Journeys Expected and Unexpected

It was stuffy again in the Old Forest, which meant it was late summer. Already the days had begun to grow shorter. Boromir and Saro sat on little benches under the big oak, quietly peeling potatoes. From a distance, one might think they were barely aware of one another, but a closer look would reveal the truth. Though they spoke not a word, their eyes flicked frequently, seeking the same glance from the other in a conversation that had no need of the spoken word: the language of love. Saro’s belly had already begun to swell, along with Boromir’s pride and joy—and his endless worry. Their honeymoon had been spent at sea, and they would always remember it as one of the sweetest and most precious parts of their lives. They were deeply happy, even though Boromir dreaded the birth. Saro still made market rounds with him, but that would soon have to stop, the midwife said. Diamond and Estella had volunteered to help during the lying-in. Now a nursery and a spare bedroom had been added to the little house; one could no longer call it a cottage or a cabin.

Saro and Boromir rose and walked hand in hand into the house. Saro had picked up the bowl of peeled potatoes, but Boromir took them from her, clucking his tongue and advising her to simply carry their little one and let him do the rest of the carrying. They prepared their meal together, and after eating, they sat at the table and mulled over names for children. Saro liked the idea of giving Boromir’s children names that kept the traditions of his people. Boromir leaned toward giving them two names, one name hailing from Gondor, and a second name more in keeping with his new home. This made good sense to him since his children’s names would likely be shortened or changed anyway by those unfamiliar with the tongue of Boromir’s people.

It was customary now for them to take a stroll in the starlight after they had eaten. They walked, hands linked, down the lane that had been but a short while back no more than a footpath, which, for whatever reason, had broken through the High Hay. By now Saro had learned how Boromir had found the little footpath. He had seen a rabbit dart through and gone after it, determined to have a bit of rabbit for his evening meal. The High Hay had barely let him through. He had managed to get his rabbit by way of a throwing stick, a method used by the Wild Folk. On this particular evening Boromir showed Saro where he had built a fire and spent the first night in the place he would soon call home. He had picked wildflowers as they walked and talked. He gave them to Saro and led her back down the little lane to home, and so to bath and bed. They lay spooned together, Boromir’s arm draped over Saro as he curled himself around her almost protectively, and whispered long into the night. Tomorrow they would have to rise early; it was market day again.

Saro enjoyed the rounds that day, knowing this would soon have to end, and they spent part of the day (and a good deal of money) buying what was needed for the baby. They took a room at the Fox and Hound, enjoying a leisurely visit with the innkeepers’ family. Bluebell gave them news of small goings-on, including the wedding announcement of the poulterer’s daughter Lilac to her Harvestmath dancing partner. Seemingly, her future husband, Charlock Beetle, had not let his stammer stop him from popping the question. He had asked for her hand at The Fox and Hound after a long and romantic meal and a few glasses of wine. Thus emboldened, Charlock had grasped the girl’s hand and sung out “La-la-la-Lilac, will you ma-ma-marry me?” Her answer, of course, had been yes!

Saro and Boromir had their own news to share. Lily Thornbush had become the sweetheart of Evergrim Took, the son of the stable master of the Great Smials. Ev had moved to Frogmorton, and even now was hard at work building his own smial. He had started a livery there, where his knowledge of pony-lore turned him more than a few pretty pieces of silver. Little Holly adored Ev, who had become like a father to her. No wedding plans had been made just yet, but it was common knowledge that announcements would be sent out as soon as Ev finished his smial.

“I see you fretting, Boromir,” Bluebell said, laughing and laying her hand on his shoulder. “Do not fear your little Holly will forget her friend! She is a hobbit, and mindful of dear friends. And were it not so, she is a little girl, and her heart is roomy enough to keep her friends as well as enjoy her new family!”

“True,” Saro agreed. “Also, Evergrim is a Took and from a very respected branch of the family, going by what I hear from Diamond and Pippin. Lily has found herself a good match.”

“Well, all the better when we stay in Frogmorton,” Boromir said. “It seems my list of friends grows longer.”

“And that cannot be a bad thing,” Saro said, eyes a-shine and smiling sweetly.

They bid their friend goodnight and went hand in hand to their room.

The next day Boromir and Saro rose early to enjoy the cooler morning air as they rode home, drinking in the summer morning sun shining through the branches and the deep green leaves that whispered about the rising temperature.

“A kiss for your thoughts,” Saro said, smiling as she lightly caressed his arm.

“I was only thinking about our voyage,” Boromir replied. “Remember the river Lune, how blue it was?”

“How ever could I forget?” She leaned gently against her husband, resting a soft cheek against his shoulder before he looped as arm around her and their minds drifted back to the not-so-distant past.

They had ridden to the Far Downs the day after the wedding, staying the night in Greenholm before making their way to the Grey Havens. There they had booked passage on a small ship. The Loreley, an aged but fit little ship as tight and tidy as a drum-head, often made short journeys along the shores of the gulf of Lune, stopping at the ports of Harlond, Forlond and some newer villages both north and south of the gulf to load or unload goods. Though the Loreley was primarily a merchant ship, passage could be bought by the well-heeled wanderer who sought a voyage for nothing more than the experience of riding the waters and tasting the sea breezes, and well-off honeymooners often vied for the luxurious guest cabin during the warmer months. Boromir’s own merchandise had wound up on the Loreley. This stood him in good stead with Captain and crew, and he had managed to book passage for such a lengthy voyage due to his business connections. He had become quite successful, yet even so, without the favor of the Captain, he could not have afforded such a voyage, honeymoon or no. This was a fine cabin, better even than the captain’s own and situated right beside it.

Their meals were good fare: fresh fish, of course, along with a number of delicacies harvested from the shallows and the deeps. For Saro, this was the adventure of a lifetime. She quickly became accustomed to sailing and even became somewhat enamored of the sea. That was before the sickness had come. The new bride and groom intended to enjoy their little voyage, such as it were, even if Saro did suffer a bit of seasickness. After a particularly unpleasant morning, Saro had lain in bed, simply resting for most of the day. By afternoon she found she felt well enough to ask Boromir to take her out on deck for a breath of fresh air. Boromir dragged a small bench out on deck for her and settled her in it, wrapping her shawl about her shoulders. He sat beside her and held her hand, gazing up at a sky so blue one searched for the proper word to describe it.

One of the men stood nearby and sang a slow, sad song as he took the helm. His voice rose and fell like the tide, his pitch near perfect. Saro found her eyes drawn to the sound and did not realize she was watching the singing sailor so intently until Boromir spoke. “The captain says his name is Dandelion, a rather strange name for a man, I should think. His shipmates call him Dandy.”

“He does have a lovely voice,” Saro said. “I thought at first he was a mere boy, but I see he is rather a very small man.”

“And such a one as is meant to sail the seas, I should guess. For see how the sun has burned him brown? And his hair, too, is bleached by sun and sea.”

“Yes, I dare say he looks as if he could live in the water like and otter,” Saro said.

Dandy, sensing he was being watched, stopped his singing long enough to give them a quick but polite nod of acknowledgement. “Good afternoon, Sir and Ma’am,” He smiled, then grasped the wheel and began to sing anew: This time it was a lullaby. Saro leaned against her groom and closed her eyes. The soft, sweet voice eased her to sleep in the fresh air and afternoon sun. Boromir sat as still as he could. His bride had been quite seasick for the last three days, and she looked a little tired to Boromir. Dandy’s song finally trailed away. He cleared his throat. Boromir glanced in his direction.

“Shall I teach you that last one, sir?” Dandy grinned, his teeth brilliant against the tanned face.

“I beg your pardon?” Boromir said; one brow arched above a glittering eye.

“The lullaby, sir,” Dandy said. “Shall I teach it to you? You’ll be needing to know one soon enough.”

“Do you offer insult, sir?” Boromir said.

Dandy looked long at Boromir, seeing a decidedly dangerous glint in those sharp eyes. “No, sir, no insult! Your bride, she’s a fine, sweet lady, she is, and I know one when I sees one. I also know a mother-to-be when I hears one sicking up in the mornings. Don’t tell me, you poor lost lamb! You haven’t figured it out yet? You’re to be a father, sir!” Dandy waited for this to sink in before allowing himself to laugh at Boromir’s confusion. “So, shall you learn my lullaby, then?”

Boromir slipped his other arm around Saro, cradling her as she slept. A father…of course! Saro was only sick in the mornings, so it couldn’t just be seasickness. Perhaps the little sailor was right. Was he really going to be a father? His mind raced between hope and trepidation, finally settling somewhere between. “Aye, good Dandelion. Your voice is sweet enough upon the ear. Give us the tune again, if you please.”

And so Boromir learned this tune from the little sailor, and learned to sing it well himself:

Oh, rest you well, sweet little one,

Let the waves rock you to sleep,

No tear to shed,

No fear to dread,

My arms around you, safe to keep…

Boromir sang the song for Saro now as they drew near home. The opening in the High Hay had become wider, wide enough to allow a wagon easy access, though by rights the lane to Boromir’s home was not so well traveled as to keep the High Hay from growing back. Perhaps this was the work of the Light that Boromir now carried in his heart, perhaps the Old Forest just got tired of holding this bit of land so possessively. All Boromir and Saro knew was that when their wagon slipped through the High Hay into the lane leading to their cottage, this part of the Old Forest felt like home.

With the wagon in the barn and Saro safely helped down and into the house, Boromir set about caring for Lady Grey as his cats swarmed about his ankles, patting his legs and rubbing their faces on his shins.

Lady Grey suddenly whinnied loudly, tossing her head. Boromir stopped what he was doing, listening for the sound of familiar voices. Instead he heard the hoof beats of ponies galloping up the lane. He stepped out of the barn and looked down the lane.

There they were. Merry and Pippin, of course. Lady Grey only ever whinnied like that when she knew Stybba or Dapplegrim was near. Boromir’s brow lowered at the grim expressions on the faces of his friends. The two hobbits pulled their ponies to a short stop and leapt down before the ponies’ hooves were still. Pippin ran to Boromir while Merry tied the ponies. He was gasping for breath, and tried to speak, then simply handed a letter to Boromir. It was from Faramir, addressed to Pippin. The news was not good.

Gondor and Ithilien were in unrest. Harsh words had been exchanged between many of the greater Houses of Minas Tirith and had spread now to Ithilien, insidious whispers against the King himself. Ministers from Harad had raised suspicions against Aragorn in the matter of Boromir’s death, and the talk was that Aragorn had murdered Boromir.

As Boromir read, Pippin paced, still gasping from the effort of his hard ride. “This will not do! This will never do,” he said, his voice taking on a heaviness rare for Pippin. No sign of the carefree Pippin expressed itself. His distraught state poured out of him like boiling water. His voice trembled with outrage. “I cannot remember the last time I was so angry as I am now! How? Why? This is madness, madness I tell you!”

It was a naked bid for power, nothing less, though who was behind this was yet to be made clear. Of course, there had been no witnesses when Boromir had “died” and so there was no one to deny this talk. People had begun to take sides, and the citizenry were in an uproar. There had been no insurrection, but it was entirely possible, as tempers were flaring on both sides of the argument.

Pippin had caught his breath by now, and he spoke his heart to Boromir. “We must set off right away. You can stop this, Boromir; you are the only one who can stop it, and it must be stopped!”

“Pippin, I cannot leave Saro! And she must not ride! This is deviltry, and no mistake!” He held his head in his hands.

Saro, having come out to great her guests only to hear the rush of bad news, went to her husband, wrapping her arms about him and kissing his brow. “You must go. Faramir is your brother, and Aragorn is your King, and he is your brother as well,” she said. “You mustn’t worry, Merry can look after we women-folk.”

“Merry can’t,” Merry said, “Merry is going, too. But I have written Sam. You know you can depend on Sam Gamgee, and if anyone knows about babies, it’s Sam and Rosie.”

Boromir’s heart filled with dread and fear. They were right, as much as he hated to admit it, they were. This was a disaster in the making. If they struck out quickly enough, and traveled swiftly enough, they may have a chance of averting any violence or other act of insurrection. Who better knew the value of preventing a war better than a warrior? They would have to make ready and leave quickly, probably in less than a fortnight if at all possible. The sooner these tales were sorted out and the King’s name cleared the better for everyone, including Boromir.

Merry said he would post to Rohan for fresh mounts, two ponies and one horse to be brought to the proper markers on the best roads in order to make the journey swifter, and Boromir agreed. He had asked that nothing be said about himself. He did not want any to-do about himself; in fact, he meant to go as quietly and secretly as he could. For one thing, he meant not to stay in Gondor; this was his home, now. Also, he did not want to give anyone time to undermine his ability to dispense with this matter as quickly as possible. After all he had a baby on the way in the belly of the woman he loved. The whisperers and finger pointers would not bother to prepare to question the words of the so-called dead man. This way, with the whisperers caught off-guard they would be ill prepared to deny anything or question his character, and once the “dead” man was seen, these accusations would dissipate like a vapor.

Unspoken, but not unacknowledged, was the fact that some folks were in for a tremendous shock, most importantly Boromir’s brother, his closest blood kin, and so dear to his heart. He had longed to see his brother so deeply for so many long years, but had hoped to shield him from any discord by keeping his presence unknown. He had been willing to sacrifice that part of himself for the good of the brother he so loved. Now his brother would know the truth of it all, and Boromir had no idea how Faramir would react.