By the time Minas Tirith was out of sight, darkness was falling. Boromir began to wonder whether he should have waited until the next day to leave; at least then he would have had time to find a camp. Now he had to travel all night long. It was too dark to see whether any place was a suitable place to sleep.

An hour before midnight, Alcarin stopped abruptly, jerking Boromir forward in the saddle.

"What—" Boromir nudged Alcarin in the side with his heel. "Go on, Alcarin. Go on."

Alcarin snorted, tossing his head up and down, side to side. Then he began to back up.

"Alcarin, stop it!" Boromir again tried to get his horse to go forward.

The stallion whickered, still tossing his head. He went forward a few steps, and then shied back, turning in circles.

Something's wrong. Boromir scanned the surroundings with his eyes, but could see nothing. Black clouds had drifted in front of the moon.

When Alcarin paused in his erratic movements, Boromir jumped out of the saddle, landing on the ground. He unsheathed his sword, gripping it tightly and wishing he had some sort of lantern or torch.

There was no sound to be heard save for Alcarin's hooves as he fretfully trotted back and forth. For a fleeting moment, Boromir was relieved that all horses were trained never to run away without their rider's permission.

He stood there for several minutes, listening to his horse and to his own breathing.

Perhaps Alcarin scented something on the wind, Boromir thought. Perhaps there is no immediate danger.

Caught in a moment of indecision, Boromir adjusted his grasp on the hilt of his sword. Should he re-sheathe it, and attempt to go on his way? Or was it a better idea to stay ready for a fight?

No. He could be standing in this same spot all night without any sign of a threat.

Boromir reached down and fumbled with his scabbard for a moment, trying to get it so that he could re-sheathe his sword without cutting himself.

When he was certain that he had the scabbard in the right position, Boromir carefully slid the blade of his sword into it.

Just as he turned around to mount Alcarin once more, several things happened all at once.

The clouds dissipated so that moonlight streamed down.

Boromir saw the terror in Alcarin's eyes.

The horse let out a shrill whinny.

And then Boromir heard a ferocious roar from behind him. He spun around, his hand unsheathing his sword with uncanny speed.

A huge shape hurtled towards him from the shadows. Before Boromir could strike, the mysterious monster had slammed into him, knocking him to the ground.

Boromir let out a yell as sharp claws raked across his left hand. He could smell the reek of rotting meat on the creature's breath.

Desperate, Boromir struggled to get his sword arm free. The beast was trying to sink its teeth into his left arm, but currently failing to, seeing as Boromir was wearing gauntlets as well as a chain mail shirt.

Boromir finally got his right arm free and thrust it forward. The tip of his blade drove into the creature's flesh. It tumbled backwards with a howl.

Breathing heavily, Boromir scrambled to his feet. He could feel warm blood dripping down the back of his left hand.

The monster was in a patch of silvery moonlight. Boromir could see it clearly now.

It was a Warg. Its fur was dark brown and scruffy. It was matted down, and Boromir did not dare to guess what it was matted down with.

The Warg raced forward again, and Boromir dodged to one side, twisting and slashing at the monster as it went past. His blade scored across its side.

With another ear-piercing howl, the Warg skidded to a stop and turned around to stare at Boromir. Its eyes blazed.

Boromir watched it steadily.

The Warg snarled and started to charge forward. Boromir stumbled backwards, holding his sword out in the hopes that the monster would impale itself on the blade.

Then there was a shrill whinny, and Alcarin was suddenly rearing up in front of the Warg, his hooves lashing out in the air.

The Warg froze, hunkering down in a moment of fear as it stared up at Alcarin.

Alcarin came down with crushing force. The Warg let out a yelp, and then went still.

Boromir slowly came forward and prodded the heap of fur with his sword. It did not move. It truly was dead.

Alcarin tossed his head once, as though challenging the motionless creature to come to life again. Boromir reached out and stroked Alcarin's muzzle.

"Courage in battle isn't the only thing they train horses in, is it?" Boromir murmured, tilting his head back slightly to avoid being knocked in the chin by Alcarin, who was bobbing his own head up and down. "Do they train you to fight as well?"

Since Alcarin could obviously not answer, Boromir decided to ask one of the master horsemen when he returned to Minas Tirith.

Boromir re-sheathed his sword for a second time and mounted Alcarin. He could still feel blood, hot and sticky, streaming down his hand. But there was not enough light to examine the damage—he would just have to wait until day came.

*8*8*

Boromir rode on throughout the night. Alcarin never seemed to tire, but Boromir did. Before long, he was sleeping, half-slumped in the saddle, the reins clutched in his hands. If anyone had passed him on the road, they would think him seriously injured.

Eventually, it was the bright sunlight that woke him. He straightened up, shaking his head and blinking drowsily.

At first, he forgot where he was. All he knew was this his hand and arm hurt, his back was sore, and the sunlight was blinding him.

Slowly, though, he began to get his bearings. The Elves at Rivendell summoned me to a meeting…

He glanced down, only mildly surprised to see that his whole forearm was sticky with drying blood. He remembered the Warg.

Strange…Wargs do not usually stray so far out of their own territory, Boromir thought.

He told Alcarin to stop, and then dismounted. Wargs were filthy creatures—who knew what sort of disease Boromir could acquire if he did not mend his wounded arm.

Boromir busied himself with making a fire. Then he went to go fetch water.

He was following Anduin, the Great River. The way was no longer or shorter than if he just went straight across Gondor towards Rohan, and at least he knew he would have plenty of water when and if his supply ran out.

It took him ten minutes to reach the banks of the Anduin on horseback. He walked down onto the rocky shore, leaving Alcarin on a grassy hillock a few hundred yards away.

Once his waterskin was full, Boromir straightened up. He looked around for a minute, taking in the rushing silver water of the Anduin for a moment.

He remembered the first time he had left Minas Tirith to go on a journey. It had felt very strange to leave both his home and familiar surroundings behind; he had been extremely reluctant to go out of sight of the Anduin.

But eventually he had. Now he did it all the time, and thought nothing of it.

Boromir turned around and strode back to where Alcarin was grazing on the grass. A few moments later, he had mounted and was riding back to where he had built his fire.

When he got there, he poured the water into a pan and put it over the fire to boil.

As he waited, Boromir used an old rag to polish the blade of his sword where the Warg's dark blood had marred it.

Boromir paused every so often to glance at Alcarin. If anything threatening approached, Alcarin would be the first to know.

But every time Boromir looked, Alcarin continued to munch on the grass, showing no sign of worry.

Boromir leaned over and took the pan off of the fire. He set it on the ground and put a few strips of fabric into the hot water to soak. He always carried a few old cloth pieces for use as bandages—they never failed to come in handy.

He rolled up both the sleeve of his chain mail shirt and the sleeve of his red tunic to examine the wound.

There were four jagged gashes in the back of his hand, and a few small puncture wounds in his arm where the Warg had managed to bite him. Most of the blood came from the claw marks on his hand.

Boromir used one of the pieces of cloth in his pack to wipe off most of the blood.

A few seconds later, Boromir used a small stick to fish the bandages out of the hot water. He waited for the excess water to drip off, and then took the strips of fabric into his hand.

They were still hot, but not painfully so. Gingerly, Boromir wrapped one of the strips around his hand and then tied it off. He winced, biting back a hiss of pain. Then he did the same to the bite marks on his arm.

When he was finished, Boromir kicked dirt over the fire to put it out. He placed the pan and waterskin back into his pack.

Then he mounted Alcarin and urged the horse into a brisk walk.