Boromir's Journey Amon Hen to Minas Tirith

CHAPTER SEVEN – Revelations

Gimli took off his helm and settled his battle-axe to a more comfortable position at his side. He sat quietly watching as Boromir gradually succumbed to his brother’s tender but insistent ministration. Boromir was soon deeply asleep, yet still Faramir continued smoothly, rhythmically stroking his brother’s brow in an open show of caring and love that moved Gimli deeply. That simple gentle touch spoke more eloquently and clearly of the source of strength that carried them all through ever more perilous days than any flowery words ever would. Each member of The Fellowship had family, and homes, he knew, yet never had it come to Gimli so keenly just how deep and valuable was that bond. This was what drove them all, kept them going no matter their war weariness – the need to protect their homes and all it meant. Of the nine, Boromir had seemed the one most driven by duty, by the hard necessities of military and political training. Yet, as they had journeyed long days together, spent many an hour on watch or sitting by the campfire, Boromir too had revealed more of his innermost heart. And in those moments he’d spoken most often of Faramir. It had been a near thing at Amon Hen – Gimli did not want to imagine Faramir’s grief if Boromir had not returned to him.
“Three arrow wounds,” Faramir said with a sad sigh as he lifted an edge of the blankets to check the bandaging. “At least the bleeding has slowed now he’s still.” He lifted his head to regard Gimli questioningly. “You fought many foes that day?”
“Aye,” Gimli said grimly. “One hundred or more. It was the fiercest battle I have ever fought.”
Faramir stared. “One hundred against… eight of you?”
“Only four of us trained warriors – the poor wee hobbits stood little chance against creatures of such cruel size and power.” He met Faramir’s wondering eyes and explained, “These were no mere Orcs who tracked us, but some new evil created by Saruman. The Urukhai of Isengard are larger and heavier than any man, their minds more cunning than Orcs, their armour thicker and shields more broad. They will run night and day without tiring.”
Faramir nodded. “Word had reached me from Rohan of this new enemy roaming freely to kill beneath the sun.”
Gimli sighed heavily and looked down at the blood on Boromir’s bandages. “I still wonder that any of us survived the battle at Amon Hen. Aragorn said one of the creatures fought on even after he had severed its arm and driven his sword through its guts. Only by cutting the thing’s head off did he end its attack. And I doubt not that Aragorn took more satisfaction from that one kill than all the others.” His eyes lifted again to lock with Faramir’s appalled gaze. “That was the very same monster, the archer, that had felled Boromir. Your brother would have died with a fourth arrow in his heart but for Aragorn’s most timely arrival.”
Faramir paled and drew a sharp breath. “Then I am forever indebted to him. And to you all.”
Gimli shook his head. “If only we could have reached Boromir sooner! He and Frodo had wandered from camp and we had scattered to find them. But the Uruks found us first. Aragorn, Legolas and I were far from your brother, atop the hill and caught in fierce battle, when we heard Boromir’s horn. Ahh!” Gimli cried and lifted a hand to his eyes. “I hear it still, calling, pleading for help, desperate, alone but fighting yet. And us unable to reach him immediately! Nor would we ever perhaps, but that many of the Uruks were drawn away from us by the horn.”
“They ran toward the call of Gondor’s horn?”
“Aye. They knew that the horn guarded the prize they sought most urgently – ‘Find the Halflings!’ they were shouting. The Uruks could see the hobbits were not atop the hill, with us, and they knew somehow that a hobbit carried The Ring. Those who did not stay to fight us, ran to claim the prize, or so they thought, but Frodo was safely away, with Sam, close by the boats.”
“Frodo said there were two more of his kin with you. Sam spoke of Merry and Pippin? It was they who were taken captive?”
“Sadly, yes. The Ring was saved by their sacrifice. The Uruks did not know there were four hobbits among us. And finding Boromir fighting so fiercely to protect them, must have added to their certainty that this was The Ring he guarded.” Gimli sighed. “Boromir near gave his life to protect them, his ‘little ones’, as he called them. How he fought on, pierced by so many arrows…” Gimli shook his head. “Never have I witnessed so valiant a battle.”
“I can see it.” Faramir blinked, and tears fell from his eyes. ‘”My brother has the bravest heart and the fiercest will in defence of those he loves.”
“Indeed.” Gimli’s grim expression softened suddenly into a fond smile and he looked down at his sleeping friend. “I would scarce have credited it in one such as Boromir, ever the stern warrior Captain. Yet, all the way from Rivendell to the Anduin, he fussed after Merry and Pippin like a mother hen with its chicks!”
“This too, is not new to me,” Faramir said, and again lifted his hand to stroke his brother’s pale brow. “For so he cared for me when I was but an infant. After our mother died. Since, he has ere a soft place in his heart for children.”
“The hobbits do seem childlike at first look. But they take severe umbrage to being thought of so.” Gimli snorted and looked to Faramir with a smile. “I fear poor Boromir was oft on the receiving end of a cutting remark when it seemed he might forget that. But Merry and Pippin are such rascals! They would happily use Boromir’s kind heart to win extra rations. He was forever giving over much of his share to them and trying to hide the fact from the rest of us!” He lowered his voice conspiratorially and leaned closer. “Indeed it’s become rather a sore point with Boromir that we learned that he even surrendered his warm undershirts when the hobbits pleaded the bitter cold of Caradrhas.”
Faramir chuckled. “I must remember to tease him about that – sometime when I am well out of range!” Gimli grinned back at him, but Faramir’s mood abruptly darkened as he added, “And yet these two that he so loved and protected, were dragged away from him by the Uruks?”
Gimli nodded. “It tore at him badly that he had been unable to save them. Bare moments after Aragorn first reached him, he begged that we abandon him and go immediately to their rescue.”
“Is there yet hope tor such a rescue?”
“Aye, I believe so. Aragorn is the finest tracker I have ever seen, and he has Legolas with him. Both have great knowledge of the lands the Uruks must cross to return to Isengard. Aragorn says he knows a shorter way that would intersect their route. If any can return Merry and Pippin, it will be Aragorn and our good Elf friend.”
“Then, this too is true!” Faramir said, in an awed whisper, and recited:

“From the ashes a fire shall be woken;
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be King!”

Gimli looked up at Faramir, wondering at his tone. “Aragorn has long been loath to push his claim. But there, I believe your brother has turned the tide.”
“Boromir? In what way?”
“Much of it in the friendship and trust that grew ever stronger between them during our long dark journey. And he gave final proof of the courage and honour of Men – if such were needed -- in his valiant attempt to save Merry and Pippin. Boromir gave his pledge of fealty to Aragorn after that terrible battle, and more, heard in return Aragorn’s oath of protection for Minas Tirith.”
“Aragorn is pledged to come to our aid?”
Gimli nodded. “He swore he would not let The White City fall, nor his people fail.”
Faramir drew a great breath in wonder and joy. “Then Boromir has indeed returned victorious, for he has delivered the greatest and mightiest of gifts! Our King returned in the hour of our most dire need. I am most glad of it, and yet this is a new insight to my brother where I had thought..” He paused and Gimli tilted his head expectantly until Faramir continued, “Boromir has ever been my father’s greatest and most loyal Captain, ever sought to carry out his will.”
Gimli grunted. “It is true that when Boromir first learned that Strider, the Ranger, was Aragorn son of Arathorn, and heir to the throne of Gondor, he did not react.... favourably."
Faramir smiled wryly. “I fear you try for diplomatic words, friend Dwarf. I thank you, but I know well what my brother would have said in such a circumstance, for I have heard him echo our father often enough on this matter – ‘Gondor has no King. Gondor needs no King.”
“You know him well!”
Faramir looked again to his sleeping brother and resumed his stroking. “That Aragorn has won not only my brother’s loyalty but also his affection and oath, tells me much of what I have long suspected of the nature of the man I dearly hope may some day soon reclaim his crown.” He smiled fondly but a frown darkened his eyes as he said softly to Boromir, “I fear you may yet have your greatest task ahead, brother – to make our father see Aragorn as now, do you.”
Gimli snorted. “A clash of two such strong wills should be … most entertaining.”
Faramir did not smile. “My hope is it will be no worse than that, yet my heart fears otherwise.” He heaved a gusty sigh. “But that is for the days ahead, and whatever the outcome, my heart will survive, for my brother has come home at last where I dared not hope!”
Faramir pulled at a cord wrapped about one of the wagon cover stays, and then he lifted the side flap. His face and hair suddenly gleamed red-gold in the low light that spilled inside the wagon. “Look!” he exclaimed, and pulled the canvas flap higher, “The light returns! The sun has reached far enough west to be free of Mordor’s foul murk. I will wake Boromir, and you must see this too, Gimli. For it is a sight to soothe even the most sorrowful of hearts – the White City and its towers washed gold by the sun’s setting!”
“And a sight well renowned in all Middle Earth,” Gimli said as he moved toward the opening. “Yet this will be my first … Oh!” Before him was revealed a beauty that could only be equalled by the far golden domes of Lothlorien’s trees. But this was a beauty better suited to a Dwarven heart for it was carved and hewn from the magnificent perfection of the mountain itself. “Oh!” Gimli inhaled again, overcome by awe. At his back, he heard Faramir whispering to his brother.
“I am loath to wake you from such a peaceful slumber when you are in such sore need of it, brother. But a promise made is only a promise if kept. Come, wake Boromir. Set eyes again on that which your brave heart so truly enshrines. Wake, Boromir, and find yourself home at last!”
Gimli dragged his eyes away from the golden city to catch the moment he had so often heard ring in the longing of Boromir’s words. Faramir gently lifted Boromir’s head and shoulders, cradling him against his chest. Both brothers were now awash in the golden light, their red-brown hair haloed, eyes glowing, and their smiles twin portraits of radiant joy. Gimli’s vision swam suddenly and he felt tears sting his eyes. In its way, the sight of the two brothers reunited, and one in their love for their homeland, was a beauty far greater than any that could ever be crafted by living hands.
“Home!” Boromir said. “My city at last!” There was a catch in Boromir’s voice that robbed of him of further speech.
“Both the sun and Minas Tirith welcome you, brother!” Faramir’s words rang with pure joy. “Drink it in, and draw strength from it. Remember this day and this moment forever.”
“I will remember, little brother,” Boromir said softly. “I will remember.”
There was silence and Gimli turned back to watch as the highest towers caught the ever-lowering light. Tall and proud with their white banners flying, the spires and towers seemed to be trying to hold that golden radiance against the day’s dying, wanting to horde it as a treasure against the darkness to come. Finally, the uppermost peak of the beacon roof above the city gleamed in one last glorious burst of light, almost as if it were indeed aflame. Then the sunset light winked out, leaving the city painted in a pale twilight of purple shadows. High above the mountain the sky was molten gold, streaked with a defiant blaze of vivid colour, the lowest band a brilliant glowing blue. There at the westernmost point, a small gap of sky remained clear, open and free. A banner of life and hope defying the death and despair of Mordor.
“It is strange,” Faramir said intently, “Yet with each passing day as Mordor’s clouds spread further west, the sunset challenges it ever more bravely and cheers our hearts with a wider array of golden light.”
“The light of the West will never die, little brother.“ Boromir turned away at last to smile up at Faramir, “At the least, not in our hearts.”
Faramir nodded mutely, swallowed hard, then kissed his brother’s brow and said, “Never could my heart be more glad than at this moment, returned home with you.” Gently, he eased his brother back to the padded litter. “Rest, now.”
“Father also believes me lost?”
Faramir nodded. “It will be good to free him from the weight of that grief. I know too well its burden.”
“Yes,” Boromir said, but there was something uncertain in his gaze as he held his brother’s eyes. “And yet, we return to him without the mighty gift he so greatly desired.”
“The Ring.”
“Yes.” Boromir lifted a hand to grip Faramir’s bare wrist with surprising strength. “And as always, though it is my failure, the worst of his wrath will be directed at you!”
“We know it is anything other than a failure to keep Gondor free of The Ring’s evil,” Faramir replied firmly. “Yet if father will name it so, I will have him know that it was not your doing that turned The Ring back east from Osgiliath.”
“Faramir! No!” Boromir started up, hissed pain. “Listen to me! You must not reveal any part in its going from him! You must tell him as will I, that it was my order set Frodo and Sam free.”
“Boromir… he will know the truth.”
“It is the truth! It was my order! Whether or not it reached your hearing first is…” He panted pain, gasped, “of no matter.”
Faramir frowned. “I will tell him, as you wish. Now, please, do not struggle so; your wounds are already freshly torn. I will not see them bleeding again!”
Breathless and holding one hand tight against his ribs, Boromir nodded and lay back. “You will tell him it was my order?”
Faramir sighed. “If that is your wish.”
Boromir held his brother’s eyes fiercely. “It is my fervent wish! I will not see you pay this new penalty that father created! He would bring it to bear on any who release travellers before he has questioned them.”
“You would spare me this penalty only to have it directed at you in my stead!”
Boromir reached out and squeezed his brother’s arm again. “It saddens me, but you know well I have father charmed where you do not. I will find a way round this new penalty as I have those of the past.”
Faramir looked suddenly away from him, and Gimli caught the gleam of fresh tears in the younger man’s eyes. “That penalty was never..” Faramir cut himself short, choked by emotion.
“It will be all right,” Boromir said with somewhat uncertain sounding reassurance. “He will be too glad to have me home.”
“I pray you are right, brother.”
Gimli could be silent no longer. “Would someone kindly tell me what is this penalty of which you speak?”
Boromir looked up at him, and the grim light in his friend’s eyes suddenly worried Gimli. “Death. The penalty is death.”
Gimli’s mouth dropped open and it was a moment before he could say, “Surely your own father would not!”
Boromir sighed, and turned again to look toward the City. Its huge beautifully ornate gates were very close now. From inside came the shouted orders that would open it. “We will know soon enough.”
They could hear a horse trotting rapidly closer, approaching from the rear, and as it drew level with them, Gimli saw that the rider was Boromir’s friend, Garad.
“My Lords!” Garad greeted happily. “Friend Gimli! This is a moment long awaited. Boromir, may I beg the honour of being first to take the news of your return to your father? ”
Boromir grinned at the man’s eager expression, and nodded. “Go, Garad, enjoy the gallop. And don’t run down too many people in the streets this time!”
Garad laughed. “They should learn to move faster! My thanks.” And as the mammoth gates drew open, Garad indeed took off at a flying gallop. Gimli noticed that in the man’s right hand was clasped the Steward’s standard. The White Tree, dark against the white silk, caught the light of the many torches arrayed about the gates in the growing dusk. And by their flickering light, as if in salute, the branches seemed suddenly to come to life.
For Boromir was home.