Boromir's Journey Amon Hen to Minas Tirith

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.”