a few distinct lines of dialogue have been retained from the original work-the scene where the Three Hunters meet Eomer.
My thanks to Cheekybeak for her patient and helpful beta readings
Gimli:
We have arrived too late. It is obvious from the way Aragorn is gripping Boromir's hand rather than tending to those awful wounds he bears.
If there were any chance to save him Aragorn would already be at it. That he is not and is instead speaking intently to Boromir-in so low a voice that I cannot catch his words-is proof enough.
Perhaps the Elf can hear him for his face pales and his eyes widen as we approach; I know it is not the wounds alone for he has seen far worse in his lifetime.
Legolas hears far better than I do but it will not do to admit that to him. So, I force myself to remain silent and clench my jaw to keep from asking him what Aragorn says.
But it seems their conversation will not last for Boromir gives Aragorn a grimace that appears to be an attempt at a smile. He pulls Aragorn close, to whisper something before he goes limp, fingers slipping out of the hand that grips his own.
I have never seen him look so—he is finally at peace, this complicated Man of Gondor.
We move to stand at Aragorn's side.
"We heard the horn," Legolas says. "But we are too late." He puts his hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "You have taken hurt as well. It must be tended, Aragorn."
But Aragorn shakes his head. "I was not in time myself. He fell defending the Hobbits, by his own account." He lifts his head to look at us, the anguish evident in his eyes. "They took Merry and Pippin. Bound them and carried them off." He pounds his fist into his thigh. "Nothing has gone as planned this day. I have erred and misjudged. What am I to do now—our companions are lost to us."
Legolas kneels down next to Aragorn, one hand briefly reaching out to touch Boromir's chest lightly. "We must tend to Boromir. We cannot leave him here, like this, among these evil creatures."
I take a step closer. "Aye, we must. But we must make haste. We cannot tarry here. If the Orcs have the Merry and Pippin we must give chase." I frown down at Aragorn. "Were Frodo and Sam with them?"
"I did not ask Boromir until it was too late. I do not know if they have been carried off as well or if Frodo and Sam have somehow escaped the carnage of this day." He looks around the clearing then back down at Boromir and sighs. "I do not know if Frodo is with them," Aragorn says again. "Safeguarding the Ring-bearer was our appointed task. Must we not seek him out first?"
Legolas leans towards Aragorn. "First things first. We must tend our fallen comrade then choose the path before us." He turns his solemn green eyes to me. "We have no means to bury him, as this land is too stubborn I think even for you, Gimli. Could we build a cairn?"
I shake my head. He is right—the earth is solid and we have no implements to dig but there are few stones to mound over him either, not here. "No," I say. "Not unless we do it by the waterside but that is chancy with the rising river waters."
My words seem to reach Aragorn, who finally stands. "Then we will give him to the Anduin. Gondor's river for Gondor's son. We shall lay him in one of the boats. It is all we can do in these circumstances and we are sorely pressed for time."
I hew branches to create a makeshift bier for Boromir as Legolas scavenges arrows from the carnage. Aragorn searches through the dead Orcs. He returns when I call to him that I am done.
"These are not Mordor folk," he says, tossing a shield and helm to the ground in front of me. "I know their kind but this is not a device I have seen before."
Legolas comes closer now, the distaste evident in his face as he studies the S-rune painted on the helm and the strangely delicate small, white hand emblazoned on the shield.
"What does it matter, what sigil Sauron has chosen this time?" I ask. "That is an S-rune, plain as day."
Legolas frowns and shakes his head.
"No," Aragorn says. "These are not Mordor folk—not by garb, or sigil or weaponry." He kicks the helm. "It is as we feared—as Gandalf surmised—for I believe this is an army come from Isengard. Saruman has fully turned to the Darkness." He looks back at the bodies then at us again. "We must work quickly now."
Somehow, we manage to get Boromir to the riverside on my makeshift bier but the boats are at the campsite, further down the river. Aragorn offers to stay and stand vigil while Legolas and I make our way back to fetch a boat.
We find our camp is undisturbed, the baggage and packs as we left them, the boats pulled up on the shore. The tranquility of it is unsettling with all that has befallen us today.
Legolas stops suddenly, eyes taking it all in and tilts his head in a way that is becoming very familiar to me. "There are only two boats," he says and my head whips around to look.
Two boats. We exchange glances and another hurried look around the clearing but then he tugs at my sleeve.
"Frodo and Sam's packs are gone, Gimli. Nothing else is missing but their belongings. They must have come back here." He looks again to the boats, a grim expression on his face. "I think they are beyond our reach now."
There is another tug on my sleeve. "We must get back to Aragorn. Can you man a boat yourself, Gimli?" His eyes are concerned as they meet mine. "If we have but two we must perforce use one for Boromir but we could make up the time to return here if we have the second boat with us." His eyebrows have drawn together in thought. I know he does not ask this lightly nor does he mean any insult by it. He knows better than anyone how skittish I have been in these small craft. For all my years beside the Long Lake and the River Running I have yet to become a skilled sailor.
I can manage it. I have to do it. We are pressed for time and he is being surprisingly sensible. I can do it, I repeat to myself, before answering him.
"I can manage." It comes out far gruffer than I intend.
He nods once, squeezes my shoulder and heads towards the shoreline leaving me no choice but to follow him.
It is a bloody nightmare paddling against the current. My arms are strong, that is not the issue. My stature is what makes it an ordeal. The blasted Elf had made it look so easy when we shared a boat.
It bloody well is not easy, not for me. My strokes are not as long, as sure or as steady as the Elf's. I sit lower too, which throws the whole endeavor off. We do not have far to go but still I lag behind. My boat is taking on water too, much to my alarm.
"All right there, Gimli?" Legolas calls, turning to give me a searching look from the boat that he is manning so effortlessly. His paddling rhythm does not falter and his boat doesn't wobble, even with him twisted around like that.
He likely weighs no more than a full water canteen, damn woodland sprite. I remember how weightless he seemed, leaping over the snow on Caradhras.
As he comes to a stop I make another effort to close the gap between our boats.
"Are you all right?" Legolas asks again, a frown on his face now as I draw near. "I can tow you if you need," he offers, rummaging in the boat before raising a coil of rope in his hand. "I can just tie the boats together to make it easier." He is floating next to me now. "Why did I not think of this earlier?" he mutters as he lashes the rope to his boat.
I shake my head at him. There is absolutely no way that I will allow myself to be towed behind his boat like a child at play! "I can manage," I growl and take the opportunity to paddle harder and get ahead of him.
I do not say it out of spite as I once might have. I no longer feel the animosity that plagued our earliest interactions. Legolas' unparalleled hearing and eyesight have saved us many times over since we set out from Rivendell. He is a fearsome warrior-that side of him I have seen more than once.
His actions spared my life in Moria, though I have not come out and said as much to him.
I have grown to know him, in a way, the times we spent wandering in the Golden Wood together, the long days sharing a boat on the river, exchanging stories of our homelands. We are alone, we two, among our company—the only representatives of our kind. It pushed us apart at first. But now it pulls us closer to each other.
Who knew he had a weakness for sweets to match my own? I discovered that we frequent the same decadent bakery in Dale, renowned for their honey cakes and more. And he has a competitive spirit to match my own. It drives me to do foolish things, as I do now, determined to assume a proficiency that I do not have.
My boat is still taking on water.
I can hear him mutter again, some Elvish phrase this time so I cannot understand it. And he manages to pass me, pointy-eared menace that he is, as we reach the place where Aragorn waits. Legolas beaches his boat and wades into the water as I struggle to reach the shore.
Blasted Elf. Before I can stop him, he grabs the front end of my boat and tows me to the riverbank. I bluster and sputter but he just keeps looking at me with that cool gaze as he gracefully walks backwards, dragging me along in his wake. I can only clench my jaw and bite down on my retort.
I need him to keep the boat steady when I clamber out, you see.
As we rejoin Aragorn the pall of Boromir's demise falls over us again. I knew this was a dangerous mission when I agreed to be part of it. There have been many times along this road that I have feared for our lives; for my life.
We have lost two of our companions. Six, my mind whispers, but I dismiss that voice. Merry and Pippin were alive when Boromir last saw them so I must hold out hope. And the mystery of the missing boat makes me think that Frodo and Sam are responsible for its disappearance. It lightens the tightness in my chest to think that they have survived this too.
But two companions lost is still too many. The young Hobbits loss cuts deep and I can already see that Aragorn is preparing to shoulder much, if not all, of the blame for Boromir's death as well. As he did Gandalf's.
While I have been contemplating our losses Legolas and Aragorn have already laid Boromir out in the boat. Legolas stoops to tuck Boromir's Elven cloak under his head and gently folds his hands on his chest. Aragorn has washed Boromir's face clean of blood and grime and once again I am struck by the softening of the harsh outlines of his features. His burden has been eased, that much is clear.
I did not know him well. None of us did. Private, intense, proud. He showed his softer side with the Hobbits but tension was never far from him—whether it was in his careful observation of Frodo or in his stilted interactions with Aragorn or the relative remoteness he maintained with the rest of us.
I pick up the cloven horn, which Aragorn has salvaged from the battleground. I gently place it on Boromir's lap.
"Be at peace, soldier of Gondor," Aragorn says as I stand up.
We each speak words over him-Legolas in his language and I in mine then Aragorn speaks some words in a tongue that is unfamiliar to me.
I do not share what I say. I know not where Men go when they pass from life. But a blessing is simply that—a blessing—in whatever language it is spoken and if it shelters his mortal form on its travels down the river and speeds his passing, then all the better.
They lift their voices in song but I do not join them. I do not have their facility with words so I bow my head in respect as Boromir is lost to our sight.
My leaky boat is left on the shoreline—it is of no use to us in that condition. It would sink if more than one of us were to sail it back and we are three.
We make our way back to our campsite on foot now that our meagre funeral rites are complete. Aragorn surveys it all with the critical eye of a Ranger of the North. He takes in our story of the missing boat and the missing packs. He tracks footprints in the soft earth by the water.
I am relieved that he believes Frodo and Sam live but my heart chills at the thought that they have gone to Mordor on their own.
"My heart is heavy at the thought of Frodo and Sam in the Dark Lands with no guide and no guard," Legolas says. "But it burns at the thought of Merry and Pippin at the mercy of those evil creatures that took them. What say you, Aragorn? Where does our path lie?"
"Every decision I have made this day has been ill-fated," Aragorn says. He closes his eyes, a grimace on his face as he ponders our fate. Legolas meets my eyes across the clearing and tilts his head. My nod is answer enough.
By unspoken accord Legolas and I will abide by Aragorn's will, whatever decision he makes.
"I would have taken Frodo into the fiery flames of Mordor," he finally says. "But he has chosen his own path and mine must go a different way." Aragorn reaches an arm out to each of us and we draw near enough to clasp his forearms, creating a circle of three. "I will not leave Merry and Pippin to torture and torment. Come, my friends. We go after the Orcs!"
Their trail is hard to miss. A swathe of trampled greenery cuts its way through the trees. Legolas wrinkles his nose in distaste at the sight.
"They go with great haste," Aragorn says. "We will have work ahead of us to gain on their progress."
"The welfare of those merry young folk will keep our hearts burning and our endurance keen," Legolas says, but his eyes dart to me. I can see a shadow of doubt in them and it rouses my ire.
"I may not be as light on my feet as you, Master Elf! But Dwarves are swift and tireless over harsh terrain. Lead on Aragorn. We begin our hunt."
"Aye," Aragorn says. "The three kindreds in swift pursuit—the speed of Elves, the steadfastness of Dwarves and the determination of Men. The Three Hunters now set forth!"
And then he is off, Legolas at his heels. "Here we go then," I mutter to myself as I trot along after them. Let us hope the endurance of the Dwarves is as steadfast as Aragorn seems to believe.