromir. “Impressive! And you are quite clean, too.” 

“O yes! Clean, clean everywhere and not at all nasty. Had our bath.”

“So you have.” Sméagol had a damp smell. He had always had a damp smell (or worse), and would always have a damp smell (or worse), and it seemed to be one of those curious odors that offended the senses of some more than others. Boromir was fortunate enough not to mind it very much, and he minded it less and less as time went on, because it reminded him of pleasant company and because it was so unlike the scent of ointments and herbs.

Eardwulf leaned down and said in Sméagol’s ear: “Follow Lord Boromir where he wishes to take you, and kindly do not stray far from him.”

“No! O no, we won’t!”

“And when you return, we’ll have a meal waiting for you, and another bath, since the city is dusty.”

“Yes,” said Sméagol. “It is!”

Boromir noted that this was a bribe to return promptly. At one point in the past Sméagol had wandered off by himself and been lost in Minas Tirith for days; did his minders fear he would do it again? He had had his own reasons for straying then.

“We ought not waste time then,” said Boromir, “if our outing is to end when your appetite demands a return we have very little time indeed, as you are a Halfling.”

“So they says,” said Sméagol, following Boromir down the path.

“I do say,” said Boromir.

“Where is we going, eh? Where?”

“I have heard you are fond of the fountains, so we are going first to the closest of their number, which is in the next Circle.”

“We are? Lovely fountains! Such clever things, they are. However do Men build them?”

“Why, I know not,” said Boromir. “Twas not in my training, or it it was, I did not attend to it. Faramir, I deem, may know.”

“Mm. He moved away, didn’t he?”

“Not far.”

“Not far. Sss. Boromir misses him? They is brothers.”

“I miss him at times, yes,” said Boromir, with a slight shrug. “But it was always common for his work, or mine, to draw us away from each other. We shall not be apart any longer than was already usual, I believe.”

“Ach, yes. Men always goes a-wandering.” Sméagol spoke this to himself, with an air as if he were chiding himself for forgetting a lesson.

“Not always, but indeed Men are greater travelers than Halflings are- excepting those Halflings of our mutual acquaintance!”

Sméagol considered this a moment, his head held at an angle. “When we was following Baggins- not nice why, no- but never mind that now- we kept getting farther and farther away, and we had still not gotten to the end of it- he went so far! And he started even farther back than we did, didn’t he? He started from his Shire.”

“Yes, even to a Man it is a long way,” said Boromir, thinking of how remote that Shire seemed.

“I thought- I thought I would never get there, would die first. Sss. And then- that shows how much Sméagol knows, doesn’t it? If I knew! All the way to His lands- sss- and back again- back to the mountains, from there, and then all the way back there again!” There was a hint of wryness in his tone suddenly. “ And you chose a bad route, for Sméagol. Elf-lands.”

Boromir carefully showed no expression at this allusion to the Golden Wood. He did not wish to return there, even if he had had profitable speech with the Lady since, and even if the golden belt was a prized possession.

Sméagol glanced at him sideways from under his eyelids. “We could have thought ye did not want poor Sméagol to follow.”

Boromir searched his mind for a reply.

Sméagol did not wait, perhaps he thought no reply forthcoming. “How far has Boromir gone?”

“I followed much the same route that you followed our party on,” said Boromir. “With the exception that I started farther back, not so far as the Shire- only as far as Imladris. I did not follow the route of Bilbo Baggins, for I crossed the mountains farther South than he, at the Gap of Rohan.”

“The horse-lands.”

“Yes.”

“Eardwulf wants to go there.”

“Does he?”

“Yes, his family is from the horse-lands, and he’s not seen it.”

Boromir made a note of this. Eardwulf had earned much reward, for Sméagol was not always easy to care for, and Eardwulf had done it without complaint for months. Not only he, of course- but the houndmaster had swiftly taken a special interest in the creature and begun advising the others who dealt with him, and spending extra time with him when needed- even at the beginning, when Sméagol had been quite wild and prone to bite.

They were approaching the guards of the gate. Boromir nodded to them, and they nodded to him, and parted. Only after Boromir had passed through the gate did he realize the guards had not acknowledged Sméagol and perhaps had not seen him.

“They doesn’t see us,” Sméagol whispered. “It’s nice- eh? Not to be seen- sometimes.” He took a shuddering breath. “Like before.”

His tone of weak dread told Boromir what he meant- the empty longing inside for the old power. That power had only brushed Boromir’s mind like the hem of a cloth- but it had been enough for a fleeting thought to pass over him: To think that he held it- for so long! He held it and used it, while I never did! What did it feel like, to carry it with him and know it was his own?

Boromir’s hand tightened on the head of his cane, and he marveled that he had once thought he could have willingly handed the Ring to his father had it passed into his hand. He was not a Halfling, to do that sort of wondrous deed.

And what would Lord Steward Denethor have done with the Ring if he were given it? He would not have been content to hide in a cave and harass orcs.

Sméagol was creeping closer to the ground than he had been. Boromir feared at first that the creature was injured, but a closer look revealed that Sméagol was interested in the cobblestones.

“You may pick up any that are loose, they will not be missed,” said Boromir, and Sméagol immediately slipped something from the ground into his pocket.

“I may hold hands, or knives, or strings, or many much more precious things,” he muttered, and as at many times, Boromir was unsure if he was meant to have heard. “How far is he now, I wonders?” This last was louder.

“Whom do you speak of?”

“Baggins. Imladris, he stays in, and you have been there, also. It is on the other side of the mountains, is it not?”

“It is. It is not quite so far as the Shire, but far enough.”

“Is it… sss. Missed our chance. Missed it. So many chances, we’ve missed. A long life- so many years and we did so little.”

“But also much,” said Boromir. “More than many Men!”

Sméagol looked bitter at that, thinking of the things that would have been better left undone, perhaps, or the things he had planned to do that would have been horrors if he had managed them. Fortunately, at that time the fountain came into view, and all ill-chosen lines of conversation were forgotten, and the bitterness fled from the creature’s small pale face. He bounded eagerly to the water, and began to reach for it. Then he pulled back, with a guilty glance at Boromir.

“Sam says not?” he said. “The water is for drinking, he said, and shouldn’t be touched.”

Boromir had never considered that matter, as he rarely took his drinking water from public fountains. He looked over the jets of water. “They are open to the air,” he said, “and must attract the attention of birds and beasts, and your hands are surely cleaner than pigeons.”

“Not surely,” said Sméagol. “I walked on them to get here. And they are dusty.”

“Then they can be washed,” said Boromir, taking the dipper that hung by the fountain.

Sméagol held his hands out, his eyes fairly glowing with pleasure (but was that fancy, or did they, in truth, glow? Or was it a mere reflection of light? The word ‘impossible’ came to mind, but Boromir dismissed that word at once, under the circumstances).

“The touch of water pleases you,” said Boromir, which sounded inadequate- both to describe the sheer force of feeling that had come over the old Halfling at the sensation of the water Boromir poured over his hands or to convey why it seemed so singular.

“It is nice,” Sméagol said- his words too were spare, but the happiness and affection in them gifted ‘nice’ with meaning. The meaning perhaps of memories wandering in a dry and dusty land, feeling as if one’s mouth were scoured with cloth, and knowing aid would never come and the only hope was to continue crawling and hoping. Or perhaps not hoping- simply continuing grimly onward, knowing that one may reach a point where suffering became insurmountable and the body fainted under it, or one may find the things necessary to life first, but in either case there would be no turning back.

Boromir had been alone in wilderness before, in inhospitable places with short supply before, and he supposed if he had been made to do that much longer he might also still say the feeling of water was ‘nice’ because he had no other word for it, even now, when the dust was miles away.

“Beautiful,” Sméagol added, as if he had guessed this thought, or perhaps he had his own thought that his speech was limited.

“Indeed.” Boromir wondered if deprivation were always necessary to learn to take so much pleasure in the simple things of life.

Sméagol was now dabbling in the fountain. “It is fresh and cool! It comes from underground, does it? It smells of the dark quiet earth, yes. But not still water, not still sitting water, and there are no fishes but- there is coinses in it!” He widened his eyes, and gave the impression that he wanted very much to sound as if he were making an idle observation.

“Yes, there are many who throw coins into fountains for luck,” said Boromir. “A foolish pastime, I think, but why not? After all- who can say such small matters do not give luck? I shall add a coin of my own, perhaps.” He removed a coin from the money-purse at his belt, and, noting Sméagol watching him intently, withdrew another. “You, too, ought to offer one.”

“Ought I? Why?”

“Do you not need luck?”

“Whatever for? There is no more hunting, no more stealing, no more War, no more Eye, no- ss, no more Precious,” said Sméagol, bemused, though he accepted the coin. “I have used all of my lucks already, haven’t I? The good, and the dreadfully bad, yes.”

Boromir could not think of a way to answer this without sounding gloomy.

Sméagol turned the coin over in his hand, studying it. “Nice coin, feels nice in our hand. Fountain doesn’t want it.” He shuddered, as if prodded by some unseen, none-too-gentle force. “But it is better to cast away than to keep, I suppose, I suppose-“ And at that he released the coin, and leaned over the edge of the fountain to watch it filter down to the bottom. “There it goes. A little luck for Sméagol, is it, from a little coin in a nice little fountain? A very big, very beautiful- sss- very precious coin in a very big and horrible fountain would give lots of lucks, wouldn’t it?” He gave Boromir a sideways glance.

“I suppose it would.”

“Enough luck to let us be here, in the White City. Just enough.” Sméagol turned aside to watch the water.

Boromir realized then that he had been alluding to casting the Ring into Orodruin. No response seemed adequate.

Sméagol began to catch handfuls of water from the spraying jets, drinking and washing his face by turns. Boromir did not wish to hurry him, and could not escape a feeling that Sméagol’s communion with the element that had defined his people, molded his strange body and sustained him through those long dark years under the mountains was somewhat of a personal matter, and it would be kindest to give him a bit of privacy.

Boromir moved a little farther away to inspect the street. Surely the risk of Sméagol running off had been exaggerated, and Boromir need not have eyes on him at all times! And his splashing could be easily heard and monitored.

It was rare that Boromir had had the chance to view the streets of Minas Tirith at his leisure, in peacetime. The city was quiet. At this hour not many were about. A pair of women headed down towards gate to the Fourth Circle, at the pace of those who are not precisely in a hurry but do have a scheduled destination. They glanced in Sméagol’s direction, hearing his play, but it seemed they did not wish to stare. Boromir they did not notice.

One of the buildings nearby was under construction, a lone worker making repairs to the doorway. Boromir drifted closer.
The man turned, and Boromir knew his face. “Good evening!” he said heartily, going closer still.

“My lord!”

“Maethedir! I am pleased to have met you by chance. I am passing by,” said Boromir. He clasped the man’s hand. “I see you are making repairs?”

“Yes, milord,” said Maethedir, looking a bit dazzled. “The old door was taken to fortify the wall, I have had a temporary one…”

“I see.” Likely a door had not really been needed for the wall, but for some other purpose, perhaps, and the man had gotten confused. Boromir allowed it to stand. “I thank you for lending such aid. The King is offering reimbursements for all who need such repairs- have you heard?”

“I have, but I am well able to afford it, and thought I ought to leave the King’s coffers for those who truly need them.”

“That is a kind sacrifice,” said Boromir. “If you should change your mind, the offer will remain open to you.”

“Do you truly remember me? I was but a poor soldier.”

He had indeed been a poor soldier, which was no fault of his own. It had been too long at war, and the supply of trained men had grown thin, and more and more of the men who came to battle were ill-experienced, and Boromir could only watch them come in, suppress his groans and thank them for offering their short lives to a doomed city.

“The only poor soldier is one who will not fight,” said Boromir. “I do remember you.”

“Thank you, milord.”

“But I shall not keep you from your work, for interfering with your life would be a poor repayment for your service,” said Boromir. “Fare thee well.”

Maethedir bowed as he left.

Boromir had just had time to notice that Sméagol was no longer at the fountain when the creature appeared at his knee, like a dripping and satisfied-looking apparition. His clothes were soaked.

“Nice cool water on a warm evening,” said Sméagol. “Clever Men building fountains! Boromir had lots of friends, does he?”

“In my position I am known to all, and must have either friends or enemies,” said Boromir. “I far prefer friends!’

“Friends is better, yes, yes.”

Boromir now recalled the other purposes for this outing, and it seemed to him that he ought to have called Sméagol over for an introduction- but he did not wish to go back and speak more with Maethedir, for he was plainly hard at work and more disruptions would risk being unwelcome. “He would have enjoyed meeting you as well,” said Boromir.

“O? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Where is we going next?”

“I should like to see the shops,” said Boromir.

The shops were more populated, with people who had last-minute errands. Sméagol grew plainly distressed at the sight of crowds ahead and hung close to Boromir’s legs. “But these are not the shops I wished to visit,” said Boromir, as if it was of no account. Boromir himself preferred a bit less company, particularly since he was still unused to maneuvering with a cane. He led Sméagol down a less populated way and affected not to notice the signs of relief.

“Which shopses?” Sméagol whispered.

Boromir looked over the signs. He had not been down this way before in his memory. It was rare for the son of the Steward to have idle time shopping for trinkets. In fact of late years it had been rare for anyone in the White City to have both leisure and coin. Many of these shops were closed. Sméagol paused by one that was boarded and desolate, and sniffed at it. “This one has mices,” he said.

“I see,” said Boromir, not wishing to offend the creature, but neither wishing to allow him to slink inside and hunt mice, and wondering very much if Sméagol would move along without prompting.

“Sméagol can catch mices if Men needs,” he whispered. “All they must do is ask.”

“I shall remember your offer.”

Sméagol moved along without being commanded.

A building up ahead caught Boromir’s eye. A faint memory came to him: he had been out with Faramir on a practical errand, though he no longer remembered what, and a downpour began- the brothers had retreated to that very shop, if memory served.

“Up ahead,” said Boromir, moving a little faster at protests from his hip.

The shop was as he remembered it, and so was the proprietor- though older now, with white hair. He looked up with surprise when Boromir entered, and recognition dawned a moment later- at first he had only seen a large, somewhat disheveled man.

“Milord,” said the old man, rising from his station. Boromir found to his regret that he did not know the shopkeeper’s name, for at his past visit he had been too much distracted by Faramir’s company.

“Greetings,” said Boromir. “I am out and about looking into the health of the shops. Yours I recall from days past but I must make apology for having not learned your name. May I know it now?”

“It is- Brandir, son of Dammedir, my lord.”

“Brandir,” Boromir repeated, holding the name in his mind along with the man’s face and focusing upon it so that he would know it again. “I thank you. And how fares your business?”

“It fares better than many. Of late there has been more business.”

Boromir looked about himself, and saw trinkets and toys scattered about the place and strung across the ceiling. The items were of the same make and manner as they had been those years ago and a particularly large piece in the corner may have been exactly the same- perhaps that was for display, rather than purchase.

On that day Faramir had been yet a gangly youth, and had looked about the place with a shy, scholar’s interest, while Boromir teased him gently, and at last bought him a piece his eye had landed upon.

Now there was a much smaller figure, much less shy and scholarly, looking at everything and plainly desiring to explore with his hands- he was looking over his shoulder at Boromir as if to beg permission.

“A fissh,” said Sméagol. “It’s made of trinkets and whatsits for scales!”

“So it is,” said Boromir, wondering how Sméagol’s presence had possibly slipped his mind for even a moment, and then deciding there was nothing so unusual about the matter- for was Sméagol not a Halfling, and was not willing unobtrusiveness the power of Halflings? “Come closer, Sméagol, so that I may introduce you.”

Sméagol approached with clear reluctance, but he did approach.

“This is the Ring-bearer’s guide,” said Boromir. “I am pleased to have him as a traveling companion tonight.”

Boromir, who knew the men of Gondor well, saw realization, horror and compassion flicker across the shopkeeper’s eyes, masked in the end with a dignified calm.

“I know of you, Sméagol the Halfling,” the shopkeeper said, bowing.

Sméagol offered a bow in return. His mouth had a grim cast- or perhaps it was just compressed from lack of teeth to hold its shape.

“You were investigating the fish in the window,” said the shopkeeper.

“Yes, we was, but we will not any longer if he doesn’t wish it, o no.”

“You are welcome to look at anything you like. What do you think of it?”

“It is clever, and cunning and fiddly, so many bits that moves, and it would look beautiful in Sméagol’s window, he has such a nice window for the nice fish!” Sméagol caught himself and blushed faintly. If it had been an engineered slip of the tongue rather than a true one, the creature was artful indeed. “How does he make them? What’s it made of?”

“Tin,” said the shopkeeper. “I find scraps of metal that are discarded, and unwanted, and make things that I hope will be amusing and beautiful. I hear that you are well-traveled, Sméagol, and have seen much, so I hold your praise in high regard.”

Sméagol wriggled and squirmed as if he’d been given a scolding. “O! Sméagol knows all about rubbish, he does, yes, so many nice things in it that no one wants anymore, silly peoples throwing out nice things.”

“This is so, but, before I forget, I have another errand,” said Boromir. “I desire to see to it that everyone working in the city knows that the King is offering repayment for anything that was taken to shore up the wall, or towards any other purpose of defense.” In short, Aragorn was paying for the actions of Denethor, in a quite literal manner.

“Nothing was taken from me,” said the shopkeeper, “for I am a humble old man, out of the way, and my materials come from that which the city has already decided it does not want. Your companion is enamored with many things among my wares, my lord.”

Yes, Sméagol had once more departed from Boromir’s side, and was browsing. Boromir quietly admitted to himself that his proximity to Sméagol was decided entirely by the creature, and if said creature wished to vanish into the city at any time Boromir would be powerless to prevent him.

“He may have any piece he desires,” said the shopkeeper.

“A generous offer indeed. But I will not accept, for I carry more than enough coin for your wares, and if he desires something I will pay for it.” Although Boromir was at many times inclined to think that Sméagol was due more honor than others believed he merited, he yet felt intuitively that it would be a mistake to offer him too many free gifts, or too much deference.

The shopkeeper bowed his head. “Very generous, milord.”

“Think nothing of it.”

Sméagol was in the corner, intently studying a sculpture of a horse. Boromir approached him.

“So many little pieces it has,” Sméagol mused.

“I came here once with my brother, Faramir,” said Boromir, “and he selected an item very like that one.”

“Faramir likes horses, does he?”

“I deem he likes them more, these days, than once he did. But he chose it because of the workmanship and artfulness moreso than due to a fondness of the subject. He thought it was particularly well-made.” Boromir himself was less enchanted by these things, which looked to him rather overcomplicated, messy and impractical, but that was of no account.

“Faramir likes trinkets, then.”

“He enjoys art.” 

“Does he.” Sméagol considered the sculpted horse. “Likes fancy things? Silly things? Wouldn’t have thought so. He seems very serious.”

“He is not always thus.”

“Like a cold pool in winter, then, eh? He thaws?”

“Yes, he thaws. He becomes quite warm, in fact.”

Sméagol abruptly turned away and went to look at something else, as if he wished to physically move on from the subject. Boromir allowed it.

“There’s one of Sam’s oliphauntses,” Sméagol muttered.

Sam would have enjoyed seeing this shop. All the hobbits would have. It was a shame they had not been told of it, and Boromir ought to know his city better for the future, so that such things would not be missed.

Sméagol was talking to himself. “Never did ask him, did we… now we might never hear that little rhyme of his again.”

Boromir had the oddest feeling that he was eavesdropping on someone’s private conversation. He walked some distance away, and noted a display that held shiny, polished rocks. Aragorn would enjoy these, no doubt, but it would not quite be right, somehow, to give such a small present to one’s King. Gimli might also enjoy such stones, but then perhaps he might consider them too small, unworthy. And this intricately sculpted tree... it put him in mind of Legolas, but at the same time, it seemed to him that a nonliving tree made of metal might seem offensive to an Elf.

Another person came into the shop just then. Sméagol could have benefited very little from the power of the Ring at that moment, for all at once he was quite near to being invisible without it.

This newcomer was a woman, known to Boromir as the wife of a guard stationed in the First Circle. He greeted her, and offered to pay for her purchase- he felt duty-bound to, in a way he could not easily explain. She chose a playfully-posing kitten. (But before choosing it, she admired the fish, and Boromir grew to feel that she was being watched by a jealous little presence in the back corner of the shop.)

After she had left, Sméagol once more appeared as if out of thin air, this time sitting quite near Boromir’s feet and looking anxiously up at him.

“Yes?” Boromir asked.

Sméagol shook his head fretfully and slunk away to admire the fish. “But we don’t need it, do we, precious?” he said under his breath. “What would we do with it? We, I’d hang it in the window and it would look nice. It doesn’t matter if I need it or not. I, I can have things just because I likes them, just like anyone else. Yes, but- the Man will buy it for us- not nice to take his money. We doesn’t need it. Sméagol is expensive. He’s been eating like a troll!”

“I shall buy it for my own pleasure,” said Boromir, “because I have grown fond of it, and I shall display it in your window, because it would indeed look well there, and I could see it when I pass by the building- which I do often.”

Sméagol sat in silence for a moment, and then laughed awkwardly. “He can hear us, can he- of course he can hear us. Silly, silly.”

“I heard a part of it,” said Boromir. “Indeed, you may have things because you like them and because I offered to buy them for you. What harm would it do?”

Sméagol said gollum in his throat, and blotted his eyes with his sleeve. Boromir thought Aragorn or Faramir might have been better equipped to understand what had unbalanced the little thing’s fragile emotions, but the solution seemed obvious- he took the metal fish to the counter, paid for it, and had it wrapped up.

“And, as the opportunity is before me, I think I shall also make a gift to Faramir when next we meet,” said Boromir, and he took the horse as well. It was rather a gift to Faramir’s bride-to-be, so that the couple might have a matching set, but perhaps it would not be well to attempt to explain that to Sméagol. Boromir was not sure how much Sméagol understood such matters, and he was also unsure he understood them himself.

After that, they left the shop. There was less activity by now on the streets, as night was swiftly falling.

“He had heard of us,” Sméagol said, cautiously. “What did he hear?”

“That you were well-traveled, it seems,” said Boromir. “And so you are.”

“What else did he hear? Didn’t seem to mind us.”

“He did not,” said Boromir.

Sméagol might have said more, but something had caught his attention. He sniffed the air and sat up. “We’ve been this way! Yes, we has, this way.”

Boromir followed, and was led to a butcher’s shop, which perhaps ought not to surprise him.

“He might go in, yes,” Sméagol suggested eagerly, “and ask how the shop’s doing- gollum!”

This, Boromir felt, was not unlike the traveling-habits of other Halflings. The notorious Bilbo Baggins had contrived a way to visit a pub on the way to the record halls. Merry and Pippin rarely had a real destination in mind that was not a pub, and other stops were incidental. Even practical and serious-minded Samwise had stopped in for a pint on the way to be shown a seed-shop.

It was just that Sméagol was not interested in ale.

“Very well,” Boromir conceded, for it seemed to him that there was little to do other than concede.

Inside, the butcher rushed forward. “Sméagol!” he said, paying no attention at first to Boromir.

“Yes- yes, it is,” said the creature, hanging back.

“I am pleased to see you,” said the butcher, slowly, enunciating. He had a bit of an accent. “How are you?”

“Well enough,” said Sméagol, also making an effort to slow his speech. “We’re old, yes, we feels it. But how is he? Does the butcher shop make money?”

From the look on the butcher’s face and the tilt of his head, Boromir inferred that he had found Sméagol’s speech incomprehensible. “I am about to close up shop,” he said, a little more loudly than before. “I have scraps I can’t sell. Do you want them?”

Sméagol bit his lip and looked bemused. He understood well enough when the man went behind the counter and picked up a scrap of meat, and he sat up.

“Hold,” said Boromir, drawing a look of anguish from the creature, “I am traveling with him tonight, and I would happily compensate you.”

Sméagol stared up at him. “How much is he going to spend? He’s bought us something already!”

Boromir did not have the heart to tell Sméagol his beloved new trinket had cost nearly nothing and was of little value. “I live alone,” he said instead. “My tastes are simple. I have little to purchase.” He passed a coin to the butcher, who took it and carried some scraps of meat to Sméagol. Rather than simply handing the food over and walking away, he crouched down and tore it into small, manageable scraps, holding them out one by one for Sméagol to take with his fingers and exclaim over before eating them.

“And you, sir,” the butcher asked, looking up at Boromir, “do you wish to bring home anything? My wares are discounted at the end of the day.”

It had finally happened- Boromir had not been recognized at all, and likely taken for Sméagol’s assistant- someone of the same station as Eardwulf. At another time, Boromir would surely have been offended, but now that did not even occur to him. It was in fact a bit of a relief, for a moment, to not be Lord Boromir and not have to live up to his reputation.

“I need nothing,” said Boromir, “but you have made Sméagol very happy, which pleases me. I have been tasked to find out something about how business fares in Minas Tirith, so if you would, I would be interested to hear how your business fares.”

“It fares well- as the people return to the city there is much need for meat. My supply cannot always keep up with demand, but I am not worse supplied than many others- and better than some.” Having finished giving Sméagol his treat, he went back behind the counter and wiped his hands on a cloth.

“That is good to hear,” said Boromir. “May I know your name?”

“Ivoron, son of Ivorchanar.”

“Ivoron,” Sméagol repeated, “nice name, yes!” He pointed to the cloth that the man still held. “Is it for cleaning? Sméagol has sticky hands.”

Ivoron may or may not have understood the words, but he understood the gesture. He handed Sméagol the cloth, and he cleaned his face and hands with it before handing it back.

Boromir thanked the butcher again, and they left.

Boromir was by now setting them a slow pace. His leg had been pressed to its limits, and was beginning to ache in a way he could not ignore, but Boromir was reluctant to admit such. Sméagol would be solicitous. This would not irritate Boromir in the way solicitousness from others might, but the experience of receiving honest pity from a creature that could no longer walk upright was one that made him think he ought to comport himself a little better.

“He knew us,” Sméagol said. "The butcher... Ivoron."

“Yes, he did! When did you first meet?”

“When we got lost. He gave us food then, too. He remembered us. He did not hate us!”

“Why would he hate you?” Boromir asked.

Instead of answering, Sméagol whimpered a little, looking close to tears- Boromir braced himself for them, but the creature regained his composure. "They are so rich," he said, raising his head and fixing his eyes on the high stone wall ahead. "These Men- so many shining things, so much food, so much..." He trailed off.

"High praise indeed," said Boromir, reflecting that Sméagol was most likely comparing the architecture of the city to Mordor at its height, which was an unpleasant thought- but though the works of Sauron had been foul, they had been mighty. "You are not even seeing the city at its best. This is Minas Tirith quieted- drained from war. The restoration of it has already begun, with the King, and this land will blossom more and more each day."

"There is more!"

"There will be more. I have already told you about the plans for the Gate. But that is for the future. Perhaps it is time we went back.” Boromir felt confident that Sméagol’s excessive energy had been discharged. In fact he looked a bit faint. 

"Go back..." Sméagol hesitated. “There’s no rush, is there?”

“No, but- suppose these came to grief?” Boromir gestured to the parcels under his arm.

Sméagol’s eyes went even rounder than they normally were. “Ach! They mustn’t! Yes- take them back!”

Boromir led him towards the gate.

“But still,” Sméagol lamented, “perhaps he could be careful- perhaps?”

“Are you reluctant to return?”

Sméagol blinked at his surroundings. He could see more than Boromir could, he suspected, for it was growing quite dark- another reason to end the outing, though Boromir did not wish to say so, out of consideration for his odd companion, who surely felt like a bit of an outcast when he was always left alone in the dark. “No,” he admitted. “But…” He looked as if he were at a loss.

“Perhaps we can plan another trip.”

“Yes! Yes, another. Another trip!”

“At a later time.”

“A later time, yes, yes. When?” He looked suddenly suspicious.

“This same time and day, next week,” Boromir offered.

“Yes! Yes, we will, precious!”

“Then I shall see you then.”

There was yet some distance to walk.

Sméagol yawned. Now that a future outing had been secured, he suddenly looked slower and sleepier. “Did the maps help?”

Boromir very nearly said ‘which maps’ before he remembered. “Yes! They were of much assistance!” In fact they had not really yet been studied, but the amount of effort that had gone into them was obvious.

“Good! Good, we will draw more if we thinks of them.”

A silence fell.

Boromir was the one to break it: “My father has been asking to see my brother, as of late.”

“Faramir?”

“Yes.”

“Wants to see his son, I suppose. Is it trouble?”

“My father has been cruel to my brother in the past, I fear he will be again, and I know not whether to pass along his request.”

Sméagol blinked up at him. “Cruel, eh? Sss. Don’t know his brother much, but Faramir is strong- is he not? Very strong. But perhaps Denethor doesn’t have permissions to see him? Shouldn’t see him? Shouldn’t see him if he’s just going to be nasty, perhaps.”

“That is the question,” said Boromir. “I have been unable to persuade him to tell me what he wishes to say. But does not my brother have a right to know he is sought?”

“Not sure.”

“Suppose Faramir should think it his duty to speak to our father when truly he does not wish it.”

“Is it his duty?”

Boromir considered this. “At one time I would have believed it to be so. But now, I cannot be certain.”

“Then neither can I. But-“ Sméagol yawned widely and looked a bit abashed- “Duties is things we don’t wish to do, but must?”

“Not all duties are chores,” said Boromir, with a glance down at the top of Sméagol’s head, bobbing along at his side, quite low to the ground. “Some are simply things to be done, and others are quite enjoyable. But others indeed are distasteful, or even painful, and we must do them regardless.”

“So either it is Faramir’s duty to speak to his father,” said Sméagol, “and so you must tell him, even if you do not like it and he will not like it- or it is not his duty, and you needn’t tell him- is that it?”

“I suppose that is it.”

“I don’t know,” said Sméagol, defeated.

“It matters not.” At least the question had been clarified a bit by Sméagol’s blunt rephrasing. Perhaps, if Boromir could not solve it soon, he could put it to Aragorn. Aragorn had once been Thorongil, and he had a certain understanding of Denethor that even Boromir did not have. “It has been pleasant to have something else to think on this eve.”

Eardwulf was waiting back at the building. Sméagol scurried up to him. “Been waiting for us all this time?” he asked.

“I have been here all this time,” said Eardwulf, “but I brought work to do, so I have not been idly waiting.”

Sméagol nodded and shuffled forward, moving to the window of his room. That, it seemed, was easier for him than the door.

“I shall give your present to Eardwulf to set up in your rooms,” Boromir called after him.

Sméagol turned, blinking. “Present- yes, yes! The nice Man, Sméagol is so grateful.”

“Tis no trouble. I enjoyed your company tonight.”

Sméagol looked back at him for a moment, and Boromir braced himself for a confusing dry comment, or stormy tears, but instead the creature’s countenance slowly took on an expression very like that of a contented and affectionate cat.

“Yes,” he said, in a tone verging on the maudlin, “he’s a lovely Man, isn’t he- bless him,” and he vanished into the room.

Eardwulf was manfully fighting laughter- Boromir had not thought to laugh until he saw the other man’s struggle, and now he had to turn away and shake his head and look at the sky and clamp his lips, for Sméagol would surely hear laughter from this distance and surely take it as mockery rather than affection.

“What present, my lord?” Eardwulf asked, after a moment had passed.

“A trifle from the shops.” Boromir checked to make sure that he had the fish, and not the horse, before passing it over. “It is easy enough to make him happy.”

Eardwulf nodded, felt the weight of the parcel, and looked briefly confused.

“An ornament,” Boromir explained. “He wished it to hang in the window, but I see he uses the window as an entryway.”

“I shall put it off to the side if needed. He does not need very much space.”

“I should like to take him on an outing at the same time this next week,” said Boromir.

“Yes, my lord. I will have him ready at that time.”

“Fare thee well.”

“Farewell.” Eardwulf went inside.

Boromir studied Sméagol’s window, and judged that the ornamental fish would indeed look well there. He turned towards home, with the wedding-gift for Faramir still securely under his arm.

It occurred to him that there had been never been a question of buying a present for Denethor.