The fire-pit was finally alight, the animals and vegetables chosen to be cooked, and the battle blood of his heart was finally wore low, but Boromir knew he could not rest with ease. They were still in the north of Arnor, too close to Angmar for any true Man to feel at ease. Though Angmar had been felled many centuries ago, darkness yet gripped the land in ice and death. And those evil men, Black Númenoreans or hill-men of Angmar most like, should have been driven back long ago – was there not old remnants of the line of Arnor dwelling in these lands? He recalled that the scattered rangers acted much the same to Faramir's men, but they obviously had not one tenth of their skill elsewhise the hill-men would never have made it far enough to take thralls.
But strangely, the thralls he was abiding with did not concern themselves with the aura of fear around them It was a sad reflection, the Captain realised, when the children of Arnor were so used to fear that they were not aware of it surrounding them and so unused to kindness that the act of lighting a fire was met with astonishment. Well, except for the boy who stayed by his side like an esquire aught. Even with his bandaged face, and Boromir was glad that his brother had taken time to show him some old Númenorean healing lore, the boy looked at him with a strange mix of devotion and worry. Even the most loyal men of Gondor had not taken to him that easily, needing Boromir to earn their devotion, though once given it was unshakable. The years since the Exile and mischief of the Enemy, had sown the seeds of discord amongst many in Minas Tirith, yet here in Arnor, a freed thrall boy gave such trust openly. He barely held back a warm smile at that.
The boy must have noticed his expression, for he looked at the Gondorian strangely, it was a look of trust and worry, Boromir knew it well, it was often Faramir directing that look to him, making the boy look all too similar to the children around Minas Tirith. Tales of descendants of Númenor that still roamed the Old Northern Realms were often float around the White City, perhaps the boy was one of them. For sure his face was fair and unusually delicate, perhaps his ancestors were of Elven blood. It would explain a great deal after all, not least why he clung to Boromir with such trust.
Yet he had repaid that trust with injury. When the boy had tried to assist him against the riders and felt the kiss of steel from an enemy, his blood was enflamed. A boy like that would have been apprenticed to the guards at the very least, and given the skill and arms to match his quick wit. Though he now had a stolen sword that fit oddly in his small hands, old tunics and leggings, dusty and bloody from the road and battle, and a bound wound that Boromir hoped would not get infected. A poor repayment for the help freely given, never was a Guard of the White Tower so meagre with his gifts, the Captain resolved to find something in equal worth ere they parted. And that though cast a grim expression over him. Though he could navigate as well as any man using the stars, it would smooth the journey if he were given assistance.
It would ease his travels greatly if the strange tongues of these people were known to him, even the boy who trusted him the most could barely understand his gestures, although trying to interpret his speech greatly eased Boromir's worries. Were he alone in this strange land, without allies or speechcraft, Boromir knew that death would follow quickly, as it nearly had with the riders. He was lucky that two of them had focussed on the newly freed-thralls rather than their defender, for Boromir knew that he could not hope to face more than two riders and live. It was only through his bonds with the Rohirrim and many sojourns to their lands that he could face riders afoot and unmount them, but even then it was never a sure undertaking.
His musings were cut short, the glutaral tongue of this land rose up, the groups of women and children talking easily now, laughing and smiling as they worked, though the boy scowled at this, which gave him pause. Then two of the girls, including the one who was near taken earlier, began to make their way to the Captain and the boy, both were seated apart from the rest, where few had approached and fewer stayed near them. More glutaral speech, and the group cooking were laughing openly and loudly, most like a jest to ease their troubled minds, but the boy beside him scowled even further. When the two maids reached them, and began fluttering their eyes and speaking in their strange tongue, the boy snapped at them, his words short and face grim. And though the tongues of this land were unknown, the meaning was clear.
Boromir had spent many years fighting Easterlings and foul men of Harad and Umbar, both in Gondor and their own lands, and knew well their disposition for taking thralls and young ones especially. He also knew that many a girl could only survive by offering herself to her captors. That these girls would think to offer themselves without thought sickened Boromir. Could they see that he was not one of the foul men? But at least the boy with him was able to see that, but his anger at the two was strange. Perhaps he was a thrall for a shorter time than they, it would explain the fire in his eyes compared to the rest. Or perhaps there was a story between them, and Boromir guessed it was not a happy one.
It mattered not, for shortly the food was served, but this elicited confusion for Boromir. He knew that only one hen was cooked, he thought it odd but perhaps it was a custom of these people. But no other hen, or any meat, was being prepared. For a full score of women and children, alongside the strange boy and himself, two chickens would be the least to be eaten that night he would have thought.
That they offered the full chicken meal to him, and him alone, was troublesome. Did they think him alike to the thrall-takers? Were these peoples so downtrodden that tribute in everything was expected naturally. That must be, for no one looked in askance, save maybe the younger children, eyeing the meal with barely disguised want. Boromir could see that smaller offcuts of the hen scattered amongst the scavenged vegetables and berries made up two other meals, presumably meant for his 'esquire' and the larger boy. This would not do. He was a man of Gondor, and knew the value of food, especially to those already weakened. Eating a full meal as those around him hungered sat upon him ill, as it would for any of the Heirs of Númenor. Even the least peasant family in the most barren lands of Rochan would not so easily debase themselves this way. That the maimed girl did not receive a sliver of meat, nor the injured or thinnest simply drove the anger in his gut. Mere fury was too mean a word to use when he now thought of the fabled Dúnedain guarding the Lost Kingdom. If this was the protection they gave, then perhaps the remnants of the North Kingdom deserved to be lost. His face definitely showed his anger. The girls became pale, and immediately went to the other plates, grabbing slivers of meat and frantically placing them on his own. The mere sight near sickened him.
Deciding his need for food could wait, Boromir grabbed not only the wood-plate of meat, but also a wood-plate filled currently with carrots and mushrooms, and and empty wood-pate, and began dividing the food to his satisfaction. Once done, he gave the first plate to the grey-eyed boy, then moved to the half filled plate of mushrooms, filled it much as the first, gave it to the wounded girl, and continued. Plate after plate, vegetables and a sliver of chicken. The mere fact of him dividing the food such appeared to startle the group, one or two of the women looked almost fearful accepting a plate with meat on, others, those he suspected had long been thralls, devoured the food without thought. On and on it went, until the merest sliver of chicken was left, along with meagre vegetables and berries. Boromir took them, and after completing the Standing Silence, ate, sitting beside his 'esquire'. He had eaten far worse meals on patrol, or nothing at all when orcs and orc-men had attacked his camps, so a sliver of chicken and mushroom with the sweetness of blackberries was more than enough that night. He did not notice all the queer looks, or the whispers that followed. As they all sat down to the meal, now with only the women and children left, the old men having bravely fought the rider that came among them, chatter and gaiety resumed, with little thought to setting watches or hiding from unfriendly ears. That worried Boromir, but not greatly, for he knew as well as any ranger how trees and leaves could hide sounds, knowledge that he and his men used to their advantage many times.
Thinking of his men, now in the skilled hands of his brother, he sent a fervent hope to Illuvatar to watch over them and guide their blades. Too soon his plate was emptied, and darkness was falling, the older women began to smooth out patches on the ground for the youngest to sleep, laying rags and scavenged cloth from the fallen thrall takers as blankets. The complaints and mumbles of the children became a low din, their shadows ever moving in the low firelight, though with many of the women getting the children to sleep, it was left to the fatter boy to tend the fire. He at least seemed familiar with the task, and reminded Boromir a little of Forlong, by his girth if nothing else, it was then he noticed he was not the only watcher of the boy, the one who distracted the mountain was gazing at the boy, or his fire most likely. That was good, at least there were two others that knew the importance of a fire in a camp. Letting the din wash over him, Boromir stood and began to seek a place to begin his watch, of course his 'esquire' followed him, the strange tongue questioning, but unable to respond, the man gestured the campfire, the woods, and his eyes, and repeated the motion. Thankfully the boy understood, and pointed to himself and the Captain also. So he would have company on the watch at least.
Though it was not long ere the boy was gently sleeping, curled around Boromir's side as the man kept watch on a hillock, sweeping over the camp and surrounding trees. Near everyone was asleep, save their large firewatcher, who had near him the other strong boy, perhaps they had agreed to share the load. At least there now was one less concern tonight. Feeling satisfied with his watch, the Gondorian turned his eyes skyward.
Boromir had never felt truly lost or alone, no matter where he dwelt, with companions or no, where the lands were known to him or new, he could gaze up at the stars, and know the route home. Turning his face to look upon the stars, and assure himself of his position, he froze. And stood, moved beyond the diming firelight, and looked upon the starlight night once more. He began turning his head and squinting. Forcing images and tales upon the strange lights. Turning again and looking upwards, to the north, west and south. He looked. Panic was near upon him, but the Steward's son did not allow it to take him. The Butterfly. The Eagle, The Warrior, The Jewelled Net. These he could not make out. Try as he might, no matter how he glared, the constellations would not form. The stars that always held their course, Alcarinquë, Luinil, even the Star of Eärendil was hidden. He could not make a route home. Panic and worry reared their twin heads and Boromir, for all he knew their familiar grasp, could not abide it this time. The luxury of panic was not one usually afforded to soldiers, and less to Stewards, but astride the sleeping camp with nary an eye on him, Boromir indulged in that luxury.
For a time at least, before his lessons with loremasters, and his father prevailed. For all the lessons imparted on him, this had ever rung the clearest, that the Stewards, the foundations of Gondor kingless as it was, could not panic or worry lest they give their people reason to do the same. He would need to reason his situation. He was in Ithilien, now clearly he was not. It may not be Arnor he was in after all, with the stars uncharted so. Or the red streak, Carnil running to war perhaps, overshone them, though the dimming of Star of Eärendil was grim indeed. Any man of Gondor, knew rumours of the Fair Folk of the woods. Perhaps he was in some Elven forest where the skies above their trees was enchanted to hide the true stars from men. Or it may be north of Arnor, where the Witch King of Angmar dwelt in times past, and with the foul sorcery of the Enemy, giving the sky a changed hue. Or that he were far from the seas where the mariners had mapped and travelled. East then. Far to the East. That thought, uneasy it yet made him, was welcomed. It explained the thrall taking, the strange tongues, and why the grey eyed boy was so trusting. One of the Dúnadain rather than many he originally thought. But that mattered little to him. He was the scion of the House of Húrin, and he would see the lost boy returned home to Gondor, no matter how strait the path was, star-lit or no, he would not fail in his duty to this Dúnadan.