3. Back to Reality
“Back to Reality”
Boromir was at last free; yet, his body suffered as though he had single handedly brawled a cave troll. Rubbing his raw wrists, he cautiously stepped out of his bedchamber, still half nude and barefooted. He espied Morgan at the end of the corridor, her back to him as she gazed out to the wintery scene beyond. He stepped lightly on the cold floor, not wishing to startle his benefactress. Nevertheless, his efforts proved of no regard, whereas the moment she turned around, Morgan began a shrill scream that would rival the torture chambers of Mordor. “She is a madwoman,” thought Boromir as he stepped toward her, attempting to calm her like a skittish mare. All the commotion had woken Moglie who barked loudly at the frenzied scene, not at all sure what was going on, but wanted to be a part of it.
Morgan, however, was far from being soothed at Boromir’s incessant shh-ings. Seeing the madman suddenly appear had given her the fright of her life, and running into the kitchen, she grabbed the biggest carving knife she had and was prepared to kill him if he dared come near her. If only she really had a Tazer like she had said!
“Don’t come near me!” Morgan shouted, thrusting the knife in his direction in an attempt to make her intentions crystal clear.
Boromir was baffled beyond understanding. “Did I not say that I would not harm you? Why do you behave in this way? As a lady of the westfold, I should think you...”
But Boromir was cut short; Morgan had reached her limit. “I don’t CARE what women in your imaginary country are forced to endure by barbaric men! I want you OUT! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”
Boromir stared at her, baffled, and then flared, “I should be happy to oblige! Thank you kindly for your aid, and somewhat savage hospitality! Never before have I been incarcerated by a lady with more beauty than sanity.” Boromir stormed back to his bedchamber, and seizing his clothing, swiftly began to dress.
Morgan was left clutching her kitchen knife, wondering if he was getting a weapon of his own, or possibly barricading himself in the bedroom. She had hidden the swords in the shed, as the bloody knives creeped her out no end, and was glad of her foresight.
Far from fortifying himself in, Boromir was more than happy to depart this lunatic land, and search for home. Days had passed, and Aragorn and the others were now leagues ahead of him. He knew he must track their trail, but he also knew that he would have some explaining to do regarding his betrayal against Frodo.
Boromir strode toward the front door, and pulled on his long boots. Despite the scowl on his face, and churlish dark eyes, he paused at the door, saying softly, “I would not have you think me ungrateful for the kindness you have performed. I am most indebted to your having saved my life. I shall trespass on you no longer.”
Witless as to a reply, Morgan stood motionless and watched him leave. The door was shut, and she observed him stand a moment, no doubt deciding what next to do. Some moments passed before he finally made his way into the forest, assumedly in search of his boat. Without guilt, Morgan stepped close to the door and turned the lock.
- - -
“It’s true,” Morgan said nodding, a smile on her face. Now that the ordeal was all over with, she could laugh about it. The hospital around her and her friend Lakeesha was quiet, with more visitors than patients. Lakeesha and Morgan were each dressed in their robin’s egg blue scrubs, each carrying supplies in hand, Lakeesha gaga over Morgan’s bizarre news.
“But who was he really?” Lakeesha asked, her eyes open wide with disbelief.
“Don’t know. No ID, no wallet, no money. The guy was a real kook. Here’s what he looked like,” Morgan said, handing over her camera. It showed Boromir passed out in bed. “I thought I’d check him out on ‘America’s Most Wanted.’”
“Cute, but crazy...Let’s not forget the crazy part,” Morgan added, now stacking their supplies on a trolley as Lakeesha flipped through the pictures.
“I don’t know,” Lakeesha said smiling. “Sometimes crazy adds the spice in life, know what I’m saying? Crazy can sometimes be great in bed...”
“Yeah, well, after Derek, I don’t need anymore crazy, thank you.”
“Now that boy was crazy!” Lakeesha confirmed. “What did you say he gave you for your last birthday?”
“After our break-up? A dozen red roses, each one with their head’s chopped off. Smartest thing I ever did was break it off. No, I’ll admit that Boromir was off the deep end, but seemed harmless in comparison to Derek, anyway.”
Lakeesha grinned, still looking at pictures of an unconscious, bed-ridden Boromir. “Did you ever get a look at the family treasure?”
“What? No! I was strictly professional! I spent my four days off the job, doing my job and not getting paid for it.”
“Girl, this is me you’re talkin’ to,” Lakeesha begged. “You must’ve taken just a little peak.”
Morgan could not help but grin. Boromir had really been out of it, and yet cute enough that she had been curious. “Well, maybe a little peak.”
“And?” Lakeesha said greedily.
“Impressive,” Morgan confirmed, though her face was a little pink with embarrassment.
“Ooh!” Lakeesha said, giggling. “He’s got the look of it, too. Not like a Brother, but he’s a big man. Gotta get me some of that!”
“Well, he’s gone, thankfully enough,” Morgan said, straightening up. “Won’t see him again.”
- - -
Boromir had sat beside his elven boat for some time deciding his next course of action. His sword was gone, as well as his ancestral Horn of Gondor, of which his father might never forgive him. There were two Orc blades within the boat, and choosing the nicer of the two, though each rough and crudely made, he slipped it into his golden, elvish belt, and began to follow the frozen river east.
Nothing appeared familiar in this treacherous, foreign land. If Morgan’s hostile nature was any clue, he was in a most inhospitable country imaginable. Naught seemed familiar, from the distant houses, to the terrain he travelled upon.
He journeyed onward, stomping through deep snow, shivering in the biting wind, and attempting to warm himself with memories with every step. His thoughts continuously gravitated toward Faramir. What stories he would have to tell his younger brother from this adventure of his! How Faramir would laugh at his expense, especially of his treatment at the hands of Lady Morgan. Boromir sighed. He would miss Morgan. She was unlike any lady he had ever before met. She cared not for title or land. Her hands were not shy of him, and she had a warmth about her which quite unmanned him. He admittedly knew nothing of maiden’s ways; soldiering was all he knew. He could readily stir the hearts of men going into battle, but never before dared to attempt to stir passions in a lady’s mysterious heart. Aye, Morgan was different.
Night soon fell, and Boromir stopped for rest. He felt as weak and tired as a young child, and not the warrior that he was. Taking shelter neath the sweeping branches of a mighty blue spruce, Boromir was thankful to find his flint still in his pocket, and masterfully began a tiny fire.
“No food or water,” he lamented to himself as he warmed his ice cold hands. He had left Morgan’s house so hurriedly and under such unfriendly terms, he had not thought of food, yet, it was foremost on his mind, now. His stomach complained, but naught could he do to appease it. He was simply too exhausted to hunt, and the only noise he heard that night was the distant hoot of an owl flying far overhead.
“Aye, Morgan is indeed different,” he said aloud to himself and his flickering fire. “And what if Frodo should succeed?” he wondered. He felt far from the rages of battle and Sauron’s looming threat. The fingers of war had not yet touched this land, he observed, and for the first time, so distant from the watchful gaze of the Eye, he held hope for Frodo. “Perhaps it could be done,” he said aloud to none but himself. “Perhaps they will succeed. Perhaps there is still hope.” The thought had never before entered this consciousness, and he had declared those at Elrond’s great council daydreamers and fools to dare believe that destroying their one true advantage would amount to a victory. Yet now, so far from war, he began to doubt his steely resolve. Much had he learned of his Fellows during their journey in past weeks. Much had he learned of Hobbits, Dwarves, and Elves, and of Aragon, too. Would he be King? Could the halfling, so small and harmless, penetrate Mordor and do what Isildur could not?
Boromir awoke asking himself the same questions in the next morn. The sun rose into the already bright sky, but the wind blew colder and fiercer than the previous day. Walking against the wind, every morsel of him ached, yet his thoughts prevented his heart from succumbing to pain and hunger.
“If Frodo succeeds, what then for me?” he pondered. “Aragorn, if he lives, will surely be crowned king.” He would not deny his friend that right, nor could he any longer begrudge him that tempting future. As a child, he had dreamed of casting down Sauron’s mighty forces, and at last proclaiming himself king of his much loved realm. Now, that was to never be. What could his future possibly now hold for him?
The White City was his home, yet in the governship of another king, his father demoted, he knew he could not stay. He was a soldier at heart, but if there was to be peace, how would he spend his days?
Marriage? He rarely thought of it. Women frightened him more than battle, he readily admitted it. “And what of Morgan?” he thought with every step that he took away from her. His thoughts always returned to Morgan. Perhaps after the war, he would return and seek her out. He knew nothing about wooing women. He was artless in compliments, and gallant deeds expressing love. “And she did not seem to wish to see me again,” he said with a sorrowful note of finality. “I am a soldier, and a soldier I shall stay,” he said, and quickened his pace onward through the thinning trees.
It was near evening when Boromir could at last go no farther. He stood on sandy shores, at a loss for words or wisdom. The great expanse and thundering waves of an ocean blocked his path, and he stared at it with dismay. Where had he erred? He rose his head to the waning sun; it was setting in the west. Yet in the east, there was naught but water. No further could he go. A man and his hound strode near, yet seemed hesitant to step too closely to Boromir. Thinking of Morgan’s reaction, he knew he must look odd to the outlander and said, “Forgive me, for I am a stranger in this land. Can you tell me what body of water this is?”
The stranger had thought the freak with the sword strange, but smiled politely, and replied, “That’s the Atlantic Ocean”, and then quickly made his getaway with his dog.
Boromir stood, his face pounded against with the frigid wind, his mind swimming in a sea of confusion. “Atlantic Ocean...” he repeated. Never had he heard of any such ocean before. How far east had he travelled? There could be no doubt of his not being in Middle Earth any longer. He was utterly lost, and felt close to tears. What on earth was he to do?
- - -
Far from forgetting about her houseguest, Morgan had thought about him often in the days following his brisk goodbye. She wasn’t sorry to see him go, crackpot that he was, but she couldn’t deny there had been something inexplicable in his manner, that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. A deep sadness. “Everyone’s got a sob story,” she told herself, shrugging the experience off, and not thinking about it again until the following morning. Swathed in her fuzzy pink bathrobe, she let Moglie out to have his morning pee, only to discover Boromir sitting on her front step, his back facing her.
“Boromir?!” she said, but he did not move. She lightly stepped around him in her knee-high boots, and stooped down to look into his face. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face as pale as the snow. He gazed up at her, helplessly.
“Oh my God, Boromir! Come inside.”
“Nay, I only require some food, if you please. And have you a map? I need to get to...”
“You’re sick!” she said, pulling his arm over her shoulder, barely supporting his heavy weight.
“I cannot trespass...”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Nay, I will not have you bind my hands again. I told you,” he said, an inch from her face, his red eyes pleading into her pale blue eyes. “Never would I harm you.”
“God, am I ever a sucker,” she thought to herself. “Alright, just come on inside. You’ll catch your death out here.”
Boromir had little choice, and he knew it. Certain he would wake only to again find himself bound to her bed, he accepted that fate regardless, for he had no strength to argue any more.
Author's Note: Thank you so much to my two reviewers for the last chapter! You have saved this story. I was about to delete it. I hope you liked this chapter. If you took the time to read it, please take a moment to 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.