Chapter Twenty
Farewell to Boromir
Merry and Pippin were not hard to find. Their shouts had turned to cries for help, but at least they had had the sense to keep shouting. They had also had the sense to stand back to back and draw their short swords, surrounded as they were by an ever-growing circle of what I supposed must be orcs.
The beasts were nearly my height, with bared fangs and armored skin as black as a night without hope of stars. The weapons with which they menaced the two hobbits looked made of cast iron, but were nevertheless long and sharp. Merry tried to maintain a brave face, but Pippin had begun to whimper and lower his blade.
Boromir descended on them with a cry of "Gondor!" his sword everywhere at once. I, coming behind him, got in a few good blows of my own, striking upwards, as he had shown me, to shove the butt of my staff hard into the monstrous faces. I suppose some part of me was afraid, just as a bit of me knew I might die here, but in the back of my mind was the knowledge that Boromir would not let that happen, and I made up my mind to offer him the same surety.
One orc raked the side of my face with his claws, after I bashed his sword out of his grasp, and another's scimitar bit into my right bicep before Boromir hacked him down. Nothing life threatening, only painfully distracting.
Merry and Pippin acquitted themselves well, having, I supposed, overcome their fear upon our arrival. The battle-light in Boromir's eyes kept them well away from him, though. His fighting style was a blur of brutal beauty, clean lines and short stops. I wished I could have had the leisure to observe it more closely.
However, he had drilled into me, often painfully, what happens when one lets one's attention wander from one's opponent, so I concentrated on the orc currently trying to skewer me with his spear. Boromir leapt to my aid, and a great many things happened at once.
As he dispatched my orc, I saw a black-fletched arrow blossom in his left shoulder. He paused only for a moment before switching his sword to a one- handed grip. For my part, since the arrows had come from behind, I whirled, and ducked as another arrow parted my hair for me.
More orcs emerged from the trees in the direction of the River. The four in the lead stood heads above the pack behind them, and as they came they notched more arrows to their black recurved bows. The lead orc sent one shirring past my head, and I scrambled backwards toward Boromir and the hobbits.
As I did, he unslung the great silver-inlaid horn that hung over his hip, raising it and winding it, a blast that shook the trees and drowned the noise from the Falls. He blew again, and I thought they would hear it in Lothlorien.
One of the orcs with a bow shouted something in a vowel-less language to the beasts already in battle with us. The back of my head translated it, and I briefly, fervently thanked God for the unsought aid; the orc had growled to his fellows that the halflings were to be taken alive.
A craven thought welled up in my mind: why didn't Boromir and I use Merry and Pippin as shields? I quashed the impulse and turned to run toward Boromir, meaning to communicate the orc's words to him. I had only gone a few steps when my right leg collapsed. I sprawled hard in the grass, and as the orcs crashed past me, one of them kicked the gash in my arm with his iron-shod boot. Pain crackled behind my ears, and I suppose I fainted.
When I came to, the glade was eerily silent. Rolling onto my knees, I looked around. The orcs had not bothered to collect their dead; the grass was strewn with hideous bodies. A cry of horror escaped my lips as I saw that I was not alone among the living. A figure slumped against a tree ten yards away from me. It was Boromir.
I dragged myself over to him. Something was terribly wrong below the inside of my right knee, but I didn't bother to stop and check it. My sole concerns were Boromir's ashen face and the arrows that riddled his chest. "My lord?" I said, touching his cheek. "Boromir?"
With effort, he opened his eyes and, with still more effort, spoke. "Firiel. The orcs have taken the hobbits. They thought you dead, as did I."
"I am not dead," I said, somewhat redundantly. "And you must save your strength. You will need it to heal."
"No, Firiel." His hand lifted to graze my cheek, fingers coming away damp. I had not realized that I wept. "I...failed you, and my city. Go to Gondor, Firiel." He coughed once, a wet hack. "Gondor."
"I will go, lord," I promised. "I will go, I swear it." As I said the words, what I supposed must be the traditional oath of fealty bubbled into my brain. I spoke quickly, but clearly, afraid that he would stop me, or pass beyond hearing my words. "Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Captain-General of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Firiel of Lorien." Of Lorien no more, I thought as I leaned forward to press a kiss on his lips. Of Gondor.
Boromir seemed determined to give the lord's matching vow. Haltingly he replied, "This do I hear, Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love--" He closed his eyes and gasped. "I love you, Firiel." The breath left him, and Boromir did not open his eyes again.
Working as if in a dream, I broke the arrow shafts off and covered Boromir with his cloak, tucking it in around his shoulders. Now no wounds were visible, and he appeared asleep. I told myself that this was so, that he had fallen only into slumber. I curled beside him, my head on his chest, trying to sleep myself, that he might wake me.
But my heart knew that the body I clung to was not the man I had loved, not anymore. I soaked the elven cloak with salt water. "Boromir," I whispered, "come back."
That was how Aragorn found me. "Thus passes the heir of Denethor," he said, dropping to his knees beside Boromir's body. "This is a bitter end," the Ranger added, half to himself. "The Fellowship is ruined. I have failed. Gandalf's trust in me was vain. What shall we do now?"
I looked up as he covered his down-turned face with one hand, seeing for the first time the man Aragorn, who had taken up responsibilities he'd neither asked for nor wanted, and did not feel equal to them. After a moment he straightened, uncovered Boromir's right hand, and clasped it in silent farewell.
At some point, Legolas and Gimli arrived silently from the west. Both bore signs of battle, and Legolas's quiver was empty. The elf went to stand beside Aragorn, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Gimli and I slew many orcs in the wood, but our weapons would have been of more use here. We heard the Horn too late, it seems, to save you from harm."
"I am unhurt," Aragorn said, rising. "Firiel's wounds are the gravest. Boromir is dead. He was killed in defense of the hobbits while I searched Amon Hen."
"Where are Merry and Pippin?" Gimli wanted to know. "And where is Frodo?"
Everyone looked to me. "Merry and Pippin are taken by the orcs. They will be kept alive. I know not of Frodo and Sam," I answered shortly, in no mood for questions.
Aragorn's gaze turned sharp. "How do you know the hobbits will not be harmed?"
"One orc shouted to the others to keep them alive. I have knowledge of their tongue, but I know not how I came by it." A strange ringing filled my head, and as I watched Aragorn open his mouth, the world slowly tilted sideways.
I opened my eyes, blinking into the grass, wondering how I'd come to be lying on my stomach. When I tried to roll over, a hand pressed into the small of my back. "Lie still." Aragorn's voice had returned to its permanently neutral setting.
"What-" my voice cracked as the pain in my leg materialized. "What happened?"
"The Valar watched over you. If the shot had been higher or the archer slower, you would not have the use of the leg." Startled, I twisted my head to survey the damage. The arrow had torn deep, through cloth and flesh, but it was still only a graze, its size disproportional to the amount of blood and pain it put forth.
I watched Aragorn untuck my leggings from my right boot and use his dagger to slit the cloth up to my knee. He worked gently and methodically, talking as he did. "I do not think the arrow was poisoned, but it was none too clean, and for the washing of the wound we have only river water."
I shuddered, wondering about the disparities between modern and Middle Earth hygiene. Turning away to gaze over the River, I attempted to prop myself up on my elbows. My right arm protested, and an involuntary cry escaped my lips. Clamping my mouth shut, I laid the arm down carefully and then asked, "Where are the others?"
"They have gone to search in the wood for what healing herbs may be found. I have with me enough for a rude dressing, but no medicines. We must bind them up, and pray that neither your arm nor your leg festers. A week or two of rest and healing would not go amiss, either, but we have not the time or the leisure."
"You mean to go after the hobbits, then?" I inquired, my teeth gritted once again, this time against his ministrations.
"Yes, but the question may remain: which hobbits." He glanced up, and I saw that Legolas and Gimli had returned. The elf crouched beside me, handing Aragorn a bundle of slick green leaves. The Ranger nodded his thanks.
Gimli stumped over to us, axe in hand, and peered at my leg. As everyone else was watching the performance, I twisted around to do the same. Shredding the herb, he packed it into the gash, stifling the blood flow. His touch could not have been defter, but I stifled a yell and bit my lip at the intrusion. Ripping off the sliced fabric above my knee, Aragorn tore it into strips, passing them back around my leg.
Looking up, he met my eyes. "This will hurt." And he tightened the knots.
I had always imagined that being wounded in battle would involve lying back, fetchingly pale, enduring the pain with a stoic determination that brought tears to the eyes of all who beheld me. I was wrong. I yelled, the pain stripping my throat raw. My only consolation was that what burst out of my throat was not a girlish scream. Still, it was nothing to be proud of. Legolas and Gimli hid their smirks quite well.
The pain in my leg did not diminish when Aragorn finished with those bandages and moved on to my arm. The gash there was less serious, he said, and I agreed. His tending to it only caused me to bite through my lip to remain silent. The Ranger handed me a scrap of cloth to wipe the trickle of blood from my chin and sat back on his heels, eyes critical. "Can you stand?"
I gaped at him. "Wha- Yes, of course. Where is my staff?"
Legolas went to fetch it while Aragorn hauled me up bodily by my good left arm. I could now see over the small knoll that had blocked my view and through to the carnage that my companions had dragged me away from. The cloak-covered body was still propped against its tree. Memories, held back by unconsciousness and pain, flooded back into my head. I staggered, and Aragorn caught me. I reached out for my staff, shook him off, and hobbled over to Boromir.
My leg felt like someone had replaced the bone with a hot poker, but I kept going, navigating my way around orcish carcasses. Boromir...Boromir. My mind wept the name. The others came up behind me as I stood staring. Aragorn and Legolas each put a hand on my shoulder, and I am sure Gimli would have, as well, if he'd been able to reach.
"We must tend the slain," began Legolas after a moment, "for it would not do to leave him here among the beasts he slew." There followed some discussion regarding how we might do this. I did not participate, merely stared numbly at the object in question.
Aragorn's idea, to lay him in one of the boats and give him to the River, won out, and I acquiesced. I was, however, less happy about the rest of his plan, placing the orcs' broken weapons and shattered shields in the boat as well, but I said nothing and did not take part in the search for such tokens. In the process, Aragorn retrieved Merry's and Pippin's dirks, and Legolas refilled his quiver, so I suppose it was not totally useless.
The Ranger also noted aloud that the orcs had not all come from Mordor, and that not all were orcs. The four goblin archers who had turned the tide against Boromir and myself carried shields marked with a white hand, and their helmets were marked with S's, both signs which puzzled Aragorn. Dismissing Gimli's suggestion that the rune stood for Sauron, he turned to me. "Does your knowledge of the orc tongue provide answer?"
I shook my head. "Well," he said, turning back, "it may be Saruman's mark. If so, Gandalf was correct: Isengard is tainted, and the West with it. Saruman also may know of our travels and of Gandalf's fall, through orcs from Moria or by other means."
"We have not the time for riddles," Gimli grumbled. "Let us tend Boromir!"
"We must answer the riddles, Master Dwarf, if we are to chose our course rightly," Aragorn replied.
"If they have answers," muttered the dwarf.
Farewell to Boromir
Merry and Pippin were not hard to find. Their shouts had turned to cries for help, but at least they had had the sense to keep shouting. They had also had the sense to stand back to back and draw their short swords, surrounded as they were by an ever-growing circle of what I supposed must be orcs.
The beasts were nearly my height, with bared fangs and armored skin as black as a night without hope of stars. The weapons with which they menaced the two hobbits looked made of cast iron, but were nevertheless long and sharp. Merry tried to maintain a brave face, but Pippin had begun to whimper and lower his blade.
Boromir descended on them with a cry of "Gondor!" his sword everywhere at once. I, coming behind him, got in a few good blows of my own, striking upwards, as he had shown me, to shove the butt of my staff hard into the monstrous faces. I suppose some part of me was afraid, just as a bit of me knew I might die here, but in the back of my mind was the knowledge that Boromir would not let that happen, and I made up my mind to offer him the same surety.
One orc raked the side of my face with his claws, after I bashed his sword out of his grasp, and another's scimitar bit into my right bicep before Boromir hacked him down. Nothing life threatening, only painfully distracting.
Merry and Pippin acquitted themselves well, having, I supposed, overcome their fear upon our arrival. The battle-light in Boromir's eyes kept them well away from him, though. His fighting style was a blur of brutal beauty, clean lines and short stops. I wished I could have had the leisure to observe it more closely.
However, he had drilled into me, often painfully, what happens when one lets one's attention wander from one's opponent, so I concentrated on the orc currently trying to skewer me with his spear. Boromir leapt to my aid, and a great many things happened at once.
As he dispatched my orc, I saw a black-fletched arrow blossom in his left shoulder. He paused only for a moment before switching his sword to a one- handed grip. For my part, since the arrows had come from behind, I whirled, and ducked as another arrow parted my hair for me.
More orcs emerged from the trees in the direction of the River. The four in the lead stood heads above the pack behind them, and as they came they notched more arrows to their black recurved bows. The lead orc sent one shirring past my head, and I scrambled backwards toward Boromir and the hobbits.
As I did, he unslung the great silver-inlaid horn that hung over his hip, raising it and winding it, a blast that shook the trees and drowned the noise from the Falls. He blew again, and I thought they would hear it in Lothlorien.
One of the orcs with a bow shouted something in a vowel-less language to the beasts already in battle with us. The back of my head translated it, and I briefly, fervently thanked God for the unsought aid; the orc had growled to his fellows that the halflings were to be taken alive.
A craven thought welled up in my mind: why didn't Boromir and I use Merry and Pippin as shields? I quashed the impulse and turned to run toward Boromir, meaning to communicate the orc's words to him. I had only gone a few steps when my right leg collapsed. I sprawled hard in the grass, and as the orcs crashed past me, one of them kicked the gash in my arm with his iron-shod boot. Pain crackled behind my ears, and I suppose I fainted.
When I came to, the glade was eerily silent. Rolling onto my knees, I looked around. The orcs had not bothered to collect their dead; the grass was strewn with hideous bodies. A cry of horror escaped my lips as I saw that I was not alone among the living. A figure slumped against a tree ten yards away from me. It was Boromir.
I dragged myself over to him. Something was terribly wrong below the inside of my right knee, but I didn't bother to stop and check it. My sole concerns were Boromir's ashen face and the arrows that riddled his chest. "My lord?" I said, touching his cheek. "Boromir?"
With effort, he opened his eyes and, with still more effort, spoke. "Firiel. The orcs have taken the hobbits. They thought you dead, as did I."
"I am not dead," I said, somewhat redundantly. "And you must save your strength. You will need it to heal."
"No, Firiel." His hand lifted to graze my cheek, fingers coming away damp. I had not realized that I wept. "I...failed you, and my city. Go to Gondor, Firiel." He coughed once, a wet hack. "Gondor."
"I will go, lord," I promised. "I will go, I swear it." As I said the words, what I supposed must be the traditional oath of fealty bubbled into my brain. I spoke quickly, but clearly, afraid that he would stop me, or pass beyond hearing my words. "Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Captain-General of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Firiel of Lorien." Of Lorien no more, I thought as I leaned forward to press a kiss on his lips. Of Gondor.
Boromir seemed determined to give the lord's matching vow. Haltingly he replied, "This do I hear, Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love--" He closed his eyes and gasped. "I love you, Firiel." The breath left him, and Boromir did not open his eyes again.
Working as if in a dream, I broke the arrow shafts off and covered Boromir with his cloak, tucking it in around his shoulders. Now no wounds were visible, and he appeared asleep. I told myself that this was so, that he had fallen only into slumber. I curled beside him, my head on his chest, trying to sleep myself, that he might wake me.
But my heart knew that the body I clung to was not the man I had loved, not anymore. I soaked the elven cloak with salt water. "Boromir," I whispered, "come back."
That was how Aragorn found me. "Thus passes the heir of Denethor," he said, dropping to his knees beside Boromir's body. "This is a bitter end," the Ranger added, half to himself. "The Fellowship is ruined. I have failed. Gandalf's trust in me was vain. What shall we do now?"
I looked up as he covered his down-turned face with one hand, seeing for the first time the man Aragorn, who had taken up responsibilities he'd neither asked for nor wanted, and did not feel equal to them. After a moment he straightened, uncovered Boromir's right hand, and clasped it in silent farewell.
At some point, Legolas and Gimli arrived silently from the west. Both bore signs of battle, and Legolas's quiver was empty. The elf went to stand beside Aragorn, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Gimli and I slew many orcs in the wood, but our weapons would have been of more use here. We heard the Horn too late, it seems, to save you from harm."
"I am unhurt," Aragorn said, rising. "Firiel's wounds are the gravest. Boromir is dead. He was killed in defense of the hobbits while I searched Amon Hen."
"Where are Merry and Pippin?" Gimli wanted to know. "And where is Frodo?"
Everyone looked to me. "Merry and Pippin are taken by the orcs. They will be kept alive. I know not of Frodo and Sam," I answered shortly, in no mood for questions.
Aragorn's gaze turned sharp. "How do you know the hobbits will not be harmed?"
"One orc shouted to the others to keep them alive. I have knowledge of their tongue, but I know not how I came by it." A strange ringing filled my head, and as I watched Aragorn open his mouth, the world slowly tilted sideways.
I opened my eyes, blinking into the grass, wondering how I'd come to be lying on my stomach. When I tried to roll over, a hand pressed into the small of my back. "Lie still." Aragorn's voice had returned to its permanently neutral setting.
"What-" my voice cracked as the pain in my leg materialized. "What happened?"
"The Valar watched over you. If the shot had been higher or the archer slower, you would not have the use of the leg." Startled, I twisted my head to survey the damage. The arrow had torn deep, through cloth and flesh, but it was still only a graze, its size disproportional to the amount of blood and pain it put forth.
I watched Aragorn untuck my leggings from my right boot and use his dagger to slit the cloth up to my knee. He worked gently and methodically, talking as he did. "I do not think the arrow was poisoned, but it was none too clean, and for the washing of the wound we have only river water."
I shuddered, wondering about the disparities between modern and Middle Earth hygiene. Turning away to gaze over the River, I attempted to prop myself up on my elbows. My right arm protested, and an involuntary cry escaped my lips. Clamping my mouth shut, I laid the arm down carefully and then asked, "Where are the others?"
"They have gone to search in the wood for what healing herbs may be found. I have with me enough for a rude dressing, but no medicines. We must bind them up, and pray that neither your arm nor your leg festers. A week or two of rest and healing would not go amiss, either, but we have not the time or the leisure."
"You mean to go after the hobbits, then?" I inquired, my teeth gritted once again, this time against his ministrations.
"Yes, but the question may remain: which hobbits." He glanced up, and I saw that Legolas and Gimli had returned. The elf crouched beside me, handing Aragorn a bundle of slick green leaves. The Ranger nodded his thanks.
Gimli stumped over to us, axe in hand, and peered at my leg. As everyone else was watching the performance, I twisted around to do the same. Shredding the herb, he packed it into the gash, stifling the blood flow. His touch could not have been defter, but I stifled a yell and bit my lip at the intrusion. Ripping off the sliced fabric above my knee, Aragorn tore it into strips, passing them back around my leg.
Looking up, he met my eyes. "This will hurt." And he tightened the knots.
I had always imagined that being wounded in battle would involve lying back, fetchingly pale, enduring the pain with a stoic determination that brought tears to the eyes of all who beheld me. I was wrong. I yelled, the pain stripping my throat raw. My only consolation was that what burst out of my throat was not a girlish scream. Still, it was nothing to be proud of. Legolas and Gimli hid their smirks quite well.
The pain in my leg did not diminish when Aragorn finished with those bandages and moved on to my arm. The gash there was less serious, he said, and I agreed. His tending to it only caused me to bite through my lip to remain silent. The Ranger handed me a scrap of cloth to wipe the trickle of blood from my chin and sat back on his heels, eyes critical. "Can you stand?"
I gaped at him. "Wha- Yes, of course. Where is my staff?"
Legolas went to fetch it while Aragorn hauled me up bodily by my good left arm. I could now see over the small knoll that had blocked my view and through to the carnage that my companions had dragged me away from. The cloak-covered body was still propped against its tree. Memories, held back by unconsciousness and pain, flooded back into my head. I staggered, and Aragorn caught me. I reached out for my staff, shook him off, and hobbled over to Boromir.
My leg felt like someone had replaced the bone with a hot poker, but I kept going, navigating my way around orcish carcasses. Boromir...Boromir. My mind wept the name. The others came up behind me as I stood staring. Aragorn and Legolas each put a hand on my shoulder, and I am sure Gimli would have, as well, if he'd been able to reach.
"We must tend the slain," began Legolas after a moment, "for it would not do to leave him here among the beasts he slew." There followed some discussion regarding how we might do this. I did not participate, merely stared numbly at the object in question.
Aragorn's idea, to lay him in one of the boats and give him to the River, won out, and I acquiesced. I was, however, less happy about the rest of his plan, placing the orcs' broken weapons and shattered shields in the boat as well, but I said nothing and did not take part in the search for such tokens. In the process, Aragorn retrieved Merry's and Pippin's dirks, and Legolas refilled his quiver, so I suppose it was not totally useless.
The Ranger also noted aloud that the orcs had not all come from Mordor, and that not all were orcs. The four goblin archers who had turned the tide against Boromir and myself carried shields marked with a white hand, and their helmets were marked with S's, both signs which puzzled Aragorn. Dismissing Gimli's suggestion that the rune stood for Sauron, he turned to me. "Does your knowledge of the orc tongue provide answer?"
I shook my head. "Well," he said, turning back, "it may be Saruman's mark. If so, Gandalf was correct: Isengard is tainted, and the West with it. Saruman also may know of our travels and of Gandalf's fall, through orcs from Moria or by other means."
"We have not the time for riddles," Gimli grumbled. "Let us tend Boromir!"
"We must answer the riddles, Master Dwarf, if we are to chose our course rightly," Aragorn replied.
"If they have answers," muttered the dwarf.