Boromir found himself being shaken awake by—who else—one of the Orcs. It seemed as though decades had passed since he had been knocked unconscious.
One Orc held his right arm in a vise-like grip, while the other Orc grasped his left arm. Shazta sat by the fire, examining Boromir's weapons with idle curiosity.
Shazta glanced over his shoulder. Then he sneered, carelessly tossed Boromir's precious sword down on the ground, and stood up.
"Right, now," Shazta remarked, casually brushing nonexistent dust from his hands. "You can make this easier on yourself by just answering my questions. If you actually enjoy being tortured, then fine—we enjoy torturing you." He grinned, a malicious glint in his yellow eyes.
Boromir could not keep back a shudder. He wondered how much longer he could hold out—he could hardly move because of the poison that was gradually overcoming his body and because of the various injuries he had acquired.
His courage was slowly dwindling.
"Where were you going before we intercepted you on the road?" Shazta asked, nonchalantly slipping a knife from a sheath at his waist.
Boromir hesitated for a split second. "Bree," he lied. Somehow, he knew deep down in his heart that he could not let the Orcs know where his true destination was.
Shazta laughed harshly. "Bree, eh? Why would you be going there? No, you had an entirely different plan in mind. Tell me what it was." He held up the dagger.
"I was going to…to Bree," Boromir repeated, cursing himself for not sounding more insistent.
Shazta gave Boromir a curious look, then, without warning, lashed out with the knife. The blade cut into Boromir's exposed chest.
Caught off-guard, Boromir could not keep back a shout of pain. Rivulets of blood streamed down his torso.
"You'll be in even worse shape if you don't stop telling us falsehoods," Shazta said calmly. He knelt down, picked up Boromir's tunic, and cleaned his blade off on it.
Normally, Boromir would have been enraged at this act of contempt, but not now. He was simply in too much agony—physically and mentally—to even care anymore.
"Where were you going? Don't lie again; this particular dagger isn't poisoned, you know. You won't be able to escape the pain by dying just yet," Shazta said.
Boromir remained stonily silent. In his muddled mind, one thought was clear—he could not give away the reason he had been travelling.
Shazta gave a dramatically melancholy sigh. "You're only hurting yourself, you know. We'll get the information we seek out of you sooner or later. If you tell me everything now, then perhaps I'll kill you quickly and painlessly afterwards."
This emitted groans of complaint from the other Orcs, who obviously did not appreciate the idea of killing Boromir quickly and without pain.
After several minutes of silence, Shazta stepped forward with a slow deliberateness and pressed the sharp tip of his dagger against Boromir's shoulder. He ran the cold blade down Boromir's upper arm, but did not draw blood.
Boromir felt like shuddering, but his body was much too numb.
Shazta leaned in closer. "Tell…me…where…you…were…going," he whispered in Boromir's ear. The Orc's breath reeked of rotten meat and decay.
Boromir's steely resolve faltered slightly, and he nearly yelled out, "Rivendell!" But he caught himself just in time.
This near slip-up did not go unnoticed by Shazta, who smirked. He did not repeat the question. Instead, he ran the blade down Boromir's arm again, this time drawing a thin line of red. Blood welled up in the shallow laceration.
Boromir gritted his teeth to keep from letting out a groan of pain.
"You're braver—or more foolish—than most," Shazta marveled. "Well, even mighty mountains have to crumble sometime." He dug the point of the knife a little deeper into Boromir's flesh, then jerked his hand downward. The blade cut a deeper gash into Boromir's arm.
This time, Boromir screamed. He could not help it.
Surely Denethor would understand why his eldest son and the heir to the stewardship of Gondor had showed signs of pain—Orcs were notorious for making men break…
Vaguely, through the haze in his mind, Boromir heard Shazta repeat the question.
When Boromir did not answer, Shazta lifted the dagger. He pressed the tip of the blade against Boromir's shoulder…
And began to etch a shape into Boromir's flesh.
Boromir let out a cry of pain. He heard himself pleading for the Orc to stop, as though his soul had escaped and was hovering above, watching his body.
He screamed until he went hoarse, and his voice faded. Shazta did not relent.
Suddenly, there was a challenging yell from the mouth of the cave. The Orcs holding Boromir up let go of him, and he crumpled to the ground.
Boromir wanted nothing more than to be taken away from all of the agony he was in. If he could not be taken by unconsciousness, then why could he not die? Anything would be better than this excruciating pain…
Yet he remained half-awake, half-asleep. He could hear the noises of a battle going on in the background, and what sounded like the dying shrieks of an Orc.
After a few seconds of listening to the shouts, the resounding clang of blade meeting blade, and groans, sleep mercifully took Boromir, and he heard no more.
"Wake up, my friend. Wake up."
Someone was shaking Boromir, trying to awaken him. As a result, hot flashes of pain were radiating through his body.
Boromir gave a quiet groan and weakly tried to bat the prodding hand away.
"If you do not wake up, I won't be able to heal your wounds," the voice said. "And if I do not heal your wounds, you will most certainly be dead by dawn tomorrow."
At this point, Boromir didn't care whether he died or not. The Orcs had humiliated him, and he had shamed himself by showing that they were causing him anguish. He could never face his father again…
"Come, now! Open your eyes, son of Gondor!" the voice persisted.
With great effort, Boromir managed to do as the mysterious 'voice' asked. Although his vision was cloudy, he could just barely make out the face of his rescuer.
The man's hair was long and brown, and had golden-colored streaks in it, due to prolonged exposure to bright sunlight. His eyes were an intense hazel, and he sported a well-trimmed goatee.
Boromir blinked slowly. Even with his nearly nonexistent vision, he could tell that this man was a warrior of Rohan.
But what was he doing here? And how had he known that the Orcs had captured Boromir?
"Good, good!" the man said. "Now, listen to me. I'm going to apply a poultice to your wounds. It will sting—perhaps even burn—but you must not make any sudden movements. If you do so, you will only make things worse. Do you understand?"
Boromir opened his mouth to make a reply, but the only sound he could manage was a hoarse, strained breath.
"A nod will suffice," the Rohan warrior added, seeing how hard it was for Boromir to speak.
Feeling embarrassed and even more humiliated, Boromir nodded his head once, stopping when a jolt of pain erupted in the back of his skull.
After that, the man took a small glass jar out of his knapsack. It was filled with a pale brown substance. He opened it and proceeded to apply some of the paste to the long gash on Boromir's arm.
The man had been right. It stung. Boromir had to bite down on his tongue to keep from flinching.
As he treated Boromir's wounds, the Rohan warrior began to talk.
"You are fortunate I came along when I did," he said. "If I had been but a few moments later, you would be dead now."
Boromir wished the man would quit reminding him of that.
"I am called Eodran, son of Theoled," the man continued. He paused, then reached into his pack and took out a waterskin.
"Here," he said, offering it to Boromir.
Boromir hesitated, then accepted the waterskin and took a long drink from it. He was careful not to make any sharp movements.
A few minutes later, nearly all of his injuries had been treated, except for the one on his shoulder.
He had almost forgotten about that one. His whole body hurt so bad, he couldn't quite tell where any of his wounds were.
Boromir glanced down at his shoulder while Eodran was rummaging around in his pack for something.
Apparently, Shazta had had his fun. The bleeding laceration in Boromir's shoulder was not merely a cut, but a tattoo of sorts.
A tattoo of the Red Eye.
Boromir gritted his teeth. Now he definitely could not face his father. Sauron's mark had been placed upon him—however unwilling he had been—and he would not forget that fact any time soon.
And if Denethor found out, neither would he.
Eodran returned with another poultice. He said nothing as he carefully spread it onto Boromir's shoulder.
Boromir waited for Eodran to make some sort of comment about the gruesome tattoo, but the Rohan man was quiet.
After he finished bandaging Boromir's shoulder, Eodran stood up. "There you are. You ought to be fine in a few days."
"Wh—what about the Orc poison?" Boromir asked, mentally cursing the way he stammered.
"The poultice I made is meant to rid your body of the toxin," Eodran replied.
"Why are you here? How did you find me?" Boromir inquired, his voice slowly growing stronger.
Eodran smiled, looking amused. "Perhaps I will answer all of your questions if you tell me your name, son of Gondor."
Boromir hesitated, and then nodded. "I am Boromir, son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor."
Eodran's eyebrows arched in surprise. "According to Theoden King, you recently paid Rohan a visit. Why do you return so soon?"
"I am not returning to Rohan," Boromir replied. "I merely need to pass through your lands. I am going elsewhere."
Eodran nodded. "Very well."
"Now, perhaps you will consider answering my questions?" Boromir asked, shifting on the hard ground. He shivered as a cold wind blew through the cave.
"Of course." Eodran leaned over, picked up Boromir's tunic and leather tabard, and tossed them over to him. "What do you want to know?"
"How you found me, for one," Boromir answered, taking his tunic and gingerly putting it on. It needed to be cleaned, but not now. It was simply too cold to walk about without clothing.
"I was tracking those Orcs," Eodran said, nodding his head towards the corner.
Boromir looked in the direction the Rohan warrior indicated, and saw three large shapes piled there. The dead bodies of Orcs.
"When they stopped their march and took up residence in this cave, I knew something was wrong. So I kept watch, to try and figure out what they were doing," Eodran continued. "I did not know you were here until this morning, when I heard your cries."
Boromir averted his gaze as the familiar sense of humiliation built up inside of him again.
"Do not be ashamed," Eodran said. "You endured much torment with silence; most Men would have cried out long before. Perhaps you should have as well—then I would have been aware of your presence sooner."
Boromir made no reply to this. Instead, he carefully pulled his tabard down over his head. As he did so, he remembered something important.
"Alcarin. Where is Alcarin?" he asked, looking sharply at Eodran.
"Who?" Eodran was quite confused.
"My…my horse. His name is Alcarin, and we were separated when the Orcs came," Boromir said. He knew Eodran would consider it strange that Boromir spoke about his steed as though it was a real, living person, but cared not.
"I do not know where he is," Eodran responded. "When you are well enough to walk, I will help you search for—"
Boromir cut him off. "I am well enough to walk now." He got to his feet. His legs shook with the effort, but at least they did not buckle underneath him.
Eodran's expression was a skeptical one, but he said nothing. He straightened up and retrieved a long spear from where it was resting against the stone wall of the cave.
"Very well. Take up your belongings, and we shall hunt for your steed," Eodran said.
Boromir was all too happy to pick up his sword. He strapped it on, and then took hold of the Horn of Gondor.
Much to his relief, it was relatively unharmed. There were a few scratches on the horn, but no cracks or breaks.
A few moments later, he and Eodran were on their way.