Chapter 2: Boromir Can't Hire A Wagon

It was no small task to dispose of nine bodies with only the help of a single Halfling, who though strong and quick for his size- and certainly for his age- could only do so much. Daybreak was nearing by the time the job was finished.

Boromir sat on the side of the upturned cart and gazed at the road. Aches and bruises he had not noted during the struggle were making themselves known, and he was in no hurry to move.

Sméagol was eyeing the unfortunate cart-horse, and glancing back at Boromir- and then back at the horse, gazing with a particular longing at the gash in her throat…

He had not eaten all night. He had made no complaint, though he must be fainting with hunger. “Yes, do as you wish,” said Boromir.

“It’s not nice, though, is it? Perhaps Sméagol ought to catch his own food.”

“I am no Rohir to forbid the eating of horseflesh. It may not be nice, as you say, but she can be of no other service and were we at home she would be fed to the dogs. This is a greater honor, I deem. Here- I’ll cut some of the meat away for you.”

“No need, we can manage, no need.”

Boromir had little appetite but made a meal of his travel-provisions while steadfastly disregarding the sounds of Sméagol enjoying horseflesh. Once finished with his bread, he inspected the cart. Twas well that they traveled light, for now Boromir would be constrained to carry their cargo on his back.

He felt eyes upon him and looked up. Sméagol was standing in the middle of the road, licking his teeth and watching Boromir. “Boromir is strong as a horse! He will pull the cart perhaps.”

“You flatter me with your estimations of my strength-“

“No, it is true!”

“Yet had I wished to pull the cart it has lost a wheel. It is of no use to us.”

His voice was sharper than he had intended. Sméagol inclined his head at an angle and watched him thoughtfully. “That is too bad. Then musst we leave it?”

“Yes, we must.” Boromir turned aside, looking back into the wagon. He must get the things ready to carry. He hadn’t brought any large bags or packs.

“And will we leave our things too?” Sméagol asked.

“Nay, those I will carry.”

“It might have been worse. We left our trunk at home, didn’t we?” Sméagol had a large, heavy traveling-trunk that he normally insisted on bringing, but when told the journey would be rough in places he had declared his nice trunk ought to stay safe at home.

“Indeed, it might have been much worse.”

“What’s he doing?”

“I’m getting ready to carry things.”

“O but not now, not now, precious,” said Sméagol, artlessly wide-eyed. “We sleeps now.”

Boromir paused. He had forgotten a moment that Sméagol could not bear the Sun. Must Boromir carry him, as well? “Then, I suppose you must-“

“Begs his pardon,” said Sméagol. “We- I meant- you- and Sméagol. We sleeps now. Both of us. Yes? Boromir is tired. Isn’t he?”

Boromir found himself at a loss for words. He ought not be particularly shocked or taken aback by this simple observation- for he had been up all the night and it was nothing strange to suggest he be tired- but a reply did not come to him.

“Yes,” said Sméagol, “we sleeps now and then Boromir will carry heavy things later. He’s been fighting and putting dead Men to bed and he’s tired. Sss, sss!” In such a mood ‘sss, sss’ seemed to stand in for ‘tsk, tsk’. “There’s a nice place jusst over here to sleep in the dark. A hollow in the trees. Does he have a blanket? A pillow?”

“I have some bedding. You are not leaving me much choice in the matter.”

Sméagol hesitated a moment, in some confusion. “No. Ought we?” When Boromir did not at once reply he added: “Silly, silly! Hobbitses never said they didn’t want to sleep. Wanted too much sleeps. Now here is the Man, and he has been working all the night and day, and there’s a nasty big bruise up his side, and he’s been tied and hurt- and he won’t sleep, o he must sleep!” His voice was getting choked and maudlin.

“Peace! I will rest. Do not weep.” He was tired enough, he supposed, but it was not a thing he thought of when there was work to be done. “Where is this hollow?”

It proved to be a pleasant enough spot, a sort of clover-filled ditch where a Man of Boromir’s height may lie and be unseen from the road. He lay down and only then thought to wonder about where Sméagol planned to secrete himself. Before he asked, the answer made itself known: Sméagol had chosen a place at Boromir’s feet.

“Good night, my love,” he said carelessly, and curled up with a yawn. He had settled his small, light body with a rooted immobility. Twas plain that nothing would shift him. The attempt need not be made, though Boromir considered it a moment- he feared kicking Sméagol in the ribs by accident.

Boromir rather thought he would lie there until Sméagol was deeply asleep, to humor the creature, and then he would get up and get back to work, and perhaps even make a start on the walk ahead if he could contrive to carry Sméagol without waking him. Instead the fresh smells of the wood and his companion’s drowsy breathing filled his mind and then, when next he knew his surroundings, the light was different.

It was nearly dusk. Boromir sat up in alarm- the lateness of the hour was not concerning, only a bit of a guilty surprise, but something was amiss- yes! It was the lack of a curled body at his feet.

He looked about. Sméagol was nowhere to be found. Boromir pulled himself to a standing position, gritting his teeth against complaints from knee, shoulders, back, side. There may be more lurking dangers in these woods, anywhere around unseen-

“O there he is, he’s awake? Did he sleep nicely?”

The source of the voice was not in doubt, but Boromir could not see the creature anywhere. “Yes, nicely enough."

“Was he comfortable?”

“Very.”

“Not too hot?”

“No…”

“Good! Sméagol covered him up. He forgot his blanket. He mustn’t forget again! He will catch cold!”

Boromir had forgotten how solicitous the creature could be. It was really very hobbitish of him. “How considerate! I suppose I must grant you a measure of wisdom I do not possess, I did not feel my need for rest as deeply as you saw it.”

“He’s been working hard, that’s all. It is not wisdom at all, not that- only being ssensible. The poor Man was too angry and frightened to know he was tired. That is all. Isn’t that right?”

“Perhaps so…”

“It’s happened to Sméagol, hasn’t it, lots of times, but he remembers he’s tired later and then he’s sorry he didn’t rest.”

Boromir had now identified a pair of glinting lights in the undergrowth that he took for Sméagol’s eyes. His voice was coming from that direction, at least.

“Yet it seems as if you did not rest,” Boromir told the lights.

“Ha, ha! He’s caught us… I couldn’t sleep so nicely- I et too much, it is very silly, gollum! So we thinks, ‘it is no good to my lord my lying here doing nothing. Those nasty Men lived nearby perhaps, they hid things they stole nearby perhaps.’ And there was so much shade we might get about and still see a bit. So we looked, and there is a little camp not far, and no one is there. Would Boromir wish to take a look at it?”

He would. He found a small slovenly area, with some poor spoils hidden away- Boromir chose to leave them where they were, and not add to what he had to carry. There were also, however, several sturdy backpacks and some useful gear for one traveling on foot. Boromir took the largest backpack and some cookpots, just in case.

He was alone again. “Sméagol?” he called quietly. No answer came. He retraced his steps to the cart. There, a small figure hunched over what remained of the horse, crouching amongst the flies, watched with consternation by red-beaked crows perched some distance away at the animal’s head.

Boromir looked away as if he had caught someone on the chamber pot. “It was well done, finding that camp. I was in need of a backpack.”

“Yes. He’s very polite, pretending he hasn’t caught us at it. I thought I might not have time for hunting later. Gollum!”

It sounded as if he might say more but he didn’t. Boromir looked back and found he was gone.

Perhaps it was best to trust he would not go far and would return when needed. Boromir had work to do, packing the things from the cart. He couldn’t pack as quickly as he would have liked.

Sméagol spoke, his voice a little stiff and strained- perhaps he was trying to force his way past his bruised pride. “How long does it take to go to the next city?”

Boromir glanced about and could not locate the creature. He decided not to try. “We ought to reach it by dawn, I deem. It is nothing quite the size of a city, however, only a town.” It would only take him half the night, he thought, if he were walking alone, but there could be no expecting Sméagol to keep his pace. “There I will hire another wagon.”

Most of Sméagol’s belongings were missing. In their place was a bulging satchel. Boromir started when he saw it, as if someone had jumped at him from around a door. Of course Sméagol had had ample time to search the bandit camp for himself while Boromir slept, and retrieve whatever he wished, and pack his things.

After a time he noted that Sméagol was near him, silently swiping at his face, which was damp. It seemed he had been cleaning off the blood. “Almost ready?” he asked.

He was wearing a satchel. Boromir looked at the corner where the packed satchel had been sitting and it was gone. Boromir had seen no hint of motion there, heard no movement.

“I took it from the camp,” said Sméagol.

Boromir saw no need to clarify that he had guessed that much. “That is clever of you. Yes, we may depart, I see no reason to remain.”

“Has he eaten?”

“I shall eat along the way. You are thoughtful.”

“We just thought- I thought- he seemed as if he wasn’t thinking of things. Don’t mind us. Let’s go!”

He scurried a little way ahead, and then paused, waiting for Boromir to follow.

Boromir hefted the backpack- it was not as heavy as he had feared, more than likely because Sméagol had chosen of his own accord to take his own burden. Was it right to allow him to do so? He was so small, and though Boromir had lately had proofs of his strength, his arms yet looked so thin and wasted.

“I may carry those things for you if you wish,” Boromir offered, unable to muster much enthusiasm.

“O no, they are ours. Come along, come!”

And so they set off into the cool, quiet forest shadows, Boromir trudging along leaning more on his walking-stick than he was accustomed to do, for his rough treatment had left him with new pains. Sméagol stayed ahead of him on the path, an apparition on silent feet, nosing and skipping about. He started no conversation and Boromir was not minded to speak. He felt a weary lassitude upon him and was content to quietly watch his companion enjoying the countryside.

After some time Sméagol vanished. Boromir paused. He himself could not see half so well in the dark, nor scent his way if he got lost, and he felt it would be unwise to leave the path, yet he liked not the thought of Sméagol alone in these parts. Before he had quite made up his mind to follow, the creature re-emerged, happily crunching on something. From then on if he took a detour Boromir patiently awaited his return. In truth, the pauses allowed him to catch his breath.

About midnight Boromir called a halt for he wished to rest his leg, and to eat with more leisure than their pace afforded. By this time they had left the wood and emerged back onto the plains. Sméagol vanished into the tall grass. He returned in high good humor while Boromir was still about half-way through his own meal.

“Is there rich hunting?” Boromir asked him.

“Well enough,” he said, with a trace of shame. There was a dab of blood at the corner of his mouth, and seeing it Boromir felt an odd, pitying tenderness towards him.

“Good!” he said simply. “I doubt you would wish to share my bread.”

“Alas no. How is he feeling?”

“I am well enough to continue.”

“But not quite well?”

“Not quite, but I have taken no serious hurt. If I had remained at their mercy much longer things may have been different. It is well I do not travel alone.”

Sméagol said nothing and his face was hard to read.

Boromir looked about at their surroundings and found that he knew them not. He saw waving grasses, dotted with clumps of trees- behind them was the wood they had left, and far off in the distance a herd of horses let to graze wild. “How far do you believe we have traveled?” he asked lightly, hoping Sméagol had not observed his unease.

“A bit over a league. Jusst a bit. Yes perhaps- this much more,” and he held his hands apart as if he was trying to convey the size of a fish. “This much. A bit more.”

They were less than halfway through the distance Boromir had desired to cover before the dawn- and that assumed they were still going the right way.

“Are you able to continue into the early light if it is needful?” He did not like to say so, but the backpack had seemed to grow heavier with distance and he had discovered some unwelcome soreness in his shoulders. He no longer felt able to carry Sméagol on top of the weight he already held.

“Yes, some, don’t bother about us. Have we been too slow? We are eating too much. He stops when we eats.”

“Nay, do not trouble yourself on that account! Rest assured, if you were causing me any trouble I would ask you to do otherwise- am I not a General?” Boromir packed away the food he had not eaten and got to his feet. He was compelled to struggle as if he was an old man. Sméagol watched him with mild shining eyes. He did not rise to his feet; he could not travel long without the aid of his hands. Boromir felt he ought not to complain of his own minor troubles.

“His poor leg,” said Sméagol.

“It is nothing.”

“Does he want to sit a bit longer? Musst we go to town by daylight? Lots of nice places in the grass to sleep. Or perhaps Boromir wants to sleep in the night?”

“You worry needlessly! I can manage,” said Boromir, and he strode forth. 

“Did you set Sam and Frodo such a pace?”

“Hmmm?” Sméagol paused and blinked over his shoulder.

“I merely wondered.” Boromir leaned on his stick.

“Faster, I should think, it was not safe, and they…” An unpleasant look of half-remembered evil came over his face and Boromir wished he had not asked.

“Tis only that I recall having to slow my stride for them often,” Boromir said hastily, “and you are staying ahead of me without effort.”

“Ha, ha! Does it look easy? Ours feets is ragged.”

“Why! You ought have said so. I may stop and let you rest.”

“Will he? Whenever we asks? Let’s rest now, then,” Sméagol said, looking appraisingly up at his face. Boromir was breathing hard, and he doubted there was any chance he may conceal it. “There is an hour or so before the light. Does he wish to stop for the day?”

Boromir hesitated, and in the face of Sméagol’s patient silence, he began to feel absurd. “I am passing weary, my friend, and yet my spirit rebels at the thought of stopping if forcing myself to continue a bit longer may reach the destination on schedule. Do you know how far we are from the town? I am finding it difficult to judge where I am.”

“We might take a look-see.” Before Boromir could say more he had whisked up a nearby tree.

Once again he was waiting on the creature’s pleasure to return. It was only Boromir and the open plain, and he might confess that it would be a pleasant place if the situation had been less dire, and he would have appreciated the change to walking from driving if his legs and shoulders did not ache. The cart-driving grew monotonous and lonely, with his sole companion forever asleep, and it made a welcome diversion to be able to speak with Sméagol, or even merely watch him scamper about.

Sméagol dropped lightly to the path in front of him. “Sméagol couldn’t see the town, it is still a way off I suppose. There is only one road, he said, yes? I have seen only one on the map, and it never branched.”

“Indeed, there is only one road. The town is not yet in sight?”

“No,” he said. “Only the hills, rising and falling like waveses on the ocean. It must be a long way. Does Boromir want to stop now?”

“A little longer,” he said.

Sméagol nodded and skipped off down the road. He did not look as if his feet were ragged.

He continued to scurry ahead. Once he ducked around a bend and came back with a worried look on his face. “The road is out, it is gone, my precious, it is blocked it is rubbled!”

“Let me see it,” said Boromir, underestimating his friend’s judgement by thinking he meant that perhaps there was a pit in the road as there had been back where the bandits had set the black-powder trap, or that a tree had fallen across it. He found the road washed out by some past flood and a mudslide of dirt and debris clogging it.

Boromir leaned on his stick.

“What will we do?” Sméagol huddled at his side, wringing his hands. He had lost the freedom, even authority, he had taken on in the wild setting, and was cringing again. Boromir had not noted the change in him until it was reverted.

“I know not,” said Boromir slowly. “You have the ability to traverse that, I would expect, and see what is beyond, or you may climb a tree.” He gestured to a nearby oak.

Sméagol chose the tree- he climbed it less quickly now than he had earlier. It looked as if he truly was tiring. He came down biting his lip. “I don’t see any town. And I- I don’t see where the road picks back up!”

Boromir ran his fingers through his hair. “I shall have to look at the map and decide which direction to proceed in. Surely-“ He paused, and resumed more slowly: “We have had no word from the outermost settlements of Rohan in some time but surely it has not been razed. We would have seen the remains of it.”

“N-no, no,” said Sméagol in a voice little above a whisper, “but towns do dissappear. People go away for- forever.”

Boromir recalled him confiding that he had once tried to go home- beside the Anduin- and found no trace of his people. Boromir rested his hand on top of Sméagol’s small head and felt him trembling. To think of Minas Tirith gone- not only burnt and ravaged but gone- as if it had never been!

Having only known Sméagol starting from the time when he had renounced evil deeds, Boromir had never seen any evidence that the little creature may have deserved such a blow. (If asked, he might have answered- did anyone deserve such a blow? Even Sauron had not been given it- some of his works would stand forever despite how anyone may try to erase them.)

The detour around the washed-out path proved long and tedious. The Sun grew high and Sméagol began to look distressed.

“Find us a place to rest,” Boromir said finally. He was plastered in sweat though the day was not over-warm.

“Yes, my lord, yes, at once,” Sméagol said, and whisked himself away. Boromir would have to become accustomed to these vanishings- they were clearly his habit.

He returned covered in specks of dirt and matter, and led Boromir to a shallow hollow in the earth, full of soft leaves and grasses and sheltered by blackthorn. “Why, that will serve nicely,” said Boromir in surprise.

“O we try,” Sméagol hummed, and Boromir thought at the time that he was quite pleased with himself for only finding a hollow- later he would discover that Sméagol was in the habit of enlarging resting-places he found and making them more comfortable. He was practiced at it.

(Boromir would foolishly ask if it was a favor he had ever done for Sam and Frodo, and receive a hollow look in response.) 

“So I swung my sword-“

“Yes?”

“It met naught but air.”

“Yes?” Sméagol brought his nails to his mouth, looking more horrified than the smallest child Boromir had told a war-story to.

“But in the next moment the troll wavered and toppled to the ground.” Boromir thumped the ground with his stick for emphasis.

“Yes!”

“How had it happened? What think you?”

“He killed it after all and only thought he had not.”

“That was my first thought! Yet even my arm at its best practiced and my sword at its sharpest would not cut a troll’s flesh and feel nothing. The next I believed it had been an archer unseen who came to my aid. Yet in the next moment I heard a rumbling snore. The beast was drunk!”

“Dead drunk!”

“He was dead in the next moment.”

“Yes,” said Sméagol, with a laugh, “it was- ten, eleven- nine years. Nine years passt- yes?”

“It was! How did you know?”

“They was sending out trollses drunk then, on purpose! Do you know why?”

“I may guess.”

“Guess, then.”

“They are liable to fall and crush the enemy.”

“Yes, that is jusst why! They was too afraid to fight, and the captains would say ‘That is well enough, have this barrel of grog,’ and then point them out and let them wobble. But they had to stop, eh, do you know why?”

“They fell upon their comrades likely as not.”

“Yes! And not only falling. Drunk trolls is nasty. Has he ever eat-“ He stopped short.

“I have not eaten drunken trollflesh but I presume you have. Peace, Sméagol! Do you think this is not known to me? Do I think less of you for it? Come, we may be better friends than that. There is a story here, I deem.”

But Sméagol was blushing and stammering and would say nothing more.

“Another time, perhaps,” said Boromir, wondering if he had gone too far and given offense. “But the light is dawning; you must be growing weary.”

“A bit- perhaps. A little longer, we can make it a little longer.”

Boromir’s wounds were healing quickly, and Sméagol was no longer running ahead of him as often. Still it was plain that Boromir was not the one setting the pace.

Boromir looked up. “Ah! I believe I see the wall of the town ahead!” By this time, he understood it had not vanished- he and Sméagol had come across a shepherd’s hut some hours ago, and been guided back to the road. It was a bit of anticlimax after both of them had spent the evening in theories of sorcery and calamity.

“Day is near enough, yes, too near, you can see farther than I can, now.” He sounded forlorn.

“Our destination is nearer still. Take heart, Sméagol, you will have a real bed today.”

Sméagol said nothing.

“And a bath,” Boromir added.

“Yes, we likes our bath.”

The town guards were coming out to open the gate when Boromir approached.

“Hail, stranger,” one of them said. “You are gray and haggard, what has befallen you?”

“An incident with robbers along the road,” said Boromir. “I escaped but have lost my wagon and my horse. I’ve had a long walk.”

“Bad fortune.” He glanced briefly at Boromir’s walking-stick. “There has been trouble along the road before- the rats are fleeing the Brown Lands.”

“I think there will be no more of the particular trouble I came to,” said Boromir, indicating the hilt of his sword. “But I have walked the night and am weary. Is there a house I may stay in?”

“Yes, indeed. We have a wonderful inn. The Elves of the Greenwood stop at it when they pass through here on their way to the King’s seat in Gondor. I may show you there.”

Boromir followed him along the street. A few passersby looked at him in careful alarm, as one might when beholding a massive, battle-scarred stranger. It was plain that they knew him not. Most of them did not even see Sméagol, who tagged along by his ankles.

At the inn, he quickly hired a room, and once within both of them gratefully shed their burdens and washed away the travel-dust before crawling into bed.

Boromir woke about midday, stiff and sore. Sméagol’s bed was empty- perhaps he had gone to eat or wash. Boromir slowly stretched and sat up- and then he noticed a bundle of blankets at the foot of his own bed.

Sméagol had slept at his feet for each of the two days they had spent in the open after the loss of the wagon, but Boromir had presumed that was because the creature had found only one sleeping-place of comfort and meant to have a share in it. Here, he had a bed of his own. He could be seeking nothing but companionship. And, in thinking upon it, when had Boromir known a Halfling to sleep in solitude? The hobbits of the Fellowship had always taken guest-rooms in pairs or even all together, even when there was space for each to have his own room if he wished it. Sméagol with his nocturnal habits was only constrained to sleep alone because his friends were all awake.  

Boromir almost felt guilty leaving him to sleep alone now, but there was business to conduct. He went downstairs to inquire after hiring a wagon. He was told, with some embarrassment from his host, that none were to be had. Ill luck. The innkeeper- of true Rohirric stock- was quick to reassure him that horses were to be had in plenty, very good horses too, only wagons were in short supply- but Sméagol could not ride, so that availed Boromir not.

It was possible that, had he revealed himself as the Captain-General of all Gondor, and demanded a wagon, one may have been supplied. The need was not so dire as that, he deemed- it was not wartime and he was not in his own country, and things could be arranged in another fashion. In truth he was not even certain a wagon would proceed very far into the Greenwood, where they would travel for part of their journey.

He went back to his room, and slept a little more, with Sméagol dozing at his feet. At nightfall he consulted with the creature, and let him study the map. After the two of them had eaten and prepared themselves, they disembarked onto the path- Boromir striding along with the aid of his walking-stick, and his hobbit-guide scurrying ahead of him on silent feet.