The Captivity of Boromir by Varda

The Captivity of Boromir

by Varda

15; The Homecoming of Boromir

Who goes there?’ shouted the sentry, shaken from his half-doze by the sound of footsteps coming towards him out of the darkness.

He gripped his sword with sweating hands; all around stretched the blackness of the Pelennor, peopled with the unnumbered dead of yesterday’s battle. Who could be venturing across such a dreadful place at this hour, when anyone who had survived the battle had withdrawn into the safety of Minas Tirith? The soldier started at the sound of a voice, calm and strangely familiar;

‘We are friends of Gondor, sentry. Will you let us pass?’

The black and silver-clad guard was tired from the long day yet still had to stand guard over the battlefield, with its quiet dead and abandoned, flapping banners of Mordor. Now and then there came the squeaking and scurrying of animals preying on the carrion but otherwise there was an utter silence over the dark plain. The soldier was young, not more than a boy, pressed into service as older more experienced warriors had perished in such numbers in the fighting. Should he call his captain? He did not want to ask for help unless he needed it. He shouted back;
‘Approach, friends, and speak the password….’

There was a few seconds silence then the voice, slightly unsure now, replied in the accent of Gondor;
‘I am a friend, soldier, but I do not know the password. If you allow me to come forward, I think it will not be required...’

The guard hesitated. His sword felt small and insufficient against his fear of the unknown. He glanced back at the city, lit still by the fires of the battle. He could call for help but he had no wish to seem unable to make a decision. He swallowed and said in as strong a voice as he could muster;
‘Very well, come forward and let me see you. But move slowly and do not reach for any weapon!’

He strained his eyes to discern anything in the dark, and gradually the outline of a figure walking slowly emerged into the narrow slat of yellow light from his lantern.

At first all the sentry could see was a tall man in a dark cloak, with two smaller, similarly muffled figures behind him. Then the light glinted on long, unkempt tawny hair, and on a silver circlet in the shape of a dragon around the man’s neck. The sword fell from the guard’s hand, and his face went deathly white.

‘Boromir!’ he gasped.

The Last Council of the Captains of the West was nearing its end. With stern faces, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and Eomer, newly acclaimed king of Rohan, and the remnants of the Fellowship, Gandalf, Legolas and Gimli, had heard the plan for the attack on Mordor explained by Aragorn. Now King-elect of Gondor, Elessar, the man who only a few months before had been a ragged Ranger named Strider, defended with spirit his seemingly hopeless plan for an attack on the Black Gates. Even in the aftermath of such a desperate battle as had just been won on the Pelennor, however, few there were willing to throw their lives away in such a desperate venture.

‘We are not doing this for our own sakes!’ pleaded Aragorn at last. ‘It is for the Ringbearer, who is our only true hope. All our arms and stratagems will avail nought if he fails in his quest. If we attack the Black Gates, we will help him to achieve his task!’

The council table fell silent. Gradually the realisation dawned on everyone that there was little alternative to this plan, however doomed it appeared. The Battle of the Pelennor had been won but it was just a respite before an even mightier onslaught from the East. It seemed they must die now or die later, but die they must. As midnight gave way to the first grey of dawn, reluctantly and with grave faces, the delegates gave their assent. Aragorn had won the debate.

The matter of the Stewardship of Gondor had been discussed earlier, and that honour had been granted to Prince Imrahil temporarily, until such time as Faramir, even now seriously ill from his wounds, should recover and reclaim his birthright, at least for that short time before the King should take his throne. If such a happy event could ever be hoped to come to pass.

Now, Gandalf rose from his seat at the council table and gingerly straightened his back, stiff and sore from a long night sitting in council and an even longer day’s fighting. He thought that all present would benefit more from sleep than from further debate, and he was about to propose an end to the meeting when a furious hammering sounded on the great oaken door of the Steward’s Hall of Minas Tirith.

Everyone at once looked up in alarm; what dire news could cause such a violent disruption of their high conclave? Gandalf, at once forgetting his aches and pains, strode swiftly down the hall, muttering impatiently to himself; some darn fool nonsense, he would be bound….but before he could reach the door, it sprang open, the two heavy oaken panels flying back and hitting the stone walls with a loud crash. In the doorway, silhouetted against a single torch burning low in the archway beyond, stood Boromir of Gondor.

Gandalf’s swift pace slowed. The hand gripping his wizard’s staff tightened till the knuckles were white.
‘You came back!’ he breathed.
There was the scrape and clatter of chairs pushed back and knocked over as the members of the Council jumped to their feet. Eomer swore and put a hand to his sword hilt.
‘What sorcery is this?’ he cried. ‘Boromir of Gondor is dead! We left him to the wrath of the Easterlings on the White Bridge. No man could have survived such odds....’

Eomer’s voice trailed off. The figure in the doorway looked at each of the delegates of the Council in turn, holding their gaze with his deep-set grey eyes. When he had finished he stepped forward into the light of the torches set in the wall sconces and by their flickering glare all present saw clearly that it was indeed Boromir of Gondor.

Gandalf stood still as Boromir walked towards him down the long echoing chamber under the stony stare of the row of statues of former Stewards lining the hall. When he at last stopped in front of the wizard, Gandalf said quietly to him;
‘So, you did not find death after all, Boromir. You have returned....’

Boromir nodded, then at last he spoke;
‘It was death that eluded me, Mithrandir, when I longed to have it more than anything else in the world. I have indeed come back. Perhaps it was wrong of me, but I could not think of anything else to do...’

Gandalf laid a hand on Boromir’s shoulder.
‘Wrong? Nay, never that!’ he said. ‘This is the only place truly fitting for Boromir of Gondor...’

At these words Boromir’s face, which was grim with a furrowed brow, looked easier and he attempted a smile. Then he looked at the stern faces of the Council and he said under his breath;
‘Will all men think as you do, though, Mithrandir?’

Just then Aragorn, shaking off his surprise, left the table and hastened down the hall. Gandalf stood aside and when Aragorn came up to Boromir he stopped and gazed intently at his face.

There could be no mistake; this was indeed Boromir, back from the dead. He was thinner and more gaunt then when Aragorn had seen him last, on the White Bridge. His face was grey and his cheeks hollow, as if he had suffered a long illness. There was silver in his tawny mane of hair, and a long healed scar over one eye. His clothes were almost unrecognisable as the garments of a nobleman of Gondor, so thick were they with mud and dust and dried blood, and they hung loosely on Boromir’s wasted frame. But Aragorn could see it was indeed the red velvet surcoat and fine mail hauberk that Boromir had worn so long ago when he came to Rivendell.

Then Aragorn looked into Boromir’s eyes and he could have no doubt that this was indeed his former comrade of the Fellowship. Boromir had that same look as of old; proud, shrewd and fearless, quick to laughter and kindness but formidable if challenged. Now, however, it was all cast over with a look of uncertainty and something like shame. Lowering his eyes from Aragorn’s gaze, Boromir went down on one knee and with slow movements as of someone very tired or weak from illness, he drew a long, black-bladed sword of foreign design from its scabbard and held out the hilts to Aragorn.

‘Aragorn...’ he said. ‘...here I pledge my loyalty to you as heir to the throne of Gondor, as I should have done willingly long ago. I beg that it is not too late for me to be accepted as your loyal servant, and given some duty, whatever you decide to honour me with, as a sign of your trust and pardon....’

There was an astonished silence in the hall following these words. Aragorn gazed at the kneeling man with surprise mingled with compassion. Gandalf looked from one to the other but said nothing.

At last Aragorn seemed to wake from a trance and cried;
‘Nay, brother! You have no need to ask my pardon. If there is any place in Middle Earth that you have a right and a duty to be, it is here, in Minas Tirith, the city you have lived to defend. My trust you have never lost, not even in the darkest hour. Accept our welcome, Boromir of Gondor. All the city will rejoice that you have returned!’

Boromir wondered to himself if that would really be so; many had suffered under the reign of terror unleased by Denethor in his last days, and some had blamed Boromir, who had aided his father. Then Aragorn leaned forward and touched the hilts of the sword Boromir was holding out.
‘I accept your sword, and your fealty. Now rise, and be at ease. This is your city, and your home...’

Boromir got to his feet again, and tears glittered in his eyes. He could think of nothing to say, but Aragorn put all conversation beyond use by impulsively embracing him.

When they stepped back, Aragorn said;
‘We have almost concluded our meeting, Boromir. Will you join our council and hear the result of our deliberations?’

Boromir looked uncertainly at the other members of the Council who had stood watching their reunion. Legolas’s face was pale; Boromir remembered their fight almost to the death in the Hallows. But after a few moments hesitation the Elf inclined his head to Boromir in obedience to Aragorn’s will.

But beside Legolas Gimli’s face was dark with fury.
‘This cannot be!’ he growled. ‘Boromir was banished! On pain of death, never to return!’ he looked up at Legolas. ‘It was he who wounded you and almost slew you! I would have killed him for it, but he promised to go and never come back. What perfidy is this now, that he breaks his oath and returns?'
Legolas bent his head and placed a restraining hand on the Dwarf’s shoulder.
‘Peace, my friend...’ he said quietly. ‘Let us not speak of it here. We will require explanations later....’

But the other members of the council had heard Gimli, and among them there were a few nods of agreement. Seeing the entreaty on the Elf’s face, however, Gimli folded his arms, muttered into his beard and sat down abruptly with a rattle and thump of his armour.

Eomer gazed curiously at Boromir; unlike Gimli, he had no grievance against the Steward’s son, even if he had broken his betrothal to his sister, Eowyn, who now lay badly wounded in the Citadel. As a soldier, however, Eomer was secretly curious to know how Boromir had survived and made the perilous journey back to Gondor.

A little apart from the others, Prince Imrahil stared at Boromir as if he was a ghost. Long had they been cousins and allies, and to the lord of Dol Amroth this was a return beyond all his wildest hopes. But perhaps because of Gimli’s outburst, Imrahil felt there was something tainted in the joy he felt. Then just as he went to approach Boromir, his eye fell on the figure at his side.

Imrahil stopped and looked more closely.

He saw a slender young man, little more than a boy, wearing the livery of an Easterling, an emblazoned armour that the Prince knew was worn only by the select bodyguard of the Tetrarch of Rhun. But the boy was not an Easterling, despite his clothing. He had the pale, comely face and grey eyes of the Numenoreans, and a head of long, fair, almost white hair. He was not short and bow-legged like the cavalrymen of Rhun, but tall and straight, for all that he was very young. And he looked strangely familiar.

Just then, Gandalf turned to Taise and Saothar, standing silent behind
Boromir. The wizard noticed that one was a woman warrior clad in Easterling armour, and Saothar’s livery bore the silver dragon, the emblem of the Tetrarch of Rhun.
‘Who are these?’ he asked.

Boromir looked round at his companions then back at Gandalf.
‘They are my friends’ he answered simply. ‘I know what enemy livery they wear, but when their story is told, it will be seen that they have a place here too. ‘
Gandalf inclined his head.
‘As you wish’ he said. ‘But it might be best, in view of their garb, that they wait outside while we conclude our high council.’

Boromir hesitated. At last he said;
‘They are my guards, Gandalf, and my friends. Without their aid, I would not be alive. But if the council prefers, and they will consent, they can wait outside.’

There was some murmuring amongst the council at the idea of two Easterlings objecting to being removed from the council chamber of Minas Tirith. But Gandalf said with a twinkle in his eye;
‘I see your talent for trouble follows you still, Boromir. But just for now, as our councils are secret even from our own people, I would ask you to have them wait outside.’

Taise and Saothar, both familiar with the language of Gondor, gave Boromir quick nods of assent and walked to the door. Taise was glad to escape from the oppressive dark of the great high hall and the unfriendly stares of these chieftains and warriors. But Saothar went slowly and reluctantly. Just before he passed the great wooden doors, he stopped and glanced back. He saw Prince Imrahil was still staring at him. Then he went out.

Boromir turned to the council table then. He looked round it several times, then turned to Aragorn.
‘Where is Faramir? Where is my brother?’

Once outside the Hall of the Stewards, Taise hurried away from the curious and hostile stares of the Citadel Guards who stood at the doors, plunging into a warren of passageways till she came to an empty courtyard. Saothar ran after her.
‘Taise!’ he called in a low voice. ‘Where are you going?’

‘They look at us with hate!’ she said. ‘I just want to be out of their presence!’

Saothar looked around at the great high stone walls. This was a very different place to the steppes around the lake of Rhun, which was all they had ever known. But Saothar felt strangely at home here. The place stirred memories buried deep in his past. Taise raised a worried face to him.
‘Maybe I made a mistake in coming here!’ she said.

After Boromir had made himself known to the sentry, they had been escorted into the city through the wreckage of the great gates of Minas Tirith. Teams of carpenters and masons were working through the night to repair them in case of further attacks.

Taise had looked up at the inlaid panels of the gates which, although burned and splintered, still bore images which could be deciphered as scenes from the history of Gondor. And there, on one large border, was depicted the defeat of the Wainriders by the Kings of Gondor. The Wainriders, thought Taise; Easterlings like myself.

Once they were inside the city also, despite the frantic bustle of men repairing the defences and shoring up damaged houses and putting out the remaining fires, there were plenty of glances of hatred cast at Taise and Saothar as they made their way through the crowded, smoke-filled city. Even after midnight there was chaotic activity, as breaches in the walls were hastily repaired and men and supplies moved about the streets. Townspeople were out too, looking for food and water, or searching for lost loved ones. One woman, her clothes torn and singed, ran at Taise shrieking, her hands stretched out to claw her face in anger and revenge, only to be caught and pushed back at the last moment by the guards escorting them and Boromir. Others of the town contented themselves with shooting Taise and Saothar looks of hatred. Their long lost prince they regarded with surprise and not always with joy; this, thought Taise, was a people who had suffered too much for too long.

The city itself almost overpowered her. She had never been in a town with stone walls and houses before; the straggling settlement of tents on the Lake of Rhun was the closest to a city Taise had ever known. She stared in simple awe at the soaring walls of Minas Tirith, still white even though besmirched with fire and war. She counted the city’s seven levels in amazement as they ascended through them. And long she gazed at the towering spire of pearl and silver that rose above the Citadel, its shining surface reflecting the red glare of the fires. She knew from her people’s own lore that this was the Tower of Ecthelion, one of the Stewards of Gondor who had waged constant and bitter warfare on her own people.

‘And here I am...’ she thought. ‘..walking the streets of my enemies’ city. What am I doing here?’

She cast a glance at Boromir, as if to reassure herself of the reason she had come. But he seemed to have forgotten she was there, and walked quickly ahead of them, gazing intently about him at the damage done to his city. Taise’s hope to be Boromir’s bodyguard, and fight against her own people in his and Gondor’s service seemed increasingly like an insane and impossible dream. A sense of desolation settled on Taise, and an aching desire for her home in Rhun.

Taise started; Saothar had taken her hand.
‘Do not lose hope, sister.’ He said. ‘This is a bitter time for the city; they have suffered much and lost many of their people. Soon Minas Tirith and her people will show you a different face.’

Taise smiled uncertainly. She was glad of Saothar’s comfort, and at this time he was the closest thing to a family that she had. But she knew he felt at home here and she, a daughter of the Steppes, could never endure being hemmed in by stone walls.

But just as Saothar was about to speak to Taise again, they heard footsteps behind them. They turned and saw Boromir hurrying across the courtyard. Gandalf was walking beside him, his long strides matching those of Boromir. Their faces were grave and they were talking in low tones.
‘....and is Faramir badly hurt?’ Boromir was asking. Gandalf’s face was grave.
‘He was brought back from the field barely alive, by Prince Imrahil. He lies even now in the Houses of Healing...’
‘Lead me to him’ said Boromir. He caught sight of Taise and Saothar and called sharply to them;
‘Follow me!’

Running to keep up with the Wizard and Boromir, Taise and Saothar traced a winding path along a covered way that circled the top level of the city of Minas Tirith. On one side a sheer wall fell to the next level and across to the West there rose the Hallows, the city of the Dead. But they did not go across the causeway to the city of tombs, but turned up into the heart of the Citadel, and at last reached the Houses of Healing.

Gandalf opened the great outer door and they filed into a long, high corridor open on one side to a sunken garden that even in the cool of night gave up a scent of herbs. Taise gazed about her in wonder, then saw a tall elderly woman clad in long blue robes hurrying towards them.

When the sister of healing saw Boromir, her mouth fell open and she stopped dead, staring. Gandalf took her arm gently and said in a low voice;
‘Ioreth, your prince Boromir has, beyond all hope, returned to Minas Tirith. He wishes to see his brother Faramir...’
Gandalf spoke the last few words loudly and authoritatively, and after a few moments the woman broke off staring in amazement at Boromir to look at the wizard.
‘Prince Faramir?....Prince Faramir....oh, yes! Surely....he is in the East Tower....he is sorely wounded...but I will bring you to him at once...’

Boromir was standing with ill-concealed impatience. When the sister turned to lead the way, he followed almost treading on her heels. Taise trailed after them, lingering to look about her in awe. She felt more at ease in this place; high arches led out into long, fragrant gardens and walkways planted with cypresses and laurel. The stars twinkled above in the square of blue black sky visible above the open courtyards.

Suddenly she realised she had been left behind. In front of her stretched two long galleries, and she could hear the dying echoes of footsteps, but she could not see which way the others had gone. She gave a sigh of relief; she was almost happy to be left on her own for a while. Constantly to be the object of suspicion and hatred, constantly to be told to go there or come here and treated like unwanted baggage, none of this was what she had foreseen when she helped Boromir to escape from Rhun. For now, Taise was content to slip away and be on her own.

She walked down into the sunken garden, breathing in the scent of the evergreen trees and the herbs planted in neat squares between them. Starlight lit the patch of coloured stones in the centre of the garden, and she saw a seat there. Feeling suddenly tired beyond measure, she walked over and sat on it.

She looked up at the square of sky. The same stars wheeled overhead that shone down on her homeland in the North. Their light glinted on a tear as it ran down Taise’s cheek.

Among her people, hardiness of mind and body was highly valued. Any signs of weakness, such as weeping, was frowned on in men or women. But here, hidden among these healing plants, Taise felt it was safe to cry.

She thought back over the past few days, and their journey from the North. As soon as they had passed the borders of Gondor, Taise noticed a change in Boromir. The intense strain in his face and voice, which he had in Rhun, seemed to dissipate. The familiar landscape and the waters of his beloved Anduin seemed to reawaken something long dead in Boromir. He no longer wore an air of a man for whom nothing mattered any more. Returned to his homeland, Boromir once more felt hope stir in his heart. Perhaps his people would accept him, and give him a chance to redeem his misdeeds. From trying to give Boromir the will to live, Taise found herself almost forgotten as he looked forward with excitement to reaching Minas Tirith.

Taise reached out and plucked the head from a lavender stalk and crushed it in her sword-hardened hand. The sweet, pungent smell filled the damp night air and she rubbed the tear away from her cheek. Really, it was something more to laugh at than cry; the man she had saved needed her no more....

Suddenly Taise’s keen senses detected a tiny movement behind one of the boxed laurels.

At once she leaped to her feet, and drew her sword.
‘Who is there?’ She cried. ‘Show yourself, or I will run you through where you are hiding!’

There was a rustle of leaves and a tiny figure stepped out from behind the laurel.

Taise stared for a moment, then relaxed and calmly sheathing her sword she said with a wry smile;
‘Are the people of Gondor so hard put for soldiers that they are making their children fight?’

Pippin stood erect and trembled with indignation.
‘I am no child!’ he retorted. ‘I am a hobbit, and a guard of the Citadel!’
And with that he indicated his livery of a silver tree embroidered on a black velvet surcoat. Under that, he wore a fine hauberk of silver mail. But his bare, woolly feet and his bright, cheerful face with its tangle of tawny curls belied any warlike impression the armour might give. Taise put her head on one side and asked;
‘A hobbit? What is a hobbit?’

Pippin stared at her in exasperation; had not all the city heard of the Periannath by now, after he had been made a Guard of the Citadel and an attendant on the Steward? Even if the Steward did lie mortally wounded....
Pippin spoke in measured, patient tones;
‘A hobbit is a Perrian a native of the Shire, which lies far to the Northwest, beyond Mirkwood, beyond the mountains, beyond even Rivendell and its river...’

Pippin stopped, put off his recital by the look of utter astonishment on the woman’s face. His gaze fell to her livery, and he was startled to see she wore the serpent of the Easterlings, and their gilded lamellar armour. He saw the ornate hilts of her long sword of black steel. Pippin did not feel afraid; but a sense of unease crept over him.
‘I could ask who you are..’ he said warily. ‘...wandering the corridors of the citadel at night, wearing the armour of those who are.... not exactly our allies’ he said, attempting to be tactful despite his misgivings.

Taise stared down at the little figure, then at her own armour. She sighed.
‘You have a right to ask, little one. I see from your speech you are not a child, but of some race I have never seen or heard of. You must forgive me; there is much I am ignorant of. This city, and all it contains, and all the strange foreign peoples who walk its streets, are things I know nothing of, coming from a remote land far to the North. I have seen little of Middle Earth...’

And thinking suddenly of her home in Rhun, and wondering if she had done the right thing in coming, Taise sat down again on the stone bench with a sigh, looking about the little garden despondently.

Pippin gazed at the Easterling woman for some time. He knew all too well what it was like to miss his homeland, and know how far he was from his family and friends. Quietly he walked over and sat down beside Taise.

‘I saw you weeping’ he said to her. She looked at him sharply, but Pippin shook his head.
‘Don’t worry! I don’t blame you. It is hard, to be so far from home and in such a great city, surrounded by such great lords and warriors...’
Taise was staring at Pippin now.
‘I am ashamed, hobbit.’ She said. ‘If one so small who is far from his own land can be so brave in a strange place, surely a warrior of Rhun can as well. What is your name?’

Pipp got to his feet, drew himself up to his full, short height, bowed and said;
‘Peregrine Took, of the Shire, at your service and that of your family!’

Taise laughed, then slid off the bench and bowed in her turn.
‘I am Taise Nisiiur, of Rhun, at your service and that of your family!’

At the mention of Rhun, Pippin’s eyes widened, but he did not say anything. He seated himself again then, glancing around, he asked in a conspiratorial whisper;
‘Can you tell me how you came to be here, Taise? I mean....the Easterlings are enemies of Gondor, are they not.....but if you would rather not tell me....’
Pippin had seen Taise’s face grow stern. But she shook her head.
‘No, little one, do not repent of the question. It is just that the answer would take such a very long time!’

Pippin nodded sagely. Then he said;
‘It is harder to be on your own in a great city, with no friend at your side....’
Thinking of Boromir, Taise nodded, her face sad. Then Pippin said, glancing towards the Houses of Healing.
‘There is another of my folk here, a cousin of mine, Meriadoc Brandybuck. But he was gravely wounded in the battle today. Even the healers of this place, with all their skill, despair of saving him....’

Pippin broke off, and now it was he who had tears in his eyes. Taise watched with sympathy as he brushed them away with his sleeve. He looked up at her and attempted a smile.
‘I am going back to sit by his bedside, in case he should awaken. Will you come with me?’

The request surprised, Taise, but after a moment’s hesitation, she nodded and let the hobbit take her hand and lead her up the steps out of the herb garden and into the Houses of Healing.