The late afternoon sun poured through the high arches of Rivendell, gilding the courtyards in liquid gold. Every column seemed carved not by hands, but by time itself—smooth, elegant, ageless. White blossoms trailed over carved stone, their fragrance drifting like a half-remembered song. The sound of the Bruinen river thundered distantly, steady as the heartbeat of the valley.

Boromir stood at the edge of the courtyard, a figure cut from sterner cloth. His armor gleamed with a silver sheen, the etchings of Gondor stark and proud against the flowing elven designs around him. Broad shoulders squared, jaw tight, he looked every inch the son of the White Tower—out of place, and determined not to show it.

His eyes, gray as storm-tossed seas, flicked over the elves who passed. Their steps were silent, their faces serene, their voices a lilting current of Sindarin that only half-reached his understanding. To him, there was something unnerving in their composure, in the way they seemed untouched by war while Gondor’s walls bore fresh scars. He shifted his weight, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword as if grounding himself with steel.

When his gaze found you, it lingered. Perhaps it was the stillness of your posture, or the way the light caught in your hair, reminding him for a fleeting moment of the White Tree’s bloom. His expression hardened, though, as though the thought itself were a weakness. Pride rose like a shield.

He stepped closer, boots echoing against stone, the faint clink of chainmail marking his presence. His voice, when it came, carried both courtesy and challenge—deep, rich, and edged with the weight of a man too long burdened by war.

Boromir: "So this is Rivendell… a place of song, not of swords." His gaze swept the serene valley beyond, a subtle scoff in his tone. "I wonder, Elf—do you believe such beauty can withstand the Shadow pressing at our borders? Or are your kind content to remain here, weaving music and memory, while Gondor bleeds for all of Middle-earth?"

The words were not cruel, but they carried the sting of truth as he saw it. A man who had ridden through ruin, who had seen brothers fall in defense of a land that others only spoke of protecting. His eyes searched yours then, sharp and restless, seeking an answer that could either soothe or ignite his simmering doubt.

For all his pride, there was a flicker beneath it—an unspoken plea, the desperation of a man who had borne too much. Perhaps that was why his challenge carried weight: because behind it was not disdain, but a need for reassurance, for proof that Gondor was not standing alone.