The Long Way Home   von Glasschmetterling
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                            Kapitel 6: Chapter Six
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Chapter Six
March  the 8th,  Year 3019 of the Third Age.

She  had let him sleep as long as possible, and Boromir appreciated it,  because
he would need the additional rest, although she was making  the next days and
their travels a lot harder for herself by her  sacrifice. When she woke him
shortly before sunset, he saw that she  had put the time awake to good use. His
shirt and trousers were as  well-mended as was possible under the conditions,
and she had  converted both some of the blankets and a spare coat of hers into 
something that would at least keep him warm. It did not look good –  in fact,
it looked downright ridiculous, but it would have to make  do. As for his
feeling of embarrassment, well, she  had seen him very nearly naked, and he
doubted that they would  encounter anyone on their trek that would care for his
state of  dress. He could think of nothing to meet but Orcs, and Orcs would be 
much more interested in killing him slowly and painfully than in  assessing his
attire.
The thought must have curled his lips, albeit slightly, because she  halted in
packing their things and putting those she did not intend  to take under the
boat, looking up at him. “What is it?”
“Nothing,”  replied he, because he really appreciated her efforts, and would
even  more as soon as they were out in the open, cold and wet, and did not  want
to offend her.
“Well,  I guess I can imagine.” She grabbed the thick cloth that had formed 
his bed to put it into her bag. “Not even an Elf would look  gracious in
this.”
She delivered the line so drily that at first, he did not know how to  react,
until he slowly started to chuckle. “I guess you are right.  Nevertheless, I
thank you.”
She smiled up at him and then stood to pat his arm carefully. “It  is of no
consequence.”
He thought differently, though at the moment, he did not want to tell  her so,
could not bring himself to. She had saved him, and he owed  her his life. That
was not a debt as easily discarded as being handed  a goblet of wine, or having
his horse brought out for him, not one he  could repay just with his thanks and
a smile, walking away afterwards  and continuing his life as he had before.
However, he had not even  done that properly, he remembered with a sudden surge
of guilt  towards her – he had not even told her how grateful he was that she 
had saved his life. At first, when he had woken up, and pain, guilt  and
helplessness gnawed at him, it would have felt too much like a  lie, thanking
her for something that he had neither wanted nor asked  of her... and now that
he thought himself lucky having survived, and  even hoped that there would be a
future for him, though a bleak and  lonely one, should they win this war, the
right time had passed. His  neglect was draining him... and yet, what should he
do? Just stand in  front of her and thank her, then carry on as if nothing had
happened?  The very idea was ridiculous. She would feel that he had just said it
 to alleviate his lingering feelings of guilt and debt towards her,  and rightly
so, and that, he did not want. It tasted too much like  selfishness, and he
hoped to leave that feeling behind, though he  knew that he had a long way ahead
of him – just like they had, in  their wish to return to Lórien.
They had packed their things and hidden as many traces of their  presence at
their camp as possible, and now, there was nothing to do  but wait for
nightfall. Boromir was clad in his makeshift attire and  the hood from Lórien,
and looked over to her, who was peaking out  through the entry into the growing
darkness.
“What  about your sword?”
“My  sword?” She looked at him with surprise.
“Would  you mind lending it to me for the moment? I would be in danger if we 
were to be separated.”
She tilted her head. “You are in danger nevertheless, and I do not  think you
strong enough to carry it yet. In a few hours, you will  think even your Elven
cloak too heavy.”
He shook his head, hiding the gritting of his teeth at her  insinuation to his
weakness that he still resented. “What is a  swordsman without a sword?”
Her annoyance was clear, but she nevertheless opened the leather  straps that
held her scabbard at her side and handed it to him. “What  is a swordsman with
a sword, but panting on the floor? You will  remember my words.”
He turned proudly, though he could already hear the truth ringing in  her
assurance, and attached the blade to his own makeshift belt,  instantly enjoying
its comforting weight, although it hung at his  wrong side. “Thank you.” He
had sounded haughty, he knew, and,  maybe as a means of retaliation, she
declared the dusk dark enough to  leave and begin their journey.
“Come.”  Her voice was calm as she slipped out into the night with an ease
and  grace he envied, as pain still shot through his body with every move  and
every step and he fought to calm his ragged breaths and small  sounds of pain.
He nevertheless turned with her as she halted her  feet for a last look back at
the camp they had spent so many long  days and nights in, and he shook his head
– from here, it seemed  like a miracle that the cellar had not collapsed over
their heads!
With a last, encouraging smile from her side they set off as quietly  as they
could, Arnuilas drawing her dagger every few minutes out of  its sheath to see
the first signs of Orc presence while she waited  for him to catch up. It gnawed
at him, that he fell back so often,  even though she had considerably slowed her
steps from her usual,  brisk pace, and he tried to keep himself from panting as
he dragged  himself onwards.
They were slow... so slow. The pain in his wounds was burning as he  forced
himself onwards, and yet, his sacrifice seemed in vain. They  were merely
crawling towards the Great Fall, and even though he had  been hearing its roar
since the day he had woken up from his fever,  it seemed immeasurably far away,
so far that he could never reach it,  much less climb the stairs to its top.
“Boromir?”  Her quiet voice called out through the darkness towards him, and
he  realized that he had fallen back again, then forced his legs to carry  him
further.
“Yes?”  He pressed out the single word, and he thought he could see the pity
 in her eyes even in the dim moonlight.
“Shall  we rest?”
He  grit his teeth, then shook his head – they hadn't even walked for a  full
half hour! “I  am fine.”
That she did not believe him was apparent in the way she turned and  looked at
him every few steps, not trusting him to follow her pace,  but where once, he
would have found her over-zealous care annoying,  he now realized that the way
she watched out for him and waited until  he had caught up made him carry on in
a way he could not have done  had he relied only on the strength of his own
will. She was there...  and he mattered to her, and that was enough to push him
forward until  they reached the uneven steps carved into the rock at the bottom
of  the falls, even though his breathing had become heavier and heavier  and the
occasional cough had racked his frame.
“Sit,”  she whispered as she herself sank down onto the first steps, where 
the last remnants of the spray cooled his heated face, and he joined  her,
closing his eyes immediately and only opening them again when  she pushed a vial
into his hands.
“Here.  Only a sip, but it will help you.”
Even though his mind insisted that reluctance was in order,  especially as both
the bottle and the draught were obviously of Elven  origin, he opened it
immediately and had to keep himself from  drowning it as a whole, so desperate
was he. What had been a mere  stroll two weeks ago seemed now to be an
impossible task that loomed  before him, and even though he hated the idea of
needing sorcery for  what should be easy for him, he was not enough of a fool to
believe  that he would last the night without it. That he enjoyed the feel of 
it, the gentle, caressing warmth that spread through his limbs, loved  the way
it eased his breathing and made the strength return to his  limbs, made him
resent his own weakness even more, but he just handed  it back to her and
nodded, hoping that none of his shameful feelings  had shown in his countenance.
“I  am ready.”
Despite his brave declaration, the stairs were hell, and every step  seemed like
the whole of the Misty Mountains to him, with his lungs  burning and his right
leg crying out every time he moved or put  weight on it. At first, he tried to
walk, preserving his dignity in  front of Arnuilas, who had chosen to take the
rear this time,  undoubtedly so she could catch him should he stumble and fall,
but  soon, he felt so weak, so exhausted, so tormented by his wounds, that 
arrogance and pride lost their grip on his mind. He just wanted to go  on,
though the distant goal at the top of the stairs lost focus in  his mind until
he only knew that every step forward brought him  closer to safety, whatever
that was, and that his torments would let  him survive. He told himself that he
had to take just one more step  before he could rest, and when he had forced his
feet to rise and  placed them as steadily as possible on the stone, when he had
pushed  his body upwards with all the strength he had left, needing all of it 
for every small movement, he drove himself to take another, and  another, until
his mind was only a haze of pain and desperate  determination to reach a goal
whose importance he had already  forgotten.
He  had not one single thought to spare for the woman behind him, as,  after a
few minutes, he was reduced to using his uninjured hand to  crawl up one step
after the other, and he found it easier to forget  her presence altogether than
entertain the notion of someone –  anyone  – and  especially a woman seeing
him in such a state. She was tactful – or  herself tired – enough not to
bring herself to his attention, and  only when he stumbled upon a platform of
sorts, high above the river  and about halfway from the top, and nearly fell
over, her arm shot  out and grabbed his elbow to prevent him from hitting the
ground and  tumbling down into unseen depths.
He must have stared at her like a wild, wounded beast, for she  instantly pulled
back, and instead spoke to him quietly, but with an  urgency that let him dimly
realize that she feared not only for his  body, but for his mind. “Let us rest
here for a few minutes.”
As  much as every fibre of him had craved a few minutes of repose, as  efficient
the mere idea of it had been when he tried to drag himself  onward, now that he
had what he wanted, it did not feel that good.  His lungs hurt, he fought to
regain control over his breath, and  exhausted as he was, he only sipped a few
drops of water and refused  the waffle of lembas  Arnuilas wanted to hand him,
for the thought of food made him near  violently sick. The few minutes they
stayed, he sat on the cold,  rough stone floor, wet from the spray and mist of
the fall, panting  hard and trying to forget about all the pain he felt, and
that it  would intensify as soon as they got up again and moved onward. That  he
had not stumbled in his fatigue and dragged them both down into  the depths was
a miracle in itself... or had she stopped him, and he  just did not remember? He
knew not... and he cared not... he was too  tired, to exhausted, too...
He must have dozed off or briefly slipped into unconsciousness, for  as he felt
her hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him, he startled  and opened his eyes,
not aware that he had ever closed them. “What  is it?”
“We  must go.”
In that moment, as she spoke those words, he hated her, no matter how  indebted
he was to her for saving his life, and would probably have  snarled and insulted
her, had he not been far to weak and in need of  all his strength to keep his
eyes open. So he just allowed her to  pull him up from the floor and steady him
with her body, and then he  walked on, took the few, painful steps until the
stairs started  again, leading steadily upwards into the darkness of the
moonless,  cloudy night.
Of the second leg of their journey upwards to the Nen Hithoel, he  only
remembered a haze of pain and the growing darkness at the edges  of his vision
that had nothing to do with the night, and when they  reached the top, she still
dragged him onward, to the boat that his  companions had left there. While she
readied it and carried it over  to the slowly flowing water, a good bit away
from the dangerous  currents of the Rauros, he dropped himself unceremoniously
to the  floor, not caring what parts of him he could injure in the process.  All
of him hurt, his entire being screamed, and no additional wound  could make it
worse.

March  the 9th,  Year 3019 of the Third Age.

He woke up lying in a boat just like the one he had travelled so many  miles
downstream in, his head propped against one of the benches, a  blanket carefully
draped over his body, and the soothing gurgling of  the Anduin just nearby.
“Good.  You're awake.” Her voice made him squint and focus his blurred 
vision, and he found her sitting at the bow, where she had dragged  the ship up
a muddy piece of waterside to prevent it from making  leeway.
He  slowly moved his hand to his forehead, searching for the pain that  nested
behind it, and groaned at the movement. Everything hurt.  Everything.  He could
not move, he could not think, he dared not to speak... he  had not known that he
could feel so terrible at  all.  Not even when he had first awoken in the cellar
to the pain of his  wounds, not even when she had moved him the first time, had
he felt  like this, and he sincerely doubted that waking up was good  as she had
claimed. At the moment, he would have vastly preferred to  die while
unconscious.
“When...,”  murmured he finally as he thought he detected increasing worry
in her  blue eyes, and she leaned forward in the reeling boat to catch his 
meaning.
“You  have slept through dawn and the whole morning.”
He had worried that they had been delayed by his insupportable  weakness, at
least for a moment, but it seemed that she had managed  to get him to the boat
somehow.
“Where?”
“At  the Anduin, near the outlet to the Nen Hithoel.”
“You  brought us... far.”
She grabbed the water bag carefully and led it to his lips, this time  not even
giving him the opportunity to object; then again, he  wouldn't have. He might be
a fool, but even so, he was not misguided  enough to truly think he could grab
it, or even raise his hand a  second time after his first, painful attempt, made
before he  painfully realized the extent of his weakness. After he had 
swallowed, he felt better, and his throat was not as parchment dry as  before.
“What are you going to do now?”
She shrugged. “The current will be getting too strong for me soon,  and we
must decide if we keep the boat and you help me, or abandon it  all together and
continue on foot. At the moment, I'm more inclined  to the first option... you
are not fit to walk at all.”
“Do  you regret departing now?”
She instantly shook her head, and he felt his temper flare at her  instant
dismissal of his sufferings, but before he could call her out  to it – or more
whisper her out to it – she sighed. “No. I saw  smoke rise from the South
when we were crossing the lake, and I fear  that its source was our resting
place. Even now, I can feel the Orcs  are approaching.”
He sank back on his improvised cushion, feeling his desperation rise  inside
him. If Orcs were on their trail, it was only a matter of time  until they found
them, even with a guide as experienced as her, and  then they were as good as
dead. He had no hopes of outrunning a band  of Orcs, not in his current state,
and as soon as they left their  boat, they would not even be able to cross the
river to escape them.
“Maybe  you should continue alone.” It was his guilt speaking, his lowered 
self-esteem that made him think or propose such a possibility, but he  knew that
it had been a bad idea as soon as she stared at him  incredulously. After all,
his proposal did not only reflect on him,  but also on her – and how could he
suppose her to give up the man  she had nursed for so long so she could survive?
“You  surely must be joking.” He could hear no amusement in her voice at 
all, only cold disdain. “I have not dragged you so far only to  abandon
now.” She eyed him intently. “If you want to give up on  yourself, that will
not happen. You have cost me too much of an  effort that I would let you die
just like that.”
She was drawing heavily on the debt he had incurred with her when she  saved his
life, and at this moment, he hated her for it, but he felt  his pride and sense
of honour rise to the occasion. “I will not.  But neither will I make you
sacrifice your life in a vain attempt to  preserve what will not last.”
She glared at him coolly, but in carrying this point he was as  stubborn as in
climbing the stairs up the Rauros, and when he saw her  lip tremble only the
slightest bit, he knew that he had won. “Fine,”  she spat out, but her tone
was in stark contrast to the gentleness  with which she brushed over his cheek
as she fed him another few  drops of the concoction.
“I  believe I shall continue as long as the Orcs are still far away.”
He nodded and tried to make himself as light as possible while she  paddled,
exertion clearly visible in the way she forced her body to  move and audible in
the way her breathing became strained after the  first few strokes, and he dozed
off again in an uneasy slumber into  which the ceaseless sounds of the river
intruded. More than once, he  thought he was drowning, and only when he could
feel the smooth, cool  wood of the Elven boat under his hands again, he
remembered that he  was safe and that he could trust the woman who was steering
it.
As the afternoon passed and his fatigue receded with the aid of more  of the
Elven draught, he pushed himself up and also grabbed a paddle,  even though he
regretted his decision after the first few strokes  when his muscles protested
and bile rose in his throat. But his pride  made him continue, made him raise
his arms again and again and again,  dipping the blade into the cold, grey water
of the Anduin and drawing  it back at his side where he felt his barely healed
wound open up  again. Part of him hoped that Arnuilas would sense his pain, that
she  would tell him to rest, but the current of the water had picked up  while
he slept and he could hear her strained breath behind him and  felt her fight to
keep the rhythm she had set. She was too tired and  too exhausted herself to
care for his suffering, and so they both  struggled alone.
When the Argonath with the swiftly flowing waters between them forced  Arnuilas
to concede that there was no chance of continuing their  travels by boat even
with his help, night had fallen around them, and  Boromir hoped that finally, he
would be allowed to rest. His wounds  at his side and shoulder had bled again,
he could feel it beneath the  thick bandages, and his whole upper body hurt, the
exhaustion of his  lately underused muscles nearly drowning out the pain of his 
injuries. He stumbled out of the boat as they landed at the Western  side of the
river, and Arnuilas joined him, pulling it up the shore  so they could take out
their bags, and then she sighed as she  stretched and gingerly touched her
shoulders. “It really is a  shame.”
He frowned at her, his mind befuddled by his exhaustion. “What?”
“The  boat.” Only when she grabbed her small axe, brought primarily for 
making firewood, he understood what she meant, and even though he  could not
fault her logic, he shared her sentiment - it hurt to  destroy such beauty.
“Yes.  Yes, it is.”
The blade hit the smooth, grey wood with an ugly sound, chopping a  hole into
the boat's hull, then Arnuilas pushed it out into the  current. But even dying,
it seemed to sense her intent, because it  did not sink near the shore, but
allowed the Anduin to drag it into  the depths of the river, where the Orcs
would never find it. It had  not been an encouraging picture, and that Arnuilas
handed him his  pack before she pulled out the bottle with the Elven draught
again,  made his heart constrict in fear of the coming torture. He was too 
tired and hurt already to continue, and yet continue he must if he  valued his
life, even though the Northern outskirts of the Emyn Muil  rose threateningly
before them. He took a deep gulp, then handed it  back to Arnuilas, and that she
only shook her head and did not berate  him spoke of her own exhaustion.
“Thank you.”
She chuckled mirthlessly. “Do not thank me. Before the night is  gone, you
will hate me with all your soul.”
The  first drops of rain, coming out of dark, heavy clouds that reminded 
Boromir uncannily of the eternal, looming darkness over the enemy's  land,
pounded down on them as Arnuilas led him up a small, slippery  path from the
river's shore to the ridge of the first of the hills.  Despite the potion and
its gentle caress, despite the lembas  he had eaten that strengthened not only
his body, but his mind, he  wanted nothing more but fall to his knees and die
right there as they  reached the summit, but she urged him onward, first to take
cover to  rest a few minutes, then to walk further, until he could see the glow 
of the early morning in the East. But even then, she could not let  him sleep,
could not accept that he was at the end of his tether,  that he could not take
another step, and he understood again what she  had meant with her earlier
words, for he really and truly hated her,  until even she and the way she made
him carry on faded from his mind.  He barely saw the path in front of him,
barely felt his feet, and he  made himself take step after step after step,
promising himself that  he could rest if he only reached that rock, or that
tree, or even  that puddle of dark, muddy water from the rain pounding down on
him.
He had thought that his journey to Rivendell had been long and  exhausting, and
then he had followed Gandalf to Moria... but this,  this was worse than anything
he had ever experienced, made him go  further than he had ever gone. Every time
he thought that he had  reached his limits, she stood behind him, pulled him up,
told him  that he could not sit, could not stop, could not sleep, despite the 
pain, despite his exhaustion, despite his fatigue. By the end of the  night, he
resented the weight of the sword at his side, hated even  the light cloak from
Lórien, but only the knowledge that she had  been right all along and his wish
not to give her the satisfaction of  gloating over him made him continue
carrying it, just as his pride  made him carry on, take step after step, as the
pursuing Orcs gained  ground.

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