Boromir's Journey Amon Hen to Minas Tirith

CHAPTER FIVE – THE BROTHERS REUNITED

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