So, this is the second chapter of Saving Boromir! Obviously I don't anything that's Tolkien's. Enjoy!

Clear and dark, the night felt empty to Amela; there were no clouds to block out the endless sky and the silence seemed hollow and thin. Lying on her back by the dwindling fire, she cradled the back of her head in her hands. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her companion striding through the trees towards their small camp.

"I brought some more firewood; it was getting cold." Boromir mumbled as he threw his armful of logs into the flickering flames.

"It was always cold; you were just starting to feel it," Amela teased, "if you really need to warm up, you can wear my cloak." She chuckled as she mockingly started to reach for her pack.

"Don't be ridiculous, woman," snorted Boromir, "I just... I just thought you might need a warmer fire."

Deciding to have a little more fun, Amela carried on taunting the prideful Gondorian.

"I'm sure I'd appreciate the sentiment, if it weren't just a cover up."

"Cover up for what?" He spluttered. Boromir was already starting to regret agreeing to travel with this woman; she was infuriating, "I was just concerned for you, although I see my good intentions were wasted."

"Well in that case, son of Gondor, you needn't worry about me. I've been taking care of myself, alone," she shot Boromir a rare glance, "for long enough to be able to last for a night, without some over confident noble bringing me extra firewood."

Boromir was lost for words; nobody had disrespected him like that before! Seeing the look of surprise on his face, Amela couldn't help but let out a laugh,

"You're far from Gondor, Captain; your station means nothing in these wilds." On that note, the mysterious traveller woman turned away from Boromir and fell into a smugly content sleep.

Unable to think of a suitable retort before she drifted off, Boromir simply pouted by the fire for a few minutes, before giving up and retiring to his own spot in the warm glow of the flames.

When morning broke on Middle Earth the next day, streaks of sunlight breaking through the tree canopy rudely awoke Boromir as he lay by the remains of last night's campfire. Scrunching up his strong face in protest, the captain of Gondor groaned as he fought the urge to fall back into his slumber. Suddenly, a kick to the arm shocked him into full consciousness.

"Ha, how dare the sun be so rude, as to wake the great Captain of The White Tower?" Amela taunted. Laughing as she tossed Boromir's bag – already fully packed – onto his chest, she waited for him to be ready.

"You shouldn't have packed for me; I like to know the pack I'm carrying." Boromir complained as he stood to his full height. Never having paid much attention to his appearance, Amela was somewhat startled by his grand stature; he was certainly over 6 feet tall; he was broad and muscular. His impressive structure was made all the more evident to her by how close the two of them now stood; she would have been seen as above average height – for sure – and more toned than the average woman. But, next the Boromir, she felt slender and light... and she didn't like it. Their gazes met for a second or so, each as stubborn and unyielding as the other. Boromir, only then, noticed the colour of her eyes: so strikingly blue and opalescent, but before he could marvel at them anymore, Amela turned her head slightly to avoid further eye contact.

Boromir sensed her discomfort, and quickly turned away, excusing himself – for actually caring – as he did so,

"You were stood to close to me while I was sleeping." The words tumbled clumsily out of his mouth as he walked a few paces away from her, running his hardened fingers from the roots of his hazel hair right to the tips, which fell just above his broad shoulders.

A slightly dense, awkward atmosphere started to wrap around the two travellers; it would have covered them for hours, if Amela hadn't had a question to pose to her handsome companion.

"What is our route to Minas Tirith? Do we follow the Anduin?" She enquired while once again dismantling their camp.

"No, the journey that way is too difficult. We'll travel West t-"

"But Minas Tirith is South East of here!"

"Let me finish," he commanded with a stern expression. "We'll travel west to avoid the mouths of the Entwash; head toward the Southern border of Eastfold..." He paused, letting Amela take a mental note of the intended path.

"Then eastward, crossing Mering Stream, through Anórien, to approach Minas Tirith from the West?" She guessed.

"... Yes," her knowledge of these lands was unsettling to Boromir; he had hoped to lead, "following the White Mountains, along the Great West Road."

And thus their journey truly began. Boromir walked a few steps behind Amela, admiring the way she so smoothly navigated the landscape. After a short while, they left the forest – that coloured the banks of the River Anduin – behind them, and emerged into wide, open grasslands...

"Rohan..." She whispered.

"Aye, nought but grass and rock as far as the eye can see." Concurred Boromir, as he came up to stand beside her.

They stood there for a few seconds, taking in the vast expanse of open country that lay before their feet. Gazing out at Rohan, Boromir couldn't help but begin to pine for his own homeland, full of rivers, mountains and rolling hills...

"Do you miss it?"

Amela's friendly question snapped Boromir out of his dream, he looked at her quizzically: unsure of what she had asked him.

"Gondor. Do you miss your home?" Turning to look at his face as she asked, she moved so that Boromir could see that her question was genuine.

"I do. Gondor is where I belong: the greatest realm of men."

"And home to the greatest of men." She remarked quietly as she turned to face forward again.

Boromir though, continued to look across at her; take in her physicality. Sleek and defined, her features did seem fairly elvish, but not so pointed as those he had met in Rivendell; her hair – cut only just longer than his own – was not elvish at all. Nor was she as fair in tone as the elves he had met; her skin – while certainly fair – was not as eerily clear as you would expect an elf's to be. No; she seemed more... human, than that. Having sensed his eyes on her, Amela turned to the Captain of The White Tower with raised eyebrows.

"Is something wrong?"

Boromir quickly searched for a way out of admitting what he was truly thinking,

"N-no, just that... we should be heading out; I don't want us to linger in one place too long while it is still light."

"Ah, of course; you're right, we should move." She began to walk again, towards the hazy outline of the White Mountains in the distance, "aren't you coming, Captain? I don't trust you walking all the way back there." She threw him a sly wink and then carried on her way.

Boromir hadn't wanted to walk to close to Amela (he felt he was unwelcome there) but now it seemed she was almost encouraging him...

So they walked, side by side, across the wide grasslands of Rohan. When the end of their journey's first day drew near, they found a suitably large rock jutting out of the dry grass and made camp in its shelter, safe from the biting wind coming down from the mountains, which they could now see a little more clearly. Sat alone by the newly stoked fire, Boromir's thoughts drifted from his home, to his journey from Rivendell, to finding Amela, to the battle in the clearing by the Anduin... right back to the moment before they began to cross Rohan. He remembered the way the chilling wind had whipped through her hair and rippled the stained fabric of her blouse. He remembered how the late morning sun had trickled down her face; the glow of the light on her skin...

"Her eyes..." He whispered. Unable to forget how the gleam in her jewel like irises had captured him, he lingered on that memory: him, her, how close they had been...

"You're a fool, Boromir." He scolded himself for thinking so deeply about her; he hardly knew this woman! Plus, what he did know drove him mad: "she's stubborn, proud, impulsive..." His rant trailed off into the night as he heard footsteps approaching the camp.

"Has my hearing gone awry, or did I just here the son of Denethor talking to his self?" Laughed Amela as she carried back the small kill she had been away hunting for them. Just as he was about to retaliate, something stopped him; he didn't know why, but the only thing his mind would focus on was that a lock of Amela's dark blonde hair had fallen down onto her face and now rested along her nose. She watched him stare at her in the dancing light of their fire, through the darkness of the night. Then, without entirely knowing what he was doing, he slowly stood and crossed the space between with his strong, confident strides, entering Amela's personal space so naturally... They were so close: their bodies almost touching. Boromir bowed his head slightly, and turned hers by gently guiding her chin with his hardened hands. Both of them could feel their breath mixing in the space between them as their eyes met under the starlight. They stayed like this for a short while – not touching, but tantalisingly close – before Boromir finally raised his hand to brush away the disobedient lock of hair and tuck it carefully behind her ear.

"It was covering your face," he explained in a deep, husky whisper, "and I didn't like that."

And then she punched him.

She punched him full in the face, and hard; he staggered backwards (almost into the fire) but managed to catch himself on the rock.

"What do you think you're doing?!" She demanded of him.

"I don't know... I just. The hair and..."

"And I don't know how your women in Gondor behave, but I am not a woman that will fall for your so-called 'charms', captain." Her words bit at him; they were so sharp.

"Oh you needn't worry," he barked back at her, "I don't think I'll ever put myself that close to you again." Gesturing at his bloody nose, he stormed over to his side of the fire, propped his head up on his pack and feigned sleep until he heard the insufferable woman he was forced to travel with fall into slumber on the other side of their camp.