13. Boromir the Brave
"Boromir the Brave"
BANG! A gunshot pierced the stillness of the night, and the brilliant light momentarily dazed those in the persistent darkness.
Seeing but a glimpse of a shadowy figure before him, Boromir sprang forward, thrusting all his might and weight onto the intruder.
BANG! The gun shot off again, and Boromir seized onto the strangers arm, attempting to wrench the unknown weapon away from the intruder.
Morgan, meanwhile, had narrowly escaped death, and felt the hot air rush past her right ear as the bullet came dangerously close. Immediately she ducked, and was wise to do so, as the gun went off again, blasting another deadly bullet toward her.
She raised her head to see Boromir grappling with the hooded stranger on the floor. Taking this distraction as an advantage, she ran to the kitchen, reaching for the phone. She knew not why, but she lost her footing, her shoe sliding along the slippery floor. She got up, wiped off her wet and sticky hand onto her dress, and grabbed the phone, knowing well which number to dial.
"9-1-1," the operator said calmly over the phone. "Please state the nature of your emergency."
"Please!" Morgan whispered, huddling in the dark behind the kitchen cabinets, but could still hear Boromir and the stranger move and cry out as they each hurt the other. "You've got to help us! There's a stranger in my house, and he's got a gun! He's trying to kill us; you've got to send someone fast! I live at 1667 Scugog Sideroad. Please! He's going to kill us!"
Morgan heard a peculiar noise, and found the courage enough to raise her head above the counter. Her eyes now getting used to the inky blackness, she gasped as she saw Boromir sitting on the stranger, hands tightly clasped around the fiend's throat.
His hands were squeezing hard, yet Boromir's mind was reeling at the sight before him. The stranger had no face, and did not even appear to have a mouth, yet gasped and grunted as though he breathed.
In all the years that Boromir had fought and killed, in all the instances of hand to hand combat, the worst was when no blade or bow was used. The need to use one's very last weapon, his hands, and slowly squeeze the very life out of something was a horrible experience. One that Boromir had encountered before.
It was evident that this enemy was no soldier, and unskilled in the art of combat. And yet, Boromir quickly perceived that this villain carried with him a most menacing weapon. Despite not knowing how it worked, or what it could do, Boromir's certainty of it being able to commit grave harm was keenly felt.
The trespasser may not have had the same soldiering training Boromir had, but Boromir easily discerned that this was a foe with no honour. The man fought like a wild beast, and pulled Boromir's hair. Each time the intruder struck a painful blow, Boromir felt less contrition about harming one of his own kind.
Now he had the villain! Boromir's large hands wrapped themselves tightly around the miscreant's neck, and the brute's arms flailed about, tearing and grabbing at Boromir's head, but to no avail. Boromir's face contorted in violent rage, his whole body and mind fixed on his one duty.
"Boromir, don't!" he heard Morgan bellow, yet it seemed distant and hollow. As if awakening from a trance, he turned to see her, while the trespasser beneath him lay gasping for air.
"Boromir!" Morgan commanded again, though still hiding behind the counter. "Don't! You can't kill him!"
Boromir looked at her as though she had spoken another language. "He is a villain, Morgan! He tried to kill us! What care you if he dies?"
"Boromir, listen to me!" she said, her voice now shrill and quivering. "They'll lock you up! They'll throw you back in the hospital, and never let you out again! Are you listening to me! Let him go!"
After a moment's hesitation, Boromir's hands let loose the dastard's throbbing neck, and the man doubled over, coughing and breathless.
Boromir climbed off the rogue and sat back, unsure what next to do, his body was shaking so. He watched as the man rolled onto his side, yet did not react swiftly enough, for the degenerate's foot made impact with its intended target. It had been a brutal blow, and Boromir felt his ribs crack as the foot met with his chest. He fell back, an immense pain taking hold of his senses.
The masked figure rose and turned toward Morgan. Raising his arm, he still carried the shiny silver gun which sparkled despite the bleak darkness. Knowing the man was armed and ready to shoot, Morgan plucked up her courage, and held up her hand above the kitchen counter. In it was the phone, and the 911 operator still calling out to get Morgan back on the line.
"It's too late," Morgan said terrified, yet fearless at the same time. "I've already called the police."
Boromir, momentarily stunned, felt the cold brush of steel against his knuckles. Peering over, he saw the dim glisten of metal tucked neath the long bench. Recollecting his foresight to have hidden a sword there, he wrapped his fingers around its leather grip, and rose up.
The intruder quickly perceived this counter-attack, and in turning, took aim at his new adversary.
"Think I fear you?" Boromir began, his voice low, but filled with venomous rage. He swung the sword with mighty expertise, and its blade clashed against the barrel of the gun, knocking it out of the intruder's hand. Not knowing what to do against such a maniac with a sword, he stepped backward, suddenly anxious for escape.
"Think I have not killed worse than you? You are naught but a low minion of tyranny." Boromir swung his sword, purposely missing his target, toying with his purpose. "You have no perception of what true pain is." Boromir took another step closer, swinging the sword again. "If you be a man, step forward and have at it! If not, run like the coward you are!"
Eager for this chance to escape, the intruder turned and bolted through the open doorway. Boromir dropped the sword to his side, and shut the door, turning the lock.
Morgan sighed, and began to breath again. Running over to him, she wrapped her arms about him, tightly holding onto him. "Boromir, I was so scared..."
"You need not have been. Never would I allow any to harm you." Boromir tenderly kissed her brow. "Did you discern his identity?"
"No, I didn't see his face..."
"No matter," Boromir said, holding her all the tighter, despite the stinging pinch in his chest. "I saw him. He was hideously disfigured. He did not appear to have eyes or even a nose!"
Morgan could not help but smile. "I'm pretty sure he was wearing a mask. Oh!" she said, realizing that the phone was still clutched in her hand. Holding the phone up to her ear she heard nothing but dial tone. "Oops. Must've accidentally hung up. Oh well. They're coming."
"Who is coming?" Boromir said, his eyes closed, now perfectly content, for there was no more perfect existence that in her arms.
"Not an army?"
Morgan smiled. Even at the most brutal of times, he could still make her smile. "No, not an army, but the next best thing."
Five minutes passed in quiet darkness. They sat on the couch, holding one another in a comforting embrace. The house was still around them, until a distant siren could be heard. Morgan rose and unlocked the door, now feeling brave that the intruder had long fled. Three police cruisers could be seen speeding down the road, and turned into the driveway. Racing out of their cars with their guns drawn, the first officer said, "What is your name?"
"Morgan Harris. I'm the one who called. There was an intruder...with a gun. He just ran off not five minutes ago." Two officers entered the house, and the other four began to scout the property.
"Sir, are you alright?" the officer said upon seeing Boromir.
"I'll live," Boromir said, rubbing his chest.
"Are you hurt?" the officer asked.
"My chest, but it is no matter," Boromir replied.
Morgan turned to the officer, "May I ask what precinct you're with? My brother is Lieutenant Harris with the 11th Precinct."
"Oh yeah, Harris! I'll call it in, let him know the situation. Is this the intruder's gun?" he asked, seeing the glistening gun lying on the braided rug.
The officer withdrew a pen, and expertly picked up the gun, careful not to damage any possible evidence. "Just stay here, awhile. Alright? I don't think we'll be needing the ambulance, do you?"
Morgan shook her head, and the officer strode away, but then turned back. "May I ask what happened to your power, Ma'am?"
"I don't know... It was off when we got home. We had just walked through the door, and he started firing."
"Alright. Can you tell me where your fuse box is?"
"Last door on the left. There's a painting on the wall of a sailing ship. It's behind that."
The officer, brandishing a flashlight, strode down the hall, and within a few moments, the lights illuminated the house. Morgan glanced down, and was shocked to see so much blood on her leg and hands. "Oh my God! How did I get so much blood on me? Have I been shot?" she asked.
"Pete!" one officer called to the other. "Get over here, quick!" Morgan followed the officer, sensing the note of urgency in his voice. Boromir held her hand, but was in less of a rush. He knew the grim discovery already.
Morgan gasped in horror at the sight that befell her in the kitchen. White tile lay stained and smeared with Moglie's ruby red blood. The officer was quick to respond, but with so much blood loss and no heart beat heard, all revival efforts were given up. Tears streaming down her face, and turning to Boromir for consolation, she openly wept, crying out for the loss of her beloved friend.
Boromir had never felt so helpless. He clasped her close, sensing to the terrible pain in her heart as she cried out Moglie's name in utter grief and despair. His thoughts turned to his friends when Gandalf was lost at the bridge of Khazad-Dûm. Such sorrow his company had felt at so great a loss. That same ache returned at this parting of so happy and faithful a friend that was Moglie. "Fear not, Morgan," he whispered to her, tenderly stroking her hair. "His death was a valiant one, for he died protecting us, doubtless sensing the danger lurking in the shadow. He would not wish you to have sorrow or heartache. I daresay he yearns for you as much as you do for him. Never would he wish to be separated from you."
His words were meant to sooth, yet they made Morgan cry all the harder, realizing what had been stolen from her. Never again would he be there to greet her by the door. Never again would he beg for his morning breakfast, or rest his head affectionately on her knee. Moglie's days of scampering through the snow, or chasing wild ducks were over. She thought of his high-pitched cry when she had cried, and ached to hear it again just one more time. How she longed to see him jump up, and come running to her in delighted play. Or how his big brown eyes bore deeply into hers when she spoke to him. But it was not to be, nor would it ever be again, for Moglie was dead.
Boromir led Morgan to the long bench, where they lay together, wrapped in each other's arms, each openly displaying their grievous loss with tears. Morgan clung to him with desperate need, and he willingly gave all he had to her. How it grieved him to see her in such anguish, and feel such suffering. Could he but take away her pain and bear it all himself, he gladly would have done.
A long time they sat there, as the officers busied themselves about the house. More officers came, and at times, asked questions.
Enemies? That question made Morgan think a minute. "I have been getting harassed a bit by an ex-boyfriend..."
"What is his name?" the officer asked, his pen ready.
"And how has he been harassing you?" the officer continued.
"Late night phone calls. You know, heavy breathing with no conversation... I've also received some roses with their blooms chopped off. Stuff like that..." Morgan replied. Boromir was a little unnerved by this information. He had no idea that Morgan was being harassed, so!
The officer looked humourlessly into Morgan's face. "Do you think it was Derek that attacked you tonight?"
Morgan thought a moment and replied, "I really don't know. It's been almost a year since we split. The intruder never spoke. I never saw his face. He wore a hood, and I think pantyhose over his face. It's possible that it was him, but I couldn't say for sure."
Time passed slowly, for they each felt as though they lived in a dream. The same officer who was first on the scene strode in from the hallway, a ball of cat in his arms. "I found this one hiding under the bed. Thought you might like to see him."
Morgan jumped up, taking a frightened Penny in her arms. The cat meowed shrilly, but was soon comforted in her mummy's arms.
"Oh, Penny! My Penny!" Morgan said, hugging her sweet brown cat. She had been so consumed with the loss of Moglie, she had completely forgotten that Penny might have been harmed as well! "You were right to hide, you smart girl!" Morgan again curled up on the sofa with Boromir, Penny now keeping Morgan's lap warm.
It was now extremely late, and at nearly 2 am, a frightened Wyatt burst into the house. He was not in uniform, and looked wildly around for his sister. Seeing her on the couch wrapped neath a blanket, clasping onto Boromir, Wyatt ran toward her, and she stood up, grabbing hold of him. "Thank God! Oh, thank you God!" was all that Wyatt could first utter. He looked Morgan over and saw the blood. "Jesus! Are you hurt!"
"No," Morgan said, rubbing her hand over the dried blood on her arm. "It's not mine. It's...it's..." but a great sob escaped her, and she could not speak. She fell forward into Wyatt's embrace, and tucked her tear-stained face into his shoulder.
"It is Moglie," Boromir finished for her, a note of mourning in his voice. "The dastard killed him."
Morgan let out another loud cry upon hearing those words. "Oh no..." Wyatt said, patting Morgan's back. "I'm so sorry, Morgan. Listen, I think you should try to get some sleep. I'll take care of things here, and if they need you for something, I'll wake you, alright? You look exhausted."
"Okay," Morgan said nodding. She had never felt so tired in all her life, except on the day she had watched her father die. However, her own life had not been threatened, then. Now, the adrenaline had long warn off, leaving her body feeling beaten and drained. How she longed for unconsciousness and a place where Moglie wasn't dead.
Sleep took her, and for a time she found rest. Curled up in her cozy bed, she at last opened her eyes, ears straining to hear sounds of movement in the house, but all was silent. It was still night, for no light broke through her window. How long had she slept? She was prodigiously tired still, but felt as though she had slept a lifetime away. Her thoughts again turned to Moglie.
A tear escaped her eye, and then another. A gasp turned into a sob, and before she could stop herself, she was again engulfed in a torrent of tears. She heard the door open; had she been crying so loudly?
"Morgan?" Boromir whispered, not wishing to intrude upon her privacy or solitude. A maiden's bedchamber was a strictly prohibited territory, and one never to be ventured into. However, his intentions were honourable, and he felt concerned for her welfare. "Are you in need of anything?" he whispered softly, not wishing to wake Wyatt who slept soundly on the sofa bench.
"Can you hold me just for a moment?"
Despite knowing it to be beyond all measures of propriety, Boromir cast his trepidation aside, and lightly stepped into the darkened room. His heart was beating fast. Never before had he ever exchanged such intimacy with a woman, but his love for Morgan was virtuous, and so he felt no more concern.
He sat upon the bed, awkward and unnerved at first. After crawling up into his arms, Morgan quieted and her tears subsided. A moment passed where his injured chest ached greatly, but upon shifting his weight, the soreness receded and became less great.
"Shall I tell you a story?" Boromir suggested, thinking that a change of topic might aid in Morgan's chances of sleep.
"Yes. Tell me something. Something not...horrible."
Boromir thought a moment. Not gifted in the art of storytelling, he was now forced to choose out a tale that did not have a tragic end. Boromir found the prospect very difficult, for it seemed every legend he could then recollect was a tale of woe. "This is a story I had heard some years past, and it always made me wonder. You remember my speaking of the Elves? Of their beauty, wisdom and grace? They are immortal; blessed with long life, for they do not become sick or frail with old age."
"Wow. Really? Lucky them."
"Aye, tis true," he said, caressing her hair. "Well, one such an elf was named Mithrellas. She was journeying to the sea in hopes of reaching the undying lands of her people."
"It is called Valinor, the Elves true homeland, for which, if memory serves correct, all Elves must eventually return. Please forgive me; my knowledge of lore is not complete..."
"No! It's good. What happened next?"
"Well, Mithrellas journeyed to the sea, but met with a storm that she did not intend. She was lost upon the beach, wherein she met a man by the name of Imrazôr. Now, Imrazôr was not elf-kind, but was born of Man. He was not blessed with the gifts of Mithrellas' people, but regardless, Mithrellas was struck by his great wisdom and kindness. Despite their differences, despite their hailing from dissimilar people, they fell in love and wed."
Morgan smiled. Even on the other side of this world and into his, love still found a way. "And they lived happily ever after?"
Boromir was not entirely sure the meaning of such a phrase, but added, "They lived happily, yes."
"Mmmm!" Morgan said, closing her eyes, and snuggling up to him. "Nice story."
Boromir smiled, and again stroked her brow. He could not, in good conscience, tell poor Morgan the remainder of the story. Despite Mithrellas having born two of Imrazôr's children, Mithrellas fled, abandoning him and their children for the Undying Lands, never to return. Imrazôr lived out the remainder of his years, incessantly looking to the sea, waiting for Mithrellas to return.
He held Morgan in his arms, his mind turning over the story in his mind. Here he was, lost upon such a sea, and whom does he meet but a lady fair in a strange land. He stays; his intentions are honourable and just. Would he have it in his heart to do as Mithrellas had done, and abandon her to the wolves of heartache, as well as the wolves at her door?
Elvish love is inconstant, he surmised in the end. Here was he, wrapped in true love's arms, and naught in the world could drag him from her now.
A/N: Please review!
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.