Author's Note: I know, I know, it's all been fairly boring and smooth so far. Doesn't seem as though Boromir has had much of an impact. But we're still in the early portion of the journey, you must remember. Not much happens in the beginning. At least…it's not supposed to.

Chapter 8

The morning after leaving Bree, the company was greeted by a downpour. It was too wide to attempt to skirt around it, so they were obliged to put up their hoods—those that had them—and hunch down to try and keep as much rain off them as they could, with varying degrees of success. They looked a miserable, half-drowned bunch, and their mounts did not appear much better.

The one exception was Menion. The young stallion seemed, if anything, to perk up with the rain. His steps became livelier, and he was constantly attempting to break into a trot. Boromir had his hands full reining the frisky horse in.

"I'm glad someone is enjoying this weather," he grumbled, pulling Menion back to a walk beside Gandalf. The Wizard simply chuckled. Though his robes were soaked through, it seemed not to bother him. His wide-brimmed hat made a suitable umbrella, so his face and beard remained largely dry. Boromir, on the other hand, did not wish to risk any more interrogation from the Wizard, so the cloak he had received from the Galadhrim remained buried in his pack.

"Here, Mr. Gandalf," Dori called from behind them, "can't you do something about this deluge?"

Gandalf rolled his eyes. "It is raining, Master Dwarf, and it will continue to rain until the rain is done. If you wish to change the weather of the world, you should find another Wizard."

After a moment of silence, a small voice piped up. "Are there any?"

"What?"

"Other Wizards," Bilbo clarified.

"There are five of us," Gandalf explained. "The greatest of our order is Saruman the White."

Boromir scowled at the mention of Saruman. Long had his father preferred the counsel of the White Wizard over Gandalf's, taking pains to make Mithrandir less and less welcome in Minas Tirith. But at the Council of Elrond, Boromir had learned of Saruman's treachery. It had made him wonder about Denethor and the advice he had taken from Saruman. How long had the White Wizard been allied with the Enemy? When did his counsel begin steering Gondor on the path of ruin?

He was brought back to reality as Gandalf mentioned the two Blue Wizards, whose names he had forgotten.

"And who is the fifth?" Bilbo queried.

"That would be Radagast the Brown."

"Is he a great Wizard, or is he…more like you?" Boromir could not help it: he threw back his head and laughed merrily. The others shared in his amusement, though they were a bit more dampened by the rain than he was.

After shooting Boromir an affronted glance, Gandalf continued, "I think he is a very great Wizard…in his own way. He's a gentle soul who prefers the company of animals to others. He keeps a watchful eye on the forests to the East…and a good thing, too."

Boromir was about to ask what Gandalf meant when he heard it: the sound of rushing water rising above the rainfall. Curious, he urged Menion forward to have a look.

To his dismay, he found that what seemed to usually be a wide, shallow creek had swollen to become a rushing white water. He could not judge its depth, but the speed and force of the current filled him with trepidation. Boromir turned about and rode back to inform the others.

Most of the Dwarves—and Bilbo—let out groans of dismay at Boromir's report. Thorin, however, straightened in his saddle. He looked as though he had just been issued a challenge, which he eagerly accepted.

Slowly, the company approached the bank. Menion strained toward the water—he almost seemed as though he was eager for a swim. After hesitating a moment, Boromir gave him his head. Clearly, the stallion knew something he did not.

Menion plunged into the water, his powerful legs and sure hooves keeping him upright against the current. As they waded farther in, Boromir was pleased to discover that the water only came up past Menion's knees. On the ponies, it would reach their bellies, but no higher. They should be able to cross, provided they could keep their feet.

Once safely across, Boromir dismounted. "It's all right," he called back. "Just go slowly, and cross in single file."

The others nodded at his assessment and began the crossing. At first, it seemed they would all make it with no issue. But then, the last pony to cross lost its footing and tumbled with a squeal into the water.

"Fíli!" Thorin cried, rushing back to the edge. Fíli's pony quickly got its feet back under it, but Fíli was not having as much luck. His sodden clothes combined with the rapid current made it difficult for him to stand, and every failed attempt sent him farther downstream. To their horror, the others realized that the water became deeper as the creek went on, and if they could not get Fíli out soon, he would be swept away.

Thinking quickly, Boromir mounted again and spurred Menion forward. The horse practically leapt into the water and, seeming to know what was needed, immediately turned toward Fíli. Reaching the blond Dwarf was the easy part. Once there, Boromir reached down and hauled him up onto the horse, settling Fíli behind him.

Boromir glanced at the bank. It was too slick and too steep where they were; any attempt to climb it would send them sliding back down into the water. Their only option was to try and force their way back upstream to the others.

"Come on, boy, let's go!" he urged, clapping his heels into the horse's sides. Menion whinnied and surged forward. Progress was slow, as Menion dare not lift more than one hoof at a time for fear of his own legs being swept out from under him. Fíli clung tightly to Boromir, who noticed that the young Dwarf was shivering after his trip in the frigid water.

Once, the horse stumbled and went to his knees, but he lurched back up and kept moving, neighing a defiant challenge to the water.

Finally, after what seemed an hour but could not have been more than fifteen minutes, Menion clambered up the bank. He was panting heavily, his head hanging low. Boromir lowered Fíli to the ground before hopping off and coming around to inspect his horse.

Angry red scrapes now adorned Menion's knees, and the young horse's legs were trembling. Strong he was, but water was stronger, and if the battle had continued, he might have given over.

Gently, Boromir took out a wet cloth and began cleaning Menion's wounds. "Good boy," he murmured, being as gentle as possible. "Well done, Menion. Well done."

"Here, lad." Óin had approached and was handing Boromir a roll of bandages. "These should help." Nodding in thanks, Boromir accepted them and began wrapping Menion's legs.

Thorin, having inspected his nephew and sent him off to change into dry—or drier—clothes, now strode up to Boromir. "That is a fine horse you have there," he rumbled. "He has a strong heart…much like his rider."

Boromir paused in his work to look up in surprise. "We are still strangers to you, yet you moved to save Fíli's life without hesitation. Thank you."

Feeling his ears burn a little, Boromir replied, "I only did what needed to be done. Anyone would have done the same."

"But anyone didn't," Thorin countered. "I am not thanking anyone. I am thanking Boromir of Gondor." To Boromir's great astonishment, Thorin gave him a small bow. Little more than a dip of the head, but even so. "I, Thorin, son of Thrain, am at your service."

It was a moment before Boromir found his voice. "I, Boromir of Gondor, am at yours…and your family's." He glanced over at Fíli, who had returned to be fussed over by his younger brother.

It brought a memory to his mind: the first time he and Faramir had ridden out against the enemy together. He had been a nervous wreck, constantly keeping an eye on his little brother. Which of course meant he wasn't looking out for himself, and he paid for it with an arrow in his leg. To his humiliation—and immense pride—Faramir had come to his rescue, fending off the Orcs until they could make their escape.

Once back at camp, Faramir had personally treated him, constantly tutting and scolding him for being careless. Boromir softly explained what had distracted him. Faramir rightly cuffed him about the head and called him an idiot.

After that, though of course he always worried, Boromir didn't watch his little brother so closely anymore. Faramir may not have the same love of battle that he did, but he was a warrior in his own right. He could handle himself.

Fíli finally convinced Kíli to leave off so they could both come over and thank Boromir properly. Surprisingly, they thanked Menion as well, offering the horse apples from their pockets. Menion accepted them eagerly, his energy returning somewhat after the rest. To everyone's relief, the rain seemed to finally be done. Noting everyone's drenched state as well as the exhaustion of Boromir's horse, Thorin silently decided to cut the day's march short. They would only move into the eastern edge of the Lone Lands and then find a suitable place to camp.

After the bandaging was done, Boromir brought the horse's reins down into his hands. He opted to lead his valiant horse rather than burden Menion's already weary legs.

As the Company plodded along the sodden Road, Gandalf observed a change among the group. Before, they had expressed little more than tolerance for the two non-Dwarf members of their party. Now, he caught several of the others initiating conversation with Boromir, as well as subtly checking on the well-being of both the Man and his horse. Saving Fíli had done much to ingratiate him with Thorin, and by extension, the others.

The Wizard could only hope that an opportunity would soon arise for Bilbo to prove himself, as well.