Chapter Text
Boromir
The rains that come in the Night bring early morning mist and low clouds.
Upon his horse, Boromir observes the hazy horizon. The tall grass around his horse’s legs is dew-kissed and wet, darkening the horse’s coat until it appears black. The mist clings to his armor, creating a slick covering on the metal. When Boromir returns to Minas Tirith, the royal blacksmith will need to inspect it, cleaning it properly to avoid potential rust.
“Captain!” Brennan, one of the men that is accompanying Boromir trots forward, pulling up beside him. “The scout has not reported in.”
Boromir briefly glances at him before returning to scan the horizon. Even with the low clouds and mist, he can see enough.
Something dark stirs in these lands—awakening with malicious intent. It is palpable like the way butter sits salty and thick on the tongue when not evenly spread. It is heavy in the air and lungs, a vice around throats and hearts. It is a battering ram. It is everywhere.
Faramir is in Osgiliath.
The city conquered. Retaken. Conquered again. Mostly in sections, but it’s continuous. Unending. A brutal task that Boromir is only fighting because his father wants it so.
All who lived there are gone, moved to Minas Tirith. Boromir doesn’t know when it’ll be safe to return.
It might never be.
The orcs grow bold. A shadow is at their backs, spurring their forward momentum and bloodlust. As if they are sucking the darkness into themselves, they are relentless, fueling themselves on whatever drives them ever onward.
“What was the original report?” asks Boromir.
“Raids, sir,” answers Brennan. “Corsairs along the river. Mercenaries from the East. Mostly.”
“Mostly?” counters Boromir. “What other beings move along the Anduin?”
Brennan shakes his head. “Report didn’t say. Only that the Corsairs come and go. They advance and retreat in equal measure.”
“No pattern?”
“None that’s been revealed.”
Boromir nods, but there is no comfort. Acting on little information is a risk, and they are few in number.
“We will forge ahead,” replies Boromir. “Slowly. Keep to the trees. Avoid open ground.”
Boromir does not intend to engage. This is to gain information to relay back to Minas Tirith, to figure out a path forward.
The party is only ten in number on horseback. Boromir gathers the reins, and they depart, descending from the large hill they look out on to draw up next to the tree line. On the other side is the Anduin. It’s far enough that they cannot see it but close enough that Boromir swears he can hear the water.
They follow the tree line for several leagues. The day does not lighten. The skies remain grey and gloomy.
Boromir raises his fist, and the group halts.
He narrows his gaze, unsure of what he’s seeing.
“Do any of you see what I see, or do my eyes deceive me?”
“Looks like smoke,” replies Brennan.
“Or dark clouds,” adds Alden, scratching at his beard.
Boromir frowns. “Is there anything in that direction.”
“Likely a settlement,” answers Brennan. “Or a small village. Might not be on any maps expect local ones.”
Turning toward his men, Boromir keeps his tone even. “We will approach from the forest. Move slowly. Stay alert.”
Turning their steeds toward the forest, they enter one by one, trudging slowly through the undergrowth. The canopy swallows them up like a leviathan. Around them are large trees, and Boromir feels small—as if everything is tight and cramped.
To move through the trees, the group has to split, forming two lines.
At the edge of the tree line, Boromir brings everyone to a halt.
There is a town. A small settlement of a couple dozen buildings. To the left is the Anduin. The dock there is empty expect for a few fishing boats.
Some of the buildings still smolder. The rest are just blackened carcasses.
Boromir sees no bodies. Orcs would leave plenty behind. They rarely—if ever—take prisoners. Corsairs certainly kill but they tend to withhold their blades for profit. Living souls mean income. They can exchange hostages for coin, or take them to faraway places to sell them. Everything is a profit for them.
But there may still be bodies. Boromir just can’t see them.
It is he that takes the first step out of the trees. The others follow behind at the same pace, their hands on their weapons as they enter the settlement.
It is incredibly quiet. Hardly any noise. No birds or buzzing of insects. Only the occasional crackle of singed wood falling in on itself.
Moving like ghosts amongst a graveyard, they find themselves at the center of it all, and still, there are no bodies. Only blackened buildings.
“Captain,” murmurs Brennan. “Look.”
Boromir follows Brennan’s outstretched arm in the direction he indicates. There he finds a partially collapsed building. The door is open, hanging on its hinges, ready to fall off at the slightest gust of wind. Draped across the threshold is a pale arm, hand pressed into the earth as if the person tried to claw their way to freedom.
As a group, they approach, but it is Boromir who dismounts first. Brennan and Alden follow his lead while the others remain where they are. Cautiously, they examine the door and pale arm. Boromir leans in, only to find more the arm and who it is connected to.
It’s a woman.
Brennan kneels beside her, fingers pressed to the inside of her wrist before checking her neck.
Without speaking, Brennan turns in Boromir’s direction and shakes his head.
She’s gone. There is nothing that can be done.
Boromir nods his head, indicating that they should enter. He takes the lead, Brennan at his heels as Alden lingers back a bit near the door. They step around overturned furniture and over fallen beams.
“Touch nothing,” whispers Boromir.
It’s a small space, and reveals little. Bending at the knees, Boromir leans in to examine scorch marks along the floor that look like claw marks.
Behind him—distantly—there is a soft whoosh of air like a change in the wind.
A brief shout—quickly cut off.
Brennan and Alden draw their blades and charge toward the door.
“Wait!” says Boromir but they’re gone.
More shouting. The ringing of metal striking metal.
He sidesteps a beam and comes up short.
“Come out! We know you’re in there!”
Beyond the door are Corsairs. Not a handful. No. There are at least five of them to every one of Boromir’s men. But there aren’t many of his men left.
Most are down.
Boromir can only see about five of them on the ground in front of the house. He doesn’t see the others, but with how calm and unbothered the Corsairs are, they’re likely gone.
“Come out! Last chance. Won’t be lenient if we have to come in there.”
Muttering under his breath, Boromir exits, sword raised high, ready to swing.
The Corsair at the front of the group laughs. His black hair is thick and slightly tangled in a knot at the back of his head.
“Put your sword down. No use fighting.”
Boromir does not relent. He does not lower his weapon.
“A soldier of Gondor does not bow down to those poised to do evil.”
The Corsairs blinks, and then bursts out laughing again. He points, hand gesturing vaguely toward Boromir. “Armor is shiny. Fetch a pretty price.” He tilts his head to the side. “Bring it to me.”
Boromir is alone. Utterly alone.
Five Corsairs descend on him, and Boromir swings, hacking through two and ducking a third blow. This is easy. This is nothing. All the training is now natural, and Boromir is only an extension of his blade.
Until he isn’t.
Until there are far too many to fend off.
He lifts to swing again, but there is resistance in the swing. A pinch that becomes a sting and then bright, blinding pain.
Boromir glances down.
Impaled.
The Corsair holding the sword that sticks from his side grins wickedly before yanking it out.
Red comes with. Surprisingly dark.
The world spins. Boromir lands on his knees, and then all he sees above him is the grey sky.
“Take the armor. Then toss them all in the river.”
Reader
“I know. I know. Quit chiming. Giving me a headache.”
The bell does not cease. It continues to ring—loud and sharp in the small room.
That is its one job. It’s singular purpose. Your father designed it to be so.
The string that connects to the bell runs along a small tube in the ground which leads out to the fishing nets by the dock. Whenever the weight shifts past a certain amount, the bell will ring, indicating that it’s ready to be checked.
Depending on weight, the bell will give a soft chime or a loud one.
Right now, it’s loud. Angry.
And your father isn't here. He's been called away to serve in Gondor's navy. It's just you keeping it together.
When it was just the two of you, the amount of work didn’t seem so bad, but now that it’s just you, checking the nets consistently simply isn’t possible. It takes up too much time in your day, and hauling them up is a two-person job.
But with the bell ringing like it is, you’re going to have to check, even if you know it’ll take up far too much time.
Pushing your hair back and out of your face, you put on a fresh dress for the day. It’s simple. Meant to get dirty from garden work and wet from checking the nets. Grabbing your apron off the back of a chair, you tie it around your waist, exiting into the garden.
Opening the coop first to allow the chickens out, you then pop your head into the small barn.
“Hello, Daisy,” you coo, rubbing the cow’s side. She replies with a soft croon of contentment.
The two pigs snort in your direction but remain where they are. The sheep attempt to stick their heads through the wood slats to reach you.
“Behave,” you scold, pushing Tulip’s head back into the pen. “You’ll get stuck again and I’m not spending my day removing the boards to free you.”
Tulip baas a sharp reply.
Even in the barn you can still hear the bell from inside the house.
It’s misty out. A bit chilly.
The animals need space. They need to walk around and graze, but with the weather like it is, they might prefer to stay inside. Lightly chewing on the inside of your cheek, you decide to open the pens.
“Have at it,” you mutter, knowing you might regret this later when you try to round everyone up.
Following the stone path to the river, you gaze out across the landscape. There are dark clouds in the distance. At first, you think them storm clouds, but they appear far too dark for that.
Everything is odd now. There are whispers. Rumors of a spreading darkness.
But you are completely isolated. You are near no villages or settlements for a league or two at least. Whatever you have heard, it’s from passing travelers on the roads to said villages. When your father was called up, he didn’t know until he took a trip to town. They sent no one to fetch him, and the summons had come months ago.
“Strange,” you murmur, frowning at the dark spot in the sky.
Heading for the lever to raise the fishing nets, you sigh heavily, not wanting to do this at all. This is the part you hate the most. It takes an extreme amount of upper body strength, which is why it is a two-person endeavor.
Without your father to help you, you have to put your full weight behind each downward push.
Wrapping your fingers around the handle of the lever, you go up on your toes, and then allow your body to naturally fall downward, using your weight to crank it.
Everything moves. Turns. Creaks loudly.
You repeat the process until you’re sweating and the coolness of the air no longer kisses your skin with a chill.
Eventually the net begins to rise. Sticks and twigs and dead leaves appear. Not unusual, but there is typically movement in the water at this point. The fish don’t want to be dragged to the surface. They will flop about, the water around them churning with their wiggling bodies.
But there is nothing.
Not—no.
Not fish. Something…else.
Pausing, you step closer to the edge. Falling to your knees, you reach down into the water and push leaves and sticks out the way to get a better lock.
“Uinen’s tears!” you exclaim, jumping back.
It’s a man.
There is a man in your net.
Frantically, you reach out. Using the water’s natural buoyancy, you turn the man over. He is pale, and twisted in the twigs, hair a dark fan around him.
There are no fish. Just him.
With an urgency you didn't possess before, you go back to the lever, heaving yourself against it over and over again until your feel the wood biting into your skin. Once the net is high enough, you unclasp the lock, pushing forward, the net swinging toward you as it comes to hover over the dock.
You reengage the lock, and then the net settles, expanding outward to rest against the wood, opening wide to reveal everything inside.
The man tumbles out. Unresponsive.
Falling to your knees next to him, you push his wet hair of his face. Fingers pressing to his throat, you pray that you will find live beneath them.
There is nothing. Only silence. Not even a flutter.
As you reach up to remove twigs and leaves from his hair, there is a soft brush of breath against the inside of your wrist. Pausing, you bring your hand back, hovering your palm above his mouth.
Waiting.
Nothing.
And then—
It comes again. Soft, but there.
He is alive. This stranger is alive.
With both hands pressed to his chest, you shove down, over and over again. His body convulses, and you dart backward, turning him on his side and he purges brackish water from his lungs.
Coughing, the stranger groans, and you rub his back in an attempt to soothe him. He leans forward a bit, one hand pressed into the wet wood beneath him, cheek firmly squished against the dock.
He’s wearing nothing but plain pants and a tunic. He does not wear boots. Not even socks. From what you can tell, there is nothing that identifies him as belonging to any one person or place.
A stranger in your net.
An unexpected catch.
The stranger takes in big gulps of air, eyes still closed. His hand shakes slightly before he pushes himself onto his back. That is when his eyelids start to open, and you lean over him.
You don’t dare touch him.
“Do I behold an angel?”
You blink, stunned. “A—what?”
Eyelids fluttering, the stranger slips back into unconsciousness.
“Wake up,” you plead, grasping the sides of his face, checking for awareness. “Please.”
His breathing is even, but he’s out again.
Releasing the sides of his face, you survey the rest of him. His clothes are completely soaked, clinging to his skin. They reveal a muscled body beneath. But that isn’t all. On the stranger’s left side, there is a large dark spot in the fabric, and a small tear.
Slowly, you pull it up.
Your heart drops into your stomach.
The wound in his stomach is red and swollen. It’s bad, but might not yet be fatal. You’ve seen far worse. Helped heal worse. A wound like this will take time though.
While part of you wants to understand who this man is, it’s far from the most important thing.
“How am I to carry you?” you ask, as if he can answer.
If he were conscious, the stranger could help. But the man is out cold, and no matter how you try to rouse him, he won’t wake.
You don't want to drag him but you can't carry him.
“Oh, Uinen. Help me.”
Not that you expect an answer. You have to do this on your own.
Leaving the stranger on the dock, you rush back to the house. Grabbing a sturdy blanket, you head for the barn, bridling the horse, and attaching the contraption your father built for towing large objects.
Returning to the stranger, you do your best to push him onto the blanket. You half yank, half roll him onto the blanket before tying everything up.
“All right, Bessie. Forward now. Slowly. That’s it. Good girl.”
Bessie begins her ascent up the path. With the incline and oddly placed stones, she takes it slow, and you stay behind her, taking care to protect the stranger’s head. The process is slow, and takes up precious time, but Bessie makes it to the top.
From there, you guide her as close to the door as possible. Pushing the door wide, you return and detaching the makeshift sling. Bessie is too big to fit into the house, and this is the part where you have to drag the stranger into the house.
At least the blasted bell isn’t ringing anymore.
Your bed is too small. Choosing your father’s, you change course, dragging the stranger into your father’s bedroom.
You bring the stranger to a rest next to the bed. Taking a deep breath, you hook your arms underneath his armpits, and attempt to lift.
You fall right on your butt.
“Angel,” murmurs the stranger.
Leaning to the side, you gently cup his cheek. The stranger’s eyes are slightly open, awareness returning.
“I can’t lift you on my own,” you murmur, unsure if he’ll understand.
But he does.
The stranger nods. He’s a little out of it, but he assists in draping his arm over your shoulders, shifting his weight as you lift his upper half off the ground.
Groaning, you manage to get him partially onto the bed. Grabbing his feet next, you lift his legs, and then he’s in.
The stranger sighs, then winces, eyelids closing yet again.
His clothes will need to be removed and changed. Skin will need to be cleansed and any wounds checked over. The one in his side will likely need to be stitched closed. You’ll need blankets. A fire to keep him warm.
Already, he shivers.
Are there people looking for him? People searching? Or is he utterly alone? No family to speak of.
Lightly, your fingers brush the edge of his hairline. His hair is starting to dry. Small patches have turned auburn. It’s a lovely color.
“Whoever you are,” you murmur. “Wherever you come from. I’ll make sure you return.”
