Long Walk Home

Chapter One

Boromir had no idea it was possible for his entire body to hurt, but something as simple as his boat hitting land rattled him down to the marrow in his bones and sent a fiery hot torrent of burning pain scorching through him. So hot, it stole the breath from his lungs and bathed his body in an icy sweat. Stinging hot arrows once more pierced him from head to toe, only these arrows were created by his mind and not generated from the bows of the Uruk-hai.

Little by little, the pain receded, breathing became possible once more, and he lay there, on his back, his sword flush against him, his hands still tight about the grip. The light shifted above him, shadow and rays alternating across his face, the air tinged with the smell of wet sandy earth, wet leaves, sweat, and pain.

Yes, pain had a smell. It was sour and rank, not quite the stink of death, but so very close to it. He felt sticky. His clothing scraped his skin in ways he'd never felt, and ways he'd rather hope to never feel again.

Perhaps it was but a dream? A dream and he would open his eyes to find himself in the luxurious bed he'd slept upon in Rivendell, as a guest of Elrond. Or perhaps he'd find himself under the shady canopy of the trees of Lothlórien.

No. As a fresh sweat broke out along his chest and back, stinging wounds that should have felled him permanently, Boromir knew this was no dream, nor even a nightmare. This was his reality.

But, where was he?

A low groan bubbled to his lips as he lay there, staring up at a blue sky dotted with puffy clouds that rolled by in a lazy manner. The breeze rustled through treetops above, creating that shift of shadow and light, giving him a view of the sky before promptly blocking it once more. Although he knew the Anduin well, he did not recognize his surroundings at all. The boat rose and fell gently on the water, the wood scraping softly against whatever it was he'd hit.

Arrows. He remembered the arrows. Remembered the burn as they tore into his flesh, and ripped into his muscle. Remembered the heat that scorched through him with each one, the way that same sweat that pricked him now stung him then and how it mingled with his raw fury to make him shiver. Even the slightest of movement hurt now, and he brought a shaking hand up to probe where the fires burned the hottest. His fingers brushed splintered wood and he couldn't hold back his howl as the wound exploded into white-hot agony.

Hissing through clenched teeth, Boromir let his hand fall to his side. Aragorn. He remembered Aragorn apologizing softly before hacking through each of the heavy black arrow shafts to break them off as close to the surface of Boromir's skin as he could manage. The arrowheads would remain, as trying to remove them would only bring a swifter death, no doubt.

He remembered little after that and what he did recall was little more than a blur. He vaguely recalled convincing Aragorn it was in the Fellowship's best interest to go on without him. He had no desire to slow them down. He would return to Minas Tirith to recuperate, should he survive the journey. And he would survive it. He'd failed the Fellowship once, he would not do so again.

At least, that's what he'd thought.

From his prone position, he saw nothing but the treetops and the sky. Although the very idea of moving pained him beyond all rational thought, he had no other choice. The boat no longer floated along the river, carried by its current and he needed to know where he was, in order to resume his journey.

Steeling himself against the fireballs he knew would explode within him, he shifted his sword to his left hand, and lifted his arm to grip the boat's side with his right hand. His arm trembled. They both trembled, actually, and a slow, steady burn crept across his chest. He fought to ignore it, even as the burn intensified, as it spread wide and down into his gut, which began roiling without mercy. A sour taste flooded his mouth. He swallowed hard against it, drew in as deep a breath as he could manage around the fires, and tugged.