Chapter Four
Focused their new destination, there's very little talking as they trek the next couple days. They're moving fast and need their concentration and breath for scaling up and down the foothills. They go late into the night, eat a cold meals of dried meat and cram, and sleep deeply knowing Hermione's magic is protecting them.
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The afternoon they crest the last foothill they're finally able to catch a glimpse of the river.
"There," Hermione points, "a shimmer of water on the horizon."
"Our destination." Boromir pats her shoulder. "Good eye."
She shrugs. "I'm no Hufflepuff, but I consider myself a fairly good finder."
He knows Hufflepuff is one of the four houses of Hogwarts, but doesn't know why that matters when it comes to finding things. Must be a jest from her school. "As I know no Hufflepuffs, I must consider you the superior seeker."
"Pfft! I don't like flying." Flying? Oh! Quidditch. She darts forward, grabbing his hand and dragging him along. "If we hurry we can get to the tree line before nightfall."
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They sleep in the tall grass under a wide open sky that night, the Misty Mountains a silent sentinel at their back. Boromir leans back against a boulder, tucks Hermione to his side under his arm, and draws pictures in the stars, telling her the tales and legends that go with them.
Maybe one day she'll come to love these stars as he does.
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Walking out in the open is both a welcome change and nerve wracking. Welcome because they can see what's coming. Nerve wracking because others can see them. But Hermione doesn't seem as skittish as him.
"I'm keeping a faint pulse of magic spreading outwards so we'll have a warning if someone or thing approaches," she explains once Boromir gets around to asking.
Magic that scouts ahead? "That's amazing!" he says, awestruck. "Have you found anything?"
"Rabbit burrows, wild turkeys, badger den. Nothing sentient. And nothing with the twisted darkness like you described orcs as having."
All good news, but... "Can anything detect your magic?"
"Uhhhh... maybe? Your immortal grey wizard, I assume so. Elves? Possibly. Depends on their sensitivity to magic and whether or not my magic presents as magic to them." Hermione skips forward, turns around to face him, and walks backwards. "Can you feel it?"
"The scouting magic, no. But I can when you cast directly upon me."
"Really?!" She grins and leans forward as she continues to step backwards. "What's it feel like?"
He grabs her hand to stop her. "Turn around before you trip." Hermione laughs as she spins to his side. Crazy woman. "It feels like you. Your personality, that is."
"And that's... good?" Her brow furrows and she bites her bottom lip. "What about on the items I conjure?"
"Yes, but only if I concentrate."
"Huh." She stares off on the horizon, a tiny frown on her face. "I guess that's makes sense. When Harry's wand broke and we had to share mine, we became attuned to each other's magic. After a week I could separate out his magical signature, no matter how many others were around. It was..."
"Comforting," he says when her pause lasts too long. Boromir looks over and waits for her to meet his gaze. "It is comforting to feel your magic."
"Oh." Hermione ducks her head when tears begin to pool. "I- uh, I'm glad -honoured- you feel that way," she says quietly.
Boromir slings an arm over her shoulders and pulls her closer. She slides an arm around his waist, grips his belt, and leans against him. The first time she's done so. For all that she's rested against him, never has Hermione embraced him.
This, too, is comforting.
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Over the next two days Hermione begins to talk about her sixth year at Hogwarts. She often pauses, the emotions becoming too much, and sometimes she'll go off on a tangent of things she wished she'd done. Boromir lets her go at her own pace, never pushing for more. It is a regret like no other knowing you could have done better – should have done better – especially when others are relying on you. It's the only time he gives her advice.
"You cannot let regrets control you, but you must remember pain the failure in order to do better next time."
When it seems like she's done for the day, he fills the silence with stories of his childhood: running about the Citadel, sneaking treats from the kitchens, escaping tutors to go to the training yard. Lighthearted memories to counter her dark ones.
Hermione grins at him. "Soooooo, you're not some regular noble. You're a prince!"
"No," Boromir forcefully denies her accusation, panicking at the mere thought of having to wear a crown. "I am the son of the Steward of Gondor. My family have long been the caretakers of the Kingdom of Gondor and will continue to do so until the Heir of Isildur comes forth to claim his throne."
She hums, accepting his words but most likely thinking of ways to tease him. "Will you be the next Steward?"
"Father would prefer it, but I've already told Faramir that when the time comes it will be him taking the mantel." He chuckles ruefully. "I am no diplomat. I fight with a sword, not words. I know strategies for battlefields, not trade agreements. I can organize food to keep an army fed, but don't know the first thing about feeding a city."
"You became what your city – what your people – needed you to be. There's no shame in that. That you rose to the challenge and flourished says much about your character." Hermione links her arm in his. "I am fortunate the Gods saw fit to bring us together. I am proud to call you friend, Boromir of Gondor."
He grins. "You said my name."
"And now I'll never do it again."
"That's what you said last time."
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After finishing the year of Harry's understandable paranoia, Draco's impossible task, Death Eaters invading the Hogwarts – including the horrible man-beast Greyback, and the Headmaster's death, Hermione takes another break. Boromir admits he needs one as well.
Hermione, like so many people of Middle Earth, lost her youth to war.
She should have been studying, and teasing her friends about boys, and being teased about boys, and going to the Yule Balls and Christmas Parties she's mentioned. Instead she was learning about forbidden magicks that split souls, and trying to keep Harry from 'doing something stupid', and training so she could defend herself and others against dark witches and wizards.
Every moment she could spare, and some that she couldn't, was spent preparing to help Harry hunt for pieces of a self-proclaimed Dark Lord's soul.
He doesn't have to wonder any longer why she's an endless tome of knowledge.
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They reach the river that evening and celebrate by setting up a proper camp. Hermione takes the time to create a fire pit and magicks some deadfall into what she calls a picnic table. A tent with a tub is next. "Because I deserve a bath. I don't care if you have one."
Boromir certainly isn't turning down a hot bath. The only other option to get clean would be the ice cold river.
Supper is fish summoned from the river, seasoned with the herb salt, and pan fried in a bit of elk tallow. A nice change from crackers, dried meat, and the occasional bit of dried or fresh fruit. Hermione complains about the lack of vegetables, but clears her plate. Twice.
Over two weeks he's known her and Hermione's face has already lost some of the sharp edges. Even with the constant walking, sword training, and trail rations she's gaining weight.
So what went wrong during the hunt for soul pieces?
Boromir herds her to the tent and takes over clean-up, a chore that's quickly becoming his favourite. The domesticity of washing dishes after a meal and listening to a woman sing while bathing is not something that's ever been a part of his life. Not until he met Hermione. It almost makes him wish he had found someone to marry.
Almost.
Sometimes, when he feels the sting of loneliness, he dreams of what it would be like to have someone waiting for him. It's a selfish desire as he's often away for months at a time. If he had married a decade or two ago when his father wanted him to, all he would have is a wife he hardly sees and maybe a child or two that grew-up without him.
Better to be lonely than a poor husband and terrible father.
Maybe if he lives long enough to see a time of peace he'll find a woman willing to love an old soldier and settle down.
If he lives long enough.
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They sway gently in the cool breeze under a clear sky, listening to the river run, owls hoot, and wolves howl. The hammocks Hermione created for them to sleep in are impossible to get in and out of quickly, but they are very comfortable.
"Captain?"
"Yes, Hermione?"
"Pretend I've never attended a royal gala."
"Because you haven't?"
"Because I haven't. What's the food like? Are the gowns ostentatious or elegant? Is the music kept low for conversation or boisterous for dancing?"
"The food is magnificent. It's laid out on long tables at one end of the ballroom. My favourite are these tiny puffs filled with a soft, creamy cheese, fresh herbs, and diced chicken. I always eat too many. No matter the occasion, Faramir goes straight to the dessert table and samples every cake..."
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Boromir wakes with the dawn. Hermione is on her side facing him, curled up under the fur blankets and hair everywhere, still fast asleep. It's not often he wakes before her, but every time he does he takes the opportunity to commit it to memory.
He refuses to contemplate what it says about him that the woman he's woken up next to most in his life is a lost witch from another world that's half his age. It matters not that they're not lovers. It's Hermione's face, soft with sleep or smirking while she teases him, he knows best.
Maybe if she comes to love Minas Tirith as he does he'll purchase house for her. He's decided she wouldn't like living in the Citadel with servants doing all the cooking and cleaning. As she's told him numerous times, she's an independent woman who likes doing things herself.
Perhaps a farm? Would she want a garden or animals to care for?
A soft voice, rough with sleep, asks him, "What has you so deep in thought this morning?"
"Doyouwantcows?" Boromir hides his face and groans. He can't believe he just said that! This is why they don't talk until after breakfast.
"Cows? Do I... want... cows? Uhhhh..." Hermione's staring at him as though he said an orc in a ballgown just rode by. "No. I don't think I want cows. Milking then processing it into cheese and butter and whatever else isn't something I'm interested in. But- " she flicks her eyes to the side and bites her lip, "I wouldn't mind having a small flock of hens. For eggs, not butchering."
"Hens." Well, she already thinks he's crazy, might as well go for it. "And a garden?"
"Oh, yes!" Hermione sits up and tosses her hair back. Apparently gardening is exciting. "A big garden. And a orchard! Fruit and nut trees, and lots of berry bushes." She grins at him, "You're being weird," and chuckles when he frowns.
"It was just a question," he mumbles, but this is important information. Hens, garden, orchard. Easy enough to remember. Boromir flicks his eyes up, meeting hers. Hermione's eyes are still laughing at him, but her grin has softened into a gentle smile.
He can't help but smile back.
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Hermione seems to be in need of an extra bit of home today. She's wearing her world's clothing – another knit that could almost be a dress in shades of grey with a wide collar split on one shoulder and buttons holding the edge down, and a blue pant called denim – instead of what she calls her 'Middle Earth outfit'. Boromir leaves her be and enjoys the lazy morning. They've been pushing hard to get to the river and deserve a bit of a break.
Rivendell isn't going anywhere.
She treats them to a dark, spiced tea with honey that was stashed in her magic bag. It smells like the spice tents of the Grand Market! It seems a waste to enjoy a tea from another world with a breakfast of stale cram and dried elk sausage that had been simmered in water to plump them, but it's hard to argue when Boromir sees the stress melt off her as she inhales the fragrant steam and he's reminded of his mother with every sip.
Hopefully Hermione knows how to make the blend.
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Their second cup is interrupted by an incoming rider.
"Human male on a horse. Moving fast." Hermione stands at the edge of the wards and watches the north horizon. But there's nothing there. Yet.
Boromir points to a boulder near the river bank. "If I sit there will you still be able to hear me?"
She shrugs. "Don't see why not. It's not far." Her wand slips from her sleeve. "Ready to get keyed?"
"Of course." When he stormed out during their argument the only reason he could find the tent was because Hermione shot a charm at his back, though at the time he was too upset to notice. Even when angry at him, she was looking out for him. "I'm taking my tea." She laughs and waves him off, conjuring a chair near the fire so she can sit and watch.
Boromir finishes most of his tea and a handful of dried apple slices by the time a rider comes into view. Rohirrim, based on the shape of the helm. They're an awful long way from home, but then again, so is he.
The rider changes direction when they spot him sitting casually on a rock by the river. A strange sight, he'll admit. Especially since he's not kitted out and sipping a cup of tea. "Hail, Rider of Rohan," Boromir calls out, raising his mug.
The horse slows and comes to a smooth stop a length away from him. "Hail, Captain Boromir of Gondor." The rider removes the helm. Éomer! "The sight of a friendly face is most welcome."
Boromir laughs. "Indeed!" Éomer dismounts and grasps his forearm in greeting, then pulls him into a one armed hug. They step back, leaving hands on shoulders. "What brings you so far north?"
Éomer frowns at him, ignoring his question. "Where is your gear?"
"In the tent."
"What tent?"
"Oh! Uhhhh..." Boromir looks over his shoulder. He can see Hermione and their camp, but it's obvious Éomer can't. This is the first time he's experienced what her wards can do.
Very impressive.
He can hear her clearly, "If you trust him," though Éomer cannot.
"Come. Lead your horse." Boromir keeps a firm grip on Éomer's shoulder and walks him through the magic shield. "Do you need breakfast?"
He stops abruptly. "What witchcraft," Éomer hisses, "is this?"
"Mine." Hermione remains sitting by the fire. "If you have a problem with it, leave."
"Gladly." He tries to turn around, but Boromir tightens his grip. "You may have allowed yourself to be bewitched, but I already have enough problems with wizards," he snarls.
"I am not bewitched. Hermione is my friend." Boromir loosens his hold, but doesn't release him. "Éomer," he tries to put all the concern he feels for his neighbour and fellow soldier into his voice, "what troubles have taken you so far from home?"
Éomer continues to glare at him, but then he sighs, his whole body sagging under the weight of his worries. "Theoden King is... not himself. I believe the White Wizard to be the cause, but none who have the power to do anything about it believe me."
Boromir glances at Hermione. They haven't spoken of any wizards, except briefly of Gandalf, but she looks as worried as he feels. She catches his eye and motions with a tilt of her head towards the picnic table. The pan from sausages goes back on the fire.
"Come sit. Take a rest and tell us your tale."
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It started as little things, like ignoring complaints and cutting patrols to remote villages.
Then Theoden made Wormtongue his chief advisor. Constantly the horrid man whispers in the king's ear. He no longer listens to anyone else. Including his own son.
Every day his eyes pale a little more. Every night he noticeably ages.
"There have been attacks by savage mountain men on the villages, but he refuses to investigate. Theodred has upped patrols without permission. As heir and prince, the men obey. Uncle hasn't noticed." He growls. "Or perhaps I should say, Wormtongue isn't ready to challenge the prince's authority yet."
"Why do you believe it's Saruman?" Boromir holds up a hand when Éomer looks like he's about to storm off again. "It's not that I don't believe you. I just want the full report."
"A few of the captured wild men were yelling for the 'man of white' to save them. Others carry a token with a white hand print. Wormtongue has no magic, yet his voice seems to make the king fade away a little more each day. That maggot of a man used to travel to Isengard as the king's emissary. Plenty of time to devise this scheme."
Hermione hesitantly asks, "Does it ever seem like King Theoden is merely repeating what someone told him instead of voicing his own thoughts?"
Éomer traps her in his gaze. A heartbeat passes. Then two. Then three. He looks down at his hands and sighs. "More often than not," he admits, his voice tight.
"It sounds like a curse similar to the Imperious." Hermione waits for Éomer to look at her. "The White Wizard is most likely using Wormtongue – awful name by the way, though accurate – as a carrier or channel for the spell. Unfortunately, killing the bastard won't break it. Worse, if you do, Saruman will know you're on to him and advance his plans."
"You believe me?" Éomer looks between them. They both nod at his flabbergasted face. "Truly? The elves wouldn't hear a word against him! He is a great and wise wizard. The leader of the White Council. Saruman the White cannot be the cause of King Theoden's failing health. Failing health! As though he merely needs a tonic."
Hermione snorts. "It's been my experience that great and wise do not mean good and kind."
Éomer reaches across the table and takes her hand. "Can you break the spell?" he asks in a desperate plea.
"I don't know. I've never been tested against the wizards here. My magic – that I was born with, not bargained for from Gods or demons – is different. I won't know for sure until I can examine your king."
"You- you would come to Edoras?" Boromir can see Éomer's grip tighten to the point he's probably hurting her, but Hermione only nods and pats his hand, leaving it laying on top.
"We must go to Rivendell first, though I doubt we will find the counsel we need if they so carelessly tossed aside your concerns. It is easy enough to stop at Edoras on our way to Minas Tirith." Boromir offers his hand to Éomer, who releases Hermione to clasp arms with him. "Though Gondor has it's own troubles and has not been able to offer assistance to her allies during these dark times, know you are not alone. I stand with you."
"Thank you, Captain Boromir of Gondor, for your promise of aid." At Hermione's indignant squeak, Éomer cracks a tiny smile. "And thank you, Lady Hermione, for your counsel."
"You're welcome, Éomer, errrr," her brow furrows, "I'm sorry. I don't know your title. You mentioned King Theoden is your uncle, so..."
Éomer straightens up and bows his head to her. "I am the Third Marshal of the Riddermark, leader of the Riders of Rohan."
"A Marshal?" Hermione gets a glint in her eye. "Is that similar to a Captain?"
"I... suppose... so..." Éomer looks at Boromir from the corner of his eye. He shrugs. He doesn't know why she's asking either.
She leans forward slightly. "You know, I collect Captains."
Éomer's eyes pop wide and Boromir groans, "Hermione!" She laughs, pleased with herself for making two grown men blush.
Her comment of, "Don't worry, you'll always be my first," doesn't help.
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Hermione disappears into the tent, saying she has something to work on, leaving them to visit. Éomer finally relaxes and turns his attention to food. He devours the entire pan of simmered sausages, "These are fantastic!" and gratefully accepts a couple packages of dried meat to take with him. "I stormed out of there without restocking my rations. This will last me until I meet up with my men by Tharbad."
After looking after his mount, Firefoot, Éomer shucks his boots and armour and tosses himself into a hammock with a happy groan. "Tell me of your witch. How did you come to be travelling with Lady Hermione?"
Boromir settles into the other before answering. "She's not my witch, no matter what her playful words may make you think." Éomer snorts, clearly not believing him. "Truly. We are friends, nothing more. When we came upon each other in the foothills, she was being chased by a vile man-beast..." Boromir tells Éomer of that night and the following morning when she tried to leave.
"She honestly thought you would just let her wander off?" He scoffs. "Daft woman."
Boromir chuckles. "I didn't know she had magic. Now I know she would have been fine, though lost and alone."
"Alone? Has she no family?"
He cringes. He shouldn't have said that, but before he can make-up an excuse to avoid answering Hermione comes out of the tent. "I was not born on Middle Earth and I lost my parents long before I travelled here. Back home, a world away, I have friends as good as brothers and sisters. That's all, I'm afraid."
She holds up three leather cords with purple crystal pendents hanging down, stalling apologies and condolences. "I wasn't sure how many to make, so you get three. You, Prince Theodred, and the last can go to someone you trust."
He immediately says, "Éowyn, my sister. What exactly am I giving her?"
"Protection." Hermione pops a low stool into being between the two hammocks, sits down and displays the pendents in her hand for them to see. Strange runes in silver shimmer from the facets. "If Saruman is using Wormtongue as a channel for his magic like I think he is, this will prevent him from influencing you. It won't work against a direct spell from the wizard, only a second hand source."
"I- You- you made these? Just now? For me?" Éomer flails around, dumping himself out of the hammock, hops up and embraces Hermione, surprising a yelp out of her when her feet leave the ground. "Thank you!"
She awkwardly pats his back, her face squished into his shoulder. "You're welcome." When Éomer doesn't release her she mumbles, "You smell like unwashed man and horse."
He barks a laugh, "Gods above, you are a treasure," and sets her down. "Do give me a head start if you and Éowyn decide to join forces. I will return at a later date to see the destruction."
Boromir chuckles as she huffs, "No promises." Hermione hands Éomer the cords. "Wear it so the crystal rests on your skin. I recommend below the knee, around the bicep, or at the ankle, but it doesn't matter where."
Éomer cradles the stones as though they are his firstborn. "Gods above," he softly repeats, "you truly are a treasure." He crooks a smile at her. "Is there anything I can do to repay your kindness?"
Hermione bites her lip, her eyes on her feet, and quietly asks, "May I ride your horse?" She looks over at Firefoot and keeps going before he can answer. "It's just, he looks pleasant enough, and the only animals I've ever ridden have had wings. Two were vaguely horse-shaped, but I don't think it counts since I was in the air most of the time."
Éomer looks at him, asking with his eyes if she's jesting or not. Boromir shakes his head then motions towards the horse. "I'm sure Firefoot is honoured to be your first," Éomer tells her with a chuckle.
Boromir barely hears her, "Yeaaaah, I deserve that," over his own laughter.
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Éomer introduces Hermione to the stallion, guiding her on how to hold her hand for Firefoot to sniff and where to scratch him. She helps groom and put on the tack. As much as she can, that is. The war horse is massive. There's no way she's getting up on his back without help.
Hermione quietly chatters away while brushing him down, familiarizing the horse with her voice. Éomer finishes with the saddle and leaves her to fuss. "I don't think he likes me that much," he complains as he sits. Firefoot has his neck curled around her, as though hugging the tiny witch, as she combs his mane.
"It's because she's so small, in both stature and mass. He thinks she needs protecting. Doesn't know how fierce she is yet."
"Are we talking about the horse or you?" Éomer sighs. "Boromir- "
"She was leading Greyback, the man-beast, away from a school full of children to a trap that would have killed her too. I don't know how she went from running through the forest on her world to running past me on this one, but magic and the Gods are sure to have been involved."
Éomer curses under his breath and runs a hand through his hair. "When she said she wasn't born on Middle Earth I thought that meant she was from the far east or south, where the nations and people are different."
Firefoot trots past them, Hermione sitting cross-legged on his back. She waves at them, "Look, Captain! I'm on a horse!" a huge grin on her face, and directs her ride to circle around.
"How did she get up there?!" Éomer jumps up and runs after them. "Sit properly or you're going to fall off!" Firefoot seems to know his partner isn't playing and slows to a stop, taking care not to jostle his rider. He mounts up behind Hermione and picks her up by the waist as a hint to straddle the horse.
Hermione laughs as Éomer rearranges her, but her eyes keep meeting his. Making sure he's watching. Making sure she's safe. Boromir watches with a fond smile, grinning when she finally relaxes. Éomer won't harm her. If anything, he treats her as he would Éowyn. Scolding and grumbling as he teaches her, but with a gentle touch.
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Éomer departs after the riding lesson with a heartfelt farewell. The knowledge that someone believes him about the White Wizard is enough to bolster his spirit, as does what little assistance they were able to gift him.
They continue to watch long after he disappears into the horizon, though the ocean of prairie grass has already covered any sign of his passing. "He asked if I could make him a sweater like mine, but fashioned for a man." Hermione tilts her face up to look at him. "He's not trying to trick me into initiating a courtship, is he?"
Boromir throws his head back and laughs. Is that a custom in her world? "No," he says, trying to catch his breath. "Éomer is betrothed to my cousin, Lothíriel, daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth."
"Brother to your mother, Finduilas."
"That's right," he confirms with a smile. Hermione has a sharp mind, remembering everything he's ever mentioned. It will probably get him into trouble later. "It's an arranged match – they've only met twice that I know of – but I've heard from reliable sources that it is a good one. I doubt they would have met at all if not for pushy councillors and a meddling mother."
"Oh... well, that's alright then." Hermione falls sideways, leaning her full weight on him, with a heavy sigh. "Time to go?"
"Time to go."