The Strength and Truth of Men by Raiyana

The Horn that was Blowing

”...so if you could wake up soon, that would be nice.” 

Merry’s voice, quiet and subdued, seemed to float through his mind without passing his ears. 

Boromir groaned. The ground beneath him was hard despite the leaves and the bedroll; something seemed to have burrowed up against his spine. 

“Is everything…” he managed, slow and stuttering as each wound and bruise made itself known, flaring into bright agony across his body, “supposed to… hurt?” The thing pressing against his back was the least of it, as it turned out.

“Boromir!” 

“Too… loud.” Boromir tried opening his eyes, wincing at the first sliver of low light and thought better of the endeavour. 

“You’re awake!” Merry said, somehow making a shout of a whisper. 

“Perhaps,” Boromir allowed, wincing at the pounding of his skull. He had rather not expected to, after all, but on balance whatever lay beyond the circles of the world wasn’t supposed to hurt quite this much, he thought, and so he probably had not, in fact, died. 

Evidence to still being somewhat out of it aside. 

He almost laughed at himself, imagining just what old Ioreth might have had to say to such musings, but thought better of that, too. 

“You are… unhurt?” he wheezed, worried as the images playing in his head reached Merry, face bloodied.

“I’m well enough,” Merry said, and if it was a lie it was kindly meant and true enough for the moment, so Boromir said nothing as the memory of Merry’s limp body slung over the shoulder on an orc flashed through his mind. “Aragorn said you would wake, but… it’s been a long time.” 

“The hands of the King…” 

“Huh?” 

“Nothing.” Boromir managed a small shake of his head. “An old saying; my tutor was full of them.” 

“Like old Bilbo?” Merry chuckled. “He had some strange ones - I expect they were dwarven in origin, myself; whoever heard of a Hobbit with a beard, I ask you. But Frodo would say… nevermind.” 

“I…” Boromir said, finding the courage to open his eyes though he did not find the reprobation he expected to see on Merry’s face. 

“He forgave you.” Merry smiled cautiously. “We might not understand your worries or the dire odds of your war, but… he forgave you whatever you did, I’m sure. Frodo was like that. Is…”

“Is.” Boromir would accept no fate in which Frodo was not alive and free, moving ever onwards with his stalwart defender. “Sam went with him, Merry, and that is no small thing.” 

“Even though we are small,” Merry replied, managing a bit of levity and a half smile. 

Boromir nodded. “You are small. But fierce when you have need. I would not discount either of your kinsmen.”

“D’you think… the others left their supplies, do you want something to eat?”

“And now I know my Hobbit friend once more,” Boromir chuckled, regretting the movement of his chest as his ribs became bands of fire to restrict his lungs.

“My mother would call it sensible,” Merry huffed, a grin hiding in his voice. “And you need to regain your strength. And your blood.” 

“You make a most sensible nursemaid, Master Meriadoc,” Boromir said, accepting the offered parcel of lembas. The pain seemed to ebb slightly, confined mostly to his chest and the left arm. Whatever healing had been done was not yet finished mending the worst of the damage, Boromir thought, wondering if that was Elvish medicine - no concoction of old Ioreth’s would have reduced arrow wounds and broken bones to mere bruising in the hours - days? He did not know, but it felt like hours - he had been unconscious. Asleep? 

“Someone has to,” Merry said drily. “And I’ve practise enough taking care of Pippin to sort you out.” His breath hitched on the name. Boromir winced.

“I am sorry,” he said quietly, feeling the weight of failure heavy on his chest. “I would-” 

“You near died, Aragorn said!” Merry protested hotly. “And no friend or fellow could ask more than that! And you… you did save me,” he whispered. “And- and Pippin will be fine once Aragorn finds him - Legolas could hit an orc at three hundred paces, you know, he’ll be fine.” 

Boromir knew the certainty was mostly for show - whatever the orcs wanted with their smallest friend it was unlikely to be altogether unharmful - but he let Merry have the small comfort of it without objection, adding his own silent entreaty to whatever power watched over Hobbits that the young lad would be if not unhurt, at least alive when he was recovered. 

“They have gone in search, then? And Gimli?” Perhaps the Dwarf had decided to follow Frodo and Sam? That would be a comfort - Gimli was a doughty fighter and if Aragorn had decided to pursue their smallest member, Gimli would have been his first choice for protector, too. 

“All three of them,” Merry said. Boromir made a noise of surprise, finally managing to open his packet of lembas. “Aragorn said Frodo had to go alone - they spoke, briefly, it seemed, before your horn alerted them to danger.”

“Oh.” Boromir looked around himself, touching the point on his belt where the horn had hung since he was old enough to carry a sword. “Where is it?” 

“Ah,” Merry paused. “Well, it… the orc, he took it, Legolas said, and blew it again, and so when he was shot, well, they both fell in the water, but the horn,” he babbled, falling silent once more, a moue of distress on his face. 

“My horn?” Boromir prodded, swallowing a bite of lembas that seemed to get stuck in his throat - the horn had been with him for longer than he remembered, a cradle gift from the grandfather he had never known - and somehow the thought of losing it hurt more than his ribs. 

“I don’t know,” Merry admitted in a small voice. “The orc fell into the water, they told me - I didn’t see it myself, of course - though he dropped me first, but when they moved him, well… it’s gone, Boromir.” He swallowed, looking near tears. 

Boromir closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. It was just a horn, after all, a tool to call for aid. But it was more, too, a way to bring hope to struggling soldiers, a tangible proof of home and love and the history he had carved into its curves as he grew. 

“Better the horn than our lives,” he said, tonelessly, and took another bite of the lembas, closing the subject with finality.