Chapter Sixteen
Beginning
In the small of the morning, I woke when Boromir sat up: Gimli had shaken him for the third and last watch of the night. I dragged myself upright, and whispered, "I'm going to wash." Boromir nodded, and I slipped away, having fairly warned all males in the vicinity.
A ways down the bank, out of sight of our camp, I left my clothes and boots in a neat pile and waded knee-deep into the frigid water. Kneeling, I wet my hair, then rubbed it with the soap from my pack. I stood to scrub the rest of myself, and then submerged to rinse off.
I found my clothes where I'd left them and dressed, shivering, wringing my hair out as well as I could. I retrieved the washing on my way up, and back at camp, crouched as close to the fire as comfort would allow to begin jerking the knots out of the sopping mass that hung down my back. I kept my hair long, it being marginally less trouble long than short. Except, of course, when it had to be untangled or dried.
Soft footsteps behind me, and someone removed the comb from my hand and proceed to tease the snarls out with none of the awkward jabbing of the uninitiated that tangle a comb in long hair. He held the heavy, wet mass in his left hand while the right stroked its way bit by bit towards the scalp with quick, expert motions. I felt myself shiver again, at more than the icy runnels chasing down my back.
Boromir finished entirely too soon, resuming his seat to leave me with a comb and straight, barely damp hair. My scalp protested at the loss of the glorious touch, and I moved to join him, to hand him his shirt. "My thanks, lord," I murmured, as I began work on a braid.
"I sought to repay you." He sounded uncomfortable. "For a squire is also owed service by the lord."
Oh. So that was how he saw it. A simple exchange of services: I'd washed his shirt, so he helped me with my hair. I suppose I'd wanted it to be more. Disappointed without knowing why, I stuffed my hair down the front of my tunic and wrapped my cloak around me. Sensing a brooding Boromir, I asked quietly, "How many days before we must decide our course, lord?"
"A week, perhaps less, if we continue at our present rate. Aragorn is of a mind to journey by night." He prodded the fire, and the flickering flames cast strange half-shadows over the face I knew as well as my own. I noticed that the nails of the hand holding the stick were bloody, bitten to the quick.
"Are you of the same mind?" I inquired, guessing the answer.
"He means to avoid pursuit and observation, but if we come to the rapids of Sarn Gebir in the dark they will do the Orcs' work for them, and dash us to pieces."
I could see both men's points of view. "My lord, what is the nature of your quarrel with Aragorn?"
"Firiel," came the warning growl.
"Pardon, lord." I subsided, but the question hung in the chill air between us, and finally he answered.
"He would place his trust anywhere save in his own kind; he is more Elf than Man."
I read between the lines. "Because he will not lead the Ring to Gondor?"
"You would do well to remember that your duty is courtesy as well as service." Boromir's voice was hard, and he did not look at me.
"While yours, my lord," I spat the title, "is merely to brood and keep your own counsel in all things."
If I had been a boy, I think he would have slapped me. As it was, he raised his hand, but only hit me with a quelling gaze. "This matter does not concern you."
I shot him a disbelieving look in the growing light. "Does it not, my lord?" I asked, my tone all false politeness.
"No, it does not." Boromir added another log to the fire and did not look at me.
By this time, I was seething. "Am I not a member of this Fellowship as well as your squire?" I demanded.
"I know not why the Lady sent you with us, but if you desire to remain my squire you will cease to question me." He stood, slapping his palms on his thighs, and began packing up his bedroll. At this silent dismissal, I turned away to do the same, angry and confused almost to tears. I did not shed any, though, since the others had begun to stir around us.
Aragorn organized Merry and Pippin into an expedition to catch fish for breakfast, and when they departed, Boromir barked, "Firiel, your staff."
Groaning, I retrieved it and stepped away from the fire. Boromir drew his sword, giving me perhaps ten seconds warning before he lit into me with a vengeance. I had thought my footwork much improved, but the power of his blows forced me back through the trees as I blocked them. It was more a lesson in survival than in technique, and only Aragorn's shout that we needed to head out saved me from Boromir's wrath. I trudged straight down to the boats, not waiting for the usual after-lesson commentary.
Though the River had widened and grown more shallow, the current was still strong. I was glad for this, since my wrists could not bear much paddling. I had not the heart for making music, and no one asked it of me. I was grateful for their courtesy.
The terrain upon either side of the Anduin had changed for the worse, as Lord Celeborn had said it would. The western bank rolled into lumpy plains of withered grass, while to the east the shore turned rocky far out into the water, making navigation a tedious business.
My stomach groaned, pulling my attention away from the miserable scenery. I had missed whatever fish might have been for breakfast in favor of one murderous staff lesson. Rubbing my wrists in memory and grumbling along with my middle, I reached into one of the bundles beside me and retrieved a cake of lembas. As I munched the sweet, crisp thing, hope seemed to fill my heart. I looked around at the others, hunched in the cold damp, and my eyes fell on Boromir, whose boat led today. He looked the weariest of all: leaving the half-hearted paddling to Merry and Pippin, he gnawed morosely on a thumbnail, glancing backwards now and then. But his gaze fell on Frodo, not me.
I felt renewed compassion for this man well up inside me, and disgust at my own behavior. After his kindness and tolerant attitude toward me, I had had the audacity to ask pointed, prying questions, and then to become angry when he did not wish to answer. I cringed, remembering the morning's conversation.
Boromir wore the dread of his county's doom like a crown of thorns, the weight of responsibility pressing it to his brow. And I had been trying to put myself on a level with him. I resolved to apologize to the man of Gondor as soon as I could privately do so.
We stopped early that day, mooring the boats on a small island near the western bank. Though it was only dusk, the wet chill had taken its toll on everyone's strength and spirits. I asked Aragorn if we might make a fire, and Boromir, to my surprise, seconded this. For our concern, we got told to go and find the wood, then. So, silently, Boromir and I unloaded the baggage from one of the boats and paddled the short distance over to the shore to search in the fading light.
"My lord?" I began, when my arms were half full of woody stems. He did not look up; my heart sank a little. I tried again. "My lord, I ask your pardon for my unseemly words of this morn."
Boromir straightened, arms laden, and walked over to me. I set my bundle on the ground, bowing my head in contrition, and quailed as he threw his wood down beside mine. But when he spoke, his words were gentle. "I shall give it, Firiel, if you will forgive me my unseemly actions." He slipped a finger under my chin to tip it up.
I attempted to demur, but Boromir leaned forward and captured my mouth with his own. After a moment, he pulled back, looking at me with a mixture of fear and wonder. "Long have I wanted to do that," Boromir breathed, his voice husky.
My face must have worn an identical expression as I replied, "It is the first time I have ever been kissed, lord."
The title seemed to remind him of something. "I would have you as more than my squire, Firiel." I was amazed at how gentle his calloused hand could be as it traced the curve of my cheek.
"And I would be more, lord," I got out when my brain was able to focus on something other than his touch.
"Then let us be handfasted." His palm dropped from my chin to take up my right hand. Clasping it, he drew it up between our faces. "I pledge my troth to you, Firiel, and upon no other will I look until we be wed, and all the days of my life." I repeated the words, with his name in, my voice quavering. When I had finished, he brushed my knuckles with his lips and let my hand fall.
The magnitude of what I'd just done-what we'd just done-hit me like a punch in the stomach. My knees buckled, and I sagged to the ground. Boromir joined me, speaking in a steady, quiet tone, stroking me with his voice. "If ever we come to my city, and she still stands, I shall present you to my father, and you will charm him, Firiel, and all Gondor will love you as I do, for there is no woman like to you in all Middle Earth. And if peace comes, and we both still live, we will be wed in the summer, and you will be the Lady of the White Tower, the Steward's wife when my father passes."
"Many ifs, lord," I pointed out, tilting my head back to look at the gray sky.
"Many ifs." The desolation I had not heard for weeks crept back into his gruff reply.
I leaned my head onto Boromir's shoulder in a silent comfort. He smelled like a man who'd been doing more sweating than washing lately, but I didn't mind, knowing I carried much the same odor myself.
"Firiel." The way he said the name–my name, for I had never been Sarah–made me go both hot and cold.
"My lord– Boromir," I began firmly, glad I wasn't having to push him away, "we are not yet wed, so let there be only kisses between us and, though I am loath to say it, precious few of those."
"I am loath also," he murmured, but when he looked at me, his eyes held no lust.
I returned my head to his shoulder, and he covered my hand with his own. "The others will be wondering what has befallen us."
"They have not so great a need of firewood," he pointed out, causing me to subside.
I do not know how long we sat there, as I drowsed while Boromir stroked my hair, but I stored the memory up in my head, so that I could take it out and look at it when I needed to.
"Firiel." I had come to love that voice in my ear. "If you sleep upright, you will be unfit for travel tomorrow." He stood, and I groaned at the loss of comforting warmth.
"Hang tomorrow," I remember muttering as he bent down to lift me in a rescue carry, an arm under my knees and one around my shoulder. I shut up and curled against him.
Boromir was solid and comforting; the five minutes it took him to get to the boat lasted not nearly long enough. I smelled pipe smoke as we touched shore at camp, and stumbled to my bedroll. Boromir eased down beside me on the ground. I was asleep before I could realize we'd returned without the firewood.