bChapter 5: Journeys/b

IOh, to see the White Tower of Ecthelion! Its lustrous banners fluttering in the wind, carried high and proud by furious turbulence; its pearl-coloured surface glistening in the morning sun! What mortal eye or hand could possibly capture such a moment? For it is impossible to describe the beauty and dignity of what can be seen./I

A sharp and long whistle echoed through the valleys, across the strengthening wind. Gandalf stood tall and majestically, staff in hand, waiting. They had reached the edge of the forest, and must make haste to Edoras. Saruman's power was at work, and Gandalf knew well what he must do. With a flash of silver in the rising sun, a horse charged furiously over the horizon. Gandalf smiled warmly.

"Why, that is one of the Mearas!" exclaimed Legolas, a genuine surprise in his voice. As the beast approached, Boromir could see the ethereal purity and strength emanating from the stallion, as if to show its worth. Gandalf gently caressed its head, and turned to his companions.

"Shadowfax," he said tenderly, "my old friend." He stroked his silver mane, and gave him a hard pat on his flank. His companions stared on in wonder as Gandalf mounted the stallion bareback.


"He will not be saddled," said Gandalf, smiling knowingly. "Now come, my friends. We must ride forth to Edoras."


"Never had I thought that I would see the day that a Dwarf shares saddle with an Elf!" grunted Gimli, as the Elven Lord helped him up. Legolas laughed.


"These days bring stranger things," he said, with a bright smile.


"Come, Gimli," said Aragorn, expressing amusement at his predicament, "we must yet have much travel together!"


Soon, mounted and prepared to leave, the four companions turned to look out on the road ahead. Boromir would deeply miss their company. He bid them a farewell which none could hear, feeling both humbled and sorrowful. May you return safely, he thought, for the blessings of Gondor will be with you. Though deep inside, a concern was growing over his father.


"He will not be pleased," he said sternly to himself. "I dare not think what he may do if Aragorn returns to claim kingship." Denethor was a bitter man, weaker in many ways than his father Ecthelion, but Boromir still respected him. He knew very well the reasons for his ways.

I"No, you are not permitted here," came a cold, cruel voice. A withered hand drooped before him, blocking his path. Filled with childish curiosity, riddled with concern, the young boy cried, and his voice was high and shrill.


"Oh, let me see her, father! Please let me enter!" The sound was full of desperation, and echoed from the walls like a grief-stricken moan. Near-silence followed. He could hear the shuffling of feet, and somewhere, the sound of distant voices.


"Your father has bid you to leave," spoke the harsh voice again. Caring not for this cruel instruction, the boy charged forward, thrusting the hand aside, his eyes encrusted with salty tears.


"Mother!"


He entered the room. A pale, dappled light was cast through the arched windows, and he could see her, lying motionless in her bed. The worn, slumped figure of his father knelt at her side, clutching her delicate hand. Denethor raised his head, and saw the complete devastation in his son's eyes. He too was crying. Raising his finger to his lips, he spoke.


"Hush, Boromir," he whispered shakily, "she yet sleeps."


Boromir cautiously approached his mother, and laid his hands softly on the elaborate bedspread, which cushioned her frail form. He began to stroke the velvet throws, the tears lining his eyes now falling, staining the material a deep, mournful colour. Denethor looked at him.


"Do you see, Boromir?" he asked desperately. "Do you see her beauty? Look at her, Boromir. She wanes like a fading flower, touched by the first frosts of winter." His glance turned to his wife's fair face, and his eyes were full of tears. "Every day she slips in and out of sleep."


Boromir looked upon his mother - a beautiful, noble woman – why must she lay helpless in this cold, foreboding room? Her skin was smooth and pale, her eyes gently shut. He reached for her hand, when suddenly she stirred. Boromir took a step backwards, wiping his tears on his sleeve. Denethor gave a short gasp, and kissed her hand delicately. She murmured something softly, as if caught in an inescapable dream.


"Mother, it's me," said Boromir hopefully, tears yet blurring his vision, "it's me, Boromir – remember?"


Findulias turned her head with great effort, locks of her hair falling gracefully around her face, and smiled. Her eyes were barely open, but Boromir longed to see them. He clasped his mother's hand to his chest, and held himself against it. Tears streamed down his face, leaving salty trails, and they left him, and flowed down her fingers. She had not the strength to speak.


"Don't sleep," he said, gasping through his tears, "please don't sleep…"


Feeling a restricting hand on his shoulder, Boromir knew he would not be allowed to stay. He was unable to see through his blurred, swollen eyes, and could not remember being led from the room. All he could remember was the tears.
 
That was the last time he ever saw her. /I

Boromir waited alone as his companions vanished into the distance. They would ride long and hard, and now, Boromir thought to himself, I will journey also. He knew the voyage would be long and tiring, as it had been on the way to Imladris. But he had then a steed; on foot it would be even more strenuous. The only thing pressing was time; there was no need to fear for himself – but yet there was for his family, for Gondor.

Suddenly, he felt a slight nudge on his back. Instinctively drawing his sword, he threw himself to face behind. Standing there was a horse, loosely saddled, with deep, round eyes, and a brown hide. Boromir checked his surroundings warily. Who did this creature belong to? There was nobody in sight. The horse blinked, and gazed calmly into his eyes.

IThe following night, the little boy was troubled by restless nightmares. Tossing and turning, he wailed mournfully, gripping the sheets in fear. The wind whistled furiously against the stone walls, creating a cold and bitter draught.


Boromir opened his eyes.


Immediately remembering what had happened the previous night, tears welled over in his eyes, and he began to cry. Why could it not have been just a dream? A terrible nightmare…but a dream nonetheless? He pulled the sheet to his face, and wiped his eyes carelessly, glancing to the door. Where was she now? Sobbing, but managing to hold back his tears enough to maintain a quivering silence, he clambered out of his large bed, and lit a candle, which was standing on a chest near the entrance. Deftly he opened the large door, and entered into a smaller chamber.


The wind continued to batter zealously against the walls of Minas Tirith, and Boromir could hear with it the pattering of heavy rain – the signals of an approaching storm. Freezing in fear, he remembered how, in years passed, the flashes of lightning had illuminated his room, and his screams of undeniable terror at the rolls of solemn thunder that had endlessly haunted his nights.


He felt incredibly vulnerable. She had always come earnestly to his door, rested him on her lap, and kissed his forehead, sometimes staying to tell him tales of the warriors, who, Boromir reminded himself, were not afraid of the lightning. But if she could no longer be a protector, what could he do but be a guardian himself?


Using the flickering flame as a guide, he felt his way along the ancient walls, until he came to his brother's bedside. He placed the candle gently on the floor, as not to disturb the sleeping figure, and knelt quietly beside him. Though the light was dim, Boromir could trace the outline of his face, his soft skin glowing a pale orange in the radiance of the flame, his dark hair serenely cradling his tiny head. He could hear him breathing peacefully, and he seemed, Boromir thought, painfully oblivious to the troubles of the world.


"Faramir," he whispered, without intent for him to hear, "I want to tell you about our mother." His voice broke on this last word, and he found himself gasping for breath. He brought his hands to his face, and it was a long time before he could continue.


"She loved us, Faramir," he said through tearful eyes, "she loved you. Father said she longed for the sea." His voice heightened to a desperate panting. "Shall I tell you about the sea, Faramir?" Although no answer came, Boromir took it upon himself to describe all he had heard of the pounding of the waves, the calling of the gulls, and the water that seemed to stretch endlessly unto the horizon.


"She can't be here anymore," he said shakily, half-worrying if he would be caught, "but it doesn't matter, Faramir. Because I'm here." He reached out, gingerly stroking his brother's cheek. Faramir heaved a heavy sigh in sleep, but did not stir.

Boromir felt a great deal of pity for the fact that he knew his brother was too young to remember Findulias' loving care; the way she scooped him up in her arms, rocked him gently to sleep, sung her tender lullabies in his youthful ear. "I'll look after you." He took his hand in his own, and shook it feverishly. "I promise."/I