The Captivity of Boromir by Varda

The Captivity of Boromir

by Varda

5; Killing the Beast

Airgead smiled grimly at Boromir then turned and paced slowly across the echoing feast-hall, marking out the arena where they were to fight. Boromir, tense and angry, stood watching him with the ancient Gondorian sword gripped tightly in his hand. Against all reason, and even against his own better nature Boromir ached not just to defeat this enemy but to crush him utterly and kill him.

As he walked across the hall Airgead cleared the floor of all remnants of the feast, kicking aside bones and upended winecups and discarded crusts of bread till the wide, flat paving stones were bare of everything except the rushes. Among their stalks were withered flowers which even after the long bitter winter sent out the faint sweet smell of the summer steppes of Rhun.

When Airgead was satisfied that the area of the contest was clear of all encumbrance he turned and stood with his back to the far wall. He raised his curved Easterling sword in salute and with a hint of mockery in his voice he said to Boromir;

‘Very well, Boromir son of Denethor of the House of Ecthelion, let the contest begin….’

One of the wolfhounds sprawled by the great open hearth raised his massive, shaggy head and growled, alerted by the grim tone of his master’s voice.
‘Quiet!’ said Airgead sharply, and the dog settled down again to watchful rest. The Tetrarch grinned at Boromir and explained;
‘This is an affair of honour between two men of Gondor. We don’t want beasts to interfere…’
‘A beast would have more honour than you ever had!’ snapped Boromir.

Airgead still smiled, but a muscle tightened in his jaw, and his one eye flashed like winter sunlight on a bleak northern mere.
‘Very well…’ he said to Boromir in a voice only just kept under control.
‘…let words cease and let swords speak…..’
‘It cannot be soon enough for me!’ retorted Boromir.

The torches in the heavy iron wall-sconces had long since died down and the feast-hall was lit only by the round ivory disc of the moon peeping through the smoke-hole in the middle of the roof. It cast a frosty silver light on the wine-cups scattered about the long feast table and glistened on the fine chain-mail worn by the two tall warriors.
‘Denethor lives on in this man, so alike are they both !’ thought Airgead bitterly. Then, to his surprise, Boromir attacked.

Airgead had thought his opponent would fight cautiously, conserving what little strength he had left to him by his wounds. But no such thought was in Boromir’s head; he charged at Airgead like a wild boar, his shoulders down and his sword held high with both hands. Only by speed and agility did Airgead avoid him, catching the great broadsword on his own blade with a scrape of steel and a shower of blue sparks that glowed and died in the moonlight.

Boromir was brought up short by the wall but whirled and struck out on the downstroke, slicing a long shred of silk from the hem of Airgead’s black tunic. The Tetrarch of Rhun retreated quickly, looking down at the torn scrap of material as it drifted to the floor; these blades of Gondor were still sharp, even after so many ages……
‘Running away, as usual….’ said Boromir, slightly out of breath. Airgead looked coldly at him, his face pale.
‘It is rash, my Lord Boromir, to waste all your energy on futile attacks when you can hardly stand….’

Boromir laughed.
‘You will soon learn what is futile…’
And barely pausing to draw breath he again charged at Airgead, this time swinging the great sword in a mighty arc at waist-height.

Airgead had to bring his own blade up to block the attack. The two swords clashed with jarring force; the steel shivered and seemed close to shattering. But then the curve of the Easterling blade released the force of the blow and Boromir’s sword slid down the arc and struck the paved floor, knocking a chip out of the white stone. But before Airgead could retrieve his blade, Boromir threw his weight against him, shoulder to shoulder, and letting go his own sword with one hand he grappled with Airgead for a hold of his opponent’s scimitar.

Boromir was more powerfully built than Airgead and although weakened by his wounds he used his greater weight to knock him off balance. Airgead staggered to one side, still fighting to free his sword handle from Boromir’s grip. Realising he could not wrench the weapon from Airgead, Boromir released the handle and smashed his fist into Airgead’s face, connecting with his cheekbone in a crushing blow.

All Boromir’s rage and hatred were behind that punch, and it flung the Tetrarch of Rhun headlong on the stone floor where he sprawled on his back, winded and stunned.

At once Boromir leaped on him, raising his sword for the death blow. But Airgead regained his wits quickly enough to roll away sideways as his enemy’s sword sliced downwards. It struck the ground beside his head with a sharp crack, and before Boromir could raise it for a second blow the Tetrarch scrambled hastily to his feet, his sword in his hand, ready for another attack. A trickle of blood ran from his mouth and his cheek was livid red against the pallor of his face. But his eye glittered with something close to exhilaration.
‘Well done, my lord Boromir!’ he gasped. ‘First touch to you, and first blood as well…’

Boromir took his sword in both hands again and advanced on Airgead. He was grim and silent and Airgead thought to himself;
‘I thought this would be just like killing a wounded wolf. But you are far from easy prey my lord Boromir….’

His thoughts were cut off by another attack by Boromir. This time he charged straight at Airgead with his sword outstretched as if to impale him. The Easterling chieftain had to parry it accurately or be run through. Again the blades clashed and sparks sprang into the cold air, but this time Airgead’s superior strength told and he forced Boromir’s sword down so decisively that the Gondorian slipped and almost lost his footing. Airgead felt a tremor in his opponent’s sword, a failing of his grip. The Tetrarch smiled inwardly; at last the lion of Gondor was weakening…

Encouraged, Airgead attempted a few tricks of his own; He struck out at Boromir who raised his sword to parry the blow. As the blades clashed, Airgead hooked the tip of the curved scimitar round the broadsword and wrenched it towards him.

This was a tactic the Easterlings used to advantage against the straight swords of their enemies. It often left them holding nothing but empty air. Airgead had counted on Boromir’s grip being weakened by his wounds, enabling him to disarm the man of Gondor….

However, even wounded Boromir had a grip of iron, and cunning as well; he felt the sword pulled from his fist and at once wrapped both hands round the hilt and snatched it back. The torque of the curved steel hooked round the straight blade brought an almost unbearable pressure on his wrists, but Boromir withstood it, and wrenched his sword back from his enemy. His arm was numb and his wrists ached, but he was still in possession of his blade. Airgead stepped back and shrugged; the ruse had almost worked.

For a few moments the two men faced each other, regaining their breath. Boromir kneaded his wrenched arm and Airgead eyed his chipped scimitar.
`Time to finish this, and you too, Boromir of Gondor....`he thought to himself.

While Boromir was still drawing deep, exhausted breaths, Airgead charged to the attack. He lunged at Boromir who was almost beaten by the sheer speed of the stroke. When he parried it, Airgead thrust again, at a different angle but with even greater speed. And as he rained blows on Boromir, the Tetrarch forced the man of Gondor steadily backwards till he was almost at the far wall of the feast-hall.

Feeling his back brush the cold stone, Boromir deftly changed direction, but Airgead pursued him still, slicing and hewing, giving him no time for recovery. The Tetrarch fought with all his skill, seeking every opening and exploiting every weak parry, till Boromir struggled to defend himself and his arms began to ache with the effort and his lungs to burn with gasping for breath…

Airgead, having found out the power of Boromir’s hand, did not give the Gondorian the chance to hit him again; he stayed out of range of his fists, moving too swiftly for Boromir to strike him or use his greater weight to knock him over. He forced Boromir to keep the heavy broadsword in constant play, relying on its weight to tire him out, while he wielded the lighter scimitar. Soon, he could see the moonlight gleaming on the sweat on Boromir’s face, and see his sword droop with weariness, and the man himself stagger and once or twice stumble and almost fall. Still Airgead punished him, waiting till Boromir should, out of his growing fatigue, make that one, fatal mistake….

The breath of the two men was white in the moonlight as they circled, seeking an opening. Only now one of them moved more and more slowly, and the other seemed to grow stronger and faster, as Airgead sensed victory.

And then it seemed he had it; ducking backwards away from a swipe of Airgead’s scimitar, Boromir caught his heel on the edge of a broken paving stone. He reeled backwards then fell flat on the ground. His sword shot out of his hand and slithered across the wide flagged floor, the steel ringing on the stone..

With a wild yell of triumph, Airgead leaped forward and raised his scimitar with both hands. Boromir lay on the ground beneath him, winded and disarmed, looking up at his vanquisher…..

But then Airgead hesitated; it was only for a half-second, just a heartbeat, but it was enough. Still lying on his back, Boromir reached into his belt and whipped out the long hiltless scian he had taken from the sleeping Taise and reaching up he drove the needle sharp weapon at the Tetrarch’s heart…..

For a moment Airgead looked down as if not believing what he saw. It was a moment of wavering that almost proved fatal; the scian penetrated his chain mail, bursting the rings and piercing his chest. Only then did Airgead react. He stumbled backwards and fell as if knocked down by a great wind. He dropped his scimitar and with one hand he clasped his wounded chest and with the other he sought to break his fall. At the same time, Boromir leaped to his feet, all trace of fatigue gone, and snatched up his own sword. Before Airgead could recover himself and get up, Boromir was on him, his knee pressed into the man’s chest, his broadsword raised in both hands with the tip pressed to Airgead’s throat, drawing a trickle of blood…..

‘At last!’ gasped Boromir. ‘At last I have you, traitor…..!’

Airgead said nothing, just lay panting for breath and staring up at Boromir. But the swift death he expected did not come. The broadsword held to his throat shook but did not descend.
‘What are you waiting for?’ asked Airgead hoarsely. ‘..you have won, now take your prize, Boromir, slay me!’

‘Let us take this prize ourselves, little brother!’ said Boromir, leaning over in the saddle so that only Faramir could hear him. The young prince looked uncertain, and glanced back at the mounted warriors behind them. More than anything, he feared to do anything that would earn him his father Denethor’s displeasure. But his brother Boromir, already as skilled and strong in arms as a grown man, had no such fear; he had his father’s favour, and instinctively never did anything to lose it….

‘I believe you are afraid, Faramir!’ said Boromir, raising his voice so the soldiers behind them could hear.
‘Be quiet, Boromir!’ hissed his younger brother, growing angry. ‘I am not afraid, but I don’t want to put lives at risk for one of your foolish games…’
Boromir’s smile had faded and he looked annoyed.
‘We are in charge here…’ said Faramir ‘….let us behave as princes, not children…’

Boromir looked at his brother with a strange expression on his face. Then he turned in the saddle and called the captain of the mounted warriors.
‘Athasel!’ he called. ‘Order the men to retire from the forest. Faramir and I will pursue the enemy alone and finish him off ourselves….’

The officer urged his horse up beside Boromir’s tall black charger. The burning midday sunshine fell through the green, dappled shade of the trees and glinted on his silver-inlaid helm. His face ran with sweat in the heat, and he spoke with concern in his voice;
‘My lord, the Haradrim has entered the densest part of the forest. We do not know if there are others in there as well! And we know we wounded him, but he might yet be dangerous…..’
‘Athasel….’ Said Boromir in an even voice. ‘I ordered you to pull your men back. Faramir and I can deal with this.’
Still the man hesitated, and Boromir added softly;
‘That is an order, Captain…..’

The man at last nodded curtly in obedience and wheeling his horse rode back to his men. As they turned and retreated into the trees leaving the two young princes alone, Faramir thought ruefully that he had had a premonition from the start of the raid that something like this might happen. They had been ordered to attack a party of mounted Haradrim who had risked an incursion into Ithilien. The Gondorian cavalry had carried out their orders, killing most of the Haradrim and putting the rest to flight. But some that were wounded had taken refuge in the forest.

Now, it was as if Boromir yearned for a greater test of his abilities, a more lethal contest to engage in than just frightening off a few Southrons.
‘Father will be angry…’ Faramir said.
‘Father would have done it himself…’ retorted Boromir.

They rode forward into the dense woodland alone. Soon, they were out of sight of the company of mounted men who had been sent to guard them. All about them the forest was clothed in the deep, soundless green of summer. Ferns rose to waist height, and overhead the canopy of beech and oak leaves shut out the intense blue of the sky. Everywhere there reigned a silence that was unnatural; some enemy had fled through this wood, startling the forest creatures into hiding.

Every movement of the two horsemen could be heard through the whole forest, every soft hoof-beat, every jingle of the bit. At last Boromir leaned down from the saddle and plucked a lacy fern tip from the woodland floor. He showed it to Faramir; smeared on the translucent green was a startling stripe of bright red.
‘I knew we wounded him….!’ he whispered.
‘Maybe there are more than one….’ replied Faramir, but a dull feeling was growing in his mind that Boromir, as usual, was right; this was a lone wounded enemy brought to bay.
‘If it was a stag or a boar’ said Boromir impatiently. ‘…you would not hesitate to go in and kill it. What difference is there with an enemy?’
‘He is a man, not a beast…’ replied Faramir with passion `..that is the difference....`
But Boromir was already riding forward and did not hear him.

A path of trampled fern appeared before them, and Boromir, not speaking now, gestured to Faramir to dismount. The track led down into a hollow in the forest that had been overgrown with willow and alder. Their straight, close-growing trunks blocked out any view more than a few feet ahead, and the trailing curtain of thick leaves provided a perfect hiding place. Looping their reins around the branch of a fallen tree, the two princes left their horses and went forward cautiously on foot.

Boromir drew his sword, placing his gauntlet on the steel to muffle the ringing sound of the blade. Faramir did likewise, then suddenly Boromir said to him in a low whisper;
‘You stay here….’
Faramir reacted angrily and began to argue. But Boromir put his hand on his brother’s arm to silence him.
‘I am not in jest, little brother.’ He whispered. ‘You would impede my sword arm. You are right, this is dangerous, and I alone want the danger….and the glory. Stay you here…’

And without waiting for a reply, Boromir left his brother and inched forward soundlessly through the fern, alone. Faramir, his cheeks burning with humiliation, stood with his sword in his hand, his thoughts in turmoil.

He realised that Boromir never intended to bring him into the danger he wanted for himself. But he was not going to leave his brother behind in full view of the soldiers. Faramir shook his head; he would never understand Boromir

Freed from any anxiety about his little brother, Boromir moved forward swiftly but carefully. His father’s Rangers had instructed him and Faramir in woodcraft and he was at ease in the forest. But he knew that a wounded enemy, like a wounded boar, was all the more dangerous….

He slithered down the incline of the wooded hollow. He went as silently as he could, but still there were cracklings and rustlings, and he kept his sword unencumbered by the foliage, ready to defend himself. Before him on the ground were crushed ferns and broken branches, and here and there, bright in the gloom, the startling red of blood…..

At the far side of the hollow birches replaced alder and willow. The leaf cover was lighter, and the sun fell onto the forest floor in great splashes of molten gold. Burdened with his heavy chain mail and cloak, Boromir felt perspiration running down his face. On the silver-white bark of a birch tree there was the mark of a hand printed in fresh blood. Boromir felt a thrill of excitement; the quarry was near. He took a tight grip on his sword, and moved forward.

Beside a screen of densely-growing birches he halted. He peered ahead, listening carefully. When his vision had become accustomed to the light he suddenly caught a glimpse of dazzling blue and gold between the slender white birch trunks. He started, but remained motionless, and let his eye follow the line of the material till he made out a tunic of deep, vivid blue embroidered with silver and under it the shining curve of burnished brass armour inlaid with gold. A tiny breath of wind stirred the leaf canopy above, and a long scarf of pale yellow gauze wavered then sank. The armour moved out of sight, and in its place Boromir saw a sword scabbard, the leather stamped with gold that gleamed almost to blinding in a ray of sunlight.

The bright colours in the deep green forest almost cast a spell on Boromir. He had to shake it off and holding his sword at the ready, he prowled along the barrier of birch saplings till he came to the place where the fugitive had broken through the thicket in search of a hiding place. Tense and ready, Boromir stepped through into his refuge…..

At once Boromir stopped in surprise; standing among the birches was a boy, not even as old as his brother Faramir, clad in the arms and rich apparel of a prince of the Haradrim. He wore a helm of shining brass inlaid with gold and silver, under which his long black hair, bound with golden thread, fell to his narrow shoulders. His armour, as fine as any Boromir had ever seen, was worked with gold and mother-of-pearl. His blue cloak was embroidered with the red and silver insignia of a noble of Harad and around his neck he wore a heavy torc of twisted gold.

But the inlaid sword that the boy warrior carried trailed in the leaves and the eyes that met Boromir’s were dark with fear. The Haradrim’s golden armour rose and fell rapidly as the lad panted for breath, and under his dark skin he was deathly pale. The golden armour was sheared through below his heart leaving a jagged gash from which the blood trickled down his side and leg. One hand was pressed to his ribs as he leaned back against a tree and Boromir saw from his pallor and from the great pool of blood spreading around his feet that the Southron prince was already dying…..

To Faramir it seemed as if his brother had been gone for ages, although it was probably not more than a few minutes. At last he heard a crashing and stamping through the ferns, and was astonished to see Boromir striding back through the undergrowth. He would almost have walked unheeding past Faramir if his brother had not stopped him;
‘Boromir!’ he cried. ‘What happened? Where is the enemy?’

Boromir halted, and looked at Faramir as if puzzled by the question. Then he snorted.
‘Nothing to report, really….’ he said with a shrug. ‘I just finished him off. Not much to it, he was half dead anyway…..’

Faramir knew his brother was lying. When Boromir turned to go back to where they had left their horses, Faramir put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.
‘Boromir?’ he said
‘What?’ asked his brother impatiently. Faramir gestured to the sword that Boromir was carrying. The blade was bright and clean.
‘If you finished him off, why did you not do it with your sword? Did you use his own sword? Or perhaps, you killed him with your bare hands……?’

Boromir shrugged Faramir’s hand off his shoulder roughly.
‘It is none of your affair….’ he snapped, walking quickly away….

The Tetrarch’s feast-hall was now ice-cold; the fire had died completely and the breath of the two men steamed in the moonlight as Boromir pinned Airgead to the floor and held his sword-tip to his enemy’s throat.

Now that Boromir had won the contest, now that he had only to strike one blow to rid his country of one of its greatest scourges, he was baffled that the memory of that Haradrim boy in golden armour waiting in the forest to die should suddenly return to him. What had that to do with this fight ….

Boromir took a tighter grip on the cold steel of the sword handle, and braced himself to administer the final blow…..

But still he hesitated. Airgead, his face already death-pale, snarled at him.
‘What are you waiting for, Boromir? You swore an oath that whoever wins this fight should slay the loser. Do not prove yourself faithless at the last….never has a man deserved death as much as me, nor wanted it so badly! Strike!’