31. Boromir's Battle
The wraiths showed pallid and insubstantial in the clear light of the Phial but not all were wraiths: Giant Mountain Wargs, big as ponies, and White Wolves of the far north with glaring ice blue eyes also appeared at the edge of the ring of light. But none dared come closer, they growled their malice and their menace and ran on towards the Shire.
He let them go, they were for Sam to deal with, his business was with their master. And suddenly there he was, Draugoth, a great brindled grey wolf standing nearly as tall as a Man on his four legs. Eyes shining red as flame, foam dripping from his massive jaws.
Boromir raised his sword in salute, pulse quickening but not with fear. He could never again feel sure of his strength or his honor, but his skill at arms he still trusted and that was all that was required of him now.
For a moment they faced each other, Man and werewolf, then Draugoth sprang. Boromir sidestepped and swung his sword two handed. The edge turned on the Wolf-lord's ribs but left an ugly gash, spattering the Man with hot blood.
The werewolf snarled, twisted round to attack again. Boromir blocked the gaping jaws open with his shield but Draugoth bit down, crushing it, and closed his teeth around the Man's left arm and shoulder.
Boromir ignored the stabbing pain as the great fangs pierced his mail, trying to bring his sword in line for a jab at throat or eye. So intent he barely heard a loud cry that might have been his own name.
Suddenly Draugoth dropped him. He rolled quickly clear, looked back in time to see the Wolf-lord send a small figure flying with one swipe of his great paw.
"Pippin!" white hot fury exploded in Boromir and he charged. Draugoth reared up, towering over him, and the Man, seeing his chance, thrust his sword deep into the massive chest.
Gouts of blood burst from wound and slavering jaws and the great body crashed down, right on top of his slayer. Nearly crushed by the dead weight and drenched in the werewolf's dying blood Boromir struggled to free himself, managed at last to shove aside the massive body and stagger to his feet.
Only to see a small, huddled form unmoving on the ground. "Pippin.... Oh no, please no." with shaking hands he turned the Hobbit over.
Blue eyes popped open. "Is it dead?"
The Man gave a gasp that turned into a sob and hugged his small friend to his heart.
"Boromir," Pippin wheezed, "Boromir, I can't breath."
The Man released him, struggling to master his tears. "You frightened me half to death, Little One."
Pippin's eyes were also suspiciously bright. "Serves you right," he choked, "the way you've been frightening us!"
Boromir pushed back sweat and blood matted hair with both hands. "Are you all right?"
"I think so, barring a few bumps and bruises." the Hobbit's face broke into a triumphant grin. "You're still alive."
"So I am." Boromir felt too weary, and too relieved, to wrestle with that problem just now.
"I knew it! I knew it!" Pippin chortled slapping the ground. "Old Tom said Men and Hobbits could change their fates and we did it!" glee gave way to concern as he gazed up at his friend. "Are *you* all right?"
"I've damaged my shield arm again it would seem." Boromir answered, wincing. "But other than that I'm sound enough."
"You look a mess." Pippin told him frankly.
The Man glanced ruefully down at his blood drenched arms and surcoat. "No doubt."
"Boromir!" the impact of a small, hurtling body nearly knocked him sprawling. It was Merry of course, tears running down his face. "Look at you, you're covered in blood - Strider, come quick!"
"I'm all right, it is Draugoth's blood." Boromir assured him as the King came to kneel beside them.
"Not all." Aragorn said grimly, inspecting shoulder and shield arm. "Fangs have penetrated here."
"Yes, I was forgetting." looking over the King's bent head Boromir saw his brother watching them anxiously, Arandil staring in awe at the werewolf's gigantic body, Gimli and Legolas warily eying the darkness beyond the sphere of light, and Sam bending to pick up the Phial.
The light brightened until it looked as if he was holding a little star in his hand. Sparkling tears left tracks on his dirty face as he stared down at it whispering softly. "Frodo. Oh, Mr. Frodo."
"You see I wasn't alone." Boromir told him gently.
"Can he feel us too?" Sam asked. "Does he know we're thinking about him?"
"I don't know, Sam, Maybe. Perhaps you should keep the Phial now. Frodo left you all his other things."
Sam gave the little diamond bottle a longing look but shook his head. "No. He gave it to you, Boromir. You needed it tonight, maybe you'll need it again someday." and handed it back.
Boromir took it wondering if he would, and just how long he was going to be allowed to stay in Middle Earth.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.