Disclaimer: Allbelongs to master Tolkien, Houghton Mifflin Books, Peter Jackson, New Line Cinema and whoever else the lawyers want to say own a piece of the action.
A/N: Again, thank you to everyone who offered feedback. I know it got a little angsty in the last chapter. Hopefully most of you weren't scared off and are sticking with me. This chapter has been revised since it was first uplaoded.
My extreme gratitude to my betas Ariel and Cindy and to Donna for her encouragement.
Chapter 3
The sun beat down as a lone figure staggered across the plains of Rohan. He had walked for over two days now, stopping only when his body refused to go on. Water and waybread were his only sustenance. His muscles ached, his skin burned.
I was supposed to do something… What was it? Cannot remember… Cannot think. He stopped and shook his head, as if to dislodge the information from its hiding place. The draught. Yes, that was it. Drink from the waterskin… He said it would restore my strength. He took several long gulps of the liquid before continuing. Aragorn. My captain. My king. I should have told him. Should have said something. Now, it is too…no. There is no point in thinking about that now. Must keep going. Where to? Away. Just away. Where nobody knows me.
He stepped forward, almost falling. Even though the winds were bitter cold, sweat beaded on his forehead. His breathing labored, he swayed from side to side as he moved on. He should not be pushing himself so hard, he knew. The flesh around the arrow wounds burned and throbbed with the slightest movement.
Infected, he thought as he cradled his injured arm. Athelas. I was supposed to clean the wounds with the athelas. I should stop and build a fire. Rest. Care for my injuries. No. No shelter, the land is too open. I would be leaving myself vulnerable to attack.
He pushed himself onward. Again, his footsteps faltered, this time causing him to drop to his knees. Try as he might, he could not bring himself to his feet. His vision began to blur and darken as he fell on his side. As the darkness overtook him, one thought came to his mind. Is this what it feels like to die?
Boromir walked along the empty streets of Minas Tirith. The sun was hidden, casting the city in a strange blue-grey light. There was no sound but his footsteps. No movement, not even a breeze to stir the banners.
This should not be.
He passed through the first levels without encountering anyone. No guards, no citizens. No one. Up and up he went, through the twisting streets, all the way to the Citadel. To The White Tower of Ecthelion. For many months now he had longed to see it again. But now, in this strange half-light world, the sight of it filled him with dread. Slowly he made his way to the Tower Hall, all the while looking around him for any sign of life.
"Hello?" The echo of his call was the only answer he heard. Where are the guards? The councilors? Anyone?
At the far end of the hall, on the lowest step of a dais, he saw a man seated in a chair. His head bowed, he showed no sign of movement. Immediately Boromir recognized him.
"Father!" He ran as fast as he could, until he stood directly in front of him. "Father, what has happened?"
"A halfling," Denethor said slowly. He did not raise his eyes, but kept looking down. "You were defeated by a mere halfling. Where is the gift you were to bring me? Were you not instructed to bring the weapon of the enemy to Gondor? But what did you do? You let our only chance to defeat the Dark Lord slip through your fingers."
"No, that's not true." He had to make his father understand. "The Ring would have destroyed Gondor, not saved it. It nearly cost me my life!"
"And what is worse," Denethor continued, raising his head to meet his son's gaze, "you befriended our rival! The one who would rob you of your birthright. Who would take away from us all that our family has fought so long and hard to defend. You were actually going to swear allegiance to him." His voice grew hard and cold. "You would have betrayed your own blood and set this usurper upon the throne."
"Aragorn is the heir of Isildur. By right, the rule of Gondor is his. Father," he pleaded. "Try to understand. He is a good man. He will be a good king."
"You are a traitor!" Denethor stood, shaking with rage. "You are as useless to me as Faramir."
"Do not compare him to me."
Boromir turned quickly toward the new voice. "Faramir!"
He moved to embrace his brother, but Faramir brushed past him to stand before their father. "It is true; I would not have brought you the Ring. But neither would I have assaulted the one who bore it." He turned to Boromir, a disgusted look on his face. "You promised to aid him. "Gondor will see it done," you said at the council. However, you never intended to make good on that promise, did you? You never revealed to anyone the real reason you were at Imladris. That you had been sent to retrieve the Ring. You let them think you would have journeyed with them all the way to Mordor. But then as soon as you were alone with the Ringbearer, you attacked. You would have killed him to get the Ring!"
The images of his last encounter with Frodo played in Boromir's mind. "It could have been mine. It should be mine! Give it to me!"
"No! I wouldn't have." Boromir could feel his chest tighten as he began to panic. "I would have stopped. I tried to stop! It was the Ring! It took control of me; I had no power over what I was doing! Faramir, please," he begged. "You have to believe me."
"How could you disgrace yourself so? All those years I looked up to you. I thought you were a hero." Faramir looked at him, his eyes emotionless. "But you're nothing but a fraud."
He could take no more. Boromir turned and ran. Through doorways and down corridors. He paid no mind to where he was or where he was headed. All he could think of was to get away. He felt as if he were in a never-ending maze of twists and turns. At last, he threw himself into an open threshold and slammed the door behind him. Resting his head against the cool stone of the wall, he tried to catch his breath.
This is not real. This cannot be real. What is this place? He felt his eyes sting, as tears threatened to spill. Faramir, please forgive me.
He pushed himself away from the wall and gasped as he turned to look at his surroundings. Home. My chamber. My bed. I am home. Everything was just as he had left it. Boromir moved forward and collapsed onto his bed. He felt his body relax as it settled into the familiar contours of the mattress. Turning onto his back, he caught a glimpse of a figure standing in the shadows.
"Who's there?" he demanded. "Who are you?" Was this some new tormentor, come to punish him further for his moment of weakness?
"It's all right, no one will hurt you. You're safe now," a woman answered him.
"Show yourself." He felt strangely calmed by her voice. It was familiar, like something from a half remembered dream. As she came closer, he stared in shock as the light played across her face. "Mother?" How is this possible? "Is it really you?"
"Hush." She sat next to him on the bed, and placed her fingers against his lips, silencing him. "Everything will be all right." She raised her hand to stroke his brow. "I know you' have suffered terribly. However, it is over now. You are safe."
He let his gaze travel along her features. Many years had passed since Finduilas' death, but the image of her now before him was the same as he remembered. Her long golden hair tinged with red, her warm smile, her gentle blue eyes. Faramir's eyes. He suddenly realized. Why did I never notice how much he favors her before?
"Am I dead? Is that what is happening?" Boromir could feel the tears welling up in his eyes. He had only been a boy when his mother died, leaving him and Faramir alone with an increasingly cold and distant father.
"No, you are not dead, but you are close to it." Gently she took his hand and held it close to her heart. "Boromir you must understand, you were not to blame for what happened. You fought with every bit of strength you had to save your friends. Yes, you made a mistake. But that was the Ring's doing, not yours. It took your desperation to help Gondor and twisted it to its own plans. Do not give in to it. Do not let it stop you from all that you have yet to do."
"There is nothing I can do now. I dare not show my face after what I have done. Mother, everything has gone wrong and it is my fault. Father believes I am a traitor. Faramir wants nothing to do with me. Orcs have captured Merry and Pippin... I've failed everyone." The tears that had been threatening to fall finally spilled over. "I've missed you so much. It was so hard for Faramir and I after…after…"
She brought his hand to her lips and brushed a kiss across his fingers. "I'm so sorry. I am sorry I was not there for you and your brother. I did not want to leave you. I held on a long as I could. I loved you both so much." She leaned forward to place a kiss on his forehead, then stood, and began slowly backing away from the bed.
"No, please don't." His heart ached as she faded into the shadows. "Do not leave me again."
After a time he heard her again. "It's all right, no one's leaving you." She soon reappeared, but this time something in her voice was different. Standing at the foot of the bed, she removed his boots, and then, moving to his side, began the task of stripping off his surcoat, chain mail and shirt. Though no less gentle, her movements seemed to lack the familiar warmth they had just moments earlier.
"Ah, dear me! How were you able to walk in this condition?" Boromir followed her gaze to his chest. The arrow wound had reopened and blood flowed from it, painting his chest scarlet. The surrounding flesh was red and swollen, a sign that infection had set in.
"There now, dear," She reached for a basin of cool water and began washing away the sweat, blood and grime. "I know you're tired and hurting. But I need you to open your eyes for me. Can you do that?"
"I don't understand." He blinked in surprise at her request. "They are open."
"No, child, they're not. You're still dreaming."
Dreaming? He tightly closed his eyes and, taking a deep breath, opened them again. The image of his chamber dissolved. Looking around, he saw he was in the back of a covered wagon. He could feel movement as it gently rocked from side to side traveling over uneven terrain. Baskets and boxes were scattered about, and drying herbs hung from poles. He turned his attention to the woman sitting next to him.
"There now. That's better." She smiled, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead.
No, she is not mother. Her hair was silver and her face lined with age. Her eyes brown not blue, but he saw in them the same kindness his mother's always possessed.
"It's about time you woke up. We were worried, you've been half out of your mind with fever since we found you."
"Found me? Who? When?" He began to sit up, only to have her push him back onto the mattress.
"Now you be still, you're not fit to be getting up just yet. My name is Haelend," she said. "I'm the healer for our village. Some of the men found you shortly before midday. You were lying in the road; half-dead, it seemed at the time. Just what were you doing out there all alone?"
He did not know how to answer her. He had not thought he would need an alias so soon. What could he say? Stall her. Buy some time to think of an answer. "Water, please." He tried to make his voice as weak as possible. If she thinks I am too ill to speak, maybe she will not press me for details.
"Oh, of course. You poor thing. You must be dying of thirst." With one hand, she raised his head and with the other brought a small wooden cup to his lips.
He drank slowly, his mind racing for some story that would satisfy her. Stay close to the truth, He decided. Less chance of a slip-up later on. "My companions and I were attacked by Orcs. I was wounded during the fight."
"So your friends just left you to fend for yourself?" Her horror at the thought was clear.
"They had no choice. Two of our company were taken captive. The danger to them was greater than to me."
"I understand the need for haste." She nodded, her face grim. "Our village was attacked the night before last. We had to leave almost all our belongings, livestock… whatever we could not quickly gather and carry. But we would never leave one of our neighbors behind." Haelend moved to the opposite side of the wagon and began pouring the contents of various bottles into a large bowl. "Luckily I keep most of my herbs and supplies here. It makes it easier traveling from farm to farm," she explained. "Otherwise I might have had to leave it behind." She finished with the mixture, poured a small amount into the cup, and brought it to him. "Now, this draught is almost the same as the one you had with you. Most of that had spilled on the ground when we found you, but there was enough left for me to know what was in it. I've added a few ingredients to help fight the infection." She could not help but smile when he grimaced at the thought of drinking more of the foul tasting liquid. "I've also added honey to sweeten it."
He tentatively sipped it at first, but then drained the cup in two large swallows, surprised at its pleasant taste. As he passed the cup back to her, he felt the wagon lurch to a stop.
"Well, it looks like we're finally stopping for the night. Dinner will be prepared shortly; I will bring you some when it is ready. Just try to rest till then." She smiled at him as she rose. "By tomorrow we'll reach safety. Then you'll have the time you need to get well." As she left the wagon, she turned to him once more. "Don't you worry yourself. Once we get to Helm's Deep, our troubles will be over."