The Long Way Home   von Glasschmetterling
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                            Kapitel 5: Chapter Five
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Chapter Five
March the 3rd, Year 3019 of the Third Age.

The next morning, she was so impressed by his recovery that she allowed him to
stand, pulling him up from the blankets in his blatant state of undress, and,
though he had to lean onto her shoulder heavily at first, he then managed to
stand on his own, carefully balancing his weight between his fit and his injured
leg. It hurt, but that was to be expected, and pain was something he was
familiar with, something he could deal with... not like the magic that had
snatched his mind and driven him to do unspeakable things.
He banished that thought as fast as he could, for it was too close to denying
his own share of guilt in driving Frodo away to be comfortable with. Aragorn
must have felt the pressure as well, must have been drawn to it as well, and
yet, he had resisted, had not been taken in by its lures. So the fault lies with
me, and with nobody else. It was the Ring who has drawn me in, yes, but it has
only uncovered a weakness in my character that has been there from the
beginning.
“What is it?” asked she with concern, and he focused his attention back on
her face, on her fingers on the bare skin of his arm.
“My apologies, my thoughts were elsewhere.”
A shadow of apprehension flashed through her face, but it was gone as soon as
she noticed it and could pull herself together, and he sighed inwardly. She did
not know what he had done. It was selfish of him not to confide in her, to tell
her what his treachery was, but the fear in him was still strong. When before,
he had feared for Minas Tirith, he now feared for himself and his security
should he dare to speak of his despicable deed. It was her fate at stake just as
everyone else's in Middle Earth, and he had nearly thrown her into the chasm of
despair with his thoughtless, unguarded actions. If she found out, she could
very well leave him here for death, alone and helpless, and no one would be the
wiser. All who knew him thought him dead. For all intents and purposes, he was
dead to everybody but her, and maybe word of his demise had already spread to
Gondor and his family and people mourned him. Her abandoning him would not even
hurt them, for the pain was already there – and there was nothing he feared
more than a lonely death in the wilds, even though he knew that he should have
died for his deeds.
“You can stand. That is a reason for joy.” Her voice was determinedly
cheerful, though very quiet, just as every word they had spoken since he had
woken up was hushed. “Would you like to try to walk a few steps?”
He was sure that she would not have proposed such had she not seen his gloom,
but was nevertheless happy for the opportunity. Maybe more pain, for he was sure
it would hurt, could distract him from his guilt; could even be his atonement
for his sins.
She carefully positioned herself in front of him, grabbing both of his arms now,
and smiled. “Try.”
He first put forward his intact leg, wincing at the pain that shot through his
thigh, and leaning heavily on her arms, bare feet clenching the fabric of the
blankets he stood on, but he did not stop there. He braced himself and pulled
his injured limb to stand next to the other, now softly groaning, but
nevertheless ready to make another step.
She did not allow it. She had not moved back as he had expected her, but held
her position, and was now looking up at him as he could feel the warmth of her
body through her clothing. “I think that is quite enough. I do not know why
you are so determined to torture yourself further, but I will not have it. You
now know that you can walk, and that has to be enough for now. Sit down again
and rest.”
Her stern, piercing gaze met his, but he held it only for a moment, until his
courage and determination faltered and he allowed her to help him settle onto
his bed again. Just another sign of his weak will, he guessed... he wanted to
suffer for what he had done, and yet, when met with her determination, he did
not even struggle to find the pain he thought he deserved.
“It will hurt enough on our trip back north.”
He looked at her thoughtfully. “When do you plan to depart?”
“As soon as I do not have to drag or carry you, because for all the
determination in the world I cannot do that. I think that we will be able to
travel the lake by boat, as there is not much of a current, but then we have to
leave it and walk. Twenty days, I'd reckon, maybe a few more if we are slowed
down much by your injury, until Lórien.”
“A lot of things can happen in three weeks.”
She sighed and raked her hands through her hair. “I know. But there is nothing
to be done about it now, and we will just have to go, and hope that Lothlórien
is still there when we reach it, and not overrun by the enemy.”
“You think that it could... fall?” Though he did not like Galadriel, and had
never felt at ease during his month at Caras Galadhon, always under the
threatening powers of the witch that, in the end, were nothing compared to the
Ring's seduction, he did think her a force of good, not evil, and, more
importantly, able to withstand the forces of the Dark Lord. That, and Lórien
was a beautiful place... a pure place. He did not prefer it to the woods of
Ithilien, where he had spent so many months in camp, hunting for the Orcs and
Eastlings of the Dark Lord, but he would nevertheless regret seeing it
destroyed.
“Dol Guldur is not far, and even Galadriel's powers are limited. Though the
Elves will never again be deceived by Sauron, he can defeat them, as he has
proven as he slew Gil-galad.”
He nodded, not wanting to admit that he knew not much about the lore that she
seemed to remember as her own history. He had heard, countless times and again,
the accounts of the great battle at the end of the Second Age, where Isildur had
cut the Ring from Sauron's hand, and the glorious Last Alliance of Elves and
Men, but other then that, and what had been told at the council in Rivendell, he
knew nothing.
“If her sorcery cannot withstand him, who then can?”
She sighed. “Yes... who can?”

Their talk about their future travels to the North, about the time they would
lose, had only awakened her own feelings of guilt and regret. She had, after the
Fellowship had passed her vantage point, planned to return to Lórien, to join
the battles of the Galadhrim at their Northern border, or, if the forces of
Sauron really crossed the Anduin, helped them to protect the Naith of Lórien,
their homeland. Now, she was stuck in a cold, damp cellar of a centuries old
Númenorian settlement, protecting an injured man who, with bad luck, would
never be able to fight again, or be killed on their long and arduous trek to the
North. But as much as she did not like it, as much as she wanted to contribute
to the defence of Middle Earth, as much as she wanted to kill Orcs for what they
had done, time and again, he was her duty. A duty she could not shirk, for he
would not survive alone, that, she knew clearly.
And, as she looked at him staring blankly at the wall, deep in his thoughts now,
a man that might have a chance to heal when they returned to Lórien. That his
wounds were not only those of the body, but also of the soul, became clearer and
clearer to her the more she talked to him, and she was surprised that, despite
being mortally injured, he had found the spirit to fight. He wanted to live, or
rather, he needed to live, or he would never have woken up from his fever, but
now that he had, he seemed not very keen on regaining what he had lost when he
had travelled North to join the Fellowship. He had asked about Gondor, but not
pressed her to take him thither. He cared about his home, but obviously did not
want to help it in what would possibly be its greatest hour of need, an alarming
sign in a man as proud in his home, his ancestry and, more importantly, his
feats in the countless battles he had fought.
She sighed softly. In the North, when she had treated the wounds of Rangers
returning from their duty, she had seen men succumb to injuries far less severe
than his, only because they would not fight for their lives, because they had
seen such terrible things that they had lost all of their spirit, and she
shuddered to think of them. They had been friends, all of them, with some, she
had played as a child, and yet, she could not help them, because it was not in
her power to give them what they needed, to cure what ailed them, as their
wounds lay deeper than she could reach.
She feared that, despite the fact that he had lived, his case might be one of
them. For what was his live worth without duty? From what she understood, he had
fought for Gondor since adolescence, had no wife, no family to return to besides
his father and brother. If he could not fight again... what would he do? What
had he to live for if he returned from this war crippled, not able to use half
of his limbs? Suddenly, she hoped even more that the Elves would be able to do
what she could not.

March the 5th, Year 3019 of the Third Age.

He ignored the hand she had offered him and instead turned to brace his left arm
against the boat that was steadying him, hoisting himself to his feet on his
own, and even though his face was a mask of pain and he swayed slightly, she
almost thought that he looked pleased with himself. Initially, she had wanted to
scold him for his obstinacy, but she swallowed the words as she remembered his
pride, a pride that wasn't so much unlike hers that she couldn't understand it.
There were some things he needed to do for himself after the weeks she had been
nursing him, and she hoped that regaining his control over his body might help
him to fight the darkness she knew was lurking in the deep recesses of his mind.
And so she made herself smile and pulled back her outstretched hand. “How do
you feel?”
He grimaced. “Just as terrible as expected.”
She banished the pity that threatened to appear on her face and smiled at him
instead, a bit mischievously even. “Well, considering that you are able to
stand, that is a definite improvement.”
He reluctantly returned her grin as he slightly swayed on his feet, carefully
balancing his weight between his legs, and then took a step forward towards her,
and another. His limp was pronounced, shaking his whole upper body as he
approached her so painfully slow and without the grace and poise of the
experienced swordsman he had once been, but he walked... and considering the
state she had found him in, that was really more than she would have expected.
“Improvement indeed,” he muttered, but his disgust for his weakened state
blended with the joy of his recovery and the near exhilaration of being able to
move properly again. He turned as he reached the opposite wall of the small
cellar, then limpingly retraced his steps back to his blanket as Arnuilas
followed him, watching his halting, pained movements. He had paled considerably
in the few minutes since he had stood, the pain etching deep lines into his
already rugged face, and when he turned to pace the small room again, she halted
him with her hand on his forearm. “It is enough for now.”
Stormy grey eyes met her blue ones, but just as she thought that his stubborn
pride might win their battle of wills, he winced and lowered his gaze as the
pain finally caught up with him, and worry flashed over her features. “What is
it?” In retrospection, her question sounded stupid even in her own ears, and
the look on Boromir's face only confirmed her own assessment. “I am sorry.”
He jerkily shook his head, then carefully lowered himself until he felt the
cool, smooth wood of the Elven ship under his hand and braced himself against it
to sink down on his blankets. “It hurts,” he replied through gritted teeth,
the sarcasm in his answer quelled by the all-encompassing pain, and she knelt
besides him, her fingers scurrying over the bandages on his thigh. She hoped
that the strain on his wounds had not opened them again, but for now, she could
see no signs of additional blood, and so she moved on to his shoulder and,
finally, his stomach. When she finally looked up, feeling the awkwardness of the
situation as she had no duties left to distract her, she caught him frowning and
with worry in his eyes, which she thought a good sign – at least he wasn't
indifferent to his survival.
“And?”
The angry, spiteful part of her that blamed him for being struck in a damp
cellar wanted to ask what he meant so he had to elaborate on his feelings, a
pain for a man so intensely private as himself, but she fought the urge and
smiled instead. “You will be fine. Nevertheless, I will check on you in the
next hours, just to be sure.”
He nodded softly, but did not answer at first, and she had already turned away,
allowing him as much privacy as was possible in such a cramped space, when he
finally spoke. “Thank you.”
She closed her eyes and swallowed, for even though his words might seem
ungrateful and shallow, she knew him well enough to hear the deep, pained
feeling hidden beneath them. “You're welcome.”

March the 7th, Year 3019 of the Third Age.

His wounds had not opened up again, and so she had allowed him not only to stand
and walk as he had two days before, but also to dress into the remnants of his
shirt and pants. He had also carefully put on his boots, struggling with the
pain in his abdomen as he bent, but too proud to ask her for help, and was
grateful for her forethought. They were the best part of clothing he had left,
which was fortunate. He could be kept warm without his fur-lined cloak, he could
fight without his mail, but he could not walk to Lórien on his bare feet.
He fought for his balance, then carefully weighed the borrowed sword in his hand
and swung it, gingerly going through the parries and blows he had been taught as
a child by his father, in the courtyard of the White Tower, all those years ago.
He felt rusty despite having rested only for two weeks, and he was glad for the
respite her absence gave him to train a bit, to relax his clenched muscles that
had been forced into one position too long. He knew that his movements were not
perfect, that, despite his intention to move just as he always did, he often
fell into a relieving posture to ease the pain, which annoyed him, but all of
that was annulled by the good feeling of a sword in his hand, of a body that,
though not perfectly, obeyed his commands. He felt better just for having stood,
despite the fact that he had to neglect his footwork and that he winced every
time he tried to move naturally. This was what he could do, this was what he was
good at, his area of expertise – not devilish magic or tales of old bards or
deciding the fate of Middle Earth. That, he would gladly leave to his father,
his brother and Aragorn, if he only got a few good men, a sword in his hand, and
a destination to conquer or defend.
What annoyed him though was the fact that, after a few minutes of wielding this
sword that was so light in comparison to his own, he was covered in sweat and
panting, and had to sit down quickly, hoping that no Orc would chose this exact
moment to attack him. Thinking about it, he concluded it would also be
unfortunate for him should Arnuilas to enter now, because she would scold him
like his old nanny, and that woman had been fierce, as she had to put up with
two unruly boys after the death of their beloved mother.
He wiped the sweat from his brow with the cloth she had kept near and then
breathed in deeply, trying to ignore the stinging pain at his right shoulder
where two of the arrows had hit him, and then shook his head. Maybe Faramir
should have been the elder... maybe he should inherit his father's seat, should
Gondor not have a king after the end of this war. He would be a good steward, he
knew it, wise and just, and beloved by all. He would have the patience to put up
with foolish citizens and foreign envoys talking the matter at hand to death,
unlike him... he shook his head. He had never been a patient man, and, even as a
boy, had cared more for the tales of great heroes than of good kings, driving
both his father and his tutors to distraction, and then, as he grew up, also the
nobles of Gondor. Some of them had told him that a wife might moderate his
effervescent spirit, but he doubted that. The women of the South were pretty,
elegant and docile, but in his experience, they had more bowed to his wishes
than he to theirs, the natural reaction of their weak tempers to his strong.
That Arnuilas was not and would never be a daughter of Gondor was evident, and
he was glad for it – he would be dead but for her will and determination. Her
temper was as strong as the cold winter winds coming from the North that was her
home, and he very nearly smiled at the thought. He would not get lost or be left
behind on their trek to Lórien. If there was only a spark of live in him, she
would kick and scream and drag him back to his feet. In his current situation,
with his life at stake, that notion was comfortable indeed, more so than the
idea of being stranded here with a frightened slip of a girl whom he needed to
protect, though he doubted that he would have liked a woman like her at any
other instance – and certainly not for a wife.

She returned from her detour to the top of the Falls and the Hill of the Eye
after he had had time to cool himself and even his breathing, but the look on
her face, her eyes shining with hope, nearly made him jump up again. “What is
it? What have you Seen?”
She grinned like a child, the first time that he had seen her with such joy,
such unguarded relief on her face. “Rohan has defeated the forces of Isengard,
and Saruman is prisoner in his own tower.”
“What? How has that happened?” He could not keep the incredulity from his
face, but her answer did not dampen the joy he felt, only increased it, though
part of him thought he had no right to such relief after all he had done to
undermine the efforts of the Fellowship.
“I do not know; Amon Hen shows only the present, and neither past nor future.
But it is true, and with the aid of Rohan, Minas Tirith stands a chance of
defeating the first wave of Sauron's assault.” She knelt on the blankets
besides him, the strength of her happiness barely contained in her rash
movements, and grinned up at him as she grabbed his forearm. “There is still
hope for us, Boromir!”
A part of him wanted to frown at her, but her happiness was contagious, and he
allowed himself a small smile. “So the Riders of Rohan will come when the
beacons call them?”
“Yes. Aragorn will see to it; he is with Théoden King, and they are riding to
Isengard to call Saruman out for his treachery.”
All her hope and enthusiasm vanished as he only replied with silence so grave
and dark that it sprang over to her, wiping the glow of happiness from her face.
But no matter how much he tried to convince himself that Aragorn was a better
man than he, that he would lead Gondor through the tides of war that threatened
to sweep it away, it still hurt... hurt to hear this woman, whom he had come to
respect in the past few days, talk about him with so much blind faith, ignoring
all the man's faults. He sighed internally – was she truly neglecting to see
Aragorn's deficits, or was he the one to be blinded by his jealous anger? He
knew not – and despite the hope he had seen on her face and felt in her words,
there was a fair chance of him never finding out, because either of them could
find their death in the oncoming battles before they met again.
He belatedly forced a smile to his face and finally met those blue eyes again,
eyes that told him he had given away too much, and his only consolation was that
she made no move to ask, or call him out for his petty, spiteful disdain. “I
am sure he will.” If he went through the motions of trusting in Aragorn's
judgement and leadership often enough, maybe he would even believe in it himself
one day. The knowledge that he himself would not do better than he, as he had
proven his weakness when he had tried to take the Ring, was no consolation, but
at least it forced him to try harder to trust the man who, fate willing, would
one day take the Throne of Gondor as his own.
She tilted her head and softly pressed his hand, in a gesture that whispered too
much of pity for his taste to give comfort, but at least she had seen his
discomfort and was merciful enough to speak of different things, things that did
not pertain to the future King of Gondor, but to their own, immediate concerns.
“I have taken a look at your camp at Parth Galen again; the boat is still
there and untouched, besides what I have taken, so we can leave mine here and
will not face the challenge of carrying it up the steep steps. We are lucky
indeed – it would have slowed us down considerably.”
He nodded mutely. “So when shall we depart?”
She sighed. “You know that I told you we would go when you are ready? I fear
that I cannot keep that promise. Orcs are creeping near, and my heart tells me
that we have already lingered too long. Tomorrow at nightfall, we will depart. I
hope that I can paddle us to the end of Nen Hithoel so you can rest after we
have ascended the Falls, but I cannot guarantee.”
Boromir had his doubts about this course of action – he had seen how he felt
today after only a few minutes of standing and wielding a sword, how would it be
to trek upstream through the wilds? But there was nothing he could do about it
– she was right, he knew from the hours he had watched the edges of the Elven
dagger shine in the darkness, the glow slowly becoming stronger as the night
passed. He just had to endure it, to prove that the Men of Gondor were just as
hardened and durable as he always claimed... and maybe at the end of it, there
would even wait a little bit of safety for him, and a purpose other than
defending his homeland from its arch enemy.

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