Boromir Returns

Chapter 1

Boromir woke up from his deep sleep slowly and pleasantly. He had been fast asleep, sleeping more soundly and deeply than he remembered sleeping since the dreadful events of the summer. Nothing had disturbed his sleep. He just had slept his fill. The smell of leaves was in the air, and he could feel the roughness of the blanket he was wrapped into. The world seemed a pleasant place to be. There was just a strange, constrained feeling in his chest, a dull pain he could not explain. Then he remembered, and the last remnants of sleep fled his mind. There had been a fight. He had been hit by a multitude of arrows. He remembered kneeling on the ground, pain filling his entire body. - Before his eyes was the bizarre aspect of the long shafts of the arrows sticking out of his chest, moving with every laboured breath he took. - He had been sure he was going to die. But he wasn’t dead, was he? He blinked and tried to concentrate. Where was he and - more importantly - why was he still alive? But he was not able to shake his mind free of this memory. The arrows sticking in his body, burning like some evil fire. The feeling of despair that he had failed again. He had not been able to protect the little ones from the Orcs. Had they taken Frodo as well? Frodo. He closed his eyes again as if it would help to shut out the memory of Frodo’s face full of panic and fear when Boromir had tried to take the Ring from him. Why had he done it? Boromir opened his eyes again. It had been a foolish idea, but at the time he had been filled with the over-powering urge to get hold of the Ring. He just had to have it, for the good of the people of Gondor, for everybody in Middle Earth. Then Frodo had vanished and with him Boromir’s conviction that what he was doing was right. Then the Orcs had come. He remembered that he had almost been glad for their appearance. He had been able to do something to help his companions, he had known that they might never be able to forgive him for what he had tried to do, but if he was able to save Merry and Pippin it would at least make some amends. But he had failed. He had been mortally wounded. He still could see the painted face of the Orc, standing over him, leering at him in his pain and helplessness. He had known that he was dying, he had tasted blood in his mouth. Nobody would have been able to survive the injuries he had received. But he was still alive, or was he? There was some pain, every breath he took sent echoes of pain through his body, but not enough pain considering he had been skewered by several arrows. He blinked again, forcing himself to survey his surroundings. He seemed to be lying in a small chamber. Light came in through a wide doorway, and he could see somebody standing in the opening, leaning against one of the sides with his back to Boromir. The stranger had long blond hair and Boromir could make out a pointed ear. Legolas? Had the Elf been able to heal his wounds? He knew that the Elves had great healing powers, but he was surprised that they could save a Man so close to dying as he had been. He tried to remember his last moments. When he was sure he was about to die, the pain had seemed to become more distant. He had not been able to feel his body, only the strange, frightening taste of blood remained. Then there was nothing, like a black chasm opening in his memory, something his mind shied away from. Perhaps he had died and was now a ghost, or a wraith? The arrows of the Orcs might have been of the same poisonous material that had almost been Frodo’s undoing. He had been so badly hurt, even with the best of elfish medicine he should feel more pain. Feeling slightly foolish but also more than slightly afraid, he lifted his right hand to his throat to check for a pulse, finding it to his intense relief. The figure at the door must have either heard him move or caught the movement from the corner of his eyes, as now he turned around and Boromir realised that apart from his hair he bore no resemblance to Legolas. The Elf had the clear-cut face that was typical for his kind, his pointed ears equally identified him as an Elf, but he looked as different from Legolas as did Boromir from Aragorn. He had a narrow face and pale grey eyes. He was slimmer and smaller than Legolas was. He also looked – younger. “You’re awake,” the Elf stated simply. Boromir continued to stare at the Elf. He must be the youngest Elf that he had ever set eyes upon. Somehow, he almost looked as if he still needed to grow up. Boromir tried to speak but at first, he only managed to make a strangled sound. He still could taste blood in his mouth; it seemed to stick to his teeth. The Elf smiled at him, but somehow it did not seem a very genuine smile. “Who are you?” Boromir managed to say finally. To his surprise the Elf looked startled at this question. He hesitated and before he could answer, more questions burst out of Boromir: “Where am I? Where is Legolas? Did he call you? What happened to Frodo? And the others?” The Elf seemed to shrink back further with his every question. Boromir had never expected to see any Elf look so flustered as this one obviously was. “What have you done to me?” Boromir asked. The Elf took a step back and almost fell over the step of the door. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “I will fetch my sister. She will be able to answer all your questions.” With that he turned and vanished. Boromir kept his eyes fixed on the door. From the light outside it seemed to be late afternoon, or early morning. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought the Elf had been afraid of him. But there was something else odd about this Elf, he realised now. His clothes had not looked as fine and valuable as those Boromir had seen other Elves wear. Come to think of it, Boromir thought as he gazed down on the blanket covering him, the blanket - though clean and neat - looked more like his own bedroll than something he might expect to find in the possession of an Elf. It seemed that somehow his life had been saved. They had removed the arrows from his body and with some magic mended his wounds enough that only a dull pain remained. Elfish medicine was more potent than he had ever dreamed off. If only they had some Elves to work their healing powers after the battles they fought with the Dark Powers! How many would have been saved. Boromir carefully tried to sit up and to his own surprise the pain did not increase with the movement. The thread-bare blanket slid off his chest and revealed that he was only wearing his shirt. There was not a spot of blood on it, but numerous large tears were ample proof of the arrows’ passage through it. One of the holes was just below his left collarbone. He gingerly felt the edges of the cloth, not quite daring to see what he would see if he removed it. A shadow fell across him and he looked up to see an Elf-lady stepping into the small stone chamber. She nodded a greeting at him and knelt down on the floor next to him. Her hair was the colour of bright copper and fell straight down her back, without any adornments, it was simply tucked behind her pointed ears. Her clothes, men’s clothes as Boromir noticed with some surprise, were also of plain making and looked well-worn. “It is good to see you awake,” she said calmly. Boromir felt strangely at a loss for words. “Yes,” he finally muttered. The intent gaze of her pale blue eyes made him look down. He was suddenly uncomfortably aware of his half-naked state. “I am Sarelas, daughter of Siriawen, whom they called the Fair,” she continued, and Boromir found himself looking up at her again. “This is my brother, Asloren. You have to forgive him. He is young and not used to the company of Men.” She turned with smile to her brother who stood behind her in the doorway with an expression on his face as if he wished he were somewhere else. The smile vanished from her face as she turned back to Boromir. “How are you feeling?” she asked. “Are the wounds giving you any pain?” Boromir shook his head. “No, not half as much as they should.” Sarelas smiled again. “We used a very powerful medicine to heal your injuries,” she said. “A dangerous medicine. It should not take long now before you are fully mended.” There was something strange about this elven lady, though Boromir was not sure what it was. Perhaps it was her unusual attire. “What happened?” he asked. “Where are the others? What happened to them?” For a moment, Sarelas remained silent, then she said, “I do not know what happened to them. They have left this place.” “You do not know?” Boromir stared at her in disbelief. “Three stayed on this side of the river, but two of the Hobbits have crossed it, travelling east,” Asloren said now. Boromir looked from Asloren to his sister. He was confused. “Did they not tell you where they were going?” “We had no chance to speak with them,” Sarelas replied. Boromir stared at her, not knowing what she was talking about. “They had already left when we reached the Falls,” she continued after a pause, “it was by accident that we were in the vicinity, and…” For a moment Boromir could hardly believe what he heard. His companions had just left? He had known that what he had done, what he had tried to do was truly a horrible deed, but he would have never imagined that his companions would just leave him. Dark anger started to rise in him. “They left me to die,” he announced furiously. Sarelas and her brother must have found him just in time. He would have died to save his companions, and they just left him to his fate. He would have never thought that they were capable of such a vile deed. “No, they did not,” Sarelas said and after a short pause in which a great unease suddenly overcame Boromir, she continued, “you were already dead.” Boromir stared at her. “I was dead?” he repeated. He wanted to say that this was impossible, he was alive now, after all. But there was something stirring in his memory that stopped him. He remembered slipping away, his body ceasing to work, the great emptiness engulfing him. “Your friends did not abandon you,” Sarelas said firmly. Boromir’s thoughts were a muddle of confusion. Questions tumbled over each other. How could he have died? Why was he alive now? How could these Elves have brought him back to life? Who were they in the first place? “But how…?” he asked. He looked at Sarelas as if he had not seen her before. Elves, so he had heard, were able to do amazing things, but he had never heard of any story of them bringing the dead back to life. A dark thought suddenly rose in his mind. What if they were not truly Elves, or they were Elves who were getting their power from a different source than the others? Was it not said that the servants of Sauron were given particularly great powers? “How?” Sarelas repeated. “With a rare and great magic, almost beyond our control.” She sat back on her heels and looked at him for a while in silence. “It was a gift from our mother,” she added as if she had guessed his suspicion about the source of their powers. Boromir sat back against the rough wall of the chamber, the aching in his chest had increased and he felt tired and desolate with confusion. He had died. He knew that this was true. And after his companions had left the scene of the battle. Had they abandoned his body to the wild? So that Sarelas and her brother had been able to work their magic on him? These two who just happened to come across it and used their mother’s gift to resurrect him? “Why?” he asked. “You do not even know who I am.” “True,” Sarelas replied, “but we were here, in time. There also are not many people who are sent off in an elven boat, bedecked with broken sword, a shield and armour.” She smiled at him. “Would you be so kind as to tell us your name?” she asked then. “Boromir son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor,” he replied almost without thinking, but he did catch the quick glance that Sarelas exchanged with her brother. “Sent off in an elven boat?” he asked. Sarelas nodded and with a sigh, she continued. “We had quite a time retrieving your body from the River. Or rather Asloren had. He is a stronger swimmer than I am. Of course, the elven boat did not founder and it was of great help.” Somehow Boromir realised he was beyond being surprised now. “You dragged my body out of the River,” he just said. He felt tired suddenly, too much confusing news had been told to him. He could not believe that he had been truly dead. Or that he had been brought back to life by these strange Elves. He looked at Sarelas again. There was a faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheekbones. It seemed strange to him that an Elf should have freckles. He had never seen one that had any, or any kind of blemishes of the skin, or a beard for that matter. There was something about these two that did not quite add up, he just didn’t know what it could be. “What do you want from me?” he asked. Exhaustion crept up on him. He felt as if he had been on the march for days instead of sitting up in his bed for a few moments. “At the moment,” Sarelas said, getting smoothly to her feet, “I only want you to leave the worries until tomorrow and rest. Your body is still recovering from the great strain it was put under.” For a moment Boromir fought with the tiredness that was about to take him off to sleep, but she was right, he could worry about these things tomorrow. They surely would not have brought him back from the dead just to kill him?

Boromir son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor. Sarelas looked down on the sleeping Man. She had not recognised him, though this was hardly surprising. Many years had passed since she had seen him, and she had caught only a brief look at the son and heir of the Steward of Gondor. He must have been no more than fifteen at the time. But she remembered their encounter well. They had been in Minas Tirith, and her father had been showing her the sights of the city. Sarelas felt the all too familiar stab of pain the thought of her father always, still, sent through her. It had been a hot summer’s day, the air dry and dusty. Around her were the unfamiliar sights of the great city, the streets were full of people, hurrying along on their own business. For once she and her father had not attracted the interest of the passers-by, as they were all watching the soldiers march through the street. A seemingly endless column of soldiers, their feet stamping on the paved street. Her father had pulled her back to the side of the street. She remembered the familiar grip of his hand on her shoulder. Then, in the middle of the troops had been a couple of Men on horse-back. Their armour and clothes had made it clear that they were people of importance. But even if their appearance had not indicated it, the reaction of the people around them was enough to show that these two were respected and revered. The people lining the streets were staring at them in awe, but also with affection, some were bowing. As they came closer, Sarelas could see that one of the riders was an older Man, grey-haired and stern-faced. The other one was still young, not a grown Man yet, but he sat on his horse sharing the authority of the older Man and accepted the veneration of the people with the same confidence. Like the older Man, he looked very serious, grave almost, he looked neither left nor right but stared straight ahead as if his mind was on some very important matter. There was enough similarity between the two Men to show that they were related. “That is Denethor the Steward of Gondor,” her father had whispered in her ear, “and his elder son, Boromir. They are going to Cair Andros.” Sarelas remembered that she had nodded. The town had been talking about nothing else but the attack on the outpost on the River Anduin. She had watched the two Men with fascination, yet she had been more interested in the Steward himself than in his son. This was the Man, as her father kept telling her, who stood between them and the Enemy in the East. The two Men had passed them and disappeared through one of the gates of the city. There seemed to be a hum of excitement in the air after they had disappeared. The people of Minas Tirith had been relieved that something was being done about the attack, and they had been convinced that their Steward would be able to throw back the enemy. A trust that he had justified by his actions at this time as well as in the following years. And so had his son, Boromir. She had heard about his deeds in the fight against the Dark Forces. He had become his father’s most renowned support. No, she would not have recognised him, but twenty-five years made a lot of difference. Sarelas sat down on the floor next him. He seemed to be sleeping deeply and quietly now. She would have never guessed that the Man they had pulled out of the River dead was one of the key figures in the great war going on around them. She might have, she realised with a start. The horn they had heard must have been the Horn of Gondor. The sound had sent shivers through her as if something in her echoed its call. However, she would have never expected to find Boromir son and heir of the Steward of Gondor here, far north of their lands. Particularly now when the great storm was about to break. What could have possibly sent him into the wilderness? She was not sure why, but she had the feeling he would not tell her if she asked.

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