Afterlife? -No: Aftershock!
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Chapter Twelve
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Boromir didn't step outside into the rain at once. First he wanted to take a good look at this queer world from the relative safety of the hospital. He immediately conceded that the glass doors were very practical for this purpose. Apart from being crafted with great skill, for they showed no flaws or irregularities as the few glass windows Boromir had seen in before his life had done.
Outside, the people were hurrying along the pavement that seemed to consist of melted grey stone. Some of them had queer, but very practical constructs they held over their heads, so the rain didn't reach them. The things looked like tarpaulin cloth stretched over a cone-shaped iron frame.
Nobody wore armour or weapons Boromir could see, there were no horses the houses were mostly made of glass, and higher, much higher than those in his home time. And in between the houses, on various levels, those glittery vehicles zoomed on, in straight lines, that from below looked like invisible roads.
It was these flying vehicles that bothered Boromir most. It wasn't the fact that they were fast, it wasn't the fact that they were made of metal, it was the fact that they were FLYING! What magic held them there? Or had it something to do with the natural laws of this world? There were hundreds of the flying-, what had Grimes called his vehicle? Oh yes: Hovercar.
The name was a bit tame, Boromir thought, sure, the vehicles hovered, but they did much more, they moved at great speed. The people weren't bothered by the hovercars, he noted, so they must be safe, and anyway, why should he bother? He was a capable warrior, wasn't he?
Without further ado, Boromir stepped outside, welcoming the touch of the rain as a sign that even here, on this world, weather had a will of its own. A spot of sky that was faintly brighter than rest was where the sun had to be. Knowing that his only friends here lived in the east of the city, he turned into that direction, oblivious of the stares the other pedestrians sent his way.
After a while, he got used to seeing something surprising at every turn of the head. Things like a lot of women walking around in trousers, the flashing, multicoloured writings that obviously were there to catch the passer-by's attention, the amazing amount of glass windows, that showed shops full of moving pictures or huge quantities of already made clothes in all shapes and sizes.
All this faded into the background, as his brain finally decided that it had processed enough new information for now. Instead, it began to try and grapple with what it already knew, but couldn't understand.
Boromir was in another world. Someone had sent him here. Someone who thought he was too proud and lacked kindness. He shook his heads sadly. This just couldn't be true!
Everyone who had ever seen him together with the hobbits knew that he was kind. His men back in Gondor thought him a wise and kind leader, why did those powerful beings who sent him here think he was unkind. Could it be that they had only seen him act under the influence of the ring? He had been cruel to poor Frodo then, pressuring the hobbit first with words and then with deeds.
Was he proud? Yes, but not overly so. He certainly was self-confident; he knew his worth as a warrior and leader of men. As a son of the Steward of the city, he had profited of a good education and he was aware of that. More than being proud of himself, however, he had always been proud of others.
He was proud of his people, of his soldiers and of his city. He was proud of his family, all of whom were in some way working for the welfare of their people, yes, he was proud to be part of all of them, to being born in a country with a great past, that played a vital part in the present.
It was then that he nearly lost his grip on himself. He no longer would take any part in that present and all those people he was so proud of, were no more with him. He no longer walked, but stood as still as a statue in the middle of the pavement. Distantly, he was aware of people bumping into him and cursing at him or mumbling apologies, depending on their politeness.
He'd have liked to just sit down and just let all the misery wash over him, let all his confusion and bewilderment take over and make him helpless. He was tempted to let the craziness of his situation get at him, till he himself got crazy, but he did none of it.
Training as a soldier and Captain of Gondor had prepared him for times like this, when all he had was hope and his brains. He had learned to keep his wits about him, not to panic, but to think his way out of his problems step by step. Now, that training took over.
Mechanically, he began to walk again, slowly, deliberately, towards the east, where he knew he had friends who would help him. Superfluous thoughts were not allowed to stay in the foreground and pushed back. Logic took over.
What did he have? His sword, some gold coins, whose value in this world he didn't know, two daggers, his clothes and his gold chain. He had no money of this place's currency and he didn't know the currency. He had no horse, but nobody seemed to have horses here. He knew not what rules and laws existed for this place, but that paperwork seemed to be very important for the agencies. He had only few friends, one of was a child, a young girl, who was also the only one who knew his story and whom he could trust to know.
.
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Chapter Twelve
.
Boromir didn't step outside into the rain at once. First he wanted to take a good look at this queer world from the relative safety of the hospital. He immediately conceded that the glass doors were very practical for this purpose. Apart from being crafted with great skill, for they showed no flaws or irregularities as the few glass windows Boromir had seen in before his life had done.
Outside, the people were hurrying along the pavement that seemed to consist of melted grey stone. Some of them had queer, but very practical constructs they held over their heads, so the rain didn't reach them. The things looked like tarpaulin cloth stretched over a cone-shaped iron frame.
Nobody wore armour or weapons Boromir could see, there were no horses the houses were mostly made of glass, and higher, much higher than those in his home time. And in between the houses, on various levels, those glittery vehicles zoomed on, in straight lines, that from below looked like invisible roads.
It was these flying vehicles that bothered Boromir most. It wasn't the fact that they were fast, it wasn't the fact that they were made of metal, it was the fact that they were FLYING! What magic held them there? Or had it something to do with the natural laws of this world? There were hundreds of the flying-, what had Grimes called his vehicle? Oh yes: Hovercar.
The name was a bit tame, Boromir thought, sure, the vehicles hovered, but they did much more, they moved at great speed. The people weren't bothered by the hovercars, he noted, so they must be safe, and anyway, why should he bother? He was a capable warrior, wasn't he?
Without further ado, Boromir stepped outside, welcoming the touch of the rain as a sign that even here, on this world, weather had a will of its own. A spot of sky that was faintly brighter than rest was where the sun had to be. Knowing that his only friends here lived in the east of the city, he turned into that direction, oblivious of the stares the other pedestrians sent his way.
After a while, he got used to seeing something surprising at every turn of the head. Things like a lot of women walking around in trousers, the flashing, multicoloured writings that obviously were there to catch the passer-by's attention, the amazing amount of glass windows, that showed shops full of moving pictures or huge quantities of already made clothes in all shapes and sizes.
All this faded into the background, as his brain finally decided that it had processed enough new information for now. Instead, it began to try and grapple with what it already knew, but couldn't understand.
Boromir was in another world. Someone had sent him here. Someone who thought he was too proud and lacked kindness. He shook his heads sadly. This just couldn't be true!
Everyone who had ever seen him together with the hobbits knew that he was kind. His men back in Gondor thought him a wise and kind leader, why did those powerful beings who sent him here think he was unkind. Could it be that they had only seen him act under the influence of the ring? He had been cruel to poor Frodo then, pressuring the hobbit first with words and then with deeds.
Was he proud? Yes, but not overly so. He certainly was self-confident; he knew his worth as a warrior and leader of men. As a son of the Steward of the city, he had profited of a good education and he was aware of that. More than being proud of himself, however, he had always been proud of others.
He was proud of his people, of his soldiers and of his city. He was proud of his family, all of whom were in some way working for the welfare of their people, yes, he was proud to be part of all of them, to being born in a country with a great past, that played a vital part in the present.
It was then that he nearly lost his grip on himself. He no longer would take any part in that present and all those people he was so proud of, were no more with him. He no longer walked, but stood as still as a statue in the middle of the pavement. Distantly, he was aware of people bumping into him and cursing at him or mumbling apologies, depending on their politeness.
He'd have liked to just sit down and just let all the misery wash over him, let all his confusion and bewilderment take over and make him helpless. He was tempted to let the craziness of his situation get at him, till he himself got crazy, but he did none of it.
Training as a soldier and Captain of Gondor had prepared him for times like this, when all he had was hope and his brains. He had learned to keep his wits about him, not to panic, but to think his way out of his problems step by step. Now, that training took over.
Mechanically, he began to walk again, slowly, deliberately, towards the east, where he knew he had friends who would help him. Superfluous thoughts were not allowed to stay in the foreground and pushed back. Logic took over.
What did he have? His sword, some gold coins, whose value in this world he didn't know, two daggers, his clothes and his gold chain. He had no money of this place's currency and he didn't know the currency. He had no horse, but nobody seemed to have horses here. He knew not what rules and laws existed for this place, but that paperwork seemed to be very important for the agencies. He had only few friends, one of was a child, a young girl, who was also the only one who knew his story and whom he could trust to know.