Before leaving Lothlorien
Spying Breguril at her lonesome and mindful of the passionate night they had shared, Boromir slithered to her side. They stood side by side, watching the sun set over the Misty Mountains, the sky – these being relatively northern latitudes – being light up with twilight and thus providing a crisp backdrop for bats swarming from their lairs to hunt for insects as silently as famed assassins from lands far to the East. Her proximity and warmth unmanned the Knight of Gondor and he half consciously extended his arm to encircle her waist and draw her closer. Breguril shrugged his arm off with a harumph worthy of Gimli. Undaunted - as girls were expected to turn down a man's first advance - Boromir half turned towards her and his fingers, calloused from the sword, ghosted along her jaw line to grasp her chin and turn her face to him.
POW! SOCK!
- Don't you ever dare touch my face, little fuck! - Breguril snarled at the Heir to the Rod sprawled on the ground, bleeding from the nose.
- Scoot! – the elf-maid extended her long leg and used her finely boned, slender foot shod in strawberry coloured slippers, with embroidered patterns laid out with subdued sequins, to strike the Gondorian's upper thigh.
- NOW!
.
Aragorn could not but notice Boromir's swollen nose and eye, the latter now gaining an interesting plum colour. Not to mention the limp. Discretion was his middle name, however, somewhere mid way between Aragorn and Telkontar, hence he only looked on while the hobbits swarmed the Gondorian with "what happened" questions. Interestingly, the up-to-this-point "good uncle Boro" snarled at them to mind their own business. The heir of Isildur turned his back as to hide his smirk – it was evident from his behaviour that Boromir had NOT run into a tree, but had not respected Breguril's autonomy. Some of his Rangers had received the same treatment.
.
.
Amon Hen
The runts had worked themselves up into frenzy over the disappearance of the Ringbearer. Boromir showing up, dishevelled, with no Frodo in sight pushed them into hysterics and they scattered like headless chickens into the woods, dragging the rest of the Fellowship into the messy "search". With a sigh over the excessive excitability of males Breguril followed them into between the trees. Suddenly she spied a disquieting vision – Frodo, but in black and white and shades of grey, colourless – treading ground as quietly as possible – which in a Hobbit's case was quietly indeed, beyond even her keen elvish hearing. Breguril raised her hand to her throat and gasped:
- You put on the ring, you twit!
While she scratched at the mosquito bite on her neck scar.
This startled the Baggins who – wild eyed – scampered up the nearest pine like a bloated squirrel.
- You ... you ... you can see me, the Ringbearer stuttered.
- Of course, the elf-maid pouted indignantly. Patting down her hair behind her ear she explained:
- I am one of the Elven-wise, ladies and lords of the Eldar from beyond the furthest seas. Those who have dwelt in the Blessed Realm live at once in both worlds, and against both the Seen and the Unseen they have great power.* You cannot hide from me, Ring or no Ring - BUAHAHA – she finished with a girlish cackle and a twinkle in her warmth-filled slate eyes.
The obese hamster shimmied even higher into the boughs of the pine.
- Will ... will you try to take it from me too? – the gravid opossum squeaked from ten – nay! twelve feet above the ground, a lofty height for a Hobbit, even for one of the Fallohid kindred and a cousin to the Mad Baggins.
- Oh ... whadaymean "too"? Eh? – the Elven-wise demanded.
- Bo ... Boromir ... – came from the tree.
- Oh, that ... the elleth began to ejaculate but cut off that thought prematurely, with sheer force of will, as something else caught her attention. . Her elven hearing caught multiple manly groans and grunts. And these were not the "good" groans and grunts males made just before climaxing. These were the groans and grunts men made when running around in a forest in heavy armour. Breguril was intimate to both and easily could tell them apart. The fact that the groans and grunts were too many as to come from a trio of Legolas, Boromir and Gimli, with a hobbit or two thrown in for good measure, was disconcerting. The fate of that day was decided by a stray wiff of wind, bringing to Breguril a smell she knew all too well – the scent of mountain pines was insufficient to mask the heady perfume of sweaty orcs!
Breguril knew her obligation. She was to protect the Ringbearer.
- Run! – she cried out to the rotund weasel while she turned to run uphill towards the incoming enemy.
She drew her long sword and in long strides put herself between the camp – where she hoped Frodo would head – and the yrch. Seeing the first orc she yelled her blood curdling battle-cry. A titillating cry of blood-lust she had adopted in gore soaked Beleriand in the First Age. Breguril hoped that this would draw more of the minions of darkness to her, drawing them away from Frodo.
- Sigh - a woman's work was never done ...
.
Chopping down the orcs amongst the pines Breguril noted that:
- once you think you've seen it all you see something new ...
Most of the orcs were of the type she had been killing for seven thousand years, same size range, same lack of skill, same crude weapons. But quite a few were of a breed she had not crossed swords with before. Larger, the height of short men, beefier*, not as ugly as your typical orc. Quite Manlike in looks ...
- Half-men, half-orcs – ewwww ... she figured them out in disgust.
They also sported above average quality kit, with mail hauberks of reasonable quality, thick shields, helms, and heavy sabres. This new type of orc bore uniform markings – like an army – of a white hand crudely imprinted on their equipment. Bigger and stronger they were, better equipped too, but as unskilled as ever, the elleth noted with grim satisfaction as she slashed across the stomach of yet another specimen, leaving him holding his intestines in his red-soaked hands.
.
During the fighting she headed towards the sound of Boromir's Horn and crossed paths with Aragorn. They ran through the woods together, Eldar and Edain side by side, slaying orcs like in days past, crying Eledil! Elendil! Kill! Kill! respectively.
A mile, maybe, from Parth Galen in a little glade not far from the lake they found Boromir. He was sitting with his back to a great tree, as if he was resting.
But Aragorn and Breguril saw that he was pierced with many black-feathered arrows; his sword was still in his hand, but it was broken near the hilt; his horn cloven in two was at his side. Many Orcs lay slain, piled all about him and at his feet.
Seeing that her niece's betrothed wished to investigate the Man's condition she gripped his arm before he knelt besides the Steward's Heir:
- Beware, Aragorn. T'is an Oath Breaker. He might stab you in the ribs or something ...
Her words made the Gondorian lift his head and speak. After speaking of his guilt, the Hobbits' fate and bidding Aragorn farewell he turned his eyes to Breguril, pleading for some exoneration from the elf-maid and said:
- Please ... he gasped, and made a gesture, pointing at the fallen orcs, all of the beefy variety, and then he spoke no more.
.
AN:
There are quotes from Tolkien in the text above :)
* in the books a particularly large orc is described as "a huge orc-chieftain, almost man-high". PJ got carried away (like with so many other things) with his depiction of Uruk-hai as rugby forwards