Boromir of Gondor was weary.

Not the weariness that resulted from a night of drinking and telling tales in the solders' barracks, nor the weariness that came with an exhausting bout on the practice field, nor even the inevitable and painful weariness that plagued him during state occasions where he had to endure the inanities of the court's social life.

No, the weariness he now felt was not of the superficial, temporary sort. This weariness was in his bones, settling in from a long presence and the comfort it found in its host. Like a parasite, it ate away to feed its own hunger. Each passing day found this heavy beast within him demanding more of his strength than he could possibly afford to give.

The days themselves had succumbed to this disease, too tired to distinguish one from the other. As though in a gesture of defeat, they adopted a pattern of beginning and ending, as was expected, but filling the hours between with an unrelenting sameness.

Or was he only imagining it so?

As the miles passed , he had found little to occupy his mind. The monotony of the scenery, the unceasing beat of the horse's hooves and the perpetual rocking in the saddle were the only sounds and sights his ears and eyes experienced. After three days of pressing travel, he had devoted his attention to another object, the item that he bore, the thing that needed to be delivered, the whole purpose of this trying journey. He recited a riddle.

A riddle! He would dismiss it as nothing more than a rhyme that children sing-song in front of their pedagogue if it had not come to him in a dream that shattered his peace of mind, a dream accompanied by thunder and strange lights on the western horizon. A dream that had visited him after a dreadful assault where he had escaped with little more than his life. There was nothing innocuous about the eight lines that had shot through his consciousness like the surest of arrows. The weight of the meaning that lay hidden behind the words was heavy and forbidding.

Seek for the Sword that was broken:
In Imladris it dwells;
There shall be counsel taken
Stronger than Morgul-spells.
There shall be shown a token
That Doom is near at hand,
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,
And the Halfling forth shall stand.

There could be nothing harmless or absurd about this dream. His brother Faramir had had it several times, then it visited him. It meant something.

This dreadful mystery had first appeared to Faramir on the eve of a battle which he never thought he would survive. Standing his ground upon the last remaining bridge in the once-glorious city of Osgiliath, he had fought alongside Faramir and their small company of men. They bravely held it while the remnants of Gondor's eastern army retreated across it into safety. Upon that spot, he had suffered wounds and the full power of the enemy such as he had never known. A rolling shadow of crippling fear washed over Gondor's soldiers, paralyzing some into impotency, rendering them completely helpless. He knew not if fear of another kind had given the rest unknown strength to flee from it. If so, then he, along with Faramir and two others, had found that fear and drained it of all it offered. When the bridge was cast down behind them, only a swim to the western banks of the Anduin would save them from the enemy's rage. While the weakest among them were pulled to the bottom of the river and the eternal forgetfulness that awaited them there, a lone four resisted the pull of the currents, the weight of the water filling heavy tunics and armor, and the black fear that spread over the battlefield from the sky above.

The exhaustion of the battle and near escape, coupled with a shared dream, nearly broke his strength. But duty and desire to unravel the mystery had pushed him onto this road. He would live to hear the answer and return to Minas Tirith a wiser man. It was this determination that continued to see him through when a lesser man would have succumbed to the bruises, wounds and sheer fatigue that plagued him.

He would not surrender to it. And neither would his mount. At this point, he relied upon the sturdy gelding as much as he relied upon his own strength and purpose.

Leaning over his horse's neck, he scrubbed the thick and sweaty crest, chuckling with as much mirth as he could summon when the equine curled its lips back in pleasure. When he drew away his hand, he saw the mud streaked on his fingers, a reminder of the baked and dusty plains under the summer heat. A brief rain would be welcome, but the cloudless sky told him that such a wish was hopeless, at least for the moment.

The Gap of Rohan was nearing. There the River Isen would be waiting for him. He had only been this far west twice before and never progressing a step beyond the border of Rohan. All that lay beyond would be new territory. New sights. New roads. New dangers.

But he would not think upon that now. The Isen would be the last familiar thing he would see on this journey and he was determined to linger in its cool and cleansing embrace for as long as he felt necessary. He would need a renewed spirit before venturing into the unknown.