Chapter Three
Rain continues to pour. It's a delay they can't afford, but he refuses to put Hermione at risk of illness. She has no reserves to fight off a cold or flu, and there is no healer if she were to take a turn for the worse.
Not that he told her that's the reason they're waiting out the storm.
Hermione makes a few changes to the interior of the tent when they realize they'll be here for a while. A walled off corner with a magical chamber pot that vanishes waste is a welcome addition and she creates a cast iron stand with a swivelling arm to hold a pot and a grill to cook on.
They continue as they have been, just within the confines of the tent. Hermione tells him of her next year at Hogwarts – Boromir still chuckles at the terrible name – as she sews and he does weapon maintenance.
Not that he will anymore. Not after he dropped his sword on his foot when she described being hit by a curse that looked like purple fire and almost dying.
That evening he starts teaching her forms for short sword. Hermione does well, always willing to do one more set and never complaining. But she's still recovering and does not have the strength to wield even a stick for a long session. So, when her arm wavers but her conviction doesn't, Boromir tells her to imagine decapitating Dolores Umbridge.
Hermione called it a dirty trick, but it worked.
.
.
It's still raining the next morning. Since they're staying put for at least one more day, it's decided a hunting trip is needed. They have space to work in and plenty of time while waiting out the rain, and it'll save them the hassle of hunting while on the move.
Hermione is adamant she be the one to go. Magic will keep her dry and she can summon rabbit or grouse without going far, thus returning quickly.
Though Boromir knows her magic can do all that and more, the thought of her being out there alone is unbearable. What if one of those giant wolf creatures finds her? One lucky strike is all it takes.
Just one moment of inattentiveness and she'd be dead.
He waits on a outcrop under the bows of a large spruce. It's poor shelter from the rain, but more than he deserves. Ignoring the cold water slowly seeping into every unprotected crease of his clothing, he keeps a close watch on a small herd of elk bedded down in the poplars below. There's a couple of yearlings that'll give plenty of meat to smoke and dry, and the hide and antler will be a nice present for Hermione.
He hopes.
That horrid argument continues to dominate his thoughts. What Boromir considered sensible reasons for her to stay Hermione thought were nonsense. "Chauvinistic garbage," she sneered at him. Emotions and words quickly spiralled out of control and ended with them screaming at each other.
He ordered her to stay put and left.
Boromir swallows a groan of frustration at himself. For days Hermione has been telling him of her life and world, and of the challenges she's faced and education she's received. So different than the women of Gondor... of all of Middle Earth, if he's being truthful.
But he treated her as though she was.
There's probably elves born in the Second Age that haven't read as many books as her!
No wonder she's so clever.
Boromir readies an arrow. A young buck has finally stood up broadside to him. It'll be a pain to haul back, but hopefully fresh meat and an apology will soften Hermione's ire towards him.
.
.
The tent is silent.
She's gone.
Boromir falls to his knees and drops the elk off his shoulders. Of course she left. Hermione is a grown woman who is more than capable of taking care of herself.
Even on a world where the stars are different.
Why would she stay with a man who doesn't respect her as she deserves?
He closes his eyes and sags. Will he ever see her again? If only to fetch her bags?
His head snaps up.
Her gear is here?
But she isn't.
Boromir whips around, looking for signs of a fight. Nothing is out of place.
Did she go outside?
Did something get her?!
Boromir springs up, ready to run back out into the rain to look for her. A throat clears behind him. He turns around so quickly he almost trips over the elk.
Hermione is sitting at the table.
Was she always there?
"Were you seriously going to leave that bloody carcass on the floor while you ran back out into the rain?"
"You were gone. I was- " he points to the door, "I was going to go look. For you."
She raises a brow at him. "And drag me back?"
"To apologize!" he blurts, not moving from in front of the door. There's no way she wants him near her right now. "To grovel. To beg forgiveness." Boromir runs a hand through his soaked hair and prays his clumsy tongue doesn't mangle the words he's been thinking about for hours. "The first lesson I learned at my father's knee, forty years ago, was to always put our people first. To willingly let you go into danger, no matter how little risk or how prepared you are, goes against everything I am, Hermione."
The softening of her eyes makes him brave enough to take a few steps forward. "I will not apologize for wanting to keep you safe – and yes, I am ignoring that there will come a time when I will have to let you go into danger without me – but I am sorry for my harsh words." Boromir takes another step. "You are unlike any woman – farmer, healer, or noble – I have ever met. But it will take longer than a week for that fact to fully settle in my mind."
Hermione's hands are fists in her lap and her lips are tight. "I'm sorry, too. It's just," she sighs, her whole body deflating, "I have a mind. I even know how to use it! I've been called the brightest witch of my age for good reason, and yet there will always be those who think all I'm good for is cooking, cleaning, and," she looks him dead in the eye, "fucking."
Boromir chokes on a breath. Hermione waits until he's done coughing before continuing. "I don't want to be, or have you think, I'm a burden."
"You're not," he says quickly, "and I don't."
"But I feel like one." Her smile, the first he's seen since early this morning, is painfully sad. "I would be worse than hopelessly lost and adrift without you. I'd be dead."
He scoffs. "You could've taken out those brutes."
She shakes her head. "I'm not talking about them. I mean Greyback."
Oh. Him.
Hermione hasn't told him much about the werewolf, only that he bit her professor and scratched her friend, Bill Weasley, on the face. It didn't make him a werewolf, but during the week of the full moon he gets snarly and craves raw beef.
"Greyback had fully embraced the dark curse he was infected with. As you saw, it gave him beastly qualities as a human, but the curse's other attributes also increased. Strength. Speed. Rapid healing. Resistance to magic," she whispers the last to her hands. Hermione looks up through her lashes at him. "The battle was over. Harry had won. Voldemort was dust. All that was left was finding survivors, burying the dead, and arresting Death Eaters."
"There was only one I needed to see with my own eyes."
"Greyback," he murmurs.
She nods as she straightens up. "Greyback. I had gotten a good shot at him during the battle while running all over the place chasing Harry and went to check as soon as I could."
"He wasn't there." Her jaw clenches. "I had blasted him off- " She swallows harshly and takes a moment to compose herself. "Off Lavender, my dorm-mate. She was there – what little was left of her – but there was no sign of the beast that gutted her."
Hermione's eyes blaze. "Then I saw him. Stalking a group of students who were looking for survivors. I made sure my shoes were tied and my bag was secure, then I fired a blasting curse at the bastard."
She gives a mirthless chuckle and ducks so her face is hidden. "I think he would have chased anyone at that point, but because it was me, the one who got away, he got tunnel vision." At the questioning noise he makes, she elaborates, "Single-minded focus. Blood-lust. All that mattered was sinking his claws into me. So, I did the only thing I could think of. I led him away from the school through the forest towards a colony of Acromantula. I figured if anything could kill him it'd be giant spiders that grow to the size of a horse."
Boromir whispers into the silence, "How you were planning to escape the spiders?"
"I didn't have one." Hermione meets his gaze. Tears streak her face, but her voice is steady. "I knew I was running to my death. I only hoped I was taking him down with me."
He stumbles to the other chair, sitting heavily and collapsing onto the table. She was luring a monster away from children, towards other monsters, with no hope of survival.
What happened during her last two years at Hogwarts that turned the young scholar into an old soldier?
Boromir straightens up with a sigh. Hermione's watching him apprehensively, her bottom lip between her teeth. He places his hand, palm up, in the centre of the table. She doesn't hesitate to grab it.
He can't think about this right now. Time to change the subject.
"I got a young buck. Plenty of meat and the hide will make a good sized sheet of leather. And I thought you might like the antler for crafting."
Her lips twitch. She folds them in, but he can tell she's laughing at him. "Crafting?"
"Uhhh," he rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, "yes? Now that I say it out loud to you, I realize how ridiculous it sounds." Boromir chuckles with her, giving her cold fingers a squeeze. "Knife handles, buttons, beads. Most women would appreciate such a gift, but those are the everyday folk of Gondor, not a witch from another world."
"This witch from another world appreciates the thought behind the gesture." Hermione slides her other hand over his. Why is she so cold? "I'd like to try my hand at crafting. I won't even use magic," she says with a grin.
"Don't put away your magic yet," he warns. "We have an elk to butcher."
"Aye, Captain."
.
.
Hermione uses magic to do the heavy lifting and clean-up while Boromir does the grunt work. He didn't field dress it knowing many of the internals are either edible or useful to have. Especially what little fat is around the kidneys. It's far too precious a resource to leave behind.
What would have been a full day of labour to gut, skin, and part into manageable pieces is done in only a few hours. Hermione pulls a purple bag covered with beads from somewhere on her person and pops a tome out, The Homesteader's Compendium: Charming Your Way to Self-Sufficiency. She mentions she bought it in preparation, but doesn't say specifically for what.
A few flicks and swishes of her wand and some odd words cleans the intestines and makes them into casings for sausages. A leg is prepped, seasoned, and propped by the fire to slowly roast. Any large, easy to slice pieces are put aside to make into dried meat. Everything else Hermione takes off the bones and finely minces, along with the heart, kidneys, liver and most of the fat. That'll be for sausages.
Boromir learns why her hands were freezing earlier. She went foraging! And to see if she could summon salt from the cliff face. He takes a deep breath and wills away his worry and anger.
She's here. She's safe. Nothing went wrong.
No salt was found, but her extremely useful book has a spell that allows her to permanently change – transfigure is the word she used – bones into salt. It takes a massive amount of bone to make a small pile of salt, but they need every little bit they can get to preserve the meat. After taking the marrow out of the thickest bones, she does the whole skeleton.
Hermione finely chops a huge mound of herbs – wild fennel, mustard, garlic, and leek, crushes some juniper berries, and smashes a handful of cram crackers into flour to use as binder. Salt, marrow, herbs, binder, and a couple scoops of rain water are added to the pile and mixed thoroughly.
Boromir hasn't made sausages, ever, but he's eaten plenty and can't wait to taste these.
As though she read his mind, Hermione heats up the frying pan and does a couple small patties. "Quality control," she says seriously, the both of them drooling as it sizzles.
He moans at the flavours and quickly takes another bite. Tastes as amazing as he thought it would.
Hermione works her magic to stuff the casings and Boromir starts slicing the hunks of meat into thin strips. It goes into a tub with a brine made of rain water, salt, and a pile of smashed herbs. The hearth will have to be restructured so they can hang the sausages and meat to smoke and start drying, though magic will have to finish removing the moisture.
They did not shelter from the rain to avoid illness just to get food poisoning.
She sets a pot with the rest of the fat and a bit of water by the fire to render then stretches her back with a groan. "I am going to shrink the beds and screen off an area for a tub. I need a wash. My clothes need a wash." Hermione looks at him from the corner of her eye. "My Captain needs a wash."
Boromir frowns at her, though they both know he could use a bath.
"But first the hide." Hermione flips back and forth to different sections of her book. "We don't have the time or supplies to tan it traditionally. There's two different methods in here. One leaves the fur on, the other takes it off." She turns to him. "Opinion?"
"You have plenty of furred skins."
She nods, "My thought as well," and lifts her wand. "Wish me luck."
.
.
A large tub for bathing bodies and a smaller one for washing clothing are transfigured from stones and filled with hot water. Hermione pushes him behind the screens and throws his pack at him. "I still have work to do. I'll take my turn after supper."
Boromir thought he'd scrub his clothing first, but as soon as the garments are in the wash tub Hermione's magic activates, making the clothes wash themselves. He lets the magic tub do it's work and soaks his sore muscles instead. The bathing tub is deep and long and far too grand for a tent in the middle of the wilds.
Those days when Hermione wasn't using magic must have been agony for her. So many things she could have had or done, but instead went without.
Yet she doesn't need magic. Yes, it's faster, cleaner, and does all-but-impossible tasks – as well as plenty of impossible ones – with little effort, but her skills are not limited to what she can accomplish with a wand.
That pack frame wasn't made with magic. The blankets and clothing weren't sewn with magic. Her dedication to learning to wield a sword isn't magic. Knowing how to flavour sausages or brine meat for drying isn't magic.
She didn't use magic to put down that brute.
But Boromir never would have harvested an elk while travelling, not even a yearling like he did today, without Hermione's magic to process and preserve it. He also wouldn't have a magic shield for protection at night, or a tent to shelter from the rain, or this fabulous tub to soak in.
How will he ever travel without her?
It's unfortunate he can't bestow titles. He'd make her a Countess, or perhaps a Duchess, and gift her a parcel of land – a nice mix of forest and prairie – in Gondor. Close to Minas Tirith, so he can visit often.
Maybe she'll settle for a suite of rooms next to his in the Citadel.
.
.
Hermione made a feast while he wasn't watching. Slightly flattened balls of fried sausage filling sit on a bed of sauteed wild greens. Looks like chicory, nettle, and mustard. Little steamed buns are on the side. She must have smashed some more crackers to use as flour. A much better way to eat it, as far as he's concerned. The one broken open on a plate is filled with diced mushrooms and leek. He wonders if she put cattail root in the dough again.
The hearth is changed to an open circle with racks of meat and sausages hanging over and all around. Boromir can see a shimmer of blue indicating a magic shield. Must be to keep the smoke on the meat where it's needed. She also gathered a small pile of green spruce bows to add to the fire, scenting the smoke to flavour the meat.
Clever woman.
"I have a younger brother," Boromir states as he sits at the table.
Hermione stops washing her hands and slowly turns to him. "I know."
"I think you'll like him."
She tilts her head to the side. "I'm sure I will."
"He's not too old for- "
She bursts out laughing. "Don't you dare!"
He grins at her. "Worth a try."
.
.
He cleans up the pots and dishes from dinner, rotates the slowly roasting leg, keeps an eye on the smoke and occasionally adds a spruce bow to the fire, and tidies up the tent while Hermione bathes.
She's singing softly to herself in a strange language. It sounds... sad.
Boromir sighs. It's easy – too easy – to forget she's grieving. Except for that morning where everything came tumbling out, Hermione hasn't wept or raged about her lost world. At least, not in front of him.
What he needs to do is get them to Rivendell. He pulls a map – the most detailed one Faramir could find that wasn't a tapestry – from his pack, lays it out on the table, and traces a finger along the Bruinen River. If they start heading in a north-west direction they'll find it eventually. Then all they have to do is follow it to the Great East Road.
It's not as safe – it's mostly plains, leaving them out in the open – but it'll be much faster. And everything points to Rivendell being at the end of, or nearby, the main road. Maybe there will be a patrol that can escort them to the elf city.
Hermione steps out from the screens in clothing from her world: a large, blue knit sweater that goes down to her knees and has a bulky neckline that pools like a scarf, tight black pants, thick grey socks, leather slippers, and a wide black belt that accents her tiny waist. Those insane curls of hers remain free from the braid she usually wrestles them into.
For the first time since he's met her she looks comfortable.
"Whatcha lookin' at?" Hermione slides up beside him to peer at the map. "Oh! Do you know where we are?"
Boromir cringes. "Ah, no. Not really. Just somewhere," he runs a finger up along the west edge of the Misty Mountains, north of the Glanduin River and Moria, "in here."
"Hmmmm..." She looks at him from the corner of her eye and whispers, "Would you like to know?"
"Map magic?" He chuckles when she rolls her eyes at him. "Yes, Hermione. I would appreciate knowing our location. It would help us decide whether to stay in the foothills or risk the plains and follow the river."
A crystal pendant flies up to her hand from that marvellous beaded bag. Hermione hangs it over the map and swings it so it starts circling. As she mumbles strange words her amber eyes begin to glow.
Quicker than he can follow, the crystal shoots off like a dart and sticks to the map. They're straight west and a bit north of where two major rivers meet. If they go directly north, instead of following the foothills north-east as they have been, they'll hit the Bruinen.
"To the river?" she asks.
Boromir sighs. "To the river."
.
.
He slowly blinks the sleep away. It's the middle of the night, but something woke him... Silence. Boromir looks over at the other bed.
Hermione is missing.
He shoots up in a panic, but immediately relaxes. She's across the tent, looking outside. When she hears him moving she turns and says, "Rain stopped."
Ah, that's why it's so quiet.
"Will everything be ready in the morning?" He steps up to the window. The puddles are still.
Hermione nods. "I have a small chest with a cooling charm. It's like an icebox. The roasted leg and leftover sausage patties will stay good for about a week in there. That'll be a nice change after eating dried meat for a few days. And we should take the racks away from the fire now so the meat cools. I'll cast a dehydration charm before heading back to bed, and probably once more before we package it."
Boromir steers her away from the window. "Let's get it done and go back to sleep. We have at least a week of hard travel left."
"Aye, Captain."