Author's Note: Only two reviews thus far for Chapter 1, but I've decided not to let this fic die so easily! I think that I will only continue this for one more chapter. I have an introduction; this chapter is the meat of it, and one more chapter as a denouement should tie things up nicely. I was planning to split this chapter into two, but I've decided to keep it as is.

Also, Boromir is described briefly in this fic (from Cuanil's point of view) as having dark hair. This is true to book canon description. In all other ways, however, I'd have to say that when I think of Boromir, I think of Sean Bean!

Another note: The mention of Boromir's childhood that involves dogs was lovingly swiped from Evendim, the undisputed mistress of Boromir-centric AU fan fiction.

Fire Ants

By Rosemary For Remembrance

Chapter 2: Cuanil and Trouble

The scrawny, shaggy gray wolfhound had ranged these hills far and wide, both with his dam at his side and on his own. Despite the myriad smells wafting up his nose from the dead pheasant that he gripped in his mouth, Cuanil had no trouble locating the familiar scents of home, the old cow he'd tormented as a puppy, the smoky fire that his mistress cooked over, the various spots he'd marked as his own. Then of course, there was the big gray animal. He'd only smelled something similar once or twice before, but this new thing was still as unfamiliar as the dark-haired thing he'd scented out for his mistress. When it dawned on Cuanil that he'd left his mistress and aging dam alone with this strange creature, he picked up his easy pace to a quick trot.

Boromir woke to the strange and uncomfortable sensation of something cold and wet probing near his neck. Half awake, he made a move to swat at the offending thing and was rewarded with the sudden, alarming sound of a bark. With his eyes now open, Boromir turned his head to find a younger pup, assumingly Cuanil, with his forepaws on Boromir's raised pallet and an inquisitive look on his long face. Within moments, Haunwyn was up from her fireside spot and at Cuanil's side. Boromir hoped the older bitch had enough sense to let her pup know that Boromir was no threat. Cuanil's wet nose descended again, this time sniffing behind Boromir's ear unreservedly. Owning hounds himself, Boromir knew it was best not to make any sudden movements or sounds, just to let the curious dog continue his investigation. He wondered worriedly where Hildláf had run off to; if Cuanil suddenly smelled something he did not like, what was to save the immobile Boromir from a torn out throat?

His heart nearly jumped into his vulnerable throat when the dog suddenly yipped and bounded up onto the pallet and over the prone man to his other side. It was even more surprising (though relieving), when the dog laid down and set his head on his paws. All Boromir could do was turn his head from one side to the other. Haunwyn ended her sniffing with a satisfied snort and returned to her rug next to the fire. The man of Gondor was stupefied. Apparently, Cuanil had sniffed something he approved of, and taken a liking to the Captain-General! The door creaked and Boromir turned his head the other direction in time to see Hildláf coming through, balancing a basket on one hip. "You're awake I see, and it seems you've made a friend!" The old woman chuckled as she set the basket on the little table. "I've just come back from the chicken coop; we'll have eggs for breakfast, oh!" she smiled when she caught sight of the dead pheasant on the hearth, "and pheasant, it seems, for lunch. Thank you Cuanil." She raised her voice and looked over Boromir to her younger dog. Boromir shivered. Cuanil was damp from the rain the night before and the mist of the morning. He also smelled as all wet dogs do, which made Boromir's nose crinkle up in distaste. Wet dog was almost as bad as wet horse, almost.

"I thought he had it in for me," Boromir admitted, keeping a weather eye on the dog next to him, "when I woke up with his nose buried in my neck." Hildláf laughed as she put the pan over the fire and cracked the eggs into it. "Who, Cuanil?" She shook her head. "That dog hasn't a mean bone in his body. He might be aloof and choosy, but he's a fine dog. Haunwyn and I have made sure that he's grown up minding his manners and not biting before I give the word." Boromir, for one, could imagine the large hound, hardly a pup any more, chasing after any malefactor his mistress so much as pointed at. Large, inquisitive eyes rolled in his direction when he looked back at Cuanil.

"Here, let me look at you again while the eggs cook." Hildláf turned away from the fire and drew the blanket away from Boromir's now painfully itchy skin. "Is it bothering you much?"

"No." Boromir grunted in reply. It was simply an issue of mind over matter. If he didn't mind, then it wouldn't matter!

"Tush," she chided, "no need to put up that act with me young man. Here, I've made some more of that unction I put on you earlier. It will help some." Boromir recoiled. He already stank of dirt, sweat, horse and that vile stuff she'd put on him. What he needed now was a bath.

"I'd like to wash a little at least," he tried to suggest, "if it's possible." He had been on the road some time; the last time he'd bathed fully was at an inn on the very edge of Gondorian territory.

"Hmmph," she snorted, "who do you suppose will haul all that water and heat it, to boot? Besides," she gave him a long look over, "you've been lying like that for some time; moving about is like to be painful. You can do without a bath for a little while yet. As soon as you're strong enough to haul the water yourself, I'll let you soak as long as you'd like." Boromir heard her mutter something about the highborn needing baths every time they got their hands dirty, or some such thing. It was hardly just his hands that were dirty. His own odor was beginning to offend him, and he was sure that in time Cuanil would get up to find less pungent sleeping arrangements. "At least help me up, Hildláf, I tire of this position." He tried to sound grateful for her help thus far, but to him, the request came out far too much like a whimper for his liking. He simply could not stand lying in the same position for so long and he desperately needed a change of scenery.

"All right, all right, have it your way. Do not blame me when you land yourself on your sore behind." Hildláf chided and helped him role onto his side, then get his feet over the side of the raised pallet and awkwardly sit up. The blood rushed from his head immediately and it was all he could do to keep from falling right back down. "I'll get over it in a moment," Boromir held her off with an outstretched arm, "wait." True to his word, Boromir was able to sit up straight after a moment. The enflamed skin on his thighs and behind protested the sudden pressure but he ignored it. "Give me a hand." He grabbed one of Hildláf's hands and slowly rose while the other hand gathered the blanket around him and held it closed at his hip. "That's not so bad." He took a deep breath and grinned at the old woman, who was no doubt smarting for being proved wrong.

"Yes, yes, go on and grin then. Stand there for a moment on your own, your eggs are burning!" She let go of his hand and hurried over to the fire to take the pan off and set it on a stand on the table. "I think I could manage my trousers now, if you don't mind." Boromir said as he eyed the freshly mended pair hanging from the peg near the fire.

"Oh, aye, wearing them might be easy enough, but putting them on, now that's another matter!" She shook her spatula in his direction as she fussed with the dishes. "Do you think you can manage to sit in a chair?" Hildláf set a pair of plates and forks out on her little dining table then scooped two fried eggs onto each.

"For fried eggs, I could sit a horse like this!" He laughed, knotted the blanket awkwardly at his hip and limped over to the table. He'd have abandoned all propriety and scooped up the eggs with his fingers, were it not for Hildláf's bemused stare. He cleared his throat and picked up his fork. "My thanks again, madam." He nodded almost formally before he took his first bite. Hildláf watched him as he ate, not quite hungry herself.

"It's odd." She said suddenly. Boromir looked up at her with a mouthful of eggs. He did not speak, but his eyes were questioning. "I was surprised when I saw Cuanil lying there with you. We don't get passerby around here very often, but when we do, he's not very fond of the men folk. Understandable of course, since he knows only me and his dam as his own. He barks, he whines, he cringes or outright runs away, but you," a smile twitched at the corner of her mouth, "you he sniffed out and likes you, for some reason. Of course there's no knowing why, he is a dog of course, and I suppose they take to their own." She joked at his expense and he nearly choked on the tea she'd set before him earlier.

"That's not so very surprising," Boromir considered. Hildláf had meant it as a joke, but there was some truth to it. "I am often told that as a baby, I visited often with the litter of puppies born to my father's bitch hound. He often said that I'd crawl into their big basket and fall asleep there." He wondered if there was some connection between those early moments of his life and these later, darker times. Like as not, Cuanil had simply sniffed out something he liked or picked up on his dam's and his mistress's acceptance of the Gondorian and set his reservations by the wayside. Something touched his elbow and he looked down to find Cuanil there, setting his large head on Boromir's thigh.

"Well, that is strange!" Hildláf got up and looked around the table. Haunwyn rolled her eyes from her comfortable spot fireside to make sure her strangely acting pup wasn't causing trouble.

"Perhaps he's come a-begging?" He picked up a scrap of egg and held it in front of the dog's nose. One look in those cloudy brown eyes told Boromir that Cuanil wasn't interested. "I can't figure it out." Boromir patted the wiry head, completely relaxed and content as it rested there. He couldn't figure out what had driven the dog to take to him so. He'd never touched or petted him, never handed him a scrap, nothing! What inspired this sudden display of affection?

Over the next day and the following Cuanil was like a shadow to Boromir as he recovered. He was glad of the company as he limped about slowly outside and out of Hildláf's range of sight or hearing while she went about her various daily chores. Were he to come to any other injury, he knew Cuanil would run to fetch her. The itching and burning of his skin subsided slowly and Boromir knew it was about time to collect on the promise Hildláf had made to him.

"You are out of your skull young man." Hildláf shook her head as she helped him move a large, beaten copper tub from its previous location in her old storage shed.

"If only I were, Hildláf. I am so ripe I can hardly stand myself!" He said as he picked up the two buckets she was able to provide.

"You are in no condition to be hauling heavy buckets about. Your skin might feel better, but your body has a lot of healing yet to do. What of your head wound? What if you start to feel faint and fall headlong down the well?" Hildláf wrung her hands and fretted as she followed pace for pace behind him as he headed for the door. Boromir could tell that she'd still retained that habit mothers have of constant worrying.

He quickly outpaced her then called back over his shoulder, as Cuanil bounded after, "Don't worry, Cuanil will be with me!"

There was an old well at the edge of what Hildláf had once called her property that her family had shared with another, now long since gone. It was only a short walk, but by the time he'd gone back and forth several times with full buckets, he felt even more admiration for the old woman's fortitude. As Boromir carried the buckets, one in either hand, back and forth from the house to the well, Cuanil circled around him, playfully yipping or dodging back and forth, snapping at flies or other bugs that passed over his head. It took Boromir the better part of an hour to fill the tub to a satisfactory level. Even then, he had to wait for the fire to heat the big tub to some temperature warmer than frigid.

Hildláf had set out drying cloths for him and a blanket to bundle up in afterwards then made her way to the milking shed to do battle with the old cow. Cuanil stayed with Boromir while Haunwyn followed after her mistress.

Boromir hissed as he sank into the blissful but steaming warmth of the tub. Cuanil watched nearby, wary of the whole process. Get wet all over, on purpose? Not for this hound dog! "Yes well you may smell any way you please, as a dog. We Captain-Generals have to at least smell passably clean, outside of battle." Cuanil quirked an unconvinced eyebrow and sank back down to rest his head on his paws. Boromir let his eyes slip closed and took a moment to relax as he was enveloped by warmth. Before the water cooled he picked up the scrap of soap Hildláf left him and rid himself of the grime he'd accumulated over his travels and misadventures. He scrubbed his hair and scalp, freeing the last bits of clinging dried blood.

Just as he was about to stand, Cuanil's ears pricked up and the dog tensed as he focused intently on the door. "What is it boy?" Boromir looked at the dog, suddenly on guard. Horses and dogs, Boromir knew, had senses humans could only dream of and it was best to heed them. There was no time to dress. He wrapped the blanket around his middle, tucked it into itself and picked his sword up from the hearth were it had been propped against his pack. He drew silently as he heard heavy footsteps outside the door and strange, deep, but human voices. Definitely not Hildláf.

The door swung open slowly. Whoever they were, they'd seen a fire going inside but assumed the old woman to be asleep. They hadn't counted on the defenseless woman being safe and oblivious in the milking shed, nor on a battle hardened soldier lying in wait. Boromir waited behind the door and out of sight as the three men, Dunlendings by the look and smell of them, entered warily. Cuanil deepened his growling as he pointed stiffly at the intruders and began to bark loudly as they reached forward, trying to entice him with what Boromir assumed was the Dunland version of "nice doggy".

Cuanil had had enough. Once the hand was close enough, the dog released his pent up energy and lunged, ready to bite. He'd hunted most of his young life all through these hills and his reaction time was quick and decisive. A human's reaction time is no more or less than that of a hare or pheasant, so Cuanil got what he reached for. Sharp teeth clamped down on the man's hand and before he could lash out to detach the animal, Boromir sprung out from behind the door, got in close and smashed the pommel of his sword into the bridge of the man's nose, breaking it instantly. He stumbled back through the narrow doorway, falling atop one of his friends. Boromir didn't waste a second. While the first was occupied with Cuanil and his broken nose and the second was trapped beneath his friend, Boromir engaged the now much more prepared third man. His short sword may have been crude, but the Dunlending knew how to use it. It took Boromir time to get past the man's defense, but once he managed to graze his opponent, the outmatched brigand turned tail and ran. Finding the only sword-bearing member of their small raiding party suddenly gone, the two on the ground picked themselves up and chased after him, leaving their clubs where they lay. Cuanil chased after.

"Cuanil, heel!" Boromir shouted, and the dog slowed, circled around and ran back barking excitedly. Then he heard the commotion from the direction of the milking shed. He could hear Hildláf shouting something unintelligible, Haunwyn's barking and sharp whinnies from Hasudel. Cuanil bounded from Boromir's side towards the milking shed. Boromir followed as fast as he could while holding the dragging ends of the blanket with one hand, sword in the other.

No subterfuge this time. Boromir's quick scan of the room saw Hildláf in the corner against the wall while Haunwyn's jaws lodged in a man's calf. This Dunlending was young, hardly out of his teens with the barest hint of a beard on his face. He hardly noticed Boromir enter, so painful was Haunwyn's crushing grasp on his leg. He struggled and kicked and fell to the ground, but still she held tight. Finding his work half done, Boromir set the tip of his sword at the youth's throat. Haunwyn relaxed her grip. "Speak the common tongue, lad?" Boromir asked, keeping a fixed glance on the form sprawled out on the ground. As far as Boromir could see, the boy carried no weapon. His query returned only an acidly defiant stare.

"I didn't think so. Either you've no common or you're playing dumb, doesn't matter to me, so long as you behave." Boromir's sword tip never wavered for a moment. "So, you come in here, let your older friends search the house while you try to lift the pretty gray gelding you saw the old woman rescue. You've been keeping watch, but you didn't tell your friends about it, did you? Nor about the soldier that came in with it?" Boromir suspected the youth had waited for the opportune moment to try and steal Hasudel, while his "friends" were busy with the stranger, if he was even still alive, in the house.

"Boromir." Hildláf was suddenly at his elbow with the dogs in tow. Her gaze was fixed on the young Dunlending. "I want to bandage his leg." Boromir was aghast.

"He could have killed you!" He argued. One look back at the captive made him realize just how wrong he was. This was no murderer, just a hotheaded boy seeking a thrill and a fancy mount to show off back home. He was a thief, perhaps, but no killer. Boromir lowered his sword slowly, but kept his eyes on the youth and sighed. "Have you some rope in here, or a halter?" He asked. Hildláf took his meaning instantly. The worn out old rope lead to Dunlie's halter, long since tossed aside (the cow hardly left the shed these days) served well to restrain the Dunlending's wrists.

Once the boy was securely tied at the wrists, Boromir bent in close to him, face to face. "You listen well. Even though you deserve a good flogging for trying to steal my horse and a kick in the pants for scaring Hildláf's cow and I daresay her half to death, this good woman is going to fix your leg. I take it you're smart enough not to make trouble?" Boromir looked for any sign of recognition in the thief's eyes and found none. "Damn." He cursed and looked aside to think for a moment. He looked to Hildláf. "You don't speak Dunlending, do you?"

The woman seemed almost affronted at first, but then gathered herself together and replied, "A little." She called for the youth's attention and then lapsed into a manner of stilted, strange words. Obviously, it had been a long time since Hildláf had used any of the Dunlending speech.

However garbled her translation of Boromir's warning must have been, it got through. The youth's mouth hung agape, then he nodded vehemently and offered what Boromir assumed must have been his thanks. Hildláf nodded to Boromir, and he helped the Dunlending to his feet and got one of his arms over his broad shoulders. The going back to the cottage was slow, as Boromir had to hold onto the Dunlending with one hand and hold his improvised garment together with the other. By the time they traversed the short distance, the bottom of the blanket was soiled from dragging through the dirt. Cuanil and Haunwyn walked close by, keeping cautious, wary eyes on the new stranger; Cuanil in particular did not like him at all.

To Be Continued…