Boromir frowned as the Ranger, with his long stride, vanished down a corridor of Elrond’s house.
Aragorn son of Arathorn Elrond called him, and the scholars say the Northern Kings took such names as a sign of their claim. Underneath that battered cloak I see a man of Númenorean blood, and damn my eyes if that is not Elendil’s sword. Yet he spurns me, the Steward’s son of Gondor? Is the man mad?
Naturally, after the Council meeting, Boromir had sought out the one now revealed as Isildur’s Heir. But after allowing Boromir a close look at Narsil, Aragorn said, “We must delay further speech, I fear—the scouts leave at once to search for any remaining dangers to Frodo, and I must go with them.” He left Boromir standing there.
“I didn’t like him, either, at first,” said a voice behind him.
Boromir turned to see the Hobbit named Sam Gamgee.
“He wasn’t much to look at,” continued Sam, “when we met in Bree. Fit to scare the daylights out of honest folk, Strider was. Strange, too—you wouldn’t want him in your parlor. But I found out different.”
He paused, his brown eyes warm with sincerity. “Mr. Gandalf, he says we would never of got here without him. He says hardly nobody could have kept those Black Riders off Mr. Frodo the way Strider could. I saw it. Old Strider, he’s got a thing or two up his sleeve, and not just a broken sword, either.”
He nodded at Boromir with an encouraging smile.
Boromir gaped at the impudent little creature. What a strange place the North is! Cheeky Halflings, ragged kings. What next? Laughing, he took Sam’s hand. “I will keep your words in mind,” he said solemnly.
“You had better,” said Sam. “It’s plain Hobbit sense.”