By dawn the next morning, the three travelers were on their way east. From her kitchen, Laenilas had left behind all but a few tin plates and cups that she would use when they made camp at night, as well as a small cooking pot. The rest she bestowed on Cardhel with a heartfelt embrace and best wishes that they would serve her well. Cardhel blushed at the generosity and promised to feed the men as her mistress would have done, whenever they arrived. Before parting, Laenilas whispered to her former servant, "And you need not sleep in those cramped quarters any longer. Please, our room lies empty and it is too large for only one person." She looked over at Cirien, who was giving Myrhil a farewell embrace. "A master needs his mistress," she continued.
Cardhel blushed even more furiously. "Yes, my lady," she whispered, eyes studiously averted. "If he will have me, I think that would be a fine thing."
Without further delay, Laenilas, Myrhil, and Boromir mounted their horses and set their sights eastward, their pace steady and purposeful. The intermittent rain of the previous day had passed completely and the sky was clear with only a few lingering clouds skirting the horizon. The air on the heels of the showers had turned brisk and it made the journey undeniably pleasant, as well as lightening the doubting mood that had plagued Myrhil in the first hours of travel. Laenilas noticed that her daughter looked over her shoulder several times before a mile lay between them and their home. Knowing that each glance would instill another longing deeper into her heart, Laenilas reached out a hand and rested it on the back of Myrhil's head. "Do not look back," she said. "You shall return someday if that is your fate. But for now, your path lies ahead, not behind. Be firm with yourself."
Myrhil nodded wordlessly and steeled herself to keep her eyes facing forward, regardless of the temptation to turn in her saddle yet again.
The miles fell away beneath the horses' hooves and the three companions settled into a comfortable silence. After a few hours, Myrhil began to enjoy the journey as her seat reminded her that she had always taken this route in the past on the hard bench of a creaking and jerking wagon beside either Cirien or her father when they needed to buy supplies. The reminder of Cirien, struggling alongside Cardhel miles behind them, gave her pause once more, but the thought had no time to settle in her mind because Laenilas voiced a gentle reminder: "Eyes front, girl."
Myrhil turned her head to look at her mother. "I was not--" she began, but stopped when she realized that lying was pointless. "Eyes front," she repeated.
Laenilas smiled in satisfaction. "They will manage quite well," she reassured her. "Do not worry about them. In many ways, they are like your father and I and we created something out of nothing. Cardhel is still young and will prove to be a worthy successor to me, despite her inability to properly mash potatoes, and you know what Gorhend thought of Cirien. He did not keep him for so many years because he was a horrible horseman."
She lowered her voice, although Boromir rode nearly one hundred feet ahead of them and was unable to hear their conversation distinctly. "I am willing to wager that the two of them share the same bed within six months," she said, smiling in a conspiratorial manner that Myrhil was shocked to see. Her mother was gossiping! In fact, ever since preparations had gotten underway to leave the farm by the Gilrain, Laenilas' manner had become occasionally light, even girlish in some respects, although her familiar demeanor would never disappear, not even by half.
Her rule in the kitchen the previous night had been as rigid as ever, Cardhel earning some words about her lack of attention to the stew so that it boiled too long. Cardhel had taken the rebuke with a hidden smile as she placed the filled bowls on the table and everyone, including Boromir, allowed Laenilas this final night of absolute power. For Laenilas, more than anyone, knew that this journey would take her to a place where she was no longer a queen in all but name. She would be beholden to the grace and generosity of Théoden King, should he extend the cloak of hospitality over her weary shoulders. She would lose her right to administer things as she saw fit within the place she lived. Yet it was a price she was willing to pay, if she could see the land of her kin and those in between; if she could satisfy this burning within her breast that she had too long unsuccessfully struggled to subdue.
They pressed onward, even as the sun began to hover close to the horizon behind them. They had rarely paused throughout the day, the cool weather and plentiful running brooks and standing pools of water in the depressions on the plains replenishing their horses quickly and making them eager to continue their pace eastward. Only once did they have to stop for an emergency, when Myrhil's horse picked up a small stone and she felt the animal's distress soon enough so that no lameness resulted.
The road yielded fewer travelers than the South Road would have, but when they did encounter a passerby, Boromir asked them if any trouble had been sighted in parts to the immediate east. None professed knowledge of any such thing, and Boromir decided not to alarm them by relaying the events of a few nights' past. Instead, he said that the rumors he had heard of an orc attack in the west might be false, but that extra vigilance certainly could not harm everyone in the region. They heard his words with immense gravity, not knowing to whom they spoke, and agreed that they would pass on what he said.
As dusk settled around them, Boromir suggested they stop alongside a flat and grassy area on the western bank of the River Sirith. "There is clear water for cooking and drinking," he told Laenilas, "and some brush here for a fire." He dismounted and looked in the direction they had come, as though sizing up their day's progress. "Nearly one hundred miles to the southeast we have come, I figure," he said, his tone extremely pleased. "By mid-morning we will be on the South Road and from there it will not be long before the White City looms before us. The road is well-maintained and hours seem like minutes."
Laenilas was extremely relived that the day was at an end, her riding skills having been put to the test today. She rarely had reason to ride, but today revived memories of what an uncomfortable method of traveling it was. Myrhil's enthusiasm and eagerness to keep Boromir's steady and swift pace dampened her spirits as the day wore on, but she would not betray her discomfort one whit since the decision had been hers to accompany the Captain of Gondor back to his city.
She gingerly dismounted and unbuckled the pack that contained her cooking gear from her horse's rump. Boromir had already unsaddled and hobbled his horse and was now gathering dead branches and breaking off small limbs from the brush that lined parts of the riverbank. He pried rocks from the riverbed where the early spring's rush had already receded into a narrower channel and set them in a ring encircling the kindling. Myrhil stepped forward with her flint and lit the dry wood. When the flames looked like they would survive without constant care, she stood and saw Boromir take off his cloak before starting to walk northwards, following the river.
"Where are you going?" she called out.
"Hunting for supper," he said. "The vegetables your mother brought will not be enough for all of us."
Myrhil turned to Laenilas, who was unwrapping the canvas that held all the foodstuffs she felt her horse could carry, along with its other burdens. She shook her head. "I can make a stew," she said, "but I will need meat for it if it is to do us any good."
Myrhil ran to her pack that she had recently removed from her mare, retrieved something from her saddle bag, and followed Boromir. She had to settle into a lope that covered more ground to catch up to him quickly for her legs, though long, were still no match for his immense stride.
At the sound of her approaching him from behind, he turned and asked somewhat irritably, "Have you ever heard that too many hunters scare the prey?"
Myrhil was unfazed by his tone. "I only think it right I should assist in filling my own belly," she said. She held up the object she had retrieved from her pack. "I have no mean aim with a slingshot. That is, unless you were looking for fish?" She touched her sword. "Then I can try to spear one with this."
Boromir shook his head in amusement at her eagerness, but he did not tell her to return to the fire. The girl had been quiet today, a trait that the women of court sadly lacked, and he had basked in the peace. So it was with only a trace of reluctance that he gestured her to follow him with a swift motion of his hand. Myrhil grinned and again loped until she fell into step beside him, still having to maintain a fast walk to keep apace with his vast gait. When her breath began to come short and sharp in her chest, she gritted her teeth and hastened so that he would not leave her behind, yet it was with distinct relief when he stuck out his arm to stop her. The scuffed leather of his vambraces scratched at her skin and she swallowed a choke caused by the sudden pressure against her throat.
"We have come far enough," he whispered. "The firelight would scare them away, but I do not smell the smoke, either. Can you?"
Myrhil inhaled deeply. "No, I cannot."
"Then let us sit and wait," he said, pointing towards a stand of trees that hovered near the edge of the river, their branches bending low over the water as though to drink like a weary man. "We shall be hidden there should some unfortunate beast choose to come within our sights."
They retreated into the darkness under the trees. Their road had taken them southward throughout the entire day and Myrhil saw that spring was firmly entrenched in this region while it was only beginning to make an appearance in the mountain shadows of the northern plains. The trees were bearing full crowns of leaves in the richest spring green and the scent of the land seemed fresh and new without the dank, temporary aroma of winter's kill.
Boromir drew a long knife from a sheath on his belt and gestured for Myrhil to follow him beneath the low-lying branches. Crouching side by side, they watched the edges of the river. From within their very dim shelter, all that lay outside was illuminated by the fading sky. Should anything approach the water, they would be sure to see it. However, time seemed to pass without so much as a rustle in the grass. Myrhil breathed slowly through her mouth for the absolute stillness of the plains made breathing with her nose sound like the wheezing of forge bellows. Her wound began to throb even more than it had during the day, no doubt caused by the strain of remaining in this alert crouch, and she slowly brought a hand to her shoulder and lightly massaged the tingling flesh. She softened her pained sigh as the pounding alternated between sharp and dull. Boromir took no notice of her movements and remained balanced on his toes, ready to spring forward within a second should anything draw close. The knife was still held loosely in his hand.
Myrhil reached a hand down to the ground and felt around for a missile to use in her sling. Boromir sensed she was looking for ammunition and began to search as well, letting his fingers brush the sparse grass and dry earth around him. Their paths met each other a few times, dusty fingers striking each other. "No luck?" she whispered softly.
"When you want a rock, there are none around," he muttered. "When you have no boots on, they are always underfoot."
Myrhil stifled a chuckle and continued to search. "Have you ever hunted with a sling?" she asked, her voice still a mere whisper.
"Aye, years and years ago it seems," he replied. He tapped her shoulder and took her hand, dropping a smooth stone into it.
She hefted it, pleased. It was about the size of the end of her thumb and would be the bane of any small game animal, should one come within range. She placed it in the small leather strap tied to two strings of gut and pinched it tightly so that it would not fall. "When you were a boy?" she asked.
"Aye," he answered. "My brother and I used them before we were allowed to carry knives. Faramir and I, we would go out on the Pelennor Fields and stalk anything that was blind enough not to see two bumbling boys charging at them like Mumak. There was also no end of rats in some parts of the city. We were the scourge of those rodents for several years." What little light had penetrated the canopy above them was fast fading, so Myrhil did not see Boromir smile, but she could hear it in his voice. "Who taught you to use it?" he asked.
"My brother." She bent her head and laughed silently. "The first day I held one began when he said that I was too weak to pull back on the gut. I could not let a challenge like that pass, so I grabbed his sling from him, picked up a pebble and sent it into his backside." She turned and smiled apologetically. "I was an even dirtier brat than you know, Boromir of Gondor."
She saw the shadowed shape beside her shake with suppressed laughter, then a hand clamped over her arm. "Silence now," he said. "No doubt we have frightened off every piece of meat within a league with our talk."
Myrhil fell silent, wondering if her mother was piqued that her stew still lacked the one ingredient that would make it tasty. No doubt she was convinced that her daughter and Gondor's heir had decided to go all the way to the mountains to kill a goat for her pot.
"How long have we--?" Myrhil ventured, but was cut short when a hand covered her mouth and Boromir pointed towards the opposite riverbank where the tall grass was swaying erratically in a pattern no breeze could create.
Boromir removed his hand and bent to her ear. "We cannot cross the river and hope to catch it, so your sling will have to do the work. Simply knock it senseless, and then we can kill it at leisure," he said. "Let us creep forward now." He tugged on the edge of her cloak. "Take this off. You do not want to get tangled up in it if you need to move quickly. Your sword as well." Wordlessly, Myrhil undid the clasp and let it fall to the ground behind her. Just as silently, she unbuckled her sword belt and left it on top of her cloak. Boromir removed his, retaining only his long knife.
Together they got on hands and knees and slunk out from under their shelter. Myrhil inched forward on her elbows, one hand gripping the arm of her sling, the other on the leather, ready to aim and fire when the moment arrived. They reached the edge of the riverbank, keeping a thin barrier of grass between them. Boromir reached out and parted the grass before her, just enough so that her vision was not impaired and the stone would have a clear path.
The grass on the other side continued to sway and Myrhil strained to hear the noise the creature made, hoping that something would betray what species it was. She did not embrace the prospect of eating skunk, but meat was meat, especially when the stomach demanded to be fed.
Suddenly, the fronds parted and Myrhil pulled back on the gut, her eye trained on the path that lay ahead of the stone pinched tightly between her fingers. The light was fading fast and she silently urged whatever it was to make an appearance quickly else her one shot go astray once blinding darkness descended. Sharp pain flared throughout her shoulder like a hungry flame and she gritted her teeth against it affecting her aim. Sweat beaded on her forehead and she blinked slowly, trying to clear her mind of unnecessary thoughts and sensations. She forced her breath to remain level and low.
A shadowy shape appeared and Myrhil released the tension with a grunt. Her prey quacked in distress and fell down into the water with a frantic flapping of its wings. Myrhil and Boromir leaped to their feet and, seeing that the duck had not died instantly or been rendered unconscious, leaped into the water to catch it before the current and the animal's own thrashing movements carried it away from them forever. The two hunters were relieved to find that the water was not deep, nor the current overly swift, and they quickly reached the dying fowl, which was putting every last bit of strength it had into fighting the water that now captured it.
It was on its back, trying to right itself, but it had no chance to do so because it was set upon with greater force than it had ever known. Hands gripped its neck while others clenched its body. Within seconds, death claimed it to the sound of crunching bones.
Boromir held it aloft and they laughed loudly, the need for silence over. "Well done!" he exclaimed as he gripped her at the juncture between shoulder and neck. "Very good aim."
Myrhil could not suppress a small scream as every nerve within her leaped under Boromir's unthinking gesture. She felt her knees buckle and she collapsed into the water, submerged up to her chin. The chill water soaked her even more thoroughly but she did not care. It soothed the angry wound with its numbing caress and she did not respond to Boromir's hand on her other shoulder, trying to shake her to her senses.
With a muttered curse at his forgetfulness, Boromir bent and clamped an arm around Myrhil's waist, hauling her to her feet. "Ai, why did you have to do that?" she demanded, her voice a mere rasp.
Whether she meant striking her wound or removing her from the water, he did not know. "Come," Boromir said, placing a hand on her back and steering her towards the riverbank. "We cannot stand here in the water all night."
They reached the dry, sandy shore of the river and discovered the eroding bank was once and half again as tall as Boromir himself. When they had leaped off of it in the heat of the hunt, the height had not seemed so great, but now, with their clothes heavy and sodden, it would be no small feat to scale the crumbling wall of earth. The bank was in the shape of a small outcropping instead of slanting upwards and back.
Boromir tossed the dead fowl over their heads and laced his fingers together. "Give me your foot," he said. "I will spring you up over the bank."
"What about you?" Myrhil asked, pressing her wound lightly through the fabric of her clothes in an effort to push some of the cold into it. The throb was slowly receding again. "How will you get out of here?"
"I will manage," he assured her. "We could go up and downstream to find a shallow bank, but I do not think there is one nearby, nor is it wise to remain in the water. The night chill is setting in and your cloak and your sling are up there anyway."
"And now so is our duck."
He laughed. "Just so. Come, your foot."
Myrhil put her boot within the stirrup he created with his hands and grabbed onto his shoulder to steady herself. Boromir barely had to exert himself at all because Myrhil used her own strength to leap from his hands and grasped onto the sturdy fronds at the edge of the bank. Boromir pushed against her foot and, after a brief scramble, the tall grass soon surrounded her again. She returned to the edge and peered down at Boromir. "Give me your hand, if you can," she said.
"I will only pull you back down," he said. "Your wound might tear open as well. Best to stand clear and let me claw my way up."
"You do not know that for certain," she said. "Let me try, my lord."
Boromir thought upon it briefly. The girl barely weighed more than Faramir when he first started serious arms practice and, at that time his brother possessed the unkind name of 'Scarecrow' due to his lanky and unimpressive physique. He doubted that Myrhil would possess the strength to haul his bulk over the small outcropping, but, he concluded with a shrug, it was either attempt it or wade around in the dark trying to find another path out.
He retreated until the water swirled around his calves then ran the few paces to the edge of the bank. He leaped as high as his strength and heavy water-soaked clothes would allow and managed to grasp onto the same strong grasses that Myrhil had used for her escape. His boots struggled for purchase in the dirt and shale and, just when he was certain that his own weight would pull him back downwards, Myrhil hooked her hands under his arms and strained backwards, dragging him with her inch by inch. He continued to move his feet against any bit of earth they touched and, when he sensed that he had reached the point where he could finish his ascent on his own, he grunted, "Let me go."
Myrhil heaved backwards once more and yanked him forward another two feet. Her strength finally giving out, she let go of him and fell backwards onto the grass. Boromir pulled himself the rest of the way up and it was only a matter of seconds before he was sitting beside her, fighting for his own breath.
Myrhil gasped, "My father. . .always told me. . .to look before I jumped. He did not mean it literally, but. . .I should have remembered his advice."
Boromir tried to laugh, but his heavy breathing made him cough instead. "I have heard the same thing, and from my own father," he managed. He fell backwards in exhaustion, wishing that his tunics and breeches had not drunk so greedily from the river. Now he would have to sleep in damp clothes under the sole protection of his cloak and a blanket. It was nothing that he had not done before, but neither was it a hardship he relished.
Getting onto her hands and knees, Myrhil crawled about, collecting her sling and the dead duck. "If Mother doesn't get the meat soon, she may feed us only the vegetables out of spite." She made her way back to him where he still lay in a sodden pool. "Come," she said, prodding his arm, "give me your hand."
Boromir waved her away. "I will get to my own feet without any assistance," he said. "I will not be like Mardenil."
"Who is Mardenil?" Myrhil asked, standing up and wiping the water from her face with the back of her hand. As she did so, she jammed a finger in her bruised eye and bit back a curse. She looked forward to finally lying down for the night and in the stupor of sleep sparing her body from these purely accidental collisions.
"Mardenil was a man from long ago," he began, rolling onto his side and pushing himself to his feet. "It is said that he lived in the time of Door's stewardship, but others say he roamed the taverns when the first Denethor held office and Mordor captured Osgiliath. It matters not when he lived, for he took part in no battles and only slew bottles from gripping their necks too tightly."
Myrhil laughed at that. "I think I shall regret having to leave such an interesting city!"
"I am certain that Edoras has its own Mardenil," Boromir told her. "If so, I want to hear about him. But as for our own, he was merely a hopeless drunk known to all the city, forever drinking himself into complete forgetfulness and collapsing wherever the darkness took him." Boromir ran his fingers through his dark hair and wrung out some more river water, flinching a bit as some drops slid down his back.
"So people would have to pick him up?" Myrhil pressed.
Boromir grinned, enjoying the opportunity to pass along this story to another. It was one of his favorites, one of the first he had heard in the soldiers' barracks. "He was immensely fat, and he would usually fall onto his back. Stranded like a turtle, he was. He would have to lay there until someone was kind enough to take his hand and pull him to his feet."
She laughed. "That cannot be true!"
"Who is to say?" he shrugged off-handedly. "It is a legend in the taverns of Minas Tirith. Ambitious drinkers try to consume as much ale as Mardenil supposedly did, though the amount of his intake increases year by year with each telling of his story to gullible travelers."
"That I believe," she replied with a crooked smile, walking towards the stand of trees. "What happened to him?"
"There are many different endings to it. Some say he lay in the gutter until he choked in a rainstorm. No one wished to help him, so he perished. Others say he overcame his girth and staggered off to drink himself senseless once more. Again, who is to say?"
Myrhil shook her head in disbelief. "There are many things my father did not tell me," she said, "and I shall never know why." She tucked her sling in the waist of her breeches and retrieved their swords and her cloak, throwing it around her shoulders. She winced as her wound bade her be gentle. Boromir took the duck and together they retraced their steps back towards the camp.
Silence fell between them. As they walked, Myrhil ventured several covert glances at her companion. The light had completely vanished and clouds were settling in the sky, blocking the light of the stars, so she saw nothing except a darker shadow in the blackness beside her but his presence radiated comfort and security.
She knew from where these feelings came. Throughout her late childhood, she had heard her father speak of his commander in intimidating and fantastic terms: Boromir had killed seven orcs while one of his arms was broken and a bolt from an orc's bow jutted out of one thigh. Boromir had marched three days in the rain with his men to one of the last remaining outposts in South Ithilien to rescue the men stranded there. Boromir never flinched when duty called him to protect his city or his men. Exploits such as these had assured the young and valiant warrior would receive a captaincy not simply because of birth, but also through martial ability. His men did not feel duty-bound to follow him into battle; they followed because they did not trust their lives to anyone else. If they should die under his command, it was only because the odds were too great for anyone to withstand. Even a defeat could not tarnish their commander's valor and bravery.
Intimidating tales, yes. To a child listening wide-eyed at the feet of a weathered old man like her father, himself so knowing and experienced, such praise of another seemed like descriptions of one of the gods. The childhood stories lost their magical aura as she and Larhend had grown older, the lustre of the hero dimming, for only children believed that gods walked upon the land with mortals. Still, the grains of truth that exist in all exaggerations remained, and though epic grandeur made way for a more realistic tone, the strong simplicity she had seen and felt over the past few days was no less inspiring.
That was it, she thought. Simplicity. The Captain of Gondor wore his greatness with the ease of one wearing an old cloak. His confidence and mastery with a sword seemed no less obtrusive on him than her own skill with a sling or anvil and hammer. His bearing inspired awe, but did not demand it out of a need for praise. She had not seen him in battle that night at the foot of the mountains, being immersed in her own fight, but she knew enough. She was ready to swear her loyalty to him. He was her future ruler, a King without the title, and she felt that whatever Mordor could conjure to destroy her country, it would not win without suffering regretful losses.
"You have skill with a sword?"
Myrhil was yanked from her silent ponderings to this sudden question asked in a soft, interested voice. "Some," she replied. "Father said I showed promise. I have been practicing for years with him and Cirien."
"He said as much that night and I wanted to have you demonstrate for me. When I believed that you were remaining behind, I regretted that your wound prevents you from using your arms as you should in battle, for I would have instructed you a little to further defend yourself." He drew his sword from its scabbard. "It is safe to assume that skill in arms is now a necessity no matter where one lives in Gondor." He pronounced this with a mixture of sadness that such a thing had come to pass. "Now that you will be near Mordor, I would have you increase your skills. Since one arm is wounded, we shall practice using the other as soon as you feel able."
"But I will only be in Minas Tirith for a short time," Myrhil pointed out. "Afterwards, I shall be as distant from Mordor as I have ever known anyone to be."
"Have you not heard of the troubles in the West?" he asked, somewhat surprised.
Myrhil shook her head, but since he could not see her, he took her silence for a negative and continued. "I have not been to Rohan for many a year, but our scouts and diplomats travel the West Road quite frequently and they have returned with reports of troubles filtering through the Gap of Rohan. I fear it might be the trickle before the flood, but since we are pressed upon the East and the West has so far not seemed troublesome, there is no urgent need to turn in that direction. Yet we may find ourselves set upon by both sides." He gave a frustrated growl. "Rumors and reports, no doubt elaborated upon by fear or ignorance by politicians! They are worthless in important matters."
Myrhil sensed he had no use for that breed of Man and smiled. "My father never had a good word to say about them. He trusted a sword many times over a sly tongue." She swallowed and added, "Perhaps that is why he disliked Belaród from the start. He never trusted anyone whose skill lay not in a blade."
Silence resumed between them when Myrhil said no more and Boromir thought it wise not to venture any words on the subject of the dead herdsman. He trusted Gorhend's judgment on the worth, or lack thereof, of the young man now sleeping in the earth, but he could not be unsympathetic to the loss Myrhil obviously felt. Affection could be misplaced and he knew that as well as the next person, but even after such follies were realized, it made the hurt no less. All that could be done was mourn and remember, then press onwards -- certainly a little sadder, but also usually wiser and stronger.
He believed Myrhil was on that path now, and thus showed the same qualities that her father had possessed. He regretted that events had taken such a turn, for he felt that Myrhil could have been a worthy heir to her father if everything had not been thrust upon her so suddenly. The girl had been overwhelmed and in this state, she had taken flight in her fear and confusion. He would not judge the wisdom of her move for only time would tell. It matters not, he told himself. Both will travel to Rohan and their lives shall be their own to live as they see fit.
They soon reached the camp and found Laenilas crouched next to a pot, stirring the contents with a heavy wooden spoon. "Well?" she asked, not looking up.
Boromir produced the dead duck and Laenilas took it with a satisfied sigh. Just as she turned for her knife to gut it, she noticed silvery drops falling from the hair of the returning hunters and the darkened fabric of their clothes. "Did you wait underwater to grab it as it swam by?" she demanded.
"We jumped before thinking," Myrhil offered as an excuse.
"Take off what you can until modesty grips you," Laenilas continued briskly. "The fire is hot and will have them dry within hours."
She turned and laid the duck on a large rock near the fire, knife glinting in the light. As she set about slicing the fowl open, discarding the guts and otherwise readying it for the pot, Boromir turned to Myrhil, wondering if she would follow her mother's orders. He had taken it upon himself to deliver them safely to Minas Tirith, but he would not share their company half-naked!
Myrhil stared at him, her mouth open in mild astonishment. "I'll not," she whispered, shaking her head.
"You will," Laenilas said, decapitating the duck. "I'll not lose you to the fever because you refused to have the good sense to dry your wet clothes."
Glaring at her mother, Myrhil walked over to her pack and untied the blanket roll. Before she left the circle of light that surrounded the fire and retreated behind the curtain darkness provided, Boromir saw that the girl's withering expression had been replaced by one of grim and resigned amusement.
She has become used to this woman, Boromir thought. As for myself, I have not and never shall. Falling back to his own gear, he removed his outer tunic and boots but progressed no further.
An orc, he thought. Give me an orc any day.