Boromir Returns

Chapter 3

The grey light of early morning was creeping into the room when Boromir woke again. Though they had left winter finally behind them, the air was still chilly at this early hour, and Boromir felt reluctant to leave the comfort of his bed. He had slept deeply through the night again, though he vaguely remembered some troublesome dream, but it was only an impression, and he could not remember the precise reason why he had felt worried. He had been sleeping almost continuously for three days now. Except for the time he had been dead. Boromir shivered. How long had he been dead before the Elves had brought him back to life, he wondered? It must have been several hours, as first his companions had given him what proper funeral they could, and then Sarelas and her brother had to retrieve his body from the River before they could work this unspecified magic. Today, he vowed, he would get the truth out of them. It had been unmannerly to tell the Elves that there was something fishy about them but Sarelas’ reaction to this statement had just proven that he was right. Though he could not be sure that there were not a kind of elves that were less haughty than the ones he had met in Rivendell and Lórien. But he would not be mobbed off with empty assurances and vague replies anymore. Gathering his blanket around him, Boromir sat up. He was ravenously hungry. - Not that this was surprising. Carefully he first took a sip of water and then broke a little corner of the bread and ate it. It tasted dry and slightly stale, but at least his stomach did not rebel against it. After another small drink of water, he got up and stepped out of the stone chamber, taking the bread with him. The air smelled clear and fresh, and a gentle wind made the branches of the trees rustle. There was no sign of either of the Elves. Boromir walked around the spur of the wall, feeling slightly wobbly on his feet but not too badly. The bags and packs were still stacked against the wall. His leather tunic was spread over it, presumably to dry it and his boots were standing close to the now cold fireplace. Between the fireplace and the wall Asloren slept, covered with an odd assortment of blankets and looking even younger than he usually did. At least, Boromir thought, they had not left during the night. They would not just leave, he thought, not until the purpose of bringing him back from the dead had been accomplished. He could not imagine what they wanted to achieve but he was convinced they had not just acted in charity. Turning his back on the sleeping Elf, he walked towards the River Anduin without consciously taking the decision to do so. It was just a few hours short of being three days since they had reached the Falls of Rauros, three days since his quarrel with Frodo and since he had been killed by Orcs. Many things could happen in three days. Eating another small piece of bread, he sat down on a large stone on the riverbank. He worried about what had happened to Merry and Pippin. The fact that the Orcs had been obviously interested in taking them alive was his only relief. The Orcs would surely not harm them as they had to deliver their captives alive to Saruman. Though this was hardly a reassuring thought. Saruman would not be pleased if he found that they did not bear the Ring. And what would happen then to the two halflings was too horrible even to contemplate. For the first time since they had met at Rivendell, Boromir hoped from the bottom of his heart that Aragorn would have success in his endeavours, that he would be able to rescue the hobbits. Boromir stared at the grey waters of the River. Somehow, he could not really believe that he had been dead, and his body had been lying at the bottom of this river. The water that had passed over him must by now have reached Minas Tirith. Minas Tirith. Boromir hoped fervently that he would be able to reach his home before the news of his death arrived there. Would the news of his death ever be brought to his father? What if Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli failed in their attempt, what if they all were killed, then nobody would ever know. But he was not dead anymore, he reminded himself, he would return to Minas Tirith, to his father and brother - and to their fight against the forces of Mordor. If for some reason the news of his death reached the White City before he did, his father would be deeply hit. Not only, because he loved his eldest son - more than he did his other son, as Boromir knew - but also because Boromir had been a help and support to his father in these dark years. He knew that and admitting to it was no crime. Boromir got to his feet and started walking along the shores of the River upstream, towards the Falls whose roaring Boromir only now really noticed though it must have been audible all the time. He had to get home as quickly as possible. Only a few yards from the point where he first came onto the River, he found the Elven boat. It was drawn onto the shore, empty and, as he noticed when he reached it, completely dry. Placing his hand on the side of the boat, he allowed himself for a moment to indulge in imagining how it had looked when it had acted as his funeral barge. The Elves had mentioned that he had been placed in the boat with armour and broken weapons. He assumed they had belonged to the Orcs he had fought with. Then the boat had tumbled over the falls, and he and the sword and weapons had vanished in the dark waters of the River, while the boat, no doubt due to some magic the Elves had worked into it, had floated across the River until it was caught by Asloren and Sarelas. Suddenly he was overcome by anger, anger at fate that had allowed the Orcs to kill him while his companions had escaped - alive at least, even if Pippin and Merry were captives - anger at the Elves and their arrogant ways, anger even at the River Anduin. Picking up a rock from the ground he was about to throw it into the River, when he remembered the last time he had done so and woken a strange monster that had almost killed Frodo. Well, he thought, if anybody would be killed now it would be he himself and he had been dead anyway. He threw the stone into the River, despite feeling somewhat foolish about this expression of childish anger. “There you are.” Sarelas came walking down to the river from the direction of their camp, looking as cool and composed as any Elf he had met on his travels.  It was hard to believe that she was capable of losing her temper as violently as she had last evening. Boromir turned away from her, looking out over the River. He was tired of playing games, each avoiding to answer the other’s question. “I have to return to Minas Tirith,” he said. Sarelas stopped a few steps away from him, and for a long while neither of them moved or spoke. If she did not want to speak, Boromir thought, he could out-silence her or at least try to. After some time, he turned to look at her. Like he had done, she was gazing over the River, standing motionless like a statue. Much of the strangeness of her appearance was certainly due to her unusual attire. But there was something else too he could not specify. What did he care? In fact, what did he care about the Elves’ plans for him? He had more urgent matters to consider than their schemes. He turned away from the River and walked back to the camp. If they wanted something off him, they ought to tell him. Whatever it was, he had to return home to his duties. He had spent too long on this pointless mission already. When he reached their camp, he found Asloren up and once more tending the fire. He looked up when Boromir approached, but as usual did not speak. Boromir felt his leather tunic, which was mostly dry, as were his boots. He sat down and resting his chin in his hand, considered what he could do next. He really wanted to simply take his things and leave, but he knew this to be an insane idea. He did not know where his chain mail and the rest of his gear was. He did not have any weapons or food. He also knew that he was not up to any major exertions. If he followed his urge to simply leave, he would not get very far before either hunger and exhaustion overcame him, or Orcs caught up with him. Starting on a venture that was bound to fail only made sense if it was the only course of action left open, and he was not in that situation. Not by a long way. He felt, however, that time was growing short. He watched as Asloren carefully poured boiling water into a battered looking metal teapot. The Elves seemed to have their entire household with them. Boromir was reminded of Sarelas’ comment that they had nowhere else to go and he wondered what she had meant by it. If it was the truth, it would mean that they were not welcome in Lórien or any other of the place where their kind lived. Did that mean that they had been banished by the Elves, and if so for what reason? The first explanation that came to Boromir was that they had indeed fallen under the spell of the Evil Lord. In the light of day this seemed to be an incredible idea, if only because the force who commanded the Ringwraith surely had more powerful and persuasive henchmen to send out than two Elves. Though perhaps he was flattering himself, and Sauron thought that Boromir only deserved the attention of these two minor minions. “Did the Dark Lord send you?” Boromir asked. Asloren looked up from his cooking and grinned. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Nobody sent us.” As if his question had summoned her, Sarelas came walking up through the trees towards them. She looked at him coolly and sat down on the broken wall. “Do you want some tea?” Asloren asked him. Boromir nodded, and Asloren poured some into a chipped mug and handed it to him. He had managed to eat almost half of the bread but now it was sitting heavily in his stomach again. But he was confident he would be able to drink the tea. The young elf poured another mug and handed it to his sister. Sarelas cradled the mug in her hand, then she turned to look at Boromir and said suddenly, “You were right, we did not bring you back because we happened to be in the right place and the right time, or because we had the means to do so.” Boromir could not help staring at her in surprise. He had not expected her to start upon the subject without his asking again and without more evasive answers on her part. “However,” she continued, “we did not have any great plans either, devious or otherwise. - As a matter of fact, what aim there was, was my idea. Asloren did not have anything to do with them. If you get angry, get angry with me.” She paused, allowing Boromir to wonder what she might have done that might anger him. She went on, “It was by chance that we did see your company pass and we followed as we wondered what such a strange assembly was doing in this forsaken part of the world. Then the Orcs came and though they were attacking your company, we were caught up in the fight. By the time we reached your friends, you had been killed, and they were preparing your funeral.” “But you said you did not speak with them?” Boromir asked. “No,” Sarelas shook her head. “As you said, we did not know who you were, or who your companions were, but we did know that you must have been a Man of importance.” She paused again, then, taking a deep breath, she continued, “The truth is that I had the idea that if we brought you back to life, your family would be grateful enough to reward us.” She looked into his eyes. “That was my entire plan.” Boromir was more than surprised, he was shocked. “Money,” he echoed. He could hardly believe that any Elf would act on such base a motive as financial rewards, leave alone admit to it. “Yes,” Sarelas affirmed. “You brought me back for money?” Boromir still could not bring himself to accept the fact that Elves who after all were supposed to be above all earthly concerns could act on such a motive. Though, he realised, the Elves he had met previously, had been living in comfort and had all the riches one could hope for. These two, however, looked as if they could do with some new clothes and equipment. Sarelas sighed. “Yes, ransom you, as Asloren put it.” “Ransom?” Boromir asked. “What did you expect would happen? Did you want to take me to my father and say, ‘here is your son, reward us or we will kill him again?’” Asloren seemed to find this concept highly amusing, as he grinned broadly, but he quickly lowered his eyes when Boromir frowned at him. “No,” Sarelas replied. “He,” she nodded towards her brother, “said that it was a foolish idea and would cause us nothing but trouble. I, perhaps naively, thought that you might be grateful enough not to question our motives, that your family would be grateful enough to reward us without us having to ask for it. Yes, I admit, it was a foolish idea, a very, very foolish idea.” She frowned and shook her head. “As you said these are not the times where you can do a stranger a good turn without your motives being questioned. And, after all, my motives were questionable. We did not know who you were after all.” A foolish idea, she had said. A heavy lump settled in Boromir’s stomach that for a change had nothing to do with the food he had eaten or the small amount of tea he had drunk. She seemed to be thoroughly disappointed in him. If they had known who he was they probably would have let him rot at the bottom or the River Anduin. They had hoped to save the life of somebody nobler, somebody like Aragorn, that embodiment of pompous gallantry, and all they got was him. “Do you regret having brought me back to life?” he asked. “No!” Sarelas and Asloren replied simultaneously and with equal fervour. Boromir was startled by the intensity of their denial. He hoped that it meant that they spoke the truth. To his surprise it was Asloren who went on, “Lord Boromir, if we had known who you were, any thoughts of pecuniary reward would have been banished from our minds. We would have striven even harder to rescue you.” Perhaps an expression of disbelief was visible on Boromir’s face, as Asloren continued with a thin smile. “Not all of our kind care little about the fate of their fellow Men.” “But, …” Boromir started, but Asloren interrupted him, “I did not think that bringing you - anybody back to life was a foolish idea. I had my reservations about it, I admit. It was the idea of selling you, or whoever the person would turn out to be, back to his family I thought was foolish. There was also the possibility that you may not have had any family.” Boromir looked from Asloren to his sister. They seemed to be speaking the truth. Their tale sounded plausible enough. But some suspicious part of him complained, that he could not know whether they were not simply giving him a story that sounded convincing to stop him from asking questions. It seemed even odder to him that Sarelas had told her tale without him having to argue with her again. He could not be certain whether they were not sent by the enemy. Worrying about the Elves’ plan was futile, he decided. It would do no good to see evil plots everywhere. For the time being he had to trust them - as far as good sense would allow - just as they had to trust him. They had not questioned him or his plans after all. “What do you plan to do now?” he wanted to know. Sarelas shrugged. “We do not have any further plans,” she said. “What do you wish to do?” “I have to go home,” Boromir replied. Just by voicing his wish to return to Minas Tirith, his need to return home become urgent. He had been gone for too long, he did not know what had happened in the long months he had spent on this foolish mission. He did not know whether the forces of Mordor had attacked again, he did not even know whether there was still a home he could return to. Getting to his feet, he took a few steps in the direction of Minas Tirith. Turning back towards the two Elves, he said, “I have to go back. Now.” “Now?” Sarelas asked. “Yes.” Boromir walked back to the wall and pulled on his leather tunic. “Where is my chainmail?” Asloren opened his mouth to reply, but his sister waved at him, and he remained silent. “You cannot leave now,” Sarelas said. Boromir ignored her objection. He did not want to argue with her about his plans. “Where is my gear?” he asked Asloren, “my sword, shield, the Horn of Gondor…” “At the bottom of the River,” Sarelas replied, interrupting him. He turned to her, surprised by the grim look on her face. “At the bottom of the River?” he asked. “Yes,” Sarelas replied, “it was difficult enough to retrieve your body, and we judged that your belongings were of less importance to you than your life.” “I …,” Boromir began, but Sarelas continued, “do not ignore me, Lord Boromir. I do not take kindly to it. And I said that you cannot leave now.” Boromir stared at her, anger rising within him. “And why may this be so?” he wanted to know. “You are not in a state to travel,” Sarelas replied. “Tomorrow we can start our journey down river.” “I cannot wait until tomorrow,” Boromir said. “I have to leave now.” “You will have to wait until tomorrow, we are not leaving today,” Sarelas insisted. Boromir suppressed the urge to yell at her. She had saved his life after all, but she had no right to tell him what he could and could not do. He had been taking orders for too long. “You can do whatever you wish to do,” he told her, “I am leaving now.” He bent down to pick up his boots, starting when he straightened up and found himself facing Sarelas who seemed to have flown across the clearing. “You are not leaving today,” she repeated. “And what do you intend to do?” Boromir wanted to know. “You cannot stop me.” “I can and I will, if I have to,” Sarelas replied. “Even if I have to tie you to your bed all day long.” “You would not…,” Boromir began. “Oh yes, I would.” Sarelas glared at him. Standing only a few inches away from him, he noticed that she was almost as tall as he was. For a brief moment Boromir considered shoving her aside and simply walking off but looking into her determined faced he realised that she was not only deadly serious, she was probably also capable of realising her threat. She would do her best to keep him from leaving and he feared that he might not be in a state to overpower her. Not today. Even if he were confident, he could get the better of her, it was unbefitting for him even to consider it. It seemed that force was the only solution he saw to solving his problems. First he had tried to take the Ring from Frodo, now he had contemplated to get into a brawl with Sarelas who was not only a lady and an Elf, which at the moment he hardly considered a reason in itself not to fight with her, but who was also the person who had brought him back to live, endangering herself in the process. She was probably right, he was still weakened from his ordeal, but he could not shake the sense of urgency, the feeling that he ought to return to Minas Tirith as quickly as possible. Today, not tomorrow. “We will travel down-river in the elven boat,” Sarelas said, “and in three or four days we will be in Minas Tirith.” Boromir knew that she tried to ease his worries, but he could not help feeling resentment and anger rise in him again. He did not like being told what to do and when. He did not like feeling helpless. He did not like to back down. “You plan to accompany me,” he stated, his bitterness all too noticeable in his voice. “Are you still going to try to ransom me to my father?” Anger flashed up on Sarelas’ face and for a moment Boromir feared that she may hit him. It was a petty gesture to gall her like this, but it was also a satisfying experience that he could make an elf angry. The other elves he had encountered so far had obviously regarded him as of too little importance to get angry with him, instead they had ignored his opinion. “No,” Sarelas spat out. She suddenly turned and walked away, sitting down on the crumbling wall. “You talk to him,” she said to her brother. Asloren looked up from his cooking and shook his head. He was frying dough balls. The smell of hot olive oil and rye flour brought back memories to Boromir, memories of other mornings camping in other forests. Dough balls were army food. It was another facet of these elves’ strangeness that they were not living on lembas but cooked like the soldiers Boromir had been on campaigns with. Boromir sat down as well, dropping his boots on the ground. For a long while none of them spoke and the only sound that could be heard was the sizzling of the oil and the small plopping when Asloren put another blob of dough into the oil. The silence gave Boromir time to calm down and consider his actions and regret them. He had - once again - let his temper get the better of him. Why did he always have to get into arguments? It may not be to his liking, but he needed the elves. If they should abandon him here, he stood no chance to ever reach Minas Tirith on his own, even if they left him the elven boat. A wiser man would have seen this and not angered the elves with petty complaints. He would never make a good Steward, he told himself. Faramir would have never manoeuvred himself into this situation. Perhaps it would have been better if he had staid dead. The elves really deserved a reward, for bringing him back from the dead, feeding him and bearing his ill-temper. “I will try to retrieve your things from the River,” Asloren said suddenly. Boromir looked at the young elf, once more surprised by his apparent willingness to help. Asloren placed some of the dough balls in a wooden bowl and brought it to Boromir. “Eat slowly,” he advised, “they are still very hot.” “Thank you,” Boromir said. Taking another bowl to his sister, Asloren continued, “I do not know whether I will succeed, the River is dark and swift. We also have to make preparations for our journey down-river.” He helped himself to some food and sat down. “I have mended your chainmail.” “Thank you,” Boromir said again. He had almost forgotten that his chainmail would have been torn as well by the Orcs’ arrows. When he looked down, he could see the gaping holes in his leather tunic. Somehow the mere thought of his having been dead, made his stomach queasy again. The smell from the dough balls was suddenly not inviting any more. Nevertheless, he ripped one of the dough balls apart, burning his fingers on the hot dough. He was still alive and could burn his fingers, which was more than he had any right to. He promised himself that he would not get into arguments with the elves again. “We do not want to ransom you anymore,” Sarelas stated. His accusation must have stung her. Boromir wondered what he should reply, if he said ‘no’ she might think that he thought that they deserved no reward, if he said ‘yes’ she may think he was questioning her words. “The enemy’s main attack will be directed against Gondor,” Sarelas explained, “and if he wins, we are all going to suffer, there will be no place in the world where one will be able to hide from the forces of darkness. It is our intention and our duty to fight the darkness wherever we can.” Boromir was saved from making an instant reply by the piece of hot food in his mouth. Fight the darkness? Was she serious? he wondered. Neither the elves of Rivendell nor of Lòrien had been interested in giving any active help towards their cause. Now these two rather peculiar elves told him it was their duty to fight? Boromir had to think of the silver sword he had discovered in the stone chamber. The elves were armed but whether this was proof she was telling the truth he did not know. Desperately he tried to think of an appropriate reaction to her words, but he could think of nothing that may not be judged as his questioning the truthfulness of her words. Finally, he settled for a simple “Yes,” which seemed to him to be innocent enough but the look he got from Sarelas told him that she did not think it the appropriate reaction. Whatever her objections were, she did not voice them. They remained silent during their breakfast, but it was not a comfortable silence. Sarelas continued to stare at him, as if she waited for him to break the silence. Asloren concentrated on his food. Boromir managed to eat one of the dough-balls, despite his stomach’s increasing unease. He was still hungry when he had to stop, but it was a start. Sarelas finished her meal first, wiping her chin with a napkin that looked out of place, here in the wilderness. Then she got up and walked away. Boromir followed her with his eyes, wondering once more what made her seem different from the other elves he had encountered so far. He was also wondering what these two elves were doing here, living in this desolate place. But he could not think of a way to ask that would not sound as if he was questioning the veracity of their story. “Are you done?” Asloren asked, suddenly standing right in front of Boromir. Boromir nodded and allowed the young elf to relieve him of the bowl and his empty mug. It seemed that he was not afraid of Boromir anymore, if he had ever been. “You should try to eat more later,” Asloren told him. Boromir bit back the sharp reply that this admonishment raised in him. He was no witless child, he wanted to say, but he reminded himself that Asloren was probably worried and that he needed the elves’ help. He nodded at the young elf. “I will.” Asloren gave him a lop-sided smile and returned to the cooking fire. He placed the remaining dough-balls on a plate over the fire, roasting them to make them last longer, the same way the soldiers in the army did. Boromir considered asking Asloren where he had learned to cook but he decided against it. The elves were not asking him questions about his presence here or the mission he had so foolishly mentioned. Perhaps it was best if they did not try to pry too deeply into each other’s background, not until some semblance of trust had grown between them. He hoped that travelling down the River with the two elves would give him some opportunity of making amends for his behaviour. He only wished they would not wait until tomorrow to set out on their journey. He knew that he had been gone for most of three parts of a year and one day would not make a great difference, but he felt there was an urgent need to return as quickly as possible. This one day may make all the difference. His stomach knotted up when he realised that this feeling of urgency may be a premonition. He knew that his father had them and Faramir to some extend as well. What if he knew something terrible would happen if he did not return today? He would never forgive himself if his family or his country suffered because he delayed his travels again. But the elves were right, he could not start the journey today. He had to gain some strength and there were preparations to be made. This knowledge did not, however, diminish his sense of urgency. He could not just sit around here, doing nothing. The elves seemed to do all the preparations themselves, he did not know what he could possibly do to help, but he had to do something. Boromir pulled his boots on and got to his feet. For a moment unsure of where he could go, he finally headed towards the River. He almost expected one of the elves to try and stop him but neither of them paid any attention to him. Asloren continued with his cooking and Sarelas did not even look up from the packs she had taken out of the stone chamber and was now unpacking and sorting out. They were probably certain he would not counteract their decision, that he accepted their opinion above his own. Elves were like that, and he thought that he should be used to it, but it galled him, nevertheless. When he reached the River Anduin, he stared at the grey waters flowing swiftly past him. For a moment he was tempted to take the boat - he had noticed two paddles propped up against its side when he had passed it - and leave, but the elves were right. If only he could do something! He felt superfluous and useless, and he had felt like this far too often in recent times. He should have returned home from Rivendell, his part in the fellowship had hardly been useful. If he had not come, somebody else, somebody more suited to the task would have accompanied the Ringbearer and then Frodo may have not hesitated and started to doubt his companions and the fellowship would not have been broken. They would have all crossed the River and together there may be a small chance to complete the mission. Frodo and Sam on their own stood no chance to reach Mount Doom deep in the heart of Mordor. Boromir shook his head, trying to get rid of these thoughts, he tried not to think of what may be happening, what may already have happened in Gondor in his absence and without his knowledge. He did not want to think of anything. He wished he could stop thinking. Perhaps, it would have been better if he had staid dead. It would have grieved his father, but Boromir knew that Faramir was just as capable of leading the army of Gondor as he was even if their father did not believe it. If he were dead at least he would not need to think. The sound of somebody running behind him, made him stop and whirl around. He realised that he had been walking along the River, not even being aware of what he was doing. Sarelas came running towards him. She stopped a few steps away from him, her face flushed, and her breathing laboured from the run. “What on earth are you doing?” she asked. “Are you trying to walk to Minas Tirith?” “I am sorry,” he replied.  “I was thinking…” An unexpected sound made him stop. Only a few yards behind Sarelas the branches of the undergrowth parted and an enormous Orc, a scimitar in one hand and a vicious looking dagger in the other stepped forward. Boromir realised that neither he nor Sarelas were armed. “Orc,” Boromir said. Sarelas gave him a firm nod, then she pushed her hair back behind her ears and turned around to face the vile creature. The Orc remained standing where he was, grinning a hideous smile, as if he was savouring the moment he had caught two unarmed people. He seemed to be not impressed by the fact that one of them was an Elf. Why should he, Boromir thought. Elves may be immortal, but they could be killed. If the Orc cut off Sarelas’ head with the scimitar he was slowly whirling around she would be just as dead as if she were a mere Man. As for himself, Boromir had experienced his mortality all too recently. He also had to accept that he was still suffering the effects of having been dead. His walk along the River had tired him, otherwise he would have thought in a situation like this the best option would be to make a run for it, but he knew he was incapable of outrunning the Orc. There was no other way than to confront the creature. The Orc grinned and slowly started walking towards them. “What do you want?” Boromir asked, taking a step forward. For a moment the Orc was taken aback, then he barked a laugh. “I want you both dead,” he said in his rough voice, or at least that was what Boromir thought he said. “You cannot kill me,” Boromir replied. The Orc laughed again, continuing his slow approach. His eyes were fixed on Boromir. “I am already dead,” Boromir continued. He began to walk towards the vile being, turning slightly to the right, forcing the Orc to turn as well. “Your friends killed me three days ago.” It seemed to Boromir as if the Orc was for a brief moment confused. He may have heard about the fight above the Falls. It was possible that he had even been part of the company of Orcs that had attacked them. Surely the situation had not deteriorated so much that a single Orc felt safe travelling on his own on the Western shore of the River Anduin. The Orc snarled “you lie,” but he kept his eyes on Boromir. “Do I?” Boromir asked. He continued to circle the Orc, as if they were two swordfighters looking for an opening in the other’s defence to start a fight. Boromir was very aware that he did not hold a sword, and the Orc would make short shrift of him once he attacked. Boromir held the Orc’s gaze, hoping that Sarelas would have a chance to use the Orc’s distraction to do something, even if it was only to run away. It was enough if one of them was killed. Then, everything happened very fast, the Orc stopped, growing tired of this game. He raised his scimitar above his head and with a shout ran at Boromir. Boromir yelled back and charged his enemy, almost forgetting that he had no weapon, but only almost. He kept his eyes fixed on the raised sword and as the Orc drew it back an inch more before slicing down, he threw himself on the ground. He could hear the blade cutting through the air just a few hairs’ breadth from his head. His hands impacted against the Orcs lower legs, not with enough force to throw him off his feet, but enough to make him loose his balance for a moment, giving Sarelas to hit the Orc over his ugly head with a sharp-edged rock, as Boromir saw when he rolled on his back. The Orc reeled to the side, dazed but not badly hurt. He turned around towards this new attacker. Sarelas hurled the rock into his face, and as the Orc finally fell to the ground, Boromir was able to grab his left hand and twist the dagger out of his hand, as Sarelas threw herself on top of the Orc to keep him pinned to the ground. She held out her hand. Without thinking Boromir placed the dagger into it, and she stabbed it deeply into the chest of the vile creature. Boromir could hear the grinding of the blade against the Orc’s armour, but the beast stopped struggling immediately. For a few moments they remained where they were, Sarelas kneeling on the dead Orc, Boromir lying on the ground, trying to catch his breath, then Sarelas turned towards him, a strange smile on her face. “Are you well?” she asked. Only now he realised what they had accomplished. Unarmed as they were they had killed this brute, killed it with hardly a scratch on them. He had a cut in his hand from twisting the dagger out of the Orc’s grasp, but it was hardly worth mentioning. “Yes,” he said, sitting up “What about yourself?” “I am fine,” she replied. She got to her feet, then bent down and pulled the dagger out of the Orc’s chest, where it stuck firmly enough for her to have to push the body down with her foot. She also picked up the Orc’s scimitar. Boromir remained sitting on the ground, waiting for the dizzy feeling to pass. “You were right,” he said to the elf, as she turned back to him, “I am in no state to travel today.” “I had not thought you were able to kill an Orc bare-handed either,” she replied. She shook her head, “I am still wondering whether this was the bravest or the stupidest deed I have ever seen,” she continued, but she said it with a smile and an expression of new respect on her face. “Do you think you can walk?” Boromir nodded and carefully got to his feet. “I can look after your hand back at our camp,” Sarelas said. Boromir nodded. He felt a strange comradeship towards the elf, he noticed, as they walked slowly back towards the ruined building and their camp. He ought not be surprised, he told himself, he knew the feeling from many battles and skirmishes, the same closeness he had felt for his fellow soldiers once they had survived. But Sarelas was hardly a soldier, though she had fought like one. He looked sideways at her, but she seemed to notice his gaze and turned towards him with a grin on her face. “You saved my life again,” Boromir told her. “You killed the Orc.” Sarelas shrugged. “Not any more than you did.” “Perhaps,” Boromir said. They returned to the camp in silence but unlike the heavy silence that had weighed on him during their morning meal, it was a companionable silence. Boromir found himself wondering how long this friendly interlude would last. It seemed that he had a knack for saying the wrong thing and they would be fighting again about something or other soon. But it was not only him who sparked the arguments. The elven lady certainly had a temper herself. Asloren waited for them at the edge of the ruined building. “You killed it,” he said when he noticed the weapons in his sister’s hand. Boromir thought that the young elf did not sound as if he were particularly surprised about this. “Yes,” Sarelas stated simply.

"Is he going to do that all the time?” Asloren asked. Sarelas shrugged. It was not as if she raised the dead on a regular basis, she did not know any more about what was to be expected than her brother did. She had to admit that she was also starting to get worried about the amount of time Boromir spent sleeping. What if they had made a mistake when they brought him back? What if he continued to sleep as much as he did now? She could only hope it was a passing stage. He had seemed to be so much better this morning. Surely it was the fight that had drained his strength. “I hope not,” she said. Whatever happened, they had to go to Minas Tirith. It was not only because the heir of the Steward of Gondor insisted they did, but also because it was the only path they could take. The dark forces were rising, and all had to make a stand against them.  Sarelas did not want to think what the Steward of Gondor would say or do to them if they brought back his son sleeping almost continuously. She fervently hoped it was only a temporary effect of his recent resurrection. Gondor needed this man, and he was needed awake and active, not spending nine tenth of the day sleeping. If she had known who they were bringing back from the realm of the dead, she feared she may not have had the courage to even try it. If she had had the faintest idea what she was getting themselves into she probably would have ignored Asloren when he brought the news of the unusual company travelling down the River.

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