4. Stranger of the Falls (Boromir) – Part 5 (7): Boromir

The sun did not rise the next morning. Or perhaps it did, but you could not see it through the darkness emanating from the enemy's realm.

News traveled even more slowly now with the villages so empty of people, but when another day dawned equally dark and sullen as the previous, words reached you that Gondor had lit the famous beacons in the south and sent the Red Arrow urging Rohan to ride to their aid.

You also learned a huge orc army had taken control over the fort at Cair Andros. They were swarming all over both sides of the river and in the cover of the unnatural darkness they plundered storages and burned villages at will.

When Främling heard about it his face became ashen.

"Cair Andros is in Anórien, a Gondor fief," you said, feigning calmness you did not feel. "Gondor is our mighty ally in the south. They have protected us against Mordor for so long, and I am certain they will succeed this time also, especially with our riders on the way to help. The steward of Gondor is a brilliant statesman they say, and his sons mighty warlords. Together they will settle this. Fear not."

At his dismayed face you became silent. He was looking at you almost with the same despair as when he first woke up after the accident. "Your king must pass through there," he droned tonelessly. "In his way to aid Gondor, Théoden has to pass near Cair Andros, but with orcs throughout the lands he will be delayed. Then Gondor stands alone. All hope is lost."

From the way he spoke you suddenly understood. His dark hair, his wealth. "You come from there. From Gondor."

He did not meet your eyes.

"Who are you?" you asked again. "Please tell me. I need to know your name in case..." Your voice trailed off and you felt a tear trickle down your cheek.

He softly wiped it away. "I am Boromir, son of Denethor of Gondor."

"Boromir," you whispered. The mighty warlord. Here in your village, unable to use his right hand properly. No wonder he had lost hope.

When more tears filled your eyes he drew you to him in a hug. "Forgive me. I should have been there, defending the fort, keeping the enemy at bay. Had I not... But even then, I am not certain we could have– There is this weapon you see. The one I dreamt of. It exists, and if the enemy acquires it then..." His voice trailed off and he drew several breaths. "I am rambling. Do not listen to me. You are right; the war may never reach this remote place, and if it does I will protect you with my life." He kissed your head. "Do not weep. Nothing will happen."

But you heard in his voice that he did not even believe that himself.

※

He went out again and soon you saw him in the paddock, brushing the horse, talking in a soothing, soft voice. Svarten did not try to tramp or kick him; he actually seemed to enjoy it.

Vidar sauntered by, his new golden belt gleaming around his waist. You glared at it.

"I am impressed," said he, indicating Boromir. "Never have I seen a man manage Svarten so well. Lord Främling is an extraordinary horseman."

"And you owe him," you retorted. "Do not pretend you were unaware of the value of that belt, yet what you gave him in return was hardly worth a thing. Nobody in their right mind would pay even a penny for Svarten! You should return the belt and lend the horse to him for free."

Vidar protectively covered the belt with his hands. "Well, enough chit-chat; I have a palisade to guard. Later!" He hurried off.

Annoyed, you turned your attention back to Boromir. He had mounted Svarten and was riding round and round, swinging the sword in his left hand. It did not show that he had been nearly paralyzed not long ago; he sat steady like a rock in the saddle, quite a feat for someone with only one good leg.

It struck you that he no longer needed to stay in your house. You had done what you could for him and he would manage the rest himself with all this exercise.

A bit guiltily, you hoped he wouldn't realize that himself; you did not want him to move out. You could not stand the thought of being alone at night when everything was so frightening in the world.

Besides, where else could he go? He did not know anyone in the village and it was too dangerous to travel. He was stuck with you.

You thought about the hug and kiss he gave you earlier and wondered what they meant. A gesture of friendship? Or more?

Suddenly you wanted it to be more. Under this strange, frightening darkness, in the midst of war and worry, you wished for a glimmer of happiness. A few stolen moments of tenderness and love to carry you on.

But as you thought about it, trying to picture Boromir and you as a couple, you realized you could not. There was a certain bitterness in him, troubled thoughts or memories that filled him with guilt and hopelessness. You suspected that even if he did feel something more for you he wouldn't allow himself to succumb to it.

If only you had met in other circumstances! In peaceful times, perhaps in your youth, then it could perhaps have come to be.

You felt robbed of his love even though you never had it.

Then you squared your shoulders. As always, there was work to do. You wiped your moist eyes dry and left on your daily round to check on the sick and elderly.

※

At noon, Boromir and you shared a stew with hard bread and mashed potatoes. Somehow this time it felt different to sit opposite to him in your simple house. He looked larger, stronger, more dangerous – like the captain and warlord you now knew he was. He made you feel small.

It was as if he had become even more a stranger after you learned his identity. Now your romantic thoughts from earlier seemed laughably absurd. Lord Boromir was a nobleman; he would never have fallen for a simple Rohirrim healer even if his heart wasn't so troubled.

Then a couple of red stains on his tunic caught your attention and you temporarily forgot being uncomfortable as your healer's instincts kicked in. "Your wounds have reopened."

He glanced down and shrugged. "Not much."

"Let me examine them."

He looked amused at your worry but did not protest. He removed his surcote, tunic and shirt and lay down on your bed.

Two of the arrow wounds had a crust of blood but they looked much better than you had feared. Somewhat calmed, you cleaned them and smeared on more ointment. The bleeding had already stopped so you left them unbandaged.

When you had finished, you grew uncomfortable again. You were reminded that this man who lay half-clad in your bed was Lord Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor.

It felt like you saw him for the first time. The stewards were said to have Númenorian blood – they were heroes of old, part human, part elvish – and hence would grow older, taller and stronger than most men.

Looking at him now, you did not doubt the truth of that. How could you not have realized he was of such noble descent? Boromir's features were aristocratic, from his straight nose and chiseled jawline to his bright, gray eyes, and now without the bandages you saw how perfectly sculpted his torso was. Like a work of art.

Your mouth became dry as you took in the sight.

"Finished yet?" he asked.

Face hot, you tore your gaze away. "I am. But you should not work so hard when you are still healing, my lord," you scolded, hoping he did not notice how flustered you had become.

He only laughed at that, again striking you with how rich and warm his laugh was.

"War is upon us and you fuss over a few scratches? You need to change your priorities. Also – simply Boromir will do; I am not your lord."

You could not help smiling back.

"When the men return and I have ascertained the village is secure, then I shall rest," he promised.

As he put his clothes back on, his forehead furrowed. "I only wish there were more warriors left... And that your houses and palisade were of stone, not wood that can be burned. Orcs are too fond of torching things." When he saw your expression he hurriedly added: "But the war will not likely reach this remote village."

"You believe it will," you accused.

"Do not trouble yourself about that. I will think of something."

"I can help."

"Well then." He suddenly smiled. "Let us think together."

He sat on your bed, leaning his back against the wall, and you sat next to him.

Silence ensued.

You tried to think of all the clever ways to protect places you had heard or read about. Boromir was right; stone walls seemed to be the most common part of the defense – with archers on top of them – and channels with narrow bridges leading up to the gates. This, you had heard, was what the Hornburg in Helm's Deep looked like.

You had no such walls here, and no archers either, but maybe... "What about a moat?" you suggested. "We could channel the river here and lead it around the village. Can orcs swim?"

"Fairly well; it would need to be deep for it to work. And we are too few to dig one. If I had the strength of both my arms..." He frowned, glaring at his right hand as if it had betrayed him.

"Could we frighten them off somehow?" you asked, trying to take his thoughts off his incapability. "What do they fear? Apart from sunlight..."

"Not much."

He fell silent again, scratching his beard while he thought. A while later he suddenly looked up. "I think I may have an idea... Do you have anything that will burn for a prolonged time?"

"Firewood?"

"No, it has to last longer. Lamp oil could work, or distilled wine."

"We have tar, plenty of it. We use it for waterproofing."

He brightened. "Excellent! Show me."

You asked Vidar to unlock the village storage, and on the way there Boromir explained what he wanted to do.

"An interesting idea," said Vidar. "Dangerous, but might actually work! Here we are now."

He opened a barrel of the black, oily liquid. There were many more. Tar was common in this area so you traded it to other villages, and some was sent down the river to be used for shipbuilding in Pelargir.

"Splendid! And you have such an abundance, too. I need most of these barrels, I think. Can I trade you something else for them?"

"Hm." Vidar gave Boromir's boots a calculating look.

"Do not be ridiculous." You gave Vidar a shove. "If he will use it to save the village he shall have it free of charge." You explained to Boromir that nobody owned the land where the tar pits were located so the resource belonged to everyone.

The two men carried out several barrels, despite your warning to Boromir not to strain himself and overdo it, and then he asked you to help him gather the people.

Soon the villagers curiously flocked around him. Apart from the bedridden elderly everyone had come, even Sigrid, one hand on her back and the other held protectively over her swelling stomach.

Boromir talked to them with the natural authority of one used to command. He told them that though it was not likely the war would come here, he had a plan that would protect the village just in case it did.

The people listened, none of them questioning his right to lead them despite not knowing who he really was. Why would they? They recognized a capable warrior and captain when they saw one.

He divided chores. Some were to dig, others to roll barrels to strategic locations, others to sharpen stakes.

In no time the place was a flurry of activity.

Boromir and you worked with the stakes, sharpening them into lances and handing them over to Vidar and two other old men who pressed them into the soft loam outside the palisade with the sharp ends pointing outward.

Further out, Maja, her shepherdess friends, little Kalle, and many others were digging a low trench while trying to evade the enthusiastic nips of Ludde who thought they were playing a fun game. When they were done they would pour tar and cover it with boards and branches.

It took a couple of days until the preparations were finished to Boromir's liking. Then he gathered everyone again. "Well done! After your hard toil we shall now finally be able to sleep soundly and without fear. One day, enemy armies might come this way to burn and plunder – but not this village!"

As he raised his fist everyone cheered.

※※※

A/N:

Just in case anyone wondered; tar is another word for pitch or bitumen, a more sticky form of crude oil. It has been used for waterproofing and for fuel in lamps and torches since ancient times. It's of course highly flammable.