Chapter 12: Breath of Life

“Come, Boromir!  We must move faster!”

Boromir did not reply, preferring to save his breath.  He could not help envying the endurance of Aragorn, who was running alongside him at the head of the Fellowship.  He thought himself in fine form physically but that did not mean that he was used to running at full tilt, and certainly not while carrying his sword, his shield, and a fur-lined cloak.  His heart was pounding against his chest nearly as hard as his feet pounded the earth, but Aragorn hardly seemed winded at all.

A quick glance behind him showed Boromir that he and Aragorn were beginning to outdistance the rest of the company.  Gimli and the hobbits had shorter legs than they and could not cover ground as quickly.  Even so, Merry, Pippin, and the Dwarf seemed ready to run for a good distance yet – but not Frodo.  The Ring-bearer had already been weary before climbing up the rift in the canyon wall, and running now had to be punishing for him.  Gandalf seemed to be puffing and blowing, too, and Boromir wondered just how long he and Frodo could continue at such a pace.

“How far ahead can they be?” Boromir managed.

“I hope that we are not too far behind!” Aragorn replied.  “The river is still high, but it has slowed a little since the flood!”

“Perhaps when we get around this bend!”

“Perhaps.  Hurry!”

Boromir’s eyes swept the water as he and Aragorn gradually rounded the curve.  He feared not being able to spot what they were looking for.  The river was not raging, but neither was it smooth, and the only parts of Sam and Legolas that would be showing were their heads.  The falling snow and poor light would do his eyes no favors, either.

“There!” Aragorn suddenly cried, thrusting a finger forward.

“Where?  I do not see them!”

“Beyond that leaning tree.  Just beyond it!  There!  Do you see?”

“Yes!” Boromir exclaimed.  “Both of them!”

“They are moving faster than we are.  We must speed up!”

Boromir did not see how that was possible – he was already moving nearly as fast as he could – but he would certainly try.  If they were going to keep on running as they were, though, he did not see the point of Gandalf or the hobbits continuing in such a fashion, and he said as much.  “It will not be safe… for the hobbits to get near the river.  If anyone is going to pull them out, it will have to be you and me… and perhaps Gimli.  We can do… what must be done.  Let the rest follow as they may!”

“And if Sam and Legolas come close to neither shore?” said Aragorn.  “They could drift for miles!”

“Then we shall have to run for miles!” said Boromir.  “Frodo and Gandalf… they cannot!”

“You give wise counsel,” said Aragorn.  “One of us must stop and tell them.”

“You go,” said Boromir, who was beginning to feel the strain of his long speech.  “You have more stamina.  You… can catch up.”  Aragorn nodded, stopped in his tracks, and turned to go back to the others.  “Wait!  Take this,” said Boromir, unclasping his cloak with one hand and pulling it from his shoulders.  “Too heavy.”

“And your shield?”

“I may need it!  Arrows!”

“Aye,” said Aragorn, and ran back the way he had come.

Boromir put Aragorn out of his head and shrugged his shoulders.  It felt good to be out from under his cloak, which had been uncomfortably warm as well as heavy.  Feeling lighter and fresher, he picked up his step.

Boromir was required to constantly watch the ground which was rocky, muddy, and uneven by turns, but he looked away from his feet whenever he could.  If either Sam or Legolas sank he wanted to see it, and if the Men reappeared atop the cliffs, he wanted to see them, too.  As it was he estimated that he was less than a quarter of a mile behind the Elf and hobbit, and they were both still visible.  He could not tell whether Legolas was swimming or not, but at least their heads were above water.  And let them stay that way, he thought.

It did not take Boromir long to confirm for himself what Aragorn had said: he was losing ground.  It was no wonder; rivers ran faster than a man could move.  He would have needed a galloping horse to keep up.  The only way he would be able catch them was if Legolas managed to grasp something immobile as he had done the last time, and they would both need help when that happened.  Legolas would be weakened from the fight and the beating he had sustained, not to mention the chill water.  As for Sam, the river was likely enough by itself to do him in.  Boromir had never been submerged in water of the river’s temperature before, but he had heard tales of Men who had been.  It did not take long before the cold made the muscles seize up and the heart slow down.  Still, the hobbit had survived his last encounter with the river, and that gave Boromir hope.

The sound of feet thumping against the ground caught Boromir’s attention and he turned to see Aragorn sprinting up to him, carrying a rolled blanket under each arm.  The Ranger slowed his pace to match Boromir’s steadier gait when he caught up.  Gimli was halfway between them and the rest of the Fellowship, still running hard.  Boromir spared a moment’s admiration for the Dwarf.  How he could manage to run over long distances in that chain mail, he could not imagine.

“They do not want to stop yet, though they have slowed down,” Aragorn reported.  “If they find a suitable shelter they will leave the riverbank and wait for us to return.”  Boromir nodded and turned his eyes back to the river.

Sam and Legolas bobbed up and down in the water.  Now and then they seemed to rotate, but Boromir could not tell whether the Elf was trying to get to shore.  He hoped very much that Legolas was swimming; if he was not, then it would only be good fortune that brought either him or Sam within reach.  Fallen trees and broken limbs occasionally protruded into the water from both banks.  It was possible that they could catch on one if they came close enough.  Now that he looked more closely, Boromir thought that Sam and Legolas seemed to be drifting toward the bank that he and Aragorn were on, but he could not be sure.

“This way!” Aragorn suddenly gasped, veering away from the riverbank.  Boromir did not need to ask why to know what must have happened.  The Men were back.  He and Aragorn ducked into the relative shelter of the nearby boulders and kept moving as quickly as the terrain would allow.

Boromir glanced up at the far clifftop.  There were two Men there, standing near the edge and gazing downstream.  One of them pointed, and they vanished as quickly as they had appeared.

“They did not even look in our direction,” wondered Boromir.  “If they do suspect we are friends of Sam and Legolas, then surely they know that we must be following!”

“We know they want our friends dead!” said Aragorn.  “Most likely they plan to kill them before we can catch them, and then they will turn their attention to us.”

“I do not intend to let them succeed,” said Boromir.  “Let us get back to clearer ground!”

They ran on.  Boromir looked at the cliffs as often as he could, but he saw no further sign of the Men.  He knew they were up there somewhere, though; they simply did not stay close enough to the edge to be seen.  Boromir would have preferred to know their precise location, but perhaps it was just as well.  If he could not see them, then they could not see him, either.

Boromir could spare no more than fleeting glances at either the clifftop or the river as he ran, and so it was pure luck that he was watching when Sam suddenly disappeared.  Legolas seemed to sink sideways into the water when the hobbit vanished.  Boromir stared, waiting for Sam to resurface.  He watched for so long that he forgot to look at the ground, tripped on a rock, and nearly fell on his face.  When he regained his balance his eyes immediately sought the river again, but he still could not see Sam.

“What is it?” said Aragorn.  “What do you see?”

“It is what I do not see.  I think Sam has gone under!”

Aragorn squinted, trying to see through the snow, which was falling harder than ever.  “Is that Legolas in the water?”

“It is him.  He does not seem to be moving as he should be.  He may be hurt.”

They ran on for a few more moments before Aragorn said, “I have not caught sight of Sam.”

“Nor have I,” said Boromir.  “I am almost certain that he has not come up.”

Aragorn grimaced.  “My heart will fail me if he drowns!  Where did you last see him?”

“Just ahead, beside that rock in the water.”

“Did he strike it?”

“I do not know!”

Both Men came as near to the water’s edge as they could.  They slowed their pace, searching the rocks and fallen limbs for any sign of the hobbit.  This close, the rock Boromir had indicated proved to be large indeed.  What showed above the water was only a fraction of what lay below the surface.

Sam was nowhere to be seen – not out in the river, and not near the bank.  Boromir’s eyes frantically scanned the far side, but there was no sign of the hobbit there, either.  He knew all too well that if Sam had caught on something, he might never be found.  Boromir could scarcely bear the thought of returning to the other hobbits without their kinsman.  To see him alive, only to lose him again just minutes later....  How they would mourn!  And they would not be alone in their grief; the entire company would lament the loss of Sam. 

Fear bubbled in Boromir’s stomach.  There was nothing in the water but pitiless rocks, dead leaves, and fallen branches glistening white where their bark had been stripped away.  No cloth, no hair, no flesh, no sign of a hobbit.

Boromir’s eyes slid past the water gushing up around a fallen boulder – and stopped.  What was that pressed against the rock’s surface?

“Aragorn!” Boromir cried, stopping dead in his tracks.

Aragorn whirled.

“Here!  He is here!”  Boromir’s feet left the bank and splashed into the river.  He gasped as icy water spilled over the tops of his boots and flooded his feet.

“Where?”

“Here!  Against the boulder!  His hand!  Do you see it?”

“I….  Yes, I see it!”

“He is pinned!”  Boromir continued leaping away from the bank, sending great gouts of water splashing out before him.  The standing stone was still several paces away.

“Can you pull him out by yourself?”

Boromir did not stop moving but spared the briefest of glances at Aragorn, who had turned his anxious eyes upstream again.  Legolas, Boromir thought.  In his excitement he had nearly forgotten.  “Yes!” he replied.  “Go after him!”

Aragorn wasted no time.  “Keep this,” he said, tossing one of his rolled blankets onto the ground as he dashed off again.  “Sam will need it!”

Boromir scarcely noticed Aragorn’s departure.  The small, limp hand in the water drew all of his attention.  He sloshed into the river with his arms flung out to either side to help him keep his balance.  The current tugged hard at his feet, threatening to pull him down, but Boromir did not have the luxury of taking his time.  He plunged ahead, keeping himself upright purely through his forward momentum.

Boromir was waist-deep in the water when his palms slapped against the cold surface of the boulder and stopped him from falling.  This close, he could just see Sam below the surface.  The hobbit’s shape was badly distorted by the rushing water.

Boromir set his feet wide to brace himself against the current and grasped Sam’s hand.  He tugged hard, but the hobbit did not budge; the water was pressing him too firmly against the rock.  Without a second thought Boromir leaned down and plunged both arms into the water.  His hands found Sam’s cloak, his jacket, his chest.  When he had pushed his fingers as far behind Sam’s body as they would go, Boromir pulled again.

Sam came up out of the river in a spray of cold droplets.  Boromir threw an arm around the hobbit, heaved him up so that his head lolled upon his shoulder, and began making his way back to the shore as quickly as he could.

“Ho, Boromir!” said a strong voice.  Gimli was running up the bank.  His eyes fell upon Sam in Boromir’s arms, and his face paled.

“I have him,” said Boromir.  “Go after Aragorn!  He is still chasing Legolas!”

Gimli nodded, aghast, and kept on.

Boromir could no longer use his arms to steady himself, for he needed both of them to hold Sam up.  With every step he took toward the bank he wobbled, but whether by luck or by grace, he did not fall.  His heart rose a little when he stood on dry ground once more.

A cursory examination of Sam told Boromir that the hobbit was not breathing.  He hesitated for the briefest of moments, wondering if he should try and revive him, but decided against it.  He had once heard that doing the wrong thing for a drowning victim could doom him to death as surely as the water in his lungs could.  Calengil, a captain of Gondor, had told him that.  Boromir shook his head firmly in an effort to hold back the surfacing memory.  No.  He was not going to think about that now; he had more important matters to focus on.  He had to get Sam to Gandalf.  The wizard would know what to do.

Boromir stayed only long enough to wrap the blanket Aragorn had left him around Sam’s frame before he was running again, back toward the rest of the Fellowship.  His sodden boots made a rhythmic squitch squitch against the ground as he went.  Boromir stole a sideways glance at Sam.  The hobbit’s skin was very pale, almost grayish, and he lay utterly still, not even shivering.  Boromir willed his legs to move faster.

To Boromir’s immense relief, the rest of the Fellowship came into view much sooner than he had anticipated.  Either they had moved more quickly than he had reckoned, or he had.  It did not matter either way; he had found Gandalf.

The Fellowship clustered around Boromir when he ran up to them, breathing hard.  Boromir dropped to his knees on the ground and gently deposited Sam in front of him.  Sweat burst from his skin and chilled instantly in the wind.  “Gandalf,” he gasped, but Frodo broke in with a cry.

“He’s not breathing!”

To Boromir’s surprise, it was Merry who took charge.  “Get out of the way!” he snarled, and Frodo and Pippin scrabbled backwards, never taking their eyes off of Sam.

Merry knelt at Sam’s side and laid his head upon the gardener’s chest.  “No heartbeat,” he announced.

Pippin burst into tears, and Boromir felt his heart grow cold.  No heartbeat.  Surely Sam could not be dead!  He had survived the flood, the fall, and who knew what else at the hands of Men only to be lost now during his escape?  He rested his tired arms upon his knees and let his head drop forward.  He had not run fast enough after all.

But Merry had not given up hope.  He settled himself firmly upon his knees, pinched Sam’s nose shut, leaned over, and covered Sam’s mouth with his own.  At first Boromir was thoroughly startled, but then he saw Sam’s chest rise, and the memory he had pressed down just a short time ago tugged at the corners of his mind.

Sam’s chest rose again.

Boromir stared as the two hobbits wavered and changed before his eyes as if he were looking at them through a sheet of warped glass.  Sam was no longer Sam but had become a young, thoroughly drenched boy who lay still and pale upon a riverbank.  Calengil knelt beside the boy, tall and strong, a helm of a Guard of the Citadel upon his head.  The sound of weeping women filled the air.  The man leaned over the boy, pinched his nose shut, and….

Boromir sucked in a ragged breath.  The icy cold of the air startled him, and the vision vanished like a pricked soap bubble.  He was at the river’s edge once again, and Merry and Sam were just as they had been before, except that Merry was now sitting astride Sam’s legs.  He seized either side of Sam’s chest, heaved his back up off the ground, and threw it back down again.

“Pippin!  I need you to breathe for him!” Merry barked.  Pippin stumbled to Sam’s side though he continued to weep.  “Hold his nose shut,” Merry ordered.  “Give him a deep breath when I say!”

Boromir’s mind was still reeling.  Faramir.  Long had it been since he had thought of that day on the Anduin when the Steward’s boating party had nearly ended in tragedy.  In all the years since he had never forgotten that Faramir had nearly drowned, but it had been some time since he had last remembered the scene with such clarity.  To have it swim up now out of the depths of his memory left him shaken and unmanned.  His eyes turned to an ashen-faced Frodo, who was watching Merry’s furious efforts.

“Breathe!” said Merry.

Frodo’s eyes were brimming with unshed tears.  His mouth opened as if he wanted to speak, but no sound passed his lips.  Gandalf seemed not to notice Frodo’s despair; he stood as still as a statue, watching the scene unfold before him with an expression that was half disbelieving, half sorrowful.

Pippin had fallen to his knees beside Sam’s head.  His movements were jerky and automatic, but he had mastered himself enough to respond to Merry’s orders, and Sam’s chest expanded as he expelled one great breath.

Pippin straightened up.  “Nothing,” he said in a quavering voice.

Merry was already pulling Sam’s shoulders up off the ground again.  “We’re not giving up!” he cried.  His sharp movements put a hitch in his voice.  “I’ve seen hobbits take much longer than this to come around!”

“It’s too late,” Pippin moaned.  “He’s so cold and blue –”

“Breathe!”

Pippin obeyed.

Frodo inhaled a shuddering breath.  Silent tears were streaming down his face.

Boromir was moved.  He impulsively reached out and enfolded one of Frodo’s tightly clenched fists in his own larger hand.  The movement startled Gandalf out of his reverie, and he reached down to clasp Frodo’s shoulder.

Merry threw Sam’s back against the ground.  “Breathe!” he fairly shrieked.

Pippin bent down and reached for Sam’s nose.  Sam’s body suddenly convulsed, and the unexpected movement so surprised Pippin that he yelped and nearly fell over backwards.

Merry scrambled off Sam’s legs and knelt at his side.  “That’s it!” he cried.  “Come on, Sam!”

Sam’s eyes opened, wide and brown.  He convulsed again, and Merry seized his right shoulder and pulled him onto his side.  Sam’s back was turned to Boromir, but he clearly heard the sound of vomiting followed by a reedy breath.

At Merry’s cry of joy, everyone sagged in relief.  Pippin beamed like the sun through a rain of tears.  Frodo swayed and nearly collapsed against Boromir while Gandalf sighed and leaned heavily on his staff.

Merry held Sam where he was, letting him suck in breaths until the wheezing sound dissipated.  When he gently rolled him onto his back again, Sam’s eyes were closed.  For a moment Boromir thought the hobbit might have slipped away again, but Sam’s chest rose and fell on its own, and the flush of life was beginning to return to his face.  For several long moments Sam simply inhaled and exhaled.  Then he opened his eyes and gazed up at Merry.

“Merry,” he said breathily.

Merry clasped one of Sam’s hands in both of his and smiled down at him.  “Hullo, Sam,” he said in a tremulous voice.

“Where… Mr. Frodo?”

“I’m right here, Sam,” said Frodo, scrubbing at his tear-streaked face with the back of his hand.  He was attempting to look happy, but such a tumult of emotions was present on his face that his smile wavered dangerously.

An expression of purest relief and joy washed over Sam’s face.  “Mr. Frodo… still safe.”

“You shouldn’t have worried about me,” said Frodo in a stronger voice.  “Merry and Pippin have been looking after me very well.”

“He is starting to shiver,” said Gandalf.  “We must get him warm!  Boromir, can you…?”

Boromir pushed his weariness to the back of his mind, reached down, and carefully gathered up Sam.  He felt a surge of pride when his legs did not tremble as he stood.

“Legolas?” Sam abruptly said.

Boromir exchanged a quick look with Gandalf.  The three dry hobbits were looking at him expectantly; he had not yet had the chance to tell them of what had transpired at the river.  “You were separated,” he told Sam quietly.  “Aragorn and Gimli have gone after him.”

“He’ll be all right,” said Pippin.  “Don’t you worry about him just now.”

“No,” said Sam, who sounded confused.  “Legolas….”

“Strider and Gimli will look after him.”  Pippin was still drying his eyes, but his tone was firm.  “Right now we’re going to find a place to warm you up.”

“You’ll watch him, won’t you, Frodo?” said Merry.

“Yes, of course,” said Frodo, who was still wiping his own eyes.  “Go, and quickly!  Legolas will be cold and wet when he gets back, too.”  Merry and Pippin each smiled shakily at him, reached up to squeeze one of Sam’s hands, and darted off toward the cliffs.

“They have been scouting for a suitable shelter,” Gandalf confided softly to Boromir.  “It is most obliging of them.  Frodo and I feel we may walk quickly, but we are too spent for much running.”

“Let’s keep moving,” said Frodo, who had taken up Bill’s lead rope.  “The farther we go, the closer Legolas will be to shelter.”

They started off downstream again, moving as swiftly as they could while merely walking.  Boromir could feel Sam trembling in his arms.  He moved one hand until it rested against the hobbit’s back and carefully began to chafe it against the blanket that encircled him, trying to warm him just a little.

“Sam!  Are you going to sleep?” said Frodo.

Gandalf reached over to Boromir and gave Sam a shake.  “Stay awake if you can, Sam.”

“So tired,” Sam murmured.

Gandalf sighed and let his hand fall away.  “I might as well leave him alone.  He is not coherent enough to answer questions about the Men, and I do not have the heart to be anything but gentle with him now.  We shall have to do the best that we can with the knowledge that we already have.”

“These Men are our foes,” said Boromir.  “For now, that should be knowledge enough.  We will have to be on our guard.”

“How was Legolas faring when you parted ways with Aragorn?”

“I could not tell.  He was too far away, and the snow made it difficult to see.”  A gust of wind rushed down the river, and Boromir shivered.  The wind seemed to go right through him.

“Boromir!” Frodo exclaimed.  “You should be wearing your cloak!”

Gandalf turned a critical eye upon Boromir.  “You are nearly as wet as Sam!  You must change into dry clothes as soon as possible.”

“I will,” Boromir promised.  “This walking helps to keep the blood flowing, at least.  I am warmer now than I felt a moment ago.”

“If we are not careful, half the company will be too sick to continue.  Aragorn and Gimli will likely be wet as well when they return.”

“Perhaps.”

Gandalf shot Boromir a shrewd look, but he did not speak until he had looked carefully at Sam to see whether he was sensible.  “You think they may return without Legolas.”  It was not a question.

“That is a possibility,” Boromir said quietly.  “We only caught up with Sam because he was pinned against a rock.  The river moves too swiftly for Men to match it.  What is more, I think that Legolas may be injured.”

“Injured how?” said Frodo.  “Has he been shot?”

“I was not nearly close enough to see.  I am sorry.”

“Well, you saved Sam,” said Frodo.  “I can only hope that Aragorn and Gimli will be as fortunate.”

“You do not know just how fortunate we were,” said Boromir.  “Sam was underwater when we found him.  We would have run by him had I not looked up at the right moment.  I saw him disappear, and when he did not resurface, we searched the place where he vanished.”

“Underwater,” Frodo said softly.

“Pinned, as I said.  I do not see how he could have broken free.  The current was far too strong.”

“Sam never liked getting into water unless it was in a bathtub,” said Frodo.  “I doubt he’ll ever dip so much as one toe into a millpond now.”

“Faramir nearly drowned when he was six years old,” Boromir heard himself saying.  “It was long before he felt truly comfortable swimming again.  Truth be told, I did not swim for quite some time afterwards, either.  I was there when it happened.”

“Faramir.  Your brother?”

“Yes.”  Boromir hesitated for a moment, surprised at what he was revealing.  He could not imagine what had possessed him to speak of it, or what compelled him to continue.  “I do not know what I would have done if he had been lost.  He is dear to me.”

“Of course.”  There was something strange in Frodo’s voice but Boromir could not decide what.  Perhaps it was just the emotion of the last few minutes coming through.  “I should like to hear more about him.”

Boromir smiled.  “You honor me.”

A high-pitched cry suddenly sounded ahead of them.  “Gandalf!”

“Pippin?”

“We’ve found something!”

“This way,” Gandalf said briskly, turning away from the river.  Boromir and Frodo followed with Sam and Bill in tow.  For his part, Boromir hoped that the hobbits had found something; he was desperately weary, and his arms and legs were feeling the cold despite the quick pace.

It was not long before Merry came running up alone to meet them.  “Back here,” he said.  “It’s more of an overhang than a cave, and the roof isn’t high enough for you Big Folk, but it’s mostly out of the weather.  Pippin’s gathering some wood.  We will want a fire, won’t we?”

 “I think we shall need one,” said Gandalf.  “We must do all we can to be sure that Sam and Legolas recover – and that no one else falls ill.”

Presently the little group came upon Merry and Pippin’s discovery.  Merry had spoken truly; it was not really a cave, but rather a large hollow at the base of the cliff that seemed to have been worn out by the wind.  It was not large enough for Boromir to stand in, but he thought he would be able to kneel inside without having to bend his neck.  It was more than high enough to clear the hobbits’ heads. 

Pippin was sitting beneath the overhang, striking flint on steel above a patch of tinder.  More tinder and kindling rested beside him in a small pile.  “The wood’s a little wet,” he said, briefly looking up from his work.  “It’s not too far gone, though.  Snow’s not as bad as rain.”

“We must get Sam out of these wet clothes,” said Gandalf. 

“I’ll help with that,” said Frodo.  “Merry can find more wood.”

“Keep an eye open for Aragorn and Gimli!” Gandalf called, but there was no telling whether Merry heard him or not.  The hobbit had ducked into the trees again as soon as Frodo had spoken.

“Someone will have to go and watch for them,” Gandalf continued.  He pulled a small pack from the pony and tossed it onto the ground beneath the overhang.  “They will not know where we have gone off to.”

“Put Sam down, if you please,” said Frodo, who had spread a blanket over the hard earth.  Boromir went to his knees, trying not to jostle Sam, and made his way into the gap as gracefully as he could in such an awkward position.  Gandalf followed right behind him, and when they reached Frodo’s blanket, the wizard reached over to help Boromir lower Sam to the ground.

Frodo and Gandalf began stripping Sam of his sodden cloak and jacket as soon as his back touched the earth.  “Get yourself into some dry clothes,” said Gandalf.  “And wrap up in your cloak when you are through.”

“I should go back to the river,” said Boromir.  “As you say, Aragorn and Gimli will need to be watched for.”

“Not by you!” Gandalf exclaimed.  “I wish we could have seen to you immediately, but as it is, I can only hope that you do not feel too poorly tomorrow.  Merry can go when he returns.”

Boromir was prepared to argue further, but once he had donned fresh clothing from Bill’s saddlebags, put on his cloak and taken a seat on the ground, he discovered that it would be difficult to get up again.  Muscles that had pushed themselves hard wished for rest.  Still, Boromir could not stand the thought of doing nothing, so he settled himself beside Pippin and assisted in building the fire.

A sudden exclamation from Frodo drew both Boromir’s and Pippin’s attention.  “What?” said Pippin.  “What’s wrong?”

“He’s covered in bruises, head to foot,” said Frodo, “and his wrist is splinted.”  His voice shook slightly – with anger, Boromir thought, if the hard look on his face was any indication.  “Those Men have mistreated him.”

“A good many of these injuries may have been sustained during his first trip down the river,” said Gandalf.  “Myself, I am surprised to find that he has no broken bones.  How he received these injuries will have to remain a mystery until he awakens.” 

By the time Gandalf and Frodo had Sam out of his freezing clothes and into a blanket, the fire had grown from a pile of smoking tinder to a small, hopeful blaze.  Together they moved Sam close to the warmth and sat down on either side of him.  Boromir doubted if Sam was sleeping any longer – surely his shivers within the blankets were too violent for him to be at peace – but he did not open his eyes.  Frodo seemed to want to take Sam’s hand in his own, but every time his fingers began creeping toward the gardener, he stilled them and drew his hands into his lap again.

“Do you think he’ll be all right, Gandalf?” said Pippin in a near whisper.

Gandalf gave Sam one long, slow look before nodding.  “Aragorn will need to have a look at him, but until then we have every reason for hope.  The shivers are a good sign.”

The sound of approaching footsteps caused every head to snap upright, but shoulders slumped in disappointment when the arrival turned out to be Merry with another armload of wood.  “I’ll fetch more,” he said with an anxious look for Sam, and turned to leave.

“I’ll get it,” said Pippin.  “The fire’s going well enough now.”

“We should like you to go to the riverbank to keep watch,” said Gandalf.  “Someone must be waiting to tell Aragorn and Gimli where we are.  Will you do this?”

“Of course,” said Merry.  “I’ll watch all night if I must.”

Boromir stole a look at Gandalf’s face.  The wizard did not reply directly to Merry’s remark, but Boromir thought he could guess at the thoughts that were flitting through his mind.  If Merry had to watch all night, then Legolas would not be coming back to them alive.

“Thank you,” was all Gandalf said.  Merry nodded gravely and hurried off into the snow again.  Boromir silently hoped that Merry returned soon, bringing the others with him.  He did not think that anyone could survive in water that cold for long, no matter what their race.

Pippin departed in search of larger fuel for the fire.  In his absence a silence fell over the group, broken only by the wind and the occasional pop issuing from the fire.  The snow, falling thick and fast beyond the overhang, looked oddly tranquil after the violence of the past hour.  Pulses and breathing gradually slowed to match the hush that had fallen over the river.  Pippin returned with both arms full of wood and left again.  Boromir kept busy with the fire, Frodo had eyes only for Sam, and Gandalf divided his attention between the shivering hobbit in his arms and the way beyond their shelter.

Gandalf bade Pippin rest for a bit upon his fourth return, and Pippin was happy to oblige him.  He sat down before the fire to warm his hands and said no more than anyone else.  Boromir, gazing into the flames from his place beside the hobbit, was becoming increasingly aware of his fatigue.  Warmth eased the deep chill in his flesh and sent thoughts of sleep to intrude upon his worries.  He could not help but feel a stab of guilt for feeling comfortable.  Merry was keeping a cold watch by the river, Aragorn and Gimli might still be running downstream, and Legolas was likely half frozen, wherever he was.  He had never been one to sit idly while others labored, and it certainly did not seem right to do so now – but he was very tired.

A sudden shout broke the stillness.  “Hullo!”

Boromir straightened out of his hunched position, all thoughts of weariness temporarily dispelled.  The others were sitting up with similar degrees of alertness.  “Hullo, Merry!” Pippin called back.

A rapid crunching sound announced Merry’s approach.  The hobbit appeared like a ghost out of the snow, pausing a few feet from the overhang to turn and beckon behind him.  “This way!”

Moments later Gimli appeared beside Merry, his beard frosted white.  A tall shadow behind him resolved itself into Aragorn, bent under the weight of Legolas, whom he was carrying over one shoulder.  His arms were wrapped about the Elf’s legs to keep him from sliding to the ground.

“Strider!” Pippin called.  “Is Legolas all right?”

“Put him down here,” Gimli said gruffly.  Aragorn stepped close to the entrance and went unsteadily to his knees, one leg at a time.  Gimli and Merry raised their hands to catch Legolas as he slid limply from the Ranger’s shoulder.  “Careful!” said Gimli.  “Don’t put pressure on it!”  He did not need to say what he meant, for Merry moved to stand on the other side of Legolas, and the Elf’s full form could finally be seen.

Boromir stared.  Legolas had been injured; one dark arrow stood out from his back.  There were no fletchings; the shaft ended in a jagged stump several inches above the skin.  No one beneath the overhang said a word at Legolas’ appearance.  They only gaped in dismay.

Aragorn had already moved beneath the shelter on his knees.  He tugged at Legolas with both arms while Merry and Gimli struggled to lift him.  “Help me, Boromir,” Aragorn grated.  “I do not… want to drag him.”  Boromir shook himself and reached forward, and together he, Aragorn, Merry, and Gimli pulled Legolas beneath the overhang as smoothly as they could manage.  Aragorn groaned at the last, long tug that pulled Legolas completely out of the snow.

The first close sight of Legolas was enough to arrest Boromir’s movements.  The Elf’s eyes were closed in a face that was every bit as pale as Sam’s had been, and the same eerie, bluish color tinged his lips.  Gimli had implied that Legolas still lived, but Boromir doubted it.  Dead men often looked so.

“No!”

Boromir turned to see Sam in Gandalf’s arms, his eyes wide with panic.  He was actually attempting to stand up, but he was easily restrained by the wizard and a dazed-looking Frodo.

“They killed him!” Sam cried in a voice made ragged with sudden grief.  Gandalf looked as though he wished to offer solace but could find nothing to say.  Frodo reached for his friend, but Sam did not seem to see him at all; his eyes were fixed on Legolas.  “Oh, they k-killed him!”

“Be calm!” Aragorn said anxiously.  “He is alive!”

Sam did not seem to have heard.  His tears only came faster, and his body jerked as he struggled to breathe.  “No!  I tried!  I t-tried!”

“Gandalf!” Aragorn implored.

The wizard turned his body so that Sam no longer had a full view of Legolas.  “Peace, Samwise.  You must not exert yourself.”

Sam shook his head emphatically.  “They – they shot him!” he wheezed.

“Elves are not easily slain, but Aragorn must see to Legolas at once, and he cannot do so properly while worrying over you.”

“Y-you don’t understand.  There are Men –”

“We have seen them.  We know that they are no friends of ours.”

“They’ll c-come for us!”  Sam seized one of Gandalf’s hands with one of his own.  “They won’t stop!”

“You are across the river,” Gandalf said patiently.  “The Men are still atop the cliffs, and it will not be easy for them to find a way down.  Even if they can do that, they may still have to walk far to find a crossing.”  He gently tried to pry his wrist from Sam’s grasp, but Sam clung to him with strength he did not look to possess.  Frodo was leaning forward, anxiously urging Sam to lie still, but Sam did not heed him.  His eyes shone with a feverish light, and they were squarely focused on Gandalf.

“Listen to me!”

Gandalf hesitated, startled into stillness by Sam’s ferocity.  For a moment he looked into Sam’s face, studying the desperation there before saying, “I am listening now.”

“You… have to understand,” Sam panted.  “They w-wanted….”  He looked wildly up at Gandalf.

“Easy, Sam,” Gandalf said soothingly, managing at last to pull free of Sam’s grip.  He tucked the hobbit’s hand back inside the blanket and snugged the wool back up under his chin.

Frodo leaned across Gandalf’s lap to fix Sam with his gaze.  “Take your time.  No,” he said when Sam opened his mouth, “take a deep breath.  Now another.  Good.  It will all go faster if you just relax for a moment.”  Sam did not look as if he liked these orders very much, but he did as Frodo bade him, and gradually his frantic breathing slowed.

“I must see to Legolas now,” said Aragorn.  “If someone will help me to move him a little farther in….”

Boromir started to rise, but Gimli stopped him.  “You have earned your rest; I will do it.  Where do you want him?”

“As far from the opening as possible.  He needs warmth.”

“And a surgeon,” Gimli added somberly.

“That, I shall have to be.  Merry, I need your assistance.”

Merry’s head came up in surprise.  “What?”

“Your assistance.  Please.”

Merry looked nothing less than poleaxed, but he nodded.

“Get my pack off of Bill, if you please.  Find me some soap and the bandages.  And I will need hot water.  Pippin?”

Pippin glanced at the fire and clucked his tongue.  “Tsk!  Should’ve thought of that ages ago.”  He rose and followed Merry to Bill, who was placidly standing just outside the overhang.  The urgency of the last half-hour had been such that no one had thought to tether him.

“Now then,” said Gandalf, “let us continue.  What did the Men want?”

“They said we had something valuable,” said Sam.  “They w-wouldn’t say what, but w-we knew what they meant.”  Tears welled up in his eyes again.  “We said w-we didn’t have anything.”

A ripping sound from the rear of the shelter drew Boromir’s eyes.  Aragorn was bent over Legolas, who lay on his chest on the ground.  The Ranger was using a dagger to cut his tunic away from the vicinity of the wound while Merry placed a clean, folded garment beneath Legolas’ cheek.  Both Man and hobbit glanced sideways at Sam, but neither of them paused in their work.

The tearing sound drew Sam’s attention, too.  His eyes rolled in Legolas’ direction but Aragorn had moved him too far back for Sam to see without turning.  Sam’s face contorted and he squeezed his eyes shut, sending a new flow of tears down his cheeks.  Boromir felt certain that his stutters were caused more by his grief than by the chill he had taken.  “We d-didn’t tell them nothing, b-but they d-didn’t believe us!  They still think we’ve got something!  They think we have It!”  He drew in a hitched breath.

“What makes you say that?” Gandalf asked quietly.

“They knew about hobbits,” Sam moaned, “and they work for Saruman.”  This time Aragorn did stop moving, if only for a moment.

“The Ring.”  Gandalf’s tone had become clipped, although he did not sound angry.  “Did they speak of the Ring?”

Sam stared up into the wizard’s unblinking eyes and shook his head.  Frodo exhaled slowly and seemed to collapse a little where he sat.  Boromir avoided looking directly at the Ring-bearer when he realized that he was clutching at the chain around his neck – again.  He always did so when he was especially anxious or upset, something he had often been during the past few days.  Boromir found the sight of the small hand grasping that chain increasingly unsettling, although he could not say why.

“They d-didn’t say nothing about It,” Sam continued, “but they know there’s something.  They were always trying to make us tell.  We didn’t say w-what they wanted, but they’re going to come anyway.  We didn’t say a word about M-mr. Frodo or anyone else, but they d-didn’t believe we’re alone.”

“Is that water started?” said Aragorn with more than a little bit of heat in his voice.

“Just putting it on now.”  Pippin looked embarrassed as he carried Sam’s sturdiest pot over to the fire, now full of water from the spare skins.  Boromir felt a flash of irritation at Aragorn’s unwarranted rebuke.  The youngest member of the Fellowship had worked as hard as anyone and had not dawdled for a moment, not even when Sam’s revelations had been enough to give both Aragorn and Gandalf pause.

Any reference to Legolas, however oblique, was enough to send Sam spiraling into despair again.  He shut his eyes and tried to contain himself, but he lost the battle when Gandalf laid a gnarled hand upon his head.  “He was so brave!” he sobbed brokenly.  “J-just as b-brave as all the heroes in the stories!  And now….”

“Sssh,” said Gandalf, passing his hand over Sam’s wet curls.  “Lie still and rest.  I understand now.”

“Saruman,” Frodo murmured.  “And now he has sent Men after us.  After me, truly, although they may not know it yet.”

“You’re not safe here, Mr. Frodo,” Sam sniffed.  “You c-can’t let them find you.”

“Samwise Gamgee, if you are suggesting what I think you are –”

“They’re terrible!” said Sam.  “You d-don’t know –”

“I know enough,” said Frodo, “and I am not going anywhere.  I’ll not leave you behind, and I’m too tired to go any further today anyway.”

“You don’t know,” Sam repeated stubbornly.  He raised his eyes to Gandalf’s face again, and his tears subsided a little amid an expression of the utmost gravity.  “Garan.”

“Who?”

“The leader.  He’s a s-sorcerer.”

Gandalf’s lips parted in surprise.  “What?”

“A sorcerer!  L-legolas believed me!”

“How do you know this?  What did he do?”

“He tried to make me tell.  It wasn’t natural.”

“Another wizard?” Gimli rumbled.  “Is that what we are dealing with?”

“The only other wizard that we are dealing with is Saruman,” Gandalf said firmly, “though a sorcerer is hardly good news.”

“Please,” Sam begged, “you have to….  I don’t know what else he can do….”

Gandalf smiled down at Sam.  “He cannot do what I can.  Take some comfort in that.”  Abruptly he stretched one hand out over the pot, which had barely had time to heat amid the small fire.  Boromir’s jaw dropped as steam suddenly began issuing from the surface of the water.  He had had few opportunities to observe magic in his lifetime though Gandalf had visited Minas Tirith often during his youth.  No matter how major or minor the feat, it never failed to astound him.

If anything, the sudden availability of hot water seemed to wind Aragorn even tighter than he already was.  “Fill three bowls with some of that water,” he said, handing Merry a small, leather pouch from his pack.  “And I need you to find three instruments: one with a flat, rounded end, one that looks like a little knife, and a pair of pincers.  Put them into one of the bowls.  Mind you don’t cut yourself on anything; many of the tools in there are sharp.”

“I thought you said that you couldn’t do any magic,” Pippin said to Gandalf.  “I thought you said it would catch Sauron’s attention.”

“Boiling water is a much smaller matter than….  It is a small matter.”  Gandalf’s face drew down into a grave, pointed expression.  Pippin glanced from the wizard to Sam and back again before nodding.

“How many Men are there, Sam?” Frodo asked quietly.

“Four,” Sam murmured drowsily.  “Were more once….  Legolas killed some.”

“Four of them, and one a sorcerer,” Boromir mused.  “If they are as driven as Sam has reported, then we can expect them to try to cross the river and retake their prizes.  Four against four is not as bad as, aah….”  He trailed off momentarily under Gandalf’s sharp glare.  The wizard seemed intent on keeping Sam from knowing that the rest of the Fellowship had seen his struggle with the Men, at least for the time being.  “Um.  Four is not as bad as, say, double that number would have been.  Still, we could better plan our defense if we could guess at their skill.”

“So it’s to be four on four, is it?” Pippin said indignantly, drawing himself up where he sat.  “There are seven of us who are hale, not four.  You’ve been teaching us how to better use our swords!”

Boromir sighed internally.  He should have thought before speaking.  Pippin was always sensitive to any implication that he might not be as capable as the larger members of the Fellowship in any capacity, but Pippin’s wounded feelings did not change Boromir’s opinion.  “I am not saying that you cannot defend yourselves,” he said aloud, “but you cannot be assured of victory in a one-on-one fight with a fully-trained Man.  Not yet, at least.”

Pippin opened his mouth to protest, but Merry laid a hand on his arm.  “He’s right.  Best to leave the fighting to those who know it well, should it come to that.”

“We’d hardly be a hindrance, though,” Pippin said grumpily.

“Hardly,” Gimli agreed.  “If it does come to fighting, then you may very well find yourselves on the front lines whatever anyone wills.  At the least you will be guarding our injured companions against any breach of our defenses.”

“Do not be too eager for a chance to use your blade,” said Aragorn, who was studying the arrow in Legolas’ back closely.  “You will not be the same hobbit afterwards.”  He and Merry had managed to remove the Elf’s shirt and had swathed him in blankets, leaving the upper left part of his back uncovered.

Pippin blinked and looked away, his face troubled.

A clink sounded from one of the bowls.  “They’re in,” Merry said softly.

“Good,” said Aragorn.  “Once we have washed our hands, we can begin.  Scrub thoroughly; I’ll not risk having infection set in.”

“You still… need my help?” Merry said faintly.

The briefest of smiles flashed across Aragorn’s lips.  “I will pull the arrow and tend to the wound.  What I need you to do is give me whatever item I ask for.”

“Ah.”  Boromir thought Merry looked vastly relieved.  “All right.”

Aragorn and Merry soaped and lathered their hands in one of the bowls for a long minute.  Merry carefully emulated the Ranger, scrubbing every inch of skin and even attempting to clean beneath his fingernails.  The hobbit seemed calm enough during the cleaning, and though he paled a bit when he put his cloth down, he kept his face and hands steady.

“Hand me the flat,” said Aragorn.

Merry reached into one of the bowls, drew out a long tool and gave it to Aragorn, handle-first.  The Ranger bent down over Legolas’ shoulder, lowering the silvery implement toward the wound.

Boromir turned away.  He had seen his share of battle-wounds up close, having been the recipient of more than one himself.  Strangely enough, he could tend to his own wounds without flinching, but he did not like to watch healers do the same to others.

“Now the pincers.”  And after a short pause: “Be ready with those bandages.”

“I’m ready,” said Merry.

Boromir was not the only member of the Fellowship to avert his eyes from what was about to happen.  Frodo looked at Sam, who now seemed to be fast asleep in Gandalf’s arms.  Pippin’s gaze flickered back and forth between Sam and Legolas as if he wanted to see what was going on yet could not bear to glimpse more than fragments of it.  Gandalf seemed wholly unperturbed, but his eyes rested on Sam more often than they did on Legolas.  Only Gimli watched without once looking away.  His face betrayed no emotion whatsoever.

Boromir busied himself in gazing into the snow.  He thought it highly unlikely that Sam’s Men would appear so soon – there were formidable obstacles between them and the Fellowship – but that was no excuse for not being watchful.  Sam had certainly done his best to impress upon them all his belief that the Men would be tenacious.  If they were indeed creatures of Saruman, then Boromir was certain that they had been sent to find the Ring.  Gandalf’s revelations at the Council had laid bare the White Wizard’s allegiance, and if the Men had known about hobbits….  What other conclusion could be drawn from such tidings?  However much Saruman had elected to tell the Men, he had surely made plain to them the need to find something worth great effort and toil.  It had to be so; Boromir could think of precious little else that could drive these Men to press on when six of their fellows had already perished.  Besides, Sam was not given to exaggeration.  Boromir believed that the hobbit had told what he thought to be the truth, and that meant that the Men would be doing their best to catch up with them, even knowing that they were more than just two.  A guard certainly had to be set, however weary they all were.

“Where are you going?” said Frodo when Boromir began sliding toward the exit from the hollow.

“To keep watch,” Boromir replied.  “We cannot let these Men catch us unaware.”

“But you are tired.  I can do it; I have not toiled as you have today.”

Aragorn grunted, and Boromir’s eyes slid over to where he worked before he could stop himself.  The memory of Faramir replaced Legolas’ spectral visage for a moment, slamming home so unexpectedly that his breath and pulse quickened in response.  “In a little while, perhaps,” said Boromir, tearing his gaze away.  “I feel… confined in such a small space.”  He left the shelter as quickly as he could.  Snow immediately flew into his face and stung his eyes, but he merely wrapped his cloak around himself and turned his back to the wind.

Boromir could say without boasting that he was a brave man, but even the bravest of souls were not immune to fear.  He could think of a scant few things that could shake him as much as the sight of Faramir’s half-dead form upon the riverbank all those many years ago.  That Faramir had lived lessened the terror of the memory, but not enough.  He cast about in his mind for happy recollections of his brother – of which he had many – but he could not seem to fix his attention on any of them.  Why did these images have to trouble him now?  He would never forget what had happened, but he did not want to remember the details.  It is this river, he thought, and finding Sam as I did, and these foul Men that are on our trail.

“Almost there,” said Aragorn.

Boromir inhaled deeply of the cold air, wondering at the strange hold that one event could have on him.  It really was most astounding; he was born of a long line of Stewards, battle-hardened and considered mighty among his people, and now shadows and visions turned his knees to water.  Such weakness distracted him from his duty when there were enemies about and companions to protect.

“The bandages!” Aragorn said sharply.  “Quickly, Merry!”

Boromir set himself to striding back and forth in front of the overhang.  Keeping himself occupied would be just the thing to help him shake off his grim thoughts.  He could do it, given enough time and determination; after all, he was a captain of Gondor, and it was only a memory.