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Chapter Two:

Twenty and Two

For the most part, Boromir was content. Green had proven herself to be an adequate guide, despite her inability to speak and Boromir found Green's company—although silent—pleasant. On occasion however, her disability had slipped his mind. More than once the Gondorian had caught himself asking deeper questions to which only lengthy answers could be given in response. A quick recovery was made each time nevertheless; moreover for all the sour faces she gave, Green seemed to be more accepting of her own plight than anyone Boromir had ever met. She on no account begrudged him for his mistakes in trying to converse with her. She would only smile at him in a way that reassured him no harm had been done. At least no damage done that she had shown openly to him, anyway. All in all, they had made quite the progress in their little sojourn together. In three days time more evidence of Rivendell had been presented to Boromir than in all the months he had searched on his own. His preliminary fear that Green may be misleading him put to rest, she had proven herself steadfast in her—unspoken—word. He was happy for her company, after being alone for so long.

On the fourth day of their travels, after covering fifteen miles to Boromir's usual ten, he fell to his sleeping pad exhausted. His feet ached him so badly from having walked the entire day—for he fought with Green, giving up his horse so she might ride instead of walk—that all he had wished to do was fall into a fitful sleep. This however proved exceedingly difficult for him, for Green had not yet returned from collecting kindling for their fire; she had left well over an hour ago. By that time the earth had grown quiet with nightfall, the bitter cold was cutting into his frozen limbs which ached for the warmth of the flames. All Boromir wanted was to curl into his cloak and fur, forgetting about the mute girl and find himself some sleep. Yet there again was his conscience beating into him like the ocean against a rock, all the years of having gallantry shoved down his throat choking him into submission. So as much as Boromir sought to turn on his side and let it go, the better face of him groaned and cursed, grabbing his sword from beside his head and wandering into the wood to find his little taciturn pain in the arse.

The forest was dark, the light of the sun having just sunk below the horizon, giving way to the shadows of the night. Within twenty more minutes despite whatever conviction pounded in the Gondorian's chest, Boromir would be sightless and the search for Green would be at a standstill. Even in the poor light there had been no tracks for him to follow—not the slightest indication she had even been in the forest at all. Just as it had been on the road the day he had found her and every day after. So throwing away the idea of silently finding her while bringing no attention to himself, Boromir was left with no choice but to shout out for her, feeling absurd knowing full well Green could not answer him. He had been at this for no more than mere minutes when the woods around him grew darker, the same trepidation that he had experienced not five days ago, creeping under his flesh. He dared to turn around, his strong battle worn hands grasping at his sword.

From just beyond an oak hidden under another great pine, branches reached out, seemingly clawing at the wind and giving way to a sight Boromir had willed away. Golden eyes burned back at him, scorching his mind with a fear he had never quite felt before. Like dragon fire it destroyed his resolve, completely stripping him of any courage left in his weak body. It was as if he were in the presence of something far more ancient and powerful than anything he could summon with a thought, its will pounding into his brain. Tears pooled in his eyes, once more at the sight of a prophetic fall of Minas Tirith being projected into his mind's eye. Moreover the wind had picked up, the elemental voice carried with it… "Fleet as an unseen star in the dwindling meadow…Old as the hidden root that feeds the world…Hard as the light which blinds the lidless eye…I am this…and this…and this…"

Boromir shuddered, unable to keep his mind settled. In a shaky voice he pleaded with the creature, "Be gone cur, do not torment me so. I have done this wood no ill and I beseech you, give me peace." It was the only time he ever recalled begging for reprieve from any foe. Somehow though, Boromir knew this to be different and never quite looked at the creature as an enemy…perhaps something he feared because he did not understand it; never once had it attempted to harm him. The visions however were too great a burden to bear. He knew his people needed him, that his father depended on him—he required no ancient being from somewhere in the darkness to relay that to him. Then, as if reaching into his heart and seeing the pain that dwells there, the creature vanished just as surely as it had manifested. To Boromir's shock and desperate relief, the trepidation was gone. As if it had never been. There was only him and the darkness of the sleeping forest, swaying to and fro with the cold autumn wind. He gazed about, unsure if he had conjured it all from his own psyche—almost forgetting why he had ventured into the glen in the first place. His latest encounter with whatever roamed the forest had taken its toll on him in the most gravest of ways. So when rustling came from the right of him, Boromir had fought the urge to strike whatever it may be down, forcing himself to remember that Green was somewhere roaming about—if the creature hadn't gotten to her as well. He held his breath, releasing it only when the small figure of his lame companion formed clearly in his line of vision as she stumbled out of the brush, two fat rabbits in her hands. Boromir had wanted to reprimand her but after seeing the hares gripped firmly in her small hands and his belly growling voraciously, the warrior's resolve softened and they had—together—gone back to camp.

"This is all quite good, thank you." Boromir had forgotten what it was like to have a full belly and a warmed body, all provided by the touch of a woman. For Green had proved yet again that despite her condition, she was well enough rounded to care for herself in the wilds of the world.

Having built a very warm fire and whipping up the best rabbit stew out of practically nothing, Boromir was no longer pretending to be impressed. With such tender care and compassion from a complete stranger, the Gondorian had nearly forgotten his mishap in the wood. He had noted in their short time together, Green had the ability to do that; put one's mind to rest. She was a soft soul with a tender heart, one of which Boromir believed—if she could talk—would be worn openly on her sleeve. Then again the man of Gondor had also seen the temper that could flare within her small frame, just as it had done earlier when without much choice he had thrown her onto his steed's back, refusing to let her walk the entire day. It was time like those he teased her and called her bitter, all in good jest. And when they were not bickering or silently trudging through the countryside, Boromir had made attempts in trying to learn more about Green, which was another way of trying to forget about the creature lurking not far behind them. Tonight however was different, for while Boromir was wishing to forget what he had seen—for now a second time—Green was staring off into the forest, the look on her face distant and cold.

Boromir's worry grew closer with every second her features lingered on the tree line. "You have seen it, haven't you—the creature that stalks these woods?" His voice broke even against the crackling of the fire, pulling Green's insipid eyes to his own. She nodded once.

"Do you suppose it means us harm, Green?"

Her dark hair blew in the soft but frigid winds, casting shadows about her face as the flames from the fire licked the air. She gazed back into the brush and ever so slightly gave a way to indicate no, before resting her chin on her knees. Somehow Boromir willed himself to believe her, feeling more at ease with whatever lingered out there. Only one more thing plagued him; he dared not voice it, wondering if Green knew what it was that had been following them and if she too had heard it singing. Although he could never admit it—to himself nor anyone else—Boromir knew the answer to his query. Perhaps that was why he never asked. They spent the rest of the night huddled close to the fire and Boromir slept fitfully, his belly full of rabbit.

In the morning that followed, the weather had taken a turn for the worst. Although dry, it was the coldest day the pair had ever endured in living memory, sweeping them up in a fit of teeth chattering and shivering. Neither had the mind to ride Boromir's horse, wanting the friction from walking to maintain body heat. They both had seemed to disregard the rather peculiar night they had shared and focused entirely on reaching Rivendell, where they might find reprieve from the elements.

Notwithstanding the cold, Boromir was in a lighthearted mood—Green had indicated that within another day's ride, they would have reached the Last Homely House. With such news, Boromir, son of Denethor could hardly contain himself—which Green had come to learn, meant that he could not cease his blabbing and persistent questioning. Her neck was tired of nodding and shaking in responses to his questions. For the life of her, all she wanted was for him to shut up. He noticed this briefly and sighed, staying silent for a time before speaking again.

"You truly are bitter and green—I had yet to meet a maiden whose foul temper outweighs her beauty–until you, young one." Boromir turned the tide, just to press her buttons.

Her expressions were often found to be extremely humorous and more often than not, she would unknowingly answer his questions in her silent outbursts of rage. He noticed her cheeks burning red and not all from the cold and harsh wind. "Begging your pardon Green," he chuckled. "I did not mean to embarrass you."

She sneered with one of her ridiculous faces and bit her thumb at him, indicating their conversations for a time were done. Boromir gaped and laughed, never before seeing a woman use such foul sign language. Silently he wondered what Faramir might make of her, this woman who smelled of earth and wilderness.

Hours had passed, the earth warming only slightly at the peak of noon; the chilling wind still cutting into them. Green had led Boromir down a hidden path, one he never would have spotted from the road they traveled. They were close now, if their surroundings were any indication. The low hanging willows and ancient stone statues brought Boromir to a time long before his birth and the birth of his own ancestors. Awestruck by the craftsmanship of the Elves, his eyes were drawn to carvings in the trees that seemed to illuminate softly. It was then he truly wished for his brother to be with him, for unlike Faramir, Boromir was not a learned man of language and lore. Although unique and beautiful, the ornate sculptures and runes meant little to the Gondorian. Which in part made him indifferent as well as intrigued. Boromir was a proud man; openly acknowledging misunderstandings was not one of his strong suits. Surprisingly though, Green seemed to comprehend the ancient words and symbols. Her gray eyes seemed to beam in remembrance as her hand ran the length of text carved into a great tree. Boromir stepped up to the back of her without saying a word, his horse by the reins trailing behind him. He never noticed how small her frame seemed to be…so fragile.

"I thought you were unable to read," he whispered. "You had indicated so yourself."

Green never looked at him, her colorless orbs scrutinizing the words that lay before her, tears welling in her eyes. What she knew and what she didn't, hardly mattered. There was no viable way to explain what was or why she was drawn to this place. Truthfully, Green herself hadn't known. There had just been this desire inside her to touch the bark of the ancient tree; to feel the carvings against her fingertips. It was the only constant in her life—the only place she felt she had a voice. For among the writings she could not decipher, there was an understanding between her and the runes. Neither able to utter a word, yet through the deepest of emotions, the spoken tongue was not needed. It was to linger between the world of men and the realm of Elves, never fully venturing to either side…that was Green's place. She belonged nowhere and yet here…here was home.

"You weep…have I said something to warrant your unhappiness?" Boromir sighed inwardly, groaning at the raging uncertainty of women. When she did not move from her place by the trees, Boromir found himself at a loss. Uncomfortable and certainly ill equipped to handle the situation, he did the only thing he could to remain productive. Securing his horse, the warrior went to set up camp.

Early afternoon blossomed into a chilly early evening; though the ancient grove proved to hold more warmth than the old forest that had previously camped in. The very ground hummed with old magic, coursing through each of their veins, reining them in for a comforting twilight. Boromir had left Green to light the fire, for hers were incomparable to the heat they gave.

Anyone with sense could see such impeccable craft was acquired only by living one's life in the wilds of the world, with no hearth to sit by or roof to cover your head. It was difficult for Boromir to sit there and ponder these things about Green without any way of knowing exactly where she came from or why she had chosen the life she had. After all, the only companions Boromir ever had were the men under his command in times of war as well as peace, they had shared everything with one another. This was the first exception.

Boromir had never pushed his pestering inquiries on Green, though as their time together drew to an end, he wanted to remember something substantial about her. For without her, he would have never found the House of Elrond. Her pride and arrogance was a hindrance though, even if his intentions towards her were innocent. The only way he could think to get this imp of a girl to share anything, was by opening up first. If anything, it would pass the time. "Have you ever ventured to Gondor, Green?"

She raised her brow and responded no.

"You have the look of a Gondorian woman, this is why I ask…the coloring is very similar." And it was true. Green did share the same dark hair and light eyes that many people of Gondor have.

"Sometimes when I look at you, I am reminded of my home…my father and brother. Have I mentioned them before?" He knew he hadn't mentioned Faramir, but it was worth seeing her specify so. It meant she was listening. "Aye, it is true…I am the eldest. My brother—Faramir is his name—I am most certain you would find his company more appealing than my own. He is a learned man, able to sign and speak many languages."

He paused then to see her reactions to his words. She seemed to be lingering on them, debating everything he told her. "He is five years younger than I, perhaps ten years older than you—I only speculate." This is where he waited again, seeing if Green had anything to offer him about her in return.

His hopes soared as she raised her hands, holding all ten of her fingers before her, flashing them twice and then holding up two digits on her right hand. Boromir had only been off by one year, and still half his age. "You are twenty and two?"

Green's eyes burned intensely, betraying her young years. For someone so youthful, Boromir recalled thinking; her countenance was of someone with wisdom and age. She nodded a curt yes, pulling her cloak closer to her petite frame.

Shamelessly he wondered if she could speak, what her voice might have sounded like. "Were you born a mute?"

She stared coldly at him, her gaze cutting. For what she lacked in spoken word, Green had fully substituted with expression. It was the look of someone who had experienced great loss. She needn't nod or make any other mark for Boromir to know he had overstepped a clear boundary. He quickly changed the subject. "Were you born to the Mark?"

Green's face pulled into confusion at his query, misunderstanding his terminology.

"The Riddermark—Rohan! Are you Rohirrim?"

For the first time in all his life, Boromir had witnessed a person laugh without the joyous sound of the laughter itself. Green had found humor in his question, gripping her sides and shaking her head no, all the while gasping for air and letting loose from her lungs nothing but silence. He knew not how to feel…besides pitiful. How many times had he laughed, at her expense, and she wasn't even afforded the same toward him. He scratched the back of his head and stifled a rather dry chuckle. When she had finished, Green's eyes danced. The anger was replaced with joy—short lived. For in an instant she was at her feet, eyes just as cold and menacing as before, filled with a glint of fear. She was staring beyond him and towards the entrance of the grove.

"Green what is it?" Boromir turned to face whatever she was gazing up; his blood ran cold. He slowly stood, extending his arm out to keep her still, his voice commanding but hushed. "Go to the horse, Green. Leave everything where it is and go…I will be right behind you…do not look back."

From the other end of their haven, a rider clad in black bellowed down the path, filling the air with a bloodcurdling scream. Green covered her ears and closed her eyes as tightly as she could. Boromir's strong hands lifting and pulling her away. "RUN, Green! RUN!"