A/N: Finally! I finally got past my block on this chapter! :D
More depressing, angsty stuff, I'm afraid. Welcome to the wonderful world of the teenage fic author (who appears to have picked up a bit of a thing for torturing Boromir).
Concrit, as always, is love. This chapter's not beta'd yet, but it's in the works.
Oh, yeah, and I forgot to mention. From hereon out, there may be a few things that are a bit weird, that might not quite fit in with the story as you've read it so far. That's mainly because I made some fairly massive edits to Chapter 2, which you might not have noticed. That's the only reason.
4
Stunned silence hung in a pall over the Grey Company as they stared into the boat, at the cooling meat that, not a moment ago, had been a living, breathing man.
Nick had paled, his skin almost grey under his shallow tan. Boromir's jaw was tight, but tears still escaped his proud grey eyes. Legolas' head was bowed, as was Gimli's. The hobbits seemed unable to do anything but stare, disbelieving, at the bloodied corpse.
It could not be.
It hung in the air, as certainly as if it had been spoken.
It could not be.
Their leader… their companion… their protector. Their friend. He had seemed somehow eternal, the Númenorean blood that flowed in his veins lending him an air of immutability. Somehow, to whatever level, they had all believed that he would live forever. Even Legolas, who had seen so many years long before the Númenorean's birth, had somehow expected him to live.
And yet he had not. And yet he had been the second to fall.
Tears swelling in his eyes and flooding down his pale cheeks, Nick turned away first, his hand over his mouth, and vomited copiously into the river. Silent and dry-eyed, Gimli reached across, putting one hand gently on the boy's shaking shoulders.
"Nor lost iâ, nuin orod, dan rana law padamar," Legolas said, without looking up. "He who was first among us is fallen. His road took him over mountains and through the deepest shadowed ways, yet never led him home. We must carry his light with us as we travel, in our hearts, lest the same fate now befalls us." He looked up then, his eyes fixed on the dead man in the boat, and reached over to lift Anduril onto Aragorn's chest. "Novaer, mellon. Farewell, friend. May the river take you home, where your legs could not." Kissing his fingertips, he touched them lightly to his friend's brow, already beginning to take on the featureless, characterless pallor of death.
"He was a poet," Merry said hoarsely, after a moment. "A poet, and a soldier, and the King come again. I'm not much for fancy speeches, but this I'll say, clear as you like; I've never seen his like before, and I don't think I shall again."
"I would have gone with him to the end of our road," Boromir said, his voice choked with unshed tears. "Together we should have stood at the walls of the White City. His kingdom. His home." Closing his eyes, he swallowed, hard, and stood up. The boat rocked, looking for a moment as though it would pitch him into the white-flecked river, but he regained his balance quickly, stepping onto the hard spit of rock. The water thundered around his ankles. "Now Rauros must take him there, and alone. An ill dawn shone on this day. It should have been I who fell!" A little colour returning to his cheeks, he reached into the boat, pulling out his pack and Aragorn's, and passed them both to Legolas, who took them solemnly. Then, sighing, Boromir bent to cup water in his hands, washing the worst of the blood off Aragorn's still, dead face. The rest of the Company watched steadily, unable to tear their eyes away, as he set the body neatly at the bottom of the boat, arms crossed over his chest and the Elfstone which Galadriel had given him set neatly upon his breast. With the blood gone, the dead man looked almost serene, as though he was satisfied with his work.
"May we meet again some day, Elessar of the line of Númenor," Boromir said softly, leaning over to kiss Aragorn's cold brow. "Isildur's death should not have been thine, for all that his blood ran in thy veins. Rest now, friend. It is my transgression, not thine, which leads us thence down so dark a path."
Smiling thinly, though tears were still trailing down his weathered cheeks, he fell to one knee beside the boat, as a man before his king, and bowed his head in silence for the briefest of moments, then stood and pushed the boat, with its tragic cargo, away from the spit of rock.
Every eye was drawn inexorably to the silver-grey boat, as it hung for a moment on the edge of the waterfall, then suddenly vanished from view.
"Fly, you fools," Pippin whispered, putting his hand over his eyes. His eyes sparkling with tears, Merry put a comforting arm around his younger cousin's shoulders, and they both bowed their heads. A shadow seemed to have passed over them all.
"Haste now is needed," Boromir said suddenly, straightening up. "We cannot hope to have diverted the Orcs for long. We must take what we can – all that we can – and swim for the shore. Rope. We must have rope."
Legolas nodded briefly, plucking a coil of rope from the bottom of the boat.
"If we tie ourselves together, with luck, we shall all be able to cross," Boromir said, holding his hand out for the rope. But Legolas did not give it to him.
"We could," he said cautiously, regarding the distance to the bank a little dubiously. "Or we could all be dragged down by the weaker swimmers, and all crash over Rauros together."
Boromir nodded, sighing. "Then have you a better plan?" he asked, sounding defeated.
"If a strong swimmer could make it across the water alone," the Elf replied thoughtfully, gauging the distance against the length of rope he held, "perhaps he could make the rope fast against one of those trees. Then, if we could hold it against this edge, it would give those unused to swimming, or unfit, a line to hold as they crossed."
Boromir nodded. "Then I will go."
Legolas shook his head, frowning. "A doughty Man you may be, Boromir son of Denethor, but you are sore wounded, and I would ill lose you as we have lost Aragorn. I will go. I am but lightly wounded, and I swim as strongly as any Man." Already, he was wrapping the light Elvish rope around his waist, knotting it tightly. "If you will, though, wait until the last to cross, and tie the rope to the prow of the boat. With all of us at once, no doubt we have a chance of retrieving that, as well."
Taking the rope he was now offered, Boromir stepped over the remaining boat in two steps, squatting down on the other end of the rock and feeling for somewhere suitably secure to fasten his end of the rope. When he had apparently found one, he returned to the boat, the difficulty of keeping his balance becoming more and more obvious with every step he took, and sat down heavily as Legolas climbed nimbly out, the rope fixed securely to his waist, and dived off the edge of the rock, into the roiling waters.
For a moment, he was lost to view. Then, as suddenly as he had gone, he reappeared, several feet downstream. He was not struggling, and his strong, steady strokes pushed him forwards as well as anyone could hope, but the current was stronger than they had reckoned it to be, and at the rate he was going, he would soon be perilously close to the edge of the falls.
Boromir briefly considered pulling the rope back – better to be trapped for now than to lose another companion, with Aragorn's blood still cloying on his hands – but even as he thought it, Legolas' feet found solid ground, and he stood, though buffeted by the current, and waded ashore. From that, it was but a few moments to secure the rope at either end, and the others began their journey ashore.
Merry went first, and crossed with little hazard, although his face was pale and his knuckles were white from gripping the rope so tightly. After him Pippin and Gimli, too, crossed with no mishap. It was only as Boromir helped Nick towards the rope, almost lifting him, that he began to doubt, and by the time the doubt grew to fear, it was too late. The boy was out of reach, although only just, when his strength gave out, and his grip began to loosen. From then, it was a few seconds at most before his panicked scream split the air, the rope slipping out of his hand, and the water surged over his head.
Boromir glanced back at the rope, as if checking that it was secured, but he knew it didn't matter. It could have been flapping loose entirely, and still he would have had to do what he did. He was in the water almost before Legolas and Merry had even started forwards, and by the time they landed with a splash in the water, he had reached Nick's flailing form, one arm wrapped strongly around the boy's narrow chest. Gasping for air, he kicked out as hard as he could against the current, feeling his own strength drain away with every move he made. Around them, the foaming water was threaded with the pink of their blood, and Nick went on thrashing in his grasp like a fish out of water, screaming with every breath he took, until Boromir half-wished to let him go, let him drown.
Just as Boromir felt about to give in altogether, sure that he was making no progress, sure that they were both about to perish in the cold, swirling waters beneath Rauros, Nick's hand snagged the rope, more by chance than judgement. Seizing the opportunity, Boromir snatched upwards, clinging onto the rope for dear life with one hand, while he clung onto Nick with the other. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, and he felt certain that his own strength would give out before they could reach even the relative safety of the rocks. Nonetheless, he persisted, willing himself to reach just a little further, keeping himself afloat somehow as he dragged himself, one-armed, along the smooth rope. Every muscle in his body screamed at him, his wounded shoulder sending streams of fire through his blood so that he had to grit his teeth to keep from screaming. His dark hair hung bedraggled over his face, half-blinding him, but he could not move to brush it away. All he could do was hold the suddenly still form of the boy in the crook of his arm, and pray with all his might that he would reach the boat again before his grip on either boy or rope loosened too far.
The first he knew of reaching the shelf of rock was a sudden, sharp pain in his shin as the current swept him up against it with an almost human malice. Malice or none, though, he knew salvation when he felt it, and he crawled onto the shallow spit of rock, hauling Nick up after him. For a moment, he simply knelt there on all fours, gasping for breath, then he stood. His legs seemed to have lost their bones and their strength together, and it was all he could do not to collapse into the flowing water that splashed around his ankles.
Pulling his hair out of his face, he leant down, head spinning, to help Nick into the boat. When that was accomplished, he staggered to the other end of the rock, where he had tied the rope, and began to fumble at the knot, his fingers numb and stiff.
Not trusting his trembling fingers, he held the end of the rope between his hands as he stumbled back to the boat, collapsing in the prow next to Nick, who looked about to vomit again. "Stupid," he muttered angrily, looking away from the boy and back at the shore, where Legolas had clambered back onto the bank and was directing the rest of the Fellowship to take the rope. Gripping his end of it between his knees, Boromir blew on his fingers to restore some feeling to them, then leant over and made the rope as fast as he could between the seats. Holding it as tightly as his wounded hands and numb fingers would allow, he signaled for Nick to do the same, then nodded, tight-jawed, to Legolas.
Hand-over-hand, from both ends of the rope, the boat was drawn slowly and unsteadily towards the shore. When at last it reached the shore, and was safely pulled aground, Boromir collapsed over the edge of it and onto the dusty ground of Amon Lhaw, then pulled himself to his feet again and frowned at the river.
"Rohan," he said dully. "We must cross the river, and to Rohan. Help me with the boat, Gimli, Legolas. If we can pass Rauros by this evening, we can rest more easily, and cross the river tomorrow." Already, he was unhitching the rope from inside the boat, coiling it neatly. He was just tucking it into his pack and starting back towards the boat when he stumbled and pitched forwards, barely catching himself against Legolas' shoulder.
The elf frowned, and shook his head.
"Patience is my counsel," he said softly, helping Boromir to his feet and holding him there. "You are sorely wounded and exhausted. We would end up carrying you, and that is hardly the best way to proceed."
Reluctantly, Boromir nodded, struggling away from the elf with a sigh. "Then we shall make camp," he agreed, tossing his pack against the roots of a nearby tree. "I…"
But what he would have said, they never knew, for it was at that moment that the darkness rose up behind his eyes, his legs gave out under his own weight, and he simply collapsed, lying there like one of the dead himself.