okee, this took waaaaaaaaay too long :( Thanks for all those who waited anyway!
skahducky: Oops, yeah well, Denethor really had to go. Sorry. Glad you won't shoot me though :)
Haldir's Heart and Soul: Yeah, poor Boromir, that was a pretty cruel thing to do to him. Hope he won't come after me for it :)
Alynna Lis Eachann: Thanks! I wasn't really sure it would be believable, so it's good to know you liked it
BenRG: An 8! I can't believe I got an eight! Whiiiiiiiii *grimlock bounces off to write some more depressing stuff*
So here it is: the next - and long-awaited - chapter !
Oh yeah: I still don't own a thing :( It's still Tolkien's
Chapter 11: Fathers, brothers and war
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"Boromir? Boromir! Please, my friend, wake up!"
Undefinable sounds slid around the cocoon that sheltered him from the outside world. Inside, Boromir heard only the sounds of his breathing and heartbeat. Both seemed too loud to be real, one a rasping undertone to the thrumming of the other. He could feel every patch of his skin, every drop of blood as it moved through his veins.
Outside of this cocoon there were flashes of light and color. And voices. But he could not understand them, he heard only the sounds, like he didn't know the language that was spoken. They sounded urgent, insistent, and he thought that he had heard his own name, but he could not be certain.
The only thing he could be certain of was a sharp pain where his heart was and the dreadfull images of his father being consumed by flames playing in front of his eyes. He saw it time and time again, without being able to do anything about it.
"He can't hear us, Legolas." A deep booming voice, "Perhaps it would be best to bring them both to the healers."
"No. I can get through to him, I know it." those melodic sounds again, and somebody seemed to shake him. "Boromir, I know you grieve for your father, but others need you now. Faramir needs you."
Faramir? Now that was a name he knew, an important name. Maybe he should try to concentrate on the voices, maybe that would make the pictures of the flames go away.
"You have to pull yourself together, Boromir. Your friends need you."
His friends. He could remeber his friends: the Dwarf, Aragorn and Legolas, who was holding him now. Did they need him? Why?
"Your people need your guidance, Boromir. You are their Steward now, you must lead them in this war."
Bormir blinked his eyes once, then focused them on the blue ones of the Elf that was holding him. "Faramir?" he managed to ask.
"Your brother is very ill, Boromir, but we will do everything in our power to bring him back to good health." Gandalf said from his right side, "The servants are bringing him to the House of Healing as we speak."
"The war?" he rasped out next.
"Still raging, my friend. You'll have plenty of time for revenge." the Elf said with a little smile. Boromir smiled back. He would do his task as Steward, and he would help his King in winning this war. And while he was doing that he could revenge his father.
Struggling upright, he faced Legolas and Gandalf. Both seemed to be waiting for his next move, Gandalf looking toughtfull, and the Elf with an eager light in his eyes. "Lord Wizard, I would ask you to look after my brother, while I rejoin my King in battle. The ruling of the City is therefore temporarily in your hands." Gandalf nodded, a slight smile around his weathered lips. "As for you, master Elf, it would honour me if you were to fight by my side." Legolas bowed his head in aquiesence, then followed his friend out of the building until they came again to the horses.
Sparing a brief glance and a muttered prayer for the dead guard that still lay there, the new Steward of Gondor mounted his horse, turning it back from whence they had come. A new determination was visible in his posture. His father was dead, and his brother might still pass beyond his reach, but that could not stop him from doing his tasks as Steward. The first Steward in a long time that had a King to fight for. He would not let Aragorn down, nor desert his people in their time of need. If necessary, he would die himself before he let Minas Tirith fall into the hands of Saurons minions.
Glancing beside him at the Elf, he gave a wicked smile. "Ready to ride, my friend?"
Legolas looked at the sky for a short while, then gave Boromir a wicked grin of his own. Both men yelled to their horses and they flew back out into the main street, heading for the gates. Around them, the scene was not so different from when they had been going in: fires were still raging, but they paid them no head, drawing sword and knives as they came upon their first ennemies just two paces outside the city. The Orcs, not suspecting riders to come out, were felled in mere moments.
"There!" Legolas shouted, his sharp eyes having picked out across the field the standard of Aragorn. Boromir turned his horse in that direction and stormed up to the next group of dark minions that dared stand between the Steward of Gondor and his King. The few swords that did hit him, glanced off his armour without doing any damage.
Legolas had to be a little more careful. Not having any chainmail or plates between him and his adversaries, he relied on his speed and agility and on his horse to take him out of the way of any blow coming for him.
Boromir checked on his friend as soon as his own foes gave him the chance, but found that the Elf could well hold his own. He could not help smiling slightly at the thought that the two off them were a very small repeat of the Last Alliance: Man and Elf riding and fighting side by side, and the thought warmed him. Whatever happened during this day: he would face it together with his friends.
As they neared the group around Aragorn, Boromir recognized another of the faces that surrounded the Dunadan, that of his own uncle: Imrahil. The Prince of Dol Amroth and his knights were superb knights, and Boromir felt assured once more that victory would be theirs at the end of this day. But until then, a lot of fighting awaited them. Driving his horse up next to Aragorns, he made a half bow out of the saddle.
"My King, your Steward awaits your command."
Aragorns eyes widened just a fraction at this news, for he seemed to understand at once what it entailed. Denethor, son of Ecthelion, was no longer, but his son was, and Boromir seemed determined to rectify the mistake he had made at Elronds Coucil in not recognizing Aragorn as his rightful Lord.
And so, with a grateful bow and a nod to his Steward, Strider the Ranger claimed his birthright as King of Gondor and Arnor, in the middle of one of the greatest battles that Middle-Earth had ever witnessed since the First Age. Everywhere around them, people yelled and cried in pain or triumph, but for Aragorn and Boromir nothing existed in those few moments but the great harmony between a loved and revered King and his loyal and faithful Steward. Later, both would say to their friends that never before had they experienced such a peace in knowing who and what they were, and that for the first time in their lives, they accepted it with their heart and soul.
The moments was broken shortly after, when the cries finally pierced their haze, and they were pulled back into the battle. With the help Aragorn had brought from Pelargir, the fight slowly turned to give Gondor the advantage, but Boromir could easily see that victory was still several hours away. The Southrons were still gathering around the Mumakil, who stood out like giant grey rocks. The horses would not go near them, so the Rohirrim left them for the footsoldiers. The Steward had seen this tactic before: the only way to get to the soldiers under the beasts, was to first kill the grey giants, and that could only be done by hitting them with arrows and spears. But if the archers of Gondor wanted to hit them, they would have to move close enough to be targets themselves for the Southrons.
"What we need is a bow with a superior range." Boromir muttered to himself. He let his eyes wander over the field until they fell on the Elf. But Legolas was alone, and there were still 5 of the Mumakil, wich would all have to be hit several times before the beasts would even feel the sting through their though hides. Unless ... Unless that trick with the Moria cavetroll was also applicable to the Oliphaunts.
Whirling his horse around until it came to rest next to Arod, he bowed over to Legolas. Indicating the points of their ennemies defence, Boromir asked: "Ever fought one of those?" The Elf followed his line of sight, assesed the animals for a short while and then shook his head in the negative.
"Do you think that they would die from an arrow into their mouths, like the cavetroll did?"
Legolas scrutinized the Mumakil a few moments longer. "It could be possible, but I cannot garantee it. If the creatures brain is behind the palate, it should work."
Boromir frowned. It was a gamble, but still the best opportunity they had. "Let's try it then." he said, urging Glír forward with a gentle tap to the flanks. Legolas steered Arod behind him and together they approached the archers that were assailing the Mumakil that stood closest to them. They stopped just out of the reach of the Haradrim archers, dismounting and assesing the best place for the Elf to take his shot. Boromir had his sword out in case he would have to protect his companion while he was weelding his bow. The Gondorian soldiers, reckognizing the son of their Steward, made way for him, although Legolas received many a strange look.
The Mumakil was now maybe 300 meters away from them, and neither the bows of the Gondorians - who had retreated when they saw the hopelesness of their situation - nor those of the Haradrim could fly far enough to reach the other party. Legolas reached back to take an arrow from his half-full quiver and put it on the string, but did not draw yet. Both warriors watched the great beast in front of them as it roared and swerved it's head about. Boromir could see how difficult this task would be, even for as great an archer as Legolas. The beasts trunk and tusks protected its mouth quite severly and the only time to make the shot would be when it lifted its head and bellowed. The Mumakils movements were unpredictable, and the lifting of its head neverly very long, but they could get lucky.
"Will you still try?" he asked the Elf beside him.
Legolas looked at the Oliphaunt, then at the soldiers around him, who had stilled in expectation of new orders. Boromir saw the emotions playing in the Elfs eyes for a moment. If he did not succeed in this, these Men would probably dy trying to bring it down from closer range, but if he didn't even try... The decision was quickly made as Legolas nodded and moved a pace ahead to have all the room he needed for his shot.
Bows and archery were not Boromirs speciality. Indeed, they were more suited for his younger brother, but through Faramir, the Steward of Gondor knew much about them. He could asses the strength needed to draw one, and the range they could span. He therefor knew that the pull of the great Lorien bow would be beyond anybody but a well-trained Elvish archer, and even they would only be able to keep it drawn for a limited period before their muscles began to tremble and the shot would go wild. He gave a small prayer to the Valar that they would be with Legolas on this one.
The Elf frowned in concentration as he half-drew his bow. He would have to be very quick on this shot, or he would miss the opportunity once it presented itself. They waited for perhaps a quarter of an hour before the Mumakil became frustrated enough to lift his head, exactly as they had wanted it to. Legolas could hear Boromir draw in a gasp as he drew the bow to its end and swivelled it at its target, letting go of the string, all in a matter of seconds.
The great bow sang as the arrow wizzed away across the field, gaining speed and altitude, flying into the Mumaks mouth. Legolas lowered his bow as the beast trupetted in anger and pain.
Any moment now, Boromir thought to himself, any moment it will fall.
But it did not. The arrow had obviously done harm to the animal, but it seemed insufficient to kill it. The soldiers behind Boromir let out the breaths they had held and began to ready their bows again. Legolas stood beside him again, shoulders slightly slumped in defeat, and gave an appologetic look to his Human friend. The Steward opened his mouth to thank the Elf for trying, when suddenly a soldier behind him, released a joyful cry.
"Mylord, look! The beast is swaying."
And indeed it was. At first, they had mistook the movement of the colos as a repositioning of its feet, but now it was clear that the gigantic beast had been hit hard enough to go down after all. The trembles that shook the pillar-like legs became more violent and finally the beast collapsed sideways, burying a great part of the hiding Southrons under its bulk. The rest ran screaming for cover.
For a moment, the Gondorians just stood there, awestruck at the damage the beasts fall had done to its masters, then Boromir trust his sword up in the air and heaved a victorious battlecry of "Gondor!"
"Gondor!" the soldiers answered as they used their bows to quickly lay down their ennemies before they recovered. Swords were drawn and the Southrons swiftly dispatched with. As Boromir looked around, he saw that two other of the Mumakil had already gone down, and one other was stampeding back towards the Anduin. Quickly he pulled at Legolas' sleeve, dragging him with him in the direction of the last beast.
Gondorian soldiers, Haradrim and Orcs were fighting each other between the legs of the creature, and its wild stamping caused many an ally or ennemy to be crushed or swung away. The two friends ran around the beast, giving it a wide bearth to avoid the sudden sweeps of its tusks. Taking up position in front of the Mumak, Legolas began to draw his bow, waiting for the right moment. Glancing at the fighting a few hundred meters away, Boromir knew he would have to time his retreat of the troups under the beast just right. He didn't want those men to die there if it lay in his power to stop it.
Just then the Mumak threw its head back, hit by a spear of one of the soldiers from Dol Amroth. Legolas loosed his arrow. It flew true from the bow, whistling slightly through the air and disappearing into the open mouth. A howl of pain echoed over the field.
"To me, Gondor, to me!" Boromir shouted, hoping the men could disengage themselves quickly enough. The Oliphaunt was already swaying dangerously when the first of the soldiers hewed down his ennemy and retreated to where Boromir stood. One by one, others followed. The Southrons, who stood directly under their waning cover, looked around in surprise as they too noticed the shaking that took the great beast. The last of the Gondorians came to a stop a few meters away from their Lord, and some of the Southrons had already fled when the final Mumak swayed to far and hit the ground hard, crushing those few who were still in the way.
Shouts of victory sounded over the Pelennor and Boromir drew Legolas into a bear hug. The Elf had just enough time to rescue his bow from becoming trapped in his friends enthousiasm, before he was pressed tightly against the Human.
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Relaxing his tired muscles for the first time in hours, Boromir let himself drop down in a chair beside the bed that held his younger brother. He hadn't taken his armour of, but had come straight here as the fighting had stopped, his concern for Faramir not allowing him any peace of mind. Gandalf had watched over him, and to his surprise Boromir found that the Lady Eowyn and Merry also lay in the Houses after commiting great deeds. Attendents sometimes came by to see if their condition improved, but were unable to help them any further.
Heaving a sad sigh, he knew he would never forgive himself if Faramir were to die. He could not shake the feeling that he had somehow let him down, although he knew there was nothing he could have done. He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder in a gesture of comfort and he gave the Elf a sad smile of gratitude. He had asked Legolas to take some rest, but the Elf had refused to leave his friends side and now sat on another chair, offering support by just being there. Gimli had come to check on them quickly, and was now in the room with Merry.
Boromir rubbed his temples, trying to dissipate the tension he felt behind his eyes. One of the Healers assistents, an elderly woman by the name of Ioreth, had cried when she saw Faramir so still on the bed. He hadn't paid too much attention to her rambling, but apparently Gandalf had, since the Wizard had disappeared shortly after.
Voices sounded at the entrance to the room and shortly after, Aragorn appeared in the doorway, Imrahil and Éomer standing behind him. The Ranger gave him a sad look, noticing the still figure of Faramir on the bed.
"How long has he been like this?" Aragorn asked him, seating himself on the edge of the bed, examining the younger of the brothers.
Boromir shook his head. "Pippin says he has been like this since he came back from trying to retake Osgiliath. That would be two days ago."
"He was hit by an arrow." Prince Imrahil put in, putting a comforting hand on his nephews shoulder and squeezing softy. "I thought it looked like a Southron arrow, but then he got very ill."
"An arrow wound, weariness, grief for his father's mood and above all, Black Breath. His will is quite powerfull to have lasted so long." Aragorn judged, "We will have to act quickly." He stood up again and turned towards the old woman that was the Healers Aid. "Tell me, Lady, have you any athelas in this House?"
Boromir again looked to his brother. He could only gues at what had happened to Faramir in the months he had been gone. Going from the reactions people had to him, they had obviously thought him dead. Might it be the case that Denethor had turned against his youngest, somehow blaming him for not being the one that had been killed. It was a public secret that Boromir was the more favored son of the Steward, after all, even though he could not match Faramir in matters of diplomatic nature.
The conversation around him waned and he was vaguely aware of Ioreth leaving the room, but he didn't even look up. He thought of his little brother, imagining what it would have been like for him to be the Heir of the Stewardship of Gondor. What it would be like, knowing that your father deemed you unworthy of the position, probably even of being alive. He imagined the despair and the knowledge that even if the upcomming battle would somehow be won, he would still be only the second son, and his father, whose love he craved above all others, would still hate him.
Boromir bowed over to his brother and kissed his forehead softly. "Do not give up yet, little brother." he whispered in the others ear, "I need you, your family needs you. There is still so much to see and do for you: the splendor of our city under a King, the Elves. Remeber you always wanted to see an Elf when you were little? There's one sitting beside you even as I speak. Please, Faramir, please don't leave." He stopped and swallowed hard, only straightening again when he had conquered his rising tears.
Soon after, the herb-master entered the room. Boromir had never really liked the man: he had the tendency to look down upon those he deemed less learned then himself.
Not seeing Boromir, he estimated that Aragorn was in charge, although his eyebrows rose at the sight of the Rangers clothes, spattered with dirt and blood. "Your Lordship asked for kingsfoil, as the rustics name it, or athelas in the noble tongue, or to those who know somewhat of the Valinorean ..."
Boromir groaned. "What does it matter what it is called!" he shouted at the poor, now cowering herb-master, "Do you have it or not?!" He stood and advanced on the other until he stood but a pace away. "We will not waste time on learned names when my brothers lies dying."
"N-n-no, m'Lord. I'm terribly sorry, but we do not have it. It has no virtue that we know of, save perhaps to sweeten a fouled air, or to drive away some passing heaviness." The herb-master looked throughly ruffled now, standing face to face with his Steward, shaking slightly. "Although some older people still use it."
Before Boromir could retort to that, Aragorn cut in. "Then please, go and find some old man of less lore and more wisdom who keeps some in his house." The Gondorian healer could not seem to get out of there fast enough, dreading the wrath of his Steward.
Said Steward collapsed onto the chair he had previously occupied and took his brother's hand in his again. Aragorn collected warm water from the women and sat himself on the other side of Faramir's bed. After he had put everything in place for when he would need it, he put a hand upon the young man's brow. Bending his head, he began to softly call Faramir's name.
It seemed to those others present, that while Aragorn voice grew softer, his skin took on a sickly greyish color. Boromir looked on with concern in his eyes, dreading to loose both King and brother if this lasted much longer. Fortunately, a child came running into the chamber, and stopped in front of the King, offering a cloth with some athelas leaves.
"It's kingfoil, Sir, but not fresh, I fear. It must have been culled two weeks ago at least. I hope it will serve, Sir?" Then the boy looked upon Faramir and burst into tears.
Aragorn looked up from where he had been bown over his patient. "Stay and be comforted." he said to the youngling, although his eyes were locked on Boromir, "The worst is now over." Boromir watched as he breathed onto the leaves and crushed them into the water, lightening the air around them, driving the shadows of despair away. Then he beckoned for Boromir to call out to his brother, to bring him back towards the world of the living, while he himself went to see to Eowyn and Merry.
Leaning forward again, so that he was in his brother's line of sight, Boromir began to call him by name. He concentrated on Faramir, trying to bring him back by using his will.
He must have sat like that for quite a while, calling Faramir's name again and again, until suddenly, his brother opened his eyes.
"Boromir?" he asked, voice hoarse because of his long silence, "You live!"
"Aye, as do you." the Steward said, pulling the other in a gentle embrace. "Don't you ever scare me like that again, little brother. I would die if you did."
Faramir nodded sleepily. "I promise." he mumbeled before falling back into sleep, although it was a far healthier one this time, while his brother and Legolas continued to keep vigilance at his bed through the rest of the day and the following night.
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A/N: Apparantly Oliphaunts can only be killed in one shot if the arrow pierces their eye, but I liked the idea of the cavetroll so much that Legolas gets to pull that stunt again :) Sorry :)
next time: the captains of the West make their plans to boldly attack the Ennemy. And Faramir meets his brother's savior.
skahducky: Oops, yeah well, Denethor really had to go. Sorry. Glad you won't shoot me though :)
Haldir's Heart and Soul: Yeah, poor Boromir, that was a pretty cruel thing to do to him. Hope he won't come after me for it :)
Alynna Lis Eachann: Thanks! I wasn't really sure it would be believable, so it's good to know you liked it
BenRG: An 8! I can't believe I got an eight! Whiiiiiiiii *grimlock bounces off to write some more depressing stuff*
So here it is: the next - and long-awaited - chapter !
Oh yeah: I still don't own a thing :( It's still Tolkien's
Chapter 11: Fathers, brothers and war
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"Boromir? Boromir! Please, my friend, wake up!"
Undefinable sounds slid around the cocoon that sheltered him from the outside world. Inside, Boromir heard only the sounds of his breathing and heartbeat. Both seemed too loud to be real, one a rasping undertone to the thrumming of the other. He could feel every patch of his skin, every drop of blood as it moved through his veins.
Outside of this cocoon there were flashes of light and color. And voices. But he could not understand them, he heard only the sounds, like he didn't know the language that was spoken. They sounded urgent, insistent, and he thought that he had heard his own name, but he could not be certain.
The only thing he could be certain of was a sharp pain where his heart was and the dreadfull images of his father being consumed by flames playing in front of his eyes. He saw it time and time again, without being able to do anything about it.
"He can't hear us, Legolas." A deep booming voice, "Perhaps it would be best to bring them both to the healers."
"No. I can get through to him, I know it." those melodic sounds again, and somebody seemed to shake him. "Boromir, I know you grieve for your father, but others need you now. Faramir needs you."
Faramir? Now that was a name he knew, an important name. Maybe he should try to concentrate on the voices, maybe that would make the pictures of the flames go away.
"You have to pull yourself together, Boromir. Your friends need you."
His friends. He could remeber his friends: the Dwarf, Aragorn and Legolas, who was holding him now. Did they need him? Why?
"Your people need your guidance, Boromir. You are their Steward now, you must lead them in this war."
Bormir blinked his eyes once, then focused them on the blue ones of the Elf that was holding him. "Faramir?" he managed to ask.
"Your brother is very ill, Boromir, but we will do everything in our power to bring him back to good health." Gandalf said from his right side, "The servants are bringing him to the House of Healing as we speak."
"The war?" he rasped out next.
"Still raging, my friend. You'll have plenty of time for revenge." the Elf said with a little smile. Boromir smiled back. He would do his task as Steward, and he would help his King in winning this war. And while he was doing that he could revenge his father.
Struggling upright, he faced Legolas and Gandalf. Both seemed to be waiting for his next move, Gandalf looking toughtfull, and the Elf with an eager light in his eyes. "Lord Wizard, I would ask you to look after my brother, while I rejoin my King in battle. The ruling of the City is therefore temporarily in your hands." Gandalf nodded, a slight smile around his weathered lips. "As for you, master Elf, it would honour me if you were to fight by my side." Legolas bowed his head in aquiesence, then followed his friend out of the building until they came again to the horses.
Sparing a brief glance and a muttered prayer for the dead guard that still lay there, the new Steward of Gondor mounted his horse, turning it back from whence they had come. A new determination was visible in his posture. His father was dead, and his brother might still pass beyond his reach, but that could not stop him from doing his tasks as Steward. The first Steward in a long time that had a King to fight for. He would not let Aragorn down, nor desert his people in their time of need. If necessary, he would die himself before he let Minas Tirith fall into the hands of Saurons minions.
Glancing beside him at the Elf, he gave a wicked smile. "Ready to ride, my friend?"
Legolas looked at the sky for a short while, then gave Boromir a wicked grin of his own. Both men yelled to their horses and they flew back out into the main street, heading for the gates. Around them, the scene was not so different from when they had been going in: fires were still raging, but they paid them no head, drawing sword and knives as they came upon their first ennemies just two paces outside the city. The Orcs, not suspecting riders to come out, were felled in mere moments.
"There!" Legolas shouted, his sharp eyes having picked out across the field the standard of Aragorn. Boromir turned his horse in that direction and stormed up to the next group of dark minions that dared stand between the Steward of Gondor and his King. The few swords that did hit him, glanced off his armour without doing any damage.
Legolas had to be a little more careful. Not having any chainmail or plates between him and his adversaries, he relied on his speed and agility and on his horse to take him out of the way of any blow coming for him.
Boromir checked on his friend as soon as his own foes gave him the chance, but found that the Elf could well hold his own. He could not help smiling slightly at the thought that the two off them were a very small repeat of the Last Alliance: Man and Elf riding and fighting side by side, and the thought warmed him. Whatever happened during this day: he would face it together with his friends.
As they neared the group around Aragorn, Boromir recognized another of the faces that surrounded the Dunadan, that of his own uncle: Imrahil. The Prince of Dol Amroth and his knights were superb knights, and Boromir felt assured once more that victory would be theirs at the end of this day. But until then, a lot of fighting awaited them. Driving his horse up next to Aragorns, he made a half bow out of the saddle.
"My King, your Steward awaits your command."
Aragorns eyes widened just a fraction at this news, for he seemed to understand at once what it entailed. Denethor, son of Ecthelion, was no longer, but his son was, and Boromir seemed determined to rectify the mistake he had made at Elronds Coucil in not recognizing Aragorn as his rightful Lord.
And so, with a grateful bow and a nod to his Steward, Strider the Ranger claimed his birthright as King of Gondor and Arnor, in the middle of one of the greatest battles that Middle-Earth had ever witnessed since the First Age. Everywhere around them, people yelled and cried in pain or triumph, but for Aragorn and Boromir nothing existed in those few moments but the great harmony between a loved and revered King and his loyal and faithful Steward. Later, both would say to their friends that never before had they experienced such a peace in knowing who and what they were, and that for the first time in their lives, they accepted it with their heart and soul.
The moments was broken shortly after, when the cries finally pierced their haze, and they were pulled back into the battle. With the help Aragorn had brought from Pelargir, the fight slowly turned to give Gondor the advantage, but Boromir could easily see that victory was still several hours away. The Southrons were still gathering around the Mumakil, who stood out like giant grey rocks. The horses would not go near them, so the Rohirrim left them for the footsoldiers. The Steward had seen this tactic before: the only way to get to the soldiers under the beasts, was to first kill the grey giants, and that could only be done by hitting them with arrows and spears. But if the archers of Gondor wanted to hit them, they would have to move close enough to be targets themselves for the Southrons.
"What we need is a bow with a superior range." Boromir muttered to himself. He let his eyes wander over the field until they fell on the Elf. But Legolas was alone, and there were still 5 of the Mumakil, wich would all have to be hit several times before the beasts would even feel the sting through their though hides. Unless ... Unless that trick with the Moria cavetroll was also applicable to the Oliphaunts.
Whirling his horse around until it came to rest next to Arod, he bowed over to Legolas. Indicating the points of their ennemies defence, Boromir asked: "Ever fought one of those?" The Elf followed his line of sight, assesed the animals for a short while and then shook his head in the negative.
"Do you think that they would die from an arrow into their mouths, like the cavetroll did?"
Legolas scrutinized the Mumakil a few moments longer. "It could be possible, but I cannot garantee it. If the creatures brain is behind the palate, it should work."
Boromir frowned. It was a gamble, but still the best opportunity they had. "Let's try it then." he said, urging Glír forward with a gentle tap to the flanks. Legolas steered Arod behind him and together they approached the archers that were assailing the Mumakil that stood closest to them. They stopped just out of the reach of the Haradrim archers, dismounting and assesing the best place for the Elf to take his shot. Boromir had his sword out in case he would have to protect his companion while he was weelding his bow. The Gondorian soldiers, reckognizing the son of their Steward, made way for him, although Legolas received many a strange look.
The Mumakil was now maybe 300 meters away from them, and neither the bows of the Gondorians - who had retreated when they saw the hopelesness of their situation - nor those of the Haradrim could fly far enough to reach the other party. Legolas reached back to take an arrow from his half-full quiver and put it on the string, but did not draw yet. Both warriors watched the great beast in front of them as it roared and swerved it's head about. Boromir could see how difficult this task would be, even for as great an archer as Legolas. The beasts trunk and tusks protected its mouth quite severly and the only time to make the shot would be when it lifted its head and bellowed. The Mumakils movements were unpredictable, and the lifting of its head neverly very long, but they could get lucky.
"Will you still try?" he asked the Elf beside him.
Legolas looked at the Oliphaunt, then at the soldiers around him, who had stilled in expectation of new orders. Boromir saw the emotions playing in the Elfs eyes for a moment. If he did not succeed in this, these Men would probably dy trying to bring it down from closer range, but if he didn't even try... The decision was quickly made as Legolas nodded and moved a pace ahead to have all the room he needed for his shot.
Bows and archery were not Boromirs speciality. Indeed, they were more suited for his younger brother, but through Faramir, the Steward of Gondor knew much about them. He could asses the strength needed to draw one, and the range they could span. He therefor knew that the pull of the great Lorien bow would be beyond anybody but a well-trained Elvish archer, and even they would only be able to keep it drawn for a limited period before their muscles began to tremble and the shot would go wild. He gave a small prayer to the Valar that they would be with Legolas on this one.
The Elf frowned in concentration as he half-drew his bow. He would have to be very quick on this shot, or he would miss the opportunity once it presented itself. They waited for perhaps a quarter of an hour before the Mumakil became frustrated enough to lift his head, exactly as they had wanted it to. Legolas could hear Boromir draw in a gasp as he drew the bow to its end and swivelled it at its target, letting go of the string, all in a matter of seconds.
The great bow sang as the arrow wizzed away across the field, gaining speed and altitude, flying into the Mumaks mouth. Legolas lowered his bow as the beast trupetted in anger and pain.
Any moment now, Boromir thought to himself, any moment it will fall.
But it did not. The arrow had obviously done harm to the animal, but it seemed insufficient to kill it. The soldiers behind Boromir let out the breaths they had held and began to ready their bows again. Legolas stood beside him again, shoulders slightly slumped in defeat, and gave an appologetic look to his Human friend. The Steward opened his mouth to thank the Elf for trying, when suddenly a soldier behind him, released a joyful cry.
"Mylord, look! The beast is swaying."
And indeed it was. At first, they had mistook the movement of the colos as a repositioning of its feet, but now it was clear that the gigantic beast had been hit hard enough to go down after all. The trembles that shook the pillar-like legs became more violent and finally the beast collapsed sideways, burying a great part of the hiding Southrons under its bulk. The rest ran screaming for cover.
For a moment, the Gondorians just stood there, awestruck at the damage the beasts fall had done to its masters, then Boromir trust his sword up in the air and heaved a victorious battlecry of "Gondor!"
"Gondor!" the soldiers answered as they used their bows to quickly lay down their ennemies before they recovered. Swords were drawn and the Southrons swiftly dispatched with. As Boromir looked around, he saw that two other of the Mumakil had already gone down, and one other was stampeding back towards the Anduin. Quickly he pulled at Legolas' sleeve, dragging him with him in the direction of the last beast.
Gondorian soldiers, Haradrim and Orcs were fighting each other between the legs of the creature, and its wild stamping caused many an ally or ennemy to be crushed or swung away. The two friends ran around the beast, giving it a wide bearth to avoid the sudden sweeps of its tusks. Taking up position in front of the Mumak, Legolas began to draw his bow, waiting for the right moment. Glancing at the fighting a few hundred meters away, Boromir knew he would have to time his retreat of the troups under the beast just right. He didn't want those men to die there if it lay in his power to stop it.
Just then the Mumak threw its head back, hit by a spear of one of the soldiers from Dol Amroth. Legolas loosed his arrow. It flew true from the bow, whistling slightly through the air and disappearing into the open mouth. A howl of pain echoed over the field.
"To me, Gondor, to me!" Boromir shouted, hoping the men could disengage themselves quickly enough. The Oliphaunt was already swaying dangerously when the first of the soldiers hewed down his ennemy and retreated to where Boromir stood. One by one, others followed. The Southrons, who stood directly under their waning cover, looked around in surprise as they too noticed the shaking that took the great beast. The last of the Gondorians came to a stop a few meters away from their Lord, and some of the Southrons had already fled when the final Mumak swayed to far and hit the ground hard, crushing those few who were still in the way.
Shouts of victory sounded over the Pelennor and Boromir drew Legolas into a bear hug. The Elf had just enough time to rescue his bow from becoming trapped in his friends enthousiasm, before he was pressed tightly against the Human.
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Relaxing his tired muscles for the first time in hours, Boromir let himself drop down in a chair beside the bed that held his younger brother. He hadn't taken his armour of, but had come straight here as the fighting had stopped, his concern for Faramir not allowing him any peace of mind. Gandalf had watched over him, and to his surprise Boromir found that the Lady Eowyn and Merry also lay in the Houses after commiting great deeds. Attendents sometimes came by to see if their condition improved, but were unable to help them any further.
Heaving a sad sigh, he knew he would never forgive himself if Faramir were to die. He could not shake the feeling that he had somehow let him down, although he knew there was nothing he could have done. He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder in a gesture of comfort and he gave the Elf a sad smile of gratitude. He had asked Legolas to take some rest, but the Elf had refused to leave his friends side and now sat on another chair, offering support by just being there. Gimli had come to check on them quickly, and was now in the room with Merry.
Boromir rubbed his temples, trying to dissipate the tension he felt behind his eyes. One of the Healers assistents, an elderly woman by the name of Ioreth, had cried when she saw Faramir so still on the bed. He hadn't paid too much attention to her rambling, but apparently Gandalf had, since the Wizard had disappeared shortly after.
Voices sounded at the entrance to the room and shortly after, Aragorn appeared in the doorway, Imrahil and Éomer standing behind him. The Ranger gave him a sad look, noticing the still figure of Faramir on the bed.
"How long has he been like this?" Aragorn asked him, seating himself on the edge of the bed, examining the younger of the brothers.
Boromir shook his head. "Pippin says he has been like this since he came back from trying to retake Osgiliath. That would be two days ago."
"He was hit by an arrow." Prince Imrahil put in, putting a comforting hand on his nephews shoulder and squeezing softy. "I thought it looked like a Southron arrow, but then he got very ill."
"An arrow wound, weariness, grief for his father's mood and above all, Black Breath. His will is quite powerfull to have lasted so long." Aragorn judged, "We will have to act quickly." He stood up again and turned towards the old woman that was the Healers Aid. "Tell me, Lady, have you any athelas in this House?"
Boromir again looked to his brother. He could only gues at what had happened to Faramir in the months he had been gone. Going from the reactions people had to him, they had obviously thought him dead. Might it be the case that Denethor had turned against his youngest, somehow blaming him for not being the one that had been killed. It was a public secret that Boromir was the more favored son of the Steward, after all, even though he could not match Faramir in matters of diplomatic nature.
The conversation around him waned and he was vaguely aware of Ioreth leaving the room, but he didn't even look up. He thought of his little brother, imagining what it would have been like for him to be the Heir of the Stewardship of Gondor. What it would be like, knowing that your father deemed you unworthy of the position, probably even of being alive. He imagined the despair and the knowledge that even if the upcomming battle would somehow be won, he would still be only the second son, and his father, whose love he craved above all others, would still hate him.
Boromir bowed over to his brother and kissed his forehead softly. "Do not give up yet, little brother." he whispered in the others ear, "I need you, your family needs you. There is still so much to see and do for you: the splendor of our city under a King, the Elves. Remeber you always wanted to see an Elf when you were little? There's one sitting beside you even as I speak. Please, Faramir, please don't leave." He stopped and swallowed hard, only straightening again when he had conquered his rising tears.
Soon after, the herb-master entered the room. Boromir had never really liked the man: he had the tendency to look down upon those he deemed less learned then himself.
Not seeing Boromir, he estimated that Aragorn was in charge, although his eyebrows rose at the sight of the Rangers clothes, spattered with dirt and blood. "Your Lordship asked for kingsfoil, as the rustics name it, or athelas in the noble tongue, or to those who know somewhat of the Valinorean ..."
Boromir groaned. "What does it matter what it is called!" he shouted at the poor, now cowering herb-master, "Do you have it or not?!" He stood and advanced on the other until he stood but a pace away. "We will not waste time on learned names when my brothers lies dying."
"N-n-no, m'Lord. I'm terribly sorry, but we do not have it. It has no virtue that we know of, save perhaps to sweeten a fouled air, or to drive away some passing heaviness." The herb-master looked throughly ruffled now, standing face to face with his Steward, shaking slightly. "Although some older people still use it."
Before Boromir could retort to that, Aragorn cut in. "Then please, go and find some old man of less lore and more wisdom who keeps some in his house." The Gondorian healer could not seem to get out of there fast enough, dreading the wrath of his Steward.
Said Steward collapsed onto the chair he had previously occupied and took his brother's hand in his again. Aragorn collected warm water from the women and sat himself on the other side of Faramir's bed. After he had put everything in place for when he would need it, he put a hand upon the young man's brow. Bending his head, he began to softly call Faramir's name.
It seemed to those others present, that while Aragorn voice grew softer, his skin took on a sickly greyish color. Boromir looked on with concern in his eyes, dreading to loose both King and brother if this lasted much longer. Fortunately, a child came running into the chamber, and stopped in front of the King, offering a cloth with some athelas leaves.
"It's kingfoil, Sir, but not fresh, I fear. It must have been culled two weeks ago at least. I hope it will serve, Sir?" Then the boy looked upon Faramir and burst into tears.
Aragorn looked up from where he had been bown over his patient. "Stay and be comforted." he said to the youngling, although his eyes were locked on Boromir, "The worst is now over." Boromir watched as he breathed onto the leaves and crushed them into the water, lightening the air around them, driving the shadows of despair away. Then he beckoned for Boromir to call out to his brother, to bring him back towards the world of the living, while he himself went to see to Eowyn and Merry.
Leaning forward again, so that he was in his brother's line of sight, Boromir began to call him by name. He concentrated on Faramir, trying to bring him back by using his will.
He must have sat like that for quite a while, calling Faramir's name again and again, until suddenly, his brother opened his eyes.
"Boromir?" he asked, voice hoarse because of his long silence, "You live!"
"Aye, as do you." the Steward said, pulling the other in a gentle embrace. "Don't you ever scare me like that again, little brother. I would die if you did."
Faramir nodded sleepily. "I promise." he mumbeled before falling back into sleep, although it was a far healthier one this time, while his brother and Legolas continued to keep vigilance at his bed through the rest of the day and the following night.
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A/N: Apparantly Oliphaunts can only be killed in one shot if the arrow pierces their eye, but I liked the idea of the cavetroll so much that Legolas gets to pull that stunt again :) Sorry :)
next time: the captains of the West make their plans to boldly attack the Ennemy. And Faramir meets his brother's savior.