Several days passed without any more signs of trouble. On his sixth day of travelling, Boromir made camp in a place where he could see Cair Andros in the distance.

Cair Andros was a base of sorts where, when battle seemed imminent, the King of Gondor—or, in the current times, Steward—would send a few troops of soldiers to keep guard. It was built on a rather small island that was in the middle of the Anduin.

Boromir sat by the fire, eating his afternoon meal and watching Cair Andros. He did not expect to see anyone there, but it was something to look at.

Alcarin was tethered to a tree branch, calmly eating grass.

Boromir had to admit that he was not looking forward to going through Rohan on his way to Rivendell. He had nothing against the Rohan people; but they did not feel very kindly towards Gondor at the present time.

Boromir knew there was no danger of being attacked by any of the Rohan warriors—he was a lone man, and only held a sword and a horn in his possession. Besides, the Rohan people preferred peace above violence. They would certainly not harm him unless he gave them reason to.

There was a soft whicker from Alcarin, and Boromir looked up sharply, his hand straying towards the hilt of his sword.

But the stallion returned to grazing as though nothing had happened. Perhaps he had merely been startled by a bird or a sound on the wind.

Boromir finished eating, and, after rinsing the plate off with some water from his leather waterskin, put it back in his pack.

Then Boromir got to his feet and walked to the edge of the hill. The incline downwards was steep; he had had to dismount and lead Alcarin up it instead of riding.

He turned his gaze to Cair Andros. As he watched, he was surprised to see a few men milling around in between some of the many columns that lined Cair Andros.

Why would Father post guards there? Boromir wondered, although he already suspected he knew the answer.

Mordor was growing stronger, there was no doubt. Everyone sensed it; now it was getting to the point where Denethor wanted a few men guarding Cair Andros.

A cold wind started up, ruffling Boromir's hair and tugging at the sleeves of his tunic. A shiver ran down his spine and he wrapped his arms around himself, trying to keep warm.

After a few moments longer of watching Cair Andros, the guards had still not left the place where they were standing. Boromir turned and went back to the fire.

Lost in thought, Boromir picked up a stick and prodded the embers of the fire with it. The ghostly, wavering call of a night bird echoed through the twilight air.

A long, drawn-out howl followed.

Boromir jumped, startled, and then reached for his sword. The howl sounded again. It was not a Warg; the call was too high-pitched. Perhaps it was merely a normal wolf.

Relaxing only slightly, Boromir surreptitiously glanced over his shoulder. As far as he could tell, the only living being around besides himself was Alcarin.

And, of course, the guards that were wandering around at Cair Andros.

Boromir wondered whether the guards were just as nervous as he was tonight, or if they were too distracted with their duties.

For a fleeting second, Boromir wished that he could ride down to Cair Andros and spend the night with the guards. He would be grateful for human company.

No, he told himself. By the time I even got to the shore of the Anduin, dawn would be breaking. If I did, by some stroke of luck, managed to get there before then, how would I reach Cair Andros? I highly doubt there are any spare boats down there.

No, he would simply have to wait until he got to Rohan to see another living human. Or maybe he would have to wait until he got to Rivendell—if the Elves could even be considered 'human'.

Boromir sighed and lay down on his back. It was a fairly clear night, and vast stretches of stars sparkled above like silver fire. The moon hung above, casting pale beams of light onto the ground.

There are some things that I would not be able to see if I stayed in Minas Tirith, Boromir thought drowsily. I doubt that many men from the White City have seen the night sky like this—untarnished by firelight and tall towers.

Then again, the Tower of Ecthelion was a wondrous sight as well. Glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver…its banners caught high in the wind…

Sometimes Boromir wondered which life he would choose if he was forced to make a choice.

Nonsense. Minas Tirith is my home; I am no Ranger. I am a warrior of Gondor, and I always will be.

With that thought, Boromir closed his eyes. He was soon asleep.