Boromir's Journey Amon Hen to Minas Tirith

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.”