Chapter 8: Attacked

Boromir and Faramir rode slowly the first day on their journey to the West. They had decided to part near the ending of the Misty Mountains, or near the ruins of Helms Deep, the great fortress of Rohan. Faramir was to ride back to Minas Tirith while Boromir followed his course up north to Rivendell. The two were quiet for the first few hours of riding, musing over the situation of their country. Faramir had told him the night before the reason why he followed his brother, and why he took that risk.

'We need you, Boromir.'

'I know that, brother, but I am on order of our father. I cannot disobey a command'

'Even if it lead to the death of our city?'

Boromir had paused; clearly, a great struggle was within him. After a few moments, he looked up at his brother, eyes full of agony.

'That is not fair, Faramir.'

'But it may be true.'

'That's irrational and ridiculous of you brother. You can do well without me in war, I have seen it before.'

'Yet you have always been there to make the final decision. You were the Captain over us all.'

'You have grown too dependent on me, Faramir.'

'The contrary, brother. I have grown too independent. I act on my own vanity and not on common sense. You have seen it.'

'Frankly, I have. Yet, and to make this bluntly, brother, you have to work the situation out for yourself. I cannot always be here to help you in your times of need.' He paused. 'And even as painful as this decision is, my loyalty lies to the Steward first and foremost. My own life—my personal life— must come afterwards.

'Even so…' Faramir paused. What was truly concerning him was the fact that he may never see his brother again. It was not the first time such a situation had happened but each time he dreaded it to be the last.

'Even so, what?'

'I wish you would be with me until the end, until the end of our people.'

'That, my dear brother, will never come.'

'I still don't understand something.' Faramir was drawn away from his thoughts at the sound of his brother's voice.

'And what would that be?'

'Well,' Boromir chuckled slightly. 'Why you still forget to bring an extra shirt during your travels. Because, frankly, valiant captain, you stink.'

Faramir's smiled twitched a little at his name but he stored the small pain in the back of heart. 'Thank you for that compliment, brother. I will try to remember.'

'You'll never win a woman's heart if you wear but one shirt.' He continued, ' I don't think she will be happy with you walking around her, smelling like a pile of orcs.'

'Once again, thank you for your flattery, but I expect that there will not be a woman in my life for a long while.'

'Not even the woman who takes care of the stables?'

'Not even her.'

'Faramir,' Boromir said scathingly. 'You missed your chance.'

'She was engaged. I had no chance.'

'I am sorry to hear that.' Faramir gave his brother a push and rode ahead.

The two stopped the night under the shade of a large cliff. The plains around them were notorious and familiar, yet evil lurked around. Many times while riding, the two could hear shouts and orders being called in the hideous Black Speech. Many times, they stopped and hid and many times groups of orcs crossed their path.

They finally had to settle under this overhang to get some rest. Traveling in the hot sun for hours and hours could be very uncomfortable and draining (especially if one only had one shirt on.) Faramir fed and combed the horses while Boromir light a small fire to warm a small stew up before putting it out.

While combing the horses, Faramir listened for other noises outside of camp. He became aware of the very distant sound of running water. Telling his brother where he was going in case he did not return, Faramir set out in that direction and in only a few seconds came to a small stream following to the South. He came back to camp and got his and his brother's water flasks and went to fill them. The water was cold and brittle to the throat but Faramir welcomed it with relish. Setting down the flasks, he decided, upon his brother's earlier comment, that he would give his shirt a good rinsing. Stained with blood and sweat Faramir wondered why he did not think of cleaning it before. Taking off his belt, and still keeping his sword at hand, he slipped off his chain mail and took off his tunic, making sure he did not irritate his wound. With a slap, he ducked the shirt in the water and after a few moments of intense scrubbing, he squeezed it and headed back to camp.

By then, his brother was sharpening his knife and the fire was put out. His brother looked up at the dripping shirt Faramir was holding and the paleness of his skin.

'You look ill.'

Faramir set his shirt across one of the boulders scattered around the camp and threw his brother's canister to him and stowed his own away before answering.

'I'm just cold.'

'Here, put this on.' Boromir took off his large cloak and handed it to Faramir. Faramir wrapped it around his body very tightly and sat close to the dying coals of the fire.

'Do you want me to light it again?'

Faramir shook his head, 'Did you save me anything, though?'

'Not a drop.'

'How kind of you.'

'Here.' Boromir handed him a bowl of the warm soup and grinned.

While Faramir ate in silence, Boromir continued to sharpen his knife. The chime of metal upon metal filled the air around camp. A cold breeze swept through and carried the sound across the hills to the lands farther South. Faramir tightened his hold on the cloak. Another gust blew through and another sound, more deadly sound than the sword passed through the air.

Boromir swiftly sheathed his knife and walked over to the coals of the fire to scatter them about. Faramir dumped the remains of his meal in between a group of rocks and gathered his pack. The sound got louder and louder as they cleared camp. They ran to their grazing horses and hopped quickly on their backs. The horses, surprised and upset followed their rider's commands and trotted to a cluster of bushes a few yards away from their campsite.

Soon enough, a group of shadowy, ill figured creatures made their way down the slope to their campsite. How they saw the smoke, Boromir did not know, for he was careful not to let it smoke or be very bright.

They had caught their scent.

They yearn for our meat. He thought grimly and sniffed in disgust. The orcs were short and squat, moving around in a random order, picking up rocks and stopping to sniff the air every now and then. Their spider like bodies covered the ground in like black roots of a tree, gnarled and tangled A taller, larger orc with more armor and a seal of the eye across his chest plate shouted orders to the others and they scattered around the former campsite, looking for their prey.

'Should we attack?' Faramir asked, sword in hand. Boromir noticed the hand gripped on the sword was trembling; the knuckles were white and pale. Even though his brother had tried to appear strong and capable today, the wound in his shoulder had pained him greatly. Riding all day long had not helped at all, yet time and haste was needed and Boromir did not think too deeply about his brother's wound. When they escaped these orcs and went further north, he would tend to his brother. For now, his only worry was to get these foul beasts off their trails.

'Wait, Captain.' He paused, scanning the movements of their foes. 'Remember: the best offense if defense. Let us wait and see if they come to us first.'

'Yes, sir.'

They looked at each other for a moment, both understanding that these orcs would not live to see the sunrise.

Suddenly a loud hoot drew their attention and they saw one of the orcs holding up Faramir's still damp shirt in his claw. Faramir groaned at his folly and whispered under his breath, 'That was my only shirt.'

Boromir would have chuckled if the air was not so perilous.

The leader of the pack grabbed the shirt out of the other orcs hand and without hesitation ripped it in half. Faramir mumbled again. This time, though, one of the orcs heard the sound and they called for silence. The orc leader threw the shirt down and called his pack over to the source of the sound. Boromir and Faramir remained dead quiet. The horses, sensing something was wrong did not move or snort in distaste as the orcs advanced.

They came closer and closer, their knives and swords rattling at their sides. The foulness of their breath filled the air, wheezing in and out. Their feet were quiet for stealth was needed. They thought they were going to take their enemy by surprised. Little did they know that anybody traveling in this part of the area would know not to be taken by surprise for the presence of orcs were well known at these times.

Boromir and Faramir glanced at each other and with a nod charged at the group. They cried out, 'For Gondor!' And to match came a cry of rage from the first dead orc. Boromir counted the group, fifteen, sixteen? Enough to overcome an ill trained man but-- being the son's of the Steward--they had to be able to fight better than any man in the land.

Faramir slashed a small orc's throat and within a second, brought the sword into the gut. The orc cried out and died before hitting the ground, black blood pouring on the ashen forest floor. Another came running up from behind him and his horse but did not get a chance to even swing his mace for Boromir came up behind himand thrust his sword into the orc's back. Blood stained the long sword when Boromir pulled it out and he looked at it in disgust before moving on to the rest of the lot.

'Thanks.' Faramir yelled over the clamor, beheading another orc.

'For the salvation of your shirt!' He yelled back.

They worked their way to the captain of the orcs and Boromir did the honors of beheading the foul beast.

Author's Note: It has been quite some time since I last wrote this story. I was getting stuck and then finally gave up. I began to write Morwen the Fair and got caught up with that tale. School is nearing an end and I will have more time to give into the call of the quill and notebook. I hope you all enjoyed this and as always, reviews are so inspiring!