Disclaimer: Tolkien created Middle-earth and all who dwell therein.
Boromir was glad of the fur-lined cloak Amah had insisted he take. When he’d left, Gondor was hot and bright; he remembered rolling his eyes at Faramir, who’d shrugged helplessly – when she wanted something... she usually got her way.
Now, after many weeks travel, familiar landscapes had fallen away, the weather grew colder, the winds bit more fiercely with every dawn. As autumn slid into winter the cloak was a comfort on this increasingly wild goose chase.
Suddenly… three tall figures rose from the rocks, arrows nocked to bows:
“Whom do you seek... man?”
Boromir realised - he’d found them!
Rivendell did not lack winter comforts... that he had to admit. Things were strange here, a never-ending source of wonders, where, almost daily, legends sprang to life around him. A hobbit scuttled by, he was still working out which was which, clutching a large pan of cakes… the dwarfish boom that followed showed him who they’d been lifted from.
Soft chuckles came from a shadowed window-seat. Boromir stiffened… it was him! This one really unnerved him; not simply the revelation of his birthright… A heady mix of guilty desire swirled through Boromir…
In those eyes... too...?
Stiff-backed, Boromir walked away.
Of course, they’d had to leave as soon as possible; the Dark Lord stirred, opening gambits were in play… but a campaign begun in Winter...? It was never a good idea. Boromir shrugged his cloak tighter around him. They were all on foot with just a pack-horse, rations would be scarce and comforts few – what he hadn’t bargained for was the camaraderie: chattering hobbits, grumpy dwarf, impossibly graceful elf, Mithrandir’s mysterious pronouncements… and… Him.
Boromir was drawn, moth to flame...
‘Good cloak,’ was all he’d murmured,
“Share it...” Boromir blurted, dreading, hoping... knowing it should, could be, only winter’s comfort.