"Where is Father?" Myrhil asked from her position on the ground. Belaród reclined against her, cheek resting on her shoulder, and she felt his breathing come rapid and shallow. Absently, she brought a hand to his brow and stroked his hair as she looked up at Boromir.
Cirien turned and jumped over a dead orc, returning to where Gorhend lay. He collapsed beside the prone form and placed an ear over the slightly parted lips. He felt a warm breath tickle his skin and he grinned tiredly. "Lord Boromir!" he called. "He still lives!"
Boromir turned at Cirien's joyous exclamation, then looked back down at Myrhil. "Do you wish to see your father?"
"Go see him, Myrhil," Belaród murmured, his eyes closed against the pain. "I understand."
Myrhil gazed at the pallid and sweaty face resting against her and found herself unwilling to move. She felt tears sting her eyes anew and she looked up at Boromir. "Could you and Cirien bring him here?" she asked stiffly, her throat scraped raw from the hideous stench and smoke. "Then we can all be close to care for each other."
Boromir left and Belaród shook his head slightly. "You should not forsake your father for me," he coughed.
"I am not forsaking him. He will be here as well. I cannot run between both of you and do any good for either."
"I thought you were lost with that orc," he said, after drawing a cautious breath. "If he had discovered you were a woman. . ."
Myrhil placed a kiss on the top of his head. "The time is long past to fear for my virtue, Belaród," she said in an attempt at humor. "You have already seen to that yourself."
"I should hope there is a difference between me and that creature," he croaked before being seized by another fit of coughing.
Myrhil flinched when flecks of blood flew from between his lips and spattered her cheek. She squeezed her eyes shut and snaked her arms around him, holding him closer. She placed a hand over his stomach wound and pressed against it to staunch the flow. Belaród arched in her embrace, hissing through gritted teeth. "Forgive me," she cried softly.
"For what?" he gasped. "Shoving your hand into my guts?"
Myrhil felt an insane urge to laugh at his words. Pain made men do -- and say -- the oddest things. "No," she replied. "I am only sorry that I did not arrive moments sooner."
"I would not be enjoying your attentions like this if you had," he managed with a crooked smile.
Myrhil recalled her desire earlier in the evening to run a sword through his throat. No, indeed he would not be wrapped in her arms if she had come sooner. She could never have killed him, but a few well-aimed kicks and punches would not have been remiss. Yet seeing him thus, contorting in pain and misery, she wished she had never let such thoughts enter her mind. "And I should hope that you would prefer my attentions in another place rather than surrounded by stinking orc corpses," she replied, lacing her fingers through his and giving his bloody hand a firm squeeze.
"Aye, that I do," he replied.
Boromir and Cirien reappeared with Gorhend's body in a sling made from Boromir's cloak. They set him down gingerly and Myrhil gently lowered Belaród onto his back with a murmured promise to return soon. As she crawled over to her father, she wanted to collapse in her path, sobbing and screaming with exhaustion and the unbearable agony that shot through her body. She could still feel the orc's weight pinning her down, the bite of his rotten fangs in her neck. At some point she would have to look to her own wounds, but now they were of little consequence. The aftermath of battle, the caring of the wounded, was as difficult as the fighting itself. She never would have thought it true.
"How was he injured?" she asked once she reached Boromir, crouching beside him as he removed Gorhend's cloak.
"I saw him receive one injury myself. A sword across his back." Boromir turned Gorhend onto his side, and an ugly, deep gash came into view, a jumble of flesh and splintered bone. He tried to shield the injury with the edge of the cloak when he saw the gruesome sight. Myrhil should not witness her father thusly, but a sure hand gripped his wrist. Perhaps not so sure, for he could feel the barely suppressed trembling flow through her fingers past his worn bracer.
"You cannot spare me this," she said. "I will see it eventually."
He observed her resigned weariness and removed the cloak. Myrhil's intake of breath bespoke her shock. Boromir said nothing, and continued to look Gorhend over. "A head wound," he noted, his hand on the man's bloody hair, fingers running over the scalp. "Crushed. He must have taken the blow sometime in the battle and sleep finally claimed him. It is serious, else he would have woken." He finished his inspection with haste. "I can see naught else."
"We must return quickly," Myrhil said, rising to her feet none too steadily.
For the first time, Boromir saw the raw, open wound at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. "You are injured yourself, Myrhil!" he exclaimed. "How. . .?"
"An orc bit me," she said flatly. Lifting a limp hand to rub at her forehead, she stared at the ground and laughed, the sound rueful and hollow. "The war stories we can now share, Boromir." She looked past him at Cirien. "Have we enough horses for all?"
Cirien nodded. "I believe so, Myrhil. I do not think any of us will have to go on foot."
Boromir tucked the cloak around Gorhend's still body and crawled over to where Belaród lay. "What are you suffering, my lad?" His gaze went to the blood-soaked fingers that Belaród clenched against his stomach and instinctively he looked over his shoulder at Myrhil. The same sorrowful acceptance glimmered in her eyes and she turned away abruptly. Taking Cirien by the arm, they went to collect any horses that might be found lingering nearby.
"I think it is mortal," Belaród choked. "An orc blade in the gut, just as I told you. . ."
Boromir felt a stab of remorse at this reminder of their heated confrontation. The young man's eyes were still bright, but the luster was from pain rather than indignant anger. "Come now," he said. "So what if they did slip one past you? 'Tis nothing compared to what you slipped past them." He reached out and hit a fallen orc in triumph, smiling. "How many did you kill, lad?"
Belaród managed a weak grin. "Five." Another fit of coughing racked his body and he twisted onto his side, bent double from the force of it. With a groan, he slowly relaxed, but his hands did not leave the wound.
"Good boy. . .good lad," the elder warrior whispered, putting a hand on the herdsman's shoulder and squeezing it firmly. He turned away before his tears could be seen. "You did well."
The reply was pleased. "Thank you. . .Captain."
Indeed, no one was forced to return on foot. Boromir retrieved his stallion and the others were gathered together as well. Several more emerged skittishly when they heard familiar voices calling. Cirien gathered some rope from their saddles and formed leads to bring these survivors home. The pyre was growing dim, its fuel nearly consumed, and Cirien worked feverishly to finish his task while light remained.
After Boromir and Myrhil created bandages from any spare strip of cloth their garments could offer, they bound Belaród's and Gorhend's wounds as best they could and wrapped them tightly in their cloaks. Then they quickly surveyed the small battleground, but could find none of the missing herdsmen.
"They would not have deserted," Myrhil maintained. "They were loyal and brave men."
Boromir looked at the hissing and spitting blaze, the flames lurching crazily when they found an untouched morsel on which to feed and give them a brief moment of renewed life. "I fear they have joined those they died defending," he said. "We will find no trace of them."
"It seems a dishonor to have their bones and those of orcs rest together, but these creatures must be destroyed. I will not have them rotting on the plains and fouling the land." She bent over a dead orc, grabbed his feet, and began to drag him towards the fire. "They started the flames and now they shall feed them."
Boromir watched her silently, then advanced and relieved her of one leg. Together they made fast progress as the orcs were thrown onto the resurgent blaze. Myrhil's right arm began to throb unbearably with the strain she put on it, and as they swung a corpse between them, she cried out in alarm. The orc's arm slipped from her grasp and she fell to her knees.
"Myrhil, you need attention as well," Boromir said, kneeling by her and surveying the ugly wound. "Let the others rot. Only three are left. They can give the crows something to feast on."
"If they would even eat such meat," Myrhil said in disgust, bringing a hand to her neck. An angry groan issued from her tightly clenched jaw. "It burns!" she ground out. "Father said they poisoned their blades, not their teeth!"
Boromir smiled grimly as he prodded the wound lightly with his fingertips. "He did not take a large bite out of you, but you will need some stitches. I hope your mother has plenty of thread."
"Ai, my mother. . ." Myrhil hissed as Boromir's touch disturbed an angry nerve. "She will not be pleased with me, running out and nearly getting myself killed."
Boromir said nothing but he too was thoughtful of his impending meeting with Gorhend's wife. The last time he had come, her son had been killed, and now he was bearing home the unconscious and battered body of her husband. He was a curse to this family and, apart from his own kin, he would sooner cut off his hand than bring them grief.
Myrhil brought a hand to her cheek and rubbed it roughly, wincing. She inspected the red streaks on her palm with a dour expression. She turned her head to Boromir for inspection. "What do you see?"
Squinting, Boromir cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her face towards the flickering light behind them. "Gouges. . .and blood, naturally," he said.
"I know not what that orc's gauntlet was made of, but it felt like a brick outfitted with iron spikes." She continued to rub the raw and bleeding skin, trying to make the burning cease.
Boromir took hold of her wrist and forcibly drew it away from her face. "Do not touch it. You will have scars as it is. Everything they carry or even wear is a weapon."
"Even their breath is a weapon," Myrhil shuddered.
"Aye," Boromir grinned. "They have rotten flesh of their own kind stuck between their fangs. I have fought with them enough at close quarters to know the stench they carry."
Myrhil did not reply, but remained kneeling where she had fallen. Her chin rested on her chest and her eyes were closed. Boromir noted the steady rise and fall of her breathing, a peaceful rhythm rather than the erratic gasps and movement earlier when the desire to destroy the dead bodies first took hold of her. Whether this change came from a calm acceptance of all that had occurred this night, or simply sheer exhaustion, he could not tell.
"Come," he said, reaching out a hand and shaking her by the arm. "You must not rest until we are safely back at your home. We still have much ahead of us." His tone was gruffer than he intended, but the matter was urgent.
A small sigh escaped her and she grasped his arm tightly as he hauled her to her feet. "I am tired, Boromir." She did not remove her hand, but only gripped him tighter, and her voice shook. "I am so tired!" She looked up at him and was about to say more, but instead turned and left. On uncertain legs, she made her way towards Cirien as the herdsman was making final adjustments to the saddles on two horses to bear their limp burdens.
Boromir followed her, the expression he had seen in her eyes and face imprinted in his mind. He knew what she was thinking; he knew how she felt. The look on her face spoke of one question: Why? He knew not the answer for he had asked that question of himself after his first battle when several comrades lay bleeding in the dust. Why them? Why now? Why this constant struggle against a foe bent on evil? There was no answer that a mere Man could conjure and have it ring true. It just was. It had to be accepted that such was the way of things and all that one could do was fight with all his strength and cunning. Somehow he doubted that Myrhil would accept such an explanation, and until she asked him, he would not utter his unsatisfying answer.
As he drew up to the rest, Myrhil was bending over Belaród and arranging his cloak around him. "Can you ride?" she asked. "Will you be able to stay mounted without being tied?"
Belaród had begun to shiver uncontrollably and he managed to grind out an emphatic no between chattering teeth. Boromir took Myrhil by the arm and said, "Get on your horse. Cirien and I will lift him up to you."
They secured Gorhend's unconscious form to his horse and Myrhil mounted her mare after two attempts to raise herself in the stirrup. Her muscles screamed and felt like they were ripping with every move she made. Dragging a leg over her horse's rump, she finally righted herself in the saddle and slid back to allow room for Belaród as Boromir and Cirien raised the groaning man and positioned him in front of her. Gathering the reins in one hand, she turned her mare southward and waited for the others to join her. Her other arm was hooked around Belaród's waist and she felt his own hands clenched against the leaking wound. He had only let go of it when he was bandaged, but all attempts to staunch the flow were in vain. His shirt and breeches were soaked in blood.
She knew he would not -- could not -- survive. Her father had often told her of mortal wounds and those in the stomach were usually fatal. But a part of her would not accept that fate. Certainly such an end for him was not right, not what was intended. Pressing her face against the back of his neck, she gave the dirty and sweaty skin a kiss and closed her eyes in silent imprecation. Her father. . .Belaród. . .the other three men. . .all those horses. . . Could Death be satisfied with only some and leave the rest to the living? Must It engulf everything this night?
Belaród seemed senseless to her caress or her thoughts. He reclined against her as he did earlier, head resting on her shoulder as she nudged her mare forward. Boromir and Cirien drew up beside her. Cirien led the horse bearing Gorhend in one hand and a torch from the pyre in the other to light their way. Boromir held two leads with four horses apiece, all that remained of the once magnificent herd. She offered to take one rope from him, but he shook his head and sat straight and alert in his saddle. Cheek resting on Belaród's shoulder, she continued to look at Boromir and understood why her father loved him so, why they had been such devoted friends. Despite all that had happened in the past nightmarish hours, he was still as a soldier ought to be: strong, clear-headed, and reliable. She wondered if Larhend would have ever shown such strength. Would she? She did not have an answer.
As the small wood and stone structure came into view, the dread that had relentlessly crept up Boromir's spine now settled heavily on his shoulders. Cirien's torch had burnt low and was fast becoming useless, as though it knew its duty had been fulfilled. No one had spoken during the journey homewards for there was nothing that could be said. All thought was bent on remaining awake and proceeding at a pace that would close the distance quickly, but not further injure those grievously wounded.
Myrhil shifted sleepily against Belaród, gritting her teeth as her tired arms ached from the stiff hold she had kept on him. His breathing had lessened to an alarming degree and it was with great relief that she finally saw her home not far away. He needed to lie down; rest for herself was not far from her mind, either. She could practically feel the rough fabric of her blankets as she rubbed Belaród's arms in an effort to keep him warm. Her eyes burned with the need to sleep.
The windows were dark as they neared, but after several minutes a dim light flared inside and moved towards the door. As the door opened, a shaft of light from a lantern shone into their eyes.
"What is it?" came a voice, fearful. "Myrhil, is that you?"
Myrhil's voice came thick and dry after not having spoken for so long. "Yes, Mother. I am here." She peered blearily over Belaród's shoulder at the figure before her, swathed in a nightdress and wool shawl.
When Laenilas' eyes adjusted to the half-lit darkness and saw the bedraggled group, her fingers tightened around the wire handle of the lantern. "Gorhend!" she cried, running over to Myrhil. "Where is he?"
"He is here, my lady," Cirien said, dismounting. Snuffing his torch in the dust, he went to Gorhend's horse, Laenilas close behind him.
Boromir closed his eyes at the horrified wail that soon tore from Laenilas' throat. "What happened?" she cried. Cirien's reply was low, but it seemed to effect a change on the shocked woman, for she set the lantern down and helped free her husband from the rope that held him snugly on his mount.
Myrhil remained on her horse, holding Belaród against her. She was beginning to experience the strange sensation that they were of the same body, as though neither of them had the strength to withstand absorbing each other. Everything around her felt distant -- her mother's voice, Cirien's labors to untie Gorhend -- all felt far removed from what she perceived as her surroundings. The last shred of her consciousness was only aware of Belaród's sagging body in her arms and the horse beneath her.
How fast -- or slow -- time passed, she did not know. Belaród grew heavier and heavier in the safe and comforting embrace that surrounded him and in her tired brain, Myrhil believed that a similar paradise awaited her if she would only surrender to it, only let herself sink backwards. . .
All that enveloped her was air, unresisting and invisible. She and Belaród landed in a tangled heap on the muddy ground, completely insensible and wrapped in darkness.
"I thank you, my lord, for bringing my daughter and husband back to me."
Boromir nodded, unsure how to proceed. He had not yet detected any bitterness or recrimination in her words or tone that his appearance had resulted in yet another catastrophe. Even if Laenilas did not dredge up these memories, he found it all too difficult to put them from his mind. But this evening had already been fraught with misery and he did not wish to add old wounds to those newly bleeding.
"My only regret is that I did not return with them unscathed," he replied after a moment's consideration.
They stood by the bed Laenilas and Gorhend shared. The linen had been quickly stripped and replaced with old blankets, which now were soaking up blood from Gorhend's and Belaród's wounds. The bandages were proving useless. The gashes and gaping cuts, hastily closed with Laenilas' needle, still flowed with no sign of ceasing. She and Boromir had changed them twice already, and when they had bled through again, Laenilas grabbed the discarded linen and tore long strips to wrap around the fading men.
Laenilas sat down on the edge of the bed beside Gorhend and lay a hand on his damp brow, contemplating him silently for several long moments. In the lantern light, Boromir saw that her expression was a pained combination of sorrow and. . .wistfulness? A small smile curved her lips and she murmured something to him, but Boromir could not understand it all. He could only detect a few words and endearments.
He bowed his head and moved to the door. This was another domestic moment that he had no business intruding on and he would be more comfortable if he could find something useful to do. There was little else he could offer to make this evening's path less painful to tread. For Belaród and Gorhend, their lives had only brief moments left -- and from Laenilas' accepting mien, he knew that she was all too aware that by dawn she would most likely be a widow.
Laenilas leaned over Gorhend and kissed his lips gently. "Rest, my love," she said, caressing his weathered cheek with her fingertips.
When Boromir lifted the latch on the door, she turned at the sound. "Please do not go yet."
"I would like to see how Myrhil is faring," he said.
"Cirien and Cardhel are tending her admirably, I am certain. Please. . .sit down."
Boromir returned to the bedside and lowered himself into a smoothly carved and elegant chair that Laenilas gestured towards. He had not noticed it before and it was a sharp contrast to the rough and rustic home. No doubt it was an heirloom from her family, perhaps part of her dowry or a bridal gift. He perched on the edge uncertainly, aware that he was bleeding himself and worried that the velvet-clad cushions would suffer from his injuries.
"Do not trouble yourself over the furnishings, my lord," she said, having noticed his stiff posture. "There is nothing in this house that I would consider priceless except the people within it."
Boromir visibly relaxed, his body slumping backwards into the chair, but his face was still tense, his jaw rigid in anxious expectation. Every muscle ached and his head throbbed from the strain.
"You have told me it was an orc attack," Laenilas began, "and I confess that I think it eerie that we were only discussing the possibility of such at dinner. It makes one feel that so many things should be left unsaid to prevent their occurrence. A foolish notion, no doubt." She sighed and took a deep breath, turning on her hip to look at the young man who rested fitfully beside her husband. "You have told me how my husband was injured, but you have not mentioned Belaród. I would know how he acquitted himself since he gave cause for Gorhend and I to question his motives and his mettle."
Boromir cleared his throat as he recalled the boy's proud claim of five kills. "He would have made an excellent warrior had he not been tested so unfairly," he said. "For a green lad, fear and rage apparently gave him unknown strength. Yet in a just world he would have been better trained before facing such odds." He smiled. "He killed five out of six. I wish that I could bring him to Minas Tirith. Gondor needs soldiers like him."
"Then you think he will die." It was not a question, but a stated fact.
Boromir nodded. "I have seen too many men wounded like this. If they did not die on the field, they succumbed eventually. His leg, too, will either gangrene or heal so poorly that he will never walk without a stick -- if he should live."
"You have seen much for such a youth," Laenilas whispered. Sadness washed over her as she looked upon this young man before her who was already beginning to show the creases of worry and battle-weariness on his fair face. "While I remained here as Gorhend fought unseen wars, I only imagined what he endured. I never saw him immediately afterwards, bloody from the field and still reeking from grisly deeds. I worried for him from afar, but my concerns and toil always seemed more real. That is, until tonight."
Boromir lowered his eyes at her speech, afraid that his emotions were visible. He did not wish to remind this woman of her husband from years past when he was hale and very much alive. He wanted to leave her presence and collect his own raging thoughts, even if it was only to stare up at the stars and try to make sense of their brilliance on such a dark night. The room was becoming close and the odor from the sickbed filled his nostrils. Nausea crept into his stomach and he closed his eyes in an effort to quench it by putting all smells and images from his mind.
"It is not a just world, is it?" she continued. "It never has been." She bowed her head and brought a hand to her eyes. "Odd that I was thinking of injustice as Myrhil rode away in a fury. This night has been full of omens and coincidences. The horrible thought that it was all meant to be has been growing in my mind." She removed her hand and looked steadily at Boromir. "But tell me, for you have not yet, what did Myrhil do? Was she brave?"
Boromir was silent as he smothered the last remnants of nausea that threatened his ability to speak. "Forgive me if I am not eloquent," he began. "I have rarely been called upon to discuss the courage of women."
"What of your mother?" Laenilas asked. "She was a fair and strong creature, if the rumors and stories are true."
"Not in the field of arms," Boromir replied, mastering his voice before it caught at the memory of Finduilas, her life extinguished nearly twenty-one years past. "But she was indeed fair, even beautiful, and she withstood the pain of separation from her family and childhood home without complaint or an ill word. Dol Amroth was always in her thoughts for she told Faramir and I of its beauty when we were children, always with a wrenching sadness."
Laenilas smiled bitterly as the images of Rohan returned to her mind, fanciful and dreamlike visions crafted by the stories and tales that she had eagerly devoured at the feet of her grandmother, Théda. How long had she yearned to see that land? Not having known it, as Finduilas had Dol Amroth, that fair seaside city, the longing was not so acute or crushing, but it was still there, ever present, ever beautiful. . .
"Every man, or woman, has a limit to their endurance and my mother was pushed beyond hers," Boromir finished, breathless from trying to maintain an even tone though it threatened to shatter. He knew not why he was speaking thus to her. His memories of his mother had long been kept hidden in his heart, revealed only when in Faramir's company. Though both women seemed to be unlike each other as night from day, some vague similarities drifted about his mind. They were both fair, though in different ways. Finduilas, in his childish memories, was sad and gently beautiful, the melancholy mood of the sea deep in her eyes. Laenilas bore the features of Rohan, that vibrant and fierce land of the Horse Lords, warriors with golden hair and blue eyes, tamers of horses and sturdy as the rolling hills that housed their herds. Finduilas' strength and will had always reminded him of a fortress or tower, calm and guarded, but not invincible to persistent attacks or the relentless assault of the elements. Laenilas, from his brief knowledge of her, seemed more unto the land, for that is what she had worked for many years. Land was never defeated; it changed hands, it suffered indignities, but it still endured when all the fortresses and castles had long been reduced to rubble.
"She found herself unable to further endure," he repeated, "as surely will we all, in one way or another."
"I am pleased that Myrhil was not bested, that she can withstand much more," Laenilas said.
Boromir returned from contemplation of his mother at these words, reminded that he had been asked to recall Myrhil's deeds. "I did not see her fight," he said, glad to be on another subject after the bittersweet memories of his mother. "I heard her scream, which is when she must have received that wound from the orc's teeth. She did behead him when she freed herself."
Laenilas' eyes glittered. "Did she really?" she asked, her pleasure undisguised. "My girl did that?" At Boromir's nod, she turned to Gorhend. "You need not ever fear for her," she told her sleeping husband. "You always wanted to know if she was strong." She returned her gaze to Boromir, smiling. "Did he see it?"
"I fear not. She and Belaród were on the far side of the battle, at a distance from the rest of us. Only they saw each other's valor, which I believe was considerable."
Laenilas' smile faded somewhat at the news that her husband did not see that which he had so long wondered about. "That is a pity," she said, swallowing visibly and blinking back the angry tears that burned her eyes. "He lamented in the depths of his heart that his only surviving blood was female. Any man would, I am certain." She looked steadily at Boromir. "Your father must be pleased that he has two sons."
Boromir looked pained at her words, but he replied, "Yes, I believe he feels blessed to have us both."
"I knew it mattered not that Myrhil was the survivor," Laenilas continued. "She would be tested in time and ability comes in all forms, but it troubled him. Now he may never know that his fears were groundless." She bit her lip and looked upwards, then closed her eyes tightly. "One should never die uncertain or unknowing. The next life in death, whatever that might be, will carry the troubles of the first. How wonderful it would be to have everything resolved and sure before passing beyond."
She fell silent and Boromir remained motionless in the chair, staring at the knotty and worn planks of the floor. The shallow wounds he had received began to throb, but he still jumped in alarm when he felt a warm hand caress his bearded cheek. He looked up into Laenilas' brilliant blue eyes that were made all the sharper by the tears that shimmered over them. "Thank you, my lord Boromir," she whispered hoarsely. "Thank you for being with us this night."