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Hooves flailed, confusion and fear darkening the horse’s eyes to a glistening ember. Boromir blocked out the screams and the whoops and the flames, narrowed his mind to the neighing as he watched a red line ooze down the blue roan’s chest, the imbedded arrow slowing the flow.
He reached out a hand, inch by inch, till he touched the animal between its eyes and nose. The horse flinched, then studied Boromir’s face as he caressed its muzzle, humming a lullaby his mother had sung him, the words of which he could not recall. His overwhelmed mind sought refuge in the beauty of the horse’s gray coat, vision drifting over dark splotches, swirling around the light wisps. The kicking slowed, the horse relaxing into the serenity of Boromir’s voice and soothing hand.
He hadn’t found Faramir behind the wain, and had cursed his own instincts. The captain had overturned it, set fire to it, in attempt to distract the Haradrim, then snuck Finduilas and the baby through the edge of the clearing. Boromir knew they hadn't meant to fool him, as well.
Swoosh – Thud.
Swoosh – Thud. A second arrow landed beside him, pulled him out of the trance he and the horse shared. Yet still, fright had him frozen in this space.
He turned and saw Gondor's livery far off through the trees. He saw his mother, his brother in her arms, being swept away by two of his father’s soldiers.
Swoosh - Thud. A third arrow nicked his arm and the loss of contact with the horse jarred him into running.
He ran toward the place he’d seen his mother, the echoes of her screams for him urging him forward. He should not have disobeyed, should have run as he’d been told, but he’d seen his brother’s blanket and could not have left him there to burn.
When he’d cleared five meters or so, he looked back to the field. The horse was completely still, its eyes closed. The dappling of its colors looked more blended from far off, and Boromir tried to find the spot his hand last touched.
Swoosh – Thud. An arrow caught his cloak to the tree. He scrambled out of the fabric and ran.
***
Lungs burning, cramps cutting into his sides, he didn’t recall pain such as this when he’d played running games with the boys at court. He stopped, chest heaving, and took stock of his location. He was sure he’d seen the soldiers turn his mother to the east, what he thought was east, but he saw no one he knew in any direction.
A thundering like he’d never heard came down upon him, horses from three directions. Dark-skinned men bedecked in jewels steered them, trampling past Boromir in a teasing game that set his heart to leaping, and his breath faltered. One horse reared up each time it passed him, teeth bared, nostrils flaring, its face contorted in such depravity that Boromir could not look away, and he barely dove left or right in time.
The blow against his head knocked him down, and he felt a thin cord wrap round his neck at great speed. He reached up to have his hand tangled within the coiling trap. A kick prevented his legs being trussed together, leaving only his right thigh wrapped in a second braid of string, a rock tied to each end.
Boromir jumped to his feet, clawing the cord from his neck, as a Haradrim came forward. He recognized the primitive weapons from his tutor’s scrolls, but he did not understand the words the South-man barked at him.
“Run, Little Lord!” Boromir turned as a soldier of his father’s guard shoved the hilt of a dagger into his palm. A real dagger. It was then he realized he’d left his wooden sword at the wain. Father had told him never to part with it. “Run!”
He did not stop to question this time. He saw the soldier holding his own as he turned to run, though the two dark men rushing to the Southron’s aid told Boromir of the soldier’s probable fate. Tears stung his cheeks as he raced away.
Waves of nausea washed over him as he darted past tree after tree. His thigh was numb where the cord dug into it, spiraled round like the brightly-colored ribbons of the Pole of Spring. He slowed mere moments to cut it, allowing the rocks to fall away as his pace quickened again. He didn’t stop sprinting until he smacked his forehead on the tree in front of him, too dark now to see.
***
Creak. That branch had smacked the window a dozen times that week but this was the first night it didn't lull him to sleep. Ought to cut it. The howl of the wind usually made him drowsy but slumber was slow in claiming him tonight. He turned over, pulled his blanket tighter. It wasn’t until the coyotes started howling that he set his feet upon the gouged wooden planks and set back out into the woods.
Gusts of wind swallowed the crunch of leaves under his boots. With his limp and awkward burden, the trek back was no smooth venture, but the boy never woke. The waif wasn’t heavy, merely cumbersome over his shoulder than a sack of grain. The miserable creature hadn’t moved from when the Tinker had seen him rolled into a ball against a tree earlier that day, but he was sure the boy lived. He almost left him there a second time when he’d found the dagger in his belt. The white tree etched into it was surely no good sign. Whoever the boy stole it from would be looking to retrieve it. Likewise, that tunic sewn with fancy swan pictures could surely not belong to a runaway lad in the wild. Danger if he'd ever seen it. Still, he’d been helped years back when he was in trouble, so figured he’d turn about the fortune.
***
He was loathe to waste good firewood when he’d just be in his bed, but was quite sure the imp wouldn’t last the night otherwise and he didn’t want to have to drag his body to the river.
He pulled the lad’s coat off, then his shoes. When he pulled the dagger out of the lad’s hand, he noticed the scar on his palm, edges as crisp as any on livestock, in the shape of a horse. A brand.
A slave! The dagger fell from his hand. Valar help him, he was harboring a fugitive.
His last spare blanket covered the boy and then with an axe handle he pried a scarred board from the floor. He slipped the dagger beneath into the dirt and tapped the board back into place.
The Tinker crept out of the house with the rest of the boy’s stash. The wind had died down so that he could hear the river easily after a couple of miles. When he was sure he’d trekked several more miles downriver, he wrapped the surcoat round a rock and heaved it into the current.
***
“Wot’s yer name, Boy?” The man’s voice was rough, but Boromir could detect a reluctant kindness behind it. Though the porridge he’d eaten wasn’t the same as roast venison and custard pies, the Tinker wasn’t a Wildman on a horse, and so he was a hero. Boromir used a stick to write a ‘B’ in the sand.
“I know that mark. ‘ad a friend once, knew ‘is letters, ‘e did. Could write ‘is name and mine besides. Stashed ‘is books ‘ere, never came back.” Boromir looked round the one room hut. He saw no books. “‘is name was Bálin. Be good fer you, too.”
The Tinker didn’t seem to mind that Boromir hadn’t spoken and he gave him all the food he wanted as long as he worked hard. Bálin sounded good to Boromir, as well.
***
The Tinker watched Bálin gaze at the banners above the city, brow furrowed, he supposed at the newness of it all. He counted eight winters since he’d found the boy, less since the nightmares had ceased and he’d gotten him to speak.
The child had grown into a fine strapping lad, and though he'd not go near the bellows or the ponies, he was perfect for mending fences and tilling earth, when he kept his mind on his work. Some days he played odd games with stacked acorns battling against leftover metal scraps. Other days he fought invisible foes with sticks, a fire in his eyes that kept the Tinker away.
But the clever sod had been itching, almost a man now, and had finally convinced the Tinker to bring him along. They’d stopped on the Pelennor to have breakfast before the man drove toward a place to make camp.
Bálin slapped the stack of pots inside the wain that the Tinker hoped to sell, and he gestured to the city of stone. “Don’t ye need ‘elp? Up there?”
The Tinker chuckled. It was time to knock him down a peg. He clucked and slapped the reins louder than necessary, “Yer goin’ to drive the lads 'ere then?” He watched out of the corner of his eye.
Bálin glanced at the horses, scooting on the seat as far from the beasts as possible. “I’ve done just fine all these years on me own.”
“On yer own?”
“I can do more than split wood and ‘ammer tin.”
He never should have mentioned the lights and the music and the dancing girls. Sure as like no one would remember a dirty little slave after all these years. Still... “Ye just stay out ‘ere and keep camp, ye ‘ear?”
“Aye.” But the sounds and smells of the bustling city, even from here, created a longing in Bálin’s eyes. Danger or no, if the lad went in, the Tinker knew he wasn’t coming out.
Finis.