𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐖𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 || 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊

ʙᴏʀᴏᴍɪʀ - ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ

I left you guys on a bit of a cliffhanger with the last chapter, didn't I? Sorry.
Never fear, though — this one makes it worse. :)
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❄️
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Boromir awoke with the distinct impression of having overslept.

It made no sense since he had nowhere in particular to be that morning, nor indeed any morning in the past few months. Even if that had been the case, Robb would have woken him, as he had the night before, and the one before that.

But.

It was morning. And Boromir had definitely been supposed to take second watch which usually started at around midnight.
Something, Boromir thought to himself, was not right.

He slowly sat up, groaning as the wounds in his chest sent a twang of pain through his body. Whatever Aragorn had done had helped better than any healer in Minas Tirith, but Boromir was still merely a man. Healing would take some time.

Next to Boromir, the small fire Robb had lit the night before was nothing more than a cold pile of ash. The grass was still flat where he had sat, his bedroll unfurled with his pack sitting on top of it. Robb himself, however, was nowhere to be seen. Tiny drops of dew netted his belongings. Boromir frowned.

"Robb?"

Nothing. Surely if Robb had gone to relieve himself he would have stayed within hearing range? But no, Robb had clearly been gone for much longer than that. Had he got lost in the tall grass? The almost invisible track leading off from their small, flattened circle certainly seemed to indicate Robb had left at some point.

Now thoroughly perturbed, Boromir finally got to his feet. He quickly packed his things, all the while half-hoping Robb would show up, but when Boromir was done he was still alone.

Nothing else for it, then, Boromir supposed, teeth worrying at his lower lip. He hefted his pack higher on his shoulder. The small path Robb had created was hard to follow, and with every step the likelihood of Boromir finding him hale and hearty seemed to decrease.

The path abruptly changed directions in a patch of lighter, yellower grass, leading farther away from their camp. Boromir swallowed. This... did not look good. He really hoped Robb had just lost his way in the dark.

All his hopes were dashed just a few dozen paces later when his boot hit something hard and Boromir almost tumbled to the ground.

Oh gods, no.

Ice spread through Boromir's chest at the sight of Robb's sword lying at his feet. It was coated with black blood, dry save for a sheen of morning dew that glinted in the sun. A shaky hand reached down to pick it up.

"Robb?"

Boromir's heartbeat thrummed loudly in his ears as he picked his way farther through the grass. He did not have to search for long: just moments later, he came upon several dead Orcs. Like the ones the fellowship had encountered at Amon Hen, they were bigger than the Orcs from Mordor or Moria and bore the symbol of a white hand. Gandalf had mentioned them back in Rivendell, Uruk-Hai he had called them.
The ground around them was slick with black blood and guts. Robb's sword belt lay some feet away, but the man himself was nowhere to be seen.

Through the ringing in his head, Boromir tried to convince himself that that was a good thing. It meant Robb was still alive.

He was not very successful. If anything, death was perhaps the kinder fate if the alternative was capture at the hand of Orcs.

Boromir closed his eyes and exhaled shakily. With several tracks leading off from the scene, there was no way he could find them, nevermind catch up to them and save Robb. Especially not in his condition.

"Fuck," Boromir whispered, one hand clenched to a fist. "Fuck. Gods, not Robb."

He wiped his hand over his mouth, blinking to keep tears at bay. He should have taken first watch himself. He should have woken up at the sounds of fighting. He should have never encouraged Robb to send Grey Wind away.

No.

No, sending Grey Wind after Frodo and Sam had been the right thing to do. They were more important. It hurt, but it was true.

Boromir squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath.

These were the same Uruks that had taken Merry and Pippin. They bore the same symbol. Wherever the Hobbits were, Robb would be taken as well. Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas were in a much better position to help, were well on their way to do so, in fact. All Robb had to do was survive until they found him.

And he would, Boromir told himself firmly, because if the Uruk-Hai had wanted him dead, he would be already, and Boromir would have found his body. Or... parts of it, anyway.

Boromir ran a hand over his mouth once again. As opposed to Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas, there was nothing he could do. After everything Robb had done for him these past few days—silently, as if it were only natural, as if looking at Boromir did not hurt in a way he himself could not even imagine—Boromir could not return the favour.

On the other hand: so far, Robb had seemed supremely unconcerned with his own well-being, especially when other people were in danger as well. Chances were, he did not even want Boromir to come to his help; not in his state. Robb would put their mission above his own health, always. It was, unfortunately, the trait of a good leader.

Still, Boromir felt awful as he strapped Robb's sword belt around his chest to carry the sword Robb had been given by Lady Galadriel on his back. It felt like abandonment, like robbing the dead. Taking the food and drink from Robb's pack was almost worse, but leaving it would have been stupid.

Boromir's wounds hurt by the time he was done but he pushed down the pain. If he could not help Robb, the very least he could do was to follow their plan and get to Edoras as quickly as possible. Perhaps King Théoden could be convinced to send some men out to search for him, as well.

Boromir cast one last look around the campsite. The emptiness was overwhelming. Any other morning, the bright sunlight and slight breeze would have had him in high spirits. Today, it almost made bile rise in his throat.

Boromir swallowed.

He turned westward, to face the rising sun, and walked.