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

Title: Boromir's Journey Amon Hen to Minas Tirith (#1272)
Author: Carolyn
Chapters: 12

Archive: Tolkien
Category: Alternate Universe (AU)
Description: With the help of his friends Boromir has survived his wounds at Amon Hen. In Minas Tirith he must deal with his father's opposition to Aragorn, and also his hostility toward Faramir. There are those who would see the city brought down from within, and they seek Boromir's death.
Published: 19 Sep 2004
Updated: 05 Apr 2005
Warnings: None
Type: General
Characters: Boromir; Faramir; Gandalf; Denethor; Gimli;


Chapter 1 - Amon Hen

BOROMIR'S JOURNEY

Carolyn Golledge

UPDATE APRIL 8 -- I realize I had listed my old email on this page, though the new one is listed further on. I may have to take this story offline soon as deadline for print approaches. So please contact me for details if you would like the missing chapters emailed to you (I've written much more that would take too long to edit into this version online before the deadline) Also if you have feedback I'd be most appreciative. Email me at cgolledge@bigpond.com THANKS! Carolyn

January 19 2005 AUTHOR'S NOTICE I have signed a contract with a zine agent who wants to sell this story in zine format at Media West Con in Lansing Michigan USA May 27-30. Therefore I will soon have to take the story offline but it will be posted again ASAP after May. Meantime, before that contract deadline kicks in, I will post as much as possible that I have polished. THere are several more chapters in early draft form as well as scenes I have added to earlier chapters.

I am eager to see the story in print form with color art covers and illustrations. It should be over 200 pages! If you would like details on how to buy a copy and you can't be at MWCOn please contact me as my agent will also mail copies within USA and Canada. I can arrange copies for other countries. Oh and we're looking for more artists for illustration work for Boromir's Journey.








NEW EMAIL

Carolyn cgolledge@bigpond.com

BOROMIR"S JOURNEY HOME

'Whoever pursues righteousness and kindness will find life and honour.'

- Proverbs


Chapter One: Amon Hen.

“Run!”
The tremendous thudding impact of a second arrow staggered Boromir, shattering his left shoulder and near-blinding him with blazing agony. He gasped and shook sweat from his eyes. He was not aware of falling, but found he was down again on his knees. Another towering thickly muscled Urukhai was almost on top of him, snarling bloodlust. Boromir’s left arm hung limp and useless from the broken shoulder. Forcing a breathless battle-cry, he lunged, holding his sword one-handed and plunging hard into enemy flesh. He pulled it free with shuddering effort, and felt the deeply embedded arrows tear further through the muscles of side and shoulder. Somehow he stumbled back to his feet and felled another monstrous Uruk. He turned a little, checked that Merry and Pippin were behind him, retreating uphill.
He no longer had breath to call for help on the horn. Still the Uruk-hai came at him, their crude savage blades hacking and swinging from all directions. Merry and Pippin threw stones, slowing some, and jumped in to finish an enemy with their daggers as he hacked it down. He could barely breathe, the pain tightening his chest, robbing him of air as he strained to keep fighting. Beneath the leather gauntlet his hand was slippery with sweat and he struggled to maintain his one handed grip on the sword hilt. Desperately, he lunged, drove it forward and slashed back again and again. The ground, the sky, the trees, whirled and he shook his head dizzily. It was difficult to keep his balance. His legs were weakening, his heart beating frantically, blood roaring in his ears and his throat burning. No one came to his aid and he feared all were dead.
Thud! A third arrow. He reeled back, gave a grunting cry of shocked agony, and his legs went out from under him. His knees slammed into the thick leaf litter and earth. His fingers still clutched the sword but its weight was beyond him. Dazed, barely conscious, he forced away the darkness that edged his vision. Sweat streamed into his eyes. The evil black fletching of the third arrow almost touched his chin. Its thick shaft protruded from his chest, very close to his heart. Splintered ribs grated and stabbed with every attempt at breathing. He gasped, choked, but could not draw a full breath. He lifted his head. Merry and Pippin were standing staring at him with shock and horror filling their eyes. Run! He gulped, laboured for air, but could not voice the word. For a long moment he held their eyes, silently begging them to run. He had failed, yet they would not leave him. The enemy crashed through undergrowth and dry leaves, coming closer, ready to claim them.
Shouting wordless defiance, Merry and Pippin charged the enemy, creatures ten times their size. They seek to protect me! Boromir struggled, but could not so much as lift his arm let alone get back to his feet. The flaring agony of his wounds was all consuming. He was utterly helpless and the enemy ignored him, trotting past as if he were already dead. Two of the monsters swept Merry and Pippin easily from their feet, contemptuous of their punching and kicking small arms and legs. Boromir saw that they called to him still as they were hauled away.
It was over. He could fight no more. Something moved ahead of him – the archer coming closer, coming for the kill. It was all Boromir could do to remain slumped on his knees. With the last of his strength he lifted his eyes, gave his killer a steady, calm regard. Pain threatened to tear consciousness from him. His other friends must be dead, and the two he most sought to protect, his little ones were taken to torture. Despairing, crushed by breathless agony, he could find little defiance. The Uruk-hai archer’s eyes were cold yellow pits, satisfied, full of bloodlust, its pointed teeth bared in a savage slash of triumph. Boromir did not flinch as the creature nocked another arrow, prepared to finish him. All he could think, all he could see, was Merry and Pippin’s horror as they were captured, taken from him by this seemingly unending tide of Orcs.
Now, only Boromir and the Uruk remained. In the sudden silence, the strain and creak of the bowstring was plainly heard. The Uruk was enjoying this, taking his time, further torturing him with his defeat, his helplessness. Then, a blur of movement, a shout, and someone rammed full force into the Uruk. Aragorn! One of the Fellowship at least was still alive and fighting. Relief flooded him with darkness and he toppled to lie on his side in the soft, dry leaf litter. He clung tenaciously to consciousness. He must send Aragorn after Merry and Pippin.
Faintly, he heard thuds, strains, grunts and gasps of pain as man and Uruk battled. The enemy was far heavier and of greater reach. Am I Gondor’s Captain, or a feeble old woman? Get up curse it! Distract the Uruk if nothing else!
Gritting his teeth over blinding pain, Boromir reached for his sword, and using it as a prop, managed to heave himself to his knees. Sweat poured into his eyes, and it was impossible to draw a full breath. Somehow, he lifted his head and squinted dizzily toward the battle. He saw the Uruk hit Aragorn a savage blow that sent the man reeling to fall to his back. The Uruk bent and pulled something -- Aragorn’s blade? -- from its thigh and threw it at the man. Aragorn’s sword was ready, deflecting the knife with a ringing of metal on metal. Then he was up and charging back into the fight. Boromir got one foot under him, pushed and staggered upright with a tearing cry of pain. The Uruk heard him, turned a little. Aragorn had seen him too, but continued forward, driving the sword with all his weight. Boromir’s sight went completely black and something hit him a solid thud in the back, knocking the last of the breath from his lungs. Groggily, he realized he had fallen; it was the ground that had hit him, not another arrow.
There was silence, then the quick light steps he knew so well, hurrying toward him. Aragorn leaned over him, gasping, blood about his mouth, eyes keen and grave. Reaching urgently toward him, Boromir said, “They took the little ones.”
“Be still,” Aragorn said and frowned anxiously at the embedded arrows.
Boromir felt the man’s sure hands move to check the ugly wounds. Frustrated, he shook his head weakly, and then remembering with a jolt of fear, asked, “Frodo. Where is Frodo?”
“I let him go,” Aragorn said tersely, eyes still on his work.
“Go? Where?”
“Mordor.”
Shocked, Boromir drew a sharp breath and the pain of it forced a low, anguished groan. He grasped Aragorn’s arm and the man looked up, met his eyes. "I tried to take the Ring from him. I see its evil now, too late. I drove Frodo to this, to act in reckless haste."
“Not so. He had already made his choice.” There was something in Aragorn’s expression, a depth of concern and understanding that warmed Boromir even though he felt undeserving of it. “And the Ring could not bring you to harm him.”


“It may have had he not escaped me,” Boromir said, overcome by an agony of shame and guilt far worse than any wound. “Forgive me. I have failed you all.” Boromir held his friend’s eyes, braced to see anger or worse, pity.
Instead, Aragorn almost looked surprised, reinforcing his sincerity as he said, “No, Boromir.” He squeezed Boromir’s arm and added insistently, “You fought bravely. You have kept your honour.” He paused, waiting to see those words register. “I am sorry I gave naught but angry words for your concerns last night. Do not allow the Ring’s deceit to steal away your faith in yourself. “ Aragorn turned his head and, following his gaze, Boromir saw that Gimli and Legolas were nearby, had heard. “Hold true, as we hold true to you.”
As Boromir’s faltering gaze met theirs both Elf and Dwarf nodded emphatic agreement. They were ready, seemed willing to forgive his moment of madness where he had dared not hope. Such faith, such undying friendship, brought a new kind of pain to Boromir’s heart, a warm, keen pang of affection and pride that stung his eyes with tears. Profound relief sent a great heavy wave of exhaustion rolling over him and his awareness wavered, darkness closing about him. Weary, hurting, he closed his eyes and the image, the horror returned. “Merry and Pippin are lost,” he whispered brokenly. “And Frodo faces Mordor alone.”
Again he felt Aragorn’s strong fingers close tight about his wrist, as certain and reassuring as his reply. “Merry and Pippin will be found. And Frodo is not alone -- Sam is with him.”
“Sam?” Boromir blinked and squinted up into the sunlight that haloed Aragorn’s dark hair. “But--?”
“Legolas heard his shouts as he ran to Frodo in the boat.”
Boromir started a little and bit down as a jolt of agony robbed him of his voice. Then, recovering, he gasped, “Two? Unaided against Mordor?”
“It is the only way, I fear,” Aragorn said softly. “And as I believe Gandalf intended.” Boromir wanted to say more but gave over as Aragorn leaned closer and urged, “Let us concern ourselves with you now. No more talk – you are sorely wounded.” He turned slightly, called, “Gimli! I will need water, and my pack. Legolas!”
Gimli ran downslope toward the river. Impossibly silent and smooth despite the dry leaves, Legolas came to Boromir’s side, sitting back on his heels to grip his arm above the leather guard. There was a bruise dark on Legolas’ brow and his eyes shone with unshed tears. “I feared you dead.”
“No,” Boromir whispered, pain and pressure mounting in his chest. “It will take more than a few orc pin-sticks to do that.”
Legolas’ anxious expression melted to a faint smile. “That, I see.” He squeezed Boromir’s arm, then turned to Aragorn. “You would have me aid the healing? Make him sleep?”
“No!” Boromir started up, grunted over the pain. Firm hands eased him back. “Leave me! Find the little ones!”



Aragorn bent closer still, his intent piercing grey-blue eyes drawing a wavering Boromir to fuller awareness. A firm, wonderfully warm hand cupped his cold jaw and cheek. “Hear me, Boromir. They were taken alive for a purpose. For Saruman. And this I swear, he shall not have them. We will find them long before Orcs can run all the way to Isengard. And they dare not kill them.”
Darkness and trees and sky were spinning drunkenly overhead. Boromir closed his eyes. “There are worse fates than death. Go. I beg you, leave me who failed them.”
“Failed?” There was such honest amazement in Aragorn’s voice that Boromir opened his eyes again. “You call this failed?” He swept an arm behind him to indicate the heaped Orc carcasses all about the glade. “You fought on, wounded, when others would long since have given over. It was done with great honour.”
“Honour?” Boromir grunted. It was so hard to breathe. “Did not save them.”
“Here,” Gimli said breathlessly, arriving with waterskin and pack. “How fares he?”
“Too stubborn by half. He would have us leave him.”
“What?” Gimli rumbled. “Never!”
Legolas said softly, “Fear for the little ones torments him.”
Boromir opened his mouth to drive home that point, but suddenly, Legolas’ strong, warm hands were at his face, gently cradling it. His fingertips traced the cheeks, and his thumbs gently touched the eyelids. Boromir did not want to close his eyes, but could not resist the gentle easing of those steady hands. Legolas chanted something, whispered elfish words, and of a sudden, Boromir felt the terrible agony of his wounds melting away. Until that moment he had not realized the full burden of that pain. The release of it drew a sighing breath from him, and with it too, went all the fear, all the tension. As from a distance, he could feel pressure at his chest, hands grasping something there. He could not remember. It was all a dream. He was sleeping. Even the dream faded. He relaxed, soothing, warm..... . Sleep.


Gimli let out a breath of relief, seeing the pain at last leave the Man’s shockingly pale face. He bent again to his rummaging in the pack, searching for what would be needed to tend the wounds.
“My thanks, Legolas,” Aragorn said. “I feared he would fight to remain awake and would suffer for it.”
“His care for the hobbits is deep,” Legolas said worriedly. “But his wounds drain him deeper still. He has little strength left.”
“He has lost much blood,” Aragorn agreed grimly. He turned to Gimli. “I will need athelas, wound dressings, and the --.”
Knowing well what must be done, Gimli held the small, wrapped knife ready. Nodding thanks, Aragorn first lifted the water skin and washed the filth and gore of battle from his hands. “I did not know such ease could be given,” Gimli said gratefully, leaving off his hunt for bandages to look up at Legolas. “I do not wish to see him suffer further as we remove these arrows. So many.” He shook his head. “If only we could have reached him sooner.”
Aragorn unwrapped the razor-edged knife and leaned down to Boromir, his jaw set in grim determination. “Gimli,” he said, “move closer. I will need you to hold him firm. Legolas cannot keep him asleep much longer, and I would have done before he wakes.”
Gimli hurried behind Boromir and bent to take a firm grip on each shoulder. I remember his hand on my shoulder when I wept at my cousin’s tomb. And the strength of his grip as he held me back outside Moria. A kind, good man. Now so weak, so pale. Curse the Orcs! Gimli watched Legolas who still sat, eyes closed, murmuring something that was barely audible, his hands gently caressing the wounded man’s face. At least the pain is gone. Boromir looks so peaceful. If not for the blood and those ugly arrows I could think he was only sleeping. If his lung has been pierced our efforts may be in vain. Tears stung Gimli’s eyes, and he said gruffly, “What after? We cannot leave him.”
Aragorn cut through the leather surcoat that clung about the arrows then pulled aside the bloodied silk tunic. With Boromir’s bare flesh revealed, the runnels of staining red blood leaking from about savagely barbed, thick black shafts looked far worse. “No. I would ask you stay with him, Gimli, if you would. Go with him in the boat to Osgiliath.”
Gimli lifted his head sharply. Me? Aragorn has the skill at healing, surely. But, he also is the best tracker among us. And he knows the western shore. “Of course, I will stay. I am not much for cross-country runs. I will serve better here.“
“My thanks. Now, help me get this heavy surcoat and mail sleeves off him. I have slipped it free of the arrows.”
The terrible, seeping wounds about arrows in chest, side, and shoulder were bared completely, and Gimli tightened his grip. Aragorn picked up the blade again and began to cautiously cut into the flesh and bone about the shaft embedded in broken ribs dangerously close to the heart. Gimli grimaced and looked away. Thank the Valar he sleeps! A sharp tug and the first arrow came free. Boromir stirred and moaned, but only faintly. Gimli glanced up at Legolas, saw sweat beading the Elf’s brow and dripping from his face. He blinked in surprise. He could not recall ever having seen an Elf look so drained, so -- human.
“Hold him tight,” Aragorn said softly. The second arrow and clinging bone splinters were carefully cut from the badly torn shoulder wound. How had the Man fought on? Aragorn dug as gently as possible in the wound, searching for and removing any poisoned arrow fragments. Even beneath the sleep-spell there was pain and Boromir struggled briefly but did not waken. Aragorn soon had the last arrow cut from the thick muscle of the man’s side. He sat back on his heels, drew athelas from the leather pouch, and chewed the leaves, making a paste, which he applied to each of the wounds in turn. As Aragorn’s skilled fingers pressed last into the bleeding and broken shoulder, Legolas gasped like a man drowning, and swayed. Aragorn flung out a hand to steady him. Legolas’ eyes opened but showed no focus. He leaned back on his braced arms, panting.
“Legolas?” Gimli said, frowning up at him. Boromir shuddered and lifted his head and shoulders, groaning, “Merry! Pippin! No!” He rolled part way to his side, and for a moment, Gimli thought he would pull free of his grip.
Aragorn lay a firm hand to the man’s brow, forcing his head down as he commanded, “Boromir! You must be still! Hear me?”


The Orcs have them! I must get up! A firm, but sticky hand on his brow urged Boromir down and he heard Aragorn’s voice, the words cutting through the fog in his mind. Too late, they’re gone. Memory flooded back, and with it pain the like of which he had never known. A groan slipped through his parted lips, and he bit down, stifling more. He’d been wounded several times before, but never so badly. It was as if someone had set fire to his chest then weighted him with slabs of stone. And his shoulder blazed such agony that it brought cold sweat to his brow. He could breathe, but only shallowly. He opened his eyes, then squinted and blinked until his sight sharpened into focus. Aragorn was bent close over him, his dark brows drawn down, eyes seeking sign of recognition. Finding it, he let go. Boromir lifted his head a little and glanced down. He saw with relief that the ugly black-fletched, thick arrow shafts were gone from his body. Aragorn had cut away his clothing and removed chain mail and leather to leave his shoulders and arms bare. Only a few tattered remains of crimson brocade under-tunic still clung wetly to his bloodied chest.
Boromir let his head drop into the soft leaves, and said, “It is done?”
“All but the bandaging,” Aragorn gave him a quick, relieved smile. “There was not as much damage to the blood vessels as I feared. Several ribs are shattered, as is your shoulder. But the arrows did not pierce the lung or gut.”
“Oh,” Boromir said his voice thin with light-headedness. “Good.”
Panting, unsteady, Legolas moved to look down at him. “You will soon heal,” he said wryly, “-- if we can judge by the strength of -- your will. It is something fierce, indeed.”
Boromir frowned, wondering at both the words and the breathlessness, “What?”
Legolas shook his head and settled back on his heels. “I will explain -- later.”
Aragorn gently lay a padded bandage to the raw wound punched and torn in Boromir’s side, and said, “Can you sit forward a little if we help you, Boromir? Carefully now! There is not too much bleeding, do not start it again!”
Boromir nodded, and, cautioned by the urgent concern in Aragorn’s voice, obeyed. Agonising pain flared hot and high and he was glad of the strength in Gimli and Aragorn’s hands. Dizzy, sweating, he leaned back heavily against Gimli’s broad chest. Aragorn dug into the pack and came up with more of the rolled, white cloth the Elves had supplied them. Aragorn’s hands were steady and quick as he wound the bandages again and again about stomach, chest and shoulder. Boromir had many times found a light word to reassure his own wounded men and their companions. Now, he found he was too sick with pain to make jokes about using up the entire supply of bandaging. He concentrated instead on watching Legolas who had recovered from whatever weakness had taken him. The Elf got smoothly to his feet and made a trip to the river and back, returning with a bedroll and Boromir’s shield.
Boromir nodded thanks. He could see his sword lying by his side, but there was no sign of his horn. “Your horn is lost,” Legolas said, as if reading the thought, “I put an arrow in the back of the Orc who had taken it.” He looked a little embarrassed as he explained, “Both Orc and horn then fell in the river and were swept away.”
Boromir tried to reply over the pain as Aragorn continued torturing him with the bandaging. “Better that --” he gasped, “ than Gondor’s horn a trophy for Orcs.”
“True,” Legolas said. He bent and began preparing the bedroll at Boromir’s back.
“There,” Aragorn said, tying off the final knot to lean back and frown at his handiwork. “That should hold your ribs and shoulder secure, but you must be careful – broken bones can slice through blood vessels. You must stay as still as possible.”
Boromir snorted, and was immediately pleased to find the wrapping did make breathing a little easier. “You’ve bound me as tight as a pig for market. I won’t escape.” He lifted his eyes to give Aragorn a warmly grateful but wry regard.
“Good,” Aragorn smiled faintly in return and gripped his right shoulder for a moment before taking him by the arms and carefully easing him back, Gimli supporting him from behind.
Utterly exhausted, Boromir lay back on the bedroll, pleased and touched when he found Legolas had made a pillow from his folded leather tunic. Suddenly aware of intense thirst, he asked, “Is there any water? I would drink an ocean.”
“Here,” Aragorn said, leaning aside to pick up the water skin. He slid his free hand beneath Boromir’s sweat-dampened hair and held his head as eagerly, Boromir took the open rim in his mouth. “Slowly,” Aragorn warned. Boromir made no attempt to gulp the wonderfully soothing water despite the desperate thirst caused by both blood loss and his exertions in battle. He knew only too well that too much water too soon could cause further bleeding.
Boromir swallowed twice, then hoarse with weariness said, “My thanks. Now please, go! Give chase.” He shivered, cold through to the bone. He could not stop shaking even though it increased the pain of his wounds.
“Soon. Here, you are cold.” Legolas covered him warmly, first with a blanket then the weatherproof cloak.
Boromir clamped his jaw hard in an effort to control the shivering. The bedroll protected him from the damp ground and the woollen blanket cocooned him in warmth. The late afternoon sunshine had almost seemed hot when he’d gone in search of firewood. It seemed impossible it had been the same day, so much had changed so fast. All the hobbits, his friends, were gone. Sam and Frodo could surely not survive Mordor. And Merry and Pippin – he squeezed his eyes shut over that pain. What horrors did they endure even now while he lay here amid gentle caring hands? “Please,” he begged. “Every moment brings them nearer torment and death.”
Aragorn gripped Boromir’s arm and he looked up into determined, knowing blue eyes. “Legolas and I have many times travelled the lands of the western shore. There is a way through the southeast plains of Rohan that intersects with the Orcs’ route. It will give us half a day or more on their pace. They fear the Rohirrim. We will catch them up, and quickly.”
Boromir nodded thanks but said nothing. Bringing prisoners back alive does not mean they may not be maimed -- especially should they try to escape. And Merry and Pippin will. I know it.
Aragorn got to his feet and said, “Rest. We must get you back onto the river. Gimli will stay with you.”
“Surely he would prefer to join the hunt?”
The Dwarf leaned forward into Boromir’s line of sight to rumble, “You have outstripped my score by far too many, this day, my friend. I would be with you to have you see it leveled -- and bettered!”
Boromir stared up at him, wondering that even blunt, brutally frank Gimli should be so ready to help him rather than curse his folly. “Then, I thank you, Gimli.” He closed his eyes and tried to will himself to feel more warmth than cold. When next he looked up he caught sight of a swiftly running Aragorn who was just disappearing through the trees and rocks that lined the shore closest to the falls. Instinctively, he reached for the sword that lay at his side, then grunted with the pain it caused him. Hearing that small sound of distress, Legolas turned quickly to him. “Aragorn has found more of the enemy?” Boromir asked.
Legolas’ fine brows lifted in surprise. “No, no! He goes only to make preparations for your journey.”
“Oh. Good.” Boromir let go the sword. Then, remembering they were to travel by water, he looked up at Gimli and asked, “What of the boat? You are no sailor, and neither of us can best Rauros.”
Gimli grunted amusement. “I am sure you recall the many times Legolas assured us that nothing could ever sink an Elf-crafted boat?”
“But -- Rauros!” Boromir turned to eye Legolas. “Well?”
“Nothing can sink an elvan boat, not even Rauros. But that is not to say that you and Gimli would survive!”
Boromir was too tired to do more than mumble fervent agreement. “So we walk.”
“No.” Legolas knelt and lay a gentle hand to his arm. “I will wait a while, then send an empty boat over the falls. It will survive undamaged, and Aragorn will bring it again to shore. You will travel by water, not on foot, to Osgiliath.”
“What? The current will be deep and swift below the falls. How can Aragorn --?”
“He has his bow and an arrow to which a line is attached.” Legolas shook his head and smiled wryly. “I wanted to do the target shooting, but Aragorn assures me even he can’t miss hitting a boat!”
“Not to mention,” Gimli said dryly, “You used all your arrows on the enemy.”
“True,” Legolas smiled at the Dwarf. “But that can easily be remedied when next I go uphill.”
Boromir didn’t want to think about arrows being cut from flesh, even enemy flesh right now. He still wasn’t clear on what exactly Aragorn planned for the boat. But with his mind wearied and his body weakened, he had neither the patience nor the strength to get to the bottom of the riddle. Hurting, exhausted, he could be glad only that he was not required to do any running. He closed his eyes and tried to will the pain to lessen. Gimli and Legolas moved away from him a little way to exchange soft words. Yet not soft enough that he could not hear.
“I fear Boromir’s concerns for Merry and Pippin may yet prove true,” Legolas said.
“Aye,” Gimli agreed sorrowfully. “Saruman’s orders are no guarantee of staying Orc tempers -- or hunger.”
Legolas gave a sighing sound full of pain. “The White Wizard will not take them alive to his dungeons, this I swear.” Boromir’s stomach churned at the image, though it was no surprise, only as he had expected.
The friends stood together a moment, silent and grim, then Gimli said, “I’ll make a fire and steep the athelas Aragorn left for that purpose.” He gathered kindling and piled it close to Boromir to give him the added warmth. Finding Boromir watching him, he gave a wry smile, “I fear no matter what Aragorn says, you and I know well his herbs can’t equal a good malt brew in the belly! But, I suppose some hot teat might help stop your shivering, at least.”
Boromir nodded thanks, but found his teeth were chattering too much to say anything for the moment. He could not understand why he was still shivering when he was so warmly covered. But, deep in his veins, he could swear ice was gathering and spreading further with each beat of his heart.
“Here. This should have that water boiling quickly.” Boromir started a little as Legolas materialised as suddenly and silently as ever to add wood to the now cheerful blaze Gimli was tending. The Elf peered up at the sky then said, “Aragorn should soon reach the foot of Rauros’ Stairs. I will tow one of the boats out into the current and send it over the falls.”
“Be careful you don’t follow after it!” Gimli teased, then bent to add athelas leaves to the water can he’d placed on the fire. The clean fresh scent that rose with the steam brought immediate easing of pain, and Boromir found himself wanting to draw deeper breaths despite his wounded chest. The hot tea would be even better.


Gimli sat quietly by the wounded man and poked at the small fire with a stick. About him the tree shadows grew longer against the lowering sun that haloed Legolas’ still form where he stood studying the lake. The Elf had reported the boat safely on its way but that was some time ago. Had Aragorn been able to secure it or had the booming mountain of water destroyed it? It was eerily quiet in the glade now. Insects buzzed about the heaped Uruk carcasses. So many! Gimli shook his head in wondering admiration – that must have been some fight! He cast a proud glance at Boromir’s pale face; eased by the athelas, the Man had blessedly found sleep. There was a sudden snapping of undergrowth and Gimli started up, standing and grabbing his axe. But it was only Aragorn returning, startling Boromir awake as he arrived at a run, his bow slung at his back. “That was clever thinking, Legolas,” Aragorn said a little breathlessly. “The boat awaits below, secured by my arrow and Gimli’s line.”
“And your shot,” Legolas said with a smile and lay a hand to his friend’s shoulder as the Man bent over a little to catch his breath. “I wish I could have seen that. It is not often one sees a ranger hunt a boat.”
“You didn’t?” Boromir queried, lifting his head a little to look at him in surprise.
Aragorn knelt, his keen eyes quickly studying Boromir’s face as a Healer might look at his patient. “I did,” he said with a half-laugh. “My first boat-kill.” His smile faded as he noted Boromir still shivered slightly and was unable even to hold his head up without it wearying him and bringing pain. “Once we have you safely aboard, we part ways for a time.” He pulled the blanket higher about Boromir’s bare shoulders and got back to his feet to cast a thoughtful glance at the saplings that stood about the glade. “Now we put Gimli’s axe to work.”
Boromir groaned frustration. “I need no bier. I can walk -- only give me your shoulder.”
Aragorn’s jaw dropped in astonishment at the very idea. “Your wounds are deep, I will not have them torn further. Take rest, Boromir, I beg you. It is a long journey to Osgiliath, and you will need all and more of your strength.” Seeing Boromir’s scowl, he added, “Nor will Merry and Pippin forgive me if you are not fit to face their chatter when next you meet.”
That earned a grudging smile as Boromir dared imagine such a moment might yet come to pass. “’True enough they can talk a man to old age in a day.”
It was a matter of less than an hour before they had the litter ready. The freshly hewn saplings were secured with rope and laid with what soft materials they had. They carried it closer to find Boromir, exhausted beyond pain, and eased by the athelas, was sleeping. Gimli watched as Aragorn knelt and lay a hand to the man’s brow then cast a worried frown up at his friends.
“I am glad of his sleep,” he said gravely. “And the cold has left him, yet now he burns. It is too soon for so much fever to be caused by his wounds alone.” He reached out and carefully collected one of the blood-sticky arrows he had cut from the man’s flesh. He examined the cruelly barbed arrowhead closely, then ran a finger carefully over its ugly black tip. He held the finger up to the light and they could all see the faint sheen of green glowing from the staining blood, an unnatural sickly light. “This is a new evil. Saruman!” He spat the name as vehemently as any curse.
Legolas sighed heavily and nodded. “It was not the battle against Boromir’s will alone that so wearied me,” he admitted sadly. “I felt some -- shadow. There is poison. I had hoped it may all have been cut away with the arrows.”
“We can hope. Most was removed, and the athelas should overcome the remainder. Yet I fear Saruman plans a lingering death for many wounded who might otherwise have been saved, and such in its turn will bring despair to all.” Letting out his breath with an angry grunt, Aragorn climbed quickly to his feet to take Legolas’ shoulder in one hand, and Gimli’s the other. “Our care will see that Saruman’s foul poison does not take Boromir, and our hunt will free Merry and Pippin. We will see our friends reunited in Minas Tirith. Now, we needs make all haste.”
Gently, they moved the wounded man onto the padded litter. Boromir did not stir, and they were glad of it. The less the strain placed upon him, the better his chances for overcoming the poison. Sleep would protect him a little from the necessary jolting of carriage on such a crude litter. It would not be an easy feat to carry him down the steep, ancient Stairs. The stone steps had long ago been hewn into the cliff face about Rauros by those who sought access from the south to The Seat of Seeing. Long since left untended, they were slick with moss, ferns and the constant mist of the waterfall. Aragorn was very glad that the sure-footed, lean but powerful Legolas would be in the lead. Still, they took the added precaution of gently but firmly roping Boromir to the bier lest he be taken from their grasp by the growing incline.
Finally, breathless and weary, they stepped down from the last of the Stairs and eased the heavy litter down to soft grass of the riverbank. The elven boat bobbed gently on the swirling silver water and had been well secured by Aragorn, the line knotted tight about a massive moss-covered log. Night was falling and they were guided for the most part only by the flickering torch Gimli carried behind them. They released the ropes, then without moving Boromir from the litter, lifted him one last time to move him into the boat. He was as comfortable as they could make him, cradled by the narrow makeshift bed, and sheltered from river spray by the elvan craft’s high wooden walls. Last, they transferred the gear they had carried, including Boromir’s shield and sword.
Night was closing fast. Spray and whirls of thick white fog drifted down from Rauros’ unceasing fall. The coolness roused Boromir who woke to gaze about himself in momentary confusion, then settle back again. “All is ready?” he said, somewhat woozily turning to regard the boat in which he now lay. “That was swift and well done.”
“I am glad that we have managed to satisfy your hunger for haste, my friend,“ Aragorn said wryly, and bent down to him. Again, he lay a hand to Boromir’s brow. “Perhaps it is Rauros’ cool touch, but the fever seems less.” He made one final check of the bandaging by the dim light of a single torch. Then, seeming satisfied with what he found, he looked up to ask, “How fare you?”
“I did not think to live to see the closing of this day,” Boromir said. “I will make no complaint.”
“As is ever your way,” Aragorn said intently. He stood and turned back to collect the last of the packs left on the riverbank.
“Nor did I think to have you here with us when I saw you fallen,” Legolas put in softly. “The many leagues ahead would then have been far the heavier for the burden of a grieving heart.”
“Elves,” Gimli grunted, sharing a swift glance with Boromir as he gave over the torch and took his place on the piled packs behind him in the boat, “Ever full of gloomy poetry.”
Boromir laughed, then gasped with a reminder of pain. When he had recovered his breath, he looked up and said, “At least my fair nursemaid for the journey will spare me such, you think, Legolas?”
“Indeed.” Legolas gave a slight, teasing smile and added, “Should we survive the coming battles, we must then brave the questions of the song makers.” Boromir looked so appalled and at a loss for words, that Legolas shook his head in wry amusement. He reached down and grasped Boromir’s bare hand in farewell. “Perhaps they will not dare pester the Steward’s son.”
“I would tell them of Merry and Pippin,” Boromir said softly. “They tried to protect me, at the last.” Tears suddenly misted his eyes, and he blinked them angrily away.
Gimli looked up to where Aragorn stood straight and tall, studying the mighty Anduin that swept ever southward to the sea. The Ranger’s dark brows were lowered in thought, but his eyes were full of light, gleaming with the gold red flares flickering from Legolas’ torch. The tree-rimmed sky was black as velvet behind him and about his head bright silver stars appeared. He stood silent and still, making Gimli wonder at his thoughts. Minas Tirith holds his birthright.
“We will return Merry and Pippin safely,” Aragorn said, the words little more than a whisper, yet resolute. Abruptly, as if a decision had been made, he turned and looked down at Boromir, holding the man’s gaze. “Then, together we will defend Minas Tirith. I know not what strength lies in my blood, but this I swear. I will not let the White City fall. Nor our people fail.”
“Our people?” A smile touched Boromir’s pale lips and his eyes lit with hope. He drew a great breath of relief and joy and repeated: “Our people!” He reached up his bare right arm and Aragorn bent to take it firmly in a warrior’s grip. “I will await your coming,” Boromir said, sure and eager. “And I will stand at your side. My brother. My captain. My king.”
Aragorn inhaled sharply, then said in a rough whisper, “You do me great honour, Boromir.” He gave a firm, nodding salute. “We meet again in the White City.” With that he released Boromir’s arm and turned about to collect the last pack. He found something else there on the damp moss, almost hidden by the ferns and long grass. Gimli craned forward a little and saw that it was Boromir’s leather vambraces the man held so thoughtfully. In the flickering torchlight, the White Tree gleamed wetly, etched in relief along their length. Aragorn stared at the tree a long moment before turning to hold them out to his wounded friend. “Here, I almost overlooked them in the shadows. These are yours.”
Boromir too, had caught that moment’s hesitation, that thoughtful gaze fixed on the White Tree, symbol of Gondor. Of Gondor’s long enduring hope. And here stood that hope at last, full of life and vigour. Gimli watched keenly as Boromir met Aragorn’s eyes. “I would have you wear them, Aragorn. I will have no need until I can again wield a sword. “
“But --” Aragorn began. Then reading Boromir’s eyes, his expression changed, his eyes widening. He nodded and began immediately buckling them about his forearms.
Boromir let out a soft sigh and smiled. “Gondor’s king should carry Gondor’s seal on his sword-arm.”
“Indeed,” Aragorn said softly. “And I thank you.”
Boromir nodded and settled wearily back against the padded litter.
Aragorn collected the last pack and bent to place it in the now limited space remaining. “I would have you give my greeting to your father, but --”
“I understand.” Boromir replied, and Gimli recalled it had not been so long ago when the man had voiced his father’s opinion. Gondor has no king. Gondor needs no king. Admittedly, Boromir had at the time been stung by Aragorn’s earlier refusal to reveal his true identity when they had spoken privately. Gimli knew that because he had later heard Aragorn taking Legolas to task and defending Boromir’s reaction. Now, the Steward’s son met Aragorn’s eyes and said calmly, “Leave my father’s temper to me as I leave Merry and Pippin’s return in your sure hands.”
“I will, and gladly.” Aragorn smiled wryly as he grasped the boat’s prow, then pushed her out onto the burgeoning river. “Safe journey, Gimli, Boromir. Come, Legolas. We hunt Orc!” Together the two friends turned and strode up the bank, disappearing swiftly into the misty shadows billowing about Rauros’ ghostly white veil.


Chapter 2 - Rauros to Cair Andros

NOTE ORIGINALLY POSTED AS CHAPTER TWO RIVER PERIL /THE JOURNEY HOME THIS CHAPTER NOW HAS SEVERAL ADDITIONAL PAGES DEALING WITH THE FLOODING RIVER DELAYING THE JOURNEY FOR REASONS OF TIME CONTINUITY


CHAPTER TWO: RAUROS TO CAIR ANDROS

“Gimli!” Boromir said urgently, “Steady the boat. I’m ..” He pushed up awkwardly on one elbow, threw himself against the boat’s wooden side, hung his head over and was violently sick. Again. Sweating, shaking with fever and thoroughly miserable, he collapsed back onto the litter. All he could recall of the first night on the river was feeling so cold and ill that he thought he must shake the boat apart with his shivering. And now, he burned. The irony of it would amuse him in any other circumstance.
He was thankful his friends had thought to lay his thick cloak and more blankets beneath him. It made a softer bed to ease a little the fiery torment that any movement brought to his wounds. And the blanket ends were long enough to wrap about him along with his other coverings when, rather than burn, he felt he would freeze. Aragorn had insisted on giving up his own bedroll to make a larger bolstering pillow which made it less a distance to lift himself to lean from the boat. The leather of Boromir’s surcoat was spread uppermost on the coverings to protect him further from the river spray. The lengths to which his friends had gone to ensure every possible means of seeing to his care was a constant and humbling reminder of how very much they valued him. The ever-growing love and loyalty that bound The Fellowship throughout long days of perilous journeying had profoundly affected Boromir. And never more so than at Amon Hen. The agony of despair he had suffered in feeling he had failed them was far greater than any he would previously have believed possible. He would gladly have died to redeem even a little his right to their love and respect. Then after his wounding, as they refused to abandon him, awed and humbled, he understood at last that their love had never been in doubt.
The love that bound The Fellowship was unbreakable and would forever unite them. They had been tested at Amon Hen and through it had forged a source of strength that would never fail.
“Here,” Gimli said, and Boromir felt the cool, soothing touch of a wet cloth at his face. The Dwarf had proven to have a surprisingly gentle touch. Again, he moistened Boromir’s mouth and wiped away the sour sickness. Boromir had not known much of Dwarves, and had thought them capable only as miners and axemen. That view had expanded much since his travels from Rivendell. Now, Gimli had not only quickly learned at least the basics of directing the boat against the mighty river’s twisting, he could take time to care for a wounded Man.
“Better?” Gimli asked, and the single word carried a weight of worry Boromir had never heard from him before. He didn’t want to know how bad he must look to cause such anxiety.
“Some,” Boromir said, mustering as much strength as possible in his voice. He heard the familiar sound as Gimli lay the oar aside to bend carefully and rinse the washcloth in the stream. Then, those wonderfully gentle hands placed the cool, damp material softly over Boromir’s brow and eyes, partially blocking out the stinging glare of the noonday sun. It seemed an unnaturally warm day, the sky a startlingly beautiful clear blue high above them. They’d seen no sign of anything moving on the riverbanks, and heard no more than the occasional, reassuring song of a small bird.
“You slept little last night,” Gimli said. “Rest. The sun is high and the day will be long.”
Boromir snorted bitterly. “Rest? I have done naught else while your labours continue.” He felt Gimli’s small but incredibly strong hands carefully ease up one edge of the bandage about his broken shoulder to check for bleeding. It was the only wound the Dwarf could safely reach without upsetting his balance in the boat. “Well?” Boromir asked, and wondered bleakly if the wound could possibly look as bad as it felt.
“All this tossing about is not helping,” Gimli said in his typically acerbic manner.
“Never have I known wounds to cause stomach sickness such as this,” Boromir said wearily. Gimli grunted and said nothing. They both knew only too well that most Orc arrows carried at least some poison. The healers were familiar with that and had devised treatment for it. But Boromir’s suffering now was different. Saruman had provided more potent poison to coat the weapons of his newly created Uruk-hai. Nonetheless, Boromir was determined it would not take his life. There was too much to do, too much for him to make right after The Ring had so seduced him. It still shamed him to think of that awful moment. Of the fear he’d brought to Frodo’s eyes.
Irritated by the gloomy path of his thoughts, Boromir lifted his good arm and snatched away the cloth from his brow and eyes. Already it was dry and warm. Painfully, he craned his head a little until he could see the river’s brown-green current, then looking up, compared that pace with the seeming movement of the rocky, forested embankment some distance away. “How far do you think we’ve come since Rauros?” he asked, glancing up at the Dwarf’s heavily bearded face.
Gimli grunted, thought a moment, then said, “I am no judge of distances over water. But, perhaps, ten leagues.”
The Dwarf looked down at him; their eyes meeting and Boromir could see the weariness there. “It is you who must rest,” Boromir said, repeating an argument he’d made as he’d wakened at first light to find Gimli had made no attempt to pull ashore and sleep during the night. “You cannot go on --”
“I can, and I will,” Gimli cut him off gruffly. “We Dwarves excel in trials of endurance and can long outlast a man’s need of sleep.”
“Oh?” Boromir smiled. “I will give you that Dwarves can better any man when it comes to delving in the earth, mining for gems.”
“Indeed! But there you speak of comparing crafts. I compare the merits of the body.”
“The body?” Boromir urged when no more was said. He was beginning to feel nauseous again. Lying here with nothing to do other than watch the sky or trees gave no distraction from growing pain and discomfort. He could have hoped for a more talkative travel companion. The Hobbits now -- An immediate image came to him of Merry and Pippin’s bright faces and endless chatter. They had a way of keeping up a non -stop conversation, the one ending the other’s phrases as if they were of one mind. At first he’d found it surprising, then amusing, then -- touching, as he realised how deep a friendship bound the two. He exhaled irritably, chasing his thoughts away again from unwanted memory of the horrors of his failure during yesterday’s battle. He could not bear to think what the two friends might be suffering at this moment. He prayed fervently that Aragorn was right, that they would be left unharmed, and Man and Elf would soon see them free.
“The body of a Dwarf, being smaller --” Gimli elaborated suddenly, making Boromir wonder if the Dwarf too needed distraction from the same torments. Gimli’s fondness for the Hobbits could not be any the less than his own. Dwarf and Hobbits had, after all, at the least; both endured the Men’s teasing about their limits during the journey. Boromir still vividly recalled Gimli’s “No one tosses a Dwarf!” when they’d made to cross the broken bridge in Moria.
“Much smaller,” Boromir put in, smiling at the memory.
“ -- needs far less than a Man’s to keep it working,” Gimli continued with smooth dignity.
“Except maybe for beer?” Boromir teased.
“Beer!” Gimli exclaimed with a wealth of feeling. “What I wouldn’t give for a good malt brew right now! Foaming from the tankard, cooled by the cellars, Ahh -- “ he sighed, then grunted amusement. “Perhaps you are right, friend, a Dwarf’s need for beer far exceeds that of a mere Man.”
Boromir chuckled, glad of the easing of his darker mood. “I’ll settle for some more water,” he said, aware suddenly of just how badly the fever had parched his mouth and throat. Gimli had left a water skin where he could easily reach it, and he did so now, taking a careful swallow, then another. Even so little tended to make his stomach heave. He’d never noticed the movement of the boat as they’d journeyed south to Parth Galen. Since his wounding, the lack of firm ground beneath him seemed to increase the nausea. “Tell me aught else Dwarves do better than Men,” he said, adding teasingly, “or is it too short a list?” Satisfaction with his pun faded as he grunted over the pain caused by putting down the water skin and easing his shoulders down again.
“Beards,” Gimli announced from above him. “Some say that...”
Boromir listened gratefully, absorbing the soothing cadence of the words rather than the meaning, the fever climbing again, draining his strength still further and claiming ever more of his attention. He drifted off, slipping from stupor to clear awareness and back, until he barely knew the difference, and the sun sank lower in the sky.
Then, suddenly, Gimli said sharply, “White water ahead! Hold on, lad! Hold tight!”
Groggily, Boromir tried to do so. His arm seemed incredibly heavy and his grip as he fumbled for the boat rim was hopelessly weak. He could hear the hiss and roar of rough water but had not the strength to prop himself up and dared not upset Gimli’s fierce concentration in any case. Then he felt a surging, rapid current grab the boat and it rocked and pitched downward only to climb again just as steeply. As it plunged down again, Boromir could plainly see high rolling swells of dark green water edged with white foam, rolling about them. He prayed Legolas was right about the quality of elvan river-craft. He knew he did not have the strength to save himself, let alone save Gimli who could not swim. He glanced up at the Dwarf, saw terror and equal measure determination lining the swarthy, heavy browed eyes. Gimli tried steering but the oar was almost ripped from his hands by the power of the hungry rapids. He pulled the oar hurriedly inside the boat, then grabbed hard to either side of the boat rim and held on for dear life. Gimli yelled something that was probably ‘hold hard!” but Boromir couldn’t be sure over the tremendous roar of the angry river.
Then came a sudden thud and an unnerving scraping as wood met rock. The jolt pitched Gimli forward as Boromir himself slid further toward the prow. Somehow Gimli stopped himself from being thrown down and atop the wounded Man. They were flung first one way then the other, and Boromir’s face twisted up with the pain as raw wounds were savagely pounded. The litter lurched alarmingly as the boat tilted, threatening to go over on its side completely. A small wave washed over them, clearing Boromir’s head as the pain made him woozy. Then, cursing loudly, Gimli gripped the oar and shoved it hard against the protruding rock. Abruptly, the boat jumped free. It spun in a dizzying circle, then arrowed straight once more, taken by the burgeoning current to race at heart-stopping speed deeper into the rapids. The entire performance was repeated two or three times, with Gimli quickly picking up the trick of fending them off from the rocks.
Finally came blessed silence as they shot clear into smooth water once more. Boromir could hear Gimli gasping for breath as he himself gulped back cries of pain. The Dwarf’s gnarled hand gripped Boromir’s good shoulder and he exclaimed with a relieved laugh, “We’re through, laddie! We’re through! There’s league upon league of clear water ahead.”
“Good,” Boromir smiled faintly up at him. Then without further ado, he leaned hard to one side and emptied his stomach into the river. After that, he remembered little, darkness taking him in waves that crested with burning fever and pain.

When next he opened his eyes, day was quickly fading to night and a soft rain fell. He realised he had been shivering violently for some time, drenched by the rapids, and now the chill of the changing weather. Gimli’s voice came to him as at a vast distance, though he could plainly feel the limited, wondrous warmth of the Dwarf’s heavily bearded body close behind him. With a start, Boromir understood that Gimli had been speaking to him for a long time now, on and off for hour after hour, without Boromir’s full cognisance.
“Must get you warm and dry,” he had said over and over. “If I can only find a likely spot. Curse these foul cliffs!”
“Wh-where are we?” Boromir said, having to swallow before he could find his voice over impossibly parched lips and tongue. “Is it safe to put to shore?”
Gimli gasped a sharp breath and leaned down to blink at him in joyful surprise. “You wake!” he exclaimed, a broad grin lighting his bearded face in the gloom. “I feared the fever would take you.”
“How long?” Boromir asked.
“This is our third night on the river. You were delirious a full day.”
“Third?” But Boromir could hear the truth of it in the rasping of utter exhaustion in his friend’s voice.
“Aye. I dared not stop yesterday. The walls of rock climbed unbroken on shore at either side. I thought they would never cease imprisoning us. There were naught but the stars overhead by night to tell me we still lived and had not entered some other more perilous realm.”
“I remember it not.”
Gimli shook his head. “You burned something fearsome. You tossed and muttered and I feared --” He drew a gulping, almost sobbing breath and Boromir realised with astonishment that Gimli was near weeping. The Dwarf lifted an arm and wiped his face brusquely, grunting and coughing as he tried to make it seem only the rain was misting his eyes.
Boromir shuddered again, feeling the sharp bite of bone deep cold gnawing at him. “My thanks, friend,” he said over chattering teeth. “You have kept watch and saved us both.”
Gimli’s hand settled on Boromir’s brow, and Boromir blinked surprise -- his brow burned beneath the Dwarf’s cold hand though he felt near frozen solid.
“The fever lingers,” Gimli said wearily. “Not as high, but embers can as soon be stoked to new flame if given fuel. And this night would bring such fuel aplenty. The cliffs are long gone behind. The shore opens out yet is very rough. We must find shelter! If only Legolas were here. His elvan eyes would soon pierce this evil gloom.”
Boromir managed to get a hand under himself and dizzily propped his upper body against the Dwarf’s knees. He waited for his head to stop spinning, then said, “We must surely have entered Ithilien. I know it well; there will be places to beach a boat. I will watch this bank, you the other.”
“Good man. You think then we are not too many more days from Osgiliath?”
“Two, perhaps three. No more.”
The boat rounded a long sweeping curve, as dark night descended swiftly and the rain became heavier, soaking and chill. “There!” Boromir said. “Unless it be fever tricks -- I see a pale glimmering. A sandy bank?”
“I see it also,” Gimli said, relief thick in his voice. “We can stay out here no longer. The boat settles lower, and I do not recall our good Elf friend supplying any wisdom concerning sinking under the weight should we be unable to draw the hides to keep out stormwater.” With that, the Dwarf set to his oar-work, grunting over the strain but gradually winning the battle to turn the boat away from the current. Obediently, the little craft nosed toward the paler colour in the gathering gloom. Moments later, there was a muffled thump and the boat slid up onto dry sand. Behind the bank was an impenetrable wall of dark trees, and far off, the vague outline of rounded hills framed the dark clouded sky.
“Well done, my friend!” Boromir said, giving Gimli’s leg a pat before collapsing back to the litter.
“We’re not clear just yet,” Gimli said. He pulled the weatherproof hide from its storage space in the prow and pulled it up over the boat. Now at least Boromir’s lower body was protected from the drenching rain that sought to fill the hollows beneath the litter-bed. “I must haul the boat higher if the rising river is not to drag her out while we sleep.”
“How?” Boromir said, frowning. But he need not have worried. It seemed the line Aragorn had fixed to the boat was still in place, solidly attached to the prow by the arrow sunk deep into its planks. Climbing stiffly out onto dry ground, Gimli picked up his axe and took his bearings. He grabbed the line and walked to the nearest tree, a tall solid pine. Then, using his axe as a winch, he slowly hauled the boat further up the sandbank until he was satisfied that even should it rain all night, the river should not reach them.
Boromir could not have moved to go ashore, he had barely the strength to sit up without aid. Nor would his wounded body hold him even could he stand. Only the arrow wounds warmed him now, burning and throbbing with a never-ending torment and he felt so impossibly cold that he could almost welcome their inner fire. Rain continued to pour down, and though they were on solid ground at last, there was no sheltering his head and shoulders from the sodden chill. Boromir was not so foolish as to think he had much chance of surviving such conditions in his present state.
Having tied off the boat, Gimli collected his axe, and disappeared into the bordering pine trees. Boromir started up a little at the sound of the axe biting into the tree trunks. The chop-thud would surely be heard some distance even over the rain. He wondered what the Dwarf was doing, and prayed that his estimate was right and they were relatively safe within the borders of Ithilien. His father’s orders had set scouts to patrol these woods on the borders of Osgiliath, and clean out the enemy. Still, the men of Gondor had been ambushed by Orcs and by Southrons along these very banks. Impatient, shuddering with cold, and annoyed at his own helplessness, he waited, his right hand gripping his sword hilt.
Then, it seemed a veritable forest began moving toward him. He squinted, looked closer and could just make out Gimli’s stout form dragging several pine saplings toward the boat. The Dwarf seemed rather pleased with himself. “A good axe will always save the day,” he announced. “I’ll have a shelter for us in no time. And a nice warm fire.” Boromir opened his mouth to mention the dangers of being seen, but Gimli over rode him with a curt, “Either you have warmth and shelter this night, or you perish.”
Boromir nodded, and tried a smile over his chattering teeth. “Th-then it is well I have a Dwarf friend and his axe at my side.”
Gimli gripped his arm and shook it slightly by way of thanks and encouragement. He set to work in earnest, first making a three-pronged frame that stood wide above the head of the boat. Then he bundled the thickly needled pine boughs against the frame, sometimes weaving them a little, until finally he had created a tightly thatched tent with just the forward side open a little to let in air. Its leather hide covering already shielded the forward section of the boat. There was space enough on the wet sand beneath the green wood tent beside the boat to build a campfire. Boromir was more than impressed when at last Gimli entered through the gap he’d left and stood back to examine his handiwork and give a satisfied grunt. “Not much,” he said, “But it will keep out the rain and will hide a fire from all but elvan eyes.”
Before Boromir could find suitable words of gratitude the Dwarf disappeared again to return shortly after with firewood. Shivering and shaking, Boromir watched eagerly as Gimli struck the flint stone and flame licked at the kindling of the makeshift hearth in the sand, its fire neatly sheltered from the rain by the thatched tent. Blessed warmth began seeping about the shelter, thin tendrils of smoke escaping up and out through the pine bough roof. “Fire,” Gimli announced, looking up at the Man, “Another of those Dwarven talents you must add to your list.”
Boromir managed a shuddering laugh. “For this I will be ever grateful.”
Gimli marched off again to collect and carry more firewood to their shelter, ensuring a supply for the long wet night. “Fortune led us to this place,” he said as at last he settled down to enjoy the fruits of his labours. “Up the bank a little way, there is a rock overhang with a dead tree beneath. Enough dry wood for an army.”
“Let us hope this is a sign that all our fortunes change for the better,” Boromir said tiredly. “I pray that this night also finds our friends safe and warm.”
“Aye, lad,” Gimli said. They both watched wearily entranced for long moments as sparks spiralled up and the bright flames leaped and danced, cheering their hearts as much as it warmed their flesh. Sleep began to weigh heavily at Boromir’s eyes, but Gimli bustled about, putting a pot on the fire and heating water, then turning to strip him of wet coverings and hang them to dry. Then, to top all the wonders, he pulled his own elvan cloak from inside his pack where it had remained protected and dry, and bent to wrap it snugly about Boromir’s upper body. Its soothing warm touch was a balm that was matched only by the steaming tea Gimli held to his lips.
Boromir gave him a sincere smile. “Never could I have hoped for better care while wounded and in the wild. I am in your debt.”
“Not so. But if you will believe it, then repay me by making a sound recovery. I dare not face the wrath of our hobbit friends, or indeed of Aragorn and Legolas should I not deliver you safely to Minas Tirith.”
Boromir lay his hand over the small gnarled fingers about the cup held to his lips, and said, “This I swear – Gimli Son of Gloin will ever be welcome in the White City, and will ever be held in honoured memory by my people.”
“You should eat something, if you can,” Gimli said gruffly, and turned away hurriedly. “There has been naught in your stomach but water for three days. Perhaps some of this endless supply of lembas?”
Warm and succoured against all chance, Boromir soon drifted to sleep. The herbal tea and the warmth eased his wounds, and the soft hiss of rain was now something pleasant rather than threatening as it pattered upon the pine thatch.


Boromir woke the next morning as a wet and disgruntled Gimli pushed aside some soaked branches to make his way into the shelter. Water was running in torrents across what had been their hearth fire last night, and looked ready to erode the sandy bank on which the boat was tied. Boromir could barely hear Gimli’s report for the background roar of the downpour. Gimli repeated, “We won’t be going back on the river anytime soon. This looks to be flood rain. It’s turned the river into a whitewater deluge. I’m going to have to haul us up further into the woods or we’ll be swept away.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Boromir asked. “If you prop me up I think I could walk –“
Gimli shook his head. “You can help by staying where you are.” He gave a wryly sympathetic smile for Boromir’s responding scowl. “And you’ll help even more if you can manage to stay dry.”
“How?” Boromir said glumly. Water was already leaking through the thatch to drip onto his head and shoulders. The least movement of the precarious construction would immediately see him soaked from head to toe. It would be like being suddenly immersed beneath a waterfall, the noise of the rain was near-deafening.
Gimli help up a hand to indicate he had an idea. He went to the waist of the boat and lifted the edge of the hide cover, then he shouted, “I trust these things are designed to come all the way up. Wouldn’t make much sense otherwise. But you never know with Elves!”
Boromir had to agree that a boat cover incapable of completely blocking out the weather wouldn’t be much use. Yet they needn’t have worried – the cover did indeed reach all the way from stern to prow. “Duck down, laddie,” Gimli said. “I’m going to tie this down over the top of you.”
“A fine big heavy package I’ll make,” Boromir grumbled, but obeyed.
“You’ve done fine work to fight off that fever,” Gimli said. “I’ll not see it undone by this cursed weather.”
Boromir felt nonetheless useless as he lay back in the now dark space beneath the hide and waited as Gimli laboured to winch the laden boat further and further up the bank. He stopped once, but only to resecure the line to another tree and begin again. Boromir grew impatient when the routine was repeated a third time. Surely they were well clear of the river by now? But all his misgivings were lost to a surprised smile as at last the boat halted and Gimli pulled back the cover. The roar of the rain was muted for there was now a solid rock roof above their heads. Boromir gaped and grinned then clapped Gimli on the arm. Gimli was so pleased with himself that he actually looked a little embarrassed by Boromir’s praise. “How did you find this place? It’s wonderful!”
‘I don’t know as I’d call it wonderful,” Gimli said modestly, “but it’s a good distance above the high water mark and it has a roof that won’t leak.” He turned about and surveyed their surroundings in the dim light that entered through a gap in the remains of a rock wall. “It seems to be some kind of ruin, the foundations of an ancient battlement.”
Boromir too studied the place then nodded. “Unless I miss my guess of how far we’ve come, I think it may be the old fortress of Cair Andros.” He looked back to Gimli with a smile. “Which means help should find us eventually, if the river doesn’t go down.”
“Oh?” Gimli’s bushy eyebrows lifted hopefully.
“Yes.” Boromir eased his broken shoulder carefully to the rolled blanket at his back. “The Ithilien Rangers patrol this area. – my brother is their captain general.”
As he prepared another campfire, Gimli asked more about Faramir, of whom Boromir had often spoken. After a morning meal of lembas and tea Boromir, still feeling terribly weak and exhausted, slept a while. The day stretched into a gloomy cold afternoon and the rain continued unabated, teeming down until it created a waterfall that cascaded high from the right of the ruins. Boromir did his best to hide growing pain and discomfit from wounds that throbbed and burned with increasing intensity. The bandaging was filthy with caked blood and the bleeding had not entirely stopped but began anew with the least movement. There was no more bandaging and little Gimli could do other than feed him the athelas tea and keep him as warm as possible.
“I’m afraid there’s little of Aragorn’s herbs remaining,” Gimli said that night, holding the pouch to the firelight so that Boromir could see a bare handful of leaves. The dwarf’s expression was grim as he cast a keen eye at Boromir’s pain-drawn face. “I hope these ranger friends of yours show soon.”
“This weather might slow them, but they will come,” Boromir assured, and tried unsuccessfully to hide a bout a shivering. “Meantime we should be safe enough here. “ He nodded toward the roar of the waterfall. “It seems the rain has created a hiding place to rival Henneth Annun.”
“Henneth Annun?” Gimli asked. He moved closer and lay a hand to Boromir’s brow then grunted disappointment. “Your fever is back.”
“It’s not too bad,” Boromir said. “Window on the West, that’s what it means.” He talked on, finding that it took his mind from the pain a little, and that he enjoyed remembering those times he had stayed a while with Faramir’s men in their wilderness fortress.
“It is a long way from Osgiliath?” Gimli asked.
“A fair distance. Two days march,” Boromir smiled wryly, “in good weather.”
Gimli sighed heavily and looked toward the entryway where falling water reflected the firelight. “Let us hope we have sunshine tomorrow. Perhaps I can hunt us up a rabbit or two.” He snorted and looked back at Boromir. “Much more of this lembas bread and we’ll both be growing pointy ears!”
Boromir slept little that night, and when he did he was haunted by feverish dreams of falling in battle, and the Ring taunting him. The fever grew worse and whenever he tried to move into a more comfortable position the jarring of his wounds woke him from whatever fitful slumber he’d found. At one point, he was aware of Gimli bending over him, and of some ease coming to him as the dwarf draped something thick and soft about him. It was a few moments before he realised that Gimli had taken the hide cover from the boat, warmed it over the fire and laid it over him as a wonderfully warm blanket that also kept out the damp mist pervading their rock-walled shelter. The shivering that had drained the last of Boromir’s reserves of strength finally faded, and he drifted to deeper sleep.
Morning brought no break in the weather and Boromir’s illness kept him only partly aware of the long dreary hours of another day passing to night. By the third day there was at last some sunshine and Boromir woke to the tantalising aroma of rabbit stew. He squinted and sat up stiffly to see Gimli stirring the pot over the flames.
“Ahh, you’re awake at last!” he said with thinly disguised relief. “Get some of this into you, and you’ll soon be feeling better.”
Boromir found his hands were shaking so much with weakness that he had to allow Gimli to hold the bowl for him or risk losing the nourishment. But after he ate, he did indeed feel much stronger. “I found some more athelas,” Gimli surprised him by displaying it with a flourish. “Hard stuff to track down – but,” he winked, “it seems the rabbits find it tasty! Now, I’ll have a try at redressing those wounds though I can’t say I have much by way of the healer’s touch, as does Aragorn.”
The afternoon grew warm and the sunshine dried the air, only to disappoint them by lapsing into another thunderstorm at sunset. But the rain was brief and Boromir found that he was able to sleep more soundly that night.

***
“Who goes there?” a harsh voice commanded and Boromir started awake in alarm. There was a pause, then the same voice, somewhat surprised but no less suspicious, “What brings a Dwarf to the riverbanks of Ithillien?”
Boromir, struggling to sit up and grip his sword, heard Gimli give a typically challenging, abrasive reply. “Give me your name, captain, and ye shall have mine.” Boromir groaned, thinking, I don’t know how he managed to live beyond ten years old! On the plus side, it was apparent that this was no Orc raiding party, but rather some of Boromir’s own soldiers.
“You are bold for one who stands no higher than a child,” came the response from another man, and Boromir’s heart lifted with joyous relief. He knew that voice! Garad! “Mayhap that explains why your manners also have not grown beyond that point.”
Boromir grinned, his grip relaxing on the sword hilt, as painfully, he drew breath to shout, “Garad! Is that you out there annoying my Dwarf friend?”
“What?” the man exclaimed, startled, and one of the others said, “There is another, there under the shelter!” Boots thudded and weapons clinked as soldiers charged forward. Garad said urgently, “Boromir? I dare not hope!”
Boromir squinted into the bright morning sunshine that haloed his friend’s face. Garad shook rainwater droplets from his hair and stared in disbelief, then his mobile face registered pure elation. “Boromir!” Garad took a step closer and Boromir could see his friend’s face was lined by weariness and pinched with cold, but was as indefatigably cheerful as ever beneath its border of thick dark curls. On the man’s chest was a leather cuirass emblazoned with the white tree of Gondor. Never had its appearance so gladdened Boromir’s heart. And to find his good friend Garad here! They had known each other since they’d started warrior training as twelve year old cadets. Garad had joined Faramir’s Rangers two or three years ago, and Boromir had been glad to let such a capable, good-humoured and intelligent Captain go to his brother’s aid. Garad, Faramir had said, dared take small bands of men much further into the ever-encroaching enemy territory than did any others of his captains. And the intelligence he carried back was vital to Ithilien’s defence.
“Boromir! It is you! We feared you dead.” Garad’s delight faded into concern even as he moved to grip Boromir’s offered hand in greeting. “Not dead, but sorely wounded, I fear.”
“Naught that cannot be healed by setting my eyes on the white tower once more,” Boromir said, breathless, and was compelled to collapse back to the litter and try to cover a grimace. “What brings you so far north? How go things at home?”
“Osgiliath is under constant attack. Our scouting parties harry the enemy, and return to report any change in tactics and numbers. And of that, lately, there is much.”
“Osgiliath? Besieged?” Boromir started up then gasped over the pain of movement. “We had driven them out when I left. But, if their numbers are greatly increased, and we without reinforcements -- now it is surrounded?”
“Near so. We have means of slipping by them, and do so to attack their flanks -- but I fear we may not hold much longer. “
“This is ill news.” Boromir frowned as another thought came to him. “Why fear me dead?”
Garad crouched on his haunches by the boat and met Boromir’s concern with grave eyes. “Captain Faramir found your horn, cloven in two and floating on the river, not more than two days past. He sent it with word to your father and --”
“To my father?” Boromir gasped a shocked breath.
“Yes. But that fear will quickly be forgotten when The Steward lays eyes on you again. “ Garad flashed a smile and reached out to grasp Boromir’s shoulder with warm affection. “Your return lifts my heart and will soon lift the spirits of all Gondor.” Carefully, he moved aside the cloak covering Boromir’s bandaged chest. He grimaced dismay and said, “Alas, it does not surprise me to see it took more than one grievous wound to take you from the fighting, yet I had hoped --.” He sighed heavily. “We must get you to the healers and quickly.” He glanced up at his men and was about to give orders.
Gimli complained, “Am I a prisoner that you guard me so? Let me through!”
“Gimli!” Boromir exclaimed, then said quickly to Garad, “I owe Gimli my life, and have sworn he shall have the welcome and gratitude of Minas Tirith.“
Garad nodded at his men and they parted ranks. Gimli stepped forward to stand glowering at the captain, axe in his fists. “I thank you, Gimli. You and your axe did well to give shelter to our kinsman through the bitter weather.” Garad gave a deep, sweeping bow to the Dwarf. “You have cared well for my friend. Name any price that is mine to give and it shall be yours.”
Gimli’s annoyance gave way to a bemused grunt. “I ask no reward. It is more than enough to see Boromir home and healed.” Then, he added hopefully, “Do you brew beer in your city?”
Garad relaxed and smiled in return, “We do, indeed! And you shall have our best. There are no others with you? I did not know that Dwarves had such skill with river craft.”
Boromir exchanged a wry look with Gimli who said dryly, “I am not sure I would call it skill, good Captain, but we survived.”
“We have travelled together all the leagues from Rivendell,” Boromir said, easing back as great weariness borne of relief claimed him. He could barely believe he was safe with his own men again after all the long months of wandering. “We set out as nine. One has fallen, two continue our quest, two are prisoners, and the remainder seek to free them.”
“Your part in this quest, at the least, is done, my Captain,” Garad said. He studied the boat for a moment then looked up at his second in command. “I think it best we do not attempt to carry Captain-General Boromir overland to Osgiliath. That way is too slow, too rough, and perilous. We will wait another day until the river has calmed. Then I will leave the men in your safe command, Lordanur. Boromir, Gimli and I will continue by river.”
Lordanur nodded “There are indeed sections of the overland route that are hard going even for those who are uninjured.” He looked away from Garad to give Boromir a wry smile. “I believe you will find the river a kinder master should the floods at last ease.”


Chapter 3 - Osgiliath

CHAPTER THREE: OSGILIATH

“I’ll see that your things are safely transferred until we can find a hospital wagon,” Gimli offered as he climbed up onto the dock to stand at Boromir’s side.

“My thanks, Gimli,” Boromir said and watched as the dwarf turned back to begin unpacking the boat. He seemed suddenly smaller to Boromir’s eyes, arriving there on Osgiliath’s dock, towering men all around them. For once Boromir could understand the feeling. Lying here on the narrow wooden litter, the entire world looked too large, looming above him. Maybe that’s why it looks so much worse. And sounds worse. He could hear loud crashes as from catapult attack in the distance, and closer at hand, the weary, hopeless words of men who believed they had little chance in the coming battles.

“The enemy forces move closer, “ Garad reported after speaking with the officer on duty. “It is not safe here in the open. These men will help move you into the Dome of Stars Square. The wall shelters it well.”

Boromir nodded, and the two soldiers, not men he knew, bent and picked up the litter. Somehow it was worse now he was out of the boat; he felt more useless, more helpless, being unable to walk. Where the boat had carried him along effortlessly, now he needed to wait to find bearers. He scowled down at his wounds, hoping they would soon heal. There was so much he must do, not the least to explain to his argumentative father all that had happened since he had left Rivendell. Still, he was looking forward to the moment of reunion, and especially couldn’t wait to see Faramir again, ease what must be a lonely burden of command.

His bearers rounded a corner and as they entered the Dome Square Boromir grimly surveyed new evidence of destruction, of battle scars. This was not the homecoming he’d hoped for. Still, better any than none. Osgiliath had been a ghost city as long as anyone could remember. Its once glorious towers were gaunt ruins, streets that should have been bustling with happy people, empty. It reminded Boromir of nothing so much as a long dead corpse, nothing remaining but a few dried and broken bones. The city centre with its ruined Dome of Stars, was the skull with blindly staring, accusing eyes. The square was surrounded by a colonnaded walkway with an overhanging gallery. Across an almost empty cobblestone area stood the ruined trade council houses and the civic ceremonial building with its many ruined balconies.

It was up there I gave my very short, and therefore popular victory speech, Boromir remembered with a smile. It almost seems years ago rather than months.

“This city was once the jewel of our kingdom. A place of light and beauty and music. And so it shall be once more! Let the armies of Mordor know this – never again will the land of my people fall into enemy hands!”

Boromir took in the chaos about him, soldiers running to forward defence positions, others staggering under the weight of wounded friends. It seems my speech was a trifle more ambitious than even I intended at the time. He shook his head ruefully. We never did stand much chance, not when the enemy grows ever stronger. But now – now, with Aragorn pledged to give us our king, surely there is hope? He set his jaw stubbornly. Osgiliath will indeed again be a place of light and beauty and music! We will make it so!

The soldiers lay Boromir’s litter down in a more private spot after passing another larger, sheltered area where several other litters held men lying still, bloodied bandages about their limbs and heads. This must be the staging area where the wounded were gathered to be conveyed to safety. There was much to-ing and fro-ing from the docks, and he’d seen more soldiers lining its bulwarked banks, ready to defend the garrison. Garad stood at his side, frowning around as if looking for a familiar face, someone he could question about the current situation.

Boromir knew the man was probably itching to get back into the fight. He looked up at him and said, “I’ll be fine here until the healers’ wagon comes. You must have other matters awaiting your attention.”

Garad snorted and eyed him with some amusement. “I will not give over the pleasure of delivering the good news of your return. It is a rare day we have such any more.”

Boromir nodded. “I can see times have been worse in the long weeks of my absence.” They had put his stretcher down behind a low parapet that ran between the walkway pillars. Not far from Boromir’s head, there was a ragged gap in its once neatly tiled masonry. Garad had told Boromir and Gimli of the enemy’s terrifying new weapons, some kind of catapult ballast that exploded either on contact with the target, or high above in the air, raining shrapnel down on all below. It seemed some such debris had even reached the relatively safe interior square. Above Boromir’s head was the protection of the gallery roof -- at least it was protection if it didn’t collapse on him. An unpleasant thought. He had never before felt so vulnerable. He had his sword at his side on the litter, for all the good it would do him.

There was a view of the sullen overcast sky above the square, and he could see armoured men patrolling the perimeter. Through the gap in the parapet he could see almost half of the square, and saw men hurrying in and out of the buildings delivering reports to a makeshift headquarters in the former merchant’s rooms. Boromir was tempted to ask Garad to have him carried in there, then abandoned the idea, knowing he would be a hindrance rather than a help, and it would do no good to distract the men from their work.

There was the sound of heavy bootsteps marching across the cobbles and a male voice complained loudly, “Get your hands off me, you great oaf!”

“Sam?” I swear that was his voice. But it can’t be!

“Let me go! Frodo needs me, can’t you see that?”

That settles it. “Sam!” Boromir exclaimed. He propped himself up on an elbow and craned to peer through the gap. Sure enough there was a hobbit -sized person being herded across the square. Boromir yelled more loudly, “Sam!” Then wincing, he was forced to collapse back to the cushioned litter.

“Boromir?” Sam said disbelievingly, “I must be hearing things.”

“Garad,” Boromir looked up at the Captain who was already curiously frowning from him to the hobbit and back, “Sam is one of my former travel companions. I need to speak with him, urgently.”

Garad waved at the soldiers, “Bring the little one over here for a moment. Captain Boromir wishes to speak with him.” There were two soldiers flanking Sam, and Boromir frowned, it almost made it seem the hobbit was a prisoner, though he was not bound. One of the soldiers queried, “Did you say Captain Boromir? He has returned?”

“Yes,” Garad replied with a smile, “See for yourself.” The men bent and peered toward Boromir, then grinned as he greeted them. Garad took a dumbstruck Sam by the arm and urged him to move to Boromir’s side, then left them to usher the curious soldiers back out in the square a little way and answer a rush of questions.

“Boromir?” Sam came to a stumbling halt and stood gaping down at him, sheer disbelief making his expression near comical. He took a step closer, his mouth working without sound a few times before he managed, “Faramir told us he thought you were dead!”

“Faramir is here?” Boromir asked eagerly, craning to see beyond the parapet.

“Yes. He took Frodo into those wrecked buildings on the far side of the square to talk. I’ve got to get back to him!”

“No, wait!” Boromir said. But rather than turn away, Sam looked back to demand, “Where are Merry and Pippin? They’d want to come with me.”

“I…They’re…” The names echoed in Boromir’s mind, and he was back at Amon Hen, desperately urging them to run. Struggling with the awful memory, Boromir fell silent, his eyes losing focus. He could plainly see his small friends’ frantic faces as they were carried away from him.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” Sam continued and came closer to lean down into Boromir’s line of sight. The hobbit’s hopeful expression faded, and he frowned, his keen eyes studying the dried blood on the bandaging about Boromir’s chest and shoulder. “Though I’m sorry to see you’re hurt, and badly, by the look of it.”

“Thank you,” Boromir said, his voice husky with gratitude. Sam must know about his attack on Frodo, yet there was no denying the sincerity in those earnest eyes. “Frodo is with you? How came you here? This is not the road to Mordor.”

Sam grunted, straightened, and folded his arms across his chest, his expression suddenly sour and defensive. “We had no choice. Your brother caught us, called us spies, and dragged us here as prisoners.”

“What?” Boromir started up, then hissed pain and frustration and lay back again. “That doesn’t sound like Faramir. Where is he? I’ll talk to him and --” He shook his head in self-annoyance then looked up at the officer who was watching them with open curiosity. “Garad, go find Faramir and bring him to me as a matter of gravest urgency.” Garad blinked surprise, but saluted and hurried away.

Sam waved a hand impatiently. “Never mind all that just now – please, tell me, where are Merry and Pippin?”

Boromir had to swallow hard before he could say, “I’m sorry, Sam. They’re not here, and I don’t know where they are. I haven’t seen them since the battle the day you left us.”

Sam dropped his hands to his sides, “But they’re with Strider? He’d be sure to keep them safe.”

“I…no…” Emotion burned and tightened at his throat, and he fought to keep his voice steady. “Aragorn and Legolas are searching for them. The Uruks took them from me.” He hurried on over Sam’s shocked gasp. “Aragorn believes they are being taken—alive, to Saruman, that Saruman must think they have The Ring.” He reached up and touched Sam’s arm briefly. “I am so sorry, Sam. I know no more of their fate.”

Sam nodded mutely, avoiding Boromir’s eyes, and all the colour drained from him. Visibly trembling, he gave a muffled sob and suddenly sat down hard at Boromir’s side to bury his face in his hands. When he could speak again, he asked tearfully, “Were they wounded like you?”

“No.” Boromir said in a hoarse whisper, then repeated more clearly. “No. The enemy were intent on taking them unharmed.” He left out how nearly that order – if indeed there had been such from Saruman – had come to being disregarded. Boromir well knew he had arrived on the scene only just in time to save Pippin having his head sliced open by a wildly swinging Uruk blade. And there was no telling what may have been done after they were taken prisoner. Again, Boromir dared touch his hand to Sam’s arm to give what little comfort he could. “Sam…I swear I tried to save them.”

Sam sniffed loudly and lifted his head to regard Boromir with some surprise. “Well, of course you did! I know you would.” Tears trickled down his dirty cheeks as he added; “I’ll bet you made the orcs pay dear for them, and fighting alone too!”

Boromir nodded, then thought to ask, “How did you know I was alone?”

Somewhat shame-faced, Sam looked down at his clenched hands. “I heard your horn blowing. I was hiding from those orc creatures, then I caught sight of Frodo heading for the lake and I knew…” He drew a deep shaky breath, “I knew he was leaving, going to Mordor alone. So I took off after him. I could still hear your horn, but I couldn’t just let Frodo…”

“Sam,” Boromir interrupted. “You did exactly the right thing. A brave thing. .” It had never before occurred to Boromir that any others of the Fellowship may have doubts about the decisions they made that day. It touched him deeply that Sam would, even in his extremity of fear for Frodo, have spared a thought for the call for help on the horn.

Sam nodded. “I did what I had to do. We all did. I thought you must be fighting alone when I heard the horn, but we didn’t piece it all together, – Frodo and me – until later. I mean, put it together where everyone must have been when the enemy first attacked. Frodo said he found Aragorn on the top of the hill, beneath the ruins of that old memorial, or whatever it was.”

“The Seat of Seeing.” Boromir felt his face burn with shame, but he had to ask, “Frodo told you everything, then?”

“Yes. After he got away from you he’s not sure if he took The Ring off or if it came off his finger when he fell from the stone platform. But he said he saw it again -- The Eye.”

Boromir groaned. He hadn’t thought of that – the added danger of using The Ring in such a place. Snarling self-disgust, he said, “And he had to use The Ring to escape me because I tried to take it from him!” His voice growing louder with anger and self-loathing he added, “It would have been better I had met the Uruks and fallen in battle before ever I came across Frodo that day.”

Sam snorted. “A fat lot of good it would have done any of us if you’d gone and gotten yourself killed!”

Boromir forgot his anger in the unexpectedness of Sam’s matter-of-fact reply. “But I…” He faltered, then blurted, “I attacked Frodo, forced him to run from me.”

Sam sighed heavily, then shrugged. “And he ran to the top of the hill where he found Aragorn, with Legolas and Gimli not far away. Seems to me you near did die trying to protect Merry and Pippin but they were taken prisoner anyway. And so might Frodo if you hadn’t scared him off. Then you and the others fought long enough that Frodo had time to get away, downhill to the boat.” He paused, then added with equal parts pride and sorrow, “Frodo said Merry and Pippin deliberately drew the enemy away from him so he could make a break for it.”

So, that’s why Merry and Pippin had been in the thick of it when he found them. Boromir lay unmoving as he considered all Sam had said. It made no difference to his shame. He turned his head away; his throat tight and his eyes burning. “No matter the outcome, I should never have attacked him, Sam. I failed us all.”

There was a long moment’s silence, then Sam said softly, “Boromir, I’ve seen what The Ring can do, is doing to Frodo. It’s near pushed even him to obey its will a time or two in the last few days. It’s The Ring that’s at fault. I can’t see no cause for you to talk of failing when you’ve stood by us so long and in many a dark place. I’m glad you’re still with us, and Frodo will be too.”

Boromir’s wounds hurt with the pressure of emotion that constricted his chest. He gasped a sobbing breath. “I thank you for your kindness, Sam. But I doubt I deserve it. You were not there to hear the things I said, or…”

“It’s over. Let it go. There’s more than enough to worry about right here and now without going backward.”

And hearing that baldly pragmatic statement, a new realisation came to Boromir: No matter how sincere his remorse, to dwell on it too long was only to indulge in a form of self-pity. Sam was right; he should look to duty and put aside anything that would erode his ability to protect his people. The pressure in his chest eased, and a faint, wry smile tugged at his lips. “The wisdom of hobbits, indeed!”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just something Gandalf told me once.”

“I miss him,” Sam sighed. “I wish …I wish he was out there looking for Merry and Pippin, too.”

“Aragorn and Legolas won’t stop until they find them.”

“I know.” Sam frowned, “Here, isn’t Gimli with them?” He tensed, said, “He’s not dead?”

“No, no.” Boromir assured hurriedly. “He’s here with me. Or, he was a moment ago. He went off with some men to find a wagon.”

“Oh, good.” Sam stood, looked impatiently out into the square. “Surely they’re done talking by now! If your man can’t find them, I’m not waiting much longer – I’ll get Frodo free from this place all by myself if I have to.”

“You won’t. I’ll see you both free and safely on your way again today – with The Ring, Sam, I swear it.“

Sam turned quickly back, his mouth open in surprise and his eyes wide. “You will?”

“On my life, I swear. Yes.” And, as he gave the solemn oath, Boromir saw it – here at last, in some small way, was the means to make up for his failure. The Ring would not tempt him again. That knowledge brought with it an amazing lightness, an abrupt lifting of a bitter disappointment in his breaking of his personal code of honour. His moment of madness had been brief, and ahead lay all his life to do his best for his people, defeat the enemy. The familiar joy and strength that came in confidence for the battle ahead flooded through him; and he knew -- he truly had come home, at last. He exhaled a great breath of relief and smiled.

Watching him, Sam was both confused and hopeful. “But I thought…. I mean, you said all along that The Ring should come to your city.”

“I was wrong. The Ring is utterly cursed. The sooner it is destroyed, the better. ”

Sudden hope lit Sam’ s eyes, a joy at finding unexpected help that warmed Boromir in turn. And he was glad with all his heart that he had been able to re-ignite that spark. With that light he saw that in Sam burned the iron determination, the courage, and love that would see the awful task done. Then, the darker image came to him of that love, that beautiful but frail light borne from the friendship between two small hobbits, pitted against all the endless ugliness and cruelty that was Mordor. The thought made him at once proud, sorrowful, and terrified. Boromir sighed. “I only wish there were some way that I could make it a less perilous and a shorter journey.”

“You just did,” Sam said intently. “I thank you, Boromir.”

“Well,” Boromir said gruffly, “I’ll be only too glad to stop the cursed thing playing games with my brother’s mind, too. What you’ve told me of his behaviour – it just isn’t like him. Tell me, where, how did he find you?”

“He caught us when we turned back into Ithilien. We’d made it all the way to The Black Gates.” Boromir looked swiftly to him, surprised and admiring, but Sam continued without elaboration on that point. “But we couldn’t get in. Then, Gollum suddenly decides to tell us there’s another way, a secret way, and –“

“Gollum!” Boromir exclaimed sharply, starting up and wincing with the pain of movement. “Gollum is guiding you?” He shook his head. “You cannot – you must not! -- trust the creature.”

“I don’t. I never have. It was him as couldn’t keep his mouth shut and let Faramir know about The Ring. But Mr. Frodo seems to think we have no other choice but to follow him.”

Boromir settled back, carefully easing his wounded shoulder. “Well, you do now. There will be some of my men who could guide you.”

Sam made a strangled sound of protest. “Meaning no offence, but the less folk we have near The Ring, the better. Frodo says it’s getting heavier. It’s stronger the closer we are to Mordor.”

Boromir sighed wearily and closed his eyes a moment. “Yes, of course, you’re right. But I worry about you and Frodo trying to march all the way across Mordor alone. And Gollum being with you only makes it worse.”

Sam gave a twisted smile. “Believe me, I know. But it looks to be the only way to do it if it’s going to get done at all.” There was a grim silence, then he said, “Maybe you could give us a map or something? And keep Gollum here?”

“Yes, we could do that.”

“Good. That Gollum means trouble, mark my words.” He turned again and frowned back across the square. “It’s been too long. Frodo will be needing me. The Ring wears at him somethin’ terrible. I’ve got to go.”

“Wait,” Boromir urged. “I need to know, did Faramir say why he wouldn’t let you and Frodo go?”

Sam’s open, honest face contorted into an ugly sneer and he remained staring toward the open square. “Because he wants The Ring. He says it’s a…” He altered the tone of his voice to quote, “A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to prove his quality.”

Boromir hissed a sharp, shocked breath – those were Denethor’s mocking words to the younger son who volunteered to go to Rivendell.

Sam continued. “Now he’s talking of bringing his father ‘a mighty gift.’ Sam turned about to look down at him anxiously, “But you can stop him? I mean, you’re the one to give the orders now?”

Boromir shut his eyes and groaned, thinking, Yes, I give the orders – if The Ring hasn’t taken my brother! He rubbed a hand over his face. “Garad should have found them by now! Can you see him anywhere?”

Sam took a longer look, standing on tiptoe and leaning out over the parapet to get a better view. “It’s too crowded. The whole place is filling up with soldiers and they’re all hurrying every which way. There are a lot of wounded men arriving too. That battle must be getting closer.”

“You’re right, Sam. We can’t wait any longer.” Boromir struggled painfully up onto an elbow and searched about for some support with which to haul himself to his feet. None was in reach. “Sam,” he said, “Help me up.”

“What?” To Boromir’s growing frustration, Sam took a step away rather than toward him. “Looks to me like you’d only fall down again right quick. And tear those wounds open, too.”

“We can’t wait and they won’t listen to you!” Boromir shook his head and muttered a curse. “The Ring will not take my brother the way it took me! It will not! Now help me up or I’ll crawl out there!”

Sam blinked, then frowned and moved toward him. “Well, all right, but –“

There was a sudden loud crash and someone yelled, “Look out!”

Boromir glanced up in time to see something hit part of a ruined tower some distance away. A huge chunk of masonry toppled and fell, landing in the river with a mighty splash, and there was a series of even closer, more deafening crashes, “Catapult barrage!” Boromir realised with dread. The Orcs had never before had the numbers to drag the heavy machines of war close enough to target this, the western bank. Men shouted, organising what defence they could, and Boromir’s battle instincts screamed at him to take charge. Then a thump-whoosh of monstrous wings grew louder over the uproar, coming closer. “Nazgul!” The cry went up from the sentries. “Take cover!”

Sam turned away, stepped clear of the colonnade to scan the sky. “Not again!” he cried. “Sorry, Boromir, there’s no time. I’ve got to get to Frodo!” And he charged out into the square to disappear among the milling soldiers.

Cursing breathlessly, Boromir looped his belt about his sword hilt, and rolled on to his good, right side. He stretched, reached for the colonnade support post. The Ringwraith’s searing, shattering screech rebounded from the stone walls, and Boromir was forced to withdraw his arm and wrap it protectively about his head. He gritted his teeth, waited for the noise to ebb. The flagstones suddenly burned cold as ice through his thin clothing, and the breeze created by the giant creature’s flight chilled him to the marrow. Even the snows of Caradrhas had not been as cold. At last the awful scream ended. Boromir pulled his arm from his face and squinted into a confusing blur of shadows. Yet above him the sky remained light. It was his sight that was failing, not the day.

Shuddering and shivering, he flayed blindly about trying to find the support post. His fingers brushed against the pillar and found a ragged gash in its plaster facade. Taking a grip with all his strength, he got his good knee under him and pushed, staggered upright. Grey sky and stone walls and ground circled drunkenly about him, and he could barely tell up from down. He sensed the Nazgul and its awful rider were very close now. Leaning back against the pillar and shaking sweat from his hair and eyes, he peered into the unnatural gloom that shrouded his view of the square. The milling soldiers were gone, had found cover, Boromir’s sight cleared enough to show him the cobblestone expanse that led to the arch that opened into it from the far side.

Even with his eyes dimming, Boromir could not fail to recognise the one figure that moved there, coming quickly forward, bow in hand. Faramir! He tried to call to him, but there was no strength in his voice and even had there been it would not have carried over the roar of wings and the continuing crash of stone. His brother’s arms moved to pull an arrow from the quiver at his back. All his attention was focussed on something high above the ramparts. Boromir was facing the wrong way, could not see the river rampart and wall. He released his grip on the post, turned, and gasped as he saw the unmistakable form of the Nazgul hovering on the skyline.

There was someone standing on the rampart, too. Someone very small. No, it couldn’t be! Frodo? Boromir’s right hand went instinctively to his sword hilt but the long blade’s weight defeated him. Eyes fixed in horror on Nazgul and hobbit, Boromir staggered forward. If he could only move far enough, do something that might distract the monster’s rider from its prey. His wounds tore open, the searing pain accompanied by the feel of fresh blood warming his cold flesh. Shouting in desperation, he tugged hard at the sword, hoping to throw it upward. The effort overbalanced him and he fell, seemed to go on falling for a long time. Then there was nothing but silence, darkness, and crushing cold.


Chapter 4 - Faramir and The Ring

CHAPTER FOUR – FARAMIR AND THE RING

Faramir pulled the bowstring taut and let the arrow fly. His aim was true, the bolt thudding into the Nazgul’s throat. It screamed and climbed higher, wheeled away from the rampart, giant wings carrying it rapidly from the ruined city across the river toward the east. Faramir looked down to see that Frodo was falling, dragged down by Sam’s timely arrival. The little gardener had prevented Frodo putting on The Ring, and saved them all. Tangled together, the two hobbits fell, Sam’s pots and pans clattering as he bounced and rolled from stone step to step. They came to a thudding halt at the bottom, slammed into the flagstones at the foot of the stairs. Faramir took a pace toward them, then froze in horror as he saw Frodo draw his sword and leap at the fallen Sam. “No!” he cried, but he doubted that even had Frodo heard him, he could have responded. For The Ring still had him in its treacherous grasp.

The sword tip pressed at Sam’s throat. Faramir moaned and closed his eyes. “It’s me! It’s your Sam!” he heard the anguished cry. He opened his eyes to see that although Frodo had not driven the blade home, its bright point still rested against Sam’s flesh. “Don’t you know your Sam?”

In the sudden silence, Faramir clearly heard Frodo’s gasping breath, his strangled cry of utter horror. Sanity returned, Frodo found himself within an inch of killing his dearest friend. Eyes wide with shock, gasping for air, Frodo fell back, opened his hand. The sword dropped to the stones and clanged loudly in the sudden silence. “I can’t do this any more, Sam,” Frodo said, completely broken, defeated. Sam staggered to his feet. He regarded his friend for a moment, tears in his eyes, then turned away to watch the Nazgul as it disappeared further to the east, huge dark wings moving against the red murk of Mordor. “I know,” Sam said, “It’s all wrong. By rights we shouldn’t even be here.”

Faramir flinched. How much had these two already suffered, and how much had he added to their burden? I see now, he thought grimly, this is the madness, the evil The Ring would bring to us all. Friend against friend. Allies giving hindrance rather than aid. Just as Sam had said of Boromir: ‘The Ring drove your brother mad ‘ Sharp grief tore at Faramir’s heart and he sobbed, “Boromir!” He could not bear to think of it, his loyal brother driven to insane rage by The Ring. Had he died like that? Or had sanity returned only to leave Boromir to die alone, aware of his failure, believing himself dishonoured? Faramir lifted a gloved hand to wipe the tears from his face, and the White Tree of Gondor flashed before his eyes, catching the frail afternoon light. The beloved emblem replaced the grim image and gave rise to another, clearer memory. After Boromir’s cloven horn had come to him and he feared the worst, Faramir had seen in a dream his brother lying asleep, deeply at peace, surrounded by warm firelight, green boughs and the soft hiss of rain. Which was true?

Words came to him, Sam’s voice, speaking to Frodo, and piercing the gloom of sorrowful thought, “Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines, it will shine out the clearer.” Listening, Faramir found Sam’s simple eloquence and truth a balm that soothed away the nightmare of moments before “But I think Mr. Frodo, I do understand, I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn’t. They kept going because they were holding onto something.”

“What are we holding onto Sam?”

Frodo’s broken plea held Faramir enthralled. This was the question, the one that forever rang in all their minds. What was the answer? It seemed the very day itself, bruised and torn, awaited Sam’s words.

Tears streaking his bruised and dirty face, Sam turned back to his equally grief-stricken friend. He pulled Frodo to his feet, and said with utter conviction, “That there’s some good left in this world, and it’s worth fighting for!”

Yes! Faramir saw hope and purpose returned by the basic, unvarnished truth, undeniable and compelling in the clarity of its wisdom. The loyalty and love that bound them all, brothers, friends, families – that was certainly a good worth fighting for. What have I done? The realisation came to Faramir as if he were waking only now from a dark dream. Why have I brought these two far from their quest? What deceit has the Ring fed to me? It should not have come here! How could I have been so cold? Desiring my father’s praise at any cost!

Faramir moved, took a step toward them, and saw the hobbits flinch and brace themselves. They were fearful of his will to hold them imprisoned. To see two small, brave hobbits backing away from him with open suspicion, drove home the depth of his error. He stopped, went down on one knee, and looked intently into Frodo’s anxious eyes. “I think at last we understand one another better, Frodo Baggins.” Faramir looked up to his Second in Command and the guards who had gathered to resume the task he had assigned – to take the prisoners and The Ring to his father. He could have chosen no worse a fate for Gondor. “Release them,” he changed the order and was immediately rewarded by the light of relief that dawned in Frodo’s so very weary eyes.

“You know the laws of our country. The laws of your father,” the elderly second in command advised at Faramir’s shoulder as he got to his feet, “If you let them go, your life will be forfeit.”

“Then, it is forfeit,” Faramir said, sorrowful, but no less sure of the rightness of what he did. “Release them,” he repeated, and saw Sam push the guard’s hand from his shoulder. “Come,” he said to the hobbits, “The old sewer runs under the river, and will bring you out under cover of the woods.” He waved an arm toward an arched roof above the nearest drain. Frodo and Sam hurried forward and Gollum followed. Inside, alone with them, Faramir asked Frodo, “What road will you take when you reach the woods?”

“Gollum says there’s a path near Minas Morgul.”

Faramir stiffened in suspicion and fear. He turned, took Gollum by the throat, snarled, “Cirith Ungol? Is that what it is called?”

“No! No!” The creature said, then as Faramir’s fist tightened, Gollum admitted, “Yes!”

Faramir threw the wasted, foul smelling creature from him in disgust, and warned Frodo sharply, “They say a dark terror dwells above Minas Morgul. You cannot take that path.””

But it seemed Frodo had no other choice. Sadly, Faramir nodded, but warned again, “Be wary.”

The two hobbits moved toward the sewer mouth. As Gollum tried to follow, Faramir caught hold of him once more and threatened, “If you lead them to harm, may death find you quickly!” He flung the creature from him again and Gollum scurried away, hurrying by Sam who had turned back. Faramir looked inquiringly at the little gardener who was regarding him intently. “You have shown your quality, Captain Faramir, sir,” Sam said sincerely. “The very highest. Just like your brother. I am sorry for what I said about him. I was wrong. He swore he’d let us go, too. Just now.”

Faramir thought he had misheard. “Just now?” he repeated hollowly, feeling afresh the sharp ache of raw grief. Frodo turned quickly about and stared at his friend in puzzlement.

“Oh, you fool Samwise!” the hobbit exclaimed. “I can’t believe I forgot—but with the Nazgul and all… Boromir! He’s alive! He’s here— I was just talking to him.“

“What?” Faramir said faintly, the awful hope staggered him. He flung out a hand in support against the stone wall, lest he fall.

“Boromir is alive?” Frodo asked.

“Yes!” Sam said. “I should have told you right away. He’s waiting out there, on the other side of the square with the big statue, under the colonnade. He’s wounded. I don’t know how he got here exactly, he said something about Gimli helping him.” Then Sam groaned and clutched at his head before turning to Frodo. “And there’s more, Mr. Frodo, Boromir told me about Merry and Pippin… Only, I don’t want to say it.”

Frodo said fearfully. “Don’t tell me they’re dead. I couldn’t bear it, Sam.”

“No, they’re not dead! Well, at least, Boromir says --.”

Faramir could wait no longer; “I must go to my brother!” he interrupted, already moving out of the tunnel toward the daylight. “Remember—be wary of Cirith Ungol!"


Chapter 5 - The Brothers Reunited

CHAPTER FIVE – THE BROTHERS REUNITED

All was darkness, silence, and killing cold. Then sound returned a fading thump-whoosh. As the sound became fainter, warmth seeped back into his flesh, at first the barest thread, then more and more to drown out the chill. Boromir became aware of stones pressed into his face, of his cold hand still clutching at his sword hilt. The darkness drew back and soft grey light filtered through his closed eyelids. Other, louder sounds echoed about him – bootsteps, men shouting. Where was he? What? The Nazgul!
Boromir tried to struggle back to his knees. Shivering racked his body. Though the worst of the cold had gone there was still enough to leave him feeling frozen through to the bone. Only his wounds stabbed hotly at him, and there was a warm damp, the wetness of fresh blood that had trickled to pool beneath him. With an immense effort that tore a cry from his lips, he sat up, and fell back against the pillar, gasping for breath. He lifted his head, tried desperately to see what had happened after he’d blacked out. The Nazgul was gone, that he knew without looking. But where – had he truly seen Frodo up on the ramparts? His head seemed impossibly heavy, but he looked up, his gaze sweeping across the square. Someone was pushing through the disordered soldiers, running toward him only to come to an abrupt halt. Faramir! Their eyes locked, held for a timeless moment. Boromir saw tears film his brother’s blue eyes, saw him mouthing his name.
“Can it be?” Faramir said, half-sobbing, “Can it truly be –my brother not dead, but come home!”
Sheer joy raced through Boromir’s veins, returning some strength, and he found himself grinning, calling, “Faramir! Get over here and help me up!”
Faramir uttered a cry half-torn between laughter and weeping. He ran forward, closing the gap in a few swift strides. He dropped to his knees, wrapped his arms about his brother and drew Boromir tight to his leather-armoured chest.
Boromir gasped, but cared not that the embrace brought pain to his broken ribs and shoulder. He returned it just as fiercely, letting the sword drop to lift his right arm and throw it about his brother’s shoulders. And so they sat for a moment, an age, Faramir openly weeping and Boromir fighting for control as his throat closed over his own tears. Remember this day, little brother. They had last parted, all those dark months ago, not far from this very square. How many times since then had he dreamed of this moment of reunion, longed for it, hoped for it? It seemed an eternity. He tried to tighten his embrace, but pain and weakness took their toll and he slumped down, only his brother’s strength keeping him from falling hard to the cold stones. Faramir held him easily with one arm, and the other hand came up to cradle Boromir’s cold face.
“You are hurt. And so cold. Here.” Still holding Boromir close, he reached out and hooked the litter, dragged it nearer. “Lie back. Let’s get some of these blankets about you.”
Boromir was unable to do anything other than obey, the cold and weakness were draining him so badly now that his vision wavered. Then he felt the soft padding beneath him again, more folded cloth making a pillow beneath his head.
“You’re bleeding! So many wounds!” Faramir gave an anguished cry, got to his feet and turned to the soldiers hurrying by, ”You there – bring the healer and quickly! It is the Lord Boromir needs aid!”
“My Lord, Faramir?” A startled voice replied and boots thudded closer over the cobbles. “Captain Boromir is home!”
“Hurry, soldier! He’s hurt!”
“Yes, my Lord!
“No…” Boromir said and opened his eyes despite his dizziness, eager to drink in the sight of his brother so close at last.
“You are so cold!” Faramir exclaimed worriedly. Kneeling at Boromir’s side, he collected the blankets that had fallen from the litter and pulled them back over him. Not satisfied with that, he pulled off his own cloak to add its warmth to the covers.
“Call him back. No healers.” Boromir tried to eye his brother sternly. “I’ve survived without them well enough.”
Faramir, bending to tuck the cloak tight about him, caught that expression and some of his anxiety faded into a bemused smile. “You lie here, bleeding all over me, wounded not once but….” There his voice broke, and the half laugh became a sob. He swallowed hard to steady himself, and finished, “Three wounds. And you expect me to keep the healers away from you? Brother, you have not changed. And I am glad of it. I thought you dead.”
Boromir snorted, smiled and said, “You give up on me too easily, little brother!”
“Never.” Tears ran freely down Faramir’s face. “Never.” He bent and touched warm lips to Boromir’s brow. “Welcome home, brother. Welcome home!”
Noting the stir of action drawing closer about them as more voices called for the healer and repeated the news of their Lord’s return, Boromir knew the moment of privacy would be short lived. “What of Frodo, and The Ring!” he asked urgently.
Faramir frowned and sat back a little, his eyes darkening from blue to grey. He said softly, “I know it is father’s wish that...”
Boromir caught at his brother’s leather-clad arm and tried to pull himself up. “Faramir, listen to me, you must let it go! Frodo must take it to Mordor!” He gasped over the pain.
“Steady,” Faramir urged. “You must keep still!”
“The Ring cannot save Gondor!” Boromir managed through gritted teeth.
“I know,” Faramir said with a sad smile.
Desperate, Boromir continued, unheeding. “It deceived me once, but never again. I won’t let it take you and father next!”
“Boromir,” Faramir gripped Boromir’s bare wrist. Their eyes met, and held. “The Ring is gone. I let Frodo and Sam go.”
Boromir blinked. “You did?”
“Yes. Even as we speak, the hobbits follow the sewers that will take them under the river back into Ithilien, and on to Mordor. “
Boromir gasped relief and relaxed against the padded litter. He spluttered a laugh. “I should have known,” he said. “The Ring could never hold you. You have ever been the wiser, the more clear-sighted. Like our mother.”
Faramir shook his head. “It was not so easy as all that,” he said grimly. “If I had not seen, here and now, the power of The Ring to drive all to madness…. Things may have gone differently.”
Boromir frowned, “Here? Now? What…”
The soldier returned with Faramir’s Second who reported breathlessly, “I fear Healer Felenthis was killed. The roof caved in as he was tending the wounded. Is it true that your brother --”
“Felenthis, dead! No, say it is not so.” Faramir groaned, and closed his eyes. “He refused to stay safely in Minas Tirith. He said the men needed him here.”
“He was one of our very best,” Boromir agreed sadly then had his arm shaken and his hand taken in a warm grip as Faramir’s Second, unable to restrain himself any longer, moved forward to bend and greet him joyfully.
“It is true! I had dared not hope! Welcome home, My Lord Boromir! But you are hurt?”
“Three arrow wounds, chest and shoulder,” Faramir replied grimly. “We must hurry him on his way to Minas Tirith.”
“Boromir!” A familiar deep voice called and Gimli’s short, stout form hurried toward them, Garad following. “There you are! I was turned about in all this panic. This place is a maze! Though it saddens me greatly to see such magnificent stonework undone. Fortunately, Garad found me and we have secured a small wagon for you.”
“I am sorry, Boromir,” Garad said with embarrassment. “I was told Faramir and his men were by the bridge. Most of the rangers were there, but –“
“No matter, Garad. As you see, Faramir found me soon enough! And you bring to me now the answer to my present need.” Boromir gave his dwarf friend a brief smile, nodded to Faramir, and introduced, “Gimli, Son of Gloin, meet my brother, Faramir.” To Faramir he added, “ Gimli brought me safe all the way from Rauros by boat and tended me in the wild. I owe him my life.”
Gimli gave an aggrieved sigh. “I wish you’d stop saying that, laddie. It is not quite true.”
”It is!” Boromir said indignantly. The cold returned in a vicious wave and he shuddered, was forced to drop his head to the pillow and grit his teeth over pain.
“You are looking much the worse. And you're bleeding! Ahh, you’ve torn the wounds again!” Gimli cried, “What did you do – try to fight the Nazgul single –handed?”
“No,” Boromir said, amused despite the pain, “I think my brother did that. It was your arrow, drove it off, Faramir?”
“Yes,” Faramir said, not really paying attention. To Gimli he asked, “Can this wagon be brought into the square or should we go to it?”
“It would be faster if we carried Boromir there,” Gimli decided. “I don’t think they could get horses in here without clearing out some of this rubble.”
“Come then.” Faramir bent to pick up one end of the litter, and Garad immediately took the other. The Second gathered up Boromir’s sword and followed. It was only a short distance to the wagon, though they had to wind their way through more soldiers hurrying toward the riverbank and ramparts. Several men slowed them further by insisting on welcoming their Captain-General home for themselves. By the time they reached the wagon with its waiting team of horses, Boromir was exhausted. He closed his eyes as several volunteers aided Faramir in carefully lifting the litter and sliding it smoothly onto the narrow wooden bed of the covered wagon. Gimli climbed nimbly up to move to the rear corner, leaving the only remaining space for Faramir.
“They may mount a counter-attack,” Faramir said worriedly to his Second. “I should stay and help organise the defences.“
“Your father will expect a report,” the older man said. “We will manage. Go, you have earned this time with your brother.”
Faramir sounded torn and glad at the same time. “Very well. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve seen Boromir safely home.”
Boromir heard his brother climb up beside him, and immediately his hand was taken in a warm grip. “Rest easy, brother,” Faramir said softly, “Not long now.” He leaned back to call out to the driver’s board, “Go, steady.”
The brake came free and the wagon jolted then settled quickly into a smoother ride over what remained of the well made road that went all the way to the edge of the Pelennor. There, as Boromir knew all too well from previous journeys while wounded, the ride would become rougher as the main road gave way to a narrow, deeply rutted market road. Despite the mound of blankets, he still shivered and began to wonder if the ice would ever melt from his veins. He had heard healers speak wearily of this effect on wounded men who had suffered the near presence of a Nazgul. He knew some of those men had later died, but as many had survived. Or so he thought. His brother’s bare hand settled on his brow, and Faramir said worriedly, “You shiver with cold, yet your face burns.”
“I will soon be well, little brother,” Boromir reassured. He opened his eyes to give Faramir a teasing smile. “Stop fretting – you’re worse than Gimli!”
There was an indignant huff from the corner and Gimli said, “Dwarves do not fret!” He leaned into Boromir’s line of sight to add mischievously, “That would be The Elf you’re remembering.”
Boromir snorted, but noted Faramir looked little cheered by the byplay. “Come, Faramir,” Boromir said more seriously, “You know I always recover quickly. I’ll be back fighting at your side in Osgiliath before you know it!” Faramir nodded and forced a stiff smile. “Have they attacked with catapults before?” Boromir asked. “Their strength seems far greater than when I left.”
“It is,” Faramir said darkly. ‘No matter how many we kill in Ithilien or here, ten more soon seem to appear to take their place. Southrons and Easterlings arrive to reinforce the armies of Mordor. Their numbers ever increase, while ours steadily diminish. My Second tells me five hundred men were pulled back from Osgiliath to guard the northern river.” He sighed. “And now the enemy bring siege machines within reach of the western bank. It will not be easy to hold them. ”
Boromir’s sigh echoed his brother’s. “No. Did we get the other wounded men out? How many survived the collapse that killed Felenthis?”
“Most. Poor Felenthis would have insisted on being last out, as always. There are three larger wagons following along behind us. About twenty wounded in all.”
“Twenty? Just today in Osgiliath?”
“I fear so. And I brought several wounded back with me from Ithilien.”
“How many killed?”
“Twelve in Osgiliath and I lost two, Marador and Lethrim, when we ambushed the Haradhrim close to our base at The Window.”
“They have reached so far?” Boromir said with dismay.
“Yes, and they bring with them their monstrous creatures – the Mumakil. Each is fitted out like a warship with ten or more archers in large, basket-like platforms atop their backs.”
“We cannot take such losses and continue to hold Osgiliath and the western and northern river while Sauron calls ever more armies to support him!” Boromir cursed.
“No, I fear we must soon decide where to withdraw.”
Boromir shivered again, then winced and bit back a groan as the wagon hit a rough spot in the road. “You are in pain,” Faramir said sorrowfully. He hunted about inside his leather cuirass and came up with a small metal flask. “Here.” He slipped his free hand beneath Boromir’s head. “Swallow some of this, it will help.”
“Karan’s brew?” Boromir asked hopefully.
“The very same,” Faramir smiled at his pleasure and eased him up to take the bottle rim in his mouth. Boromir swallowed, coughed a little and lay back. “Better? Warmer now?”
“Much better! Many a cold night on our way south did I wish for a drop or two of Karan’s!”
“Here, Gimli.” Faramir handed the flask to the Dwarf who took a swig before handing it back.
“That is a fine brew!” Gimli said appreciatively.
Boromir snorted. “Trust me, Faramir, Karan’s will never receive higher praise. Gimli is quite the expert. And that reminds me, Garad promised him all he can drink – in thanks for his aid to me.”
“A debt I will gladly see paid.” Faramir gave the Dwarf an intently grateful regard.
“As I keep saying,” Gimli insisted, “I did very little. But I will never say no to a beer! Or to a drop as fine as this Karan’s!”
“Good,” Faramir put away the flask and settled to rest his back against one of the wagon’s covered wall stays. “You have travelled far. Frodo said there were nine of you set out from Rivendell, but one had fallen in Moria?”
“Yes.” Boromir heaved a great sigh that made him flinch as much with emotion as with the tug of pain in his ribs. “Faramir, I dread to tell you. Our great loss grieves me all the more for his having been so dear to you.” He searched out Faramir’s eyes in the growing gloom of the wagon interior and said softly, “It was Gandalf -- Mithrandir who fell.”
Faramir drew a shocked breath. “Mithrandir! No!”
“I am sorry, little brother. He meant much to us all, and more, may yet have been the salvation of Middle Earth had he but lived.” He squeezed the hand that still held his own. “I am sorry.”
Faramir nodded and said nothing, choked by tears for several long moments. Then he asked hoarsely, “I had thought Mithrandir, one of the Istari, near immortal. He has been among us so long. How much darker our days and how worse may we fare without his guidance?”
“Indeed.” Gimli said sadly. “Things have been far the darker since his going from us.” He formed a fist and lifted it to back his curse, “May the Balrog rot forever in its deep tomb!”
“A Balrog!” Faramir gasped.
“A demon of the ancient world, Gandalf called it,” Boromir said, his voice heavy with sorrowful remembrance. “He said it was a foe beyond any of us, and he was right.”
“He gave his life to save us from the monster of Moria,” Gimli added tearfully.
“He held the bridge of Kazadum while we escaped,” Boromir explained, “Then he broke it with his staff. Gandalf turned back to us, but the Balrog snared him with its whip even as it fell. Gandalf’s death near destroyed the hobbits with grief. I had a struggle holding Frodo back.” Boromir could say no more as grief robbed him of his voice.
Gimli finished the tale. ‘Gandalf held on just long enough to say ‘Fly, you fools! Then he let go. He just let go – and fell into the chasm after the Balrog.”
Faramir asked, softly intent, “He let go of what – the ruined bridge?”
“Yes. Then, he fell,” Gimli repeated brokenly.
Boromir cocked his head; he had come to expect there was more than a simple meaning when his brother used that sharply thoughtful tone. “Faramir?”
“Foolish of me to even think it,” Faramir said and shook his head.
Boromir frowned. “To think what?”
“Mithrandir is – was – an Istari. He had powers beyond our imagining.”
Boromir began to see where his brother was leading. “Yet he did not attempt to use that power to regain the bridge.”
Gimli stared at them in disbelief. “You cannot be thinking – it was a drop into the very bowels of the earth! And even an Istari ‘s strength has its limits—he had used all he had in forcing the creature away from us.”
“True,” Boromir said. “I’m sorry, Faramir – there’s no hope he could have survived. If the fall did not kill him –“
“The Balrog would.” Faramir nodded weary agreement. “It was a foolish hope.”
Boromir said intently, “Hope is never foolish.”
Faramir smiled fondly down at him. “Indeed not – for it has returned my brother.” He bent closer to tuck in an edge of blanket, then frowned as he more clearly saw Boromir’s growing pallor and exhaustion. “Yet, still a brother who is sorely wounded. I should not have let you weary yourself with so much talk. Please, rest now. Try to sleep. The day grows late; it will be evening before we reach Minas Tirith.”
“I will sleep a while, then,” Boromir said and closed his eyes. “But you must promise to wake me at sunset.”
“Sunset?”
Boromir smiled softly. “Many long days have I dreamed of seeing again the golden light on the white walls and spires of my city.”
“I will wake you, brother,” Faramir said, “Now sleep, I beg you.” And he began ever so gently stroking Boromir’s brow and hair. “Sleep.”


Chapter 6 - News Comes to Minas Tirith

CHAPTER SIX: NEWS COMES TO MINAS TIRITH.

Shadowfax galloped on and on, climbing ever higher through the streets of Minas Tirith. The first sight of the white city from atop a hill to the west had awed Pippin. He thought then that he could well understand Boromir’s often impassioned and beautiful descriptions of his home. But now, inside the walls, climbing through the sixth level, Pippin realised Minas Tirith had far exceeded the romantic imaginings he’d formed in his mind as he’d listened to Boromir. He craned eagerly around Gandalf as they entered the arched tunnel that led from the sixth to the seventh and final level. Surely, the topmost would be the most spectacular. And then he saw it, an emerald green lawn, backed by magnificent buildings. But it was a much more sombre, sparser place than he’d expected. The fountain in the centre court was pretty enough – but why would they decorate it with a dead tree? And leave guards standing about it at that?

Then, as they dismounted and Pippin jogged to keep up with Gandalf’s long strides, he remembered. “Gandalf! It’s the tree!” He had seen it in that awful evil black stone, the Palantir that had so entranced him. He had seen the tree and a courtyard of stone – and flames.

“Yes,” Gandalf replied. “The White Tree of Gondor.” As they climbed the steps he gave Pippin instruction on what he could and could not say. They were to meet Boromir’s father. Finally, Gandalf concluded, “In fact, perhaps it’s better if you don’t’ speak at all.”

Pippin nodded, more than happy to obey. He was feeling completely overwhelmed by his surroundings. And the memory of the vision reminded him of past error. He had learned his lesson – he would stay in back, remain silent and let those who knew better and had vastly more experience deal with such vital matters. Still, he was looking forward to the moment when they could relay to Denethor the good news – Boromir was on his way home, albeit severely wounded.

The guards closed the huge hall doors and the sound echoed hollowly about them as Pippin and Gandalf entered a vast mostly empty chamber with a high domed and arched roof. Despite its size and magnificent architecture, It was not quite what Pippin had expected of the Steward’s Hall in the capital of Gondor. Where were all the courtesans? Where was the hustle and bustle of all the business and the war preparations that surely must be conducted here? Other than the guards, there was no one. Just Denethor sitting alone on his throne. There were two thrones and Denethor’s, The Steward’s, stood much lower than the other. The higher throne, Boromir had said, awaited the return of the king. Pippin could not imagine Aragorn wanting to sit all the way up there on such a high, lonely and overly superior-looking throne. And how could people hear him from way up there in any case? Pippin stared, tyring to take it all in – there were so many marvellous statues in black pillared alcoves to either side of the hall, and the floor had such lovely inlaid mosaic patterns. .

Then Gandalf stopped. “Hail, Denethor, Son of Ecthelion, Lord and Steward of Gondor. I come with tidings and with counsel.” Gandalf gave a small bow and Pippin moved to stand at his side. He looked up the hunched shouldered dark-haired man on the throne. His head was bowed over something he was cradling on his lap.

Denethor lifted his head and Pippin felt and immediate pang of heart-wrenching sympathy. Pippin well knew what it was like to imagine Boromir dead. All the long hours of his capture, before Merry had regained consciousness, and he’d been all alone with his thoughts, it had been all Pippin could see – Boromir falling one final time, dreadfully wounded by not one but three arrows. Surely he must die? That terrible grief had near consumed Pippin, and only his concern for Merry had kept him going.. Never would he forget the great weight that had lifted from him when they’d met Aragorn and Legolas at Isengard and been told of Boromir’s survival. Now, recalling that despair, and seeing it reflected in Boromir’s father, Pippin felt tears sting his eyes. Every line of Denethor’s face spoke of utter sorrow and hopeless grief. His eyes were red-rimmed and gleaming with unshed tears, his hair lank and unkempt, his jaw unshaven.

“Perhaps you come to explain this?” Denethor said, and he lifted the object he’d been cradling. Pippin gasped in shock. Boromir’s horn! It was sliced in two. Completely broken, shattered. Aragorn had not said anything of this. Could Orcs have set upon Gimli and Boromir a second time as they travelled the great river? Boromir would never let that horn from his sight. The blood ran cold in Pippin’s veins –what had happened? “Perhaps you come to explain why my son is dead?”

Pippin’s knees near went out from under him. He drew a shocked breath and swayed where he stood. Gandalf’s hand settled on his shoulder but the wizard did not look down at him. All his attention centred on Denethor. “My Lord, we have news from those who travelled with Boromir. He was severely wounded but his companions tended those wounds. One who provided that aid assures me that even now Boromir is safely on his way back to you, travelling by boat with another companion to see to his care.”

Pippin let out the breath he’d been holding. Gandalf sounded absolutely certain, his hand at Pippin’s shoulder calmly reassuring. He would know. But Denethor did not seem at all relieved, or even pleased. He stood, stooped and angry and his eyes were hard as stone as he fixed Gandalf with a sneering glare. “I know my son will not return! This is the proof!” He held out the cloven horn. “You seek as ever to deceive me, Mithrandir!”

“I do not deceive!” Gandalf snapped. “Boromir was caught in the midst of fierce battle. He fought for his very life, and for the lives of others!”

“It’s true!” Pippin cried. He stepped forward then went to one knee in homage and a gesture of humility and gratitude. “Boromir was hurt saving us, my kinsman and I. He fell defending us from many foes. There were so many Orcs. The horn could have been cut away from his side after he was wounded.” Pippin dared not look up to gauge the success of his words. The fact that he had not been interrupted was good enough. He drew a deep breath and said, “I offer you my service, such as it is, in payment of this debt.”

“Get up!” Gandalf said and nudged him with his staff. Pippin stood, eyes downcast, still afraid to judge the effect of his words.

“Take courage, My Lord,” Gandalf said. “Boromir will return home and soon. War is coming. The enemy is on your doorstep. Where are Gondor’s armies? As Steward you are charged with the defence of this city. You still have friends. You are not alone in this fight. Send word to Theoden of Rohan. Light the beacons.””

“My duty is to protect Gondor from treachery as well as from war!” Denethor took another pace forward, coming down one of the steps. Pippin almost took a backward step, driven by the force of the hatred in the man’s expression. “And you would give Gondor nothing but treachery and false hope! I have seen my son’s death! And from a more reliable source than travellers’ rumours! You think you are wise, Mithrandir. Yet for all your subtleties you have not wisdom. Do you think the eyes of the White Tower are blind? I have seen more than you know. My son is dead, or dying, and my line approaches its end. With your left hand you would use me as a shield against Mordor and with your right you seek to supplant me. I know who rides with Theoden of Rohan. Oh, yes. Word has reached my ears of this Aragorn, Son of Arathorn. And I tell you now I will not bow to this Ranger from the North. Last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship!”

“Authority is not given to you to deny the return of the King – Steward!”

“The rule of Gondor is mine, and no other’s!” Denethor was all but spitting with fury. Pippin stared at the man, aghast and disbelieving that this could be Boromir’s father.

“Come, Pippin,” Gandalf said. Together they turned and left the hall. Outside the day was bright, the air clean and cool. Pippin drew a deep breath. “He was so angry!” he said. “Why wouldn’t he believe us about Boromir?”

“Because he allows anger to rule his mind! He is blind to reason!”

“But--” Pippin had to steady himself before he could say it. “He is wrong? I mean, when I saw the horn, it made me wonder. Maybe he knows something more, maybe Boromir and Gimli have been –“

“My dear Pippin, calm yourself.” Gandalf shook his head. “I assure you that my heart tells me Boromir and Gimli are alive and not too far off returning to the city.”

Pippin exhaled hugely. “Well, that’s a relief! I trust your heart over anyone or anything else!”

Gandalf chuckled, and the sound put Pippin at last completely at ease. Inside that cold, echoing hall, he had almost begun to think something awful had happened to his friends. “I am glad to hear that I have your confidence, Master Took! Now, come along, we must find lodgings, and I know just the place. I’ve been here several times in the past, and despite Denethor’s hostility, have been made welcome. How would you like a hot bath and a large soft bed?”

“That would be wonderful! And, and food! Will there be good food?”

“The finest fare this side of Rivendell!”


Chapter 7 - Revelations

CHAPTER SEVEN – Revelations

Gimli took off his helm and settled his battle-axe to a more comfortable position at his side. He sat quietly watching as Boromir gradually succumbed to his brother’s tender but insistent ministration. Boromir was soon deeply asleep, yet still Faramir continued smoothly, rhythmically stroking his brother’s brow in an open show of caring and love that moved Gimli deeply. That simple gentle touch spoke more eloquently and clearly of the source of strength that carried them all through ever more perilous days than any flowery words ever would. Each member of The Fellowship had family, and homes, he knew, yet never had it come to Gimli so keenly just how deep and valuable was that bond. This was what drove them all, kept them going no matter their war weariness – the need to protect their homes and all it meant. Of the nine, Boromir had seemed the one most driven by duty, by the hard necessities of military and political training. Yet, as they had journeyed long days together, spent many an hour on watch or sitting by the campfire, Boromir too had revealed more of his innermost heart. And in those moments he’d spoken most often of Faramir. It had been a near thing at Amon Hen – Gimli did not want to imagine Faramir’s grief if Boromir had not returned to him.
“Three arrow wounds,” Faramir said with a sad sigh as he lifted an edge of the blankets to check the bandaging. “At least the bleeding has slowed now he’s still.” He lifted his head to regard Gimli questioningly. “You fought many foes that day?”
“Aye,” Gimli said grimly. “One hundred or more. It was the fiercest battle I have ever fought.”
Faramir stared. “One hundred against… eight of you?”
“Only four of us trained warriors – the poor wee hobbits stood little chance against creatures of such cruel size and power.” He met Faramir’s wondering eyes and explained, “These were no mere Orcs who tracked us, but some new evil created by Saruman. The Urukhai of Isengard are larger and heavier than any man, their minds more cunning than Orcs, their armour thicker and shields more broad. They will run night and day without tiring.”
Faramir nodded. “Word had reached me from Rohan of this new enemy roaming freely to kill beneath the sun.”
Gimli sighed heavily and looked down at the blood on Boromir’s bandages. “I still wonder that any of us survived the battle at Amon Hen. Aragorn said one of the creatures fought on even after he had severed its arm and driven his sword through its guts. Only by cutting the thing’s head off did he end its attack. And I doubt not that Aragorn took more satisfaction from that one kill than all the others.” His eyes lifted again to lock with Faramir’s appalled gaze. “That was the very same monster, the archer, that had felled Boromir. Your brother would have died with a fourth arrow in his heart but for Aragorn’s most timely arrival.”
Faramir paled and drew a sharp breath. “Then I am forever indebted to him. And to you all.”
Gimli shook his head. “If only we could have reached Boromir sooner! He and Frodo had wandered from camp and we had scattered to find them. But the Uruks found us first. Aragorn, Legolas and I were far from your brother, atop the hill and caught in fierce battle, when we heard Boromir’s horn. Ahh!” Gimli cried and lifted a hand to his eyes. “I hear it still, calling, pleading for help, desperate, alone but fighting yet. And us unable to reach him immediately! Nor would we ever perhaps, but that many of the Uruks were drawn away from us by the horn.”
“They ran toward the call of Gondor’s horn?”
“Aye. They knew that the horn guarded the prize they sought most urgently – ‘Find the Halflings!’ they were shouting. The Uruks could see the hobbits were not atop the hill, with us, and they knew somehow that a hobbit carried The Ring. Those who did not stay to fight us, ran to claim the prize, or so they thought, but Frodo was safely away, with Sam, close by the boats.”
“Frodo said there were two more of his kin with you. Sam spoke of Merry and Pippin? It was they who were taken captive?”
“Sadly, yes. The Ring was saved by their sacrifice. The Uruks did not know there were four hobbits among us. And finding Boromir fighting so fiercely to protect them, must have added to their certainty that this was The Ring he guarded.” Gimli sighed. “Boromir near gave his life to protect them, his ‘little ones’, as he called them. How he fought on, pierced by so many arrows…” Gimli shook his head. “Never have I witnessed so valiant a battle.”
“I can see it.” Faramir blinked, and tears fell from his eyes. ‘”My brother has the bravest heart and the fiercest will in defence of those he loves.”
“Indeed.” Gimli’s grim expression softened suddenly into a fond smile and he looked down at his sleeping friend. “I would scarce have credited it in one such as Boromir, ever the stern warrior Captain. Yet, all the way from Rivendell to the Anduin, he fussed after Merry and Pippin like a mother hen with its chicks!”
“This too, is not new to me,” Faramir said, and again lifted his hand to stroke his brother’s pale brow. “For so he cared for me when I was but an infant. After our mother died. Since, he has ere a soft place in his heart for children.”
“The hobbits do seem childlike at first look. But they take severe umbrage to being thought of so.” Gimli snorted and looked to Faramir with a smile. “I fear poor Boromir was oft on the receiving end of a cutting remark when it seemed he might forget that. But Merry and Pippin are such rascals! They would happily use Boromir’s kind heart to win extra rations. He was forever giving over much of his share to them and trying to hide the fact from the rest of us!” He lowered his voice conspiratorially and leaned closer. “Indeed it’s become rather a sore point with Boromir that we learned that he even surrendered his warm undershirts when the hobbits pleaded the bitter cold of Caradrhas.”
Faramir chuckled. “I must remember to tease him about that – sometime when I am well out of range!” Gimli grinned back at him, but Faramir’s mood abruptly darkened as he added, “And yet these two that he so loved and protected, were dragged away from him by the Uruks?”
Gimli nodded. “It tore at him badly that he had been unable to save them. Bare moments after Aragorn first reached him, he begged that we abandon him and go immediately to their rescue.”
“Is there yet hope tor such a rescue?”
“Aye, I believe so. Aragorn is the finest tracker I have ever seen, and he has Legolas with him. Both have great knowledge of the lands the Uruks must cross to return to Isengard. Aragorn says he knows a shorter way that would intersect their route. If any can return Merry and Pippin, it will be Aragorn and our good Elf friend.”
“Then, this too is true!” Faramir said, in an awed whisper, and recited:

“From the ashes a fire shall be woken;
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be King!”

Gimli looked up at Faramir, wondering at his tone. “Aragorn has long been loath to push his claim. But there, I believe your brother has turned the tide.”
“Boromir? In what way?”
“Much of it in the friendship and trust that grew ever stronger between them during our long dark journey. And he gave final proof of the courage and honour of Men – if such were needed -- in his valiant attempt to save Merry and Pippin. Boromir gave his pledge of fealty to Aragorn after that terrible battle, and more, heard in return Aragorn’s oath of protection for Minas Tirith.”
“Aragorn is pledged to come to our aid?”
Gimli nodded. “He swore he would not let The White City fall, nor his people fail.”
Faramir drew a great breath in wonder and joy. “Then Boromir has indeed returned victorious, for he has delivered the greatest and mightiest of gifts! Our King returned in the hour of our most dire need. I am most glad of it, and yet this is a new insight to my brother where I had thought..” He paused and Gimli tilted his head expectantly until Faramir continued, “Boromir has ever been my father’s greatest and most loyal Captain, ever sought to carry out his will.”
Gimli grunted. “It is true that when Boromir first learned that Strider, the Ranger, was Aragorn son of Arathorn, and heir to the throne of Gondor, he did not react.... favourably."
Faramir smiled wryly. “I fear you try for diplomatic words, friend Dwarf. I thank you, but I know well what my brother would have said in such a circumstance, for I have heard him echo our father often enough on this matter – ‘Gondor has no King. Gondor needs no King.”
“You know him well!”
Faramir looked again to his sleeping brother and resumed his stroking. “That Aragorn has won not only my brother’s loyalty but also his affection and oath, tells me much of what I have long suspected of the nature of the man I dearly hope may some day soon reclaim his crown.” He smiled fondly but a frown darkened his eyes as he said softly to Boromir, “I fear you may yet have your greatest task ahead, brother – to make our father see Aragorn as now, do you.”
Gimli snorted. “A clash of two such strong wills should be … most entertaining.”
Faramir did not smile. “My hope is it will be no worse than that, yet my heart fears otherwise.” He heaved a gusty sigh. “But that is for the days ahead, and whatever the outcome, my heart will survive, for my brother has come home at last where I dared not hope!”
Faramir pulled at a cord wrapped about one of the wagon cover stays, and then he lifted the side flap. His face and hair suddenly gleamed red-gold in the low light that spilled inside the wagon. “Look!” he exclaimed, and pulled the canvas flap higher, “The light returns! The sun has reached far enough west to be free of Mordor’s foul murk. I will wake Boromir, and you must see this too, Gimli. For it is a sight to soothe even the most sorrowful of hearts – the White City and its towers washed gold by the sun’s setting!”
“And a sight well renowned in all Middle Earth,” Gimli said as he moved toward the opening. “Yet this will be my first … Oh!” Before him was revealed a beauty that could only be equalled by the far golden domes of Lothlorien’s trees. But this was a beauty better suited to a Dwarven heart for it was carved and hewn from the magnificent perfection of the mountain itself. “Oh!” Gimli inhaled again, overcome by awe. At his back, he heard Faramir whispering to his brother.
“I am loath to wake you from such a peaceful slumber when you are in such sore need of it, brother. But a promise made is only a promise if kept. Come, wake Boromir. Set eyes again on that which your brave heart so truly enshrines. Wake, Boromir, and find yourself home at last!”
Gimli dragged his eyes away from the golden city to catch the moment he had so often heard ring in the longing of Boromir’s words. Faramir gently lifted Boromir’s head and shoulders, cradling him against his chest. Both brothers were now awash in the golden light, their red-brown hair haloed, eyes glowing, and their smiles twin portraits of radiant joy. Gimli’s vision swam suddenly and he felt tears sting his eyes. In its way, the sight of the two brothers reunited, and one in their love for their homeland, was a beauty far greater than any that could ever be crafted by living hands.
“Home!” Boromir said. “My city at last!” There was a catch in Boromir’s voice that robbed of him of further speech.
“Both the sun and Minas Tirith welcome you, brother!” Faramir’s words rang with pure joy. “Drink it in, and draw strength from it. Remember this day and this moment forever.”
“I will remember, little brother,” Boromir said softly. “I will remember.”
There was silence and Gimli turned back to watch as the highest towers caught the ever-lowering light. Tall and proud with their white banners flying, the spires and towers seemed to be trying to hold that golden radiance against the day’s dying, wanting to horde it as a treasure against the darkness to come. Finally, the uppermost peak of the beacon roof above the city gleamed in one last glorious burst of light, almost as if it were indeed aflame. Then the sunset light winked out, leaving the city painted in a pale twilight of purple shadows. High above the mountain the sky was molten gold, streaked with a defiant blaze of vivid colour, the lowest band a brilliant glowing blue. There at the westernmost point, a small gap of sky remained clear, open and free. A banner of life and hope defying the death and despair of Mordor.
“It is strange,” Faramir said intently, “Yet with each passing day as Mordor’s clouds spread further west, the sunset challenges it ever more bravely and cheers our hearts with a wider array of golden light.”
“The light of the West will never die, little brother.“ Boromir turned away at last to smile up at Faramir, “At the least, not in our hearts.”
Faramir nodded mutely, swallowed hard, then kissed his brother’s brow and said, “Never could my heart be more glad than at this moment, returned home with you.” Gently, he eased his brother back to the padded litter. “Rest, now.”
“Father also believes me lost?”
Faramir nodded. “It will be good to free him from the weight of that grief. I know too well its burden.”
“Yes,” Boromir said, but there was something uncertain in his gaze as he held his brother’s eyes. “And yet, we return to him without the mighty gift he so greatly desired.”
“The Ring.”
“Yes.” Boromir lifted a hand to grip Faramir’s bare wrist with surprising strength. “And as always, though it is my failure, the worst of his wrath will be directed at you!”
“We know it is anything other than a failure to keep Gondor free of The Ring’s evil,” Faramir replied firmly. “Yet if father will name it so, I will have him know that it was not your doing that turned The Ring back east from Osgiliath.”
“Faramir! No!” Boromir started up, hissed pain. “Listen to me! You must not reveal any part in its going from him! You must tell him as will I, that it was my order set Frodo and Sam free.”
“Boromir… he will know the truth.”
“It is the truth! It was my order! Whether or not it reached your hearing first is…” He panted pain, gasped, “of no matter.”
Faramir frowned. “I will tell him, as you wish. Now, please, do not struggle so; your wounds are already freshly torn. I will not see them bleeding again!”
Breathless and holding one hand tight against his ribs, Boromir nodded and lay back. “You will tell him it was my order?”
Faramir sighed. “If that is your wish.”
Boromir held his brother’s eyes fiercely. “It is my fervent wish! I will not see you pay this new penalty that father created! He would bring it to bear on any who release travellers before he has questioned them.”
“You would spare me this penalty only to have it directed at you in my stead!”
Boromir reached out and squeezed his brother’s arm again. “It saddens me, but you know well I have father charmed where you do not. I will find a way round this new penalty as I have those of the past.”
Faramir looked suddenly away from him, and Gimli caught the gleam of fresh tears in the younger man’s eyes. “That penalty was never..” Faramir cut himself short, choked by emotion.
“It will be all right,” Boromir said with somewhat uncertain sounding reassurance. “He will be too glad to have me home.”
“I pray you are right, brother.”
Gimli could be silent no longer. “Would someone kindly tell me what is this penalty of which you speak?”
Boromir looked up at him, and the grim light in his friend’s eyes suddenly worried Gimli. “Death. The penalty is death.”
Gimli’s mouth dropped open and it was a moment before he could say, “Surely your own father would not!”
Boromir sighed, and turned again to look toward the City. Its huge beautifully ornate gates were very close now. From inside came the shouted orders that would open it. “We will know soon enough.”
They could hear a horse trotting rapidly closer, approaching from the rear, and as it drew level with them, Gimli saw that the rider was Boromir’s friend, Garad.
“My Lords!” Garad greeted happily. “Friend Gimli! This is a moment long awaited. Boromir, may I beg the honour of being first to take the news of your return to your father? ”
Boromir grinned at the man’s eager expression, and nodded. “Go, Garad, enjoy the gallop. And don’t run down too many people in the streets this time!”
Garad laughed. “They should learn to move faster! My thanks.” And as the mammoth gates drew open, Garad indeed took off at a flying gallop. Gimli noticed that in the man’s right hand was clasped the Steward’s standard. The White Tree, dark against the white silk, caught the light of the many torches arrayed about the gates in the growing dusk. And by their flickering light, as if in salute, the branches seemed suddenly to come to life.
For Boromir was home.


Chapter 8 - Denethor and The Palantir

CHAPTER EIGHT DENETHOR AND THE PALANTIR

Garad galloped excitedly up and around the first level, then the second, the third, and on, The Steward’s banner flying high. He shouted joyfully again and again, “Great news! Great news! The Lord Boromir is returned!" Voices cried out behind him, and the joy spread like a wave creating a sea of gladness. This was a wondrous day for Minas Tirith.

At last, with his brave horse tiring, he reached the seventh level and charged through the Citadel archway. The sentries stepped aside and he called the news to them, heard them too repeat it joyfully. He thundered on across the open expanse of green sward and by the dead Tree with its mournful fountain. At the steps of the Great Hall he jumped from his sweating mount, gave over the reins and the banner, and hurried up and through the door. Here, he slowed a little. For all its magnificence he’d never much liked Gondor’s Great Hall. It was for him too empty a place, full of echoes, shadows and coldness. But today, he smiled proudly up at the statues of Elendil and Isildur. Looking forward however, he saw that the Steward’s throne was empty.

A citadel guard hurried forward, resplendent in the silver and black livery of the Tower Guard, but wearing a scowl on his thin face. “The Lord Denethor is in his tower chamber and left strict instruction that he was not to be disturbed. You may leave your message with me.”

Garad laughed. “Not to be disturbed? Even to hear that Boromir is come home to him?”

“Boromir is home? Truly?” Garad nodded and the man’s sour face suddenly lit with hope and joy.

“Yes, man,” Garad urged. “Now let us hurry. Boromir asks that I deliver this news personally. Take me to the Steward!”

Together they climbed many a narrow winding stair going higher and higher above the Hall only to emerge on yet another landing or balcony that led to still more stairs. Garad had thought that the uppermost spires of The Citadel were no longer used, but apparently he had been mistaken. For ahead now, at the narrowest point of one final curving tunnel, a strange light could be seen flickering from about the edges of a heavily draped and screened doorway. On either side stood black robed and hooded shadowy figures. At first Garad thought they might be Dunedain Rangers, so silent and menacing did they appear. But Denethor he knew had long been hostile to the Men of the North.

The two stepped very smoothly, almost stealthily forward and Garad saw that, whoever they were, they had rarely seen the light of day. Their skin was flawless white yet sickly in its pallor, their eyes sunken and shadowed their cheeks hollow and bodies terribly thin. Surely such were not strong enough to guard the Steward? They were armed with halberds and their swords did not carry Gondor’s mark. From where had they come? Meeting their eyes sent a sudden chill through Garad – here lay power, not that of flesh and muscle and bone, but a power that may easily surpass it.

The taller of the two came closer still, his voice a sibilant hiss as he asked Garad’s companion, “What do you here? And with a stranger! You have been told…”

“I bring word,” the Tower guardsman found courage to interrupt. “A messenger, Captain Garad, with great news!”

“None may enter here,” the second creature said flatly. “Save the Steward.”

“Move aside!” Garad had lost his patience. “Lord Denethor will want to know his firstborn is returned to him!” Right hand gripping the hilt of his sword, Garad pushed at the curtain and stepped inside. It was a gloomy, stuffy and windowless small round chamber with a low wood rafter and tiled roof. Only a single candle burned, giving off less illumination than smoke. Someone was weeping, and the sound tore at Garad for its grief was that of one who had long abandoned all hope.

Denethor – if indeed it were he -- appeared inconsolable, sitting hunched over something that lay in the middle of a small, circular table. On its far side lay Boromir’s cloven horn. In this setting it seemed even more forlorn than it had when the Rangers first found it by the Great River. The Steward was whispering to himself, sobbing, “He is dead, then. Or dying. Ever the same. Ever the same.”

Swallowing hard against the miasma of despair and fear that permeated the chamber, Garad stepped closer. He saw that between Denethor’s now parted hands, was a strange black orb of stone or glass that gleamed with swirls of red and orange light. It was oddly beautiful, and he stared at it a moment, mesmerised.

“My Lord Steward! A messenger!” the guard who had followed Garad announced harshly.

Denethor jumped and almost guiltily, threw a dark silk cloth over the stone. “I told you I was not to be disturbed! And no strangers are ever to enter here!”

The ferocity of the snarled rebuke staggered Garad. He stumbled back and caught at another low table for support. His sight cleared as the strange orb let go its grip, and he realised cold sweat was running down his back and dampening his brow and hair. All the joy and warmth of his message had somehow died in the impossible chill and gloom of this awful, airless room. Denethor’s piercing eyes pinned him suddenly from within the shadows, and Garad blurted out, “My Lord Steward, I come to tell you, your son, Boromir is returned. Your firstborn is home!”

“Returned? Dead?”

“No!” Garad gasped. “My Lord, Boromir is alive! He is wounded, yes, but already his strength returns. A wagon carries him closer through the Circles as we speak.”

“Boromir? Alive? Surely it cannot be?”

Garad frowned confusion for this persistent doubt. Given long enough in this hated room he may even come to believe such nonsense himself! “I swear, it is true! I left him bare moments ago. Please, my Lord, come, follow me and I will take you to him. He is eager to see you again.”

“Yes,” Denethor drew a deep breath and stood. He stumbled a little and Garad steadied him. “Yes!” he repeated more strongly. “Take me to my son!”

They hurried all the way back through a maze of stairs and landings, then, having apparently followed some secret, more private route, Garad found himself suddenly stepping out into the night onto a colonnaded gallery that ran the length of the eastern side of the Great Hall. He breathed deeply of the sweet, fresh air. The night for all its darkness seemed full of life and light by comparison to that awful tower chamber high above. Flickering torches lit their path as they hurried on to the far end of the gallery, turned a corner, and entered through a plain arch that gave access to a smaller, carpeted hall. This was, as near as Garad could make it out, the area in which more private interviews were held. On the far side stood another arch, open to the night and through it, with great relief, Garad saw the green sward where stood the wagon and its team of horses. Faramir had climbed out and seemed to be arguing with the driver about whether or not they should deliver Boromir back to the Houses of Healing, beyond the Citadel Gate, rather than first proceeding here.

Completely ignoring Faramir, Denethor rushed forward, his long cloak billowing behind him. “Boromir! My son! “ He called. “Are you indeed come home to me? Say it is so!”

From inside the wagon, Boromir replied, “Father!” He came into sight, propping himself up to peer through the open canvas side. He flashed a broad grin and stretched out an arm to beckon his father into his embrace. “I am home at last!”

Denethor leapt up to the wagon bed with a nimbleness Garad would not have credited for the broken man he had found high above. The Steward caught his elder son in a fierce hug that must have hurt Boromir, but he returned it nonetheless delightedly. Denethor could not speak, but rested his brow against his son’s and wept silently for several long moments.

“Father?” Garad could see the expression on his friends’ face, saw how much this dishevelled and grief-torn man had shaken Boromir. Denethor was not the stern leader he had left behind all those months ago. “It is all right! It is all right. Do not weep!”

Finally, Denethor drew back and Garad saw his face was transformed. He was smiling now, and his eyes gleamed only with tears and with love. That earlier strange cold light had left their depths. “Boromir!” he cried and laughed all at once. “I knew you could not be fallen! I knew you would not fail me!”

“Never!” Boromir said firmly in return. But he could no longer hide his weakness and pain, and was unable to remain seated. He lay back to the litter, and gave Faramir who stood behind their father, a somewhat bemused, sad and wry smile.

“You are wounded!” Denethor cried in anguish as he saw the bloodied bandaging that all but covered Boromir’s chest and shoulder. “How badly?”

“I will soon be well.” Boromir looked again to his brother and drew him closer with a glance. “Faramir has done much to aid my return of strength since my arrival in Osgiliath today.”

“Indeed?” Denethor stepped down from the wagon to regard the younger man. Both his tone and expression lost all their warmth as he continued; “Yet it is only now that I learn of this happy news?”

“My pardon, father,” Faramir ‘s face fell, and Garad glimpsed a heart wrenching sadness before a calm mask cloaked Faramir’s deeper emotion. “Osgiliath is under attack. The Nazgul are ever watchful. A single messenger may have been captured. And there was none to spare from those needed to guard the other wounded who travelled close behind us.”

Boromir shook his head angrily. “We sent Garad as soon as we might.”

“Osgiliath is under attack, you say?” Denethor had not removed his sharply cold eyes from the younger son. “Then surely, Faramir, as the senior commander of all our forces along the Anduin your place is there? Are you not sworn to protect the city your brother so recently returned to us? Go. Get you back to the garrison.”

“Father! No!” Boromir cried. He tried again to sit up, wincing and pressing one hand to his ribs. “I would have Faramir’s company a while longer!”

Denethor turned to Boromir with a flat smile. “You know where duty lies, Boromir. It is time your brother learned the same.”

Boromir spat an ugly, furious curse that made his father blink surprise and take a step back. Boromir glared bright anger at Denethor and snarled, “My brother has fought as long and hard as I to defend Gondor! Longer! Harder! I have not been here these long months when we have been so constantly hard-pressed! He has held the borders better than I could have wished! I will not hear him so rebuked!“ Breathless and fighting pain; he steadied himself and turned to his brother. “Ignore him, Faramir. There will be time enough for war come the morning.”

“I thank you, brother.” Tears of pride and affection for his brother’s fierce defence gleamed in Faramir’s blue eyes. “But, I must go.” He smiled sadly and shook his head. “I will see you soon. Rest. Regain your strength. Our Captains will look for your return to the fight, as will I.” Not giving his father the satisfaction of any protest, he merely turned his back and walked away, toward the Tower Guard stables.

Dismissing Faramir as if he had never been present, Denethor looked back to Boromir, took his hand, and asked, “And what of the gift I asked you to carry home to me?”

Boromir would have eased himself wearily back but for the grip on his arm. “This is not the place for such news,” he said tiredly.

Denethor gasped and leaned eagerly forward. “I know you found it! Where is it?”

“It was lost to me, and I’m glad of it.”

Denethor’s grip tightened so hard that Boromir flinched. “It cannot be so! You would not fail me! And I have seen it, seen this mighty gift. Seen that it has come to Gondor! You must have it!”

“I do not.” With the last of his strength, Boromir pulled his arm free and fell painfully back to the litter.

Gimli, who must have seen and heard the entire exchange, suddenly leapt clear of the wagon. He hefted his battle-axe in one hand, and gave Denethor a fierce glare, startling the guards who hurried forward.

“Friend! Friend!” Garad said quickly and stepped between them. “Gimli is a friend.”

“Friend to some here and not to others,” Gimli growled and did not leave off his glaring at Denethor. “Tell me, Steward,” he said scathingly, “how is it that you can see so much that does not concern you from so far afield?”

From inside the wagon, Garad could hear Boromir either cheering or laughing. Denethor cheeks flushed with anger, stepped closer to sneer, “And who are you, Dwarf, that you dare question me?”

Knowing Boromir’s patience and strength had been well exhausted, Garad intervened. “This is Gimli, son of Gloin, and our honoured guest, for it was he who cared for and returned Boromir all the way from Rauros.”

“Rauros?” Denethor whispered, “Yes, Amon Hen, that is where I last saw it clearly. Yet I know it was closer, much closer, only today.”

“Saw what? How?” Gimli demanded.

“You are brazen as all your kind,” Denethor spat. “It is long since Minas Tirith has tolerated such as you in her lower streets, let alone her Citadel!”

“Father! Enough!” Boromir exclaimed, and groaned as he struggled to again push himself up.

Gimli stepped to the wagon’s side, and reached up to pat his friend’s arm. “Leave it, laddie. It’s not worth you hurting yourself further. And I am going anyway.”

“Going? Where?”

“To Osgiliath. For I will not see your brother return alone to battle.”

Boromir heaved a sigh of gratitude. “I would be glad of that. Thank you, Gimli. Watch his back for me.”

“I will, laddie, I will. And I ask that you take care of yourself, too. The sooner you can rejoin the fight, the better.” He patted Boromir’s bare arm once more, smiled and said, “Rest, regain your strength. Looks like you’re going to need it.”

Faramir had reappeared leading a horse. Boromir called, and he came to the wagon to embrace his brother and say farewell. Then he swung into the saddle, and bent down to haul Gimli up behind him. “Return to me, soon, little brother,” Boromir called. “My thanks, Gimli! Return to me safe!”


Chapter 9 - Blood And Shadows

CHAPTER NINE – BLOOD AND SHADOWS


Garad, watching, was appalled as he saw the brothers take their leave. This was far from the joyous homecoming he’d expected. He’d long known of, and sometimes witnessed, Denethor’s coldness toward Faramir, but never had he dreamed it had become so much worse. He shook himself and stepped forward, signalling the guardsmen to help him with the litter. They too were subdued. But as Garad and three others carefully lifted Boromir free of the wagon, he cheered them with a ribald remark and a grin despite his evident exhaustion. It was those innate qualities of good humour; courage and natural leadership that had long since won for Boromir the admiration, loyalty and love of every soldier of Gondor. Garad took command, turning them toward the Citadel arch and the Houses of Healing, only to have Denethor snap, “Not that way! I will have my personal physician tend my son. Follow me!”
Garad frowned and obeyed. He had not known there were any healers other than those who lived and worked on the sixth level. When had one been singled out and given such an exclusive honour? It had never been done before. The much loved and greatly mourned Felenthis had been the senior Healer, and all had assumed he would attend Denethor if ever such was needed. Garad grew wary as one of Denethor’s dark-robed guards joined them as soon as they re-entered the building. The stranger whispered to The Steward and Denethor nodded, said nothing, but his shoulders drooped and his back hunched in an attitude of extreme weariness.
After following an ever-more confusing maze of corridors branching off from the Great Hall, they reached their destination. Garad and his men carefully manoeuvred the heavy litter through a narrow door. Inside he was disappointed to find yet another small, windowless room, a bedchamber. The White Tree banner was draped over the bare stone of the rear wall, but there was little other adornment. If this was Denethor’s sleep chamber, surely it was the room he must use only when duty delayed him late in the Hall. It was a far cry from the comfort and beauty of the rooms of the multi-tiered House of the Stewards that stood to the right of the Hall. Most of the rooms there were bright and spacious with tall windows giving magnificent views of the city and the distant river.
Boromir lifted his head slightly to share a frown of puzzlement with Garad, but then lay back, seeming too bone weary to care for anything other than that the room contain a bed. And that at least it supplied in style – a large, deeply cushioned four-posted bed with its red-brocade drapes drawn back. Gently the men lay the litter down on one side of the mattress, and with Garad’s help, Boromir moved from it onto the bed. Seeing him shiver as the litter’s covers fell back, Garad bent and took the heavy woollen blanket that lay neatly folded at the foot of the bed. He covered Boromir warmly and heard him give a muffled groan of sheer relief. Boromir opened tired eyes to smile gratefully up at them and say, “My thanks. I hope carrying me so far has not ruined your backs.”
. The other men chuckled and stood back. Garad patted his friend’s arm. “It is we who thank you for this great honour.” Garad winked. “The story should earn us all many a free ale in the city’s taverns this night.”
“Be sure to save some for me,” Boromir grinned, but his face was pale and lined with fatigue.
“We will. Now, if I may be so bold as to give advice to My Captain General – take some rest.”
Boromir snorted dry amusement and closed his eyes. Garad dismissed the other men, but some instinct made him stop short of leaving the room himself. Denethor had come in from the outer corridor followed by two of the strangely dark-robed men, not those Garad had seen acting as guards. These carried baskets of rolled bandaging and what looked to be an array of surgical knives and probes. Garad would not, unless ordered otherwise, leave Boromir – even in the company of his father – while such unsettling attendants remained. The taller and leaner of the two he noted with some trepidation wore the insignia of a Physician high on his left shoulder.
“Shall I lay out your instruments here, or closer to the bed my lord Haradna?” the shorter man asked.
“Closer.” Haradna nodded. “Bring that table to the bed.”
The assistant, rather than doing it himself, waved at Garad to obey. He was ready enough to make himself useful, his feeling that he should not leave was growing stronger by the moment. He positioned the table then was ordered to fill a basin with water from a ewer in one corner. As he placed it on the table, he winced at the gleaming array of knives and other metallic tools. He had seen such before, used in ways he preferred not to recall, in battlefield aid stations. He was somewhat reassured when, unlike that rough and ready medicine, Haradna washed his hands thoroughly before bending over Boromir. The small knife he held was used only to slice through the filthy bandages, which he then threw to the carpeted floor. Garad began to relax -- they planned then only to clean and redress the wounds. He glanced across the room to see that Denethor was now seated in a large cushioned chair in the left rear corner and was taking surprisingly little interest in proceedings.
Having washed the caked blood from Boromir’s chest, the physician began probing carefully with his long fingers at each wound in turn. Boromir stiffened, gasped, and then clenched his teeth tightly. As the examination continued, he lost what little colour had formerly brightened his thin face. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow and cheeks and his flesh drained to a stark white mask stiff with tension. Garad shared Boromir’s sigh of relief as Haradna finally moved away from the bed. Boromir looked groggily up at the man, but seemed now so weak that he was only partially aware of his surroundings.
To Denethor the physician reported tersely, “The left shoulder is broken and several ribs are shattered. The shoulder in particular contains bone fragments that must be removed if the muscles are to heal correctly. Without such, I fear your son may not regain full use of his left arm. And there are splintered pieces of the arrow shafts remaining that will soon poison the wounds if they are not removed.”
“Do what you must,” Denethor said without emotion.
Garad wanted to ask if surely it would be better to delay such surgery at least until Boromir had recovered a little from his long, jarring journey. But it was not his place to give advice to healers. And he did not want to be thrown out of the room, was glad they seemed to be tolerating his presence without objection.
The Physician searched among his instruments, pointed at several, and his assistant spread them on a piece of white cloth in readiness. Haradna chose a long, sharp-pointed set of pincers and bent back to Boromir.
“W-wait,” Garad said over a mouth suddenly gone dry with horror. “Surely there is something you can give him first? Something to deaden the pain?”
Haradna looked coldly over his shoulder and said nothing. The assistant turned and hissed to Garad, “Be silent, or leave!”
“But.” Garad shut his mouth as the assistant nodded toward the door. Instead of speaking, Garad looked pleadingly toward Denethor, but saw not the least flicker of response in The Steward’s empty expression. It almost seemed he had drifted into some kind of trance. He was muttering very softly, his lips moving; though Garad could not make out the words. Garad heard a strangled moan from the bed, and turned back in time to see the Physician dig at the shoulder wound. The sudden intense pain had brought Boromir fully awake, and he bit down hard to stifle further cry, his teeth drawing blood from his lower lip. Why had they not given him a piece of leather on which to bite down?
Garad grew ever more angry and sickened as the cruel work continued and more and more bloodied swabs were thrown to the floor. Though there had been plenty of probing, not one single piece of bone had as yet been removed. And they hadn’t even started on the other wounds. He began to fear Boromir would not survive if they went on much longer. The Physician tugged at something deep within the wound and Boromir reared up from the bed with a sharp, agonised cry.
“There! It is out,” Haradna said and dropped something gleaming white and covered in gore onto the folded cloth. Boromir dropped back limply to the bed, mercifully unconscious.
Garad’s stomach was in his throat. When Haradna picked up another metallic instrument and began to work on the lower chest wounds, he gagged and looked away, swallowing hard against the sickness. Partly waking from his faint, Boromir began to toss and moan, throwing his head about so violently that the assistant moved to grasp it firmly and hold him still. Boromir continued to fight them, his good right arm lifted and his legs drawing up. “Get over here, soldier, and help me hold him!” the assistant snapped.
Garad stumbled closer and obeyed, all the while trying to keep his eyes from seeing exactly what it was they were doing. But he couldn’t avoid seeing the dark blood that streamed now from all three wounds to stain the sheets in an alarmingly widening circle. Garad was no Healer, but he well knew that such bleeding needed immediate attention. “Shouldn’t we – “ he dared, “find some bandaging for –“
“Be silent! Hold him! You are needed for nothing more.”
Garad bit back a curse and struggled to hold down Boromir as he continued to try, instinctively, to escape the torment of those long, slender hands and their metallic touch. Boromir’s entire body trembled, muscles twitching and jumping with strain. Sweat drenched his hair and ran in rivulets from face, neck and straining tendons.
“Please,” Garad begged in a half–whisper and craned aside to look again to Denethor.
Anguish and fear drew taut lines on the Steward’s face, his brows low over dark eyes. He was talking to himself softly and wringing his hands. “It is gone from me, then. Gone! Our only hope.” The words he mumbled grew louder. “And my firstborn, Gondor’s finest Captain crippled! Or dying yet! There is no hope!””
“No!” Garad shouted, not having much effect on Denethor but earning a stern glare from Haradna. The Physician dared not order him to leave now – they needed his strength to keep Boromir on the bed. His struggles grew more desperate, making Garad want to weep even as he marvelled at the man’s great strength.
“Merry! Pippin! No! Run!” Boromir called suddenly, his head breaking free of the clasping hands. “Run!” he repeated and lifted up from the pillows. Garad too almost lost his grip as Boromir’s right arm jerked, the fist closing as if about a sword hilt. “Where are you? Where? I can’t see! Run!” He gave a long moan of despairing agony and cried again with surprising strength, “Merry! Pippin!”
Garad jumped a little as he suddenly realised The Steward was now standing very close at his shoulder. Denethor was still wringing his hands but was silent, listening intently. “Pippin?” he said. “That is the name of the Halfling who arrived today with the Wizard, Mithrandir. My son suffered these wounds for him! For a foolish, unimportant Halfling!”
Garad almost lost his balance, jolted by the Physician’s arm as the man started abruptly back and swung about to frown at Denethor. “”Where is this Halfling?” Haradna asked sharply.
“Gandalf is here!” Garad said, feeling a surge of hope.
“I sent them from me,” Denethor snapped. “After they came to me this morning.”
Boromir found strength to cry desperately, “Pippin! Run!”
“If this creature was one of Boromir’s companions than I would have him brought to us,” The Physician said, sounding and appearing to Garad oddly strained and excited.
“And what possible good would that do for my son? The Halfling has already left him crippled!” Denethor snarled.
“It may help quieten him. Boromir will do himself less damage if he stops fighting us so. He loses much blood.”
‘Very well,” Denethor nodded and turned immediately to Garad “You, Ranger, go fetch this Halfling, Pippin, to me.”
“Yes, My Lord!” Garad replied, then frowned down at a struggling Boromir and added uncertainly, “But who will —“
“I will hold him. Go! Hurry!”
Though he was reluctant to leave his bloodied friend with these madmen, Garad was glad to obey. He’d bring Gandalf, too. The Wizard would stop this butchery and see Boromir properly tended. “Where will I find them, my Lord Steward?” Garad thought to ask as he reached the door.
“I know not!” Denethor snapped. “The Wizard most often stays in the old quarter on the Sixth level.”
Garad cast one last despairing look at Boromir then charged outside.


Chapter 10 - The Wizard and The Hobbit

CHAPTER TEN – THE WIZARD AND THE HOBBIT



Gandalf and Pippin were standing talking and enjoying the sunset view from the balcony of their quarters, when a growing commotion from the levels far below gradually caught their attention. "What are they all shouting about down there?” Pippin asked. “They’re all suddenly so excited about something.”

Gandalf came to the balustrade at Pippin’s side and looked down, frowning as he saw a rider galloping full tilt up through the arch of the third circle to climb ever upward. The man carried the banner of the Steward and was shouting as he rode. Whatever it was it left cries of joy in its wake. The entire city seemed to be pouring from their homes into the streets, but not in fear, in celebration.

“I could almost swear.” Pippin began. “Does that sound like. Well, like they’re calling Boromir’s name?”

Gandalf listened harder, and as the rider entered the fifth circle he could hear it clearly, “Great news! Great news! The Lord Boromir is returned!”

“It is! It is!” Pippin cried.

“Yes!” Gandalf smiled and slapped the stone railing in triumph. “Well done!” At his side, Pippin had begun to dance, doing a strange jig that carried him in ever-wider circles. He whooped and called, “Boromir! Boromir! I knew you couldn’t be dead! I knew it! We were right!”

“Well, of course! We’re always right!” Gandalf chuckled and gave the hobbit a wry regard, remembering his fears of earlier that day. Then he took him by the arm and pulled him away from the balcony, back into their room. “Then you might want to stop running in circles, Peregrin Took and put your best clothes back on.” He stopped, cocked an eyebrow at his small friend, and said teasingly, “Unless you’d rather not visit him just yet.”

“Oh, Gandalf!” Tears suddenly filled Pippin’s eyes and rolled down his cheeks. “Do you think we could? Boromir fought so hard to save me and Merry, and I don’t want him to be worrying about us any longer than he must. But, do you think, I mean, will Denethor let us see him?”

“We may have to wait until after they have their own reunion, but I’m sure Boromir will soon ask for news.”

“And if Denethor tells him we’re here –“

“Boromir will send for us. Come along now. Hurry.” And Gandalf frowned, suddenly wondering at his own urgent need for haste. All his instincts were telling him speed was of the uttermost importance. Why? There was nothing but joy in the streets about them. Boromir could not be in danger, here in his own much-beloved city surely?

“Gandalf?” Pippin gasped. “You’re hurting my arm.”

“My dear Pippin, I am sorry!” Gandalf hurriedly released his grip.

Pippin rubbed at his arm. “Nothing’s wrong is it?”

“Wrong? No. What could be wrong with Boromir safely home at last.”

Gandalf and Pippin were somewhat out of breath when finally they gained admittance to the Great Hall in the wake of the wagons carrying the wounded. Aside from those eager for news and ready to celebrate Boromir's return, there were many others who anxiously awaited reunion with the other wounded men returned from Osgiliath. Gandalf had had quite a time of it trying to push his way through the crowds that clogged the streets. He needed to keep one hand firmly attached to Pippin who was in danger of being swept away.

“So,” Pippin dusted himself off and bounced impatiently on his toes. ”How long do you think they’ll keep us waiting?” They had been met by a small balding man dressed not in soldier’s garb, but in the red doublet and lace collar of a secretary. He had listened to their request then seated them in an antechamber and left them after promising to deliver their message. “How long do you think they’ll make us wait?” Pippin repeated when there was no answer.

“I don’t know,” Gandalf said absently. He was for once feeling even more impatient than Pippin looked. “But I don’t think we’ll stay here. Come, let’s follow our officious friend at a distance, shall we? There are no guards watching us here, they’re all out there trying to hold back the crowds.””

Pippin lifted his head in surprise, then laughed, “Why what a good idea!”

They crept along quickly and quietly until at last they saw their unknowing escort stop in a carpeted hall on the eastern side of the Great Chamber.

“Gandalf?” Pippin whispered. “Would they bring Boromir here? I mean, there are no Healers here, are there?”

“No, there are not,” Gandalf said slowly. “The Houses of Healing are just outside the Citadel Gates on the Sixth level.”

Pippin looked suddenly worried. “Maybe he’s not here. Maybe they’re just taking us to Denethor. I’d rather not see him again just now.”

“Oh?” Gandalf peered down at him in some bemusement. “You’ll see much of him when you take your formal oath of fealty tomorrow.” He paused. “Are you regretting it?”

“No! No. Well maybe just a bit. Now Boromir's here I’d rather I had more time to be with him.”

Gandalf grunted and lifted his head to study his surrounds. There was an unnatural chill in the air here that suddenly had him on the alert. Yet nothing seemed at all out of the ordinary.

Pippin shivered. “But they could bring one of the Healers here to him, couldn’t they?”

“Yes. Denethor may have chosen his own personal Healer and have him in attendance.”

“Oh, well, that’s all right then.” Pippin frowned up at him uncertainly. “Isn’t it?”

The dark mood of this hall had even dampened Pippin’s spirits. Something was not right. “We shall see, we shall see. Let’s move a little closer, around that next corner.”

They stepped into the next hall, and found their escort just coming to a halt outside a small, but ornate door. He started back in surprise as it suddenly swung open and a soldier exited; so much in haste that he very nearly knocked the little man from his feet. They untangled themselves and immediately began arguing. The door remained ajar and from the room beyond came an echoing cry of despairing pain.

Pippin gasped and stumbled. “What was that? It almost sounded like… But it can’t be. They wouldn’t…”

Gandalf was intent on the argument. The soldier wore the well-worn leather jerkin of an Ithilien Ranger. “Stand aside!” he said angrily. “I have a most urgent errand. Do you know where I might find the Wizard – Gandalf the Grey? Mithrandir?”

“Here!” Gandalf called and stepped quickly forward. At the same moment there came another cry this time followed immediately by an urgent “Pippin!”

“It is Boromir!” Pippin wailed. “They’re hurting him! .I’m going in there!”

“No, wait!” Gandalf grabbed and suddenly found his hands full of furiously struggling hobbit. “We will go to him. Just give me a moment to be sure it’s not a trap!”

“I don’t care if it is!” Pippin struggled harder.

The Ranger hurried closer, said, “You are Gandalf the Grey? This is Pippin?”

Preoccupied by small hobbit feet that sought his shins, Gandalf merely nodded.

“Thank the Valar!” The soldier cried. “I thought I would not find you in time! The Lord Boromir calls, and the Steward has asked that you both attend him.”

“Both?” Gandalf looked swiftly up at the man.

“Well, only for the Halfling. But –“

Another cry and Pippin pulled free, ducked under Gandalf’s arm, dodged the soldier, and sped on inside the room. Immediately came his anguished cry, “No! Stop it! Let him be! Stop it!”

Gandalf hurried inside with the soldier close behind. Pippin had pushed himself between a black-robed physician and Boromir who lay gasping and moaning on the bed. The hobbit clutched at Boromir’s large hand with his own left, and in his right he held the Noldarin dagger given him by the elves. Never had Gandalf seen so fierce and stern an expression from a hobbit. Pippin’s teeth were bared in a snarl of hatred and rage. “Stay back!” he warned. “Don’t touch him!”

Denethor had retreated, his hands to his face. The physician stood frozen, his eyes carefully tracking that threatening blade. A third man, also garbed in black was trying to creep up on Pippin from the other side of the bed. Gandalf stepped forward, blocking the third man’s path, and saying, “I was told you called for us, My Lord Denethor?”

The Steward turned slowly and lowered his hands. His eyes, swollen and red, were glazed, but bright with anger. He glared at Gandalf then turned furiously to Garad. “What have you done, Ranger? I asked only for the Halfling’s presence! Get over here and take that blade from him! And throw the wizard out! .

Garad moved closer to Pippin, but his hands were empty and he gave a conspiratorial wink and approving smile to both visitors that Denethor could not see for Gandalf’s shielding body. Gandalf was suddenly alarmed as he saw beyond Pippin to the bloodied man on an equally bloodstained bed. All three of Boromir’s terrible wounds were badly torn and bleeding heavily. Still he struggled, moving feebly but desperately as if to fight some unseen foe, his face twisted with pain and white as the mountain snow. Gandalf moved urgently toward the bed, but Denethor stepped closer, spitting rage. “Leave us! You are not wanted here!”

Gandalf pinned Denethor with icy rebuke. “Not wanted, no, but badly needed! Boromir calls for aid and he will have it! Stand aside and let me help him! I will not be refused!” He lifted his staff threateningly and Denethor at once backed off.

All the fight left The Steward in a rush and he again hid his face in his hands. “It is too late!” he moaned. “Too late! I knew it would be so! It is as I foresaw – my son will die!”

Gandalf growled disgust and took one swift pace to the bedside. “He will if you allow this – this butchery to continue! Put away your blade, Peregrin Took!” he snapped.

“When he leaves,” Pippin said defiantly and waved the blade at the Physician.

Gandalf spared a glance for the surgeon, and was sickened at the gore that covered the man’s long narrow hands. And more sickened by the sight of the probe he had apparently been using on the wounded man.

“I am The Steward’s personal Physician! I do not leave because a Halfling threatens me!”

Gandalf threw out an arm and hit the surgeon a solid blow to the chest. “Get away from him!” he roared. “You will leave at my command! Get you gone from us!”

Haradna staggered back, driven by the sheer force of the power in Gandalf’s voice. “But I have not completed my work!” he protested.

“Yes, I see that!” Gandalf said scathingly. “For he still breathes! Leave us! I will tend the Lord Boromir – as a friend, not an enemy! Get you from his side and never return unless to face my wrath! Begone!” Gandalf hefted his staff and white light suddenly blazed from its tip. Both black-robed men quailed and cried out in open terror. They turned and fled from the room. Denethor stumbled as if he had been struck and fell back into his chair.

Quickly recovering from his surprise at Gandalf’s display, Garad slammed the door and took up a posture of guarded defence beside it, sword drawn. “You should have let me take their heads,” he said vengefully.

“Mayhap I will yet,” Gandalf said quietly, dismayed and sorrowful as he saw what had been done to Boromir. He cast a grateful glance at the soldier and asked, “What is your name?”

“Garad, Ranger of Ithilien. I am a friend to Boromir.”

“I am glad you were with him, and I thank you for your aid.”

The Ranger nodded, then asked shakily. “Will he – will he be all right now? That butcher of a surgeon claimed there are fragments of bone and splinters of arrow shafts needing removal.”

“I very much doubt the last, at least, is true,” Gandalf said. He bent to wash his hands then grimaced in disgust at the stained water. Garad hurried to bring him the ewer and a clean cloth.

“Gandalf?” All Pippin’s ferocity was gone, and he looked suddenly very small beside the towering bed. His small fingers still held tight to Boromir’s large hand. It was the man’s left hand, the fingers open and the arm worryingly unmoving while the rest of his body strained to rejoin the fight. “He won’t die, will he? Denethor’s prophesy – it’s not true is it?”

“Of course it is not!” Gandalf said with more heat than he intended and cast a glare at the Steward. “There is no certainty in such craft when used by the Elves, let alone that from any conjured by Man!” Gandalf drew a calming breath and patted Pippin’s head. “Boromir will live. Aragorn was certain the arrows came clean from the wounds. Now, help me. Bring those bandages here then see if you can find more blankets to warm him. And clean away this filth!” He threw down a gory swab then pulled away the bloodstained sheet that was tangled about Boromir’s lower body. Gandalf blinked surprise – the man was still dressed in his travel-stained clothing. His attendants had not even bothered to remove his boots. Boromir’s sword and shield, however, had been carefully placed against the wall beyond the bed.

Pippin nodded and obeyed without fuss. Gandalf did not need the help so much as he knew Pippin badly needed a focus other than the sight of Boromir’s horribly bloodied wounds. He bent to the man, appalled by his deathly pallor and the shadows of pain that tightened his mouth. Gently, he clasped Boromir’s sweat-drenched head, and called on the words of Power. Immediately the bleeding stopped and the angry, torn redness of the flesh about the wounds faded. The strain left Boromir’s face at last and he lay very still and quiet. “Come, Boromir, hear me. Wake now. It is over.”

Gandalf frowned when Boromir did not respond. Something was blocking the completion of the words of Healing. He leaned closer to the unconscious man and studied the wounds more closely. Very, very gently, he lay his hand to each in turn. He nodded, sighed, then held the palm of his hand to Boromir’s brow. He stood eyes closed, concentrating with all his might. It was no use, he could not reach the man in whatever far distant refuge he had found to escape the torment.

“What is it, Gandalf?” Pippin asked, apparently repeating himself though Gandalf had not heard him before. The Ranger too looked to him expectantly. Denethor remained sitting huddled in his chair, his expression one of profound sorrow and weariness. At least he was no longer muttering about death.

“There is poison,” Gandalf said tiredly. Both Garad and Pippin gasped in alarm, and Gandalf immediately reassured. “Nothing too serious. Only what we had expected from Aragorn’s report. The wounds bear Saruman’s taint. And too it seems Boromir has recently come under the shadow of the Nazgul. His flesh burns and yet he trembles with cold.”

“The Nazgul attacked the Osgiliath Garrison this morning as we sheltered there,“ Garad explained then added desperately, “But Boromir was recovering, I swear it. He was talking and laughing with us as we carried him here but an hour past.” Garad’s voice broke and he cried angrily, “Curse me for a fool! I knew I should have borne him to the Healers!”

Gandalf gave the dark-haired Ranger a wintry smile. “And had you disobeyed the Steward’s order, how long would you have stood to protect your friend? No, Garad, you served Boromir well. Do not fear for him now. He has been badly weakened, yes, and that has brought the poisons back to full strength in his blood… but, with help, I can soon rid him of that taint.”

“How? What must we do?” Pippin asked.

“Can you truly save him?” Denethor’s words were soft and full of pleading as he left his chair and came hesitantly to the bedside.”

“Yes. But I came not a moment too soon. Now, Boromir needs his father’s love to strengthen him. And yours too, Pippin. I ask each of you take a hand as I call him back. Pippin, go to the other side of the bed and climb up beside him.

Pippin nodded and obeyed eagerly. “Like this?” he said and picked up Boromir’s hand between both his own. From the other side of the bed, Denethor copied him, lifting Boromir’s limp hand to his lips before holding it tightly to his chest.

“Yes. Good. You must both stay in touch with him. He will hear and return if you also call to him.” Gandalf stooped again and placed a hand to either side of Boromir’s head. He closed his eyes and softly whispered the ancient words of Healing. Little by little Boromir’s spirit was rekindled. There was much innate strength, requiring only the merest spark to soon have it flooding back to refuel his warrior’s heart with defiant courage. Finally, Gandalf smiled, nodded and stood back from the bed.

Boromir moaned and blinked, his eyelids heavy and bruised-looking in the candlelight. His eyes came partly open but were without focus. The first face he saw was Pippin who smiled at him in delight and called to him. Boromir swallowed over a dry throat and said in a hoarse whisper, “Pippin? We are dead?”

Pippin’s smile vanished to dismay. “No! We’re alive! We’re not dead!” He squeezed Boromir’s hand as hard as he could.

“My son! Forgive me! I should not have listened to them!” Denethor exclaimed brokenly. He leaned down quickly, forcing Pippin back, and kissed Boromir’s brow. “There will be no more pain. I swear it.” Boromir squinted at his father and fought for greater wakefulness. He tried to sit up then gave a low moan and lay back as the fresh pain of his wounds stabbed at him. “Yet you suffer!” Denethor cried. “I will see you eased!” He turned to Garad and said harshly, “Go the Houses of Healing. Bring Rarned.”

Garad nodded. “Rarned is a good man.”

“Stay where you are,” Gandalf said. “I have all that is needed.” He fished within his tunic until his free hand closed over the small phial of miruvor he kept there. “Lift Boromir’s head, Pippin,” he instructed quietly. “He must drink a little of this.”

“What is it?” Denethor asked, turning to him with his usual caustic suspicion.

“A potion he should have been given long before anyone touched these wounds and poked about at broken bones!” Gandalf snapped. “It takes away pain, and allows sleep.” Denethor had at least the grace to look shamed. He nodded and began to move back, but halted as Boromir moaned softly again, his eyes closed.

“Hush, now. Hush,” Gandalf said gently. He bent and lay his free hand soothingly to the man’s pain-furrowed brow. “This will help.” He held the Elven healing draught to Boromir’s lips but the man turned his head from the touch. Gandalf smiled wryly, “You are ever one to resist, Son of Gondor! No doubt that has kept you alive where others would long have surrendered”. Changing to a tone of command, he said, “Drink, Boromir! You know its taste and its power. You had it once before, after our battle with Caradhras. Come, now. Drink.”

Boromir swallowed and Gandalf nodded satisfaction before putting away the flask. Again he lay his hand to the man’s pale brow. “Sleep, now. Rest.” Boromir gave a great shuddering sigh of relief, drew another easier breath, then relaxed, his body at last free of tension and fully at rest.

“He will sleep the night through now, and most of tomorrow too, I should think.” Gandalf said, feeling infinitely weary himself

Pippin settled his friend’s head back to the pillows and looked up to say tearfully, “Thank you, Gandalf. Thank you!”

Gandalf nodded and reached out to ruffle Pippin’s hair. “I don’t much like the look of this room, do you, Peregrin Took?”

“Not in the least!” Pippin declared with feeling. “It doesn’t even have any windows!”

“Exactly. Boromir needs to be where the light can reach him and aid his full healing.”

Garad stepped closer and cast a wary glance to The Steward before suggesting, “Perhaps my men and I should carry him to his own rooms? The House of the Steward has many large windows that look west.”

“Yes, “ Denethor nodded wearily. “I would see my son in his own bedchamber once again. I would see him truly home.”

“Yes, thank you, Garad. Be so good as to find someone and have them send bearers,” Gandalf said tiredly. The Ranger nodded and left the room. “Pippin, come, help me get this clean bandaging about his wounds.”


Chapter 11 - Pippin's Tale

CHAPTER ELEVEN -- PIPPIN”S TALE

There was warm sunlight on his face. Silence. And he felt so wonderfully comfortable. A terrible weakness and lassitude dragged at him, and there was dull pain, but his wounds no longer burned with searing agony. He drew another breath, relishing the freedom and ease of it. His head and shoulders were cushioned on a mound of pillows, his back and legs cradled by a firm yet soft mattress. Clean sheets and a soft linen nightshirt caressed his freshly washed body. The last bed he had known had been in Rivendell, many months in the past. It felt so good. His right arm lay atop a woollen blanket though the room was not cold. Closely wound bandages held his ribs and there was more bandaging about the wounds in side and shoulder. A sling supported his left arm. He could hear and smell a wood fire crackling in the grate nearby. Even without opening his eyes, he knew he was resting in his own bedchamber. The sheer joy of homecoming combined with the luxury of being able to rest in bed, of being almost completely free of pain, tempted him to remain just as he was. He would keep his eyes closed a little longer. Yet not too long – there was much to do.
There were soft footfalls, someone walking almost impossibly quietly across the carpet, closer to the bed. Then, seeming loud by comparison, a crunch followed by the sweet smell of apples. A small hand closed about his fingers. Joy vanished under a sudden crushing weight of grief. Tears brimmed beneath his closed eyelids. So, I am not awake after all, but only dreaming.
The noisy munch-crunch of someone devouring an apple, and the aroma were so very real. Cruelly real. As was that warm grip on his hand. Now he did not want to wake at all, to open his eyes and face the reality of an empty room, and an empty heart. His ‘little ones’ had been stolen from him, and it may be a mercy if they were dead.
There was a loud sigh that stirred the hair on Boromir’s brow. “Surely he’ll wake soon?” Pippin’s voice said with familiar plaintiveness. “He’s slept all night and most of the day.”
Someone chuckled and a deep voice from the corner of the room, startling Boromir a little, said, “Leave him rest, Pippin.”
“I am!” Pippin whispered. “It’s only that I can’t wait to talk to him again.” Another loud sigh. “He’ll break Merry’s record for lying in all day. Merry won’t be happy about that.”
“Your friend did not have three arrows shot into him. Hush, now, you’ll wake him.”
This is a most strange dream. I could swear that’s Garad’s voice.
“Garad?” he tried to say, but managed only a hoarse croak. Suddenly, he realised he was very thirsty, his mouth so dry he could barely swallow.
“I think he said something!” Pippin announced excitedly.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Garad said wryly. “No one could sleep through your chatter, little one.”
It sounds so much like Pippin. Hope was a knife blade at his heart. He must know. But Boromir found it was surprisingly difficult when he at last tried to open his eyes. The lids seemed terribly heavy, then, he saw daylight, but little else, everything in the room was blurred. He blinked then screwed his eyes hard shut again, opened, and squinted.
“He’s waking! He’s waking!”
Boromir’s vision finally settled into focus. A much-loved face, unruly curly hair haloed by the late golden light of the western sky slanting low through the tall windows of his bedchamber. Green-blue eyes bright with tears. “Pippin?” Boromir said, his voice clearer but trembling with a potent mix of fear and hope. “Do I dream that I see you here?”
Pippin shook his head and the tears spilled down his cheeks. He tried to say something, but it came out a strangled sob. He slid from the bedside table on which he perched to the bed and wrapped one arm very tightly about Boromir’s neck. He buried his head against Boromir’s unwounded shoulder. There were muffled sobbing sounds mixed with what might have been ‘Boromir’. Bewildered, and beginning to hope, to believe, Boromir patted his friend’s back. “Pippin?” His voice quavered as much with joy as uncertainty. “Can it be?”
Pippin sat up, sniffed very loudly, and wiped his sleeve across his face. “Yes,” he said, and meeting Boromir’s eyes at last, he began to smile. That same impudent, endearing grin Boromir had thought he would never see again. “You look so surprised.”
“I am!” Boromir began to laugh but it broke to a sob, and he drew a deep breath, fighting not to lose control and weep like a maiden.
“You’re not dreaming,” Pippin said. He lifted Boromir’s hand and kissed it. “It really is me. Thanks to you.”
Boromir nodded, unable as yet to trust his voice.
“Here,” Pippin said with mock indignation, “You didn’t think those new bigger uglier orcs could keep us prisoner for long, did you?” Pippin leaned forward a little and said with a wink, “They may be bigger, but they’re not very bright.”
“Us?” A new fear chilled Boromir’s heart. “Where’s Merry?”
“Safe,” Pippin said cheerfully. “At Edoras.”
“Edoras!” Boromir repeated in disbelief. So very far from Amon Hen. “But – why isn’t he with you?” He frowned worriedly. “He’s not hurt, is he?”
“Not a scratch. Well, I mean, not now, anyway. He did have the most awful gash on his head there for a while.” Pippin’s expression lost all its cheer and his eyes darkened with grim memory. “I was so worried about him. You would have been so proud of him, Boromir. When he first woke up, tied to an orc’s back and forced to drink their horrible muck -- “ Pippin swallowed hard against emotion but his voice trembled nonetheless as he finished, “He told me it was all an act. All an act! He’d been unconscious all that day.”
For a long moment Boromir could only stare at his small friend, overcome by the horror of the image. You and Merry could have been spared this torment, if only I had fought a little longer, until the others reached us.
Boromir looked up as Garad crossed the room and took his arm in a warrior’s grip. “It gladdens my heart to see you awake and free of pain,” he said. Boromir nodded and forced a smile despite the persistent horror of Merry hurt and Pippin also prisoner, helpless to reach him. Garad seemed to understand. “I will leave you to talk with your small friend. Others have asked to be told of your awakening. I will go to them.”
Boromir did not release the man’s arm. He met his eyes and said, “Thank you, Garad. For everything.” The Ranger smiled and nodded then turned and left the room.
“I know what you were thinking, Boromir. That you wish you could have stopped us being captured,” Pippin continued, surprising him both with the insight and with the new depth of maturity in his tone. Tears again filmed Pippin’s eyes and his face grew pale. “I can still see you, struck down by all those arrows, and getting up again and again to try to save us. At the last, we thought you were dying. Alone.” He wiped at the tears on his face. “You saved our lives when that first lot came at us swinging their blades and us just standing and staring. And you saved us on Caradhras and in Moria.”
Boromir’s eyes burned. He nodded, exhaled a gusty sigh and said, “So, come, tell me it all. Merry’s at Edoras? Was it the Riders of Rohan who rescued you or did Aragorn and Legolas reach you first?”
“Neither.” Pippin said proudly. He lifted his chin and folded his arms across his chest. “We rescued ourselves.”
“You escaped alone?”
Pippin nodded. “We did. Well, the Riders were attacking so that made it a bit easier… but they didn’t see us. We did it all by ourselves.”
Boromir smiled and shook his head. “I should have known. I told Aragorn you’d try to escape. So – The Riders took you to Edoras?”
“Oh, no. It wasn’t as easy as that. They didn’t see us, and one of the orcs chased us. It was a near thing, but we sort of lost him in Fangorn Forest. And then we met… well, someone else helped us.”
“Fangorn Forest!”
Pippin grinned. “You sound like an echo.”
Boromir laughed. “Come here!” He lifted his right arm and drew Pippin down into a tight hug, then kissed the top of his head. “Well done!”
Pippin snuggled into the hug a while, then sat back to say, “You taught us how to fight, so that’s another way you saved us.”
“All right, you win that point! I surrender.” Another image came to him suddenly – Pippin with blade in hand, defending him from someone who had caused Boromir terrible agony. Only a dream, surely, though so dark, and pain-filled that the memory of it swept through him like a chill wind. He shivered.
“You’re cold?” Pippin said anxiously. He pulled the blanket higher.
“No, I’m all right. I was just remembering something, a fever dream. There was another room, and someone in dark robes was… well, never mind that part. You came to my rescue, blade in hand and drove him off. You were very fierce.”
“Oh, that wasn’t a dream.” Pippin straightened and preened proudly. “I was rather good, wasn’t I? Chasing that ill-named Healer away from you. Of course, Gandalf helped a bit but I got there first.” He paused thoughtfully, his face looking much older and colder. “Maybe I should have cut that man. He needs to know what it feels like!” He sighed, shook his head and looked once more like plain Pippin of the Shire. “But, no, I hope I never see him again. I don’t want to think about his knives, it kept me awake all night as it is… Boromir? Are you all right? You’re staring at me like… well, you’re staring.”
“Gandalf?” Boromir finally managed in a hoarse whisper. Pippin groaned loudly and slapped a hand over his eyes. “I remember he was there, too. He took away the pain. But he’s dead, so – it was only a fever dream, wasn’t it? But this isn’t?”
“Now, you’ve done it, Peregrin Took!” Pippin moaned. “Put your foot right in it, and shame it wasn’t your mouth he’ll say.” Pippin peeped out from behind his hand, then frowned. “Boromir? You’ve gone all white again! Gandalf told me to break it to you gently, I mean, about him being alive again and all. He said if I didn’t you’d be so shocked you might get sick again.” He looked at Boromir, panic in his eyes. “And I did, and you are, and now I’ll have to go fetch him, and he’ll growl at me and call me a fool!”
“He will not!” Boromir said hotly. “I had enough of that all the long days of our journeying. He should not say such things to you.”
“You think not?” Pippin said happily.
“It wasn’t a dream? He truly is –?”
“Alive.” Pippin nodded. “Merry and I were just as surprised as you look. Here! That’s what I’ll say – that he has no right yelling at me about shocking you when he didn’t bother about scaring the life out of us back in Fangorn!” He paused, said worriedly, “Boromir, you’re staring again. Please, don’t … don’t faint or anything.”
“Soldiers of Gondor do not faint!” Boromir said indignantly.
Pippin smiled sadly. “I wish you had last night.”
“Then, that was real, too.” Boromir touched a hand to the bandages that covered his chest. He seemed to recall someone saying something about the possibility of his left arm being crippled. That was nonsense. It would take long hours of painful training, but he’d see the muscles mended soon enough.
“Why did they do that to you?” Pippin demanded heatedly. “Gandalf was so worried, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so angry.”
“Never mind that.” Boromir shook his head, then began to smile, his dry lips splitting as the smile drew to a delighted grin. “Gandalf’s alive! We may yet defeat Mordor!”
“That’s what I told him, late last night,” Pippin said, “when we saw that – whatever it was in the sky over Mordor.”
“A funnel of twisting, bright light soaring into the darkness and making the ground tremble?” Boromir asked. “Is that what you saw?”
“Yes. How did –“
Boromir sighed heavily. “I’ve seen it a few times, always soon before Sauron sends a fresh army at us.” He looked around the room, relieved to see his sword and shield, but annoyed there didn’t seem to be any clothing other than his boots. “I have to get back to Faramir.”
“What?” It was Pippin’s turn to stare in disbelief. “Gandalf says you’ll need to stay in bed for days, and even then… well you won’t be able to fight for a while.”
“I’ll have to fight. We all will.” Boromir said matter-of-fact. His shoulder stabbed at him as he tried to turn further to see more of the room. He hid a wince and a curse as he lay back. “Faramir,” he remembered with a fond smile. “He knew. I should have trusted him. He’s never been wrong about these things.”
“What things?”
“Visions. Instinct. He told me only yesterday that he thought Gandalf could have survived.”
“He did?”
The door opened and Garad stepped inside to ask Pippin, “Is it safe to bring him in now? He’s getting impatient.”
“He’s always impatient! Yes, I think it’s safe now. I told Boromir.”
Garad turned to give his Captain-General a keen appraisal. “Yes, I see that,” he said softly. “You look much more pale than you were, Boromir.”
“The news of Gandalf’s return from death would leave anyone looking pale!” Boromir replied wryly.
“Anyone wasn’t felled by three arrows then sent to a butcher.”
Boromir waved a hand. “Go, fetch him. I am eager to see him again.” Garad hesitated. Boromir scowled. “I’m all right!”
“You don’t look all right.” But he said no more, and walked back to the door. There he turned and asked, “Pippin? You have given Lord Boromir food and water, as Gandalf asked?”
“Oh, no! I forgot! I’ll go to the kitchens and be right back with some hot soup.”
“No,” Boromir said. “Stay. Only -- is there some water?”
Looking more than a little chastened, Pippin collected a jug from a nearby table and poured what was, in his hands, a very large mug of cool water. He delivered it safely to Boromir who gulped it down greedily, enjoying its easing of his parched mouth and throat. He held out the empty mug, and said, “Another, please.”
“You’re so thirsty,” Pippin said as he gave over the second cup. “I’m sorry. I should have thought –“
“You are not expected to read minds, Pippin.” Boromir gave back the cup and ruffled Pippin’s hair.
“Indeed not, though he may learn the faster for it,” an amused voice said from the doorway.
Boromir knew that voice. “Gandalf!” he cried joyfully. Gandalf’s responding laugh was the same, too, but not his face, Boromir realised. He looked – altered. More radiant, somehow. He was no longer slightly stooped but stood tall and straight. His hair and beard were pure white and he wore a most beautiful cream and white brocade tunic. He seemed to have lost his cumbersome, wide-brimmed and long-pointed hat. The wizard moved more swiftly and easily also, crossing the room in a few easy paces to take Boromir’s outstretched hand in a firm, warm grip.


Chapter 12 - At The Turn Of the Tide

CHAPTER TWELVE -- At The Turn of the Tide

AUTHOR"S NOTE -- the remainder of this story (another thirty chapters or so) is posted at Fanfiction. net under author name Majorbee. i've done that due to lack of reviews here and hearing from some readers that procedure was too cumbersome to leave them here. That puzzles me, but there you go. Since posting at FF net i've had over a hundred reviews in a week on just the first few chapters. Much more rewarding.
Again, the story is also available in print email cgolledge@bigpond.com re same or please just email what you think of the story!
Carolyn

“This is –“ Boromir began, and then stopped, embarrassed by the powerful relief, the emotion that swamped him. “I am glad.” He managed to say, then looked away to blink the tears from his eyes.

“As am I to see you looking so much recovered,” Gandalf said. As Boromir turned back, the wizard added mischievously, “It seems you and I have this in common, coming back from the dead – or so everyone is saying.”

“Yes,” Boromir returned the smile. “But yours must surely be by far the more exciting tale.”

“Perhaps,” Gandalf winked. “But then I’ve not yet heard how you and Gimli survived the river rapids.” He turned and tilted his head from Pippin to the door. “Fetch that soup, would you, Pippin? “ The hobbit nodded and hurried out.

“There were some interesting moments on the river,” Boromir said as he watched Pippin leave. Gandalf had sent him from the room for other reasons than a bowl of soup. There was grim talk ahead. “Nothing to compare with battling a Balrog, I’m sure.” Gandalf drew a chair close to the bed and sat down. “How is it possible?”

“It is not,” Gandalf said without emotion. “Those who say I returned from the dead, do, in fact, have the right of it. I died defeating him, Boromir, then I was sent back.”

Boromir knew his mouth had dropped open, but didn’t seem able to close it. Finally he said, “Then, there is truth in Faramir’s belief that some great power seeks to aid us even as the dark power aids Sauron?”

“There is indeed such a power, though it cannot help us directly. And as for Sauron, he himself is the darkness. If he succeeds he will embody all that is evil. There will be none greater. Or more terrible.”

Boromir nodded grim agreement. “Tell me, where are Aragorn and Legolas? Did you meet with them before coming here?”

“I did, and they are now at Edoras.” Gandalf leaned forward a little and said with a smile, “We first met in Fangorn. I rather startled them at first for they drew weapons against me, mistaking me for Saruman.”

“I may understand that. For you have… changed.”

“Yes, I am no longer Gandalf the Grey, I am now The White Wizard and Saruman no longer has any power.”

Boromir gasped and his eyes grew wide with surprise and joy. “You have defeated Saruman? This is news! We need no longer fight on two fronts?”

“Well, I like that!” Pippin put in cheerily as he entered the room. Garad followed, aiding him by carrying a large tray laden with steaming bowls and plates. “You’ve gone and told him that tale when you promised you’d leave it for me!”

“I have not told the tale, as you put it, Master Took, but have said only that Saruman’s power is no more. I would not dare think of depriving you of the honour you and Merry earned so cleverly and bravely in defeating him.”

“Oh.” Pippin blushed as he put the smaller tray atop a low table. “Well, that’s all right then.”

“Merry and Pippin took part in the battle against Saruman?” Boromir gaped from hobbit to wizard.

“They did more than take part,” Gandalf said, “they led the way.”

Garad, approaching the bed with a large bowl of steaming soup, chuckled at his friend’s thunderstruck expression. “Here, eat, you’ll need it if these shocks are to continue.”

Pippin was less kind. “If you’re going to leave your mouth hanging open, like that Boromir,” he said. “You might as well eat your soup while I tell you all about it.”

Boromir laughed. “You have lost none of your cheek! And I am glad of it for without it I daresay you would not have survived.”

“Probably not!” Pippin agreed happily. He sat on the footlocker and began devouring his own soup and bread.

“Though how our stalwart hobbit hero can talk with his mouth full may prove the greater task.” Gandalf put in.

“Mmm… hmppfh…ggmt,” Pippin attempted, his cheeks rounded and full as he chewed quickly.

“What was that?” Gandalf asked.

Pippin swallowed a huge mouthful and said, “This food is excellent. Almost as good as Saruman’s horde – if you’ll pardon me, Boromir. You may tell the story, then, Gandalf.”

Gandalf gave an ironic bow from his seated position. “I’m sure you will correct me if I go wrong.” Pippin nodded and waved a hand that held a large wedge of cheese.

“Here,” Garad said, placing the tray on the bed at Boromir’s side. “Eat, my Captain. Trust me, when I heard this tale from your little friend, I needed all my strength to last the distance.”

“Then I’m glad Gandalf will tell it this time!” Boromir smiled, but his eyes were fixed fast on the food. He hadn’t realised it but he was ravenously hungry. He took a spoonful of soup, found it hot and flavoursome, just what his empty stomach needed. He sat and listened, ever more amazed, as Gandalf revealed the events of the past ten days, of Aragorn and Legolas' incredible chase across the Plains of Rohan, of Merry and Pippin’s courageous escape and their meeting with Treebeard. And finally of the victories at Isengard and Helm’s Deep.

“You have become quite the warrior, Pippin!” Boromir said at last. “You and Merry both. I am proud of you.”

“You taught us well,” Pippin said. “Though we didn’t get much chance to use our swords.”

“There is always much more to battles than sword fighting,” Boromir said, and looked to share that comment with Garad only to find the man had again left the room.

“I asked Garad earlier to take some exercise and see what news he might find for us,” Gandalf explained.

“Oh.” Boromir nodded and turned back to Pippin. “The most important part is the planning before the battle even starts. And there you did better than any General could have managed, leading the Ents to attack even though they had at first declined to take part.”

“I only asked Treebeard to take us south,” Pippin said modestly.

“When you could instead have been carried safely closer to home,” Boromir said softly. “It was done with great valour, Pippin.” The hobbit blushed and looked away. “It seems I return home none too soon if I am to take part in the battles that yet lie ahead.” He looked to Gandalf. “Pippin tells me Minas Morgul is active again?”

“Yes.” Gandalf nodded. “And I fear the coming battle will be unlike any attack Gondor has as yet faced. Tens of thousands, possibly over a hundred thousand, will be sent to break the walls of Minas Tirith. They have new engines of war.”

Boromir felt the strength and warmth he had gained from the hot food suddenly drain from him. “One hundred thousand!”

“Or more. And they bring trolls and Haradhrim with Mumakil to their command. I believe they will be at the Anduin banks in three days or less.”

Boromir drew a sharp breath that caused a stab of pain. He pressed a hand to his ribs and said, thinking out loud, “The garrison at Osgiliath will fight a rear-guard action but must soon fall back to Minas Tirith. The five hundred at Cair Andros should be recalled to reinforce them if they have not already. We must recall our border patrols, too, concentrate all our defences on the city.” He looked up at Gandalf. “Saruman is defeated, and Rohan has won victory, secured their own lands?” Gandalf nodded, watching keenly as Boromir resumed duty as Gondor’s Captain-General. “Then we will call for their aid. Has my father yet sent word to Theoden King?”

“No. And now I fear it is too late for a rider to carry such a message so far.”

“Then we must light the beacons!”

Gandalf lowered his eyes. “Yes. I advised such but Denethor refused to do so.”

Boromir stared, then shook his head in annoyance and disgust. “He has ever been mistrustful of you, Gandalf. And I offer my apology for his… brusque manner.” He sighed and added, “And indeed for my own in times past. I will speak to my father, and convince him of our need.”

“I thank you, Boromir,” Gandalf said. “And I fervently hope Denethor will heed your word.”

“I would not hold to hope. He will not be happy with either of his sons when he learns how The Ring was lost to him.” Gandalf’s head came up sharply, his blue eyes blazing keen attention. “You have not yet spoken with Faramir?” Boromir asked.

“I was told he was not within the city.”

Boromir muttered a half-voiced curse and rubbed a hand over his face. “I’d forgotten. Father sent him back to Osgiliath. Gimli went with him. I should have thought to tell you immediately – you too, Pippin. Sam and Frodo were in Osgiliath just yesterday morning.”

“You’ve seen Frodo and Sam?” Pippin grabbed at Boromir’s arm, his face alight with joy.

“Yes,” Boromir smiled. “I believe both are well, though I did not see or speak with Frodo directly.” Boromir met Gandalf’s surprised gaze. “I am afraid my brother also was – for a short time – drawn by the Ring’s power. He had Frodo and Sam brought to Osgiliath from Ithilien under guard.”

“But he let them go?”

“Yes, that same day. Though,” Boromir frowned, “I don’t know what happened to change his mind. I was talking to Sam, then the Nazgul appeared… and I’m sorry Gandalf, but nothing is clear to me from then until its departure. When next I regained my senses, Faramir came to me. I begged him to let Sam and Frodo go.” Boromir felt his tired face settle into a fond smile. “But he had already done so. All I can tell you that may be of use is that Sam said Gollum is leading them, that they had reached as far as The Black Gates before being forced to accept Gollum’s plan to seek another way, a secret way. They were on their way there through Ithilien, when Faramir found them.”

“Gollum!” Pippin exclaimed. “The creature we first saw following us in Moria?”

Boromir nodded then looked back apologetically to Gandalf and gave a heavy sigh. “I am sorry – and frustrated myself -- that my memory is so uncertain.”

“I think you have done very well to remember so much,” Gandalf waved away the apology with a smile, “given how severely you were wounded, and that your later – treatment – so dangerously increased the effects of both Saruman’s and the Nazgul’s poisons.”

“It did?” Boromir blinked surprise, then said, “I know that I owe both you and Pippin great thanks for your aid last night, but I had not known the poisoning had worsened.”

“Gandalf healed you,” Pippin said proudly.

“I thank you.” Boromir smiled. “And I am now doubly glad that you have been returned to us, Gandalf.”

“It is Garad you must thank,” Gandalf said. “It was he who came for us and allowed my entrance where your father would not.”

“When I get my legs under me again,” Boromir said intently, “it will be my pleasure to buy him several tankards of Gondor’s finest.

“How soon will it be before Faramir returns to the city?” Gandalf asked. “He may have more knowledge of Frodo’s plans?”

“Yes, or so I believe. As for his return – that will be tomorrow if father heeds my advice that the garrison must be withdrawn.” Boromir rubbed thoughtfully at his now longer beard as it made him itch. “I do remember warning Sam they must not trust Gollum, but apparently Frodo feels they would lose their way without him.” He sighed. “I had suggested we might hold Gollum here, and try to find some other way to help them. A map, perhaps.”

“No map, no matter how detailed, could hope to equal Gollum’s knowledge.” Gandalf frowned. “You say Faramir was drawn to The Ring?”

“No more than was I.” Boromir glanced guiltily at Pippin. “Before I tell you aught else of my brother, there is something I must say of my own actions at Amon Hen that I doubt Aragorn will have revealed.” He looked away, bracing himself to see disappointment in Pippin’s eyes. “I tried to take The Ring from Frodo.” Pippin drew a sharp breath, and Boromir flinched. “I make no excuse but can only vow that I will make good for my failure.“

“Failure!” Pippin cried, his voice breaking to a half-sob. “You have never failed us! I will not hear it!”

“Nor will I,” Gandalf said firmly. “You are correct -- Aragorn did not speak of this matter, and that alone tells all. He deemed there was no lasting harm. He wears your forearm guards, Boromir. When I asked he told me their owner was one who had at last convinced him where his future lies. He wanted The White Tree to bear witness to his oath of protection for Minas Tirith, and for all Gondor’s people. Many of us have failed with Aragorn where you have succeeded, Boromir. ”

Boromir drew a great shaking breath of relief and gratitude. “I thank you for your ready forgiveness.”

“There is little to forgive,” Gandalf said softly and patted Boromir’s arm. “And much for which we must thank you.”

Boromir nodded. “I can only give you what answers Sam gave me when I asked about my brother. Faramir at first suspected Sam and Frodo were spies. But it was from Gollum that he learned of The Ring. He then sought to deliver them to my father.” Gandalf sat back to hiss a sharp breath in alarm. “You must understand, I was asked -- ordered -- to return to Minas Tirith with The One Ring. This my father named “A mighty gift.” Faramir, knowing I preferred to stay with my men, offered to go to Rivendell in my place. Our father then taunted him, saying Faramir wished only for the chance to “prove his quality.” Those were the very same words Sam repeated from Faramir’s lips when I asked why Faramir had not let them go.”

Gandalf sat quietly a moment, staring down at the floor, Pippin watching him uneasily. “There is much I now see more clearly,” Gandalf said slowly. “And much it seems that Denethor has seen, and still sees that he perhaps should not.” Gandalf sighed and looked again to Boromir. “There yet remains the puzzle of why – with such strong motive to do otherwise—Faramir suddenly allowed Frodo and Sam to go free.”

“Yes,” Boromir said. “And my brother risks his life in so doing for our father has created a new law that threatens death to any who release travellers to our lands without his first questioning them.”

“But –“Pippin began. “Faramir is his son!”

Boromir gave Pippin a sorrowful regard. “My father has ever been without show of love for my brother, though I believe it is there, deep within. Still, I had Faramir promise that he would allow me to take responsibility for the lack of this mighty gift.” He shrugged and winced as his broken shoulder grabbed at him. “It is true enough.”

“You grow weary,” Gandalf said. “I did not intend that we should keep you talking so long, though I am grateful for all you have revealed. Most grateful. If you would rejoin the fight, you must take all the rest you can find at least for this day.”

“I will rest,” Boromir nodded. “But only until nightfall. Then I must talk with my father and see Minas Tirith prepare for battle.”

“Good. I hope he will listen.” Gandalf stood and turned to Pippin. . “I do not think I have the patience to wait until tomorrow to speak with Faramir and hear more news of Frodo and Sam. And see Gimli again. What about you, Peregrin Took? How would you like another – much shorter ride, atop Shadowfax?”

“To Osgiliath?” Pippin said. “That’s easy after a such a long ride from Edoras.”

“Indeed it is,” Gandalf chuckled. “Come along then.”

“Gandalf,” Boromir called. “Tell Faramir that he is to prepare to withdraw by morning. He is not to wait for father’s order.”

Gandalf raised an eyebrow but nodded agreement. “I will tell him.”

“And if you would, please have Garad return to me.”





Garad soon arrived to return to his guard post and refuse to listen to anything Boromir said unless he first got some rest. Boromir scowled but gave up and lay back, knowing that he had seldom felt so bone-weary. Blood loss was the cause and only extended rest and plenty of good food was the cure. He had time for neither. He closed his eyes but found that despite his weakness and exhaustion, sleep would not come to him. There was simply too much that needed doing. And needed doing urgently. He muttered a curse and pushed himself up again to sit with his back to the bed-board.

“Most people sleep lying down,” Garad said mildly from his seat in the growing shadows by the door.

“I can’t sleep.”

Garad got to his feet. “Gandalf thought you might not. He left with me some of that potion he gave you last night and told me to give it to you , if –“

“I’m not drinking any more of that! I have no intention of sleeping away another day!”

“Just a drop, he said, and –“

“Garad,” Boromir growled warning. “Leave it. If nothing is done about this city’s defences we will all of us have an eternity of sleep. Now, please, help me up. If my father won’t come to me, I will go to him!”

Garad shook his head. “And I was under the mistaken impression that you cared if I lived or died.”

Boromir frowned. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“You would have me remove you from your sick bed, against your father’s orders. You would have me cause the further tearing of your wounds so that you may bleed -- most incriminatingly – all over me. Denethor will have me hanged before the night is out.”

“I will not bleed all over you! And it is I who would disobey!”

Garad simply shook his head. “I’m more afraid of the wizard than I am of you. He said he’d turn me into a toad if I didn’t see you rested.”

“He said no such thing!”

“Something like that.” Boromir threw back the covers and Garad hastily added, “I’m sure I can make Denethor come here to you.” Boromir looked up at him skeptically. “I’ll tell him you’re feverish again and you’re muttering something about a ring.”

Boromir, set to swing his legs from the bed, stopped. “That might work.”

“Of course it will work. When have I ever failed you?”

Boromir grinned. “Never. Go on then. But if you’re not back in the hour –“

“Threats. Threats. Everyone is threatening me these days,” Garad muttered as he left the room.

Boromir snorted a laugh and lay back, finding much to his surpirse that he might now be able to sleep. Just for a moment.


AUTHOR"S NOTE For the remaining 30 chapters of this story please email me at cgolledge@bigpond.com or find my work at Fanfiction.net under pen name majorbee. The complete story is also available in print book form with art work contact me for details. Thanks, Carolyn
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