Boromir's Journey Amon Hen to Minas Tirith

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.