Boromir's Journey Amon Hen to Minas Tirith

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.