Boromir Returns

Chapter 2

When Boromir woke again, he briefly clung to the thought that his memories were mistaken and that he had not died, that everything had been a bad dream, but he knew too well that it was true. He had been dead - but he was dead no longer. No, indeed he was not, and it was time that he found out more of what had happened after he died and what these Elves wanted of him. Perhaps he was too quick to distrust them, but could he afford to do any other wise? Had it really been simple a coincidence that they happened to be there and just happened to have the means to resurrect a dead man? Sitting up, Boromir noticed that he was alone in the stone chamber. Dusk seemed to be settling outside. There were trees standing close by and the ground rose gently away from the door. This place, Boromir realised, had to be on the shore of the Great River below the Falls of Rauros. From afar he could hear Sarelas and her brother talking. He could not make out their words, but their voices were calm as if there was no danger near or far. He looked around him, wondering whether this chamber was a part of the ancient ruins they had come across at the top of the Falls. The walls were of a dirty grey colour. They looked ancient and weathered. The chamber was small and there was no window or other opening than the broad door. The floor too was made of stone, and somebody had made an effort to sweep it. There were still leaves and some earth clustered in the corners. There also were some bundles piled against the wall below the end of his bed. In the gathering darkness he could not clearly make them out though they were no more than a couple of steps away. He hoped that some of his own possessions were among them. But before he ventured to examine them, he had to see what had happened to himself. There was a great reluctance in his mind that he did not want to see the damage the arrows of the orcs had done to him, but he also felt that he had to make sure he was whole again. He felt hardly any pain anymore, just a dull ache. Carefully he pulled his shirt over his head and made himself look down on his chest. There was a multitude of new scars amidst the old ones, each of them from an injury that should have been fatal… They had been fatal, Boromir reminded himself. One, just under his collar bone, might have just missed his lungs but he doubted it. He remembered the taste of blood in his mouth too well. The arrow may have also broken one of his ribs but if so, it had mended just like all the other injuries. Several scars on his chest, a third one below and slightly to the left of his sternum, and many more on his abdomen. He shuddered and for a moment was overcome by the memory of the final moments of the battle. He felt an the urge to scream out now the pain and frustration he had felt but had not had the strength to voice then. Taking a deep breath, Boromir forced himself to concentrate on the present. The wounds, unlikely though it was, had healed and did not look as if they were to trouble him in the future. More he need not know. A shiver ran over his body and though he knew that it was not so much caused by his being cold than by the thought of his having been dead, his quickly pulled his shirt back on. He had to get up and out of this room where darkness gathered in the corners, echoing the dark thoughts that he tried to push to the edges of his mind. But he could hardly go outside dressed only in a shirt. - He did not even know whether he would be able to stand on his own. Nonsense. Boromir shook his head in disgust at himself. He felt fine, so he would be able to stand just as well as before he had died. He shifted to the edge of the soft padded blanket that was his mattress and stood up. For a moment he felt light-headed but, he told himself, he had been lying in bed for some time now and was only to be expected. The floor felt cold against his bare feet, and he quickly walked towards the dark end of the room where the packs were stored against the wall. After a few steps he stumbled across something on the floor. He crouched down, finding that it was one of his boots. When he picked it up, he noticed that it was still wet on the inside. He stared at the boot in his hand, if it was still wet his funeral could not have been more than a day or two ago. He shook his head trying to push away any thoughts of his body floating in the Great River. Against the wall there were several bundles. None of them looked or felt familiar to his touch. They had to belong to the Elves. He was about to open one of the bags when his eyes were caught by gleam of metal behind the bags. For a moment he thought it was his own sword but when he took it in his hand, he saw that it was a slimmer and lighter blade. The sheath was plain, black leather, though it may only look black in the dim light. When he pulled the sword, the blade shimmered like silver. Boromir knew that he was not well acquainted with the different groups of Elves, until he had journeyed to Rivendell. He had not had much time for them at all, but a sword seemed un unusual weapon to be carried by one of their kind. There would be time enough to try and figure out who these Elves were that seem to have saved his life. If one could call it that. He pushed the sword back into its sheath and placed it back where he had found it. What he needed now where clothes. He carefully examined every single of the dark shapes leaning against the wall, but his clothes did not seem to be among them. Surely his comrade had not sent his body off in the elven boat dressed only in a shirt? Boromir frowned and tried to remember what the elves had said about his funeral, something about his body being ‘bedecked with broken swords and armour’. Odd that they had been able to see these details but had not had the chance to talk to his companions. “Lord Boromir.” Sarelas’s voice came from immediately behind him, startling him, and he shot to his feet, quicker than he should have as a wave of dizziness overcame him, and he would have fallen over, if it had not been for the Elf grasping his arm with surprising strength. “I am sorry,” she said, letting go of him almost immediately, “I did not mean to startle you.” “Hm.” Boromir made as he could not think of anything else to say. “What are you doing?” Sarelas asked. “You should not rise yet.” “I need my clothes,” Boromir replied gruffly. There was just enough light coming in through the door for him to see the smile on her face but before he could begin to wonder what she found so amusing she took something she had carried over her arm and held it out to him. It was his red tunic. “I was trying to mend it,” she explained, “but I am afraid my skills are not as good as they ought to be.” He took the garment out of her hands but in the dimness of the chamber he could not make out any damage at all. “I still doubt that it is a wise decision to let you leave your bed this soon,” she stated as he shrugged into the long garment. “But as you are up and do not seem to suffer any ill-effect, Asloren has cooked supper and I was about the ask you whether you wished for any of it.” The thought of food, cooked food as well, sent a number of conflicting feelings through Boromir’s body. His mind, it seemed, was ravenous. He could not even remember the last time he had had a proper meal, none of these Elvish bread things, but his stomach seemed to be at all unsure whether he wanted to deal with food ever again. “Where are my trousers?” Boromir asked. He felt considerably less exposed now he was wearing his tunic but still he would prefer not to venture outside without some clothing for his legs. “I will fetch them,” Sarelas replied and left the stone chamber. Boromir slowly fastened his tunic, once more wondering what it was that made him think these Elves were different from the ones he had encountered so far. They were certainly more courteous than the high and mighty Elves of Lórien. Even the Elves who spoke friendly words, like Elrond of Rivendell, they did so in a fashion that it became clear theirs was a position superior to that of any Man. None had ever addressed him as ‘Lord Boromir’. “There will be plenty of time tomorrow,” Sarelas said before she stepped back into the stone chamber. “Your trousers,” she continued handing him the folded garment with a slight bow. “Unfortunately, neither my brother’s shoes nor mine will fit you but the ground is dry and soft.” “Thank you,” Boromir replied. Sarelas smiled and with another minute bow she left the chamber again. Boromir quickly slipped into his trousers and followed her outside. Compared to the dimness in the small stone chamber it was still light outside, though the sun must have already settled behind the mountains in the West. The forest on this part of the riverbanks was less dense than it had been up on the shores above the Falls of Rauros. Boromir could see the Great River glittering through the trees. The stone chamber seemed indeed to have been part of some greater structure, there were remnants of walls continuing on either side of the still remaining room, and there seemed to have been a second floor above it. Perhaps it had been a watch post like the structures above the Falls, or it may have been a garrison or a way station for the troops being sent to the borders of the realm. Boromir looked up at the broken stones that may have once been a window looking North just above the doorway he had just stepped out of. One day the kingdom of Gondor had reached up along the Great River to this point and beyond. Boromir had seen ancient maps of the kingdom, but he had never really comprehended just how much lands had been lost. Perhaps Men had truly been a greater and nobler race in the Old Days, he found himself thinking. In his heart he had always resented this notion, believing that the Men of Gondor were still doing their duty as they always had, but now he was beginning to see how much had been lost over the ages. He thought back to the giant Argonath they had passed on their journey down-river. Nobody would even dream of creating anything of that magnitude today. He wished he could return and look at them again. When they had passed them the giant statues of ancient kings had only filled him with resentment, resentment against the justification they seem to give to Aragorn’s claim to leadership. Where, he had thought, were the monuments commemorating the generations of Stewards of Gondor who had kept the realm while no Man could be found to claim the crown of Gondor? And it still held true. Without his father and all the Stewards that had come before him there would be no White City now for the King to return to. Now, Boromir realised, the thought did not gnaw on his mind as it had a few days before. He doubted that his brief venture into the realm of the dead had given him any greater wisdom than he had possessed before. He had hardly any recollection of dying, none at all of being dead. It would be too simple an excuse to say that it had been the presence of the Ring that had poisoned his mind. The question of what - if indeed anything - he ought to do about the fate of the Ring had indeed weighed heavily on his mind. Now the Ring had passed out of his reach and for the moment he had no need to worry about what he could do to stop it from falling into the Enemy’s hands. But the absence of the Man who seemed to have everything Boromir had hoped and fought for all his life simply fall into his lap just because of his ancestors made it easier to be generous. Boromir smiled to himself. His father would be pleased with him. However, Denethor had always been of the opinion that stewards were stewards and filled only the highest office in the realm in the absence of a King. Boromir knew that he would never be able to accept the rule of anybody but his father with an easy heart. How he wished he could speak to his father about all these things. Boromir took a deep breath. He would be able to talk with his father thanks to the unexpected help of the Elves. Otherwise, he would be still dead at the bottom of the Great River. He quickly shook that thought off and walked around the broken spur of wall that stretched east from the end of the stone chamber. In the sheltered corner between the wall of the chamber and the crumbling remains of the other wall a fire was lit, and Asloren was tending a pot hanging over it. Sarelas sat on a broken part of the wall, her elbows resting on her knees, staring into the fire. Boromir remembered all the cold meals and colder nights when they had not dared light a fire to avoid drawing any unwanted attention to them and could not help looking around worrying. “Are you not afraid of orcs?” he asked. “No,” Sarelas replied. “Tonight, there are no orcs on this side of the river. Not anywhere close by at least.” Boromir stepped closer to the fire. The stew or soup, Asloren was stirring, bubbled merrily and gave of a strong scent of fish. Just as before, when Sarelas had first mentioned food, some part of his felt ravenously hungry and the smell rising from the pot was delicious, but another part felt nauseated by the mere thought of food and the idea of eating anything, and particularly this food, was revolting. Boromir swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the feeling of nausea. He had eaten nothing for so long, it seemed to have been in another life, and this time this was even true literally. Perhaps that was the real reason for his strange reaction. Boromir sat down on the crumbling wall. “How do you know?” he asked. Sarelas looked at him for a moment. “I would know,” she replied then. “Would you?” Boromir knew he was being impolite, and he was not surprised when Sarelas did not reply to his repeated question. He realised suddenly that he had not even yet thanked them for having brought him back from the dead. His rescue must have been not without its difficulties and dangers, or so her words had implied when he talked to them before. He looked at Asloren who was still tending the food and thought that it must have been not an easy feat for the slender youth to have lifted his body from the river. He must be twice as heavy as Asloren. “I have not thanked you yet for your great kindness,” Boromir said, “for saving my life.” Asloren looked up from his stirring, apparently surprised that Boromir had addressed his words to him rather than to his sister. “I hope that I don’t seem to be rude,” Boromir continued, still speaking to Asloren, “but I cannot help wondering why you decided to bring me back.” Asloren did not reply instead he let his eyes drop to the pot in front of him. “You said that the magic you used was dangerous,” Boromir said, “I take it, it was dangerous for you as well not only to me as I was dead anyway. Yet, you did not know who I was when you decided to work this magic. In fact, I wonder whether you do know who I am though I have given you my name.” Asloren opened his mouth as if to speak but quickly closed it again, looking to his sister was sitting, but she did not speak either, she did not even look at him but stared ahead as if she had not even heard him. The silence went unbroken for a long time. “I have asked this question before,” Boromir finally went on, “but what do you want of me?” For another few moments Sarelas continued to sit motionless, then she slowly turned to him. “Have times turned so bad that one cannot offer help to a stranger if one has the means to do so without one’s intentions being questioned?” she asked. “Yes,” Boromir replied. “These are times when many a Man - and Elf - would not give a stranger a draught of water, leave alone resurrect him from the dead.” “Yes, times have come to that.” Sarelas gaze seemed to slide through him, as if she were looking at something far off. “There is a great darkness gathering in the East. A great darkness casting its shadow over the lands of Middle Earth.” She took a deep breath and continued, “It is like a foul stench in the air, making people sick …and fear each other.” Boromir shivered. “Great peril is heading for Gondor,” Sarelas stated, returning her attention to his face. “But there is still hope.” Boromir frowned. He seemed to be destined to deal with people who knew distant events and places. Though, he wondered, how much this Elf actually knew. It all seemed ever so slightly wrong. He could not really point out what disturbed him about her words, but did her words really prove anything? Did Sarelas not simply voice a few platitudes, trying to reckon from his reaction where she was right and where she erred. He took a deep breath. “The peril you speak of, will it soon strike at Minas Tirith?” he asked. “My wife is there, and I am worried…” Sarelas suddenly smiled deeply, leaning her head to one side. “You have no wife in Minas Tirith, Lord Boromir,” she said, “and well you know it. The council has been encouraging you to marry for several years, but you were too busy. - Were you not, my Lord?” For a moment Boromir stared at here in surprise. “I am sorry, Lady Sarelas.” He felt himself blushing having been caught endeavouring such a base trick on his hostess. “There is no magic in my words,” Sarelas stated, “we know Gondor well and also have heard about you, Lord Boromir.” Boromir resisted the urge to ask, ‘have you?’. He assumed that the Elves despite keeping aloof of the problems of lesser people would pay some attention to the danger Mordor meant for the whole of Middle Earth and to Gondor’s fight against this danger. “We are wondering,” Sarelas said now, “what Lord Boromir is doing here, far in the North, travelling with such unusual companions.” “We should eat,” Asloren announced suddenly, speaking for the first time since Boromir had joined them. Boromir was relieved for the interruption, he did not feel that he could explain the nature of their journey to these two, even though they were Elves - or perhaps because they were. Sarelas nodded and rose to her feet. “I fear we only can provide very simple fare,” she stated. Boromir thought that this meal would certainly be an improvement to all the cold and harried meals they had had on their journey. He watched in silence as Sarelas unpacked a couple of plain silver cups and a water bottle. She poured water in one of the cups and carried it to him. A strange sensation crept over Boromir, when he took the cup from her hand, a reluctance to drink this clear liquid. His feelings must have shown on his face, as Sarelas reassured him. “The water is not from the River, but from a spring in the hills.” He felt relieved that the liquid was only water, none of these strange Elvish drinks they had been given in Lórien, but the mention of the River sent a shiver down his spine. He had been dead, and his body had been floating in the River, or not floating judging from Sarelas words earlier. The image of his life-less body in the deep, dark waters rose with unpleasant clearness before him. “Thank you,” he managed to say. Sarelas continued to look at him for a moment as if she was about to say something but then she returned to her place, pouring water into the other cup. Boromir stared into his own cup, trying to overcome the feeling in his stomach that it was already full and he could not drink one more drop. He knew he had not had a drink for some time, perhaps days. Carefully he took a small sip of water and forced himself to swallow it. To his own surprise it slid down his throat easily. “Lord Boromir.” Asloren held a wooden bowl with stew in his outstretched arm, keeping as far away as possible from Boromir, as if he was feeding a dangerous animal. “Thank you,” Boromir said. He took the bowl and was almost overpowered with the strong fishy smell coming from it. Quickly he took another sip of water and placed the bowl on the stone beside him. He had to eat, he told himself, he was hungry. It just seemed that this food was too rich, too fishy for him. He just had to take it very slowly, like the water. He drank another small mouthful of water noticing that this time it seemed reluctant to be swallowed. He picked up the bowl and tried hard not to pay any attention to the smell coming off it. He knew that unlike the water the fish would have come from the Great River. If Sarelas had not performed her miracle he would not now be eating fish from the River, but the fish from the River would eat him. Boromir swallowed hard to stop the few sips of water from leaving his body they way they had come in. He had to think of something else. It was hardly surprising that he felt sick when he thought of how close he had been to becoming fish food. He looked up but his two companions were busy with their own food and did not seem to have noticed the plight he was in. Sarelas ate slowly, staring ahead as if her thoughts were on some distant events. Asloren had sat down on the broken wall keeping the fire between him and Boromir. Was Asloren really afraid of him, Boromir wondered. It seemed strange that an Elf should be afraid of somebody whose body he had brought dead out of the River. Boromir shook his head, trying to get rid of any thoughts of having been dead. Perhaps Asloren had witnessed Boromir’s confrontation with Frodo, how he had attacked somebody who was not even half his size. They had seen more than they admitted to, Boromir was sure of that, otherwise they would not have known that he was travelling with ‘unusual companions’ as Sarelas had phrased it. Taking a deep breath, Boromir swallowed another sip of water. “What happened to my companions?” he asked. Sarelas looked at him for a long moment. “They left,” was all she said. “You said earlier that two had crossed the River.” “Yes,” Sarelas replied, “two of the little ones.” She paused and frowned. “What are they?” she wanted to know then. Boromir remembered that Merry and Pippin had been captured by the orcs, who had taken great care to take the hobbits alive, even though they had fought hard and injured several of the orcs. This would mean that Frodo and Sam had crossed the River Anduin. “And what of the others? Where did they go?” Boromir asked, ignoring Sarelas’ question. “They followed the orcs.” Asloren replied. “The orcs and their two captives.” Boromir looked at the young elf again who quickly lowered his eyes. “Where did the orcs go?” Boromir wanted to know. Asloren quickly glanced at his sister, but she continued to look at Boromir. “Rohan?” the Elf said but it sounded more like a question than a statement. “There is not much else between here and Gondor,” Sarelas stated, “and they were heading southwest.” Boromir frowned. What would orcs do in Rohan? The Rohirrim would not allow any company of orcs to pass through their territory unchallenged. Whatever Gandalf said, Rohan was still true to the cause. He sipped from his cup again. “Isengard,” Sarelas announced. Boromir was surprised enough by this sudden announcement that the last sip went down the wrong way and he started to cough. It did make sense that Saruman wanted to have the Ring and it was possible that he knew that it was carried by a hobbit. They had been lucky that the orcs had not captured Frodo. Frodo who had crossed the River to get away from what to him must have seemed an insane Boromir. So, in a twisted way, Boromir’s attack on Frodo had saved the Ring. Not that the Ring was safe now, on the wrong side of the River, being taken straight into Mordor by two hobbits. Boromir felt the old frustration rise in him again. As if the two little halflings had a chance to ever reach the Mountain of Doom to destroy the Ring. They might as well take the cursed Ring to Sauron on a silver platter. Once Sauron had the Ring back, he would unleash his armies onto Gondor, Boromir was sure of that - and he would not be there. “You are not eating,” Sarelas stated, ripping him out of his thoughts. Boromir stared briefly at the bowl of stew in his lap, but the mere thought of food made him feel sick. “I am not hungry,” he said. The fact was that he was hungry, but he could not eat anything now. He had to go home. It was only a matter of days before Frodo and the Ring would be captured. Boromir was not sure how fast orcs could travel but they would go as fast as they could to take their price to the Dark Tower. There was no question what the outcome of an attack on Gondor then would be, but Boromir wanted to be there, if only to die with his family. Putting the smelly bowl aside, Boromir got to his feet and took a few steps away from the fire. “You should eat,” Sarelas said. “You have not eaten since…,” her voice trailed off, shying off from saying ‘since you died’. “Since when?” Boromir asked, turning back to her. “How long is it since my friends left this place.” “Two days this noon,” Sarelas answered. Two days. That would be more than enough time for the orcs to capture Frodo. If there were orcs on this side of the River, surely there would be orcs on the Eastern side too. If only he had had the chance to take the Ring. - No, he stopped himself, if he had taken the Ring, Frodo would have told Aragorn. And even if he had not had the chance to do so, Aragorn surely would have found it on him after he had died and he would now be in the possession of the Ring, and Boromir did not have a high enough opinion of Aragorn to believe he would have resisted the lure of the Ring for long enough. “Lord Boromir,” Sarelas stated. “Are you feeling well?” No, he did not feel well. The few sips of water were sitting like a stone in his stomach, his chest was aching and he suddenly felt hot. Slowly he shook his head. If he opened his mouth, he would probably throw up. What was wrong with him, he wondered, but then he remembered that he had been dead. He also had not eaten for almost three days. He had to sit down. Somehow, he managed to take the few steps back to the broken wall and sat down heavily on it. His body seemed to grow hot and cold in waves, and he just hoped that he would not faint right away. “Drink this,” Sarelas ordered, appearing like a wraith right next to him. She held a bottle to his lips and without thinking, Boromir obediently let her pour some of the liquid into his mouth. It burned like fire down his throat, its warmness spreading pleasantly through his body. But after the initial shock, Boromir could smell the sharp fumes of alcohol rising from it. “That’s…” he started, and Sarelas continued, “Whisky.” “Whisky?” he asked. Somehow, he would have never expected to meet Elves who travelled with whisky in their baggage, some sort of Elvish medicine perhaps, but whisky? “We are full of surprises,” Sarelas stated. She lowered the bottle and moved away a little, as if she wanted to have a good look at him. A frown appeared on her face. Boromir suddenly found himself wondering how old she was. He had the impression that she was quite young - for an Elf. Her brother was no doubt still very young, but considering the fact that elves lived for thousands of years, she might be a hundred years older than her brother or even a thousand. Sarelas put her free hand on his forehead and after a moment nodded. “You are not running a fever,” she said then. “Nonetheless, you ought to lie down.” Boromir knew that she was properly right, but he did not wish to return to bed yet. He also felt better than before, the whisky seemed to have done its work, the knot in his stomach had dissolved and though he still felt uncomfortably hot, he did not feel as if he was about to faint. He felt slightly dizzy now and he wondered whether it was possible that the small amount of whisky he had drunk was enough to make him feel its effects. He was curious about this elf who was taking such an interest in his well-being. Taking her free hand, he pressed it and said, “thank you.” Sarelas blushed and looked down, avoiding his eyes. For a moment she seemed to be unsure what to say, then she fell back on the standard response, “not at all.” She pulled her hand out of his grasp and turned away. Boromir watched her as she put a plug into the bottle of whisky - which looked remarkably like a bottle of Old Faithful from Calenhad - and put it back into one of the packs lying along the wall. There had been five packs inside the stone chamber and there were at least another four out here, as well as the cooking utensils and some other odds and ends. These Elves surely did not travel lightly. - How was it possible that they had transported all this baggage to this place? There was no sign of any horses about. Perhaps they had come by boat too. But unlike him they could not have come down the Falls in their boat. Boromir felt his stomach tighten again when he thought of his body tumbling down the Falls. Don’t think about that, he ordered himself. The question he should think about was what these Elves wanted of him. Where did they come from? If they had indeed come by boat, leaving it at the top of the Falls, they would have come from Lórien. Perhaps they were sent to keep an eye on the company, to make sure that nothing untoward happened and if it did, help where they could. That simply was a ridiculous notion. Somehow, Boromir could not imagine the Elves of Lórien sending these two, a female Elf and a youngster who was not even grown up properly, to watch over the company. They would have given this errand to some who were as imperious and confident as the elves they had met just after they had entered their territory. “You have not answered my question,” Boromir said then. Sarelas straightened up and returned, “Neither have you.” She had regained her composure and held his gaze until he looked away. “No, I haven’t,” he consented. Suddenly his eyes were drawn again to one of the bags, smaller than the other ones, that looked oddly familiar. Then he realised why it looked familiar. It belonged to Pippin. He had seen the hobbit carrying the brown leather bag for miles and miles and now it was here, sitting between the unfamiliar packs that presumably belonged to the Elves if they had not taken them from somebody else. Why was Pippin’s bag here? How had these Elves gotten hold of it? Boromir looked up at Sarelas and judging from the startled expression on her face, his anger must have been clearly visible. He also remembered something that Asloren had said earlier. “Why are you lying to me?” he asked suddenly. Sarelas looked at him, either genuinely surprised or playing the part remarkably well. “You are lying to me,” Boromir said. “When we spoke earlier, Asloren said,” he turned his gaze on the younger Elf, who to his amazement did not flinch from his look, “that two hobbits had crossed the River, but now you pretended you did not know what they were.” Asloren shrugged but did not reply to the accusation. “You said you did not speak to my companions, but you know exactly who they were, and what they were doing. How is that possible?” Boromir continued. “Who are you and what brought you into this forsaken territory? Why did you use your powerful magic to bring one back who you did not even know? What do you want of me?” He stared at Sarelas, who held his eyes but did not respond. “Why do you have Pippin’s pack?” He got to his feet but realised that he would not be able to walk to the pack. “Lord Boromir,” Sarelas said finally, “these are a great many questions, and some of them will be harder to answer than you can imagine. Please.” She looked at him pleadingly. “You have to trust us.” “How can I trust you?” Boromir asked hotly. “Everything you said to me was a lie.” “No,” she shook her head, “no, it was not.” “But it was not the truth either,” he said. “Do you think that the truth has to be kept from lesser Men for their own good perhaps?” “No,” she replied, sounding almost amused, “I do not believe that.” Boromir stared at Sarelas. He was angry at her, and her entire kind who thought themselves so much better than the anybody else, who seemed to think it was their right to meddle in the affairs of these lesser beings without having to explain their actions. “You are still not answering my questions,” he told her. Sarelas took a deep breath and with a wry smile she said, “the bag that belonged to your companion, Pippin, was left behind when the others were setting out to pursue the orcs. We found it and - perhaps you think unrightly - took it with us.” “You simply found it,” Boromir could not believe her words. “Just as you simply found me?” “In a manner of speaking, yes,” Sarelas answered. “I do not believe you,” he replied, his fury keeping him on his feet, though he felt a wave of dizziness rising. “I do not believe a word you say. Why should I believe that you saved my life even? You may even be sent by Sauron himself to discover what the intentions for our mission were. It would not be the first time that he had persuaded Elves to doing his bidding.” “If we were,” Sarelas said an edge of anger creeping into her voice, “it would be very foolish to even mention that you had a mission.” “What do you want of me?” This time he yelled at her, and she shouted back, “nothing. We want nothing of you.” She glared at him, and continued more quietly, “but you will not believe that, will you?” Boromir allowed a few moments for the answer to sink in, and to his own surprise there was a part of him that wanted to believe her, but it could hardly be true, could it? “I don’t know,” he replied. “As to what we are doing here,” Sarelas went on, “we happen to live here. Is that so hard to believe?” “Here?” Boromir looked around. The ruins did not look as if anybody actually lived in this place. “Yes, it is.” “We live about three miles upstream,” Asloren explained, “not right here.” Boromir realised that the younger Elf may not speak much but when he had anything to say, it was usually some useful information, and information that Boromir was more willing to trust than what his sister said. He sat down on the wall again, before the dizziness overcame him completely. “I thought your lot were only living in places like Lórien,” he stated, addressing his question to Asloren. “What do you know about ‘our lot’,” Sarelas commented sharply. “Not much,” he admitted, “but enough to know that there is something fishy about you two.” “Fishy!” Sarelas repeated and added a choice curse that Boromir had so far only heard in drunken brawls between seasoned soldiers. He had not even known Elves could curse, leave alone that they knew expressions that would make some veterans blush. “I tell you who would have been very fishy indeed if we had not come along, risked our necks and …,” she stopped herself suddenly and covered her face with her hands. Boromir was too surprised about this explosion to really mind what she said. He could see she was breathing hard and wondered whether she was crying, but when she lowered her hands, she looked calm and composed. “I am sorry,” she said evenly, “you are right. I’m sorry, I did not mean to fight with you.” She took a few slow steps towards him. “The truth, my Lord, is that we live on the shores of the lake, and we did come across you and your companions by chance. As to the why to all of this, that is a much more complicated matter.” She sounded so sincere that Boromir felt the urge to simply trust her, but what she said were just pretty words again. There was no guarantee that any of it was the truth. If only he did not feel so dizzy. He was not sure whether he could trust his own senses anymore, he doubted he would be able to tell if she lied or told the truth now. Nevertheless, he found himself asking, “Why?” Sarelas folded her hands in front of her lips and closed her eyes for a moment, as if she was telling herself to remain calm. Then she crossed the remaining distance between her and him and to his surprise knelt down in front of him.  “Lord Boromir,” she said and took one of his hands between hers. “Cannot the ‘why’ wait until tomorrow?” A strange tingling sensation spread from his hand, where she touched him. Perhaps, he wondered, she had healing powers, but he doubted that it would be enough for him to be able to walk back to his bed. He was so tired “I guess it can,” he said, “it may have to. I am too tired to argue any longer, I doubt I can even get up.” “Asloren, will you help me put this Man to bed?” Sarelas asked. Her brother appeared at his side and together they managed to get Boromir on his feet and started walking him back to the stone chamber. “Where did you learn to curse like a soldier?” Boromir asked. “Soldiers,” Sarelas replied, “I assume they thought it amusing to teach me. My… Some other people did not think it very amusing.” Boromir wondered what she had been about to say before she stopped herself. But there was another question niggling in his mind. Her question of postponing the question of ‘why’ until tomorrow had brought it back to him, she had told her brother too that something could wait until tomorrow - but she had said it in the Common Tongue. “Why do you speak to your brother in the Common Tongue?” he asked. “That, my Lord, is a why question.” Gently she and her brother lowered him unto his bed. “It will have to wait until tomorrow.” If only he were not so tired, Boromir wished. He felt somewhat better lying down, but still immensely exhausted. He was afraid that tomorrow the Elves would be playing the same game of not answering his questions as they had done for most of today. He was not sure whether he could face another fight with Sarelas. In fact, she seemed so reluctant to answer his queries, he suddenly was afraid that he would wake up and find the Elves gone. “Are you still going to be here tomorrow?” Sarelas smiled and pulled the blanket over him. “We will,” she said. “We have nowhere else to go.” Boromir wondered what she could mean by this statement. It was such a throw-away sentence it was probably true, but maybe she was just trying to lure him into trusting her against his better judgement. “You are the most remarkable Elf I have ever met,” he told her. “Then you must not have met many,” she stated. “I met a few.” He thought back to the high and mighty Elves he had encountered during his journeys so far, but none of them had stirred so many different feelings in him. None of them seemed to be particularly interested in him as a person. And none had saved his life. “I did not like any of them.” Sarelas laughed. “You do not mean to say you like me?” she wanted to know. “I have not decided yet,” he replied. There was a movement at the doorway and Asloren reappeared holding a wooden bowl and one of the silver cups. He carefully placed both on the floor next to Boromir’s head. “There is some bread and water. You might want to try to eat or drink something when you wake up,” he explained and withdrew before Boromir could reply. “You should eat - a little if you can,” Sarelas consented. “Later. Now you ought to sleep.” She placed one of her hands on his eyes. “Sleep now and tomorrow I will tell you the truth.” Boromir felt himself drifting away, wondering whether Sarelas was making him sleep or whether he was simply too tired to stay awake.

The truth. Sarelas sat on the edge of the padded blanket, one of her hands still firmly in the grip of Boromir’s hand. The truth was a big word. It was not more than a few moments since she had promised him to tell the truth, and she realised that she was already starting to search for loopholes in her promise. It was not that she did not want to tell the truth, or that she was ashamed of it, it was just so… complicated. No, she told herself, it was not complicated. It was very simple. It would just be difficult to make him believe the truth.

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