Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: The Road Home (#1613)
Author: DinaLori
Chapters: 3
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Archive: Tolkien
Category: Alternate Universe (AU)
Description: After surviving Amon Hen, Boromir's guilt pushes him to make a desperate choice. Based mostly in movieverse, with some book elements.
Published: 16 Feb 2005
Updated: 06 Mar 2005
Warnings: 
Type: General
Characters: Boromir; Fellowship; OCs


Chapter 1 - The Breaking of the Fellowship

Author’s note: My eternal gratitude to Ariel, beta extraordinaire, and to Cindy for catching the mistakes I forgot to correct. Some dialog taken directly from either the books or movies.

Disclaimer: All belongs to master Tolkien, Houghton Mifflin Books, Peter Jackson, New Line Cinema and whoever else the lawyers want to say own a piece of the action.
Feedback both feared and craved

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter One: The Breaking of the Fellowship

It is said that when a man is near death the events of his life pass before his eyes. However, for Boromir, son of Denethor, all he could see were his failings. As he lay wounded beneath a tall tree, Boromir's mind played back all that had gone wrong in the last few hours of his life. He had failed to save Merry and Pippin from the beasts that now bore them off to a fate he did not know, nor wished to consider. He failed the fellowship by attempting to take the Ring from Frodo, and yet failed his father by not succeeding to do so. He disgraced his family's honor by attacking one he had sworn to protect. 

The others had warned him. Warned him of the corrupting power of the Ring, but he had been too blind to see it until it was too late. He had only intended to speak with Frodo, to try to convince him to let him use the Ring against the forces of Mordor. Boromir remembered carrying Frodo from the dark of Moria after Gandalf's fall. He remembered how light he felt in his arms, as though he were no more than a child. However, when Frodo refused him, a rage like none he had ever felt before rose up in him and Boromir used Frodo's small size to his advantage. He attacked, overpowering him and driving that small body to the ground as they struggled for control of the Ring. It was only by using the Ring's power that Frodo was able to escape. That act had only served to fuel the raging fire that consumed Boromir's soul.

"I see your mind! You will take the Ring to Sauron! You will betray us!" He shouted, his normally noble face twisted like a madman. "Curse you! Curse you and all the halflings!"

It was that curse, however, that brought him out from under the ring's spell. As soon as the words had left his lips, his mind flashed back to Merry and Pippin. From the swordplay lesson that had turned into a wrestling match, to the snows of Caradhras, holding one under each arm, carrying them through the deep snow. He remembered Merry's mischievous smile and Pippin's innocent, trusting eyes, and realized that during the two months they had traveled together he had developed a deep affection for the pair. No, he thought, I would sooner wish death upon myself than any harm come to them.

"Frodo? Frodo, what have I done?" He cried out. His voice was shaking from the shame and horror of his actions. "Please, Frodo. Frodo I'm sorry!" However, it was no use. He was nowhere to be found.

Boromir wandered through the forest, half hoping to come upon the ring-bearer, half dreading it. It was then that he heard it: the sounds of a battle being fought. He could hear the clash of sword meeting sword, the clamoring of armor and the grunts and shrieks of the Orcs. Franticly he began running towards them. He had almost reached the battle site when a new set of voices reached his ears and he froze in horror.

"Hey! Hey, you! Over here! Hey, over here!"

No, Merry! What are you doing!

"Hey! This way!" Pippin's voice was like a beacon to him, and he pushed his body harder than he had ever done before, desperately trying to reach them in time.
"It's working!"

Hold on little ones!

"I know it's working! Run!"

I'm almost there!

As Boromir rounded a patch of trees, he saw them. Merry and Pippin were trapped; Orcs were descending on them from all sides. One of the monsters reared back its arm and was about to deliver a fatal blow when Boromir reached them. He grasped the Orc’s arm mid swing and drove his sword into it. Taking the weapon from his dead opponent's hand, he quickly buried it into the back of another.

There is too many of them. We cannot hold out here. As soon as he had the chance, he quickly put the Horn of Gondor to his lips and sounded it. Hurry Aragorn, we will not last much longer.

"Run!" Boromir called to the frightened hobbits. He stepped in front of another Orc and swiftly dispatched it only to have two more take it's place. Boromir's only thought was to put as much distance between them and the approaching hoard. "Run!" He called again, but Merry and Pippin would no sooner leave Boromir alone in battle than he would leave them. Dropping their swords, they spied a more hobbit like weapon: throwing stones. As all trespassing beasts in the shire knew, if any hobbit stooped for a stone, it was best to get under cover quickly. One after another, the little warriors found their targets and made fast work of them. Boromir was beginning to have hope that they might survive the encounter when it happened.

He did not notice the figure approaching-not until its arrow had buried itself deep in his shoulder. Boromir staggered and dropped to his knees. Time seemed to slow, and the world suddenly lurched to the side, like a ship's deck tossed by rough waves. Dazed, he drew a ragged breath and looked to where the arrow's shaft protruded from his body. It was difficult for him to tell how bad the injury was, life or death was often decided by less than an inch.

His mind quickly came back into focus as he realized the Orcs were now approaching Merry and Pippin. Gathering all his strength, he launched himself from the ground and buried his sword into three more of them. Boromir turned in time to see the creature ready another arrow and release it. Quickly he brought his sword up and batted the arrow away. More Orcs approached; again and again, Boromir fought them back. His strength was beginning to fail, his arms were like leaded weights and his lungs burned as though he were breathing fire. Again, he saw the Orc prepare to fire, only this time he did not move fast enough. Shifting to his right, he was not able to completely escape the arrow’s path and it pierced his arm just above his elbow. The added pain from this new assault, coupled with weakness from blood loss, finally drove Boromir to his knees for good. He watched helplessly as Merry and Pippin were carried off screaming, reaching out to him, looking towards him in desperation and sorrow. Slowly he closed his eyes, and a pain worse than any caused by weapon welled in his heart.

Forgive me. Boromir's soul cried out. Forgive me for failing you, my brothers. Opening his eyes, he saw the creature standing directly in front of him. It was larger and more deadly than a simple Orc. Is this one of the Orc soldiers of Saruman that Gandalf spoke of? The Uruk-hai?

He saw the rage in its evil eyes that its prey had dared to evade two of its shots. It drew back a final arrow, aimed at Boromir's heart. He knew there would be no escape this time. Boromir took one last breath and stared into the eyes of his assassin, unwilling to give it the satisfaction of showing it his fear. I can at least die with honor. Unable to keep from trembling, he waited for the blow that would end his life. At that moment, Boromir saw movement from the corner of his eye. Aragorn. The arrow was released just as Aragorn reached them. Boromir quickly pushed himself to the side, the arrow missing him by hair's breadth.

Slowly he crawled to the shelter of a tree, resting his back against its base. As he lay on the cold earth, he helplessly listened as Aragorn battled this new breed of Orc. He tried to move, tried to help him, but his body refused to obey his commands. With each new sound, his sense of dread grew. Boromir heard Aragorn give one final yell, and then the thud of a body falling to the ground reached his ears. He closed his eyes and waited; who would he see when he opened them? Would it be the ranger? Or would he again look into the face of death? As footsteps approached, he heard a single word uttered and hope swelled in his heart.

"No."

It was Aragorn. He was alive. Boromir knew there was not time to waste. The Orcs that has taken Merry and Pippin were moving swiftly. Aragorn had to be quick if he was to catch them.

"They took the little ones!" he cried as Aragorn knelt by his side.

"Hold still." Aragorn began examining Boromir's wounds, trying to determine the extent of his injuries.

As he watched Aragorn's hands move over his chest, Boromir had a sudden flash of panic. The Ring! "Frodo, where is Frodo?" he asked, fearing what Aragorn would say.

"I let Frodo go."

"Then you did what I could not." Relief flooded Boromir's mind. At least the Ring is still safe.

"Leave it." He pleaded as Aragorn moved to work on the arrow imbedded in his shoulder. "You must follow the Orcs. You cannot let harm come to Merry and Pippin."

"We cannot leave you unprotected. You are too weak, too badly injured to defend yourself if attacked again."

"They were not after me. Once they had the halflings I meant nothing to them." Boromir was desperate. The more time Aragorn wasted on him, the greater the danger to the hobbits. "You must save them. Aragorn please, do not let my failure be complete."

"No Boromir, you did not fail. You fought bravely. You have kept you honor."

"No," Boromir felt his face grow hot with shame, "I attacked Frodo. I tried to take the Ring. Forgive me, I did not see."

"I know. Frodo told me as much. He said that the Ring had taken you. He cast no blame on you Boromir, nor do I. The Ring is beyond our reach now. It will call to you no longer. Now keep still, I need to stop the bleeding."

Aragorn pulled a small knife from his belt and began to cut Boromir's clothing away from the arrow. Wiping the blood from around the wound Aragorn's fingers gently traced along the veins where his skin was pierced. Satisfied that no major vessels had been hit, nor any serious damage done he let a small smile cross his lips. "You were lucky. Had the arrow struck you even a fraction of an inch to the right I doubt I would be able to help."

Legolas and Gimli had joined them by then. While the dwarf ran for the pack containing their healing herbs and supplies Legolas knelt by his side. Whispering reassurances softly, he placed his hand on Boromir's chest near the arrow. Boromir could feel the frantic pounding in his chest slowed to a more normal rate, as calmness wash over him. There was still hope that the hobbits would be rescued. 

"I promise you Boromir," Aragorn said, looking intently into Boromir's eyes, "We will not abandon Merry and Pippin to torment and death. We will follow the Orcs' trail." Boromir cried out in pain as Aragorn swiftly pulled the arrow out. "After we have treated your injuries."

Boromir said nothing further as Aragorn and Legolas administered to him. When Aragorn removed the second arrow, he was better prepared for the pain and merely drew a sharp breath. Once they felt satisfied moving him would not cause more damage they helped him to his feet, and slowly they made their way back to camp. Gimli had built a fire and was heating water to clean the wounds and Aragorn set aside a small amount into which he added various herbs. He brought the mixture to Boromir and held it up to his lips.
"Drink. It will aid you to regain your strength."

Boromir forced down the bitter draught without complaint. He wanted them to stop fussing about him and be on their way as soon as possible.

“Aragorn,” Legolas began. “Frodo and Sam have already reached the eastern shore. Should we not follow them?”

Boromir froze. Legolas was right, their main concern should be aiding the ring-bearer to reach Mordor. But how could they even consider leaving Merry and Pippin to the mercy of their captors?

“Frodo and Sam must continue the journey alone,” Aragorn answered after a moment. “This was Frodo’s choice. He feared the Ring would corrupt us each in turn.” Boromir flinched at that, and wondered if Aragorn intended reveal his shame. But he merely continued. “Frodo’s last request of me was to look after the others, especially Sam. With Sam following him, our responsibility now rests with rescuing Frodo’s kin.”

“And what of our responsibility to Boromir?” Gimli asked gruffly. “He is in no shape to pursue the Orcs. Are we to just leave him here unprotected?”

“I can care for myself,” Boromir insisted. “I have suffered worse injuries before. I have been a soldier all my life, I know how to survive while injured.”

“I know you do laddie.” Gimli leaned forward and clasped Boromir’s good shoulder. “But the land has grown more perilous in recent days.” He appeared to be deep in thought for a moment, then finally spoke. “I will stay with you.”

“No, you must go,” he said, propping himself up into a sitting position. “Gimli, you are one of the fiercest warriors I have ever encountered. If there is to be any hope to save the Hobbits, you must go with them.”

“Boromir is right.” All eyes turned to Aragorn as he spoke. “The Orcs numbers are too great. We must stay together if we are to succeed. Gimli, Legolas, go through our packs. Take only what we need, we must travel light.” Aragorn then knelt at Boromir’s side. “Boromir, I know you would accompany if us if you could, but you are too weakened by your wounds to keep up. The arrows were not poisoned, so as long as you keep the wounds clean and rest as often as it is safe, you should recover quickly.”

Boromir leaned back and watched as the three prepared to leave. They took only weapons, water and lembas, leaving all else at the camp. At last, Aragorn approached him caring two packs.

"I'm leaving you some of the athelas plant," Aragorn began. "Crush some into warm water and bathe the wounds twice a day with it. Also, I have filled a water skin with the draught I made earlier. Try to drink as much of it as you can." He placed the supplies at Boromir's side. "You must try to keep your arm still. Any jarring movements could cause the wounds to reopen. Were the road ahead of you safer, I would bind your arm to your side, but I fear you may need both to defend yourself."

"I understand Aragorn. I will rest here a while longer, and then be on my way." Boromir replied. His voice showed no sign of emotion.

"Where will you go?"

"I will make my way to Minas Tirith. There are a few scattered villages between here and the White City. I will seek shelter and aid from them."

“Good.” Aragorn nodded “The first settlement you encounter, stay there as long as you need.” Aragorn stood and looked into his friend's eyes. Gone was the dark and haunted look that he had seen so often in the later days of the fellowship. However, what he saw now disturbed him even more. An emptiness had taken possession of Boromir now, giving him the appearance of one already dead.

"Boromir," Aragorn said over his shoulder as he prepared to depart, "it was not you. The Ring took hold of you. Even Frodo understood that."

Boromir watched as the three remaining members of the fellowship departed. Laying his head back, he felt a single tear fall. "No Aragorn, not all of it was the ring. A part of it was me. And that," he said softly, "is what frightens me most of all."


Chapter 2 - A New Path

 It was a dream. It had to be, Boromir thought as he slowly drifted back towards consciousness. Please. Please, let it have been a dream. 

For a brief moment, he thought perhaps it was. Just some terrible nightmare. He had not fallen under the Ring's power. He would open his eyes and see the seven remaining members of the Fellowship. However, upon moving, the sharp pain in his shoulder told him that it was not a dream, and his sense of failure came crashing down on him once more.

Aragorn had tried to reassure him, to convince him that he was not to blame for falling into its snare. "The Ring took you." But how could he know for sure? He was the only one it seduced: Aragorn had been offered the Ring and he had had the strength to refuse it. Frodo was able to carry it and not be touched by its malignant power.

Why me? Boromir wondered. Why did it set its sights on me? Did it sense some weakness, some quality that I lack? Or is there another reason? Did it find some spark of evil in me that it brought forth?

"The ring is beyond our reach now." Aragorn had said.

Then why can I still feel its presence?

He could feel it clinging to him, coating his skin, seeping into his pores, burrowing into his soul. The foul stench of it was all around him. Boromir felt as though he had been wallowing in the sewers of Osgiliath for days. He felt dirty.

He cautiously moved towards the river's edge trying not to re-injure his arm. Removing his clothing, he ignored the bitter cold and submerged himself into the river. He moved his hands over his skin, rubbing away the dirt and sweat and blood that was coating it. He dunked his head again, running his fingers through his hair. Again and again, Boromir washed himself, scrubbing until his skin was red and raw. Still he could feel the Ring. As if it had left behind some residue of evil that he would never be rid of. The icy waters of the Anduin bit at his flesh, making his teeth chatter and his chest tighten to the point where he could barely breathe. Reluctantly, he returned to shore.

Drying himself with a blanket, he quickly began to put on his shirt and mail. Boromir winced as he moved his arm. Remembering Aragorn's warning to keep his arm still he slowed his pace, allowing his injured muscles to adjust to the movements. As he reached for his tunic, he stopped suddenly and looked at it. Made from the finest silk and decorated with elaborate gold embroidery, it marked its wearer as one born into the best of families. It was the garment of a Noble, not a traitor. Boromir felt his chest tighten again. This simple piece of fabric that he once wore with pride now represented all he was not. Next to it, he saw where Aragorn had placed the broken pieces of the Horn of Gondor. Passed down through many generations of his family, it had been carried by the eldest son of the Steward since the beginning of the line. Now that tradition was ended because of him.

Because of my failure. It all comes back to that. I was weak, and now all that I hold dear is either destroyed or in greater peril than before.

He turned his gaze away and finished dressing. The world suddenly began to spin and he had to sit down to avoid passing out. The few hours of sleep he had had were not enough to restore his strength, but Boromir knew that with Orcs patrolling the area, the less time he spent in one place, the safer he would be. He began to gather the supplies that he would need for the journey home. Aragorn and the others had left behind much for they needed to move quickly. He had watched the Orcs that had taken Merry and Pippin. They moved with a speed he had never seen before, and Aragorn had wasted much time tending to his injuries.

If Aragorn fails to catch up with them…No! He would not, could not think that way. They would be safe. Yes. Aragorn will find them. Rescue them. He has to. Boromir took a deep breath, trying to calm his mind. He has to.

He felt numb. Not just from the cold, he felt as though something inside of him had died. He had seen it in soldiers before. Men, who had once been full of life, suddenly became empty shells. They had seen too much. Too many of the evils of the world to ever find peace again. They no longer lived; they just merely existed.

Is that to be my fate? To go through life never feeling again? Is that my punishment for falling to the Ring? It would have been better if I had died in battle. A stray thought then came to his mind. Perhaps I did die. As strange a thought as that was, Boromir considered it. All that Boromir of Gondor was, is now gone. The honor. The pride. The belief that he was a noble man who would never willingly cause harm to an innocent. All gone.

It could be so easy. Just disappear somewhere, Rohan perhaps. His name might be known but few people here had seen his face. A new name, a new life. One that did not have so many black marks against it.

That is it. It is the only way. He decided. I will become someone else. 

He began busying himself about the campsite in preparation. He placed the broken horn at one end of his tunic and carefully began to wrap it, as if he were swaddling a newborn. He placed it, along with the cloak and golden belt that were his gifts from the Lady Galadriel, into one of the Elven boats.

He then turned his attention to his vambraces. From somewhere deep inside him he heard an anguished cry. They had been a gift from his uncle, the Prince of Dol Amroth, when he became Captain. Faramir had been given a similar pair in turn when he too had achieved the rank of Captain of the Rangers. He clutched them tightly to his chest. He knew they should be left with the rest. But no, these he would keep. A reminder of who he had once been. Reverently he traced the silver outline of the tree of Gondor that adorned them.
The tree of the king. Aragorn.

He knew now that Aragorn was meant to be the King. He had seen it in him during their long journey together. In the way he had taken command after Gandalf's fall, the way he argued their case when confronted by the Galadhrim, in the way he had tried to offer him comfort in Caras Galadhon. He could see this, and yet Aragorn himself could not. He knew Aragorn doubted his own strength, and had tried on several occasions to make him see the truth, but the Ring had clouded his mind. His words, intended to hearten Aragorn, instead came out as a spiteful accusation:

"Have you so little faith in your own people? Yes, there is weakness. There is frailty. But there is courage also, and honor to be found in men. But you will not see that. You are afraid! All your life, you have hidden in the shadows. Scared of who you are, of what you are."

He had wanted to tell Aragorn of his faith in him. Wanted to tell him that he had been wrong when he had said that Gondor needed no king. Gondor did need its king. Gondor needed him. Lying on the forest floor, watching as Aragorn fought for both their lives he had wanted to tell him that he finally understood Galadriel's message to him. "Sill there is hope left" she had said in his mind. It was Aragorn. Aragorn was their hope. Now he feared that he would never have the chance.

There is one more failure to add to your list. He heard a voice in his head say. You have failed your king as well. With the Ring you thought you could defeat Mordor. You thought you would have been the Steward who saved Gondor.  Powerful and fierce enough to inspire fear in the hearts of its enemies. Yet benevolent and wise towards its people. You would have restored your kingdom to its former glory. You were a fool.

He forced the thoughts from his mind. There was still more to do. He knelt down on a rock that hung over a small still pool at the river's edge. Dipping his hands into the water, he wet his face and pulled his dagger from its sheath. He held the blade at an angle against his skin and began the task of shaving his beard. It was less common to see a man without a beard, but not so unusual that he would draw attention to himself. The blade was not nearly sharp enough for the task, but he ignored the cuts and burning, and did not stop until he was satisfied every whisker had been removed. He then grasped a handful of hair and began cutting away his long locks, until he cropped his hair close against his scalp. Once finished, he leaned over the edge of the rock and gazed into still waters below it. It was the face of a stranger that reflected back to him.

Straightening up, he turned towards to the Elven boat he had prepared earlier. All the vestiges of his former life, save his vambraces and weapons, were carefully arranged and waiting for him. Before moving forward in his plans, he stopped to consider his shield. It was a valuable defense if caught in battle. However, it was too identifiable. The brass band in the center was decorated with seven stars at the top, and the wings of the sea kings along the bottom, symbolizing his Numenorean heritage. No, he could not risk keeping it. With a sigh, he placed it at the stern of the boat.

Besides, Aragorn carried no shield in battle. He did not need to. I've grown too dependant on it.

It was time. He straightened his shoulders and prepared himself for what he was about to do. He grasped the side of the boat and waded out into the river until he was waist deep. With one great push, he sent the boat and its contents off on its final journey, down to the falls of Rauros and beyond. He watched unmoving as the small craft disappeared over the edge of the falls, and then slowly returned to shore.

Gathering his weapons and the few supplies he would be taking with him, he double-checked that he had remembered the athelas and the draught Aragorn had left him. He paused briefly, and looked around the campsite.

Here is where Boromir drew his last breath. Here is where the Captain of Gondor fell in battle, defending his companions. They will look for his coming from the White Tower, but he will not return. Rest in peace Boromir, son of Denethor.

He turned from the place that was his past, slung his pack over one shoulder and walked away. A new life had begun.


Chapter 3 - Nightmares and Visions

Chapter 3

The sun beat down as a lone figure staggered across the plains of Rohan. He had walked for over two days now, stopping only when his body refused to go on. Water and waybread were his only sustenance. His muscles ached, his skin burned. 

I was supposed to do something… What was it? Cannot remember… Cannot think. He stopped and shook his head, as if to dislodge the information from its hiding place. The draught. Yes, that was it. Drink from the waterskin… He said it would restore my strength. He took several long gulps of the liquid before continuing. Aragorn. My captain. My king. I should have told him. Should have said something. Now, it is too…no. There is no point in thinking about that now. Must keep going. Where to? Away. Just away. Where nobody knows me.

He stepped forward, almost falling. Even though the winds were bitter cold, sweat beaded on his forehead. His breathing labored, he swayed from side to side as he moved on. He should not be pushing himself so hard, he knew. The flesh around the arrow wounds burned and throbbed with the slightest movement.

Infected, he thought as he cradled his injured arm. Athelas. I was supposed to clean the wounds with the athelas. I should stop and build a fire. Rest. Care for my injuries. No. No shelter, the land is too open. I would be leaving myself vulnerable to attack.

He pushed himself onward. Again, his footsteps faltered, this time causing him to drop to his knees. Try as he might, he could not bring himself to his feet. His vision began to blur and darken as he fell on his side. As the darkness overtook him, one thought came to his mind. Is this what it feels like to die?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Boromir walked along the empty streets of Minas Tirith. The sun was hidden, casting the city in a strange blue-grey light. There was no sound but his footsteps. No movement, not even a breeze to stir the banners. 

This should not be.

He passed through the first levels without encountering anyone. No guards, no citizens. No one. Up and up he went, through the twisting streets, all the way to the Citadel. To The White Tower of Ecthelion. For many months now he had longed to see it again. But now, in this strange half-light world, the sight of it filled him with dread. Slowly he made his way to the Tower Hall, all the while looking around him for any sign of life. 

"Hello?" The echo of his call was the only answer he heard. Where are the guards? The councilors? Anyone?

At the far end of the hall, on the lowest step of a dais, he saw a man seated in a chair. His head bowed, he showed no sign of movement. Immediately Boromir recognized him. 

"Father!" He ran as fast as he could, until he stood directly in front of him. "Father, what has happened?"

"A halfling," Denethor said slowly. He did not raise his eyes, but kept looking down. "You were defeated by a mere halfling. Where is the gift you were to bring me? Were you not instructed to bring the weapon of the enemy to Gondor? But what did you do? You let our only chance to defeat the Dark Lord slip through your fingers."

"No, that's not true." He had to make his father understand. "The Ring would have destroyed Gondor, not saved it. It nearly cost me my life!"

"And what is worse," Denethor continued, raising his head to meet his son's gaze, "you befriended our rival! The one who would rob you of your birthright. Who would take away from us all that our family has fought so long and hard to defend. You were actually going to swear allegiance to him." His voice grew hard and cold. "You would have betrayed your own blood and set this usurper upon the throne."

"Aragorn is the heir of Isildur. By right, the rule of Gondor is his. Father," he pleaded. "Try to understand. He is a good man. He will be a good king."

"You are a traitor!" Denethor stood, shaking with rage. "You are as useless to me as Faramir."

"Do not compare him to me."

Boromir turned quickly toward the new voice. "Faramir!"

He moved to embrace his brother, but Faramir brushed past him to stand before their father. "It is true; I would not have brought you the Ring. But neither would I have assaulted the one who bore it." He turned to Boromir, a disgusted look on his face. "You promised to aid him. "Gondor will see it done," you said at the council. However, you never intended to make good on that promise, did you? You never revealed to anyone the real reason you were at Imladris. That you had been sent to retrieve the Ring. You let them think you would have journeyed with them all the way to Mordor. But then as soon as you were alone with the Ringbearer, you attacked. You would have killed him to get the Ring!"

The images of his last encounter with Frodo played in Boromir's mind. "It could have been mine. It should be mine! Give it to me!"

"No! I wouldn't have." Boromir could feel his chest tighten as he began to panic. "I would have stopped. I tried to stop! It was the Ring! It took control of me; I had no power over what I was doing! Faramir, please," he begged. "You have to believe me."

"How could you disgrace yourself so? All those years I looked up to you. I thought you were a hero." Faramir looked at him, his eyes emotionless. "But you're nothing but a fraud."

He could take no more. Boromir turned and ran. Through doorways and down corridors. He paid no mind to where he was or where he was headed. All he could think of was to get away. He felt as if he were in a never-ending maze of twists and turns. At last, he threw himself into an open threshold and slammed the door behind him. Resting his head against the cool stone of the wall, he tried to catch his breath.

This is not real. This cannot be real. What is this place? He felt his eyes sting, as tears threatened to spill. Faramir, please forgive me.

He pushed himself away from the wall and gasped as he turned to look at his surroundings. Home. My chamber. My bed. I am home. Everything was just as he had left it. Boromir moved forward and collapsed onto his bed. He felt his body relax as it settled into the familiar contours of the mattress. Turning onto his back, he caught a glimpse of a figure standing in the shadows.

"Who's there?" he demanded. "Who are you?" Was this some new tormentor, come to punish him further for his moment of weakness?

"It's all right, no one will hurt you. You're safe now," a woman answered him.

"Show yourself." He felt strangely calmed by her voice. It was familiar, like something from a half remembered dream. As she came closer, he stared in shock as the light played across her face. "Mother?" How is this possible? "Is it really you?"

"Hush." She sat next to him on the bed, and placed her fingers against his lips, silencing him. "Everything will be all right.” She raised her hand to stroke his brow. "I know you' have suffered terribly. However, it is over now. You are safe."

He let his gaze travel along her features. Many years had passed since Finduilas’ death, but the image of her now before him was the same as he remembered. Her long golden hair tinged with red, her warm smile, her gentle blue eyes. Faramir's eyes. He suddenly realized. Why did I never notice how much he favors her before?

"Am I dead? Is that what is happening?" Boromir could feel the tears welling up in his eyes. He had only been a boy when his mother died, leaving him and Faramir alone with an increasingly cold and distant father. 

“No, you are not dead, but you are close to it." Gently she took his hand and held it close to her heart. "Boromir you must understand, you were not to blame for what happened. You fought with every bit of strength you had to save your friends. Yes, you made a mistake. But that was the Ring's doing, not yours. It took your desperation to help Gondor and twisted it to its own plans. Do not give in to it. Do not let it stop you from all that you have yet to do." 

“There is nothing I can do now. I dare not show my face after what I have done. Mother, everything has gone wrong and it is my fault. Father believes I am a traitor. Faramir wants nothing to do with me. Orcs have captured Merry and Pippin... I've failed everyone.” The tears that had been threatening to fall finally spilled over. “I’ve missed you so much. It was so hard for Faramir and I after…after…”

She brought his hand to her lips and brushed a kiss across his fingers. "I'm so sorry. I am sorry I was not there for you and your brother. I did not want to leave you. I held on a long as I could. I loved you both so much." She leaned forward to place a kiss on his forehead, then stood, and began slowly backing away from the bed.

"No, please don't." His heart ached as she faded into the shadows. "Do not leave me again."

After a time he heard her again. "It's all right, no one's leaving you." She soon reappeared, but this time something in her voice was different. Standing at the foot of the bed, she removed his boots, and then, moving to his side, began the task of stripping off his surcoat, chain mail and shirt. Though no less gentle, her movements seemed to lack the familiar warmth they had just moments earlier.

"Ah, dear me! How were you able to walk in this condition?" Boromir followed her gaze to his chest. The arrow wound had reopened and blood flowed from it, painting his chest scarlet. The surrounding flesh was red and swollen, a sign that infection had set in.

"There now, dear," She reached for a basin of cool water and began washing away the sweat, blood and grime. "I know you're tired and hurting. But I need you to open your eyes for me. Can you do that?"

"I don't understand." He blinked in surprise at her request. "They are open."

"No, child, they're not. You're still dreaming."

Dreaming? He tightly closed his eyes and, taking a deep breath, opened them again. The image of his chamber dissolved. Looking around, he saw he was in the back of a covered wagon. He could feel movement as it gently rocked from side to side traveling over uneven terrain. Baskets and boxes were scattered about, and drying herbs hung from poles. He turned his attention to the woman sitting next to him.

"There now. That's better." She smiled, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead. 

No, she is not mother. Her hair was silver and her face lined with age. Her eyes brown not blue, but he saw in them the same kindness his mother's always possessed. 

"It's about time you woke up. We were worried, you've been half out of your mind with fever since we found you."

"Found me? Who? When?" He began to sit up, only to have her push him back onto the mattress.

"Now you be still, you're not fit to be getting up just yet. My name is Haelend," she said. "I'm the healer for our village. Some of the men found you shortly before midday. You were lying in the road; half-dead, it seemed at the time. Just what were you doing out there all alone?"

He did not know how to answer her. He had not thought he would need an alias so soon. What could he say? Stall her. Buy some time to think of an answer. "Water, please." He tried to make his voice as weak as possible. If she thinks I am too ill to speak, maybe she will not press me for details.

"Oh, of course. You poor thing. You must be dying of thirst." With one hand, she raised his head and with the other brought a small wooden cup to his lips.

He drank slowly, his mind racing for some story that would satisfy her. Stay close to the truth, He decided. Less chance of a slip-up later on. "My companions and I were attacked by Orcs. I was wounded during the fight."

"So your friends just left you to fend for yourself?" Her horror at the thought was clear.
"They had no choice. Two of our company were taken captive. The danger to them was greater than to me."

"I understand the need for haste." She nodded, her face grim. "Our village was attacked the night before last. We had to leave almost all our belongings, livestock… whatever we could not quickly gather and carry. But we would never leave one of our neighbors behind." Haelend moved to the opposite side of the wagon and began pouring the contents of various bottles into a large bowl. "Luckily I keep most of my herbs and supplies here. It makes it easier traveling from farm to farm," she explained. "Otherwise I might have had to leave it behind." She finished with the mixture, poured a small amount into the cup, and brought it to him. "Now, this draught is almost the same as the one you had with you. Most of that had spilled on the ground when we found you, but there was enough left for me to know what was in it. I've added a few ingredients to help fight the infection." She could not help but smile when he grimaced at the thought of drinking more of the foul tasting liquid. "I've also added honey to sweeten it."

He tentatively sipped it at first, but then drained the cup in two large swallows, surprised at its pleasant taste. As he passed the cup back to her, he felt the wagon lurch to a stop.

"Well, it looks like we're finally stopping for the night. Dinner will be prepared shortly; I will bring you some when it is ready. Just try to rest till then." She smiled at him as she rose. "By tomorrow we'll reach safety. Then you'll have the time you need to get well." As she left the wagon, she turned to him once more. "Don't you worry yourself. Once we get to Helm's Deep, our troubles will be over."
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