By the time Boromir and Gorhend reached the nascent waters of the Gilrain, swelling with the rapidly melting snows from the mountains above, only a few dregs remained in the shrunken wine flask. The last leg of the journey had been extremely pleasant as the two men recalled a ribald song used in Gorhend's old unit to march in cadence and they had sung it for the benefit of the snakes and rodents that crept about the plains after darkness fell.
Soon the dim glow of a small fire appeared and Boromir could hear the low tones of men's voices. "That must be they," Gorhend told him. "Warm wine to a warm fire. All the comforts of home, eh?"
They approached at a leisurely pace and a figure advanced to meet them, a silhouette in the firelight. A sword scraped as it was drawn from its scabbard and a voice with an accent from the southernmost reaches of Gondor called out, "Who approaches?"
"'Tis I, Cirien," Gorhend replied. "Who else did you expect?"
"I heard two horses advancing from a distance and was only anticipating one."
Gorhend looked over at Boromir, a pleased smile on his lips. "My best man. Has ears like an Elf, he does."
Cirien awkwardly accepted the praise with a quick, embarrassed nod of the head and sheathed his sword. "Lord Boromir," he said, bringing a hand to his chest in salute, "it is an honor to see you again."
Boromir normally disliked flattery, deeming it meaningless, but he had enjoyed Cirien's company immensely during his last ill-fated visit. He was a simple man who had spent several years at an outpost on the South Road. He had fought no battles, but survived numerous skirmishes with enemies bold enough to venture across the Anduin from South Ithilien. Despite his experience, he was no career soldier as Gorhend had been and readily confessed that he found the vast plains and herding more suited to his nature. As Boromir looked upon him now, he noticed the kindly features, already beginning to grow rough and ruddy with the rigors of his duties. Gorhend's affection for him was evident from his praise, a gift he never gave lightly, and Boromir briefly wondered if he was perhaps looking at Gorhend's other preferred choice of a mate for his daughter. The idea was absurd and shrewd at the same time. Cirien was old, but he was a man Gorhend trusted.
Cirien's voice intruded on his thoughts. "The herd has been restless tonight," he was saying, "so we have kept them moving in the hope weariness will soon come upon them and they will settle." He looked puzzled. "The grass is plentiful so one would think they shouldn't like to stray."
Gorhend stiffened in his saddle. "Is that so? There have been no signs of what might be disturbing them?"
"None, sir." He gestured to the fire. "We were about to douse it and move on to overtake the others."
"Who else is with you?" Gorhend asked, peering towards the other figure that remained motionless by the fire.
"Belaród, sir."
Gorhend grunted at the news. "How much further ahead are they?"
"No more than three miles, perhaps four," Cirien replied with an uneasy glance at his companion who had still not ventured from the fire. He was all too aware of the tension that existed between the two men, although he did his best to avoid entanglement. He was not on overly friendly terms with Belaród himself. The man was too opinionated for a simple herdsman.
"Do you wish to go on, sir?" he asked. "It will take but a moment to kill the fire and saddle the horses, then Belaród and I can hasten to join you and Lord Boromir."
Gorhend looked over at Boromir and shrugged. "We have been riding for a distance, and none too steadily." He grinned and patted the empty wine flask. "What say you, my friend? Does the idea of a leg stretch by the fire sound in order?"
"It does at that," Boromir agreed, quickly dismounting. The ground was soft and sprung beneath his feet, the type of terrain that soon became a morass under the boots of an army. There was never a good season to wage war, for each one held elements that made it difficult, but he particularly detested the wet greening months.
"Go on to the fire," Gorhend said pointedly. "See if there is any wine to be had." He followed suit and dismounted, wincing at the pain that stung his bones when his feet jarred on the earth. Boromir's face creased in concern and he reached out a hand to steady him, but he was waved away with a muttered oath that he needed no assistance. Cirien quickly took his horse and held it as Gorhend recovered from the final tingling remnants of his infirmity. The thought of Belaród, no doubt smirking at this mighty warrior's aged weakness, fanned the stubborn fire within him that refused to bend to the demands of Time. Old he may be, and he was willing to admit that, but he would never become feeble.
Cirien held out his hand to Boromir for the reins. "Your horse, sir. I will secure them so they shall not run. There is wine by the fire."
Gorhend's order came low and swift. "Take stock of this whelp, Captain of Gondor."
Boromir nodded and advanced to the fire while Gorhend remained behind with his chief herdsman. The shadowy, immobile figure was perhaps one hundred feet distant and Boromir wondered if the man's brains were as stolid as his stance. Obviously not, for he had succeeded in manipulating his old mentor's home into a struggle between father and daughter. And here was the troublemaker himself, standing placidly nearby, watching all that transpired with what he imagined was a sharp eye.
But neither will I betray my true feelings until it is time, Boromir mused. It was a skill in which he had caused his tutors and father no small degree of frustration. Such lessons in political deceit had never interested him, as he preferred the blunt and honest exchange of the blade. Faramir was more adept at such machinations than he. Yet it was a distasteful task he would willingly endure to assist Gorhend and his sense of loyalty made success imperative.
"Good evening to you," he said, lifting an arm in greeting. "Belaród, is it?"
"Yes," came the curt answer, to be amended by "Yes, sire" when Boromir drew closer and the White Tree of Gondor, stitched on the front of his travel- worn tunic in dulling silver thread, became blazingly visible in the firelight. "Yes, sire," he said again. "I have the honor of addressing. . .?"
"Lord Boromir," came the reply, "but do not stand on ceremony. Cirien said you have wine?" With a sly sense of pleasure, he had noticed the change in Belaród's tone. So he had disconcerted the young schemer. All to the good.
Belaród bent and retrieved a wine bag that lay close to the flames for the sole purpose of keeping the contents warm. He handed it to Boromir silently and watched with reserved interest as the nobleman took it and swallowed a bracing draught of the vintage.
"I am told you are the newest man here," Boromir said, settling onto an old log that served as a makeshift bench. It was an aged inhabitant of the plains for it was slick with moss and moisture, emitting a fetid aroma from the numerous pockmarks and pits created by hungry insects and worms.
Belaród briefly contemplated Boromir's unspoken invitation to join him and took a seat at a wary distance without betraying his trepidation.
"You have nothing to fear, boy," Boromir prodded, unable to resist a sparring remark. "I will not hew off your head."
Belaród's eyes glinted at the patronizing humor. "No, for a sword is your weapon."
Boromir chuckled. "Then I shall not cut off your head with any means." As Belaród continued to study him with a guarded expression, Boromir began to take stock of this young man. For he was indeed young, perhaps the same age as Faramir or a little older. The dancing flames of the fire gave his face a lean and shadowed appearance, but Boromir could discern a tightened jaw, clean-shaven and determined. Pride and self-confidence this man had, and his eyes appeared to be of a strangely compelling shade of the deepest blue.
It did not take Boromir long to conclude just how matters had come to such a pass in Gorhend's household. Belaród was a handsome youth. . .and Myrhil was a young woman among old men. This Belaród would remain handsome for a good many years and unless Gorhend sacrificed his need for men in exchange for peace, Boromir feared there would be no end of hardship.
Boromir took another warming draught from the skin and asked conversationally, "Why are you not in Gondor's army? You look to be the type we need. It is surprising that our recruiters have overlooked you." Despite Belaród's virile appearance, Boromir wondered if the boy was actually a sheep hiding under the guise of a wolf. But if not, then Gondor could certainly use his services and perhaps he would be leaving Lebennin with another man to fill Gondor's thinning ranks.
"I look to my own interests," Belaród stated baldly, "and coughing up blood with an orc blade in my gut will not further them."
"You are so sure you would die?" Boromir rejoined. "I have been putting my blade in their guts for nigh fifteen years, which is to say, half of my life."
At this slight to his mettle, the young man responded stiffly, "Brave and able men die as well, and for no deserved reason. No doubt you have witnessed that truth yourself many times over."
"Agreed. Fate does play her part with no regard for ability or skill."
"Then I shall not entrust my life to so unfair a judge," Belaród snapped. "I prefer to do that at which I am most adept with no fear of suffering the vagaries of Fate."
"Better to victimize others than be one yourself," Boromir said casually, not looking at the man, as though stating a plain fact.
Belaród shot to his feet, glaring down at the seated warrior. "What are you accusing me of?" he demanded.
"That which is obvious," Boromir continued calmly, still not giving Belaród the respect of speaking to his face. "It is a poor man who connives through the romantic notions of an unschooled girl." Only now did he look up, his own eyes meeting Belaród's, and he saw the herdsman was livid with rage.
"I have not touched Myrhil. That you would accuse me of using her in that way--"
Boromir held up his hands as if to ward off the outraged denial. "I did not imply that you had extended your hold over her through those means," he said, trying to keep his voice calm. He would prefer not to dwell on the possibility that Gorhend -- and Myrhil -- had been dishonored so. "I only meant that insinuating yourself into this household through manipulation of an easily-led girl, playing upon her own desires, is not what I would call. . .admirable behavior."
"The symbol on your tunic does not give you leave to hurl base insults," Belaród retorted.
This one was a tough nut to crack, Boromir thought angrily, seeing Belaród's stance grow steely as his resolve stiffened. He knew that Faramir would have been subtler in his maneuvers, but he was not his brother. Perhaps his chances of success had slipped away long ago and the familiar tactics of the battlefield were needed.
Boromir rose slowly. "I am not speaking as the Captain of Gondor, or Denethor's son, or even a mean soldier," he said, his voice a low growl. "I am speaking as a boon companion of the man you are plotting against. And I say to you now, act honorably or you will find yourself facing Orcs in the loneliest outpost on the borders of Ithilien so fast you will wonder how you got there." He advanced on Belaród until his prey took an involuntary step backwards. "It is your choice, my friend. Call this a threat if you like, for you would be utterly correct in that assumption."
Belaród had not time to answer as a rending scream of pain and alarm in the distance reverberated wildly off the stony mountainsides and shattered the peace of the plains.