Chapter Four
Chapter Four
March the 2nd, Year 3019 of the Third Age.
He was woken just as the sky began to grey the next morning by a hand on his shoulder and started, reaching for his sword as the instincts of decades of sleeping lightly in a tent next to his troops kicked in again, a definite sign that he felt better.
“What is it?” asked he, shaking off his natural propensity for deep slumber and waking slowly, aided by the alarm he felt at this unexpected touch. She had always let him rest as long as he could, and he feared that something had happened.
“Calm.” She had detected his unease and pressed his shoulder, even though she looked concerned herself. “We are safe. I am only going for water, and to look for hints of where your companions have gone.” In his tired, sleep-befuddled state, he could not stem the tide of relief that washed over his face, visible even in the dim light of the cellar. He would find out... finally, or at least he hoped so. He would get the closure he needed, hear of the fate of his companions, even though he doubted that he would see them again. Arnuilas smiled feebly. “Keep the sword at your side, in any case. I will conceal the entry with the cloak, and hope the best.”
She had already picked up her bow and arrows, the water bag and her Elven dagger hung at her belt, then slid out through the entry to spare both of them further embarrassing displays after she had made sure he was wide awake and had understood what she'd said.“Take care, then.”
The words reached her as she took the last steps towards the surface, and she turned one last time, hand braced on the crumbling walls, and nodded to him, before she slipped outside into the receding darkness of the night, and there was nothing he could do but sit and wait for her return. He thought it ironic that she had taken such measures to ensure his safety, when the chances of his survival without her help were so slim... but maybe that was only his feeling of helplessness as he sat in his nest like a freshly hatched bird, entirely dependent upon another.
He hated it. He had been so used to being the one in control and charge, to deciding the course of his future himself, be it at home in the White Tower or on the battlefield, despite his father's constant attempts at influencing him, that he despised the feeling of helplessness that accosted him. With his weakness constantly at the back of his mind, Arnuilas' absence was the catalyst that brought it forcefully back to his attention, and he fought against resenting her for it. After all she had done for him, after all she had risked, it was deeply unfair of him to despise her for things she could not help... especially as she was doing him a favour by searching for his companions.
His guilt and helplessness were only made stronger by the fact that, even in a situation where he could have chosen the right thing, his mind had been weak enough to succumb to the quiet, seductive whispering of the Ring, while others, especially Aragorn, had not. Especially he... whom he had despised so much, whom he had ridiculed and belittled for hiding in the North when the South needed him. He shook his head, raking his fingers through his hair – maybe she was right in deciding herself, in not seeking his council, in putting her trust in Aragorn instead of him, even though his pride protested the thought. He had proven at Parth Galen that he could not be relied on, and she had been very capable of taking care of him while he was injured, or at least he tried to tell himself that as he settled back into his uncomfortable position of waiting. Even though the thought lowered his self-esteem even further, placed him even more in her debt, he hoped that she would return, would coax him out of his darkening mood, maybe listen to him as he told her of Gondor, so he could forget his terrible guilt for a time... but part of him thought that he did not deserve even that little relief, that he should have died at the Falls of Rauros defending the Hobbits, clearing his legacy by dying for a worthy cause at last... but he knew that after all was said and done, he was a selfish man. A proud man. A man too weak to follow his own thoughts to their inevitable conclusion – for he could not even fully regret that he was still alive, much less do what he ought and end that miserable existence of his. No, he wanted to live, wanted her to return so he could, even though he did not deserve it and there was nothing he could do but trust her instinct and skill, and so he settled back onto the boat, hoping that his vigil would not be in vain, as he knew it very well could be.
She slid through the ruins of the old settlement of the Men of Gondor, quietly making her way upstream as she had a few days before, hoping that she would not find another boat with another near dead man on her way up – one was really as much as both she and her dwindling supplies could take. This time, much to her relief, she reached the stairs that were carved into the stone near Rauros without incident, and, hidden in the mist and spray of the great falls, slid upwards while the sky began to lighten.
Her first goal was the camp side near the river, where the Fellowship had rested for the final time, and where she found the last of their boats turned over, carelessly hidden under some bushes. Whoever had done this had obviously not intended to return, and she felt no qualms in helping herself to the provisions they had abandoned here. The preserved bread, meat, fruit and nuts would help her stretch her stock, making their departure from their camp a less urgent affair, and therefore giving Boromir more time to recover before they left. Even in a few days, he would still be too weak to walk, and she could not drag him, the boat and all they wanted to take with them up the stairs, the first obstacle they had to overcome on their way north.
That he had not protested more as she had decreed that they would go to Lórien worried her; she had expected it from him, just as she had anticipated his exhausting what little strength he had in useless attempts at moving, but so far, he was a remarkably compliant charge, and that distressed her. Something must have happened to him to change him so much, to make the stubborn, headstrong man she had thought him to be in Lórien disappear, something more than the wounds that had been inflicted on him, but she knew not what. In Caras Galadhon, even in the few minutes they had met, she had found him distracted and brooding... now, he seemed merely deeply and quietly in thought, but there was deep pain hidden inside him, pain that frightened her more than the near palpable darkness she had felt back in Lórien. Could he act on it, do something truly and thoroughly stupid? She hoped not, considering the pains she had gone through to keep him alive, but she could not be sure, and part of her reluctance to leave him alone stemmed not from his weakness of body, but that of the mind.
She shook her head softly to herself, knowing that it was not wise to dwell on such things in the open while she tried to gather useful information, but not having the strength to rein in her errant thoughts after the many sleepless nights behind her.
Considering that he obviously did not care for Aragorn much, and with her being one of his kinsfolk, he tolerated her presence remarkably well, better so than during their brief introduction now near a month and a half back. But that did not mean that he confided in her, or ever intended to tell her what ailed him. She was quite sure that it pertained to the Fellowship, even the Ring, considering the particular way he had asked about the possibility of the enemy having it... but besides that, she could not ascertain what it was. It was only clear that it had seriously hurt his poise and confidence, and made him quite a different man compared to who he used to be, even considering that she had only known him for a few moments before he had been injured, and not given much thought to the grave man from the South in the weeks she had spent in the wilds.
She softly shook her head as she followed the old, nearly ruined trail up the hillside of Amon Hen. Brooding about him would not help her in her endeavour, she needed a clear, sharp mind and all of her concentration if she wanted to find out anything useful at all from her quick detour to the Hill of the Eye. There were reasons she had not told Boromir about it, especially that she did not want him to hope too much, for chances were good that she found out nothing at all, or that she would alert something to their presence here; yet, now that he was considered dead, and with her not playing a key part in this war in the first place, she hoped that Sauron thought both of them of little or not importance to his plans.
She reached the old stand on the summit and quickly ascended, being instantly pulled into its magic, its wish to show her faraway things, and it took all of her strength to direct its course. She looked North first, searched for threats on their way back to Lórien, and found hordes of Orcs that had poured out from the eastern Gates of Moria and crossed the Nimrodel west of the Golden Forest, now roaming between the Misty Mountains and the Great River. She saw the Wold of Rohan, empty and deserted by its people, and the Orcs that invaded Fangorn from Isengard.
So Saruman truly has fallen, she thought, and steered her gaze to the West, to Rohan, but only quickly; she shuddered as she saw the army readied to destroy it, and a weak king Théoden, not fit to rally the men of his country.
South was no better. A man, so like Boromir in looks and countenance that he had to be the brother he had told her of, was leading the rangers of Ithilien into war against Mordor, but he was outnumbered by the forces still behind the Gates of Mordor and the Southlings marching north to attack their arch enemy. Though she felt the temptation to also cast her glance to the East, searching for Frodo and the Ring, she quickly resisted it and stood, breaking the spell of the place. There was hope still, as she had said – but drawing attention to what was now their only hope was a sure way to destroy it.
Sun had risen fully while she had idled on the summit, and she hastened to return to her camp, filling their water bag on her way, and hoping against better judgement to pick up a trail or two, or any hint who had gone where. It was pointless. Rain had washed away all footprints, and her best sign was the fact that one boat had been left on the shore. At least some of the Fellowship must have continued their travels on foot, and on the Western side of the river, while others seemed to have crossed it; she hoped that the Ring-Bearer belong to the latter group, but could not be sure.
The lack of knowledge tugged on her as she sneaked back to their camp, but at least her detour had not been in vain, for the provisions she had found would come handy, allowing her to keep more of the lembas for Boromir. He was healing remarkably well, as she had told him, and she reckoned that was an effect of the Elven nourishment he got, as well as the time he had spent in Lóthlorien with the others. The place was so soaked with magic, maybe he had carried some of it with him to the South.
As she slid inside the cellar through the cloak of Lórien, only able to find the entry because she had known where it was, Boromir was sitting upright, sword in his left hand, holding it a bit awkwardly. He relaxed and sank back against the boat as soon as he recognized her, putting the blade down with caution. “You have been long.”
“I was at the summit, Looking.”
The fire her words had kindled in his eyes made her doubt the wisdom of her telling him, as the news she bore were chiefly dire. “What did you see?”
She sank down next to him, putting the bundle and the water sack on the floor and helping herself to some of the meat; she was hungry, and she needed a moment of stalling to consider what to tell him, and what not.
“Your brother,” she answered eventually, and was rewarded with a smile that spoke of great affection.
“He is alive?”
“Yes. He is in Ithilien, fighting Mordor.”
“And what of Gondor? And Minas Tirith? Have you seen my father?” The eagerness that had returned to him was more comfortable to her than the desperation she had witnessed earlier, and she began to hope that her concerned musings had been in vain.
“I have seen neither of them, but as there are still troops deployed to Ithilien, I think that, at least now, there is no immediate concern for their safety.”
He nodded, thoughtful. “What about... my friends? Have you seen Frodo?”
She eyed him carefully, because asking for Frodo also meant asking for the Ring, but then decided to answer. “I have not dared to search for him, fearing the Eye.”
“Yes, yes... that does make sense.”
“You were travelling in three boats, were you not?”
The sudden question shook him from his thoughts, but after a moment of surprise, he answered quickly. “Yes.”
“I have accounted for two of them now; one was with you, the other I found at your last camp site at Parth Galen. That means at least some of the Fellowship have turned west.”
He frowned deeply as his face darkened. “I hope that they are pursuing the Orcs then; you know that they have captured Merry and Pippin, and I do not want to think of them in the hands of Mordor.”
She nodded softly and with an affection for the Hobbits that stemmed from long years of guarding their homeland. “I hope that, too, though I cannot be sure. All footprints were washed away by the rain. But, whoever continued west, has left a lot of their provisions and equipment with the boat, so I think that they desired speed more than anything else. That is where I found the food.”
He smiled, reassured by her words. “And what about the third boat?”
“I do not know, however, I do hope that the Ring-Bearer has turned east, to Mordor.”
His countenance darkened, and she frowned as suspicion dawned upon her as to the cause of his black mood. “So you think it is out of our reach.”
“Yes. Frodo, and whoever has gone with him, is now several days into the Emyn Muil, or even beyond them, and there is no chance of finding them there.”
He nodded thoughtfully, staring at the blankets drawn over his lap so intently that she doubted he would answer her, before he finally spoke. “Thank you.”
Her eyebrows rose of their own volition. “For what?”
“For telling me.”
She was not entirely sure to what he was referring, as a matter more grave than just her report seemed to linger under his words, but, seeing that the matter made him uncomfortable, she decided to leave it, at least for the moment, and instead settled herself next to him, hoping to pass some time while he was awake. “How do you feel? I hope yesterday and today were not to much of an exhaustion?”
He shook his head. “If you call sitting and doing nothing an exhaustion, what is a fast march in full gear over several days to you?”
She grinned, determined to lighten their mood. “Too much?”
He looked at her with surprise. “True. But speaking of this, why are you even here?”
“What do you mean? I set out from Lórien to scout for you, as you well know.”
“Any man could have done that; why you? Are the Rangers of Eriador so desperate that they need to send their women to battle?”
There was mocking in his question, but despite the fact that he seemed to take his suggestions not very seriously, he had squarely hit the truth, and she told him so, though it pained her to admit their sad state of affairs. “Indeed. Our greatest weakness has always been that we are few, Boromir, and that our numbers dwindle. Life in the North is hard, do not forget that. If you return from war, you can rest in Minas Tirith. You have a bed and a warm meal waiting for you, a city full of people to tend to your concerns willingly, for you are their hero. We... are despised by all safe our own kin and the Elves. We can take refuge in Rivendell, or, if we go West to the sea, at the Grey Havens, but between that, our friends are few and far between. There are some settlements and camps of our own, and many of our children grow up with the Elves, but there are mostly women and our old staying in one place. Our men are at war, though they do fight their battles alone, and if it were not for us women, who would forge their swords? Who would hunt their game? Who would cultivate the soil? We cannot simply turn down a pair of hands, even if it belongs to a woman.”
She sighed heavily. “I saw my own father maybe twice or thrice when I was a child, and only when I myself was approaching adulthood, he returned from his travels to stay with his family, too injured to ride out again into the wilds. I was trained both as a hunter and scout and as a healer, as you might have noticed.”
“It seems that I have to be grateful that there are so few of the Dúnedain.”
She snorted. “If you are looking at it from that point of view, yes. If I had only learned to mend your clothes and kiss my children's scraps, you would probably be dead now.”
“Have you?” He looked at her with surprise.
“Mended your clothes?” Though she had a fairly good suggestion of what he meant, deflecting his questions by sarcasm was easier than face the ghosts of her past.
“Children,” he explained, and she shook her head.
“No. As I said, there are few of us, and our numbers are dwindling.” Though he looked at her questioningly, she did not elaborate, did not want to, for explaining the reasons would have opened up scars she did not want to touch now; not while they needed her awake and alert, and ready to fight. She forced a smile upon her lips. “Have you thought me so old?”
“No, surely not.” The way he raised his hands in defence made her grin.
“Not the smoothest way out of this predicament, I dare say.”
“Would you want me to flatter you?” asked he, and she smiled.
“Surely not, if there is no reason for it.”
He grabbed the bundle of lembas next to him to avoid that particular line of questioning, and she chuckled.
Boromir let her sleep again, and, despite her initial reluctance and pride that made him realize how very much alike they were in some aspects, when she had dealt with the resistance she deemed necessary to preserve her pride, she jumped at the opportunity, and made up for the many nights she had waked at his side. With Arnuilas curled up next to him, her head resting on the blankets he half sat, half lay on, he took the opportunity to look at her. Truth to be told, there wasn't much else that could hold his attention in the cellar, for he did not exactly want to ponder the old wooden supports of the ceiling that looked ready to crumble every moment, or the cold, wet and mossy walls. Yes, she must have checked the space they camped in for stability, but that did not mean he had to like it, or feel comfortable in it, and he was ready to take up every train of thought that would keep him from pondering the possibility of suffocating under the dark, wet soil and stones above them.
He turned back to a more pleasant sight, for, he had to admit, she was pretty. Nothing to the countless Elven beauties he had met while he visited Rivendell and Lothlórien, but nevertheless pleasant to look at, with her dark hair, light blue eyes, and the noble features of one descended from those of Númenor. The impression was marred by the first shadows around her mouth and eyes, announcing that she was closer to him in age than she could possibly like and that soon, there would be the first lines and wrinkles, but she looked appealing despite them.
She sighed softly and turned around, murmuring quiet words in her sleep that he could not make out, and he pulled the sword she had handed him closer with his left hand. It was two-handed for her, but more like a bastard sword for him, for though he wasn't that much taller than she, his hands definitely were bigger. Then again, a small sword was better than nothing, especially as his dominant hand was now pretty useless, and, though he was used to fighting with his left, he was not nearly as apt with it. Having failed at protecting the Hobbits, he was determined at least to stand his man to defend her, should the occasion arose, even though he was painfully aware that the sword would be of more use in her hands than in his. And yet... yet his pride refused to let this woman, this seemingly fragile creature next to him fight for his life, where he should keep her safe – he would take care of her to pay back the debt he had incurred with her when she saved his life, come what may. At least in this small matter, he wanted to quiet the guilt and shame he felt when he thought back of his last actions, even should his companions never find out what he had done because they died in the wilds.
