Chapter 4: Decisions
Boromir took a long look at his surroundings, still slightly suspicious of his mysterious encounter. Questions with no answers raced through his mind, blocking out all other thoughts. The air was cool and crisp, and the river journeyed on towards the falls, which were ever roaring loudly, ferociously, consuming every sound like a ravenous beast.
It was still, and, turning back, Boromir noticed the bier lying motionless on the shore. Such a simple structure could evoke so much grief, so much longing. He would have picked it up, laid it in the river and let fate carry it from his sight. He would have.
Bitterly he turned again to the path into the forest on which his companions had left. He wondered if it were somehow his duty to follow them. After all, he had sworn loyalty to the Fellowship. And the Fellowship would not fail, not while he was still here to prevent it. Even if he were not considered a member of the company, he would prove himself. Somehow. In whatever way was possible. He shuddered, and cursed to himself. It was folly to even use that word.
The road his companions had taken would lead them through Rohan, Boromir knew, and then, past there, to Gondor. How he longed to see the White City again, to see the banners rippling in the morning breeze. How he longed to stand upon the White Tower, the fresh air upon his face, and to witness the magnificent view unparalleled in all of Arda.
He had made his decision. He would follow them, for the good of Gondor and his people. If there were ever a chance of seeing Minas Tirith one last time, he would take it. He made sure his sword was by his side, and began up the hill. The trees stood like pillars on either side of him, and he was keen to leave this place, for it was full of sadness, deceit, regret.
It was many hours before he would rest. There were many things circling through his mind, and it did not occur to him for a long while that he was tired. He didn't know how far he had travelled, but the moon was high in the sky, radiating reflected light onto the ground like an omniscient crystal.
He could not remember the last time he had slept. His eyelids felt heavy, his muscles ached with a fiery strain, and he was struggling to remain awake. Glancing down at the bare earth, he felt slightly humbled that this would be his resting place tonight. He did not feel the sharp wind, nor the cold ground beneath him, and reclining on the soil, drifted into an uneasy sleep.
"Merry!" an innocent, familiar voice cried. Desperate eyes searched his friend's tortured face. Bruised and bloody, Merry crawled and shuffled through the trodden grass. Time seemed to slow to a halt, as every last ounce of his strength was focused on getting to safety. Pippin eyed him constantly - no matter what, they would get out together. He knew deep down in his heart that they could never be separated.
"Carry on, Merry," he urged, "keep going! We can make it!"
"I'm sorry, Pippin," muttered Merry, breathing shallowly, "I didn't mean for-"
"No," said Pippin, "no, Merry. We'll get through. You and me, together. See? There's the trees."
The shrieks of Uruk-hai ripped through the air, and the shrill neighs of horses echoed like ghostly cries through the bitter night. It was near impossible to notice the two hobbits in the midst of the chaos.
Stumbling down a hill and landing heavily on their backs, it seemed quite a time before they reached the forest in the distance. The branches arched over them like long, twisting fingers, darkness enveloped the winding roots, and the ancient trunks creaked and moaned, as the wind gusted around them.
Boromir awoke with a sudden gasp, and feeling quickly around his surroundings, recalled where he was. It was then that he realised that his nights would often be troubled by restless dreams. He scowled. Every detail had been so vivid, so real! Boromir felt haunted by what he had seen, and the images troubled him for days to come. Resting his head in his hands, he hoped with all his heart that Merry and Pippin had made it to safety.
Again, his thoughts turned to the Three Hunters. Where were they now? Surely they would have moved on, thought Boromir. He wondered if it were too late to track them. They could have journeyed far by now, and he knew not which direction they had taken. Boromir winced as he felt a strong need for companionship; he thought back to his long journey to Imladris - the lonely nights, the tiresome days, the pressures placed upon him constantly abiding in the back of his mind. How could I have been so foolish? he asked himself angrily. Surely I could have refused to leave Minas Tirith. I should have.but no, he reminded himself, if I had not left, Faramir could have in my place. I could never sacrifice Faramir for my own life. It is right that I had gone. Comfort came to him with these thoughts, and he managed a confident smile. Dawn was already beginning to break, casting long shadows on all but himself, and he vowed to go in search of the trees - the forest he had seen in his dream.
The walk was hard, but Boromir could never cease to be amazed and enthralled by what he saw around him - earth-rooted mountains standing proudly, like daggers bent towards the sky, fields of green and yellow, stalks wavering under the wind, a sun giving wake to life wherever its delicate rays touched. However, the signs of unrest were forever evident in this idyllic landscape. Boromir had been following for a while a trail of filthy boot prints, in the hope that these were those of the Uruk-Hai, whose bloodcurdling cries echoed yet mercilessly in his mind. The prints were large, bulky, and left a terrible scar on the land. The very earth seemed to sigh in sorrow under this destruction. At last, he came to a high ridge. It did not take him long to reach the summit; the slope was shallow, and it was not a difficult climb. Standing on an ancient boulder, looking over the horizon, he finally saw what he had been looking for - a plume of smoke was rising in the distance. He did not hesitate, realising that time was becoming precious, and began to scramble down the steeper rock face. Perhaps this was a signal; maybe here, he could discover where to turn next.
He ran through the fields, across the plains, ever closer to the pillar of smoke. What could have caused it? He again noticed the tracks of the Uruks, and reassuringly, they seemed to face the same direction. Boromir was curious. As he came nearer to the smouldering mound, he began to recognise a forest, and his heart leapt. So it was not a dream! Perhaps Merry and Pippin had reached safety! Boromir felt a sense of overwhelming joy as he continued to run; he had not felt this free since years passed, when he and Faramir would run the corridors of the White City, laughing and shouting - he remembered back to before she died, when he had been so happy, when his father had been.alas that these days were gone. But whilst there was hope for Gondor, Boromir remained strong.
He adjusted to a slower pace as he approached the scene. He could hear the wind whistling over the plains and through the trees, filling the entire area with a mournful sound. The ground was in tatters. Boromir looked in disgust and surprise as he noticed the countless spears surrounding him, obviously rammed hastily into the earth. Each displayed the head of an Uruk- Hai, disembodied and hideous, staring with empty eyes and gaping with a twisted mouth - a warning to the forces of Mordor, and to anyone who dared come this way.
Boromir found his companions standing by a smoking heap of mutilated Orcs and Uruk-Hai, and he would have been glad, were it not for the scene. The smell was repugnant, and made him want to retch. Surely Merry and Pippin could not have survived this destruction. He felt utterly empty, and was certain his companions felt the same way. Aragorn let out a terrible cry, and kicked an Orcish helm towards him in frustration. Lowering his head, Boromir remembered the ancient trees. If what I have seen is true, he thought to himself, then that is where my path must take me. Soon his companions came to the same conclusion, and in part lead by renewed hope, began their journey into the dark forest.
It was immediately dark, and Boromir felt as if he had once again been plunged into night. The ground was covered in moss, twisted roots, and a damp, rotten soil. It was if this place had evaded the natural course of time; it felt entirely of another age. Why was there a sorrow in these trees? Each branch seemed to stretch out like an extending arm, beckoning for somebody to stay, to give eternal company to the lost spirits of the forest. Boromir tried hard to avoid the roots as he stepped deftly across the forest floor. He glanced across at Gimli, who was carrying his great axe warily, and holding it low on his chest, so as not to offend whatever was at work here.
Finally the company reached a shallow grove. Aragorn and Legolas had seemed concerned for some time, and Boromir could not understand the Elvish they were speaking. Legolas fingered his arrows carefully, his eyes darting quickly from side to side. One hand was resting on his bow.
"Do you sense something?" Boromir asked quietly, almost forgetting his circumstances. Legolas glanced at Aragorn.
"Something is here," he said warily. He looked at Gimli. "Be ready".
Gimli raised his axe, and stood forward on one foot, waiting for a chance to attack. Boromir reached for his sword, and unsheathed the silver blade.
"If you draw your weapons, so I shall draw mine," he said sternly. He ran his hand fondly down the length of the blade, and remembered how it had aided him in many battles. It was all he could do to unsheathe it here.
A great flash of white light emanated between the trees, causing Boromir to shield his eyes from harm. Legolas fired an arrow towards the light, only to have it recoil, thrown back against the forest floor. What was the meaning of this? As the light slowly faded, Boromir could make out a tall figure - a man in a brilliant white cloak, carrying a smooth staff, his long, silver hair draped over his shoulders like delicate threads. This is no man, thought Boromir, his eyes widening in bewilderment and recognition. Mithrandir!
"But how is this possible?" he uttered, his voice disjointed and utterly unbelieving, forgetting everything that had befallen him for a split second. He had seen him fall; he had heard Frodo's desperate cry, spent time with the mourning Fellowship on the road to Lothlórien.
"I come to you now at the turn of the tide," Gandalf said slowly. Scanning the faces of his incredulous friends, he frowned in apparent confusion. But just as suddenly, with a slight sparkle in his eye, he once again smiled, and spoke. "And I can assure you, my friends, that everything is possible." Boromir held his breath, and noticed his sword lying on the floor beside him. He could not remember having dropped it, and still stared on in disbelief. Aragorn uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"I am Gandalf the White," he said, a warm smile on his face. Although Boromir had had suspicions of him on his long journey with the Fellowship, he was genuinely glad to see him again. Such a happy reunion he could only hope for. His companions embraced their returned friend, offering him hearty greetings, and Boromir smiled as he looked on, wishing that he could be a part of the celebration.
They were to leave for Edoras, having learnt of the fate of Merry and Pippin, and Boromir was glad to be leaving for the lands of Men. The journey out of Fangorn was long and strenuous, but there was a newfound sense of security in the party, now that Gandalf had returned. It was as they were leaving the forest that Gandalf spoke again.
"Go ahead, my friends," he said softly, "I have a matter I must attend to here." With a quick glance at each other, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli nodded, and disappeared swiftly out of sight. Boromir began to follow them, but felt, for a reason unknown, inclined to stay. Slowly he turned, to find Gandalf sitting on a fallen trunk, his staff resting upon his lap.
"I will not question their ways," he said thoughtfully, glancing towards Boromir, who was standing tall beneath the bows of the trees. "If that is their will, I will do my utmost to aid you, Boromir of Gondor."
Boromir said nothing. The words would not form in his throat. Gandalf rose to stand before him.
"There is a just reason you have not passed to the Great Halls," he continued, "this is your own task, and only you can fulfil it. But as we are of little time, and as I have the power to do so, I can give you this advice." His voice lowered to a concerned whisper. "Go to your homeland. Travel to Gondor. I can assure you nothing, but there you may find what you seek."
Boromir swallowed the rising lump in his throat, and felt a surge of happiness envelop him. He would see Gondor again!
Boromir took a long look at his surroundings, still slightly suspicious of his mysterious encounter. Questions with no answers raced through his mind, blocking out all other thoughts. The air was cool and crisp, and the river journeyed on towards the falls, which were ever roaring loudly, ferociously, consuming every sound like a ravenous beast.
It was still, and, turning back, Boromir noticed the bier lying motionless on the shore. Such a simple structure could evoke so much grief, so much longing. He would have picked it up, laid it in the river and let fate carry it from his sight. He would have.
Bitterly he turned again to the path into the forest on which his companions had left. He wondered if it were somehow his duty to follow them. After all, he had sworn loyalty to the Fellowship. And the Fellowship would not fail, not while he was still here to prevent it. Even if he were not considered a member of the company, he would prove himself. Somehow. In whatever way was possible. He shuddered, and cursed to himself. It was folly to even use that word.
The road his companions had taken would lead them through Rohan, Boromir knew, and then, past there, to Gondor. How he longed to see the White City again, to see the banners rippling in the morning breeze. How he longed to stand upon the White Tower, the fresh air upon his face, and to witness the magnificent view unparalleled in all of Arda.
He had made his decision. He would follow them, for the good of Gondor and his people. If there were ever a chance of seeing Minas Tirith one last time, he would take it. He made sure his sword was by his side, and began up the hill. The trees stood like pillars on either side of him, and he was keen to leave this place, for it was full of sadness, deceit, regret.
It was many hours before he would rest. There were many things circling through his mind, and it did not occur to him for a long while that he was tired. He didn't know how far he had travelled, but the moon was high in the sky, radiating reflected light onto the ground like an omniscient crystal.
He could not remember the last time he had slept. His eyelids felt heavy, his muscles ached with a fiery strain, and he was struggling to remain awake. Glancing down at the bare earth, he felt slightly humbled that this would be his resting place tonight. He did not feel the sharp wind, nor the cold ground beneath him, and reclining on the soil, drifted into an uneasy sleep.
"Merry!" an innocent, familiar voice cried. Desperate eyes searched his friend's tortured face. Bruised and bloody, Merry crawled and shuffled through the trodden grass. Time seemed to slow to a halt, as every last ounce of his strength was focused on getting to safety. Pippin eyed him constantly - no matter what, they would get out together. He knew deep down in his heart that they could never be separated.
"Carry on, Merry," he urged, "keep going! We can make it!"
"I'm sorry, Pippin," muttered Merry, breathing shallowly, "I didn't mean for-"
"No," said Pippin, "no, Merry. We'll get through. You and me, together. See? There's the trees."
The shrieks of Uruk-hai ripped through the air, and the shrill neighs of horses echoed like ghostly cries through the bitter night. It was near impossible to notice the two hobbits in the midst of the chaos.
Stumbling down a hill and landing heavily on their backs, it seemed quite a time before they reached the forest in the distance. The branches arched over them like long, twisting fingers, darkness enveloped the winding roots, and the ancient trunks creaked and moaned, as the wind gusted around them.
Boromir awoke with a sudden gasp, and feeling quickly around his surroundings, recalled where he was. It was then that he realised that his nights would often be troubled by restless dreams. He scowled. Every detail had been so vivid, so real! Boromir felt haunted by what he had seen, and the images troubled him for days to come. Resting his head in his hands, he hoped with all his heart that Merry and Pippin had made it to safety.
Again, his thoughts turned to the Three Hunters. Where were they now? Surely they would have moved on, thought Boromir. He wondered if it were too late to track them. They could have journeyed far by now, and he knew not which direction they had taken. Boromir winced as he felt a strong need for companionship; he thought back to his long journey to Imladris - the lonely nights, the tiresome days, the pressures placed upon him constantly abiding in the back of his mind. How could I have been so foolish? he asked himself angrily. Surely I could have refused to leave Minas Tirith. I should have.but no, he reminded himself, if I had not left, Faramir could have in my place. I could never sacrifice Faramir for my own life. It is right that I had gone. Comfort came to him with these thoughts, and he managed a confident smile. Dawn was already beginning to break, casting long shadows on all but himself, and he vowed to go in search of the trees - the forest he had seen in his dream.
The walk was hard, but Boromir could never cease to be amazed and enthralled by what he saw around him - earth-rooted mountains standing proudly, like daggers bent towards the sky, fields of green and yellow, stalks wavering under the wind, a sun giving wake to life wherever its delicate rays touched. However, the signs of unrest were forever evident in this idyllic landscape. Boromir had been following for a while a trail of filthy boot prints, in the hope that these were those of the Uruk-Hai, whose bloodcurdling cries echoed yet mercilessly in his mind. The prints were large, bulky, and left a terrible scar on the land. The very earth seemed to sigh in sorrow under this destruction. At last, he came to a high ridge. It did not take him long to reach the summit; the slope was shallow, and it was not a difficult climb. Standing on an ancient boulder, looking over the horizon, he finally saw what he had been looking for - a plume of smoke was rising in the distance. He did not hesitate, realising that time was becoming precious, and began to scramble down the steeper rock face. Perhaps this was a signal; maybe here, he could discover where to turn next.
He ran through the fields, across the plains, ever closer to the pillar of smoke. What could have caused it? He again noticed the tracks of the Uruks, and reassuringly, they seemed to face the same direction. Boromir was curious. As he came nearer to the smouldering mound, he began to recognise a forest, and his heart leapt. So it was not a dream! Perhaps Merry and Pippin had reached safety! Boromir felt a sense of overwhelming joy as he continued to run; he had not felt this free since years passed, when he and Faramir would run the corridors of the White City, laughing and shouting - he remembered back to before she died, when he had been so happy, when his father had been.alas that these days were gone. But whilst there was hope for Gondor, Boromir remained strong.
He adjusted to a slower pace as he approached the scene. He could hear the wind whistling over the plains and through the trees, filling the entire area with a mournful sound. The ground was in tatters. Boromir looked in disgust and surprise as he noticed the countless spears surrounding him, obviously rammed hastily into the earth. Each displayed the head of an Uruk- Hai, disembodied and hideous, staring with empty eyes and gaping with a twisted mouth - a warning to the forces of Mordor, and to anyone who dared come this way.
Boromir found his companions standing by a smoking heap of mutilated Orcs and Uruk-Hai, and he would have been glad, were it not for the scene. The smell was repugnant, and made him want to retch. Surely Merry and Pippin could not have survived this destruction. He felt utterly empty, and was certain his companions felt the same way. Aragorn let out a terrible cry, and kicked an Orcish helm towards him in frustration. Lowering his head, Boromir remembered the ancient trees. If what I have seen is true, he thought to himself, then that is where my path must take me. Soon his companions came to the same conclusion, and in part lead by renewed hope, began their journey into the dark forest.
It was immediately dark, and Boromir felt as if he had once again been plunged into night. The ground was covered in moss, twisted roots, and a damp, rotten soil. It was if this place had evaded the natural course of time; it felt entirely of another age. Why was there a sorrow in these trees? Each branch seemed to stretch out like an extending arm, beckoning for somebody to stay, to give eternal company to the lost spirits of the forest. Boromir tried hard to avoid the roots as he stepped deftly across the forest floor. He glanced across at Gimli, who was carrying his great axe warily, and holding it low on his chest, so as not to offend whatever was at work here.
Finally the company reached a shallow grove. Aragorn and Legolas had seemed concerned for some time, and Boromir could not understand the Elvish they were speaking. Legolas fingered his arrows carefully, his eyes darting quickly from side to side. One hand was resting on his bow.
"Do you sense something?" Boromir asked quietly, almost forgetting his circumstances. Legolas glanced at Aragorn.
"Something is here," he said warily. He looked at Gimli. "Be ready".
Gimli raised his axe, and stood forward on one foot, waiting for a chance to attack. Boromir reached for his sword, and unsheathed the silver blade.
"If you draw your weapons, so I shall draw mine," he said sternly. He ran his hand fondly down the length of the blade, and remembered how it had aided him in many battles. It was all he could do to unsheathe it here.
A great flash of white light emanated between the trees, causing Boromir to shield his eyes from harm. Legolas fired an arrow towards the light, only to have it recoil, thrown back against the forest floor. What was the meaning of this? As the light slowly faded, Boromir could make out a tall figure - a man in a brilliant white cloak, carrying a smooth staff, his long, silver hair draped over his shoulders like delicate threads. This is no man, thought Boromir, his eyes widening in bewilderment and recognition. Mithrandir!
"But how is this possible?" he uttered, his voice disjointed and utterly unbelieving, forgetting everything that had befallen him for a split second. He had seen him fall; he had heard Frodo's desperate cry, spent time with the mourning Fellowship on the road to Lothlórien.
"I come to you now at the turn of the tide," Gandalf said slowly. Scanning the faces of his incredulous friends, he frowned in apparent confusion. But just as suddenly, with a slight sparkle in his eye, he once again smiled, and spoke. "And I can assure you, my friends, that everything is possible." Boromir held his breath, and noticed his sword lying on the floor beside him. He could not remember having dropped it, and still stared on in disbelief. Aragorn uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"I am Gandalf the White," he said, a warm smile on his face. Although Boromir had had suspicions of him on his long journey with the Fellowship, he was genuinely glad to see him again. Such a happy reunion he could only hope for. His companions embraced their returned friend, offering him hearty greetings, and Boromir smiled as he looked on, wishing that he could be a part of the celebration.
They were to leave for Edoras, having learnt of the fate of Merry and Pippin, and Boromir was glad to be leaving for the lands of Men. The journey out of Fangorn was long and strenuous, but there was a newfound sense of security in the party, now that Gandalf had returned. It was as they were leaving the forest that Gandalf spoke again.
"Go ahead, my friends," he said softly, "I have a matter I must attend to here." With a quick glance at each other, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli nodded, and disappeared swiftly out of sight. Boromir began to follow them, but felt, for a reason unknown, inclined to stay. Slowly he turned, to find Gandalf sitting on a fallen trunk, his staff resting upon his lap.
"I will not question their ways," he said thoughtfully, glancing towards Boromir, who was standing tall beneath the bows of the trees. "If that is their will, I will do my utmost to aid you, Boromir of Gondor."
Boromir said nothing. The words would not form in his throat. Gandalf rose to stand before him.
"There is a just reason you have not passed to the Great Halls," he continued, "this is your own task, and only you can fulfil it. But as we are of little time, and as I have the power to do so, I can give you this advice." His voice lowered to a concerned whisper. "Go to your homeland. Travel to Gondor. I can assure you nothing, but there you may find what you seek."
Boromir swallowed the rising lump in his throat, and felt a surge of happiness envelop him. He would see Gondor again!