Chapter Text
Boromir had no idea it was possible for his entire body to hurt, but something as simple as his boat hitting land rattled him down to the marrow in his bones and sent a fiery hot torrent of burning pain scorching through him. So hot, it stole the breath from his lungs and bathed his body in an icy sweat. Stinging hot arrows once more pierced him from head to toe, only these arrows were created by his mind and not generated from the bows of the Uruk-hai.
Little by little, the pain receded, breathing became possible once more, and he lay there, on his back, his sword flush against him, his hands still tight about the grip. The light shifted above him, shadow and rays alternating across his face, the air tinged with the smell of wet sandy earth, wet leaves, sweat, and pain.
Yes, pain had a smell. It was sour and rank, not quite the stink of death, but so very close to it. He felt sticky. His clothing scraped his skin in ways he’d never felt, and ways he’d rather hope to never feel again.
Perhaps it was but a dream? A dream and he would open his eyes to find himself in the luxurious bed he’d slept upon in Rivendell, as a guest of Elrond. Or perhaps he’d find himself under the shady canopy of the trees of Lothlórien.
No. As a fresh sweat broke out along his chest and back, stinging wounds that should have felled him permanently, Boromir knew this was no dream, nor even a nightmare. This was his reality.
But, where was he?
A low groan bubbled to his lips as he lay there, staring up at a blue sky dotted with puffy clouds that rolled by in a lazy manner. The breeze rustled through treetops above, creating that shift of shadow and light, giving him a view of the sky before promptly blocking it once more. Although he knew the Anduin well, he did not recognize his surroundings at all. The boat rose and fell gently on the water, the wood scraping softly against whatever it was he’d hit.
Arrows. He remembered the arrows. Remembered the burn as they tore into his flesh, and ripped into his muscle. Remembered the heat that scorched through him with each one, the way that same sweat that pricked him now stung him then and how it mingled with his raw fury to make him shiver. Even the slightest of movement hurt now, and he brought a shaking hand up to probe where the fires burned the hottest. His fingers brushed splintered wood and he couldn’t hold back his howl as the wound exploded into white-hot agony.
Hissing through clenched teeth, Boromir let his hand fall to his side. Aragorn. He remembered Aragorn apologizing softly before hacking through each of the heavy black arrow shafts to break them off as close to the surface of Boromir’s skin as he could manage. The arrowheads would remain, as trying to remove them would only bring a swifter death, no doubt.
He remembered little after that and what he did recall was little more than a blur. He vaguely recalled convincing Aragorn it was in the Fellowship’s best interest to go on without him. He had no desire to slow them down. He would return to Minas Tirith to recuperate, should he survive the journey. And he would survive it. He’d failed the Fellowship once, he would not do so again.
At least, that’s what he’d thought.
From his prone position, he saw nothing but the treetops and the sky. Although the very idea of moving pained him beyond all rational thought, he had no other choice. The boat no longer floated along the river, carried by its current and he needed to know where he was, in order to resume his journey.
Steeling himself against the fireballs he knew would explode within him, he shifted his sword to his left hand, and lifted his arm to grip the boat’s side with his right hand. His arm trembled. They both trembled, actually, and a slow, steady burn crept across his chest. He fought to ignore it, even as the burn intensified, as it spread wide and down into his gut, which began roiling without mercy. A sour taste flooded his mouth. He swallowed hard against it, drew in as deep a breath as he could manage around the fires, and tugged.
Wounds that had only begun to heal screamed in protest at the movement and yet another cold sweat erupted along his back, across his chest. He fought against all of it, including the nauseating dizziness that swept through him, causing him to grip the side of the roughly-hewn boat. It took every ounce of will he possessed to heft himself up and to the side, where his stomach emptied into the river.
He sank against the side, bent over despite his utter discomfort, eyes closed, breathing ragged, and waited for his head to clear, for the pain to ebb, or possibly for death to finally claim him. No… wait… he had to find the others. He had to make certain the halfling disposed of the Ring.
He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from his pain-fogged brain. No. That wasn’t right, either. He grimaced. The Ring. He’d almost betrayed those halflings, the Fellowship itself, by trying to take it for himself. Bloody evil Ring. It corrupted him to the point where he’d tried to take it from Frodo by force, ready to kill him for it if it came to it.
Thankfully, it didn’t. And he’d redeemed himself for his lapse. That was evident in the way they’d all at first offered to help him the rest of the way to Mount Doom, to carry him if they must. It was only by sheer will he was able to convince them to let him go, although truth be told, he hated having to make the decision. But in his current condition? He was far more a liability. Frodo and Samwise had already set out for the fires of Mount Doom, where the Ring was to be destroyed. Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas set out to track the two halflings snatched up by the Uruk-hai.
He was useless to them, really. He would cause far more harm with them than if he set out on his own and tried to make his way back home.
Of course, he hadn’t anticipated this. Lost. Which was almost laughable.
Almost.
“It will be anything but if I don’t find my way back to civilization.” He grimaced as he looked down. His tunic was scarlet and embellished, which did much to cover the bloodstains, but the shiny wet patches were arrows had been pulled from his body gave away the severity of his injuries. His left leg throbbed from the two arrowheads still embedded in his thigh. His skin was damp in places with blood and sweat still. How had he survived? It made no sense, but he was not about to sit there and ponder the mysteries of life. It would be dark soon and he had no idea how far downriver he’d floated or for how long.
“Ah!” The cry tore free of its own as he tried to rise on unsteady legs. Gritting his teeth until a muscle in his jaw burned (what was one more at that point?) he fought to remain upright, to step out of the boat onto the sandy shore.
The first step tore through him, as it was his left leg that made contact and the torn muscle screamed in protest. The second one only slightly less so. Still, the sand shifted beneath him and he had to fight to remain upright, to stagger up the bank, but where the sandy soil turned to grass, his legs revolted. They buckled. He landed on his knees to send a fresh wave of fire rippling through him. It was only through sheer, stubborn will that he managed to hold back the howl of pain bubbling to his lips.
Then he heard it. Heard it above the sound of his own heart slamming his ribs. Heard it above the roar of blood in his ears, his temples.
Footsteps sounded. Slow. Stealthy (more or less.)
Someone was sneaking up on him.
His sword had clattered to the ground when he first collapsed, so he reached for it, his fingers curling about the grip as the footsteps grew faster. It felt heavier than ever before, but he summoned the strength to lift it, to swing it up just as the first black-feathered arrow whizzed past his head.
Sand shifted beneath his boots, but he managed to get back to his feet as the second arrow found its mark in his shoulder. New pain, hot and fresh, stung through his left arm as he blindly swung with his right. He hit something. The blade sank into putrid flesh and the orc screamed as Boromir twisted the blade first sunwise, then widdershins. Back. Forth. Then, he just gave a sharp yank and drew his blade back, smeared black with the filth’s equal filthy blood.
More footsteps. More orcs. The clearing at Parth Galen flashed through his mind, as he relived it now. He was badly injured. Terribly outnumbered. And had no doubt the Uruk-hai had come to make certain he was truly dead.
“On your left!”
He heard the throaty voice, but didn't see to whom it belonged. He knew it only sounded like a boy whose voice had not yet deepened into manhood. A flash of green. A glint of silver. And the next thing he knew, the three orcs who’d come calling lay in more than one pile, in more than a few pieces, strewn across the riverbank. His gut roiled at the sight as he slid his sword back into its scabbard, but thankfully, what was left in his stomach remained there.
Exhaustion bit into him with razor-sharp teeth and his knees turned to jelly once more but this time, before he could hit the sand, his rescuer wrapped a slender arm about his waist. “I’ve got you, sir. Come with me before the rest of them attack.”
“The rest…” His thoughts came so slowly and were beyond muddy. Not that it mattered. He could barely push them out. His tongue refused to behave. His mind refused to behave. His body refused to behave. He sagged against the boy, who grunted under his weight, but remained upright, thank the Maker.
“Yes, there will be more. You’ve crossed paths with orcs before.”
It wasn't a question, but he nodded just the same. “I have. And I thank you.”
“Thank me when we’ve safely gone from here.”
Another nod. He glanced down at the boy, who was a good head and a half shorter. “I haven’t any idea where here is.”
“That’s all right,” the boy looked up at him and offered up a something of a smile, “I do and that is all that matters.”
“How far must we go?”
“Not far. The forest is just over that ridge and if anyone thinks to follow, he will join his friends on the riverbank, in pieces.”
Boromir managed a chuckle, although it hurt. “Please tell me you have wine.”
“Wine and ale. But, do not ask me from where they came.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good.” The arm about him tightened. “Please, hurry. They will descend like flies.”
“I apologize, but… I can only move so fast.” He gritted his teeth as a fresh wave of pain gathered speed and strength. His left leg threatened to betray him with each step. “I believe I encountered the main part of this pack upriver.”
“And you lived to tell the tale? I’m impressed. Now, this is difficult part, for it is rather open between here and the forest. Can you run?”
“Not if that entire pack bore down upon us now, I’m afraid.” He gestured to his left thigh, his dirt-spattered, wrinkled black trouser leg shiny with fresh blood.
The boy frowned, crouching to get a closer look. “What happened?”
Boromir stiffened, half-expecting the lad to poke or prod at it. “Arrows. Two shafts broken off, two arrowheads remaining.”
To his relief, the boy winced, but straightened without touching the wounds. “And how do you walk?”
“Through sheer force of will.” He replied, shifting his weight to his uninjured but thoroughly tired right leg. “And to be honest, I wish only to sleep. I’ve had the longest of days.”
“And sleep you will, only if I let go of you here, you will sleep for eternity and I highly doubt you’d want that.”
“No.” He managed a wry chuckle. “I’d rather avoid it, if possible.”
The snarls of wargs, far off but growing louder, slit the breeze and the boy moved more quickly now. “We cannot dawdle. They will bear down upon us in no time. We have no way of knowing how many lurk nearby, but it is safe to assume more than two.”
Boromir managed a weak nod, his energies all focused on remaining upright and moving forward. But, he’d not last much longer. His legs hesitated worse with each command to step, to stride, especially the wounded one. Fatigue set in, spiky heat threatened to melt his muscle. “How much further?”
“Less than half a league, but we need hurry.”
“Very well.” He pulled free of the boy’s grip. “Lead.”
The boy nodded. “Do not lag. You will rue the day.”
“I already rue it.”
Somehow, he managed to keep up with the boy through sheer determination and absolute obstinance and as they reached the edge of the forest (whichever one it was) the warg snarls were still louder.
“This way, off the path and stay close.”
They left the well-trod path to plunge into a riot of overgrown and blooming foliage, which offered more than enough shielding, for which he was utterly thankful. “I need sit a moment.”
“Do so. There is a stream here if you need water.” The boy eased his bow and an arrow from the quiver on his back and set the arrow on the rest. “I’ll keep watch. Go.”
Boromir watched the fluid motion, so graceful, it was almost a dance movement. “Are you an elf?”
“An elf?” The boy snort-laughed. “No, not even close. I just spend much of my time defending what is mine from the filth that roams these woods and meadows. Go and drink. As I said, I will keep watch.”
He nodded, then stumbled over to where the narrow stream began, drew in a deep breath as he braced for the bolt of pain that he knew was coming. Still, he sucked in a sharp breath as the hot spear drove up into his hip when he sank to his knees. Hands on his hips to steady himself, he tried to breathe through it, and when he was certain he wasn't about to pass out, he shifted, bending to cup the icy cold water and splashed his face before pulling up a cup to drink. His throat was so dry, it had hurt to swallow, but as the water flowed down it, some of that pain receded. It wasn't much, but he’d take whatever relief he could find.
“Come.” The boy scrambled down to where he was and grabbed his arm, “they’re not far.”
“And what about us?”
“Just down through those bushes and ’round the bend.”
“Through the bushes?”
“Yes, but move slowly and carefully. They are pricker bushes and you will regret it if they grab hold of you.”
Mindful of the still wet spots scattered about his clothes, he couldn't hold back his, “As if being stuck by one more thing will matter much as this point.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You will understand soon enough. Shall we?”
The boy nodded and gestured for Boromir to follow, which he did as it sounded like the wargs were very nearly on top of them. Growls. Snarls. The pad of paws on soft soil. They all grew increasingly louder and far more menacing.
The boy, who most likely knew this forest as well as he knew his own self, was far more fleet of foot than Boromir would be on his finest day. He was far bigger and bulkier than the lad, and he had no idea where he was going or from which direction they had come. It was late afternoon, the sun had already begun its descent into the horizon, and he did not even know where he was. It was safe to say if he lost sight of him, he was a dead man. He stumbled along behind him, using sheer will to force his way through the brambles and underbrush, lumbering along like a wounded bear just awakened from hibernation with no clue of his whereabouts. All he knew was to keep the flash of dark green in sight, even it did blend so well with surroundings.
Fortunately, not only was Boromir able to do that, but the boy’s shorter legs meant shorter strides and that meant that even in his weakened state, Boromir was able to keep up with him. It was exhausting though, shoving through unruly underbrush and disentangling himself from this sticker bush or that one. More than once, the forest fought back, leaving scarlet scratches along his arms, the backs of his hands, his face. He ignored the fresh stings, focusing only on the lad ahead of him even as he practically dragged his damaged left leg behind him.
But finally, the boy said, “And we are home.”
Boromir stumbled to a stop and just stared. Home was the tiniest, most-rundown-looking cabin he’d ever seen, with a patched tarpaper roof that was torn in several places and a bowing, splintering wide front porch that didn't look strong enough to hold a bird, let alone a person.
Still, it was tucked deep enough into the woods, in the midst of a veritable thicket that not even the dumbest of orcs would try to shove their way through, and at first glance, one would be forgiven for thinking it was uninhabited. So perhaps it wasn’t as ramshackle on the inside as it appeared on the outside.
He’d find out soon enough.
The boy dug a key from a small pouch tied at his hip and unlocked the door. Boromir almost smiled at the absurdity of locking that shack of a cabin, found in the middle of a wild and overgrown thicket that no sane soul would attempt to squeeze through.
Except him.
He managed a weak smile. He had no idea how many of the thorns had gotten him, the hot sting of fresh scratches prickled along his left cheek, the left side of his neck, his left arm and hand. Still, he followed the boy through the front door, almost sighing at the sight of actual furnishings. They were simple at best, and not the finest he’d ever seen, but they also weren’t hard and uneven ground, nor were they a boat, and that meant they were already an improvement.
“You’re bleeding.” The boy tossed this over his shoulder as he moved into the great room, to the small hearth with an even smaller andiron, awaited him.
“I know. I’ve had a difficult few days, to say the least.”
“Sit. I’ll look at them once I get a fire going.”
“Aren’t you afraid of attracting attention?”
The boy shook his head. “Not any longer. Orcs are not ones for sneaking about and they’ve yet to actually venture near here. They prefer a head-on attack, preferably in an open space so they can simply run you down on wargback. They aren’t coming this deep into any wooded area, and they certainly aren’t climbing through all those sticker bushes, like we were dumb enough to do.”
For the first time in days, Boromir smiled. “I thought I was the only one who felt dumb doing it.”
“You’re not.” The boy glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “Sit. You look exhausted.”
“I am. And I will.” He limped over to the small couch and with a low, grateful sigh, sank onto it. It was old and lumpy, and a spring poked him at the curve of where his upper thigh met his backside, so he shifted just enough and leaned his head back. “Who are you?”
“Me?” The boy tended to the fire, striking the steel blade of a small knife he’d taken from the scabbard on his hip against a small chunk of flint. Sparks flickered, then the wood caught and the boy sat back, tucking his knife away once more. “Eleri.”
“Boromir. And I thank you for being in the right place at the right time.”
“Orcs are bottom feeders and cowards. I wouldn’t let them take down a deer, never mind a man.” Eleri straightened up and swept his hood back and then, to Boromir’s utter shock, reached into the back of his tunic and tugged a long, glossy, dark brown braid free.
His savior was not a boy at all, but was instead a small girl.