Chapter 25

Damrod came back to check on Faramir not long after Theodred had returned to his post at the square sail.

"We couldn't ask for better weather," Damrod pointed out, using the ropes holding Faramir's hammock secure to help his balance. "A little rough and damned fast, but…."

Boromir, busy with tiller, nodded. "It's getting us down river apace."

"We're making better speed than we have a right to expect," Damrod agreed. "The Great River and The West Wind ever aid Gondor." He paused, adding softly, "And never has she needed them more than tonight."

"They're worse?" Boromir guessed.

Damrod avoided his sharply concerned gaze. "Bear, yes. Very bad. And Garad's fever still climbs." He smacked his fist against his thigh in frustration. "They need Her Grace and they need her now."

"Damn!" Boromir cursed, fighting the tiller as it leapt beneath his gloved hands.

"Wind's veering," Damrod said, peering at the cloud-heavy sky. "There."

"I see it. Just what we need," Boromir scowled.

Ahead and to their right, on the far eastern horizon beyond the right bank of the Anduin, lightning forked and danced, highlighting the jagged mountains of Mordor.

"The East wind," Boromir frowned, recognizing the malevolence in it. "It will try to stop us."

"This is a Swan Boat," Damrod reminded him, patting the tiller. "She will prevail."

"I hope so." Boromir returned all his concentration to the tiller, then, aware Damrod had again turned to Faramir, asked, "What do you think?"

Damrod turned, looking up at him from where he crouched, one hand on Faramir's brow. "Strange..."

Boromir swallowed hard then admitted. "I think he's trying to hold Bear."

Damrod's eyes widened in horror and his jaw dropped. "But… he's concussed! You can't journey the Borderlands when you're concussed!"

Boromir said nothing, letting Damrod remember on his own it would not be the first time Faramir had tried such foolishness.

"Fucking Shadow Healers…." Damrod muttered. "I'll try to get some broth down Faramir, give him some strength."

"Good luck," Boromir murmured unhappily as the old Ranger headed back to the makeshift galley area. "You'll need it."

SCENE BREAK

An hour later they needed more than luck. It would take a miracle to keep them afloat as they sailed deeper and deeper into the two clashing storm fronts. The East and The West made war around them, threatening to tear the little ship apart. Above, below, to all sides, air, fire and water fought a mighty battle as if somehow Sauron knew the importance of the little boat's mission.

"Come on, come on!" Boromir muttered, urging his craft to continue the fight, to hold together.

Blinded by another lashing sheet of rain as the East wind once more gained dominance, Boromir swore, and tried to duck his head into an equally drenched shoulder to wipe his eyes. He had enough success to make out a blurred vision of the straining sail and shaking mast. The sail whipped around, then as the West somehow fought back, billowed back the other way, the whipping lines a deadly peril on the open deck for anyone who did not move fast enough.

Only Damrod dared the slippery deck. The only truly experienced sailor among them, he seemed to be everywhere, easing or hauling tighter on the lines as needed. He could no longer be spared to watch over the wounded, nor could Boromir keep as close an eye as he wanted on his brother. That made him angry, angry enough to curse the river that seemed now to be working with the East wind to keep them from the hope of Osgiliath.

"The sail!" Damrod yelled, staggering and lurching aft. Whatever else he said was whipped away by the howling wind. Lightning flared in a blinding burst and anything else he said was lost to a deafening, jolting crack of thunder that made the deck-boards jump beneath Boromir's feet.

The storm was right on top of them now.

Damrod dared grab at Boromir's arm, drawing his attention. The old Ranger pointed at the sail then jabbed a thumb downward, telling him he was going to furl it to the mast.

Stubbornly, Boromir shook his head no.

Damrod's lips moved in an unheard curse, and he jabbed his hand at the bank, indicating they should beach themselves.

"Osgiliath!" Boromir bellowed. He would not abandon Beregond and possibly Garad's only chance at life, not while there was still any chance to save them all. He refused to let Faramir down, short of death for them all.

Damrod jabbed an urgent finger at where Faramir lay, strapped to the swinging hammock. Faramir was tied into that hammock, and while he told himself he was a strong enough swimmer to cut him out and get them both safely to shore, that left four other Men to drown...

Damrod, eyes hard beneath the streaming rainwater, pointed again, forward, to where the white horse ran with desperate defiance on the straining sail. It was Rohan's symbol, not Gondor's, but the message was plain. Rohan was Gondor's vassal state, and both kingdoms were Boromir's responsibility. Theodred had placed his life in Boromir's hands, trusted his judgment to do what was best for all.

Boromir echoed Damrod's earlier curse, but with such vehemence that it could be heard above the roar of wind and the hiss and rattle of rain.

Damrod met his eyes, grim, sad, infuriatingly patient and trusting.

Boromir dared take his left hand from the tiller to hold up thumb and forefinger, about an inch apart. Then he pointed to the East, then the West. The message, was, he hoped, clear. He would wait a little while longer, give the West wind its opportunity to defeat Sauron's storm.

"Andros!" he ordered, making a chopping motion with the edge of his hand. The island fortress would block and break the East wind and it was not far off. They must try to make Osgiliath. It was the only chance that would serve them all.

The battle raged, wind and rain stinging and biting and cold, Boromir's arms aching with the strain of holding the trembling tiller steady. As the weakest sailor among them, Theodred yielded charge of the sail to Damrod, ducking into the fraying shelter to do what he could to protect Garad and Beregond.