Chapter One
Sent north because of a dream, Boromir searches for The Hidden Valley. His brother scoured every library in the Citadel, including the archives in the depths of the keep, but didn't find much of anything on how to locate the illusive elf city. The only useful information Faramir discovered is that Rivendell is in the far north, east of the river and west of the mountains.
Finding it seems more impossible each day.
Boromir groans as he shifts his weight, stretching out his sore leg. Damn horse. Two days ago it tossed him then got itself eaten. Giant wolf-like creatures – Faramir told him to watch out for them, but he can't remember what they're called – ambushed him at dusk, just before he was planning to stop for the night. The beasts must have been young. Boromir was able to cut one down while the other two chased after the horse. An older pack would have taken him out first and got two meals instead of one.
A tiny sliver of good luck in the mountain of bad.
Another evening with no fire for comfort or warmth and a tasteless meal of cram and dried meat choked down, he beds down in some bushes under a tree for the night. Boromir knows he won't get much sleep, but some is better than none.
He launches upright, sword in hand, at the sound of something crashing through the forest. He frantically looks around, but can't see much of anything in the dead of night. Growling and howling? A woman screaming?! Thankfully she sounds more angry than scared.
"YOU'LL NEVER ESCAPE ME, BITCH!"
"GO FUCK A TROLL!"
He almost swallows his tongue trying not to laugh. The situation is in no way funny – what sort of man howls? – but Boromir has never heard such a crude curse from a woman before.
A battered and terrified young woman bursts from the bush. Her eyes widen to the size of dinner plates at the sight of him.
"RUN!" she screams, not slowing down.
The most disgusting man he's ever seen flies through the air towards her. His nails, claws. His teeth, fangs. He's almost as bad as an orc. "I'M GOING TO RUT YOU FULL OF- "
Boromir doesn't give the man-beast a chance to finish that atrocious taunt. A smooth upstroke, perfected from decades of fighting off the forces of Mordor, catches the monster in the gut, almost slicing him in half.
She comes to an abrupt halt, spinning mid-air to face him, at the grunt of death. The only sound in the sudden silence is her gulping in air. "You got him..." she breathes out in a whisper. "You- it's finally- " A strangled laugh escapes before she clamps her lips shut and her legs collapse.
He starts forward, but stops mid-step. She probably doesn't want a strange man approaching her. Not even the one who killed her pursuer.
"Unless you're planning on eating me alive while raping me you can't do anything worse than Greyback would have," she says casually, patting the ground beside her.
Boromir cuts off a strangled groan, takes a deep breath, and slowly walks over. "I can honestly say the thought never entered my mind," he says as he sits.
Her face scrunches up. "Why doesn't that sound as reassuring as I think it should," she mumbles.
"Because the rush is wearing off. And you're exhausted. Probably hungry and thirsty, too." He examines her clothing. It's made of strange materials and the style is foreign to him. Everything is ripped, dirty, and worn. There's even scorch marks. She's definitely not dressed to be out in the wilds. "And cold."
"Well, soldier, you're not wrong," she quietly admits. Boromir watches as she calms herself and straightens up, squaring her shoulders just like one of his men would. She turns and offers her hand. He clasps her forearm as warriors would, making her flinch – with surprise? – but she quickly recovers. "My name is Hermione. Thank you for- for saving me. That... man," she sneers, obviously wanting to call him something else, "has evaded death for far too long."
Boromir encloses her hand between his in an attempt to warm it, stifling a smile when she wiggles in the other. He'll get a fire going soon. "Well met, Miss Hermione. I am Captain Boromir, son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor. It is my duty and honour to rid the world of foul beings, such as that Greyback."
Hermione's hands still. She blinks rapidly then slowly lets out a breath, blowing out the tension of her body with it. "Well met, Captain Boromir."
There isn't a chance to say anything else because the beast starts groaning! Hermione is up, his sword in her hands, and heading towards what should be a dead man while he's still frozen in shock. The shock doesn't lessen as Boromir watches her hack off Greyback's head, quietly cursing the monster the whole time.
Hermione kicks the head away from the body. "Of course the bastard heals from mortal wounds," she mumbles. She sighs, handing Boromir back his weapon. "The head needs to be burned. The body should be burned separately or buried. Deep. Don't want wolves eating him. Gods know what they'd turn into."
"Burn it," he says quickly. She nods as she crouches down and starts going through pockets. "Uh, Miss Hermione?"
"Don't want anything exploding."
"Exploding?" Boromir asks weakly. She hums an affirmative, not stopping her search. A small pile of what looks like junk to him, much more than what he thinks is possible to carry without a pack, grows by her feet. Boromir shakes his head and leaves Hermione to deal with the monster. He has two fires to start and a sword to clean.
.
.
The smell of burning beast-man isn't as terrible as orc, but sometimes the flames turn blue and purple or shoot green sparks. Hermione isn't concerned, so Boromir leaves it alone.
He has other things to worry about.
Like the condition of his companion.
In the light of the fires, he can see Hermione is far too thin. Which isn't much of a surprise. His hand completely engulfed her forearm earlier. Her clothes -rags- hang like curtains off her frame. She cradles her right arm, the one he grasped, to her stomach. An injury, Boromir decides, that he accidentally aggravated.
Hermione accepts his water skin and a hunk of cram with a whisper of thanks, eating and drinking slowly. When it looks like she's about to fall asleep sitting up, Boromir tucks his cloak around her and lays her down, ignoring her grumbling. "Sleep, Miss Hermione. I will keep watch." He holds her gaze, "I swear no harm will come to you," and hopes she believes him.
She snaps, "Aye, Captain," her lips twitching at his huff. Boromir glares, but his smile makes it ineffective. It's been a long time since anyone's jested so freely with him. His soldiers wouldn't dare, not even those he's fought with for decades, and Faramir feels the pressure of protecting the White City as keenly as he does. Gone are the days when they could relax and just be brothers.
She's dead to the world as soon as her eyes close. Boromir watches her with a frown. Starved. Exhausted. Injured. He already has enough problems getting to Rivendell, but leaving Hermione behind to fend for herself is not an option. He rubs his bruised thigh and sighs.
If only he had that damn horse.
.
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Breaking camp with Hermione eases some of his worries. She moves quickly, efficiently, and without complaint, completing the necessary tasks without direction. Hopefully that energy lasts the day.
What is strange is somehow everything from Greyback is now gone and his water skin is filled. Is there a creek he missed? Her face is freshly washed as well...
"Captain?" Hermione approaches him, her bottom lip in her teeth. "I- uh, I want to thank you, again, for your help. It's means a lot that you put yourself in harms way, shared your supplies, and watched over me instead of sleeping. Not everyone would protect a stranger like you did." She offers him his cloak that she's been bundled in since last night. "It was a pleasure to meet you. Safe travels, Captain Boromir."
His frown deepens as she speaks and he refuses to take his cloak back. "Do you know where you are?"
"Oh! Uh..." Hermione seems genuinely surprised he's asking. "No, not really. But that's- "
Boromir interrupts before she can make excuses. "Do you have somewhere or someone to go to?"
"Would you believe me if I say I do?" He shakes his head. "Didn't think so," she says quietly, hugging the rolled up cloak.
Boromir moves slowly and places his hands on her upper arms. It is as he feared. "You are lost and alone in the wilds. You are not in proper gear. You have no weapon. I will not leave you here to die."
"Hey!" Hermione scowls up at him. "Just because I look unprepared doesn't mean I'm helpless!"
"I know that." He barely manages to avoid rolling his eyes at her. Big temper for such a little woman. "I'm travelling to Rivendell. Would you like to come with me? I'm sure Lord Elrond will provide you with supplies and directions to where ever you'd like to go." Boromir cringes. "I admit, I don't know exactly where the hidden elf city is, but I have faith we will be able to find it."
"Lord Elrond is an elf? How is the city hidden?" She's staring off into the trees, her brow furrowed in thought.
"Magic, I assume." Boromir gently squeezes then releases her now that he's sure she won't bolt. "It's far to the north, in a valley east of Bruinen River and west of the Misty Mountains."
"Oh," she breathes out. "I think- I mean- Yes," Hermione smiles up at him, "I would like to go with you and meet Lord Elrond."
"Good." He takes the cloak and swings it onto her. "I'd hate to take you against your will just to keep you safe. Dragging in a captive woman, no matter the reason, wouldn't make a very good first impression."
Hermione scoffs, pulling the edges together. The cloak completely swallows her. "As if you could catch me." Boromir chuckles, not bothering to argue. They both know she can out run him, though probably not while she's in his cloak. She'd trip before getting anywhere.
.
.
They walk in peaceful silence along the well packed game trail, nibbling on wild berries and cram as they go, but Boromir knows they'll need to stop much earlier than he has been so he can hunt. Hermione needs real food, not just travel rations.
"Oooooo, hazelnuts..." She waits by the tree, bouncing in place, until he comes over to boost her up. "This tree is loaded! GAH!"
.
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Boromir shakes his head at himself as he skins the pile of nut-fattened tree rats she packed around all afternoon. "I can't believe you managed to catch so many." At least the squirrels are large and meaty, making the effort of cleaning them worth it.
"They were attacking me. Grabbing them by the tail and thwacking their heads against the trunk seemed like a good idea." Hermione makes a pleased hum as she shakes the basket over the coals. She made it using green willow branches so she could cook the hazelnuts.
She told him she wasn't helpless. What she didn't say was how clever she is.
Boromir stakes the last of the squirrels to roast and checks the others. The first ones he put on to cook look almost ready. The herbs he found to stuff in them were a good choice. He's caught Hermione wafting the scent from the toasted ends a couple times.
Nice to know his meagre contribution is appreciated.
"Ha! These should work." Hermione bangs the flat sides of a couple of fist sized stones together.
"What do you need- Oh." The rocks are for cracking open hazelnuts. She carefully taps the shell until it separates, careful to keep the meat whole.
She moans, "Fabulous," at the first taste. She quickly does another and scurries over to him. "Open up." Hermione rolls her eyes at his raised brow. "Don't be weird. Your hands are gross. Unless you want to eat squirrel guts?" Boromir barks a laugh and opens his mouth. She holds it by her fingertips and waits until he grasps it with his teeth. Hermione flashes a smug grin at his groan. When was the last time he had roasted hazelnuts? Food carts sell bags of them during the Grand Market in autumn, but it's been years – or has it been decades? – since he's been able to attend as a civilian.
"As fascinating as it was to have you feed me, I think I'll wash up in the stream." Walking in the foothills has it's advantages. Plenty of spring fed creeks and streams is one of them.
She waves him off, her concentration on shelling nuts. "Don't drown."
Boromir takes the opportunity to wash more than just his hands, dunking his whole head in the cool water. He could use a bath, but isn't about to risk stripping down without warning Hermione. It would be just his luck if she stumbled upon him bare arse in the stream.
He's squeezing water out of his hair when he hears a familiar scream. Sword in hand, Boromir runs back to camp. Cruel laughter makes him speed up.
The ruffians are too focused on their prey, they have Hermione by the arms and hair, to notice his charge through the bush. But Hermione sees him. When he swings she makes her move. Boromir slices open the gut of one while Hermione kicks her foot back, snapping her captor's knee and freeing herself.
The third charges him, wildly swinging a rusty short sword. Boromir easily blocks and plants a fist in his face, knocking him out.
Hermione hasn't been idle. The one who had her is laid out unconscious. From the blood on her knee, Boromir guesses she got him in the face with it. She kicks the brute in the ribs. A sharp crack from bones breaking bounces off the trees. Boromir rushes forward to stop her from taking another swing. "Woah!" He dodges her elbow. "It's done," he says, his hands stretched out palms out towards her. "It's over."
Her hair that was tightly braided back now has curls springing out. There's a bruise forming on her cheekbone, lip split, and her right forearm is bleeding through her sleeve. Hermione sniffles and walks forward, head bowed, until the top of her head hits his chest. "They dumped my hazelnuts in the fire," she pouts.
Boromir sighs and gently rubs her back. Of course the half-starved woman is more worried about her lost snack than the fact she was almost a toy for those bastards. "We'll pick more tomorrow."
"Squirrel is probably burnt by now," she grumbles.
He glances at their thankfully untouched supper. "They look fine." Boromir guides her over to the fire, putting her back to the men so she doesn't have to see them, "You stay here while I evict our unwanted guests," not daring to say he'll be finishing off any that still have a pulse. She nods and pulls her knees to her chest, curling into a ball.
Boromir moves quickly. As soon as supper is cooked they need to break camp and walk until they can't. The smell of burning beast kept away the undesirables last night, but freshly dead bodies are sure to attract everything they don't want to run into, no matter how far away he drags them.
Remembering how she searched Greyback, Boromir does the same on the three men and their packs: small amount of coin, hardtack, dried fruits and meat, canteens, a small block of crumbling soap, a couple tools, and a cook kit with stacking pots and dishware. Only one knife and whetstone are in good enough condition to keep. The bedrolls are little more than stitched together furs. Boromir shoves the nicest furs, spare clothing, the smallest pair of boots, and undamaged belts and cloaks into the largest pack. Anything else worth keeping goes into another.
Camp is cleared when he gets back. Once again, she knows what to do without direction. Hermione has what little gear he has left packed and is filling the willow basket, now with a long arched handle for ease of carrying, with roasted squirrel. "As soon as the fire is smothered we can go," she says without looking at him.
"Can you carry my pack?" Hermione turns to him, her brow furrowed. "I'll carry what I took from the ruffians. You can look through it in the morning and make yourself a kit."
"Oh! Uh... thank you," she says quietly, then perks up. "Anything interesting?"
"A traveller's kitchen. Dishes, utensils, and pots that stack together." Boromir chuckles at the grin she gives him. "I thought you might like it."
"Almost makes losing my hazelnuts worth it."
.
.
They eat as they trek, the fresh meat boosting their spirits. Hermione bites carefully and chews slowly, making Boromir think she was smacked harder than he thought. But not once does she complain or ask for him to slow down. They go until the dark forces them to stop. Hermione all but collapses against a large tree, her bleeding arm cradled tight to her stomach.
Boromir silently berates himself. Before they broke camp he should have checked it. Now it's too dark to see anything. "It'll be fine till morning," Hermione says softly. Was he grumbling out loud? "It's an old wound that reopened."
He sighs, lowering himself beside her. "I'm sorry. I saw it bleeding, but we needed to move."
"I know." She straightens up from her slouch. "So, how do you want to do this?"
"You go to sleep. I will keep watch and wake you when the sun crests."
"I'd argue with you, but I don't think I can keep my eyes open much longer." Hermione burrows into his cloak and makes herself comfortable against him. "Sorry, Captain, but you're warm and I'm not."
"It's fine, Miss Hermione."
"Ugh," she interrupts, "please drop the Miss. And no replacing it with Lady or Madam or Ma'am. My name needs no titles, nor have I earned any, and I'm not old enough to be Ma'am'd," she says, her face scrunched in distaste.
Boromir huffs. Confounding woman. "As you say, Hermione," he says, emphasizing her name. "Does this mean you'll stop calling me Captain?"
"Absolutely not." She yawns, mumbling, "Too much fun toooooo..."
Hermione falls asleep before finishing her excuse.
.
.
Boromir wakes from the deepest sleep he's had in months to the smell of meat and mushrooms cooking and a woman humming. The sun is high and bright-
Wait... ... ...
Hermione let him sleep the morning away!
He should be upset, but he can't deny he needed the rest. And it's not as though she's been idle. In addition to cooking, the packs from the brutes have been emptied and sorted. The pile from Greyback – a mesh bag with flat stones in various colours, glass vials filled with what looks like pond scum, a beat-up notebook with bits of torn parchment sticking out as markers, a couple of sticks with decorative carvings, and a leather coin purse – is also laid out.
Where did she have that stashed?
"Good morning, Captain," Hermione cheerfully greets. A tumble of freshly washed curls bounce as she moves about. She's changed out of the rags into, also freshly washed, men's clothing. There must have been a sewing kit in one of the packs as everything is tailored to fit her slim form. She left the length on the long sleeved shirt and outer tunic, making it look like a short dress at first glance, though the sides along her hips are slit for ease of movement. A belt, wrapped twice, sits lopsided on her tiny waist, but it keeps the sheathed knife within reach. The two pairs of pants have been patched together and turned into one. For durability and warmth, he's sure. The boots have been taken apart and customized to fit her small feet. The soles are trimmed and she cut holes in the shafts and laced strips of leather, or maybe it's thick brown canvas from one of the cloaks, through to tighten them.
Clever woman.
"I know it's a bit lumpy, but I need the layers." She takes a pot away from the fire and points to the west. "There's a trickle of a creek ten steps that way. Take the hot water with you. I'm sure you'd like to be half decently clean."
"Did you leave camp to wash?" He's still on the ground, trying to wrap his sleep fogged head around everything.
"Only long enough to fetch water. I bathed here."
Boromir covers his eyes and groans, "Hermione!"
"What? It's not as if you were going to see anything. You were out cold. If I had screamed I'm sure you would have been up swinging that sword before your eyes fully opened," she placates when he glares at her.
Boromir hauls himself up, but stays leaning against the tree. "You should have waited."
Hermione shakes her head, stirring whatever she's scrounged together for lunch. "The plan was to let you sleep as long as possible. I'll finish cooking while you wash, then pack this mess after we eat. We'll be out of here in less than a hour." She frowns at him. The bruise and split lip don't look nearly as bad as they did last night, but it could be that it doesn't show as much on her brown skin. "At least, we will be if you can get your arse moving." After a pause she adds, "Captain."
"Cut the backtalk or it's a week of second shift watch for you," Boromir grumbles, fetching the hot water and wash kit beside it. He heads straight for the creek.
"Aye, Captain!" Hermione somehow sounds completely serious while making sure he knows she has no intention of complying. He grins knowing she can't see and be encouraged by it.
.
.
Lunch is a mix of grouse that, according to Hermione, was too stupid to move as she crept up and tossed a cloak over it, and mushrooms she could reliably identify as edible. The kitchen kit had a few tiny boxes of salt mixed with dried herbs she used to season it all. A fine reward for the hardships of last night.
There is a mending kit, though most of the thread for sewing came from the bedrolls she took apart. Hermione groans about the poor workmanship, but admits the furs are salvageable. Between those and the last two cloaks, she cut the other to her size, she can make a couple of thick blankets. Not as good as a proper bedroll, but better than nothing.
Boromir washes the pots, pans, and dishes while she finishes her kit. That clever woman crafted a frame using thick saplings to hold the packs, the smaller on top and the larger below, and wrapped a few furs around the wood as padding against her back. The leather belts became shoulder straps and strips of thick cloth from the tailored cloak secure everything.
"A hiking bag," she explains. "Perfect for trekking through the forest." The tools, a hand spade and hatchet, and two of the canteens are strapped to the frame under the packs. The clothing and wash kit go in the smaller pack, everything else into the other. The furs get used as padding so the pots don't make a racket.
Boromir would offer to carry it, but she's crafted it to fit her. It wouldn't sit properly on him. He'll keep an eye on her this afternoon and if it's too much they'll rearrange so he's carrying the pots.
Hermione sweeps a hand over what's left. "Coin and food. Your call, Captain." The items from Greyback are missing. And what happened to what she was wearing before?
"You keep the coin. On your person, not in a pack." Boromir digs out the sack of cram and what little dried meat he has left. "Add it to the pile and divide it between us, in case we're separated." She nods, lips pursed in a frown – probably about the coin – but does as requested.
The last canteen from the ruffians, cleaned and filled with fresh water, and one of the tiny boxes of seasoning are added to the pile closest to him. Hermione stares at him, eyes narrowed, daring him to argue. Boromir keeps a straight face and holds his hands up in surrender. "Thank you, Hermione." Laughing at her will only get hardtack thrown at his head.
.
.
Once again they walk in silence. Though he wouldn't mind answering questions, Boromir appreciates that she doesn't chatter needlessly. Most of his attention is on listening for trouble and keeping them going in a northerly direction. Splitting his focus for useless conversation would be maddening.
They walk well into the night, though not as late as before. By mutual decision they don't make a fire, forcing them to eat cram. It's even more tasteless than usual after the meal Hermione made earlier.
"Where did you find these?" Boromir stares at the cup full of blackberries she handed him.
Hermione smirks, "I'm not just watering trees when I duck off trail," and pops a berry in her mouth. She pulls out a cloak and a couple of large furs and makes herself a nest beside him. "Pretend," she says slowly, "I've never met an elf."
"Because you haven't?" He chuckles, straightening up and lowering his leg for her to rest her head on.
She laughs with him. "Because I haven't," she admits, laying the back of her head on his thigh and closing her eyes. "Describe them? Please?"
"I've only ever met a couple. They came to Minas Tirith- "
"Your city," Hermione interrupts. Boromir concedes he may have mentioned it once or twice.
"My city. It is also called The White City." She hums in acknowledgement. "They came in with Faramir's, my brother, Ranger unit. Tall, as tall as me or taller. Slender, but very strong. Light of foot and keen of eye. Their ears have long, narrow points on the tips. Faramir says their hearing is as sharp as an owl's. They wear their hair long, well past their shoulders, and they grow no beards. Their skin is as pale as moonlight, but long ago it is said there were elves with skin darker than yours."
"And magic?" she asks, a tremble in her voice.
"Faramir is the scholar and would know more than I, but I recall hearing that only the elves of the First Age – that is, elves over 6000 years old – have powerful magics. All others have varying skill with animals and healing."
"6000 years?!" she squeaks.
Boromir looks down at the young woman in his care, though it sometimes feels as though he's in hers. He thought everyone knew about elves, even if they thought them only legend. "They are immortal – never aging once mature, only dying in battle or from illness or injury. Faramir says they are leaving Middle Earth, travelling across the sea into the West, because their spirits tire of mortal life."
"Oh," she whispers, "that- that's... Oh."
Boromir sighs. "I know. Most never even meet a mortal! How can they tire of Middle Earth when they never leave their hidden and well protected settlements?" Bitterness laces every word. His people are dying and elves are leaving because they're tired?!
"Captain?" Hermione is out of her nest, kneeling beside him. Cautiously, she takes his hand. "You have been fighting a long time." A statement, not a question.
"For over half my life I've served in the army, defending my city against orcs and trolls and all manner of vile creatures. It hurts knowing it is the blood of my people that holds back the evils of Mordor while elves leave these shores and dwarves hide in their mountains." Boromir relaxes his grip, unaware of when he began to squeeze, not wanting to hurt her. "I know we are not alone in the fight against the darkness, but it certainly feels like it."
"Isolation is one of greatest weapons evil wields. When we feel alone, despair follows." Suddenly, Hermione looks older, as if she has felt the despair she speaks of. "There are those willing to fight with you, Boromir, but sometimes you must be the strong one and offer first."
She speaks of allies. Will he find the aid he searches for at Rivendell? The weapon his father bid him to retrieve? Or will he return home with empty hands? Maybe it is as she said and once he offers his service others will do the same for him. Dare he hope?
What if he's tired of being strong?
It's too much for tonight.
"You said my name." Boromir grins when she rolls her eyes at him, mumbling about missing the point.
Hermione grumbles, "And now I'll never do it again."
.
.
They get a few peaceful days of travel and nights of rest before trouble finds them again.
Boromir wakes from a whispered, "Captain," and a slim hand sliding into his. The sky is lightening, but the sun hasn't risen. "Shhhh," Hermione hisses, squeezing to get his attention. "Movement to our left. Something big. Maybe a bear?"
Boromir quiets his thoughts and breathing as much as possible. A low rumble and rustling bushes confirms Hermione's fears. A large predator is in the trees.
"Packs are behind us." She releases him and creeps backwards. "I'd rather not kill an animal I don't plan on eating, but if it's me or him, I'm choosing me."
"Agreed." A shaking tree and grunting is far too close for comfort. "Hustle," Boromir whispers urgently, wanting to be as far as possible from here once their unwanted guest is done scratching all those hard to reach places.
Hermione moves almost as quietly as a Ranger. An impressive feat in those boots. Boromir feels as loud as a mountain troll in comparison. He swings his pack on and readies an arrow, keeping an eye behind them, and lets Hermione lead him out. Thankfully the bear never comes closer.
They don't stop until the sun has fully risen. "There was a patch of blueberries I was planning on raiding for breakfast." Hermione slides her pack off and groans, rolling her shoulders. "Guess he had the same idea."
Boromir copies her, stretching out his stiff muscles. "The forest isn't hiding a feast for us here?"
She snorts. "There's mint by the creek and cattail in it, but no. No feast."
"How did you know there was blueberries?" What he wants to ask is why she's so thin when she can find food anywhere, but is afraid of the answer.
"Pine trees. Blueberries, lingonberries, and chanterelle mushrooms like the same soil they do, thus they grow near them." Hermione pats the tree she's resting against. "Birch likes wet feet. Willow, too. If they're around chances are there's water nearby."
"You look for willows," Boromir says with no small amount of awe. "That's how you always know where the creeks and streams are." Not even Faramir could match her knowledge. The Rangers of Ithilien have permanent, hidden outposts that are kept stocked. They don't patrol the wilds for weeks at a time like their Northern brethren.
He'd think Hermione was trained by the Rangers of the North if not for the fact she hasn't recognized a single landmark he's mentioned over the last five days. Maybe she's lived a sheltered life and hardly ever leaves the wilds?
Hermione, her head leaned back and eyes closed, hums softly in agreement. "It's not foolproof, but more often than not it works." She sighs. "Is there lots of cattail?"
"More than you could ever want." He gets a small fire going, for a bit of hot water to wash up if nothing else.
She grunts and hauls herself up. A frying pan is left with him while she takes the largest pot and the hand spade to the creek. Boromir watches as Hermione digs up cattail roots, washes and trims them, and brings back her haul in the pot. They get dumped into a different one and she goes back for water.
What follows is a culinary miracle. The roots are boiled then the starchy flesh is scraped from the fibres. Hermione mixes it with ground hardtack – she made him wash a rock and crush the crackers in a pot – and diced dried apple, making a thick, sticky dough. A blob is wrapped on the end of a green stick that she stripped the bark off of then held over the coals to roast.
Boromir thinks it's amazing, considering what it's made of, but Hermione frowns at her serving. "Would've been better with blueberries," she mumbles when he catches her eye.
He pours her some more mint tea. "While that may be true, it is also true that it's much better than plain hardtack."
"Yeah... I know." Hermione shuffles over and leans against his side. Since she's focused on nibbling her bread, Boromir allows his concern to show. A lack of blueberries is an odd thing to be so despondent over. There must be something else wrong.
He wraps an arm around her too thin shoulders and pulls her closer. "Is there something else bothering you? Or perhaps something you'd like to talk about?" They don't speak much and what little they do is usually about food or how her blankets are coming along. Boromir has told her a bit about his brother and his city, but she hasn't spoken at all about her home or family. He still doesn't know why she's in the foothills of the Misty Mountains or what exactly Greyback was.
"Sorry, Captain," she whispers. "Guess I'm just having a bad morning." Hermione chuckles humourlessly. "I normally get a good cry in before you wake. Damn bear ruined that too."
"Oh, Hermione..." Of course she's been pushing everything aside until she has a moment alone. Though they are travelling together, they are essentially strangers. Well, not complete strangers. They are comfortable with each other, as evidenced by the way Hermione doesn't shy away from him.
She trusts him not to harm her and to protect her, even if she doesn't yet trust him with anything else.
"You were right, you know. When you said I was lost and alone." Her breath hitches as she holds back a sob. "I have no idea where I am."
Boromir leans his head on hers. What would have happened to her if they didn't stumble upon each other? "I will help you get ho- "
"The stars are different."
Her whispered confession shatters something within him.
"What?" he breathes out, but he doesn't think she heard. Hermione continues talking, the words pouring out like water from a broken dam.
"You say things like 'Gap of Rohan' and 'Gondor' and 'The Anduin' like I should know them. I don't know them! I don't!" she cries. "I don't know this world!"
"I don't know this world!" keeps repeating itself over and over in his mind. Hermione is curled up in a ball under his arm bawling uncontrollably, completely unaware of the way her words have wrecked him.
"Pretend I've never met an elf."
"Pretend I've never used a sword."
"Pretend I've never seen a dwarf."
"Pretend I've never... ... ..."
