The Captivity of Boromir by Varda

The Captivity of Boromir

by Varda

10; Funeral of a Prince

The wind whipped small pellets of hail against Aragorn's face as he strapped his quiver onto his back and slung his short, curved bow alongside it. Narrowing his eyes against the icy wind, he looked at the horizon, where a row of wind-blasted firs already bent under a shroud of early snow. He turned to the tall, dark-haired man beside him.

'It is time for us to be gone, Ceann, myself and my Rangers. We are needed on the Northern borders, and I fear that even two nights by the hospitable firesides of your village were two nights too much....'

The man shrugged his homespun cloak tighter round his shoulders against the biting wind and looked sombre, but nodded.
'I understand, Strider, although if it were up to me Rangers would stay here in the village at all times....'

Aragorn shook his head and said with a grim smile;
'My friend, your fires and your food are hard to leave, but we must, and far from leaving men here all the time, I fear we might not be able to return before the spring....'

Ceann looked long at Aragorn, then glancing round the muddy space in the centre of the village to make sure they were not overheard, he said in a low voice;
'Are you telling me that you are not able to protect us any more, Strider?'

Aragorn sighed, and looked down at his worn boots. At last he said sadly;
'Ceann my friend, soon I do not think we will be able to protect anyone so far North. Something new is coming out of the East. I have felt it, and the Elves, who know even more than us Rangers, have felt it too, and have sent me warning...'
'What new....things, Strider?' asked Ceann with a pale face. Aragorn sighed and looked to the distant trees, then went on in a low voice;
'They are our old foes, but multiplied a hundredfold, and with them come other things not seen before, great orcs and wild men from the North and East. They are coming, Ceann. They are coming in great numbers, and they are coming soon, driven on by their masters with a new determination. I fear we will not be able to protect these borders for much longer....'

Ceann looked stricken, but he quickly turned his gaze away. When he looked back, he was resigned.
'But Aragorn, where can we go?' he asked. 'This land is harsh, but it is our home. It gives us all we need, and our freedom as well. What would we do as ragged fugitives in Bree, selling our labour to rich Dwarves to guard their wagons of silver and ore? We would be dispersed and lost....'

Aragorn nodded. This, above all, was the greatest source of grief to him, the scattering of his people, the last folk of Arnor, the ancient Kingdom of the North. He looked around the village; the large, neatly thatched farmhouses and barns were protected by a stout palisade of wooden stakes, with a strongly built gate the only entrance. Perhaps they could indeed hold out....he looked at Ceann.

'I cannot decide for you, Ceann. You must consult your people and make your own choice. But I think it would be wise, if you decided to move, to do it before Yule. I fear the new year will bring forces that we cannot resist, even if the Rangers were in the village with you...'

An icy lash of wind threw back Ceann's hood. He blinked at Aragorn.
'So be it, Strider. I will do all I can to persuade the people to take the road south, to Bree or even beyond. May we see you there...'
Aragorn got to his feet and embraced Ceann, for a moment the two men, both tall, grey-eyed and dark-haired, seemed to be of the same race and even of the same family. Then Aragorn said;
'Farewell, Ceann. Let us meet again in the spring!'

When spring came the village was nothing but a burnt circle in the snow, and Ceann, remade by Sauron as the creature Iarnlaw, stood in the feast hall of the Tetrarch of Rhun, staring at the man who had spoken in the very tongue and intonation of Strider.

For a moment the submerged character of Ceann struggled into the light, and Iarnlaw receded. Ceann had been called forth by hearing the language of Westron. Then, in a flash, the memory was gone, and Iarnlaw the servant of Sauron returned, to deal with an upstart who opposed his master. He looked down at the arrow aimed at his heart, and realised that guile not force was needed here.....

'So....' he said to Boromir. 'Your master Airgead trained you well, and I am glad. Such servants Lord Sauron will be needful of, when the time comes to crush Gondor!'

There was an icy silence. Saothar slowly got to his feet. He gestured to Boromir, who lowered his bow. Iarnlaw nodded and said with a grim laugh.

'Good! Good! You see reason, Saothar son of Airgead. It is folly for those who are all on the same side to fight with each other. This....' and he indicated Airgead's body. '..will not come between us. You are right, you must take the throne of the Tetrarch, and lead your people to war in his place. I bow to the new lord of Rhun...'

And to the amazement of Boromir and Taise, the tall, black-cloaked figure in the silver mask bowed low to Saothar, seeming to forget the beating he had just given him. Before he straightened up Boromir glanced at Taise and mouthed the word;
'A trap?' Frowning, she nodded.
'Yes!'

When the silver mask was again turned towards them, Iarnlaw said in a voice full of reassurance and understanding;
'Of course you must bury your dead chieftain with all the ceremony that is the custom in Rhun. Sauron is not such a cruel lord that he would demand his loyal subjects to go to war without doing homage to their fallen leader. I will attend you after the rites have been performed. It is the tradition of Rhun, is it not, to hold a great feast after the funeral of a Tetrarch, at which the new monarch is proclaimed? Excellent! I will attend and add my voice to those proclaiming your accession. Till then, my service to you, Lord of Rhun....'

And to the amazement of Boromir and Taise, Iarnlaw again bowed low to Saothar and turning he swept out of the hall with his wolf-faced Uruks at his heels, and was ushered away to the guest compartments.

Boromir stared at the other two.
'What happened there? he asked '..I thought we were dead....'
'We should have been!' snapped Taise. 'You spoke the language of Gondor, Boromir! You practically told him your name and titles! He must know who you are now....'
'I had no choice....' protested Boromir, but Saothar raised his hand to silence them.

'It doesn't matter!' he said. 'Something struck Iarnlaw at that moment, some flaw in Sauron's conditioning. I was watching him closely, and I do not think he realised what Boromir was saying....'
Taise snorted.
'My lord, it is dangerous to assume anything of the kind!'

Saothar turned to them. The bruise on his face was dark purple against his pale skin. He gave them a grim smile.
'Don't you see, Taise, it does not matter? His plan is laid. I saw it in his eyes, which no mask can hide. He knows he cannot lead the Easterling army to Mordor before the funeral of the Tetrarch. The people would deem it an insult to the dead, sure to bring bad luck. They would never obey. So Iarnlaw will allow us to celebrate the funeral rites of Airgead....;

Saothar walked up to the empty throne. He said in a quiet voice;
'It is the custom of Rhun for a great feast to be held the night after the funeral of the dead Tetrarch. At that feast the successor is proclaimed. That feast will be this evening....'

Boromir and Taise were looking intently at Saothar. He turned to them with a smile.
'That feast will be your opportunity to escape, Boromir of Gondor. In the confusion you can get away. I will provide you with horses, and a guide, as my father promised you. You can reach Gondor long before the army of Sauron, and aid your city's defence....'
He turned to Taise.
'...you can go with him, Taise...'

Taise went pale. She stammered;
'But..my lord, I am champion of the Tetrarch of Rhun...your champion. They will kill me in Gondor, I am their enemy.'
Saothar shook his head.
'After tonight, I will not need a champion...'
'Why?' demanded Boromir.

Saothar went up the few steps and sat down on the throne.

'Because I will be dead' he said in a flat voice.

Boromir and Taise went to protest at the same time, But Saothar quietened them with a raised hand. He went on;
'I tell you now, tonight, at the feast for the new Tetrarch, Iarnlaw intends to kill me and declare himself Tetrarch....'

'I will not let him!' said Taise angrily.
'You can't stop him on your own' said Saothar calmly.
'She won't be on her own....' said Boromir with a grim smile. '..I will be there. Remember, Saothar, I promised your father I would bring you back to Gondor....'

Saothar sighed, and looked down at the bloodstained floor. After a moment he said;
'Look, both of you. Tonight, there will be chaos. If anyone can protect me, it is my Red Guard. What more can two people do than a hundred? Remember, Boromir, this is what my father said would happen....'
'Your father told you to come with me to Gondor...' retorted Boromir '..to your real home..'

Saothar looked at the two for some time. At last he said;
'Very well, this is what will happen. When I am declared Tetrarch Iarnlaw will make his move. We will see what befalls then. If I can become Tetrarch and rule my people, I will. If Sauron makes that impossible, or if I fall, promise me you two will escape. Then, at least someone will get out of this....will you agree?'

Boromir looked unhappy. It would all depend on what Iarnlaw did at the feast. Boromir suspected it would end in slaughter. He could only hope to get Saothar and Taise out alive in the confusion.
'Very well, I agree.' said Boromir. 'But on one condition...'
Saothar raised an eyebrow. Taise looked up at Boromir with curiosity.
'That if you cannot take the throne, you will come with me to Gondor. Without power, remember, Saothar, you cannot do your people any good....'

Saothar thought for a moment. He looked round the hall as if for the last time. He nodded reluctantly.
'Very well, Boromir of Gondor. If I cannot rule my people, I will go with you to Minas Tirith....'he glanced at the unhappy face of Taise beside Boromir and added; '..on condition you take my champion with you and grant her amnesty in the lands of Gondor....'

Boromir broke into a wide grin and looked at Taise.
'That is a condition I will agree to with all my heart....'

News of the death of the Tetrarch spread through the settlement on the desolate shores of Lake Rhun like fire through bracken. All kinds of rumours circulated about who had slain Airgead. Some said it was Iarnlaw, but those of the guards who had let Sauron's Lords of Death into the Tetrarch's compound denied he had the chance to kill Airgead.

Others said it was the mystery captive from Gondor, who had conveniently disappeared after the killing. Others, more shrewd, wondered had Saothar killed his own father. These, however, held their peace, for Saothar was to be the new Tetrarch, and such words would soon be treason.....

The camp had now become restive. The Easterling warriors, a great host which had been preparing to march to Mordor and thence on to Gondor, were in turmoil. They thought no more of going to war, but of what had happened, and who would lead them now. Saothar was much loved by the people of Rhun, but he was young, and untried in war. Could the army trust him to lead them well?

As the talk continued, preparations for the Tetrarch's funeral were made.

It was the custom for the dead leaders of Rhun to be burned on a pyre set on one of the large flat barges that the Easterlings used to travel the length and breadth of the lake during the summer months. These massive black-hulled craft were called longanna. One especially wide and deep had been selected and all Airgead's personal belongings had been laid in it, his richly embroidered, fur-lined black Tetrarch's robe, his fine shirt of mail, his silver-worked saddle and bridle, his weapons and his whip, all placed on top of a great pile of firewood and bracken, which were then liberally soaked with oil.

At the last, Airgead himself was dressed in a red cloak and placed on the barge. His cold hands were wrapped round the hilts of his great broadsword and his face, pale now and fair as a lord of Gondor, was bare to the sky. All traces of the fight which had cost him his life had been removed. In a silver-studded scabbard at his side was the broken sword that Denethor had thrown in his face that fateful day long ago when he had been exiled from Minas Tirith. Lying clad in his black and silver tunic, Airgead seemed to be at peace. As the sun set over the Western end of Lake Rhun, his Red Guard took up long poles and pushed the great heavy black barge out onto the deep water of the lake.

The entire population of the settlement had gathered on the shore to watch, and a long thin keening rose from the women. The Red Guard were drawn up in ranks, their faces stony under their brazen helmets. A great fire had been lit on a promontory overlooking the little inlet where the barge was pushed out onto deep water. In front of the Red Guard stood the solitary figure of Saothar, wrapped in his own black cloak of leader. Behind, hidden in the ranks and fervently hoping to escape notice, stood Boromir and Taise.

When the barge was some distance from shore, one of the Red Guard stepped forward and handed Saothar a bow, then he placed the tarred tip of an arrow in the fire and when it had caught alight he handed the arrow to Saothar, to fire the shot which would light his father's funeral pyre.

Saothar took the bow and then the arrow. He nocked the arrow to the bowstring, and took aim.

It seemed that he stood thus, aiming, for an age. The crowd began to murmur. Then Saothar lowered the bow and looked out again at the barge, which had been caught by the current in the lake and was slowly turning in a wide arc, drifting further and further out from land. Soon, it would be out of range. The Red Guard looked uneasily at each other. The shamans, clad in long wolf-fur robes, held their rattles and drums silent, and narrowed their eyes as they watched Saothar. It was a bad omen if the pyre could not be lit at the first shot.....

Again Saothar raised his bow, and again took aim. Only those standing very close to him could see the flames of the bonfire reflected in tears on his cheeks. Seconds passed. A great hush of fear and expectancy had fallen on the people. At last, to the astonishment of all, Saothar turned and beckoned to one of his Red Guard.

A tall, grey-eyed man stepped hesitantly forward. Saothar handed him the bow and the arrow, its fire beginning to dim.
'Boromir....' he said in a voice too low to be heard by anyone else. '...I cannot hit the barge. You must do it.....'

Boromir looked into the young man's eyes and saw they were full of tears and his face was death-white. Without hesitating, he took the bow and nocked the arrow to the string. Saothar stepped aside with his head bowed and Boromir raised the bow to shoot....

The arrow tip was beginning to smoulder. The smoke made Boromir's eyes smart. He looked out across the waters of the lake, shining bright in the last light of a winter evening, and he aimed as he had been taught by his father's weapons masters long ago in Minas Tirith, as a boy with his brother Faramir struggling to draw a man's bow beside him.

The copper arrowhead lined up with the linen string and the dark shape of the boat. Even at this distance Boromir could see the pale oval of Airgead's face.
'Farewell, Mardil!' he said to himself. 'Speed well to the halls of your ancestors, the halls of Numenor...'

And he let go the arrow.

The burning tip described a line of white smoke against the pale blue of the evening sky. The sun, a great misty orb of creamy yellow, was almost touching the calm waters of the lake, but the arrow was a tiny spark of red fire against the calm sky. Slowly, slowly it rose and as slowly fell, sinking through the frosty evening air to the by now tiny shape of the black barge out on the lake. With a slight rustling noise it struck into the brushwood that crammed the boat, and a great shout of relief went up from the crowd. Then, as if at a hidden signal, all the Red Guard stepped forward and touched their tarred arrows to the fire, and raised their bows and also shot their flaming arrows at the barge. Within a minute the oil-soaked kindling had caught fire, and the boat, turning slowly on the still water, was a mass of flames.

The crowd stood and watched, utterly silent. The flames leaped up high, reflecting in the lake, and a cloud of greasy yellow-black smoke rolled away across the surface of the water, hiding the setting sun. For almost ten minutes the barge blazed fiercely, then with a crack the beams of the hull warped in the heat of the fire and the water rushed in and within a few seconds the barge had sunk straight down, leaving nothing on the surface but a circle of ash and fragments of blackened wood.

Into the silence that followed came the chants of the shamans, raising their rattles and batting their round skin drums. The keening rose again, and the Red Guard gazed dumbly out at the empty lake, no doubt wondering about their future now their lord was gone.

Boromir quietly stepped up to Saothar.
'Let's get away from here.....' he whispered.

Saothar had been standing as if turned to stone, but at Boromir's words he made a great effort and began to stumble towards the Tetrach's enclosure. The Red Guard parted silently to let him through, and Taise discreetly trailed after them. Then everyone turned again to look silently out across the smoked-shrouded lake....