Chapter Fifteen
The Watcher in the Water
Boromir shook me awake the next morning, informed me that I had fallen sadly behind in my training, and set me to alternately blocking and striking while everyone else was still yawning. I groaned through the exercises, managing to thump him in the thigh.
"My lord," I cried, lowering my guard, "are you-" Boromir whacked my hip with the flat of his blade, causing me to hop around in pain. I overbalanced on the uneven ground to sprawl at his feet. I looked up as the tip of his sword kissed my neck, then tipped my head back in defeat. My leg throbbed.
I heard Boromir sheath his sword, and his hand appeared in front of my face to help me up. Grasping the calloused, brown palm, I attempted to yank him off balance. It didn't work. Boromir grinned at me as I stood sheepishly.
"Were I an orc, you would be dead," he pointed out.
"I wouldn't have been worried that I'd hurt an orc," I pointed back.
"You have not hurt me, Firiel, but I may have done you some ill. However, an orc would do you much worse."
I privately agreed, feeling the blood rush to my bruise, but I remained silent, unable to think of a snappy reply. For some reason my hand had remained in Boromir's after I got my feet under me. This affected my ability to think for reasons I did not understand. Both of us pulled apart when Aragorn trooped out of the woods, bow and quiver slung over his back, with three rabbits for breakfast.
Not being one to squeak 'Oh, the poor dead bunnies! Aren't they cute!', I pestered Sam into showing me how to skin and clean them. I ended up bloody to the elbows, with a few mangled scraps of meat to show for my labor, but intensely satisfied. Sam took the rabbit away from me, and, declaring me hopeless, sent me to wash.
I skipped down to the River, whistling Boromir's marching song, and scrubbed. The smell of sizzling meat greeted my return. My stomach took this opportunity to tell me how hungry it was. I consumed my share of the rabbit with relish, burning my tongue and fingers. After the hasty meal, we packed up quickly, setting out again for another day. I sighed, reaching for my whistle.
Boromir took the third watch to guard our campsite on the riverbank that night. In the fading light I say him doff his tabard and tunic, and remove his chain mail shirt in front of him and begin going over it for, I didn't know, rust or holes or something. This left the man's upper body clad in only a thin linen shirt, which, I noticed, was sweat-stained and rather rank. I also suddenly remembered the crumpled underthings in the top of my pack. Philanthropy overtook me. I reached out and touched Boromir's shoulder. "I will wash that for you, if you like," I offered. "It will dry by morning."
He turned towards me, expressive face creased in a frown, then went back to his armor, cutting his eyes at me, and stripped off the garment. At that moment it hit me that he'd actually have to 'remove' his shirt for me to wash it. Blood rushed to my face, and I could only hope that, in the twilight, none of the Fellowship noticed my blush as I took the shirt. However, instead of staying around to check, I grabbed my pack and marched down to the River.
Retrieving the soap I'd discovered earlier, I proceeded to wet and lather our clothes, and to pound them against the rock I knelt by as if the entire incident was their fault. I rinsed the clothing quickly in the icy water and spread it out to dry.
I had just laid out Boromir's undershirt when I heard a splash that I had not caused. I looked up in time to meet a pair of round, luminous eyes before they vanished with a plop.
Time to think about this was not given to me, because someone behind me called my name softly. "Firiel?" Boromir. I whirled, and the first thing I registered was that he now, thank goodness, wore his tunic.
He stepped up beside me. "I am sorry if I caused you embarrassment, an ill payment for such kindness." He gestured at the washing around me, and I was glad that it was now dark enough that individual shapes could not be distinguished.
"No, it was I who offered," I mumbled.
"Thank you." Strange, how two words could send such chills through my body. 'Must be the air off the River,' I thought, glad that I'd resolved to wash my hair in the morning.
Remembering the eyes gave me an opportunity to lead the conversation off. I told Boromir about the something in the water. "Speak to Aragorn or Frodo, though I believe I could name this thing." He stepped closer to lay a hand on my shoulder, saying, "Come back. You have need of your rest."
I nodded, wondering why all of my senses had suddenly decided to focus on the warmth of his hand seeping through my clothing, and why I was oddly sad when it left. Puzzled, I followed Boromir back to camp, where only Aragorn now sat awake, one hand cupping his pipe.
Suddenly exhausted, I threw myself down and fell asleep to the smell of pipe smoke and the warmth of Boromir's back against mine.
The Watcher in the Water
Boromir shook me awake the next morning, informed me that I had fallen sadly behind in my training, and set me to alternately blocking and striking while everyone else was still yawning. I groaned through the exercises, managing to thump him in the thigh.
"My lord," I cried, lowering my guard, "are you-" Boromir whacked my hip with the flat of his blade, causing me to hop around in pain. I overbalanced on the uneven ground to sprawl at his feet. I looked up as the tip of his sword kissed my neck, then tipped my head back in defeat. My leg throbbed.
I heard Boromir sheath his sword, and his hand appeared in front of my face to help me up. Grasping the calloused, brown palm, I attempted to yank him off balance. It didn't work. Boromir grinned at me as I stood sheepishly.
"Were I an orc, you would be dead," he pointed out.
"I wouldn't have been worried that I'd hurt an orc," I pointed back.
"You have not hurt me, Firiel, but I may have done you some ill. However, an orc would do you much worse."
I privately agreed, feeling the blood rush to my bruise, but I remained silent, unable to think of a snappy reply. For some reason my hand had remained in Boromir's after I got my feet under me. This affected my ability to think for reasons I did not understand. Both of us pulled apart when Aragorn trooped out of the woods, bow and quiver slung over his back, with three rabbits for breakfast.
Not being one to squeak 'Oh, the poor dead bunnies! Aren't they cute!', I pestered Sam into showing me how to skin and clean them. I ended up bloody to the elbows, with a few mangled scraps of meat to show for my labor, but intensely satisfied. Sam took the rabbit away from me, and, declaring me hopeless, sent me to wash.
I skipped down to the River, whistling Boromir's marching song, and scrubbed. The smell of sizzling meat greeted my return. My stomach took this opportunity to tell me how hungry it was. I consumed my share of the rabbit with relish, burning my tongue and fingers. After the hasty meal, we packed up quickly, setting out again for another day. I sighed, reaching for my whistle.
Boromir took the third watch to guard our campsite on the riverbank that night. In the fading light I say him doff his tabard and tunic, and remove his chain mail shirt in front of him and begin going over it for, I didn't know, rust or holes or something. This left the man's upper body clad in only a thin linen shirt, which, I noticed, was sweat-stained and rather rank. I also suddenly remembered the crumpled underthings in the top of my pack. Philanthropy overtook me. I reached out and touched Boromir's shoulder. "I will wash that for you, if you like," I offered. "It will dry by morning."
He turned towards me, expressive face creased in a frown, then went back to his armor, cutting his eyes at me, and stripped off the garment. At that moment it hit me that he'd actually have to 'remove' his shirt for me to wash it. Blood rushed to my face, and I could only hope that, in the twilight, none of the Fellowship noticed my blush as I took the shirt. However, instead of staying around to check, I grabbed my pack and marched down to the River.
Retrieving the soap I'd discovered earlier, I proceeded to wet and lather our clothes, and to pound them against the rock I knelt by as if the entire incident was their fault. I rinsed the clothing quickly in the icy water and spread it out to dry.
I had just laid out Boromir's undershirt when I heard a splash that I had not caused. I looked up in time to meet a pair of round, luminous eyes before they vanished with a plop.
Time to think about this was not given to me, because someone behind me called my name softly. "Firiel?" Boromir. I whirled, and the first thing I registered was that he now, thank goodness, wore his tunic.
He stepped up beside me. "I am sorry if I caused you embarrassment, an ill payment for such kindness." He gestured at the washing around me, and I was glad that it was now dark enough that individual shapes could not be distinguished.
"No, it was I who offered," I mumbled.
"Thank you." Strange, how two words could send such chills through my body. 'Must be the air off the River,' I thought, glad that I'd resolved to wash my hair in the morning.
Remembering the eyes gave me an opportunity to lead the conversation off. I told Boromir about the something in the water. "Speak to Aragorn or Frodo, though I believe I could name this thing." He stepped closer to lay a hand on my shoulder, saying, "Come back. You have need of your rest."
I nodded, wondering why all of my senses had suddenly decided to focus on the warmth of his hand seeping through my clothing, and why I was oddly sad when it left. Puzzled, I followed Boromir back to camp, where only Aragorn now sat awake, one hand cupping his pipe.
Suddenly exhausted, I threw myself down and fell asleep to the smell of pipe smoke and the warmth of Boromir's back against mine.