Chapter Text
He reeled as the third arrow hit him in the gut. The sword-strength still remained in his hands, but the rest of him was failing as the blood spilled from his wounds. One thought ran through his mind like the ceaseless beat of a drum. The little ones. He must protect them. It was the task Aragorn had given him and, as it appeared to be the last thing he would ever do, the last service he could render his king and, by extension, his homeland, he must not fail.
But all was fading to darkness now.
“Boromir!” he heard one of the halflings cry. He thought it was Pippin.
The tramping of many orc feet surrounded him, their footsteps harsh on the forest’s leafy floor. He sank to his knees, eyes closing. The sword fell from his hand, even as he tried to re-grasp it with what strength remained to him. This, then, was the end. Faramir would hear of it, in time. And their father. Would he sneer at his son’s weakness, as he had so often sneered at Faramir?
Merry yelled, “Get away from him, you filthy--!”
There was a muffled blow and a groan and then silence.
Rage welled up inside Boromir and with a last great effort, his fingers fumbled for his sword. But in the next moment, an orc stepped on his hand and his sword both. “None of that,” the orc growled. Boromir looked up, squinting in the pale sunlight slicing through the trees. He struggled to free his hand, but the orc only ground down harder.
“Finish him off,” a new voice came, high-pitched and whining.
The orc who stood over Boromir shook his head. “No. Saruman will want him.”
“But we were only ordered to get the halflings!”
The orc--the leader, it was now clear--grunted. If it had been a Man or an Elf or a Dwarf that made the sound, Boromir would have thought it an amused one. But in the orc’s dark tones, there was only leaden noise. “Clearly these halflings care about this Man. He will be useful, up in the tower, if they don’t feel like talking.” He laughed then, and a more evil sound would have been difficult to name. “Now come on!”
In the next instant, the leader bent over Boromir and took hold of the arrow that pierced his middle. He snapped free the greater part of the shaft. Great and blinding pain swept over Boromir and he sank backwards, heedless of the orc boot still grinding his hand into the dirt or of the moment when the orc leader broke off the other two arrows that had embedded themselves in his shoulder and side.
He was not awake to see Merry and Pippin cruelly tied and slung over the backs of two orcs. He did not see his horn smashed into many pieces by twisted blades. And, mercifully, he was not awake for the agony of being tied onto the back of a particularly large orc, nor for the jolting run made over many leagues. In time, he would awake to it all, but for now, he remained in the realm of dull sleep and troubled dreams.
/
“Let’s take a look at him!”
Boromir could not hold back a cry of pain as they let him fall to the ground, onto his back. The arrows, broken off as they were, sent splinters of torment through him whenever he moved--and even when he did not. He fought to open his eyes, as impossible as it seemed, but all was dark about him when he finally did so. It was night, and the sky was starless and overcast. He turned his head, trying to spot Merry and Pippin. Had they been dragged along? Had the orcs gotten them in the end? He could not remember; all was clouded in his memory.
A large orc hand passed over his wounds, none too gently, but he was able to control himself this time and not a sound escaped from between his gritted teeth. He would not show one more sign of weakness before these cursed creatures. It galled him to remember his outburst from moments before. He was Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor. He was not one to cower and cry before the enemy.
“We’ve got to have a breather!” another orc said, coming up to the one who was examining Boromir. “We can barely go on, especially those of us unlucky enough to get saddled with that lot.” He spat at Boromir. “I still say we should’ve killed him back there, left him for the others to find. If any escaped! We could still kill him now, mind.”
“Saruman will be pleased with him,” the first orc said, grinning. “He will reward us well, and we will surely be able to feast on his flesh when the white wizard is finished.” He growled. “Take your ‘breather’ now while I make sure he’s fit for the road! And keep an eye on the halflings, especially the one who tried to escape earlier. You may pay him special attention, as you like. But no killing!”
Curse these bonds!
Boromir strained against the ropes that secured his hands and feet, but they were strong and he was weak and feverish with pain. “You will die for how you treat them,” he muttered, and wished he could himself spit in the orc’s face. But there was not even strength in him for that. The realization sunk inside him. How low, how very low he had fallen.
If he had Isildur’s Bane in his grasp at this moment, how very different the matter would stand! But he could not think of it. His lust for the Ring had already led to much loss, and perhaps the ruin of them all.
Sudden tears started in his eyes, and not from the pain of his wounds. He had driven Frodo away. He had broken the once-true fellowship, and perhaps even now Aragorn lay dead on the forest floor. His king. And Frodo and Sam, though not captured along with their friends, could be in the clutches of Sauron now, or perished some other way, or hopelessly lost.
“Drink up,” the orc growled, and Boromir was almost glad to be pulled from the grief of his guilt and back to the present--hideous though it was. A draught of fiery liquid was rammed down his throat, tasting of sourness and burning and a hint of blood. His stomach heaved and a good deal of the liquid came back up, soaking the front of his shirt. He choked and gasped, but had barely time to draw a breath before a second dose was forced on him.
“You’ll keep it down this time, if you know what’s good for you.” With that, the orc stood and marched off. Boromir could hear him shouting what sounded like orders, in one of the dark tongues that the orcs used among themselves. All the orcs had abandoned him for the moment, something having seemed to draw their attention.
As terrible as the drink had tasted, it ran smoothly through his body once he was able to keep it down. Though it did not take away all the pain, it greatly eased him and some of his strength returned as well.
Some of his strength was enough.
With a grim, hopeless determination, he pulled himself into a sitting position and worked furiously at the bonds wrapped around his ankles. His hands were tied in front, and he almost thanked the orcs in his mind, for if they had been bound behind his back, he would not have been able to do this. As it was, sweat poured down his face and the sudden surge of strength was already fading.
And then there came a scream.
Not rough and beast-like, as it would have been coming from an orc. It was a young scream, high-pitched and terrified and filled with pain.
With a mighty wrench that almost cost him his consciousness, Boromir tore the ropes from his legs. There was no time to free his hands, not as another scream came from one of the little ones. Pippin. It was Pippin, he was quite sure. He had not been able to tell the younger one and his cousin apart at first, but he could now.
Though his heart called for haste, he crept forward as quietly as he could.
By the light of a tiny fire, barely more than a single flame, he caught sight of Pippin and Merry both lying bound on the grass. Merry looked as though he were insensible, but Pippin was very much awake. Tears streaked his face and he shook uncontrollably. Boromir had only to look at the glowing red tip of the sword in one of the orcs’ hands and the angry red burns on Pippin’s feet to know what had happened.
What was still happening.
With a roar, Boromir wrenched a sword from the sheath of the orc nearest him. He lunged forward and struck the fire-hot blade from the orc’s hand. He would have swept his head from his shoulders in the next stroke, but something struck the back of his head, heavily. Even then, he did not fall, but tried to turn and stab the one who had hit him. But the enemy blocked his sword thrust and kicked him in the knee, savageness and strength combined in one blow.
Boromir crumbled to the ground, unable to draw in a full breath.
No orc-draught could soften the pain of a shattered leg.