Chapter 22
After a hot meal, (though not quite as tasty as Anaril's cooking), the lead Warden of Calenhad, Taurenil, explained that they had sent a messenger of their own to Min-Rimmon, and news of Boromir's return to Gondor would pass down the line in that fashion until it reached Minas Tirith and the Steward. They could rest assured that they were expected at every beacon along their way. Mel felt a little relieved by that. It meant the Wardens were prepared for the arrival of guests. A room had already been made ready for her and she was assured that it was no bother at all.
In fact nothing seemed to be a bother here. Calenhad couldn't have been more different from Halfirien, where everything was solemn and reflective and hardly anyone ever spoke above a whisper. The men of Calenhad joked and laughed boisterously, trading stories, pouring ale, and just generally having a good time. And Mel still managed to feel out of place somehow. It wasn't that they were unkind to her exactly. It was more like she had been invited to a boys' only club and they just didn't know what to do with her, so they simply talked around her. And it wasn't as if she had anything to add to the conversation so she let them, trying to smile and nod in the right places. Boromir had no trouble at all jumping in and telling his own stories, mostly about people and places she had never heard of. Eventually, Mel's mind started to drift.
She wondered about Legolas. At first it startled her how quickly the elf came to her mind. She did some quick calculations in her head and realized that he and the others had spent the day in Isengard. She shuddered, but quickly suppressed it, glancing around to make sure no one had noticed. She also felt a little guilty, leaving no word for Legolas with the hobbits at least. She hoped he wasn't too worried, and that Merry and Pippin had been able to ease his mind if he was. After all, He was probably the only one of the entire company who had even given her a second thought. She and Gimli weren't exactly friends, and Gandalf and Aragorn weren't her biggest fans either. She couldn't imagine the fit Gandalf would throw if he knew about Boromir. In fact, he probably already knew, which mean Mel could look forward to the ass-chewing of her life when they finally met again in Minas Tirith.
Thinking of Minas Tirith and epic ass-chewings brought on another surprising thought.
Denethor.
Up until now she hadn't spared much thought for the Steward, but if she were honest with herself, he made her a little nervous. He was a loose cannon, unpredictable and possibly more than a bit crazy, and she was the only one who knew just how far he was capable of falling. She hadn't said anything to Boromir yet, using the excuse that he hadn't actually asked, but really she was just trying to buy time. Besides, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Boromir was back, alive and well, and that was good, right? Sure there was some weird girl tagging along, but strange things happened all the time around here. It would all be fine. No reason to worry.
Right?
The truth was Mel didn't know what she was going to do if Denethor went off the deep end. And even scarier than that, she didn't know what Boromir would do. After all, it was his dad and he was the favorite son. His natural instinct would be to side with his father.
Before she could successfully work herself up into a full-blown panic, a sound jerked her back to the present.
Thwack!
Mel jumped and looked around, trying not to appear as dazed as she really was.
Thwack!
It looked like the men had started a game while she had been staring off into space. A few of them were standing on the far side of the fire, a box sitting on a barrel across from them, painted with three concentric white circles with a large dot in the center, like a target. There were two daggers already embedded in the side of the box, one close to the dot and the other squarely in the second ring. The soldiers all watched as the next man gripped a third dagger, his eyes narrowed in concentration. He turned the blade over and over in his hand as if visualizing the turns it would make in the air.
One of the men shouted, "Oh come, Hurion! Just throw and be done with it!"
The other men laughed loudly, but Hurion only smiled, never taking his eyes from the box. Finally, he lifted his hand and, in what looked like an almost careless gesture, he threw the knife. It whirled through the air and embedded itself squarely in the middle of the box with a satisfying thwack. The other men all seemed to find this hysterically funny, except for one, a large, burly man whose face was turning an extraordinary shade of furious red.
"Farothnil! Pay the man!" one of the Wardens shouted jovially, raising a tankard.
The red-faced man jammed a fist into his pocket and tossed Hurion a gold coin before he stomped off in the direction of the sleeping cabins. Everyone was still cackling madly, even Boromir was chuckling to himself. Mel leaned over to whisper in his ear, trying not to draw attention to herself.
"He's not a very good loser, is he?"
Boromir shook his head as he swallowed a mouthful of ale.
"No, Farothnil was never a very good loser. I served with him on a border patrol once and we spent evenings playing cards. He never once paid up graciously. Of course he never expected the rest of us to pay up graciously either, though we always did. He doesn't mean anything ill by it. He just has a very competitive nature."
Boromir finally looked at her squarely and the smile slid off his face.
"You've been very quiet this evening," he said, "Is everything alright?"
Mel forced a smile.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired, I guess."
Boromir looked like he might call her bluff, but Taurenil happened to hear her and spoke up first.
"You are welcome to turn in for the evening if you wish, Lady Melody," he said as he stood and brushed off his trousers, "Come, I'll show you to your room."
Mel smiled gratefully and followed the Warden to one of the small cabins at the farthest edge of the camp. The cabins at Calenhad held only one small room each, large enough for four single beds and not much else. Mel's cabin was empty of course, her bag already deposited on one of the beds. She thanked Taurenil again for his hospitality and he left, shutting the door softly behind him.
Once he was gone, Mel realized she actually hadn't lied to Boromir. She really was tired. She tossed her cloak and her sword onto the floor and crawled under the blankets, expecting to simply close her eyes and drift off. It didn't happen. For a while she just lay there, watching the light from the campfire dance on the ceiling, listening to the indistinct chatter and laughter of the men, waiting for her eyes to close and for sleep to overtake her. She tried to distinguish Boromir's voice in the noise, even though it was impossible to be sure of individual voices at this distance. She listened to the trees whispering to each other, telling stories of older times, when the world was new and covered in green. Finally, as the last sounds of the camp died away and the light dulled to a weak glow, Mel was forced to admit that she was afraid. She was afraid to fall asleep.
She got up quietly and slipped out of the building, tugging her cloak around her against the chill night air. She shivered and sat close to the smoldering remains of the fire. All the men were gone now, either standing watch or sleeping. Mel wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees, staring absently into the embers. It wasn't really the sleep she was afraid of. She was afraid of what came with it, the inevitable nightmares, afraid of the fear itself.
She stared blankly into the night for several long moments before she realized what she was staring at. The wooden box target still sat just inside the dying glow, the three knives still embedded there, forgotten. The metal glimmered as an ashy white log cracked and collapsed, temporarily bringing the fire back to life. Mel got up and walked over to the target. How in the world had they gotten those things in there? Was it really that easy? Just a flick of the wrist and you were done?
She grabbed one of the handles and gently worked the blade free of the box. She examined the deep gouge in the wood. Then she pulled the other two daggers loose and took a few steps back, eying the target with apprehension. She twisted the handle in her palm absently, trying to wipe away all other thoughts from her mind, leaving nothing but the three circles surrounding that big white dot. Finally, before she could change her mind, she lifted her hand and tossed the knife, as carelessly as she had seen Hurion do it.
There was a loud thunk and an earth-shattering clatter as the knife fell to the rocks underneath the box.
"Shit!" Mel squeaked as she scrambled over and snatched up the knife which had already fallen silent against the stones.
She glanced around to see if anyone had heard, but there was no movement. The camp remained still and silent. Mel let out the breath she'd been holding and then put her shoulder to the barrel the box was sitting on, shoving it a little closer to the fire and away from the stones that had caused so much racket in the soundless night air. Then she walked back a few paces and lined up to throw again. She took a deep breath and cleared her head, seeing only the target, feeling only the handle of the knife in her hand. She tossed. Another dull thunk, but at least this time when the knife tumbled to the ground it landed in the dirt. She picked it up again and went back for her third try.
Then her fourth.
Then she lost count, the monotonous action of throwing and retrieving the knife hypnotic and strangely soothing. She gave up on careless. Instead she tried being as careful as possible, concentrating on the target, the weight of the dagger, the speed and strength of her throws, meticulously trying several different angles and techniques. She still only got a dull thunk for her troubles. Her arm was starting to get tired, but she lined up again, for what felt like the millionth time. She stopped. She stared. She threw.
Thunk.
"Damn," she muttered, as she bent to retrieve the knife, "Damn it to hell."
"It won't happen overnight, you know."
Mel jerked in surprise and then sighed. It was Boromir's voice in the darkness. She wondered how long he had been watching her pathetic attempts. She carefully placed the knife on top of the box before she forced herself to look at him.
Well, at least he was dressed, if only in undershirt and trousers.
"Did I wake you up again?" she asked, trying to keep a light-hearted tone to her voice, "And don't say you were already awake."
He smiled, the glow of the embers lighting his face.
"You didn't wake me. I woke on my own and I heard you." His smile faltered, "What troubles your sleep, Melody?"
She scoffed and rolled her eyes to escape his shrewd gaze.
"It's not the sleeping that bothers me."
Boromir sighed and sat on one of the logs surrounding the fire. He reached out a hand for her.
"Melody, come sit with me a moment."
She needed to say no. She could feel some kind of meaningful conversation coming and she wasn't sure that was a good idea. The more meaningful conversations they had, the more it would hurt when it all ended abruptly in a few days. She was having a really hard time keeping any kind of distance between them and he wasn't making it any easier.
But at the moment she couldn't think of any legitimate way to escape. So she sat, but on the other side of the log from him, only barely within arm's reach, and stared resolutely into the red coals. They were silent for several long moments. Mel was in the middle of thinking up an excuse to get out of this, when Boromir finally spoke.
"When my mother died, I lost a part of myself."
Mel's breath caught in her throat and her eyes jerked toward him despite herself, all thought of escape gone from her mind. Boromir only stared into the embers as the words continued to tumble from his mouth.
"It was as if a part of my young soul had been ripped from me. I was ruined and I felt sure I would never be whole again. What was worse, I would lay in my bed at night afraid, afraid because I did not know when Death might come again, what else it might take from me. I think it was the first time I realized all the people I loved were vulnerable. No one would be spared, not even me. I was terrified. I had horrific nightmares. My mother would come to me in my dreams only to be torn away, begging for help that I could not give her. Sometimes others would appear to comfort me and they too were taken. I would wake myself screaming and crying, but I was embarrassed by my weakness so I told no one. My brother was far too young and my father would be ashamed of me. I hid it well. No one suspected anything might be amiss until I dozed off in a Sindarin language lesson and woke screaming. By that time I hadn't slept well in weeks, and not at all for two days."
He took a deep breath and finally looked at Mel, managing a small smile. Mel swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.
"I was a child, I know. I didn't know any better and I let my fear consume and control me." He reached out and covered her hand, "I do not tell you this to say I know how you feel. No one knows that but you. I can tell you however, keeping what you are feeling to yourself out of pride will do more harm than good."
Mel couldn't hold his gaze any longer. She turned away and stared into the dead fire, breathing through her nose, hoping it didn't look like she was so close to crying. Boromir waited only a few seconds longer, then let go of her hand and stood.
"When you are ready to speak, I will listen, without questions or judgment. All you have to do is come to me."
Mel waited until his footfalls faded into silence. Then she slid to the ground and wrapped her arms around her knees, staring into nothing, letting the pleasant chatter of the trees fill her mind. Her thoughts struggled for a long time, fighting amongst themselves, her reason and her heart tying her stomach into knots.
She didn't remember falling asleep, but when the darkness lifted and she found herself in the dungeon, she knew. Even before the door swung open, revealing a grinning wizard and a host of orcs, she knew. Then the nightmare began.