14. Farewell to Moglie
"Farewell to Moglie"
Boromir awoke the following morning, a stitch in his neck, but Morgan asleep in his arms. She slept soundly, and did not even stir upon his getting up. The daylight was dawning, and casting her sunshine glow into the room. Boromir closed the curtains silently shutting out such light, no matter how beautiful, so that Morgan could still have peace.
"Ah, Wyatt; you are awake," Boromir said upon stepping barefooted into the kitchen.
Wyatt nodded. He had seen where Boromir had just come from. It did not bother him; he liked Boromir, and thought that he was a great guy, but at the same time, if last night was any indication, the last thing Morgan needed was another nut in her life.
"Yeah, I'm up," Wyatt replied. "Listen, I thought I'd let you know, after you two went to bed last night, I got a phone call. The gun that the intruder used was stolen."
"It's basically untraceable."
Boromir waited a moment, but Wyatt said nothing. "What does that mean?"
"It means that we have no idea how the shooter got the gun. Most likely they bought it on the street. So, right now the gun's being checked for prints."
"Prints? What are prints?"
"You know, fingerprints? Everyone's is different. If something is touched, we can know who handled it by their fingerprints."
"Indeed?" Boromir said intrigued. He stared down at his large hands with a furrowed brow. "I recollect something..."
"You remember something? What?"
"His hands...at one point he touched my face, but his skin felt almost sticky. They were ghostly white," he said, thinking back to the blackness and chaos.
"Gloves," Wyatt said, his heart sinking. "Son of a bitch. If this is true, we're screwed..." He flipped open his cell, and pressed a button dialing a saved number. "Paul! Hi, it's Wyatt. Listen, I'm at my sister's place, and the other vic, Boromir, remembers the guy was wearing gloves - white latex gloves, you got that? Yeah, I know. Just, print it anyway, alright? Yeah...appreciate it." Wyatt flipped close the phone and sighed, rubbing his throbbing temple. This wasn't good.
Boromir had listened to the conversation, but understood little. One thing he easily grasped was that the intruder, whomever the villain was, had been clever. His eyes turned from his upturned palms to the newly cleaned floor. "I see the floor is now scoured."
Wyatt nodded his head, looking grievously at the tiles. "I couldn't leave it that way for Morgan to clean up."
Boromir nodded, and thought kindly of Wyatt. He was no soldier, and Boromir doubted that Wyatt's demeanor would frighten many foes, yet Boromir could see that he had a noble heart, and that he loved his sister. Stepping to the doorway, Boromir tugged on his long Gondorian boots, and said, "Well, I am off in duty, though grisly and disheartening labour it is."
"Why? What are you doing?"
"Moglie must have a grave. It is too warm for him to remain long without one. It does not do justice to him."
"Let me help," Wyatt said, stepping in.
Boromir was grateful, and so they stepped out into the fresh morning air, melancholy in their task to perform.
The officers had compassionately moved Moglie's body out to the side of the house, and covered him with a tarp. They stood a moment discussing the best site for a grave, and then decided on a pretty spot close to the forest. Just beyond it wild flowers grew, and the scent of honeysuckle was at the most fragrant there.
And so, they began to dig. This was not to be a careless shallow grave, for they both agreed that Moglie deserved better. It was labour intensive, and painful for Boromir's aching ribs, yet he cared not. If this was all he could offer Morgan during her time of loss, he would endure it gladly and without complaint.
They were sweating profusely and still only two feet deep. Wyatt stopped for a moment's breath, and marveled at how much stamina Boromir had. "You dig like you've done this before," Wyatt said, wiping his dripping brow with his arm.
"Tis a sad business, digging graves," Boromir said, shoveling the dirt up and out. "Aye, I have done so before."
"Really? What for? Your own dog?"
"Nay, but for my men. Soldiers killed in battle."
Wyatt stared at Boromir's troubled face, waiting for him to admit to making a joke, and laugh in turn. But Boromir did not laugh, and only continued to dig. "How many have you dug?" Wyatt said, no longer smiling.
"How many grains of sand are there at the seashore? Far too many to count, and far too many to bear. One is too many."
Boromir is a mystery, thought Wyatt, and began again to shovel deep into the earth. When at last the grave was four feet deep, they had the grisly business of moving Moglie's body. Boromir was not afraid to touch the dog's lifeless legs, but could see Wyatt's apprehension. "Have no fear," Boromir said gently to him. "Moglie was our friend, and we cannot fear our friends, even in death."
Wyatt nodded. Police officer he may be, but he did not enjoy seeing the deceased, and never had the charge to move them. He had not so much as even touched his own father's dead hand while he lay in the coffin. Now, pushing his qualms aside, his courage grew and together they gently lifted Moglie up, and set him down carefully in his last place of rest.
"Perhaps we should wait for Morgan before we cover him," Boromir said, when the deed had been done. "She will wish to say her farewell, I expect."
"Alright. Let's go inside. I need a drink."
It was not yet eleven in the morning, and after scrubbing his hands raw, Wyatt reached into the fridge in search of something to take the edge off. "Want a beer?"
"What is beer?" Boromir asked, his soapy hands wrist deep in cool water.
"Never heard of beer? Oh, you'll like it," Wyatt said, a large grin on his face, as he effortlessly unscrewed the cap and handed the ice-cold bottle to Boromir.
Boromir took a swig, and his face brightened instantly. "Ale!" Boromir declared. "Oh, that is a comfort I have not enjoyed in many days. A pity it is so cold, however."
Wyatt gazed at Boromir, and nearly choked on his mouthful of beer. "You like it...warm? Really?"
"Aye," Boromir said, perfectly at ease with his choice. "Although cold is very nice also..." he was quick to add, seeing that his preference was not the popular one.
"Good morning," Morgan said, sleepy-eyed and hair awry. She wore nothing but shorts and a t-shirt, and still bore the deathly marks of the previous night. Moglie's blood still lay dried and crusted on her skin. She was longing to be rid of it. "Beer already?" she said giving a weak smile.
"It's Boromir's first."
Boromir smiled, and held up the bottle. How frail she looks, he thought. Her eyes are so red, and she appears to carry the weight of the world upon her shoulders... "Morgan, leave the preparing of breakfast to us menfolk. Go and have a bath. Breakfast will be ready when you are finished."
"You don't mind?" she said, coming close to him, gazing up into his tender face.
"Not at all!"
"Okay," Morgan said, and lightly kissed Boromir on the lips. He blushed at such a forward show of affection in front of Wyatt. Morgan shuffled down the hall, and soon the door was shut, and the rushing sound of water could be heard.
"Wyatt, I fear I have a confession to make."
"Oh?" Wyatt asked, his first thought being that Boromir was married with five children.
"Aye. I know not how to use that device," he said, pointing to the stove.
"Oh!" Wyatt exclaimed, much relieved. "No problem; I'll show you how it works. It's easy..." And thus, Boromir learned how to make pancakes.
The three sat and ate their hot breakfast in woeful silence. Morgan ate, but Moglie's absence was greatly felt.
When at last their plates were empty, Boromir said to her gently, "I know you do not wish it, Morgan, but we must bid Moglie farewell. Much longer in the heat of the day..."
"I know," Morgan said, feeling as though she were stuck in some horrible nightmare. The thought of Moglie attracting flies and God knows what else, totally freaked her out. "Okay. Let's do this."
The three stepped outside, Morgan still barefoot. An old red pickup was speeding toward the house, a cloud of dust in its wake. It pulled up the drive, and out hopped Carl. "Is it true?" he asked, rushing (as best he could, in any case), up to Morgan and gave her a big bear hug. "The whole village is talking about it."
"It's true," Morgan confirmed. "We had a home invasion, we didn't see his face, and he got away."
"What the hell is this God damn world coming to?! You think you live in a nice, peaceful place. Everybody knows each other, and looks out for one another, and then this. That's just awful! Were either of you hurt at all?"
Morgan chocked back her tears, but couldn't get the words out. Wyatt told Carl about Moglie, and Carl gave Morgan a fatherly pat on the back. "Oh. Sorry to hear about that, Missy-girl. That's what they call a cryin' shame."
"We were just about to bury him," Boromir said.
"Well, come on then, Missy," Carl said. "Can't put this off until tomorrow. I know it's sad, but he was a good dog, and the time's come to say your goodbye."
How numb she felt walking to Moglie's grave. She peered down into the hole, and there he lay on his side, as though sleeping. No glisten of red could be seen against the blackness of his fur, and she was glad of it.
Picking some wild flowers by the forest's edge, she then cast them into the grave, showering him with tiny white petals.
What he must have suffered! The thought haunted her. He must've been so scared. He must've needed her, called out to her, but she wasn't there. Did he die thinking she had betrayed him by not coming to his rescue? By not perceiving in some ESP connection that he was injured and dying? She shook her head, and down came a shower of tears. She had failed him. It was her job to keep him safe. How could she have allowed this to happen?
Boromir could see her anguish, and so took it upon himself to bid Moglie on his journey for her. But, what to say? Where were the words to describe such sorrow? At last, Boromir began to sing:
We sow and reap from the earth.
Now we give back that which was taken.
Forever in our hearts we regard your worth,
Since now you will not awaken.
The sun, she wanes, the day turns dark.
The air is cold, and chills to the bone.
All is now quiet, no call of the lark,
For you lie dead, and I am alone.
We shall not forget the deeds you have done.
Your courage and friendship shall live on.
Now rest in peace, for the battle is won.
This be not the end, but for now you are gone.
Morgan, Wyatt and Carl stood in stunned silence. They could not have been more shocked. They did not laugh, for it was apparent that it was a sad song and that Boromir had sung it feelingly, but one look on their faces, and Boromir knew that the service he had just performed was not usual in their culture. They think I'm mad, thought he. "It is customary to sing a song of farewell in my country if one cannot find fairer words of parting."
Morgan smiled, and gave Boromir a hug. "It was lovely."
"Well," Carl said raising his eyebrows, "before you sign me up for the choir, I'd better get back to my horses. See you tomorrow, Boromir."
"Aye, thank you, Carl," Boromir said.
"I think I need to lie down," Morgan said, taking another fleeting glance at the grave. She didn't want to see him buried.
"Yeah, Morgan, go," Wyatt said, picking up a shovel. "We'll be in soon."
Morgan lay on the bed and stared at the white ceiling. She could hear the sounds of digging through the open window, and Wyatt's muffled humming of Boromir's tune.
How quiet and still the house is now, she thought while pulling loose a thread on her patchwork duvet. Things will never be the same again.
As if instinctively knowing that her mummy needed her, Penny leapt effortlessly up onto the bed, and, purring, nudged Morgan's face with each passing stroke. Morgan disliked the fur, but was glad for the company. "Oh, yes. You know what happened to poor Moglie, don't you? You were there, too, poor baby...and you miss him, too."
Morgan did not even remember falling asleep. She awoke, and the daylight seemed to be dimming, but not yet dark. Penny had long fled the foot of her bed, and all that remained was a furry circle. Combing her crazy hair, and wiping her tired eyes, Morgan strode out to see what the boys had been up to.
A man in a uniform stood at the door, half concentrating on his work, as well as peeking at what was on television. Boromir and Wyatt sat watching The Empire Strikes Back. Wyatt looked thrilled, while Boromir sat astutely with his brow furrowed, constantly asking Wyatt for information, of which Wyatt was more than happy to respond. Morgan noticed they were not yet at the "Luke, I am your father," scene. That would definitely prove to be amusing...
"What's going on?" Morgan asked, pointing to their visitor.
"House alarm. It's just a precaution," Wyatt said, pressing pause on the remote. "It'd make me feel a lot safer, and I'm sure you a lot safer if Boromir is up at the farm, or somewhere."
Morgan wasn't fooled. If Wyatt was putting an alarm system on the house, their recent break-in wasn't only the reason. "What's happened?"
"What do you mean?" Wyatt asked.
"I know you, Wyatt. You're scared for me. Why?"
Wyatt sighed. "While you were asleep, I got a call. They checked out Derik's last address, and he's nowhere to be found. His friends say they don't know where he is. They may be lying; I think they're lying, but we don't know."
"So," Morgan said, her fear rising, "he's still out there! Derik's still out there!"
Boromir instantly rose, and took Morgan's hand. "He will not come back. He's a coward, Morgan. He ran off like a milksop; he will not return."
"You don't know that..." Morgan said.
"Aye, but I do know that. However, if I am wrong and he does, I would never allow him to harm you."
"And what if he kills you like he killed Moglie?" Morgan asked, her eyes serious.
"Impossible. You saw me naught six months ago, shot full of arrows! If a band of a hundred Orcs could not kill me, I have no fear of him!"
"A gun's different, Boromir..." Morgan said.
"I would die to protect you!"
"That's what I'm afraid of!"
"Fear not!" he said, pulling her close, wrapping his arms around her waist and shoulders. "Fear not..." He was not saying it just for her, but also for himself. The coward, nay, dastard that had dared threaten her remained free. At home, he would take a small band of soldiers and hunt the beast down, and take pleasure in its kill. Now, in such a strange land with strange rules, he felt utterly helpless.
A/N: Please review!!! Only 3 few chapters left!!!
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.