I know, I know. I'm sorry. Thanks to Silver Moon for catching my language!
"Frodo, Sam! Take a boat!" Aragorn's voice was desperate as his sword clanged with another steel blade from the fires of Isengard. The hobbits obeyed fearfully, their postures determined as they ran to one of the elven boats, shoving it out into the river.
The orcs flowed down the hill, like a brown river of filth. Their guttural roars and bestial expressions were so raw and primitive, but Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn stood their ground, cutting them down.
But it was Boromir who inspired bravery among all who saw him. Roaring his defiance he tore into the orcs, sometimes overcoming two or three at a time, inflicting horrific wounds with his far reaching sword. His grey eyes burned with bloodlust and his helmet glinted in the morning sunshine, sending peals of blinding light into the surrounding woods. For a moment, he looked as the Kings of Old, a timeless warrior.
The figure beside him was as opposite as possible. She cowered behind the shield she could barely lift, sticking as close as she could to her protector without being impaled on his sword. Her knees shook, making the horn at her side tremble. If an abomination came too close she squeaked in fear and hefted the shield that was attached to her upper arms above her face, squeezing her eyes shut. The long grey cloak tripped her up at every opportunity and she nearly killed Boromir when she fell into him just as an orc's sword swung around. It was only his quick thinking that stopped his side being cleaved from waist to navel.
But as brave as Boromir was he couldn't fight them all.
"Blow the horn!" he cried to Aoife, who nodded jerkily and dropped her shield in confusion, groping for the horn on her hip, given to her as a last resort for protection by an extremely reluctant Heir. The clear sound filled the surrounding woodland.
"Again!" said Boromir, blocking a vicious stab from the orc beside him. Aoife complied and the silver tipped horn sings for help once again.
Through the trees he could hear the sound of his companions trying to reach him and then suddenly he heard two familiar voices pop up behind.
"Got sidetracked?" Aoife asked Merry and Pippen as they joined her cowering against the tree behind their fearsome warrior, who was now limping from a slight wound to his thigh.
"BOROMIR! GET OUT THE WAY!" Aoife screamed without warning, her voice hollowed with absolute terror. Boromir's world spun and he saw the deadly bolt winging its way towards him, the sneer of the sender flying with it.
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He twists to me, and there is a lull in the skirmish. His grey eyes meet mine with agony, his neck spattered with wine red blood, such a contrast to the black slimy blood of the things around him.
I faintly hear Merry and Pippin shouting their outrage as they are swept up by two ginormous monsters. But all I can feel is the pain of the man in front of me. My heart swells with grief and I turn, brushing my hand along his belt and begin to sprint. My legs pump and I swerve through the trees, ducking the battle rage of the abominations around me, though it is as if they cannot see me. Their eyes look through me, and I am as a rock in the river, which parts the murky brown flow. I see Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli rush past me to Boromir's side, but I keep going with my mission. There is something in the back of my mind, which is pure as a wine glass when you hit it. My actions seem to correspond with the rise and fall of the note, or is it the other way round? Anyway, it spurs me on to my goal and I run faster, my arms all but forgotten.
The thing is big, I can see its filth encrusted muscles rippling as it draws another arrow. My hand readjusts on the knife that I grabbed from Boromir's belt as I ran past. I look down; the archer still hasn't seen me, thank the Lord. If I was less focused, I probably would have dwelled on the oddness of that. I suddenly realise the dagger that two of my fingers hold is the exact miniature of Boromir's sword.
The psychiatrist once said that I could resolve my problems if I found a purpose in my life.
My purpose is to kill the thing that is killing Boromir. I watch the cruel malice of its ugly countenance twist as it draws another arrow. I slip silently up to it, my loathing and hatred and… something else transforming me into a cold-blooded killer. It is totally focused on the kill. So am I.
And as I creep up towards the ugly beast I feel a presence. A cool touch on my burning forearms, guiding my hands. A firm pressure on my legs, making me crouch, my feet making no sound on the leafy floor. A sharp guidance in my head, showing me again and again what I must do.
I bring the knife up and make up for my lack of strength with strategy and stab it into his hand, slitting a long line. The arrow twangs to the ground as the beast roars in pain. It brings the long bow around and slams it into my stomach. I am knocked off my feet but the presence will not let me stop there and I leap up again, my mouth filling with blood. I shove the knife into his other wrist and he howls. This time the bow slams into my head.
Boromir watched from his vantage point, propped up against a tree. The cold steel of the arrow in his chest took up all rational and irrational thought though it did not stop him from seeing. His weak, talkative, confusing charge was totally transformed. She held the pose of a seasoned warrior, her hand held up before her face, her grip on the knife keeping it firmly parallel to herself. Her feet moved quickly, and suddenly the knife flashed and it dug deep into the back of the beast's hand. The arrow meant for him fell to the floor and the orc howled, before vindictively swinging its bow into her unprotected stomach. She was not easily felled, however, and the knife was wielded again. The beast grabbed the wood with both hands and swung with all its 8ft strength. The little girl flew ten paces and was still.
She saw that wood flexing with the strength of the abomination. She saw it and she stopped it. She paid the price. She broke its hands, and he broke her spirit as he howled his victory with the rough bonds shoved on her marred wrists, the promised hell.
He saw it too, with an arrow in his chest. He saw it and wept for redemption of his failure. He understood her scars then, even if he did not see it.