Far Horizons ❦ Boromir

thírtч-σnє: вєnєαth αmσn hєn

THE river was perilous after a night storm, and so come the next day the Fellowship hefted the elven boats up to make their way along the forested bank, unwilling to risk the rapids and unseen dangers that lurked below the choppy surface. Boromir and Aeardis carried one, Legolas and Aragorn another, and the last was bore by the four hobbits and Gimli.

The shore was rocky and wet. The rock and sand underfoot unstable. Nearly everyone had already stumbled at least once in attempts to gain a steady footing on the bank. Though Samwise could not regain his balance after stumbling and took a tumble down to the water's edge. Perhaps it would have been laughable if it wasn't for the blood that covered his hands from a deep cut on the sole of his foot. "Sam!" Aeardis darted forward and knelt at the hobbit's side, soaking the edge of her elven cloak to clean away the dirt and debris from around the wound. She looked up at the rest of the Fellowship, "We must stop, Sam's foot needs to be tended to."

"We have not the time," Aragorn replied. Aeardis frowned and dug around in her pack until she found the cordial of Númenor. There was only one drop of the snow-flower juice left within the small vial. She unstoppered it in haste. "Oh no, Miss Aeardis," Sam protested, shaking his head despite the stinging tears that were gathering in his eyes, "I can't take the last bit."

Aeardis gave the hobbit a soft smile, "There is still a long way to go and you'll not be able to keep pace with simple bindings." Gingerly, she tilted up the vial until the last drop slid from the glass and into the center of the cut. The skin knitted itself together, not even scarring. The only indication of the injury was the smeared blood. Sam looked at the bottom of his foot and poked at the flesh, expecting it to be tender, but it wasn't, it was just as calloused as the rest of his foot. "Thank you," he said and she nodded, tucking away the empty vial and returning to help Boromir bear the weight of the elven boat.

They stopped that night and set up camp by the river, a common occurrence as of late. Aeardis turned toward the woods, it was her turn to gather firewood and a few seconds later Boromir had followed her until they reached a clearing. She was both angered and relieved that he had come with her. Their time together had been scarce and tense since leaving the realm of Galadriel. Aeardis knew it was because of the Ring, yet she was powerless to do anything against its treacherous influences. "I see the struggle in your eyes," she whispered, voice low and hoarse.

He turned his back to her and clenched his fists, still angered about the argument that had broken out between him and Strider. Yes, there is weakness. There is frailty. But there is courage also, and honor to be found in Men, he had said with pride and fading hope in his voice.

"The ranger has no care for our people. Nor do the elves. We stand alone in this," he spat. Within the span of a second, it was as if Boromir had been replaced by Denethor. Denethor had spoken words so similar that it made her want to slap him if only to make him see what was happening. "If only Gondor had the enemy's-" he muttered, beginning to pace.

Aeardis stepped into his path and placed her hand on his cheek, "Boromir." He looked down at her and the madness in his eyes was quailed, if only for a second. "Stay with me," she pleaded, "this is not you. This is not who you are." This is not the man I love. Turning away, she began gathering kindling and thick branches alike to bring back to the camp.

Aeardis sat next to Aragorn at the river's edge with tears brimming her eyes. He was sharpening his sword and attaching dark feather fletching to a handful of crude arrows. In the time since leaving Rivendell, she felt that no one in the company was a stranger, not even Legolas, but Aragorn still remained a stranger to her. An enigma that she could not place. It was as if he belonged in the stories that her father had told her from an age long past.

"It was good of you, to heal Sam's foot," he said after a moment, understanding that nothing else in this world could compare to the cordial of Númenor. "It was an invaluable gift." Aragorn looked at Aeardis, tracing over the lines of her face only to find that she was the spitting image of her mother. A dark-haired beauty with eyes that could drown a man if he looked for too long, yet in everything else, she was very much like Ohtar. "How is your father?" Aragorn asked.