This not-for-profit work claims no legal rights to characters not of my making, or to Middle Earth. That belongs to Tolkien, New Line and whoever else holds intellectual property. Only the plot is mine. And the snow-snipes; no such creature exists, but necessity is the mother of both invention and snow-snipes.

Boromir’s cradle song is from the soldier’s song, “Forget Not the Field” by Thomas Moore, (1779-1852) He wrote these lyrics to the air The Lamentation of Aughrim. The Battle of Aughrim took place on July 12, 1691. The defeat of James' forces was the last battle of the Williamite War and led to the Treaty of Limerick that same year. Pippin’s song is a well known English song written in 1833 by English songwriter and dramatist, Thomas Haynes Bayly. The Bath Song is, of course, Tolkien’s.

During World War II, American soldiers used Boromir’s method of staying awake, but I don’t recommend it for the obvious reasons.

Many thanks to our lovely Marigold and Llinos for their beta. May your cyber-quills never dry up!

Concerning the Curious Healing Properties of Soup

“But I’m well enough to travel now!” Pippin protested.

“I think not, young sir,” Aragorn replied.

“But, really, I feel much better now, I’m quite sure I’ll be just——” Pippin’s words caught in his throat as a rattling cough shook his slight frame.

Aragorn only looked at him with one brow arched, as if to say see, I told you so! He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped as he felt Boromir give him a subtle nudge. The two men gave each other a brief glance, as though speaking wordlessly, and Aragorn walked a few paces away to converse with Gandalf: a future-King heeding the advice of his future-Steward.

“Pippin, I doubt not that you mean well and are very brave in your desire to not be a burden or slow us down, but try to understand, to allow you to rush your recovery now could prove a terrible mistake,” Boromir said quietly. “Another day or two shan’t cause much of a delay. Try not to begrudge Aragorn his caution in this regard. He is a learned man, by all accounts, and surely knows his leech-craft.”

“Leech-craft!” Pippin snorted. “If only I had some of my mother’s chicken soup, I’d soon be well enough.”

“You would know best in that regard,” Boromir said. “But I do not think we shall find any plump hens in these parts for the remedy. Just try to be patient.”

“Just as well, Pippin,” Merry said. He squatted by the small, smokeless fire to feed the flames with some good dry wood. “Not even Sam could make chicken soup quite like your mother’s.”

“A statement I can finally agree with,” Pippin grumbled. “And just so that you know, Boromir, the best chicken soup is made with a rooster, not a hen.”

Boromir’s brows rose, partly in surprise, for Pippin had never spoken to him in such a manner, and partly in humour, for the same reason. A quick glance at Merry told Boromir that Pippin’s response had struck Merry the same way, for he stifled his laughter behind his hand.

“Now, why don’t you just settle down and have yourself a nice nap?” Merry smiled encouragingly and nudged Pippin with a toe.

Pippin sighed. All his life he had heard that: Pippin, why don’t you just… Pippin, if you’ll only… Pippin, do be a good lad and just… “Oh, all right,” he said, rolling himself a little more tightly in his blanket, which, incidentally, did nothing to hide his bristling demeanour. Why did he have to get sick now, when they had only just managed to get down from Caradhras? “Pish!” he muttered.

“Now, cousin, no need to resort to such a crude word,” Merry corrected.

Pippin rose on one elbow and glared. “Pish, pish, pish!”

“If you are going to behave like that,” Merry glared back, “I’ll just have to see if Frodo can talk some sense into you.”

Pippin only snorted and rolled over again, but not before he shot a wary glace at the eldest hobbit, who stood chatting idly with Aragorn and Gandalf. Boromir gently tapped Merry’s shoulder and gave him a surreptitious shake of the head, finger over his lips. He leaned in to whisper in Merry’s ear. “I know what’s wrong with him,” he said. “He thinks he is being treated like a child. It will pass soon enough, when he has had the chance to prove a thing or two to himself. Let us instead take his mind off such concerns.”

“But Pippin is a child, Boromir,” Merry whispered in turn.

“Oh, but don’t you see? He is child enough to not understand he is yet still a child, but also grown enough to take being treated in that manner as an insult,” Boromir said. “I believe halflings are not so different than we men in that regard.”

Merry cocked his head as though weighing Boromir’s words. Boromir smiled inwardly. Being an older brother, he understood completely Merry protecting his younger kin, even from the most well meant advice. After a moment, having seemingly decided to give Boromir’s idea a try, Merry nodded, tapping the side of his nose.

“When I was a boy, and had a cold,” Boromir spoke a little more loudly now, “My nurse used to bring me chicken soup. I can almost smell it now, rich with the scent of rosemary. I can almost taste the pepper upon my tongue. I could do with a bit of that just now, myself.”

“Pippin’s mum makes the most wonderful chicken soup,” Merry said. “It is not to be missed, in fact, even if you don’t have a cold.”

Pippin rolled back over, seemingly over his disgruntlement now. “How I would love to have some chicken soup,” he sighed. “Why are there no wild chickens, I wonder…”

“Perhaps a snipe would do,” Legolas offered. “What if I could find a wisp of snow-snipes? Would that do?”

“It won’t be chicken, but it’s as good as we’ll get, I fancy,” added Sam. “My old Gaffer used to call snipes upside-down chickens, on account of the dark meat’s on the breasts and the white meat’s on the legs.

“Legolas, do you think you could find some?” Merry asked eagerly.

“Snow-snipe do not make the long journey south for the winter, as their kin do,” Legolas said. “But I have no net, for I did not know I would be journeying this way, and with none of my kind. Does anyone have such a net?”

“I do,” replied Boromir.

“As do I,” added Aragorn. “Those who journey are wise to bring a net into the wild places of the world.”

“Aye,” Boromir nodded. “For all creatures with feathers can be eaten, and in a pinch a net may well stave off hunger on a long journey.”

“Won’t do no good, not without onions,” Sam said. He had been paying close attention since the discussion had turned to food, a thing dear to all hobbits, and to Sam in particular, since he prepared almost all of their meals, meagre though they might be. He squatted beside Merry and poked the embers of the little fire with a twig and used the glowing end to light his pipe. “It has to have lots of onions, to clear the cold out of the head. I don’t have any rosemary, either. It has to have rosemary, for the lungs.”

“Those I can find as well,” Legolas said. “There are wild onions to be found, I am very sure of it. Rosemary, too. With some of Sam’s potatoes, perhaps we could make a soup which would serve the purpose of a remedy.”

“A splendid idea, Legolas!” Merry grinned. “Will it prove difficult, do you think?”

Legolas favoured Merry with an arched brow, as if to say I am an elf, how difficult do you think it could possibly be?

Frodo, Gimli and even Gandalf now joined the rest. The prospect of a little fresh meat appealed to them all, for no matter how skilled the cook, traveller’s fare soon grew tiresome.

“We have firewood enough left, I think,” Frodo said. The prospect of enjoying a nice steamy bowl of soup had brightened his tired eyes and seemed to lighten his heart. “But is there time enough today? Sam will need to get the birds in his pot as soon as may be.”

“Then I had best be on my way,” Legolas said.

“If Boromir will but lend you his net, I could join you,” Aragorn offered. “Surely two hunters will serve twice as well.”

Boromir dipped his hand into his pack and drew out the leather pouch he stored his net in. He tossed the pouch to Legolas. With a nod of thanks, Legolas and Aragorn left the camp and vanished into the trees.

“There now, Mister Pippin,” Sam said with a satisfied air. “You’ll have your soup soon enough. It may not be proper Shire fare, but I fancy it’ll do right enough. And it’ll cheer you to know we’ve got your clothes all clean. That shirt you’re wearin’ ain’t near heavy enough, though it was good enough when it was warmer. Only we popped a button off when we washed all that sick-sweat out of ‘em, and me with no needle nor thread.”

“You mustn’t feel badly about that, Sam,” Pippin said, his more cheerful nature returning now. “I shall just have to make do. But I need to keep the button, so I won’t have to replace them all.”

Sam fetched Pippin’s garments and handed them to the youngest hobbit, fishing the button out of his pocket to give to Pippin. “Better put it your pack with your other things,” he advised.

“You are in luck, Master Took,” Boromir said. “I keep needle and thread in my pack at all times, as any good soldier will. I have no thread that matches the thread attaching the other buttons, but if black thread will serve you well enough, I can sew the button back on.”

Pippin cocked one eyebrow. “You?” he said. “You sew?”

“Well, not as a tailor might, no,” Boromir said. “But often enough I have had the need to do the odd repair. Even if I were married, my wife would not accompany me in the field or on the move. A soldier must do for himself, when the need arises, even the son of the Steward.”

Four pairs of hobbit eyes along with one of dwarven kind regarded Boromir with more than a hint of doubt. Gandalf looked on with amusement, though he only puffed his pipe between lips pressed firmly together to hold in his laughter. This was understandable, of course, since Boromir was of noble birth. Nonetheless, Boromir rose to the challenge, holding out his hands for the shirt and the button. Again, Boromir slipped a hand into his pack and removed the desired item.

“How is it you never have to empty your pack to find something?” Pippin asked. “I almost always have to turn mine upside-down. What I want always seems to be at the bottom.”

Boromir threaded the needle. “I always put my belongings in the same place,” he said, taking up shirt and button. “Every day, I remove all my things, then put them all back where they belong. I may find myself in need of something with no time—or light enough—to hunt for it. We are trained to keep our belongings in such a manner as to be able to lay our hands on them as quickly as may be. It is not simply an exercise in discipline. Time saved can mean a life saved or a victory ensured, for want of what seems to be of little importance may be one’s undoing.”

“Why, I never thought about it,” Sam said. “Fancy that! But I suppose if soldiers have to carry their home with them, it stands to reason they’d have to know how to do for themselves.”

“Indeed,” Boromir nodded. “Even so, often a manservant is sent to attend my needs. But I still had to learn to do for myself. And in truth, I always chafe at the presence of a manservant. I much prefer to attend my own needs.” He paused as if weighing his next words, his needle and thread poised between stitches. “And, whether a manservant is in attendance or no, a leader is obliged more often than not to think of his men. Pride is one thing, a stiff neck another. And one lesson in particular, Master Took, a soldier must learn is this: to press on when one is unable to do so may put all in danger. That was one lesson I learned at great expense. But I was very young at the time, and had only just led my first few patrols along the Anduin and around south Ithilien. The illness started as a simple cold. But I could not be persuaded to rest, and soon had saddled my men with the care of a young officer with a high fever, too ill to even sit a horse. I had placed my men in peril because I did not wish to be seen as a mere lad by more seasoned soldiers. In the end, my choice made me seem every bit as young and foolish as I did not wish to be thought!”

He bit the thread in two near the re-sewn button and handed Pippin his shirt. The hobbits put their heads together, inspecting his work with nods of approval. Pippin quickly changed his clothing and, having taken Boromir’s words to heart, slipped under his blankets once more.

“How old were you when you began your training, Boromir?” he asked.

“How old?” Boromir grinned. “Why, from the cradle, though I doubt not the strangeness of that to you. Our cradle songs are full of tales of mighty battles and great deeds. It is mother’s milk to us.”

“Truly?” Pippin said. “Will you sing one for us?”

“Oh! Well, I…” Boromir cleared his throat. “I doubt you would find them very pleasing to your halfling ears. I fear we are made of stonier stuff than your people. You would find little value in them.”

This caused the hobbits to fill his ears with indignant grunts, squawks and mutterings accompanied by rolled eyes and exasperated shakes of their heads. Boromir held his hands up in surrender. “Very well, very well, I shall do my best. I hope your ears shan’t be too bruised, when I am finished!” He paused, then, having apparently decided on the song he wished to sing, cleared his throat. His deep, rich baritone voice softly resonated in the air.

“Forget not the field where they perished,
The truest, the last of the brave,
All gone - and the bright hope we cherished
Gone with them, and quenched in their grave!
Oh! could we from death but recover
These hearts they bounded before,
In the face of high heavens to fight over
That battle for pure light once more;

“Could the chain for an instant be riven
Which evil flung round them then,
No! 'tis not in Man nor in Mandos
To let darkness bind it again!

“But 'tis past - and though' blazoned in story
The names of the valiant may be,
Blessed is the march of that glory
’Neath the banner that bears the White Tree.

“Far dearer the grave or the dungeon
Illumed by one pure brave-heart’s name,
Than the ease of him who'll not join us
And yet lives on in comfort and shame!”

The song ended. The air seemed suddenly very empty. All eyes had dropped, and some sighed sadly. Merry sat beside Boromir and patted his hand. “Dear friend,” he said. “Some day, if we succeed in our effort, perhaps the cradle songs for your own young ones will be brighter and happier songs. For as beautiful as the melody and the words are, they break our hearts for your sacrifices.”

“We thank you for the song,” Frodo added. “Yet, somehow I fear that isn’t nearly enough. I have often wondered if some calamity might not do my people some good, for I fear that we have become too comfortable. I wonder now at the wisdom of such a thought.”

“Well you may wonder,” Boromir said. “Yet I would not see your quiet lands face such foes as we have fought. Learning a little of your people, I think I much prefer to see halflings in a garden rather than in the glory of battle. Let your people remain ‘too comfortable’, as you say. All the better, for some day I hope to pay your home a visit, and try your ale, for Merry and Pippin have declared it the finest in the wide world. I should like to taste it for myself!”

“And someday I’m sure you will,” Pippin added.

“And I hope it’s sooner rather than later, Mister Boromir, sir!” Sam smiled. Yet the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and he patted Boromir’s shoulder.

“Well,” Boromir said. “I sang a song for you, shall you return the favour? I should very much like to hear some of your songs.”

“But I cannot sing,” Pippin said woefully. “My throat hurts too much.”

“Then you should not talk so much,” Frodo said. “I’ll make a bargain with you, magpie. If we sing The Bath Song for Boromir, will you try to have a little nap, until Aragorn and Legolas get back and your soup is ready?”

“I am not a magpie!” Pippin said. “But yes, if you sing it, I will try to rest. Only, do get it right. It is supposed to be a happy song, you know.”

“Pippin says we do not sing it with enough enthusiasm,” Frodo explained. “And you are so a magpie, for you never tire of making yourself heard! Now, no sulking! I happen to like magpies; they mean to be heard, just as you do. Sam, Merry, come! Let us lighten the mood. We must teach Boromir the worth of happier songs, for when he has his own children to sing to.” The three hobbits stood together and raised their voices…

“Sing hey! for the bath at close of day
That washes the weary mud away!
A loon is he that will not sing:
O! Water Hot is a noble thing…”

Pippin grinned at the increased enthusiasm in their voices, for they seemingly had taken his advice. Gandalf looked on, watching the hobbits bringing smiles to the faces of Boromir and to Gimli, too. Had anyone looked, they would have seen the wizard enjoying a soft but heartfelt laugh, himself. Indeed, it was well that the pair of younger hobbits had come along, if only for Boromir’s sake.

The song ended, and Pippin, as good as his word, rolled up in his blanket and dozed, heeding the words Boromir had shared with him. When he woke it was to a savoury smell of soup bubbling merrily over the small fire.

“Is it done enough to add the vegetables and herbs, do you think?” Frodo asked, peering over Sam’s shoulder.

“It should be,” Sam replied, turning away from the task of cutting up the wild onions heaped near the fire. “These are very hot onions. As well they should be, for a sick hobbit.”

“When do we put the rosemary in?” Merry asked.

“You could do that now, if you please,” Sam answered. “Now, that ain’t near enough, sir.”

“Are you sure?” Merry looked doubtful.

“Your cousin needs lots of it, to break up the cold. Put it all in.”

“If you say so,” Merry said.

“Now let’s get these onions in there,” Frodo added, dropping the cut up onions into the pot as Sam sliced the remainder.

Just then Boromir joined them. He leaned over the pot and inhaled deeply. “This smells wonderful,” he said.

“How is Legolas?” Frodo asked.

“He shall be fine,” Boromir said. “Perhaps he shall be more careful about hunting with Aragorn from now on. He did not count on a man being able to throw the net that quickly, so one of the weights has blacked his eye. In truth, his dignity suffers more than anything else. ’Tis naught that a cold wet cloth will not remedy, though the bruise shall show for a day or so. But elves mend quickly, I hear, and Aragorn has herbs to keep the swelling down and fade the bruise swiftly. As for his dignity, that soup smells good enough to soothe his ruffled feathers. Have you added the pepper yet?”

“All I had, I fear,” Sam said. “I’m sure it ain’t enough, though.”

“You needn’t look so beset, Sam,” Boromir said. “I have some pepper. I warn you, it is very hot pepper. The seeds came from far south of Harad. The Swertings fancy very spicy foods, and their peppers are the hottest I know of.”

“That would be wonderful, Mister Boromir, sir,” Sam said, his face brightening.

Boromir pulled a silver chain necklace over his head. On the end dangled a small container. He opened the box and took a generous pinch of peppers from the box, crumbling them into the soup. “That should do,” he nodded. “I must wash my hands now, lest I forget and rub my eyes. That is what we do when we must stand watch for long hours, after no sleep. We rub our fingertips in the peppers, and then rub our eyes. ’Tis painful…but once done, one need not fear sleeping on watch!”

Well, one thing is certain, Pippin thought, I shan’t be offering my services as a soldier of Gondor - ever! He rolled over to doze a little longer until the soup was ready. Merry shook him awake, and after settling Pippin comfortably upright, he handed Pippin a bowl of steaming soup.

“Go on,” Merry said. “Since you’re sick, you get extra.”

Pippin raised the bowl and sniffed. It wasn’t quite like chicken, but close enough. He took a spoonful and swallowed. He exhaled forcefully. “Oh! That is hot!”

“I’m sorry,” Merry said. “I’ll set it aside and let it cool.”

“No, Merry, not that kind of hot,” Pippin said, pulling the bowl close possessively. “It’s spicy-hot, not boiling hot. And I like it!” He took another greedy spoonful, and soon the bowl was empty. Merry fetched him another, then went to get one for himself. Soon all the remaining Walkers huddled around Pippin and the soup bubbling over the little fire. From time to time, one or the other would mop his brow with the back of a hand, but all ate heartily, for there had been enough for all to eat their fill.

As Sam collected the empty bowls he asked, “Mister Boromir, them peppers, what kind are they?”

“We call them Dragon’s Breath,” he replied. “You are a gardener, are you not?”

“That I am,” Sam beamed.

“Well, then,” Boromir once again fished the little box out on the silver necklace. “I have some of the seeds, if you’d like to have them.”

“Now, that’s just fine,” Sam smiled. “Why, thank you so very much, Mister Boromir, sir.”

“May you find them fruitful, Master Gamgee, sir,” Boromir grinned.

Years later, Sam would serve chicken soup to his sick children seasoned with Dragon’s Breath peppers, for he knew first-hand the good of them, for Pippin, just as he had said, was soon right enough. Each time, he would retell the story of how the Took and Thain had fallen ill in the Wild, and how he had been made better by the soup with the very hot peppers. He would sing them to sleep, as well. But he could never sing the sad song that he had learned from Boromir. Instead, he sang another, not of his own making, but one that Pippin himself had composed on the third anniversary of Boromir’s fall, and in later years sang to his own little Faramir:

“Tell me the tales that to me were so dear,
Long, long ago, long, long ago,
Sing me the songs I delighted to hear,
Long, long ago, long ago,
Now you are come all my grief is removed,
Let me forget that so long you have roved.
Let me believe that you love as you loved,
Long, long ago, long ago.

“Do you remember the paths where we met?
Long, long ago, long, long ago.
Ah, yes, you told me you'd never forget,
Long, long ago, long ago.
Your sweet words made my fears seem absurd
Dear, when you spoke, giving strength to each word.
Still my heart treasures the phrases I heard,
Long, long ago, long ago.

“Tho' by your kindness my fond hopes were raised,
Long, long ago, long, long ago.
You by more eloquent lips have been praised,
Long, long ago, long, long ago,
But, by long absence your truth has been tried,
Still to your accents I listen with pride,
Blessed as I was when I walked at your side.
Long, long ago, long ago.”

It was a good song, penned with fond memories, as warm, as nourishing and as healing as the soup, which had been put together, ingredient by ingredient, by the members of the Fellowship. And like the soup, the most healing and most important ingredient of all was, in the end, the simple but vital ingredient known as love.

finis