Into Darkness

by Avondster


Part 2

The four companions returned to the glade where the Orcs had overtaken Merry and Pippin, and searched the ground. The trail of the Orcs was easy to find, and Boromir saw the pain in Legolas’s eyes as he looked upon the trampled flowers and bushes, the trees that had been hacked at. He looked down on the ground and became aware of a faint glimmering beneath the pile of black bodies and weapons.
He kicked the large body of an Orc aside and discovered a small sword, leaf-bladed, damasked in gold and red. It was stained to the handle with black blood, and scattered around it lay many severed hands and claws. He picked up the little weapon carefully and traced the fine writings on the blade with his finger. “This was Merry’s,” he whispered. He looked around between the bodies and soon found the knife’s brother, which was a little smaller and broader. This also was stained, but otherwise unharmed. Aragorn came back from the other side of the glade, carrying two small scabbards that were made in the same fashion, and handed them to Boromir.
“What do you think of these tokens?” asked Boromir. “These weapons were borne by the Hobbits, of that I am sure.”
Aragorn nodded. “Doubtless the Orcs despoiled them, but feared to keep the knives, knowing them for what they are: work of Westernesse, wound about with spells for the bane of Mordor. Well, now, if they still live, our friends are weaponless.”
“I will take these things and keep them, until I can give them back to their owners,” said Boromir. Then he removed the cloth from his wound, which had thankfully stopped bleeding, and used it to lovingly clean the blades of the small Numenorean swords before sheathing them. Then he stuck the weapons under his belt, beside his own sword. For a moment he fingered the golden leaf-pattern of the belt given to him by the Lady of Lórien, and thought of the two similar belts that were given to the Hobbits, yet another token of his connection with them.

Legolas, in the meantime, was gathering arrows to fill his emptied quiver, while Aragorn and Gimli continued searching the bodies. Boromir went to Aragorn’s side. The Ranger looked upon the slain with a frown. “Have you ever seen Orcs like these before, my friend?”
“No,” replied Boromir. “And I daresay I have seen my share of Orcs. But these are larger than most Orcs from Mordor, their gear is very different, and most importantly the light of the Sun seems not to trouble them at all. I do not think they come from the Dark Land.”
Aragorn nodded thoughtfully. “Some are from the North, from the Misty Mountains, if I know anything of Orcs and their kinds. And here are others strange to me. And indeed, their gear is not after the manner of Orcs at all!”
Once again they looked upon the weapons, looking for a device that might indicate where the Orcs had come from. Soon Boromir came upon a large body that still bore a broad shield. It bore a device strange to Boromir: a small white hand set in the centre. On its helmet was the same signature, along with an S-rune set in metal.
“Aragorn, have a look at this!” he called. The others were quickly at his side, and Aragorn surveyed the Orc. “I have not seen tokens like these before. What do they mean?”
“S is for Sauron,” said Gimli. “That is easy to read.”
But both Aragorn and Boromir shook their heads. “This is not the device of Mordor,” said Boromir. “I have seen it many times. The token of the Dark Lord is a red Eye.”
“And Sauron does not use the Elf-runes,” said Legolas, a look of disgust upon his face to see the writing of his people emblazoned on such foul weaponry.
“Neither does he use his right name, nor permit it to be spelt or spoken,” said Aragorn. “And he does not use white. S is for Saruman I guess. There is evil afoot in Isengard, and the West is no longer safe.”

Boromir felt his blood boil. Of course, Saruman! They might have known, after Gandalf’s story at the council. And it would be within the power of a Wizard to create a new breed of Orcs. He now also remembered the conversations with his friend Théodred, son of the King of Rohan and Second Marshal of the Riddermark, and the King’s cousin Éomer, when he had crossed the land of the Rohirrim on his journey to Rivendell.

“There is some evil brewing in Isengard,” Théodred had said. “We do not venture there any more by decree of my father the King, but there have been sightings of Orcs around the lands of the White Wizard, Orcs that are large and strange and not afraid of the sunlight.”
Éomer nodded. “The Orcs dare not come to Rohan yet, but they draw ever closer. If they cross the Isen, the King will have to act.”
“And yet he sits and does nothing, and lets himself be lulled to sleep with the sweet poisonous words of that snake Wormtongue,” said Théodred through clenched teeth. “I say to you, Boromir, that I am beginning to suspect Wormtongue of some sort of association with the White traitor.”
“Be silent, cousin!” Éomer had said. “If someone hears you speak ill of Gríma in such a manner, you may lose your father’s favour!”
But Théodred had laughed. “Surely, Éomer, I am the King’s son, and not he. But I shall be ever vigilant of him, and he will find Théodred a lot harder to ensnare with mere words! And if ever any harm shall come onto my father or Éowyn, I will know where to find Gríma Wormtongue and his White Master!” His fists had clenched.
And on the day of their parting, Théodred had pulled Boromir aside and said to him: “beware of Saruman, Boromir, for the White Wizard is cunning. I know you must go to Imladris and solve the riddle, but I wish you would take another Road than that which goes through his country.”
“This is the fastest way to get there, friend,” said Boromir. “And you had best be careful yourself. I fear that what you said to me might be true: the poison of Saruman may already have reached Rohan in secrecy. Look after yourself!” And with that, they clasped hands and parted.

Hatred for the traitor ran through Boromir, and he found himself saying the same oath he had heard his friend say: ‘If he harms the little ones in any way, I shall hunt him down to the end of the world!’

The voice of Gimli startled him out of his reverie. “Come now, Boromir! We must go!”
Quickly Boromir followed the Dwarf, and came to Parth Galen once more. There Aragorn and Legolas were already looking through the packs to sort out what could be spared and left behind. Boromir reached for his own pack and drew out what little possessions it contained. With some difficulty he decided to abandon almost all of them, except for some food and lembas-bread, his watersack and some maps that his brother Faramir had given him. The rest he put carefully under the boat that was hidden neatly beneath the trees. The packs of Merry and Pippin he put beside it.
After some consideration he picked up the last of the boats, and lay in it his horn, that had broken under him when he had fallen. It was of no use now, and he no longer felt worthy to carry it. Beside it he placed his beloved shield, that he was loath to leave behind. Yet it was large and heavy and would bother him when he was running.
“This boat I shall give to the River,” he said, “and may it bear my tokens upon its breast to Gondor and my father and brother.”
“But will they not take it as a sign that you were lost?” asked Legolas.
Boromir sighed and then pushed the boat into the water with his foot. “Perhaps,” he said, looking at the small silhouet until it disappeared from sight in Rauros’ foaming streams, “but there is little hope in my return, and either way they shall at least know that there is need for a new Captain in my absence. This shall be the chance for my brother Faramir to show his quality, a chance my father will never give him whilst I am there. Come, let us tarry no longer now!”

“Yes!”roared Gimli. “After them! Dwarves too can go swiftly, and they do not tire sooner than Orcs. But it will be a long chase: they have a long start.”
“Yes,” said Aragorn, “we shall all need the endurance of Dwarves.”
“But what of you, Boromir?” asked Legolas. “Your wound may have stopped bleeding, but are you up to a long chase? You were wounded after all.”
Boromir nodded, it felt quite useless to deny it, his eyes seemed still filled with fogs, and every sound seemed far too loud to his throbbing head. Yet he would rather die in the pursuit than be left behind.
“Let me think!” he said. Finally, because he could think of nothing else, he grabbed hold of the hem of his cloak and tried to tear off a strip. To his surprise the fabric gave way easily under his hands, considering how it had come out of fierce battle undamaged.
He soon held a long, clean piece of grey cloth in his hands, and winding it clumsily around his head he suddenly felt the pain subside; the mist that was before his eyes lifted, and he could stand without the world spinning around him.
Gratefully he stroked his cloak, and said: “blessed be the Lady Galadriel and the Elves of Lothlórien! Nevermore may anyone in Gondor speak ill of the Golden Wood and its people again!” And he bowed in the direction of the invisible borders of Lórien.
A gentle breeze seemed to come from the north, stroking his hair.

“Come now!” said Aragorn. “With hope or without hope we will follow the trail of our enemies. And woe to them, if we prove the swifter! We will make such a chase as shall be accounted a marvel among the Three Kindreds: Elves, Dwarves and Men. Forth the Four Hunters!”

And the company sped away, Aragorn in the lead, closely followed by Boromir, Legolas, and Gimli. On and on he led them, tireless and swift. And ever was Boromir’s heart with the little ones, and he prayed that they would still live.