BOROMIR’S JOURNEY HOME ----- AMON HEN TO MINAS TIRITH

By CAROLYN GOLLEDGE

cgolledge@bigpond.com

Disclaimer: Not mine. Don’t own.

“Whoever pursues righteousness and kindness will find life and honour.”

- Proverbs

Chapter One: Amon Hen.

“Run!”

The tremendous thudding impact of a second arrow staggered Boromir, shattering his left shoulder and near-blinding him with blazing agony. He gasped and shook sweat from his eyes. He was not aware of falling, but found he was down again on his knees. Another towering thickly muscled Urukhai was almost on top of him, snarling bloodlust. Boromir’s left arm hung limp and useless from the broken shoulder. Forcing a breathless battle-cry, he lunged, holding his sword one-handed and plunging hard into enemy flesh. He pulled it free with shuddering effort, and felt the deeply embedded arrows tear further through the muscles of side and shoulder. Somehow he stumbled back to his feet and felled another monstrous Uruk. He turned a little, checked that Merry and Pippin were behind him, retreating uphill.

He no longer had breath to call for help on the horn. Still the Uruk-hai came at him, their crude savage blades hacking and swinging from all directions. Merry and Pippin threw stones, slowing some, and jumped in to finish an enemy with their daggers as he hacked it down. He could barely breathe, the pain tightening his chest, robbing him of air as he strained to keep fighting. Beneath the leather gauntlet his hand was slippery with sweat and he struggled to maintain his one handed grip on the sword hilt. Desperately, he lunged, drove it forward and slashed back again and again. The ground, the sky, the trees, whirled and he shook his head dizzily. It was difficult to keep his balance. His legs were weakening, his heart beating frantically, blood roaring in his ears, his throat burning. No one came to his aid, and he feared all were dead.

Thud! A third arrow. He reeled back, gave a grunting cry of shocked agony, and his legs went out from under him. His knees slammed into the thick leaf litter and earth. His fingers still clutched the sword, but its weight was beyond him. Dazed, barely conscious, he forced away the darkness that edged his vision. Sweat streamed into his eyes. The evil black fletching of the third arrow almost touched his chin. Its thick shaft protruded from his chest, very close to his heart. Splintered ribs grated and stabbed with every attempt at breathing. He gasped, choked, but could not draw a full breath. He lifted his head. Merry and Pippin were standing, staring at him with shock and horror filling their eyes. Run! He gulped, laboured for air, but could not voice the word. For a long moment he held their eyes, silently begging them to run. He had failed, yet they would not leave him. The enemy crashed through undergrowth and dry leaves, coming closer, ready to claim them.

Shouting wordless defiance, Merry and Pippin charged the enemy, creatures ten times their size. They seek to protect me, Boromir realised. He struggled, but could not so much as lift his arm let alone get back to his feet. The flaring agony of his wounds was all consuming. He was utterly helpless and the enemy ignored him, trotting past him as if he were already dead. Two of the monsters swept Merry and Pippin easily from their feet, contemptuous of their punching and kicking small arms and legs. Boromir saw that they called to him still as they were hauled away.

It was over. He could fight no more. Something moved ahead of him – the archer coming closer, coming for the kill. It was all Boromir could do to remain slumped on his knees. With the last of his strength he lifted his eyes, gave his killer a steady, calm regard. Pain threatened to tear consciousness from him. His other friends must be dead, and the two he most sought to protect, his little ones were taken to torture. Despairing, crushed by breathless agony, he could find little defiance. The Uruk-hai archer’s eyes were cold yellow pits, satisfied, full of bloodlust, its pointed teeth bared in a savage slash of triumph. Boromir did not flinch as the creature nocked another arrow, prepared to finish him. All he could think, all he could see, was Merry and Pippin’s horror as they were captured, taken from him by this seemingly unending tide of Orcs.

Now, only Boromir and the Uruk remained. In the sudden silence, the strain and creak of the bowstring was plainly heard. The Uruk was enjoying this, taking his time, further torturing him with his defeat, his helplessness. Then, a blur of movement, a shout, and someone rammed full force into the Uruk. Aragorn! One of the Fellowship at least was still alive and fighting. Relief flooded him with darkness and he toppled to lie on his side in the soft, dry leaf litter. He clung tenaciously to consciousness. He must send Aragorn after Merry and Pippin.

Faintly, he heard thuds, strains, grunts and gasps of pain as man and Uruk battled. The enemy was far heavier and of greater reach. Am I Gondor’s Captain, or a feeble old woman? Get up curse it! Distract the Uruk if nothing else!

Gritting his teeth over blinding pain, Boromir reached for his sword, and using it as a prop, managed to heave himself up to his knees. Sweat poured into his eyes, and it was impossible to draw a full breath. Somehow, he lifted his head, squinted dizzily toward the battle. He saw the Uruk hit Aragorn a savage blow that sent the man reeling to fall to his back. The Uruk bent and pulled something -- Aragorn’s blade? -- from its thigh and threw it at the man. Aragorn’s sword was ready, deflecting the knife with a ringing of metal on metal. Then he was up and charging back into the fight. Boromir got one foot under him and pushed staggered upright with a tearing cry of pain. The Uruk heard him, turned a little. Aragorn had seen him too, but continued forward, driving the sword with all his weight. Boromir’s sight went completely black and something hit him a solid thud in the back, knocking the last of the breath from his lungs. Groggily, he realised he had fallen, it was the ground that had hit him, not another arrow.

There was silence, then the quick light steps he knew so well, hurrying toward him. Aragorn leaned over him, gasping, blood about his mouth, eyes keen and grave. Reaching urgently toward him, Boromir said, “They took the little ones.”

“Be still,” Aragorn said and frowned anxiously at the embedded arrows.

Boromir felt the man’s sure hands move to check the ugly wounds. Frustrated, he shook his head weakly, and then remembering with a jolt of fear, asked, “Frodo. Where is Frodo?”

“I let him go,” Aragorn said tersely, eyes still on his work.

“Go? Where?”

“Mordor.”

Shocked, Boromir drew a sharp breath, and the pain of it forced a low, anguished groan. He grasped Aragorn’s arm and the man looked up, met his eyes. "I tried to take the Ring from him. I see its evil now, too late. I drove Frodo to this, to act in reckless haste."

“Not so. He had already made his choice.” There was something in Aragorn’s expression, a depth of concern and understanding that warmed Boromir even though he felt undeserving of it. “And the ring could not bring you to harm him.”

“It may have had he not escaped me,” Boromir said, overcome by an agony of shame and guilt far worse than any wound. “Forgive me. I have failed you all.” Boromir held his friend’s eyes, braced to see anger or worse, pity.

Instead, Aragorn almost looked surprised, reinforcing his sincerity as he said, “No, Boromir.” He squeezed Boromir’s arm and added insistently, “You fought bravely. You have kept your honour.” He paused, waiting to see those words register. “I am sorry I gave naught but angry words for your concerns last night. Do not allow the Ring’s deceit to steal away your faith in yourself. “ Aragorn turned his head and, following his gaze, Boromir saw that Gimli and Legolas were nearby, had heard. “Hold true, as we hold true to you.”

As Boromir’s faltering gaze met theirs both Elf and Dwarf nodded emphatic agreement. They were ready, seemed willing to forgive his moment of madness where he had dared not hope. Such faith, such undying friendship, brought a new kind of pain to Boromir’s heart, a warm, keen pang of affection and pride that stung his eyes with tears. Profound relief sent a great heavy wave of exhaustion rolling over him and his awareness wavered, darkness closing about him. Weary, hurting, he closed his eyes and the image, the horror returned. “Merry and Pippin are lost,” he whispered brokenly. “And Frodo faces Mordor alone.”

Again he felt Aragorn’s strong fingers close tight about his wrist, as certain and reassuring as his reply. “Merry and Pippin will be found. And Frodo is not alone -- Sam is with him.”

“Sam?” Boromir blinked, squinted up into the sunlight that haloed Aragorn’s dark hair. “But--?”

“Legolas heard his shouts as he ran to Frodo in the boat.”

Boromir started a little and bit down as a jolt of agony robbed him of his voice. Then, recovering, he gasped, “Two? Unaided against Mordor?”

“It is the only way, I fear,” Aragorn said softly. “And as I believe Gandalf intended.” Boromir wanted to say more but gave over as Aragorn leaned closer and urged, “Let us concern ourselves with you now. No more talk – you are sorely wounded.” He turned slightly, called, “Gimli! I will need water, and my pack. Legolas!”

Gimli ran downslope toward the river. Impossibly silent and smooth despite the dry leaves, Legolas came to Boromir’s side, sitting back on his heels to grip his arm above the leather guard. There was a bruise dark on Legolas’ brow and his eyes shone with unshed tears. “I feared you dead.”

“No,” Boromir whispered, pain and pressure mounting in his chest. “It will take more than a few orc pin-sticks to do that.”

Legolas’ anxious expression melted to a faint smile. “That, I see.” He squeezed Boromir’s arm, then turned to Aragorn. “You would have me aid the healing? Make him sleep?”

“No!” Boromir started up, grunted over the pain. Firm hands eased him back. “Leave me! Find the little ones!”

Aragorn bent closer still, his intent piercing grey-blue eyes drawing a wavering Boromir to fuller awareness. A firm, wonderfully warm hand cupped his cold jaw and cheek. “Hear me, Boromir. They were taken alive for a purpose. For Saruman. And this I swear, he shall not have them. We will find them long before Orcs can run all the way to Isengard. And they dare not kill them.”

Darkness and trees and sky were spinning drunkenly overhead. Boromir closed his eyes. “There are worse fates than death. Go. I beg you, leave me who failed them.”

“Failed?” There was such honest amazement in Aragorn’s voice that Boromir opened his eyes again. “You call this failed?” He swept an arm behind him to indicate the heaped Orc carcasses all about the glade. “You fought on, wounded, when others would long since have given over. It was done with great honour.”

“Honour?” Boromir grunted. It was so hard to breathe. “Did not save them.”

“Here,” Gimli said breathlessly, arriving with waterskin and pack. “How fares he?”

“Too stubborn by half. He would have us leave him.”

“What?” Gimli rumbled. “Never!”

Legolas said softly, “Fear for the little ones torments him.”

Boromir opened his mouth to drive home that point, but suddenly, Legolas’ strong, warm hands were at his face, gently cradling it. His fingertips traced the cheeks, and his thumbs gently touched the eyelids. Boromir did not want to close his eyes, but could not resist the gentle easing of those steady hands. Legolas chanted something, whispered elfish words, and of a sudden, Boromir felt the terrible agony of his wounds melting away. Until that moment he had not realised the full burden of that pain. The release of it drew a sighing breath from him, and with it too, went all the fear, all the tension. As from a distance, he could feel pressure at his chest, hands grasping something there. He could not remember. It was all a dream. He was sleeping. Even the dream faded. He relaxed, soothing, warm..... . Sleep

Gimli let out a breath of relief, seeing the pain at last leave the Man’s shockingly pale face. He bent again to his rummaging in the pack, searching for what would be needed to tend the wounds.

“My thanks, Legolas,” Aragorn said. “I feared he would fight to remain awake and would suffer for it.”

“His care for the hobbits is deep,” Legolas said worriedly. “But his wounds drain him deeper still. He has little strength left.”

“He has lost much blood,” Aragorn agreed grimly. He turned to Gimli. “I will need athelas, wound dressings, and the --.”

Knowing well what must be done, Gimli held the small, wrapped knife ready. Nodding thanks, Aragorn first lifted the water skin and washed the filth and gore of battle from his hands. “I did not know such ease could be given,” Gimli said gratefully, leaving off his hunt for bandages to look up at Legolas. “I do not wish to see him suffer further as we remove these arrows. So many.” He shook his head. “If only we could have reached him sooner.”

Aragorn unwrapped the razor-edged knife and leaned down to Boromir, his jaw set in grim determination. “Gimli,” he said, “move closer. I will need you to hold him firm. Legolas cannot keep him asleep much longer, and I would have done before he wakes.”

Gimli hurried behind Boromir and bent to take a firm grip on each shoulder. I remember his hand on my shoulder when I wept at my cousin’s tomb. And the strength of his grip as he held me back outside Moria. A kind, good man. Now so weak, so pale. Curse the Orcs! Gimli watched Legolas who still sat, eyes closed, murmuring something that was barely audible, his hands gently caressing the wounded man’s face. At least the pain is gone. Boromir looks so peaceful. If not for the blood and those ugly arrows I could think he was only sleeping. If his lung has been pierced our efforts may be in vain. Tears stung Gimli’s eyes, and he said gruffly, “What after? We cannot leave him.”

Aragorn cut through the leather surcoat that clung about the arrow shafts then pulled aside the bloodied silk tunic. With the bare flesh revealed, the staining red looked far worse. “No. I would ask you stay with him, Gimli, if you would. Go with him in the boat to Osgiliath.”

Gimli lifted his head sharply. Me? Aragorn has the skill at healing, surely. But, he also is the best tracker among us. And he knows the western shore. “Of course, I will stay. I am not much for cross-country runs. I will serve better here.“

“My thanks. Now, help me get this heavy surcoat and mail sleeves off him. I have slipped it free of the arrows.”

The terrible, seeping wounds about arrows in chest, side, and shoulder were bared completely, and Gimli tightened his grip. Aragorn picked up the blade again and began to cautiously cut into the flesh and bone about the shaft embedded in broken ribs dangerously close to the heart. Gimli grimaced and looked away. Thank the Valar he sleeps. A sharp tug and the first arrow came free. Boromir stirred and moaned, but only faintly. Gimli glanced up at Legolas, saw sweat beading the Elf’s brow and dripping from his face. He blinked in surprise. He could not recall ever having seen an Elf look so drained, so -- human.

“Hold him tight,” Aragorn said softly. The second arrow and clinging bone splinters were carefully cut from the ugly shoulder wound. Boromir struggled briefly but did not waken. Aragorn soon had the last arrow cut from the thick muscle of the man’s side. He sat back on his heels, drew athelas from the leather pouch, and chewed the leaves, making a paste, which he applied to each of the wounds in turn. As Aragorn’s skilled fingers pressed last into the bleeding and broken shoulder, Legolas gasped like a man drowning, and swayed. Aragorn flung out a hand to steady him. Legolas’ eyes opened but showed no focus. He leaned back on his braced arms, panting.

“Legolas?” Gimli said, frowning up at him. Boromir shuddered and lifted his head and shoulders, groaning, “Merry! Pippin! No!” He rolled part way to his side, and for a moment, Gimli thought he would pull free of his grip.

Aragorn lay a firm hand to the man’s brow, forcing his head down as he commanded, “Boromir! You must be still! Hear me?”

The Orcs have them! I must get up! A firm, but sticky hand on his brow urged Boromir down and he heard Aragorn’s voice, the words cutting through the fog in his mind. Too late, they’re gone. Memory flooded back, and with it pain the like of which he had never known. A groan slipped through his parted lips, and he bit down, stifling more. He’d been wounded several times before, but never so badly. It was as if someone had set fire to his chest then weighted him with slabs of stone. And his shoulder blazed such agony that it brought cold sweat to his brow. He could breathe, but only shallowly. He opened his eyes, squinted and blinked until his sight sharpened into focus. Aragorn was bent close over him, his dark brows drawn down, eyes seeking sign of recognition. Finding it, he let go. Boromir lifted his head a little and glanced down. He saw with relief that the ugly black fletched, thick arrow shafts were gone from his body. Aragorn had cut away his clothing and removed chain mail and leather to leave his shoulders and arms bare. Only a few tattered remains of crimson brocade under-tunic still clung wetly to his bloodied chest.

Boromir let his head drop into the soft leaves, and said, “It is done?”

“All but the bandaging,” Aragorn gave him a quick, relieved smile. “There was not as much damage to the blood vessels as I feared. Several ribs are shattered, as is your shoulder. But the arrows did not pierce the lung or gut.”

“Oh,” Boromir said his voice thin with light-headedness. “Good.”

Panting, unsteady, Legolas moved to look down at him. “You will soon heal,” he said wryly, “-- if we can judge by the strength of -- your will. It is something fierce, indeed.”

Boromir frowned, wondering at both the words and the breathlessness, “What?”

Legolas shook his head and settled back on his heels. “I will explain -- later.”

Aragorn gently lay a padded bandage to the raw wound torn in Boromir’s side, and said, “Can you sit forward a little if we help you, Boromir? Carefully now! There is not too much bleeding, do not start it again!”

Boromir nodded, and, cautioned by the urgent concern in Aragorn’s voice, obeyed. Agonising pain flared hot and high and he was glad of the strength in Gimli and Aragorn’s hands. Dizzy, sweating, he leaned back heavily against Gimli’s broad chest. Aragorn dug into the pack, and came up with more of the rolled, white cloth the Elves had supplied them. Aragorn’s hands were steady and quick, as he wound the bandages again and again about stomach, chest and shoulder. Boromir had many times found a light word to reassure his own wounded men and their companions. Now, he found he was too sick with pain to make jokes about using up the entire supply of bandaging. He concentrated instead on watching Legolas who had recovered from whatever weakness had taken him. The Elf got smoothly to his feet and made a trip to the river and back, returning with a bedroll and Boromir’s shield.

Boromir nodded thanks. He could see his sword lying by his side, but there was no sign of his horn. “Your horn is lost,” Legolas said, as if reading the thought, “I put an arrow in the back of the Orc who had taken it.” He looked a little embarrassed as he explained, “Both Orc and horn then fell in the river and were swept away.”

Boromir tried to reply over the pain as Aragorn continued torturing him with the bandaging. “Better that --” he gasped, “ than Gondor’s horn a trophy for Orcs.”

“True,” Legolas said. He bent and began preparing the bedroll at Boromir’s back.

“There,” Aragorn said, tying off the final knot to lean back and frown at his handiwork. “That should hold your ribs and shoulder secure, but you must be careful – broken bones can slice through blood vessels. You must stay as still as possible.”

Boromir snorted, and was immediately pleased to find the wrapping did make breathing a little easier. “You’ve bound me as tight as a pig for market. I won’t escape.” He lifted his eyes to give Aragorn a warmly grateful but wry regard.

“Good,” Aragorn smiled faintly in return and gripped his right shoulder for a moment before taking him by the arms and carefully easing him back, Gimli supporting him from behind.

Utterly exhausted, Boromir lay back on the bedroll, pleased and touched when he found Legolas had made a pillow from his folded leather tunic. Suddenly aware of intense thirst, he asked, “Is there any water? I would drink an ocean.”

“Here,” Aragorn said, leaning aside to pick up the water skin. He slid his free hand beneath Boromir’s sweat-dampened hair and held his head as eagerly, Boromir took the open rim in his mouth. “Slowly,” Aragorn warned. Boromir made no attempt to gulp the wonderfully soothing water despite the desperate thirst caused by both blood loss and his exertions in battle. He knew only too well that too much water too soon could cause further bleeding.

Boromir swallowed twice, then hoarse with weariness said, “My thanks. Now please, go! Give chase.” He shivered, realised he was cold through to the bone. He could not stop shaking even though it increased the pain of his wounds.

“Soon. Here, you are cold.” Legolas covered him warmly, first with a blanket then the weatherproof cloak.

Boromir clamped his jaw hard in an effort to control the shivering. The bedroll protected him from the damp ground and the woollen blanket cocooned him in warmth. The late afternoon sunshine had almost seemed hot when he’d gone in search of firewood. It seemed impossible it had been the same day, so much had changed so fast. All the hobbits, his friends, were gone. Sam and Frodo could surely not survive Mordor. And Merry and Pippin – he squeezed his eyes shut over that pain. What horrors did they endure even now while he lay here amid gentle caring hands? “Please,” he begged. “Every moment brings them nearer torment and death.”

Aragorn gripped Boromir’s arm and he looked up into determined, knowing blue eyes. “Legolas and I have many times travelled the lands of the western shore. There is a way through the southeast plains of Rohan that intersects with the Orcs’ route. It will give us half a day or more on their pace. They fear the Rohirrim. We will catch them up, and quickly.”

Boromir nodded thanks but said nothing. Bringing prisoners back alive does not mean they may not be maimed -- especially should they try to escape. And Merry and Pippin will. I know it.

Aragorn got to his feet and said, “Rest. We must get you back onto the river. Gimli will stay with you.”

“Surely he would prefer to join the hunt?”

The Dwarf leaned forward into Boromir’s line of sight to rumble, “You have outstripped my score by far too many, this day, my friend. I would be with you to have you see it levelled -- and bettered!”

Boromir stared up at him, wondering that even blunt, brutally frank Gimli should be so ready to help him rather than curse his folly. “Then, I thank you, Gimli.” He closed his eyes and tried to will himself to feel more warmth than cold. When next he looked up he caught sight of a swiftly running Aragorn who was just disappearing through the trees and rocks that lined the shore closest to the falls. Instinctively, he reached for the sword that lay at his side, then grunted with the pain it caused him. Hearing that small sound of distress, Legolas turned quickly to him. “Aragorn has found more of the enemy?” Boromir asked.

Legolas’ fine brows lifted in surprise. “No, no! He goes only to make preparations for your journey.”

“Oh. Good.” Boromir let go the sword. Then, remembering they were to travel by water, he looked up at Gimli and asked, “What of the boat? You are no sailor, and neither of us can best Rauros.”

Gimli grunted amusement. “I am sure you recall the many times Legolas assured us that nothing could ever sink an Elf-crafted boat?”

“But -- Rauros!” Boromir turned to eye Legolas. “Well?”

“Nothing can sink an elvan boat, not even Rauros. But that is not to say that you and Gimli would survive!”

Boromir was too tired to do more than mumble fervent agreement. “So we walk.”

“No.” Legolas knelt and lay a gentle hand to his arm. “I will wait a while, then send an empty boat over the falls. It will survive undamaged, and Aragorn will bring it again to shore. You will travel by water, not on foot, to Osgiliath.”

“What? The current will be deep and swift below the falls. How can Aragorn --?”

“He has his bow and an arrow to which a line is attached.” Legolas shook his head and smiled wryly. “I wanted to do the target shooting, but Aragorn assures me even he can’t miss hitting a boat!”

“Not to mention,” Gimli said dryly, “You used all your arrows on the enemy.”

“True,” Legolas smiled at the Dwarf. “But that can easily be remedied when next I go uphill.”

Boromir didn’t want to think about arrows being cut from flesh, even enemy flesh right now. He still wasn’t clear on what exactly Aragorn planned for the boat. But with his mind wearied and his body weakened, he had neither the patience nor the strength to get to the bottom of the riddle. Hurting, exhausted, he could be glad only that he was not required to do any running. He closed his eyes and tried to will the pain to lessen. Gimli and Legolas moved away from him a little way to exchange soft words. Yet not soft enough that he could not hear.

“I fear Boromir’s concerns for Merry and Pippin may yet prove true,” Legolas said.

“Aye,” Gimli agreed sorrowfully. “Saruman’s orders are no guarantee of staying orc tempers -- or hunger.”

Legolas gave a sighing sound full of pain. “The White Wizard will not take them alive to his dungeons, this I swear.” Boromir’s stomach churned at the image, though it was no surprise, only as he had expected.

The friends stood together a moment, silent and grim, then Gimli said, “I’ll make a fire and steep the athelas Aragorn left for that purpose.” He gathered kindling and piled it close to Boromir to give him the added warmth. Finding Boromir watching him, he gave a wry smile, “I fear no matter what Aragorn says, you and I know well his herbs can’t equal a good malt brew in the belly! But, I suppose some hot teat might help stop your shivering, at least.”

Boromir nodded thanks, but found his teeth were chattering too much to say anything for the moment. He could not understand why he was still shivering when he was so warmly covered. But, deep in his veins, he could swear ice was gathering and spreading further with each beat of his heart.

“Here. This should have that water boiling quickly.” Boromir started a little as Legolas materialised as suddenly and silently as ever to add wood to the now cheerful blaze Gimli was tending. The Elf peered up at the sky then said, “Aragorn should soon reach the foot of Rauros’ Stairs. I will tow one of the boats out into the current and send it over the falls.”

“Be careful you don’t follow after it!” Gimli teased, then bent to add athelas leaves to the water can he’d placed on the fire. The clean fresh scent that rose with the steam brought immediate easing of pain, and Boromir found himself wanting to draw deeper breaths despite his wounded chest. The hot tea would be even better.

The tree shadows were much longer and insects buzzed about the orc carcasses by the time Aragorn returned, startling Boromir awake as he arrived at a run, his bow slung at his back. “That was clever thinking, Legolas,” he said. “The boat awaits below, secured by my arrow and Gimli’s line.”

“And your shot,” Legolas said with a smile. “I wish I could have seen that. It is not often one sees a ranger hunt a boat.”

“You didn’t?” Boromir queried, lifting his head a little to look at him in surprise.

Aragorn knelt, his keen eyes quickly studying Boromir’s face as a Healer might look at his patient. “I did,” he said with a half-laugh. “My first boat-kill.” His smile faded as he noted Boromir still shivered slightly and was unable even to hold his head up without it wearying him and bringing pain. “Once we have you safely aboard, we part ways for a time.” He pulled the blanket higher about Boromir’s bare shoulders and got back to his feet to cast a thoughtful glance at the saplings that stood about the glade. “Now we put Gimli’s axe to work.”

Boromir groaned frustration. “I need no bier. I can walk -- only give me your shoulder.”

Aragorn’s jaw dropped in astonishment at the very idea. “Your wounds are deep, I will not have them torn further. Take rest, Boromir, I beg you. It is a long journey to Osgiliath, and you will need all and more of your strength.” Seeing Boromir’s scowl, he added, “Nor will Merry and Pippin forgive me if you are not fit to face their chatter when next you meet.”

That earned a grudging smile as Boromir dared imagine such a moment might yet come to pass. “’True enough they can talk a man to old age in a day.”

It was a matter of less than an hour before they had the litter ready. The freshly hewn saplings were secured with rope and laid with what soft materials they had. They carried it closer to find Boromir, exhausted beyond pain, and eased by the athelas, was sleeping. Gimli watched as Aragorn bent and lay a hand to the man’s brow then cast a worried frown up at his friends.

“I am glad of his sleep,” he said gravely. “And the cold has left him, yet now he burns. It is too soon for so much fever to be caused by his wounds alone.” He reached out and carefully collected one of the blood-sticky arrows he had cut from the man’s flesh. He examined the cruelly barbed arrowhead closely, then ran a finger carefully over its ugly black tip. He held the finger up to the light and they could all see the faint sheen of green glowing from the staining blood, an unnatural sickly light. “This is a new evil. Saruman!” He spat the name as vehemently as any curse.

Legolas sighed heavily and nodded. “It was not the battle against Boromir’s will alone that so wearied me,” he admitted sadly. “I felt some -- shadow. There is poison. I had hoped it may all have been cut away with the arrows.”

“We can hope. Most was removed, and the athelas should overcome the remainder. Yet I fear Saruman plans a lingering death for many wounded who might otherwise have been saved, and such in its turn will bring despair to all.” Letting out his breath with an angry grunt, Aragorn climbed quickly to his feet to take Legolas’ shoulder in one hand, and Gimli’s the other. “Our care will see that Saruman’s foul poison does not take Boromir, and our hunt will free Merry and Pippin. We will see our friends reunited in Minas Tirith. Now, we needs make all haste.”

Gently, they moved the wounded man onto the padded litter. Boromir did not stir, and they were glad of it. The less the strain placed upon him, the better his chances for overcoming the poison. Sleep would protect him a little from the necessary jolting of carriage on such a crude litter. It would not be an easy feat to carry him down the steep, ancient Stairs. The stone steps had long ago been hewn into the cliff face about Rauros by those who sought access from the south to The Seat of Seeing. Long since left untended, they were slick with moss, ferns and the constant mist of the waterfall. Aragorn was very glad that the sure-footed, lean but powerful Legolas would be in the lead. Still, they took the added precaution of gently but firmly roping Boromir to the bier lest he be taken from their grasp by the growing incline.

Finally, breathless and weary, they stepped down from the last of the Stairs and eased the heavy litter down to soft grass of the riverbank. Night was falling and they were guided for the most part only by the flickering torch Gimli carried behind them. They released the ropes, then without moving Boromir from the litter, lifted him one last time to move him into the boat. He was as comfortable as they could make him, cradled by the narrow makeshift bed, and sheltered from river spray by the elvan craft’s high wooden walls. Last, they transferred the gear they had carried, including Boromir’s shield and sword.

Night was closing fast. Spray and whirls of thick white fog drifted down from Rauros’ unceasing fall. The coolness roused Boromir who woke to gaze about himself in momentary confusion, then settle back again. “All is ready?” he said, somewhat woozily turning to regard the boat in which he now lay. “That was swift and well done.”

“I am glad that we have managed to satisfy your hunger for haste, my friend,“ Aragorn said wryly, and bent down to him. Again, he lay a hand to Boromir’s brow. “Perhaps it is Rauros’ cool touch, but the fever seems less.” He made one final check of the wounds by the dim light of a single torch. Then, seeming satisfied with what he found, he looked up to ask, “How fare you?”

“I did not think to live to see the closing of this day,” Boromir said. “I will make no complaint.”

“As is ever your way,” Aragorn said intently. He stood and turned back to collect the last of the packs left on the riverbank.

“Nor did I think to have you here with us when I saw you fallen,” Legolas put in softly. “The many leagues ahead would then have been far the heavier for the burden of a grieving heart.”

“Elves,” Gimli grunted, sharing a swift glance with Boromir as he gave over the torch and took his place on the seat behind him in the boat, “Ever full of gloomy poetry.”

Boromir laughed, then gasped with a reminder of pain. When he had recovered his breath, he looked up and said, “At least my fair nursemaid for the journey will spare me such, you think, Legolas?”

“Indeed.” Legolas gave a slight, teasing smile and added, “Should we survive the coming battles, we must then brave the questions of the song makers.” Boromir looked so appalled and at a loss for words, that Legolas shook his head in wry amusement. He reached down and grasped Boromir’s bare hand in farewell. “Perhaps they will not dare pester the Steward’s son.”

“I would tell them of Merry and Pippin,” Boromir said softly. “They tried to protect me, at the last.” Tears suddenly misted his eyes, and he blinked them angrily away.

Gimli looked up to where Aragorn stood straight and tall, studying the mighty Anduin that swept ever southward to the sea. The Ranger’s dark brows were lowered in thought, but his eyes were full of light, gleaming with the gold red flares flickering from Legolas’ torch. The tree-rimmed sky was black as velvet behind him and about his head bright silver stars appeared. He stood silent and still, making Gimli wonder at his thoughts. Minas Tirith holds his birthright.

“We will return Merry and Pippin safely,” Aragorn said, the words little more than a whisper, yet resolute. Abruptly, as if a decision had been made, he turned and looked down at Boromir, holding the man’s gaze. “Then, together we will defend Minas Tirith. I know not what strength lies in my blood, but this I swear. I will not let the White City fall. Nor our people fail.”

“Our people?” A smile touched Boromir’s pale lips and his eyes lit with hope. He drew a great breath of relief and joy and repeated: “Our people!” He reached up his bare right arm and Aragorn bent to take it firmly in a warrior’s grip. “I will await your coming,” Boromir said, sure and eager. “And I will stand at your side. My brother. My captain. My king.”

Aragorn inhaled sharply, then said in a rough whisper, “You do me great honour, Boromir.” He gave a firm, nodding salute. “We meet again in the White City.” With that he released Boromir’s arm and turned about to collect the last pack. He found something else there on the damp moss, almost hidden by the ferns and long grass. Gimli craned forward a little and saw that it was Boromir’s leather vambraces the man held so thoughtfully. In the flickering torchlight, the White Tree gleamed wetly, etched in relief along their length. Aragorn stared at the tree a long moment before turning to hold them out to his wounded friend. “Here, I almost overlooked them in the shadows. These are yours.”

Boromir too, had caught that moment’s hesitation, that thoughtful gaze fixed on the White Tree, symbol of Gondor. Of Gondor’s long enduring hope. And here stood that hope at last, full of life and vigour. Gimli watched keenly as Boromir met Aragorn’s eyes. “I would have you wear them, Aragorn. I will have no need until I can again wield a sword. “

“But --” Aragorn began. Then reading Boromir’s eyes, his expression changed, his eyes widening. He nodded and began immediately buckling them about his forearms.

Boromir let out a soft sigh and smiled. “Gondor’s king should carry Gondor’s seal on his sword-arm.”

“Indeed,” Aragorn said softly. “And I thank you.”

Boromir nodded and settled wearily back against the padded litter.

Aragorn collected the last pack and bent to place it in the now limited space remaining. “I would have you give my greeting to your father, but --”

“I understand.” Boromir replied, and Gimli recalled it had not been so long ago when the man had voiced his father’s opinion. Gondor has no king. Gondor needs no king. Now, the Steward’s son met Aragorn’s eyes and said calmly, “Leave my father’s temper to me as I leave Merry and Pippin’s return in your sure hands.”

“I will, and gladly.” Aragorn smiled wryly as he grasped the boat’s prow, then pushed her out onto the burgeoning river. “Safe journey, Gimli, Boromir. Come, Legolas. We hunt Orc!” Together the two friends turned and strode up the bank, disappearing swiftly into the misty shadows billowing about Rauros’ ghostly white veil.

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 cognizance.

“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 him 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 succored 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-humored 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.”

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!