The Long Way Home   von Glasschmetterling
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                            Kapitel 2: Chapter Two
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Chapter  Two
February the  30th,  Year 3019 of the Third Age.

It was  two days until he leapt from feverish delirium into actual sleep, and 
another one and a half until he finally woke up at dawn, opening his  eyes and
instantly closing them again as the dim light blinded him,  then trying to raise
his arm – his right. He groaned as the pain  hit him, and that was what
alerted her, made her rush to his side and  grab his left, uninjured hand.
“Boromir,”  whispered she, and his hurt, tense body relaxed a little bit
when he  heard that she was no Orc. She could see him take a deep, rattling 
breath, composing himself, before he slowly blinked, allowing his  eyes to
accommodate to light again.
“Ar...  Arnuilas.” His voice sounded harsh and raspy, but she smiled 
nevertheless down at him and pressed his fingers carefully, glad that  he had
recognized her even in his state and after so short a meeting.
“Yes...”  He started to stir, and her fingers flew to his uninjured shoulder
 and arm. “Do not move. You were wounded severely, and you need to  rest.”
He  started to talk, but when he did, coughed violently, throwing up  blood, but
to her relief, it was not fresh and red, but rather of a  more brownish tinge.
Elven healing could do a lot, but she was no  Elf, and if his lung was lacerated
again, he would be closer to death  than to life without her being able to help.
“Carefully,  carefully...” whispered she as she cleaned his mouth and chin
with  a clean cloth, and then sat back next to him. “Do you want to  drink? I
did not dare to give you any water...”
He  nodded only slightly, she noted with relief, and pulled her water bag  from
her bundle. “There. Only small sips, no matter how thirsty you  are. You
should not move more than is necessary, and I do not want  you to cough
again.”
It was  only a trickle of water she poured into his mouth, and he faithfully 
swallowed, then another sip and another, until he raised his hand and  she
stopped, smiling. “There. That did work quite nicely. How do  you feel?”
“It  hurts.” His voice sounded stronger and more natural now that he had 
drunk.
“That  is to be expected after the arrows you took – and the fever you 
caught.”
“Fever?”  He eyed her with alarm. “How long... have I...”
“It  is three and a half days since your battle against the Orcs.”
Though  she knew that he had to be exhausted, tired and weak after his  ordeal,
she saw alarm creep onto his features, alarm and fear. “What  about...”
“Your  companions?”
He  nodded.
“I  fear that I do not know. I was on my way up the path when I  discovered
you, and then I could not leave you long enough to search  for them or any
trails leading to their whereabouts.”
She  saw the pain in his eyes, but it was mingled with the knowledge of  how
dire his situation had been, how close he had come to death,  things that she
had not planned on revealing so early in his  convalescence. But now that he
knew... she shrugged nearly  motionlessly. “At least some of them must be
alive. They put you to  rest in a boat and sent you down the Rauros.”
Immediately,  his face lost all expression and he stared at her with wide eyes, 
motioning to sit up. “They... they thought... me dead?”
“Yes.”
After  a moment of tension, he sank back on her blankets, and she sighed  with
relief as he took the strain off his weak body. “Maybe it was  for the
best,” he murmured, and she pulled his left hand into hers.
“What  was for the best?”
He  looked up at her not like the man and hero of Gondor that he used to  be,
but more like one that had lost everything that was dear to him,  and now
doubted the values and morals he had adhered to before. “That  they left me.
The Orcs... they took the Hobbits. Aragorn would have  been forced to make a
gruesome choice, had he known that I was  alive.”
She  pressed his fingers, trying to infuse him with a confidence she did  not
feel herself. “And it all turned out for the best. You were  found, the worst
is over, and by now I am sure that you will live.”
When  he looked up at her, she found that her words were only a small 
consolation for him, and asked herself what had happened to him that  at least
part of this proud man had obviously preferred to die. The  concern she had
pushed back when the fever abated now returned in  force when she watched him
carefully as he lay on his bed, eyes  closed, deep lines of pain etched onto his
noble face. Did  he still prefer to die?,  she wondered, but as she knew not and
had no intention of asking him,  she just shrugged and filed the thought away
for later consideration.
Soon  after their short conversation, after she had given him more water, 
exhaustion took its toll and he fell asleep again, leaving her to  ponder their
situation. During the long nights while she had watched  over him and tried to
keep the fever at bay, she had been focused on  the present and had pushed away
all thoughts of the next steps; it  had not even been sure that he would
survive, how could she plan  ahead?
Now,  things appeared quite differently, and she could allow herself to  think.
The more she did, the clearer it became that they could not  stay here in the
wilds. She had only taken provisions for one, and as  soon as Boromir would
start to eat, which, she hoped, would be after  he woke up next, they would
dwindle faster than she cared for. Yes,  she could hunt, but with the shadow
creeping in from the East, most  wildlife had left the shores of the Great River
and travelled  westwards, away from the disturbances of Orcs and shadows
overhead.  Furthermore, she would have to leave him alone to hunt, and she was 
loath to do that – he was without weapons or armour, and still weak  as a
child, though she would certainly not tell him so, lest she  injure the pride he
hopefully had still left. If Orcs, or only a wild  wolf came upon him while he
was alone, he was as good as dead.
No,  they had to leave as soon as he – or she – could drag him  forward, but
the question where they would go remained. They could  turn west for Rohan,
follow the river south to Gondor, or travel  upstream to return to Lórien.
Without asking him, she knew which of  these options he preferred, but using her
own boat to turn south was,  despite the fact that it would be the easiest route
for him, the one  she loathed most. The South was at war, and the Anduin was the
border  between Mordor and Gondor – and both sides would be likely to shoot 
first, and ask questions later. No, she did not fancy being killed by  one of
the brave men of Minas Tirith, and the prospect of tramping  through the Mouths
of the Entwash with an injured man likely to catch  an infection from all the
dirt was just as appalling. If she had any  say in this – and she intended to
have a lot to say, as he would in  all likelihood not survive without her –
they would turn North and  retrace their steps to Lórien, travelling part by
boat and part on  foot, depending on the current of the river and how well she
was able  to paddle against it. She could then leave him in the care of the 
Elven healers and head to the northern border, helping their allies  to fight
the Orcs pouring out form Moria, and then... she shrugged  softly. The war would
be over, one way or the other, and depending on  the outcome, she would either
return North, or die in Lórien's last  stand.
It was  not the most cheerful prospect she had ever faced, but then again,  she
had been living and fighting in Eriador for decades now, and  death was always a
possibility. Too many Ranger camps had been raided  by Orcs, too many of her
brothers not returned from their travels,  that she could still indulge in the
childish belief that she of all  the good, honest people of Middle Earth was the
one infallible and  immortal.

She  must have dozed off, despite the dark thoughts intruding, because  when she
was startled by a quiet rustling of cloth, her eyes snapped  open and she looked
around, searching frantically for the intruder.  Only when she noticed that she
was alone with Boromir, and that his  dark grey eyes were trained upon her, she
allowed herself to relax.  The few rays of sun peeking in through the remnants
of a staircase  had not wandered far yet, and nobody had been here. She allowed
her  breath to flow out of her lungs and pushed her aching body up to tend  to
her patient.
“I  am sorry, I did not intend to wake you up,” murmured he as soon as  she
reached him, but she shook her head and smiled.
“In  truth, I should not have slept at all, so do not worry.”
His  creased brow and his thoughtful gaze were enough proof that he would  not
take this advice to heart, but there was nothing she could do  about it. Healing
his body was a task that most likely was beyond her  abilities, and his mind was
something he had to take care of himself,  but this fact could not keep her from
worrying about him. Too often  had she seen strong and brave men and women
succumb to the darkness  that came with an injury and the accompanying feelings
of  helplessness, and with him, there seemed to be guilt lingering  beneath his
composed features as well.
She  nevertheless smiled, grabbing the water bag and a bundle of lembas, 
tightly wrapped in their leaves, when he spoke up again. “I can do  this
myself, you do not have to help me.”
She  shook her head. “With one arm? Hardly. You would choke and cough,  and my
efforts in dressing your wounds would all be in vain.”
He was  neither in a state to argue nor to hinder her, and even he noticed  that
when he tried to raise his left hand to her forearm and it fell  down heavily
onto her limb. His cheeks started to burn, she could see  it even in the dim
light, but she valiantly tried to ignore it while  he swallowed the dripple she
poured from her water bag, and then she  unwrapped the piece of elven bread and
handed it to him, hoping that  it would help to preserve his dignity. “Here.
Try this.”
“Thank  you.” His movements were painfully slow as he drew his hand back 
from her arm and raised the bread to his mouth, chewing carefully,  while she
turned around to store the water away, desperately hoping  for something else to
do that could serve to distract her from his  aching motions. There was no fire
to stoke, no food to prepare, no  weapons to clean – she had done all of this
and much more while he  was unconscious, anything to take her mind off the
creeping fear that  soon, she would be alone in this godforsaken stretch of land
just  south the Emyn Muil.
After  he had finished breaking his fast she turned around and sat next to  him
again. “How is your breathing?”
He  inhaled deeply. “Hurts a bit, but I can manage it.”
“Good.  I imagine you barely feel it with all the other pains you can focus 
on.”
She  saw the crease on his brow deepen until he realized that it had been 
sarcasm speaking and his lips curled, at least a little bit. “I  will last.”
“Yes,  you will. I hope you do realize how incredibly lucky you have been.” 
He nodded under her stern gaze, though what prompted him to do so she  knew not.
“Do not throw that gift away.”
He  listened to the disant sound of the Falls for a moment, as did she,  hoping
that her words of care would be heeded, or, better yet, that  they spoke of a
useless concern, before his hand found her arm again.  “You... you know of our
task.”
“Yes.  Yes, I do.”
“Do  you think...” He hesitated, summoning all his strength, but not 
because he was so weak, but because of the nature of what he intended  to say.
“Do you think that they have already... failed? That... it  is already in the
hands of the enemy?”
The  intense fear in his words also clawed at her heart, but she shook it  off
as quickly as she could, not only for her benefit, but also for  his. He needed
her clear and alert, not cowing in the shadows like a  child might. She drew her
lower lip in to chew on it, thinking hard,  forcing the intruding dark thoughts
away with the feeling of her  teeth on her flesh, until she softly shook her
head. “I think not.  It is now near four days since I found you... if the Orcs
had been  able to take the Ring, they would have handed it to the Nazgûl 
immediately, and with their flying mounts, it would already be on  Sauron's
hand. This has not happened yet, or we all would have felt  it, so there is
hope. Do not give it up.”
He  nodded at her, though her words could not lift the dark, sombre air  around
him, whispering despondently of things he had not told her  yet, and she doubted
that he would. “Where are my things?” asked  he, and she sighed, taking the
Horn of Gondor from her bundle.
“Your  sword is broken, just as your helm, and I left them, with the other 
things your companions had given to you, on the boat, to send it down  the
Anduin. I only took this, as I recognized it from your belt in  Lórien.”
She  carefully handed him the cut halves and turned away as she saw the 
stinging pain in his eyes, the tears preparing to fall, knowing that  this was
an heirloom of the stewards of Gondor, given from father to  eldest son, worth
much more than the gold and silver attached to it.
“Thank  you.” His voice sounded raspy and not at all if he really meant it, 
the words more born from obligation than from true feeling, but she 
nevertheless smiled at him as she turned.
“I  am only sorry that I could not take more. I had to carry you up the 
shore, and I feared that I would not make it.”
She  could feel that he looked at her with new, albeit grudging respect,  and
resolved to pay it back by refusing to fuss overtly much over  him. No matter
where she was and what she did, she knew that she was  still a healer at heart,
and that the temptation to do every little  thing for him to save him the effort
sometimes was strong. Yet she  had to keep herself from it, or they would be at
each other's throats  quickly, or at least, she at his throat, and he trying to
get to  hers. He still was no match for her, despite his imposing physique.
“It  is of no matter,” replied he finally, carefully fingering the metal 
bands clasping the horn, and she thought she detected sadness in him.  “They
were lost doing an honourable deed at last.”
“At  last?” asked she without thinking, but as he turned away and would  not
answer, she decided it was best to leave him to what little peace  he might find
with his injuries.

He  regarded his rescuer carefully as she busied herself with he knew not  what,
and then returned to her lookout post at the entrance of the  nearly toppled
structure she had hidden him in, and when he finally  thought she was out of
earshot, he sighed deeply. Yes, he was  grateful that she had saved his life,
yes, he felt bad for repulsing  her so, for driving her away from what seemed to
be her own camp, but  despite all his regret, he could not bring himself to
change his  behaviour. Too much had assaulted him in the last few days before he
 was injured, too much had happened – and he had done too much wrong  to
easily cast it aside now that his time with the Fellowship lay  behind him,
probably for the rest of his life.
If  they survived, they would probably hate him for what he had done, 
especially Frodo, who must be terribly afraid of him by now, and the  other
Hobbits would follow suit. That... would hurt. That Aragorn  despised him, for
he had seen the repulsion in his eyes just before  he passed out, he did not
care for – he had never thought highly of  the Ranger of the North, and
probably never would. But the others...  he sighed.
His  only consolation was that, despite his folly that had broken up the 
Fellowship, he had not been the cause of Sauron's second and complete  victory,
for that burden, he knew he could not bear. For folly it was  – he could see
that clearly now, after the heat of the moment had  passed, the icy water and
the grasp of death had cooled his ardour,  for he could not understand himself
and his reasoning that led to his  trying to take the ring away from Frodo. It
was as if a black veil  had been lifted and he was master of his thoughts and
actions again,  leaving the past days when his mind had been darkened behind.
Yes,  he knew he was reputed to be an unsparing and reckless man, but there 
were limits to what he would do to those he called friends, and  assaulting
Frodo as he did, that was not like him, no matter what the  stakes. The amount
of his own treachery still shocked him, and that  he, who had boasted of the
loyalty and glory of the men of Gondor as  they departed Rivendell, and then
again in Lórien, had broken up  their Fellowship, was a stain on his honour he
would never be able to  remove.
It  seemed that, no matter how much he loathed her, that Galadriel had  been
right in her estimation of him, that she had seen right into his  soul and
recognized his weakness before even he did, and that he had  better listened to
her thinly veiled temptations of might and power.  Refusing them consciously,
after he had seen them, might have  prepared him better for the lures of the
Ring of Power, lures that he  had thought to be his own, good and sound
reasoning at that time. He  could not rebuff the Ring's offerings as he had done
to Galadriel's  when he had broken her gaze, as it whispered to him day and
night,  reached out for him from the chain on Frodo's neck...
He had  thought himself exceedingly clever, that he had recognized this great 
gift fate had bestowed upon them to crush their enemy once and for  all, but now
he saw that the only thing he had destroy were his  friends and allies, those
who trusted him. He shivered at the thought  of relinquishing everything that
was dear to him, the morales and  principles he had been taught at the knees of
his parents, of giving  it up to destroy Sauron, only to find out that he had
become the  greater evil.
His  rescuer hurried to his side, had obviously noticed his slight motion. 
“Are you cold?”
He  shook his head. “Only my thoughts are.”
“Do  you want to talk to me then? It would serve to distract you.”
He  really did not feel the need to speak to her, being one of Aragorn's 
Northern folk, but could not very well refuse her offer, that, he  hoped, was
kindly meant, and not to uncover his folly. As loath as he  was to admit it,
alienating her would be detrimental to his  situation, as he needed her to
return to health and safety.
“What  would you have us talk of then? The war? Our cause? How best to kill 
and roast a rabbit?”
She  smiled as she noticed that he had picked up her habit of sarcasm.  “None
of these. I had hoped that, if you are strong enough, you  might tell me of
Gondor.”
His  surprise and the bit of resentment he felt must have shown on his  face,
for she quickly added, “You do not have to, if you do not  want it.”
He  sighed. Yes, he would love to tell of Gondor, to about anyone –  except to
those whose loyalty belonged to the man who held a claim to  its throne. It felt
like treachery, to give them more information on  the land he loved, and, he
admitted in the secrecy of his heart,  wanted to keep for himself. In his eyes,
Gondor needed no King, and  he would be content to continue the line of the
stewards, on to his  son and their sons... but the tides were turning, he could
see that  now, and he feared that his father would be the last of the Reigning 
Stewards. Then again... maybe that was not such a bad thing, after  having seen
what he had nearly done not only to Gondor, but the whole  of Middle Earth. “I
think I want.”
She  smiled and sat next to him, facing the door, her sword and dagger  next to
her, before she eyed him expectantly from the side, making  him begin, though he
scarcely had a notion of what to say. He  strongly suspected that she knew
everything that there was to know  about the history of Gondor, and so focused
on other things, mostly  on that what he had seen and experienced in person. The
banners on  the top of the White Tower, the bells that sounded the hour, how 
Minas Tirith glittered in the sun when he returned from a long ride  or campaign
and could see his home again... At least she should feel  that not only the
Kings, but also the Stewards of Gondor held a love  for their country, and
perhaps even more so as they had spent the  last centuries there, and not
gallivanting about the North, while it  fought for its survival.
She  listened to him attentively, though if it was only because she wanted  to
calm him, or if she was really interested, he did not know, until  his voice had
turned raspy and his eyelids heavy, and he had arrived  at the end of the Battle
of Osgiliath, which he and his brother both  had barely survived. “Rest
now,” she said, and handed him more  water, this time allowing him to drink it
himself, and not forcing  him to be fed like a child, before she helped him to
move to his more  or less uninjured right side, where only his thigh had taken
the  arrow. “I will check your bandages when you wake up next, and I  have
light again.”
“When  will you sleep?” asked he with worry, but she shook her head.
“When  it is safe again.”
Despite  his concerns, despite his fear that they might be attacked unawares 
because she had dozed off during the night, he quickly fell into a  slumber, and
though he was plagued by dark, menacing thoughts and  dreams, he managed to draw
some vigour from his rest.

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