Boromir's Journey Amon Hen to Minas Tirith

CHAPTER NINE – BLOOD AND SHADOWS


Garad, watching, was appalled as he saw the brothers take their leave. This was far from the joyous homecoming he’d expected. He’d long known of, and sometimes witnessed, Denethor’s coldness toward Faramir, but never had he dreamed it had become so much worse. He shook himself and stepped forward, signalling the guardsmen to help him with the litter. They too were subdued. But as Garad and three others carefully lifted Boromir free of the wagon, he cheered them with a ribald remark and a grin despite his evident exhaustion. It was those innate qualities of good humour; courage and natural leadership that had long since won for Boromir the admiration, loyalty and love of every soldier of Gondor. Garad took command, turning them toward the Citadel arch and the Houses of Healing, only to have Denethor snap, “Not that way! I will have my personal physician tend my son. Follow me!”
Garad frowned and obeyed. He had not known there were any healers other than those who lived and worked on the sixth level. When had one been singled out and given such an exclusive honour? It had never been done before. The much loved and greatly mourned Felenthis had been the senior Healer, and all had assumed he would attend Denethor if ever such was needed. Garad grew wary as one of Denethor’s dark-robed guards joined them as soon as they re-entered the building. The stranger whispered to The Steward and Denethor nodded, said nothing, but his shoulders drooped and his back hunched in an attitude of extreme weariness.
After following an ever-more confusing maze of corridors branching off from the Great Hall, they reached their destination. Garad and his men carefully manoeuvred the heavy litter through a narrow door. Inside he was disappointed to find yet another small, windowless room, a bedchamber. The White Tree banner was draped over the bare stone of the rear wall, but there was little other adornment. If this was Denethor’s sleep chamber, surely it was the room he must use only when duty delayed him late in the Hall. It was a far cry from the comfort and beauty of the rooms of the multi-tiered House of the Stewards that stood to the right of the Hall. Most of the rooms there were bright and spacious with tall windows giving magnificent views of the city and the distant river.
Boromir lifted his head slightly to share a frown of puzzlement with Garad, but then lay back, seeming too bone weary to care for anything other than that the room contain a bed. And that at least it supplied in style – a large, deeply cushioned four-posted bed with its red-brocade drapes drawn back. Gently the men lay the litter down on one side of the mattress, and with Garad’s help, Boromir moved from it onto the bed. Seeing him shiver as the litter’s covers fell back, Garad bent and took the heavy woollen blanket that lay neatly folded at the foot of the bed. He covered Boromir warmly and heard him give a muffled groan of sheer relief. Boromir opened tired eyes to smile gratefully up at them and say, “My thanks. I hope carrying me so far has not ruined your backs.”
. The other men chuckled and stood back. Garad patted his friend’s arm. “It is we who thank you for this great honour.” Garad winked. “The story should earn us all many a free ale in the city’s taverns this night.”
“Be sure to save some for me,” Boromir grinned, but his face was pale and lined with fatigue.
“We will. Now, if I may be so bold as to give advice to My Captain General – take some rest.”
Boromir snorted dry amusement and closed his eyes. Garad dismissed the other men, but some instinct made him stop short of leaving the room himself. Denethor had come in from the outer corridor followed by two of the strangely dark-robed men, not those Garad had seen acting as guards. These carried baskets of rolled bandaging and what looked to be an array of surgical knives and probes. Garad would not, unless ordered otherwise, leave Boromir – even in the company of his father – while such unsettling attendants remained. The taller and leaner of the two he noted with some trepidation wore the insignia of a Physician high on his left shoulder.
“Shall I lay out your instruments here, or closer to the bed my lord Haradna?” the shorter man asked.
“Closer.” Haradna nodded. “Bring that table to the bed.”
The assistant, rather than doing it himself, waved at Garad to obey. He was ready enough to make himself useful, his feeling that he should not leave was growing stronger by the moment. He positioned the table then was ordered to fill a basin with water from a ewer in one corner. As he placed it on the table, he winced at the gleaming array of knives and other metallic tools. He had seen such before, used in ways he preferred not to recall, in battlefield aid stations. He was somewhat reassured when, unlike that rough and ready medicine, Haradna washed his hands thoroughly before bending over Boromir. The small knife he held was used only to slice through the filthy bandages, which he then threw to the carpeted floor. Garad began to relax -- they planned then only to clean and redress the wounds. He glanced across the room to see that Denethor was now seated in a large cushioned chair in the left rear corner and was taking surprisingly little interest in proceedings.
Having washed the caked blood from Boromir’s chest, the physician began probing carefully with his long fingers at each wound in turn. Boromir stiffened, gasped, and then clenched his teeth tightly. As the examination continued, he lost what little colour had formerly brightened his thin face. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow and cheeks and his flesh drained to a stark white mask stiff with tension. Garad shared Boromir’s sigh of relief as Haradna finally moved away from the bed. Boromir looked groggily up at the man, but seemed now so weak that he was only partially aware of his surroundings.
To Denethor the physician reported tersely, “The left shoulder is broken and several ribs are shattered. The shoulder in particular contains bone fragments that must be removed if the muscles are to heal correctly. Without such, I fear your son may not regain full use of his left arm. And there are splintered pieces of the arrow shafts remaining that will soon poison the wounds if they are not removed.”
“Do what you must,” Denethor said without emotion.
Garad wanted to ask if surely it would be better to delay such surgery at least until Boromir had recovered a little from his long, jarring journey. But it was not his place to give advice to healers. And he did not want to be thrown out of the room, was glad they seemed to be tolerating his presence without objection.
The Physician searched among his instruments, pointed at several, and his assistant spread them on a piece of white cloth in readiness. Haradna chose a long, sharp-pointed set of pincers and bent back to Boromir.
“W-wait,” Garad said over a mouth suddenly gone dry with horror. “Surely there is something you can give him first? Something to deaden the pain?”
Haradna looked coldly over his shoulder and said nothing. The assistant turned and hissed to Garad, “Be silent, or leave!”
“But.” Garad shut his mouth as the assistant nodded toward the door. Instead of speaking, Garad looked pleadingly toward Denethor, but saw not the least flicker of response in The Steward’s empty expression. It almost seemed he had drifted into some kind of trance. He was muttering very softly, his lips moving; though Garad could not make out the words. Garad heard a strangled moan from the bed, and turned back in time to see the Physician dig at the shoulder wound. The sudden intense pain had brought Boromir fully awake, and he bit down hard to stifle further cry, his teeth drawing blood from his lower lip. Why had they not given him a piece of leather on which to bite down?
Garad grew ever more angry and sickened as the cruel work continued and more and more bloodied swabs were thrown to the floor. Though there had been plenty of probing, not one single piece of bone had as yet been removed. And they hadn’t even started on the other wounds. He began to fear Boromir would not survive if they went on much longer. The Physician tugged at something deep within the wound and Boromir reared up from the bed with a sharp, agonised cry.
“There! It is out,” Haradna said and dropped something gleaming white and covered in gore onto the folded cloth. Boromir dropped back limply to the bed, mercifully unconscious.
Garad’s stomach was in his throat. When Haradna picked up another metallic instrument and began to work on the lower chest wounds, he gagged and looked away, swallowing hard against the sickness. Partly waking from his faint, Boromir began to toss and moan, throwing his head about so violently that the assistant moved to grasp it firmly and hold him still. Boromir continued to fight them, his good right arm lifted and his legs drawing up. “Get over here, soldier, and help me hold him!” the assistant snapped.
Garad stumbled closer and obeyed, all the while trying to keep his eyes from seeing exactly what it was they were doing. But he couldn’t avoid seeing the dark blood that streamed now from all three wounds to stain the sheets in an alarmingly widening circle. Garad was no Healer, but he well knew that such bleeding needed immediate attention. “Shouldn’t we – “ he dared, “find some bandaging for –“
“Be silent! Hold him! You are needed for nothing more.”
Garad bit back a curse and struggled to hold down Boromir as he continued to try, instinctively, to escape the torment of those long, slender hands and their metallic touch. Boromir’s entire body trembled, muscles twitching and jumping with strain. Sweat drenched his hair and ran in rivulets from face, neck and straining tendons.
“Please,” Garad begged in a half–whisper and craned aside to look again to Denethor.
Anguish and fear drew taut lines on the Steward’s face, his brows low over dark eyes. He was talking to himself softly and wringing his hands. “It is gone from me, then. Gone! Our only hope.” The words he mumbled grew louder. “And my firstborn, Gondor’s finest Captain crippled! Or dying yet! There is no hope!””
“No!” Garad shouted, not having much effect on Denethor but earning a stern glare from Haradna. The Physician dared not order him to leave now – they needed his strength to keep Boromir on the bed. His struggles grew more desperate, making Garad want to weep even as he marvelled at the man’s great strength.
“Merry! Pippin! No! Run!” Boromir called suddenly, his head breaking free of the clasping hands. “Run!” he repeated and lifted up from the pillows. Garad too almost lost his grip as Boromir’s right arm jerked, the fist closing as if about a sword hilt. “Where are you? Where? I can’t see! Run!” He gave a long moan of despairing agony and cried again with surprising strength, “Merry! Pippin!”
Garad jumped a little as he suddenly realised The Steward was now standing very close at his shoulder. Denethor was still wringing his hands but was silent, listening intently. “Pippin?” he said. “That is the name of the Halfling who arrived today with the Wizard, Mithrandir. My son suffered these wounds for him! For a foolish, unimportant Halfling!”
Garad almost lost his balance, jolted by the Physician’s arm as the man started abruptly back and swung about to frown at Denethor. “”Where is this Halfling?” Haradna asked sharply.
“Gandalf is here!” Garad said, feeling a surge of hope.
“I sent them from me,” Denethor snapped. “After they came to me this morning.”
Boromir found strength to cry desperately, “Pippin! Run!”
“If this creature was one of Boromir’s companions than I would have him brought to us,” The Physician said, sounding and appearing to Garad oddly strained and excited.
“And what possible good would that do for my son? The Halfling has already left him crippled!” Denethor snarled.
“It may help quieten him. Boromir will do himself less damage if he stops fighting us so. He loses much blood.”
‘Very well,” Denethor nodded and turned immediately to Garad “You, Ranger, go fetch this Halfling, Pippin, to me.”
“Yes, My Lord!” Garad replied, then frowned down at a struggling Boromir and added uncertainly, “But who will —“
“I will hold him. Go! Hurry!”
Though he was reluctant to leave his bloodied friend with these madmen, Garad was glad to obey. He’d bring Gandalf, too. The Wizard would stop this butchery and see Boromir properly tended. “Where will I find them, my Lord Steward?” Garad thought to ask as he reached the door.
“I know not!” Denethor snapped. “The Wizard most often stays in the old quarter on the Sixth level.”
Garad cast one last despairing look at Boromir then charged outside.