Chapter 6: Realisation

Hunched double in a narrow cave sat a figure. His hands were clasped, and his head bowed. He did not appear to stir. Shadows of men were cast upon him as they walked by, their strong hands carrying much-needed supplies. Somewhere, the sound of running water could be heard, and the natural light of the moon shone gently on the world outside. But his world was lit by flames.

He was led to a long table, on which was laid out a large and extensive map. It was held down by discarded stones, and had received a great amount of wear. The guard began to describe their options. But Faramir cared not for this, and soon began to drift into a world where dreams and reality are intertwined; where memory becomes actuality – the deepest chasms of his mind.

For Boromir, you are here, are you not?

The cheering of many men could be heard then - a rampant, frivolous joy enrapturing the hearts and souls of all who heard. The sky was an ashen grey, the ground worn to mere scrubland – but today, it was theirs. Raising his sword to the heavens, his brother called out in ferocious rapture. The men pounded their feet and heaved their fists, crying his name in gallant victory, celebrating the reclamation of their beloved city.

Faramir was glad of it. He had never sought attention since a time he could remember; long ago had that dream faded, and he knew Boromir felt guilty of this. In many ways, he thought to himself, he has more troubles than I. He loved his brother. And he knew, feeling warmth inside at the thought, that his brother loved him. But there was always a threat from their enemies, and his nights were troubled with what Boromir must face.

For he did not know what he had until it was gone.


"How now, little brother," he had always said, "do not let these thoughts trouble you! I made a vow to protect you, and I intend to keep it!" Faramir had always felt comforted by these words. But as the years passed, and the threats from Mordor became ever greater, he feared for his brother as never before.

Faramir embraced Boromir as he entered the soldiers' quarters. He was of a taller and stockier build than Faramir, but they were much alike in their facial features.
"The day is ours, little brother!" said Boromir triumphantly. "Once again we rise to the challenge, and we are victorious!"
"And may there be many more occasions to come," said Faramir, smiling. "You fought well, brother." Boromir grinned, placing his hand on his brother's shoulder.
"As did you," he whispered softly, "you truly are a worthy soldier."

Soon it became apparent that Boromir was to leave. His father had entered, seemingly taking no notice of his younger son, of which Faramir was not surprised. Boromir appeared uncomfortable in Denethor's presence, and Faramir could not help but feel a sense of guilt. Boromir had not chosen to be favoured by his father, he thought to himself, heaving a great and regretful sigh.

It was later that Faramir found his brother in riding gear, gazing toward the White Tree of Gondor, which adorned the city like a proud jewel. He said nothing – he merely stared for a time, sighed, and turned to his steed. In doing this, he noticed Faramir, watching him with shimmering eyes. The two looked intently at each other in silence, both feeling the other's undeniable pain. Eventually mounting the horse, Boromir gave a reassuring nod toward his brother, and flashed him a slight smile. But this smile was empty, Faramir knew, and meant nothing. With a quick turn, and a hesitant look back, Boromir disappeared from sight, destined for distant Imladris.

But why didn't I say goodbye…

Racing across the fields at blinding speed, Boromir could not help but remember these times. I had never wanted the Ring, he mused to himself angrily. It was just another of father's trinkets. He knew not of its power over men. He had noticed something strange in Denethor's behaviour of late, and his ever-growing lust for power and control was sometimes frightening. His fear for Faramir's safety had heightened. Denethor's instability was easily exploited, and Boromir feared to what it could lead.

The landscape was vast, covered in blooms of green and vibrant yellow, and in the sky hung delicate clouds. But everywhere were marked the signs of destruction; pillars of thick, dark smoke billowed from ravaged villages, which Boromir's heart ached to see. Such mindless devastation! He felt bitter as his mind turned to the Orcs – terrible, mutilated creatures, bent toward destruction, their bulbous eyes straining in their hideous faces. He still regained no memory of the Uruk-Hai responsible for his death – perhaps those memories would arise over time. He dearly hoped that whatever it was had met a terrible end.

He continued to ride for many hours, the land racing past him an indistinguishable blur. As he furthered his travels, however, the concern arose in his mind that he might be headed in the wrong direction. His strong desire to travel had hindered his sense of bearing. The surroundings looked unfamiliar, and everything looked so alike – how was it possible to determine a path? I must find the river, Boromir realised sternly. I must find the Anduin. That will lead me to Minas Tirith. He was reluctant. These were the waters that had carried his lifeless, stale corpse past his brother's innocent gaze. Faramir had been blighted by these waters. But yet, cruel fate was leading him to find them.

Turning his steed, he began to search for any sign that would lead him toward the great river. Gritting his teeth, he muttered to himself how foolish he had been to not think his direction through first. The sun was beginning to set, and it was not long before he would need to rest for the night. Numerous stars appeared in the darkening sky, points of light so tiny in the unfathomable heavens that they should seem insignificant, yet so marvellous, that they graced the sky with a spectacular display of vibrant delight.

"It is no use," he said bitterly to himself, sighing deeply. He dismounted his horse, and began to search for a comfortable place to sleep. Wandering through the fields of endless grass, he found a soft bed of heather and bracken, flattened by the night wind, and lay down upon it. Clasping his hands across his chest, he began to close his eyes, when suddenly, a shuffling noise came from behind. Startled, he shot up, glancing nervously around, his breaths frantic and irregular. Was it the horse? He turned, and saw the creature grazing quietly, not far from where he had lain. He slowly lay down again, with great caution, only to hear what he had least expected to. Voices!

But these were no friendly voices - no Elven tongue, no Westron of Gondor – this was an entirely different tone of speech. He listened keenly, for the sound was carried across the wind. The syllables were rough and harsh, grinding and grating against his ears, filling him with undeniable fright. He recognised almost immediately that this was Orcish tongue.

He strained further to hear, perversely glad of this Orcish company. It was clear from their voices that they had been angered.

"It'll take ages to get there," grunted one, taking a stone and hurling it into a shallow puddle, "I don't see what the point is anyway."

"You'd better shut your mouth," retorted the other, snarling, "or Saruman'll 'ave you dead in an instant." They scowled at each other, their eyes brimming with rage. Boromir was intrigued. What were these creatures talking about? He crawled over the narrow ridge, and dropped down closely beside them, his boots making no noise as they hit the earthy ground. It was then that he noticed that these Orcs were not alone. Sitting not far from them, snapping and growling at each other, were two ferocious wargs. Froth spilled from their hideous mouths, and they sliced at the air with their pointed teeth, which were designed only to kill.

Boromir instinctively froze, afraid that these vicious creatures would notice his movement. But he soon realised that he need not fear them. They could hurt him no more than the blade of a sword, or the piercing stab of an arrow. Not even the crude, wretched arrows that had pierced his chest and shattered his bones…not even they could hurt him now. But in a curious way, he wished for pain. Pain was a part of life. His thoughts drifted back to times of battle, where he had sustained many a wound, and to his miraculous escape from Osgiliath. He felt none of this lust now, none of the will to persevere – only a numbness that seemed to circulate and dominate his entire body.

"Just go to sleep," continued the Orc, in an agitated tone, "there's a long way to go tomorrow. We 'ave to be ready for the ambush." The other Orc smiled wickedly, and rubbed his hands together, creating a slimy and revolting filth. Growling, his companion narrowed his eyes, and hit him forcefully on the arm. "Don't get too excited," he hissed, "you'll probably be dead by next evening."

Ambush? What were they talking about? Boromir leaned over to hear more. Whatever it was, he knew that his people could be at risk. It was not in his nature to back down when his people were in danger. Perhaps, by strange chance, he thought hopefully, he was meant to hear this. Perhaps there was something he would be able to do. No matter what it was, he would remain with them. These feelings of intrigue, and his desire for revenge, were too great to ignore.

They said no more. It was not easy to sleep in this strange company, and he preferred to remain awake, for fear of them leaving. He leant against the ridge, arching his back. The Orcs, deep asleep and snoring loudly, caused him constant irritation. He glared at them angrily. You have killed many of my men, he thought bitterly, though he said not a word. Many of those men I knew well; many had families, families who will never see them again, because of you. He scowled, and suddenly, could restrain his emotions no longer. He leapt up, thrusting his hands to the stars.

"You killed them!" he roared. "Those men had lives! And you took that all away!" His breathing became shallow and disjointed, and he was overcome with an immense sense of rage. "Why?" he continued. "Why do we fight? Why must these innocent men be sacrificed?" Because of these ghastly, sickening creatures, his homeland, and his people, were under threat. It was difficult for Boromir to remain where he was; these beasts repulsed him. Just looking at their hanging faces made him want to retch. But he had no choice. Collapsing back down, he rested his head on his knees, and felt tears collect in his eyes. So many lives…and he had been responsible for them all. If he had made a different decision, maybe some of them would still be alive today. He knew that a man of his calibre should not think these things. But, he told himself, peasant and Steward are not so different; it is this world that separates them. He wept long into the night, these thoughts eating at his soul, leaving it in shredded tatters.

Morning came, and with it came the sun, creeping steadily over the horizon. Boromir blearily opened his eyes. Stretching, he wondered how he had managed to sleep that night. The ridge felt rough and uncomfortable on his back, but his tunic and boots remained unmistakably clean, carrying no trace of dirt or mud. It was a struggle for him to remember his circumstances, as everything seemed a dream. Nothing was real anymore; everything had changed. Getting clumsily to his feet, he glanced about for the two Orcs. At first, he was worried that they had left, but eventually he noticed them. They stood by their sleeping wargs. Watching them intently, he saw them untie the chains from the beasts' thick, furry necks, and throw them hastily aside.

"Come on, you useless creature," spat the taller Orc, kicking one of them hard with his armoured boot. The beast moaned and growled, shuffling to its feet. Boromir wondered whether it would attack, and his heart subconsciously filled with fear. However, his unlikely companions seemed rather nonchalant. The Orc dropped a piece of rotten meat into his warg's open mouth, and Boromir could see its fangs, dripping with saliva, and its pulsating tongue, too huge and repulsive to imagine. He swallowed the rising lump in his throat, and his expression turned to one of disgust.

Attempting to hold back the sickening feeling which was enveloping his stomach, Boromir's thoughts turned to his horse. If he were to follow them further, he would need his mount. Glancing quickly back at the Orcs, he climbed back over the ridge, and searched the grassy plains. He wished dearly for the sun's warmth. Something he had realised over his travels was that he was always cold. It was as if ice had frozen around his bones, holding them in an unbreakable grip. He longed for the warmth of the sun, the warmth of a tavern or an inn. He was truly alone.

Wandering through the fields of choking flowers, he finally noticed the creature, grazing in a patch of open grass. With a great sigh of relief, he sprinted steadily towards it.

"Good morning to you," he laughed, with a slight smile. The horse blinked at him. Boromir patted it hard on its flank, and stroked its thick mane. He wasted no time in mounting the beast, but before he could steady himself, was startled to see before him the two wargs. They had had been far behind him, and were now racing swiftly across the field. How fast they ran!

"Quickly," Boromir urged, "we must follow them!" He wished he were able to grasp the reins, but strangely, the horse seemed to sense his urgency, and understand his command. It turned its head, and began charging after the terrible creatures. Boromir gripped the horse's neck firmly, knowing that he would cause it no pain, and kept his head focused on the figures in the distance. The motion of the gallop was familiar and welcoming to him; it was a feeling of life, a feeling that he longed for. The landscape became a blur as they pursued the wargs, and the air rushed freely past them.

They had journeyed for a while now, and the beasts still showed no sign of stopping. Boromir knew that his horse was becoming tired, and that it was only a matter of time before they would need to rest. Suddenly, and to his surprise, the Orcs and their beasts disappeared over the ridge of a steep hill. Boromir slowed his horse to a trot, and they tentatively approached the drop. He knew that the horse would be clearly visible to his enemies, and that they could very well see it as a target. He had to make sure that it remained out of sight.

Boromir was horrified when he saw what lay ahead. The two wargs and their riders were charging down the hill towards what looked to be a furious battleground, littered, seemingly randomly, with the corpses of men and beasts. He held back a gasp, and was suddenly short of breath. This served only as a harsh reminder of the previous night. Filled with a morbid curiosity, that, in part, shocked him, he was suddenly inclined to fight alongside his fellow men, no matter how futile that would be. He could hear the shrieks of injury from where he stood; shrieks that pierced his heart, like the very daggers that were slicing through their innocent flesh, and, enraged, he placed his hand on the scabbard of his sword.

He drew a short breath as he felt the lust for battle surge through him; take hold of every inch of his body. His hand trembled as he gripped his sword, and he drew the blade halfway from its elaborate sheath. He did not understand this unmistakable desire to fight. But, he thought knowingly, some things we are not meant to understand. If his duties as a soldier were to overcome his rationalities, then that was clearly the will of his soul. Charging his horse forward, he unsheathed his sword, unleashing a battle cry he had cried many times before. The horse bared its teeth and pricked its ears as it awkwardly galloped downhill, its hooves clumsily sliding across the lifeless grass, which had been ripped to shreds by the ferocious wargs.

The sight must have been incredible for the soldiers; Boromir had almost forgotten that he could not be seen. As he raced through the battlefield, he saw the casualties strewn across the field; men that he would have been able to help, if it were not for his circumstances. One writhed near him, screaming, blood gushing from a wound in his chest. The poor man held his hand tight to the gash, his fingers blackened and clotted, and Boromir could see his chest shake and tremble as he tried desperately to breathe the grief-stricken air. He was glad to see that the Orcs had also suffered their losses; a warg was limping nearby, having lost one of its legs, and howled with great pain. It was uncomfortably difficult for Boromir to not feel for the meagre creature, as it hobbled piteously across the grass. After all, he thought, his brow furrowing, they are all pawns in this petty game. It was his duty as a Captain-General to uphold the merits and morale of his troops, but sometimes, even for him, it was impossible to deny these terrible truths.

He turned again to the injured man, who now lay still, his screams eerily silenced. Boromir bowed his head, and whispered a Gondorian oath, his breath trembling as he spoke. He knew that this one man would be too easily forgotten, and that thought shattered his heart. The kingdoms of Elves or Dwarves might not think much of the lands of men, but to him, they were his homelands and his pride. If they would not remember, then his people would.