Notes: Ok, I lied. This won't be the last chapter. Everything kind of winds down in this chapter, but it still needs an epilogue.

This whole fic has become so much more than I originally planned. I thought to write a little gap filler, something just to entertain, but this chapter takes a little leap that I'm not sure I would have considered in the beginning, i.e., this chapter (at least the meat of it) is not the lighthearted stuff of the earlier two. For some reason I had to jump into values and misconceptions; I think I've been reading a bit too much philosophy, or maybe it's just because I'm sick.

Fire Ants

By Rosemary for Remembrance

Chapter 3: Trust

"Ghûn."

The Dunlending continued to say as he gestured to himself. Now fully clothed and seated in Hildláf's rocking chair while she tended the Dunlending on the raised pallet, Boromir focused on petting Cuanil's head while it rested in its now customary spot on his thigh. He was beginning to lose his patience.

"Yes, I understand. Your name is Ghûn." He nodded once more in confirmation and rolled his eyes. "Hildláf, are you almost finished with that dressing?" The boy, or Ghûn, as Boromir realized he should think of him by now, had deep puncture wounds in his left calf where Haunwyn's jaws had clamped down. The older woman gave him another shake of her head and a "Tsk tsk," just as she had the four other times Boromir had asked her the same question. As she quietly conversed with Ghûn in the Dunlending tongue, Boromir tried to keep his suspicious eyes off of the seemingly harmless youth and concentrate on remaining as nonthreatening as possible. Cuanil seemed to pick up on his mood; the adrenaline rush hadn't subsided for either of them. Boromir, for one, wasn't used to watching as his enemies were bandaged up and cared for after a battle (albeit a small one) and Cuanil looked as if he wanted something else to bite. No matter how repentant (and conveniently tied up) Ghûn was, neither dog nor man was ready to stand down his guard. At one point during the course of the evening, Ghûn had reached out to steady the bowl Hildláf had placed precariously on the table for only a moment. This was far too close for comfort for Cuanil, who barked and bared his teeth threateningly. Ghûn looked traumatized.

In Boromir's mind, it was bad enough that the Dunlendings were untrustworthy, aloof, secretive horse-thieves whose allegiances were shady at best. After the events of that night, he'd never be able to travel north through Dunland without constant worry; if this was the behavior of undisciplined, rash youths, what did it say about their elders? How many horse thieves and cutthroats would he have to dodge on his way north, and what about Hildláf? How could he leave, knowing that this wouldn't be the last time she would encounter the Dunlendings? Rash boys with adventure and a pretty prize in mind these might have been, but Boromir knew that there were thieves out there who would kill a beggar for the few coins he'd received in a day; how long would she last against brigands like that? The world was becoming a wilder place by the day, especially in backwater places like Hildláf's old charcoal burner's hut and she wouldn't be able to count on the help of a strange soldier for much longer.

"All finished!" Hildláf's relieved exclamation broke through Boromir's reverie and made Cuanil's ears pick up in surprise. "A night's rest and you'll be able to limp home in the morning," she said in common before she realized it, and then quickly translated for the wounded youth.

Boromir was not pleased with Hildláf's plans for the young man. "Hildláf," he tried to make the old woman see reason, "he mustn't stay here any longer than is necessary. I say he limps home now. If he isn't home before morning, his friends will come looking for him." Boromir hoped Hildláf would show more of that prudent sense she had earlier and agree with him. He had no time for misplaced generosity or compassion that could get them both killed.

Hildláf, unfortunately, did not see eye to eye with her rescued soldier. Instead, she attempted to make him see reason. "Boromir," she began in that matronly tone that reassured and nearly castrated him at the same time, "the boy's defenseless; he won't make it far in the dark alone. Besides," she busied herself with clearing away the pan of hot water and the extra strips of linen she'd used as bandages, "if his friends come looking for him, I'll just hand him over. There's no reason for any hard feelings and besides; this could finally put me on good terms with the Dunlendings nearby who, as you must realize, are just as much my neighbors as the Rohirrim. They might raid, they might steal, but if I do this, they might at least leave me in peace." Hildláf had spent her entire life on the fringes between Rohan and Dunland; she'd been strong for as long as she could and brave, but now, of all things, she was tired. She didn't want to have to worry about staying on her little patch of property, to make sure anything of value was carefully hidden, to listen in the night for the sound of footsteps of the smell of torches.

Ghûn's eyes darted back and forth between the mix-blood woman and the tall, dark-haired man. He knew, even if he didn't speak their strange tongue, that they were arguing about him. He feared the dark haired man's bright sword and his steady hand and at the same time was comforted by the mixed woman's kindness. Had a youth of the straw-haired people trespassed on their soil, the Dunlendings would no doubt kill them, sell them, or keep them in captivity. Their people had always kept to themselves, shunning the rule of the golden-haired riders or the gray-eyed kings who came before them. They managed as best they could in isolated groups and times were looking up for them recently, especially while the White Wizard kept his servants from interfering in their affairs.

Boromir, now standing and in the midst of pacing, was oblivious to Ghûn's growing fear and couldn't keep his voice from rising in frustration. "You really think it will be that simple? You aren't so naive Hildláf." He hoped an appeal to her wealth of experience would do the trick. "Ghûn may be just some stupid boy, but his friends aren't. They might have been cowards, but one of them was ready to stick me with that crude blade of his; he handled it like he knew how to use it. They were surprised, but they will be ready next time."

Hildláf's tone was cold. "I wouldn't expect a soldier to understand, but sometimes kindnesses are repaid in like kind, even between enemies." She wrung out the wet cloths she'd used to clean Ghûn's wound over the pan, her grip like a vise, her knuckles nearly white.

"Civil enemies, yes," Boromir pleaded on, "but these are not civil people. They will kill you, and then take what they can; you are expendable to them."

"You think you know so much!" Hildláf snapped as she tossed the refuse linen on the floor with a damp slap. "You think you understand me, how I live. You are strong; you might be able to get away with cynical distrust of anything and everything. I'm a weak old woman Boromir; I have to trust in someone, something. I have to have faith that this world hasn't gone to the orcs and the dark, wild things I bar my door against at night and no matter how much you might try to remain self-sufficient and keep yourself from relying on the kindness of others, if it weren't for a stranger and her two dogs, you'd still be in that ditch, most likely dead from exposure and your own stubborn pride!"

Ghûn looked from man to woman again; he need not know any of their language to feel the weight of the heated words that had just been exchanged. The man looked hurt, the woman seemed angry with herself for her atypical tone but equally as silent. The grey old bitch that'd bitten him hung close around her mistress' legs, while the younger dog whined, shifting intelligent brown eyes from human to human. He didn't know the specifics of their argument, but he knew that it must have concerned him. The man's face was an emotionless mask. He was very still after she'd finished her tirade, but in that moment he walked towards the door and stepped out into the night air, Cuanil following behind. At length, Ghûn broke the silence that seemed to fill the room after he left.

"I will leave tonight, good-widow. I can tell my people there is nothing worth taking from you, to leave you in peace, that you helped me. Let me go now, so I can stop them from coming back here. It will not be good if they do." Ghûn only hoped his word would be enough. His three friends had entered the hut and had most likely seen that there were things worth stealing. Her possessions were neither pretty nor valuable, but they were useful nonetheless.

Hildláf wanted to protest, to tell him to stay and rest, if not for his own good then at least to hold her own against Boromir's unwanted advice, but she could not keep him against his will. Hildláf nodded to Ghûn and helped him stand up. She gave him one of her own walking sticks and it seemed sufficient support. He whispered his thanks and gave her a sad, knowing look. He felt sorry for being the source of strife between her and the dark-haired man. Hildláf watched him walk out the door alone, knowing there was little she could do past that point.

Ghûn did not see the man as he limped towards home until he came to the very edge of what the woman knew as hers. He was seated on the edge of an old well, holding a stick momentarily before he tossed it out into the darkness, Cuanil hot on the pursuit. For a moment, Ghûn was afraid to pass by. The man still had his sword and Ghûn remembered how sharp and bright the tip was at his throat only an hour before. Without knowing the man's tongue, there was no way he could communicate any apology or reassurance. Instead, he paused in front of the seated man and held out his right hand.

Even with an aching, itching, pustule covered dorsal epidermis, Boromir managed to achieve his usual swift pace without much trouble. All he cared about at that moment was putting as much distance between him and the old woman he'd come to think of as matronly, experienced and wise. He couldn't help thinking about what repercussions her actions would have; what if she was killed, the two dogs cut down in her defense, the poor, inane old cow slaughtered for its likely stringy meat, her neat little cottage torched? She knew as well as he did that it was a definite possibility and yet she refused to do the right thing and listen to him. Hildláf would become just another one of the numerous people he'd failed to save. So many times he'd tried, he'd fought and bled and starved, fighting to give people just that extra bit of time they needed to escape, and what did they do? They waited, they bided their time, they stuck their heads in the ground and their feet in the mud, barricaded themselves in their homes, for what? The misguided notion that they'd be spared, that the enemy would just move past, ignore them and leave them be? It didn't happen that way, it never did. His back protested violently as he bent down to pick up a stick as he made his way towards the well. Why he'd headed that way he didn't know. He took a minute to sit on the ledge and rest from the exertion then tossed the stick into the shadows created by the full moonlight. Cuanil bounded off, trusting his friend to wait for him to return with the stick.

He heard the crunch of uneven footsteps on the ground; so the Dunlending was leaving that night! He didn't know if it was because Hildláf had given in or due to Ghûn's own initiative, but either way he felt oddly humbled. He hoped though, that the boy would continue to limp past. Boromir knew that Ghûn was obviously aware of his distrust, so why in the name of the Tree was the boy offering his hand?

Elbows braced against his thighs, Boromir looked up at the youth, backlit by the full moon. He couldn't make out his features; in that light he could have been male, female, Dunlending, Rohirrim, Gondorian, a man of the north, or a human, an elf or a dwarf, for that matter. The Captain-General stood and towered over the would-be horse thief. From this vantage point, Boromir could see his face. His expression was worried, but hopeful. His hand remained suspended; waiting for a sign of forgiveness, acceptance, or blessing, Boromir didn't know which, but he knew the youth wouldn't leave without it.

Cuanil returned and dropped the stick at both of their feet, waiting only for his sign of acceptance – another toss. He looked up and back and forth from the man he'd accepted to the man who waited.

"They live the only way they know how."

"One could say the same for orcsThey are still our enemies, Faramir."

"I know, Boromir. They make a conscious decision to do evil, but they are still men."

Ghûn felt a strong, steady, calloused hand enclose his own. The grip was strong, firm, but it did not inflict pain. The grip did not condemn or say "I approve," the grip said "I know."

Hildláf watched from within the dimly lit perimeter around her hut as two silhouettes shook hands. She hid a secret smile with her hand as the shorter figure reached down to pick something up off of the ground, mere inches from the paws of the dog, and tossed it away into the night, the lighthearted spirit not far behind. Ghûn's figure slowly grew smaller and obscured against the night as he continued on his way as Boromir stood sentinel and watched his departure.

Boromir showed no signs of surprise when Ghûn's hand passed by Cuanil's nose without as much as a growl from the canine. Just as Cuanil had studied Boromir and accepted him in his own way, so too had Boromir passed that acceptance on to this fellow stranger; an impermanent figure in the daily life of the dog, but necessary to find a place for anyway. When Ghûn's shape had completely disappeared and Cuanil had returned with the elusive stick which was so like all of the others, save for the mark of his friends' scent upon it, Boromir turned towards the hut, not with the heavy heart of a man who must make an apology, but with the lightened spirit of a man who had learned something new.

TBC...