Painted Sanctuary Chapter 1

                                        Chapter 1

     Sound was hollow in his ears like the primal thrust of waves rushing against the shore.  There was no pain, not the sharp agony of the arrowheads ravaging his flesh or the panic of muscles clenching desperately to remind him he was alive, only numbness.  He could no longer see the horror of the battlefield or smell the piss and fear of those around him.  A black veil covered his eyes, blotted out the sun that had previously been streaming through the trees in shafts of golden light that should have promised blessed peace in the forest along the bank of the Anduin.  

     Boromir had nothing.

     All that was left him was the certainty his father’s madness would consume him and the terrible responsibility of leaving behind a brother who needed him to stand as a shield between Denethor and Faramir.  He had to rise and continue beating back the Uruk-hai to protect Merry and Pippin, but no matter how hard he tried, his muscles refused to obey.  Desperation welled up to choke him.  But desperation wasn’t enough to make his body respond.

     He tried to scream when Aragorn laid him in one of the Lorien boats that he wasn’t dead, that they just needed to give him time to regain his strength.  Sound refused to well up from his throat.  They thought he was dead!  They would send him over Rauros to his doom without knowing he was alive.  Desperation grew tighter in his chest as he tried to clench and unclenched his hands around the handle of his sword, and then he saw Aragorn wearing his bracers, the leather wrist guards his father had given him as a gift when he’d become the general of Gondor’s armies.  Oh, he’d be back for those, assuming he survived the plunge over the falls, and he’d be back to beat some sense into Isildur’s heir for not checking him thoroughly for signs of life.  Surely Aragorn would find the pulse point in his throat if he would just take the time to feel!

     The boat glided as effortlessly across the water as a man gliding in a woman’s silken depths when it was tethered to the second boat and rowed out to the middle of the river.  Boromir tried to gasp in an effort to get their attention and somehow let them know he still lived, but nothing worked.  Not even his chest would respond with the rise and fall of deep breathing.  Then, it didn’t matter anymore, because the tether was cut and his funeral boat was rushing over the edge of the falls, plunging, plummeting, careening in what seemed an endless descent while the water rushed around him.

     Then, there was emptiness.

                                          ***

     Boromir’s head was pounding something fierce when he cracked his eyes open to the sound of soft humming nearby.  He may have thought the voice a sweet one at any other time, but with the state of his head, he wanted to fling something at the source of the music to get her to shut up.  That bolted him upright with a hard groan at the accompanying pain of movement.  Said pain was almost the sweetest thing he’d ever felt, better than a lover’s lips, for it meant he had miraculously survived the plunge over the cliff.

     His hand flew up to touch his face, his neck, his chest as he slowly took inventory of his body parts.  Everything seemed to be there and intact, and he could even glance down the length of a linen blanket to see the wiggling of his toes.  He wanted to leap up and shout with joy but doubted that would be the best thing for his headache at the moment.  He was alive!  But he was also far too weak to travel and had no idea where he was, so getting back to Minas Tirith before Aragorn and the others arrived to give his father the news of his supposed death would be nigh on impossible.  

     Strength leeching from him from those few short seconds of activity, he collapsed back against the bed, forcing himself to be content at looking at his surroundings.  He rested on what seemed to be a thick pile of furs instead of a bed.  The room around him wasn’t like any he’d seen before, for it was not only rounded but looked to be made of one solid piece of wood.  Only the trees of Lorien grew so big one could carve an entire room of this size from a hollowed out tree.  Wooden chairs near a table that seemed to be made of a flat section of a tree trunk were carved to look like butterflies.  In fact, even the chest situated against the wall was carved in the shape of a butterfly.  Yes, a woman definitely lived here.  

     That thought brought him back to the humming that was still lilting in from either another room or the outside.  The voice was soft and light, as pure as any of the elves but filled with far more delight.  He’d always been left cold by Elven singing, for they often sounded detached from their music, as though a mechanical toy simply repeating the words being fed to it.  

     If only he could gain her attention and bring her inside to get him some of the water out of that pitcher nearby, shaped out of clay to look like the blossom of an orchid of course.  A man could lose his masculinity being in such feminine surroundings for very long, but his chief concern at the moment was his parched throat.  It was drier than a hundred-year-old bone.  Slowly, he pushed himself to a seated position again, gritting his teeth against the accompanying pain.  Yes, he certainly was alive if he could feel that agony.  

     Boromir had almost made it to his shaking legs when a woman glided inside carrying a bowl with steam rising from it.  

     “Oh no, you mustn’t get up yet, my lord,” she said in her sing-song voice.  “Your wounds are far too fresh for you to be moving about yet.”

     “Perhaps if you weren’t muddling about singing all afternoon, you would have been around to bring me a chalice of water,” he snapped, instantly regretting the outburst when her unusual eyes, such a light green they appeared almost translucent when a shaft of light streamed in through one of the oval windows to caress them, filled with hurt.

     “I would have been here to fetch your water, my lord, if I weren’t slaving over a hot fire preparing this broth for you.”  Though her voice was still sweet, he knew she meant to chastise him.

     “I apologize for my rudeness,” he muttered.  “You have taken me in and obviously gone to some trouble dressing my wounds.  You do not deserve my venom.”

     “My mother often told me a man made a poor patient and would rather be out on the hunt or in war than laying in a sickbed.  I will get you some water if you will lay back down.”

     He eased back against the down pillows and watched her float like liquid over to the table to pour water into a glass cup, not surprised to find the cup painted with flowers and butterflies.  He was sensing a theme.  Were he not in so much pain and in such an uncertain point of his life, he might have responded to the loveliness of her form.  She wasn’t the most stunning beauty he’d ever seen, but her willowy shape was pleasant to look upon.  Strawberry blonde hair flowed over her shoulders and down around her hips in tendrils of soft curls he might have considered burying his face in…if he wasn’t wounded and in a desperate state to get back to Minas Tirith.  What man couldn’t note her perfect bosom, breasts large enough to be a handful but not so large a man would smother in them?  

     Boromir tore himself away from his silent perusal of her form when the woman knelt next to the pallet of furs and slipped an arm under his shoulders to help him rise while resting the edge of the cup against his lips.  The water did much in the way of refreshing him but not enough to magically give him the strength to make the trip back to Gondor.

     “What is your name, my lady?” he asked.  

     She used the opportunity of his open mouth to slip a spoonful of broth inside.  “You may call me Ciarra.”

     “Where are we?”  He almost forgot to introduce himself in the haste to find out his location so he could determine just how impossible getting to Minas Tirith would be.  “I am Lord Boromir son of Denethor, general of the armies of Minas Tirith, and it’s imperative I return to the city as soon as possible.”

     “I’m afraid it will be impossible for you to return to your home for some time, Lord Boromir.  The distance is far too great for a man in your condition to journey, and with your wounds, it will be more than a month before you are fully recovered.”

     “I don’t have time to wait until I’m fully recovered.  My father will have reason to believe I’m dead, and the grief of it will drive him mad.”  He completely forgot she hadn’t really answered his question.  

     “I understand your need to leave, and I do not hold you here against your will.  If it is your wish to kill yourself, my door is never locked.”  She swept her hand toward the door she’d come in through, a door that was now open.

     So there was only one room to her abode after all.  The grass outside the door was so green it nearly hurt his eyes, so lush he could sink his toes into it and not feel the cool earth beneath.  Small, mahogany flowers were sprinkled throughout the grass as though a baker had dusted the area with magical cinnamon.  A cool breezed rushed inside the door, lulling him, seeking to drive him back into a blessed and peaceful sleep he sensed would be free of nightmares and worry.  

     “You’re right.  Traveling right now would be the death of me,” he finally said, “but I cannot afford to wait more than a week at most.  Do you live here alone, Ciarra?”

     “Yes,” she said while spooning the last of the tasty broth into his mouth.  She brushed her hands over the linen gown, dyed saffron that brought out the red in her hair.

     “No parents or husband?  No one to help you run a farm or hunt meat for you?”

     For a brief moment, deep sadness sat heavily on her delicate features.  At this angle, he could see a dusting of freckles over her nose and cheeks that she seemed to scrub at absently.  He didn’t know why, but it felt wrong that such a gentle woman would know deep sadness and grief, but that was the way of the world.  All suffered no matter how well-protected they were.

     “My husband was killed a long time ago.”  The grief in her voice and on her face disappeared almost instantly, replaced by a serene but determined expression as she pushed back to her feet.  “Anyway, I don’t need anyone to help me.  I live from the land.  The natural world provides for me, and you will come to understand I’m a proficient hunter.”

     Boromir regretted his probing questions when she left the small home.  There was something about her presence that was soothing.  Be it the confidence she exuded that she was safe and would make it or the practical way she spoke without courtly flourishes.  He could tell there was no room in her isolated life for lying, scheming, or feminine wiles.  Right, Boromir, he said to himself, you’ve obviously hit your head if you think any woman is free of feminine wiles and the taint of their weaker minds and bodies.

                                                 #

     “My doom is laying in my bed,” Ciarra whispered to herself while scrubbing at the pot she’d used to make his broth.  The greenness of the forest around her was lost on her, for she had known from the moment she had defied the Valar and plucked him from the river that only personal pain could come of it.  

     “Oh Aislin, what have I done?  You have always been the man of my heart, but I can’t find you.  All these long years in this place, and I haven’t found you.”

     Pressing her hand against her mouth to stifle any sound of pain she might make, she pushed the thoughts from her mind and clicked her tongue while holding her hand out to the small silver fox suckling her younglings nearby.  Illium, the fox, disturbed her kits to saunter over and take the offering of fresh meat.

     “At least I have you, my dear one, and your babies.  You won’t ever leave me no matter what mistakes I make, but how could I leave him there?  How could I let him go where he was bound to go?”

     Ciarra lifted Illium to snuggle her, forcing herself to bask in the warm sunshine of the perfect day that would be followed by a perfect night, but the perfection of her home had been endangered the moment she had plucked Boromir out of Mandos’ great river of death.  Her eyes squeezed tightly closed when the wind whined through the nearby trees, when a dark cloud blotted out the warm sunshine.  For a moment, the flowers of her sanctuary seemed to wither and wilt.  Cold seeped through her light gown, reminding her what was happening in her world in slow measures against the decay of eternity.  

     As quickly as it had come, the shadow passed to let the rays of light return.  Her flower once again blossomed, and the butterflies came out of hiding to flit around the small clearing in a forest so dense one couldn’t peer beyond the outer ring of her glade.  A rabbit hopped through the barrier of the forest to eat the sweet grass found there, and Ciarra stretched out amidst the flowers to stare up at the underside of the canopy.  All was not well in her paradise.

     Ciarra didn’t return again to her home in the hollowed out tree until the last rays of the sun leeched from the sky to bring nightfall.  Upon entering, she found Boromir sleeping peaceful, nestled amongst the linen and fur.  There was something endearing about his features.  Perhaps it was the collection of lines on his face that showed how much he had lived.  Though she would guess him to be in his mid-twenties, he looked far more worldly, looked as though he’d experienced more than a man of his young years should experience.  

     Gathering a bowl of water and a cloth, she knelt beside the pallet and eased the blanket down from around his shoulders and chest.  She bathed him with a forced detachment, dragged the cloth over the rise and fall of his heavily-muscled form.  When she was treating him, he was just a patient, only a body to be taken care of, because she would not give credence to the attraction she had felt for him upon finding him in the great river.  It was soon time, however, to bathe his waist and legs--after all, Mother had said cleanliness was the most important factor in healing--and that was a task she wasn’t looking forward to doing.

     She solved her dilemma by closing her eyes, pulling back the blanket, and placing a wooden bowl over his manly parts so as not to have his one-eyed monster staring her in the face while she was trying to work.  A man’s parts were…disturbing to say the least.  Aislin’s hadn’t been, but he was the exception.  He’d always been such a giving, gentle lover, but she doubted Boromir, who smelled like aggression and male dominance, would prove to be the same type of lover.  It was best for both of them anyway that she remain at a distance.  His one opportunity to return home to his beloved Minas Tirith depended on that aloofness.

     “For a woman who’s been married and someone who seems to be an accomplished healer, you are awfully shy,” Boromir suddenly drawled.

   Ciarra glanced up to see him staring pointedly at the bowl over his groin.  A light blush tinged her cheeks.  “I did it as much for your privacy as my modesty.”  She didn’t like the teasing light dancing in his eyes.  

     “What did you put in that broth you fed me?  I can hardly feel the pain of my wounds after my nap.”

     “A powdered root to dull the pain and keep infection from arising,” she responded, still blushing while she dragged the wet cloth over the insides of his knees.  She found a small scar on one of them, but then, his body was littered with scars.

     “If my nakedness disturbs you, then return my clothing to rectify the situation.”

     “I would, my lord, but your clothing is still damp from a recent washing.  They had to be washed three times to get all the blood and dirt out of the cloth.  It is my hope you are not one of those men who enjoy a layer of dirt, because I will not have it in my home.”

     “I noticed.  I have yet to find a single cobweb or speck of dust, but you’ll be happy to know I dislike filth as much as you do.  Before you found me, I had been traveling and fighting for a couple of months, hence the dirt and blood.  The elf who traveled with me somehow never looked soiled, though.”

     “That is an elf for you,” she responded.  The cloth worked over the soles of his feet and in between his toes, an action that had him wriggling and trying to jerk his feet away from her, and she suddenly realized he was ticklish.  It brought a soft smile to her.  Perhaps he wasn’t all hardened warrior after all.

     “Where will you sleep tonight?”  His glance went to the window that was now shuttered to keep out the breeze.  Candles were burning in sconces along the walls.

     “Beside you as I have slept every night since bringing you here.  The nights grow chill here, so the warmth of my body has helped with your condition.”

     “A modest woman sleeping in the same bed with a naked man.  Your quirks begin to reveal themselves, Ciarra.”

     “It is not a quirk to give bodily warmth to an injured man,” she said.  “Besides, you are hardly in any condition to take advantage of me.  There, you are clean once again.”  

     Slopping the cloth in the bowl of dirty water, she carried it to the door and flung the contents out over the grass and flowers.  That done, she brought a bowl of savory stew containing carrots, peas, potatoes, and thin slices of meat over to start feeding him.  Just keep moving and caring for him.  The nights sleeping next to him were bad enough.  Perhaps if she hadn’t grown so lonely her instant attraction to him wouldn’t be so powerful.  Still, she was not the kind of woman who gave in to attraction no matter how handsome and strong this man was.

     Boromir’s strength was sapped again by the time she finished spooning the stew in his mouth, so she gave him another cup of water, helped him relieve himself in a pot that she then carried into the forest to discard, and returned.  He was sleeping again from the drought she’d laced in his stew, so she slipped onto the pallet next to him, but sleep didn’t come easily.  She spent half the night staring at the dancing flame of the single candle she left burning.

     It wouldn’t be long before her sanctuary was breeched by the growing darkness.  What would happen then?  Would she be carried off by that darkness and thrown into the great river to slip unnoticed into the ocean of the damned?  She clenched her eyes closed against the imagined cries of those consigned to the after-ocean.  Whatever happened, Boromir could not be there when the end came, when the dark power finally found his freedom.  The veil was growing thinner by the week.  She had to have him well enough to make the journey to his land before the end came.