Without my staff, I had limited access to magic that I felt comfortable in using.

But Boromir once more underestimated his situation- he believed my magic to be irrevocably linked to the wood-working as it had been, whole and hale, for had I not held it in the very hand from which I had thrown him to the ground mere moments prior? And, growing up at his father's knee, had he not learned that simple fact with the coming of Gandalf and the restrictions that proud Denethor set at his doorstep?

And so as Boromir rose upright to finish his folly, he believed himself secure. "For Gondor!" he crowed as he hefted his mighty sword once more.

I had little more time to spare ere the stroke was done, for good or ill outcome. "Forzare!"

The amount left to my rings was paltry compared to the larger force that came before, yet not nothing, either. Enough to turn his wrist aside ere he could swing downward, and strong a man as he may be, yet his weapon was a stolid hand-and-a-half sword, and its weight then was beyond his grasp to resist. It tumbled from his shaken fingertips and cleaved the mud between us to the hilt.

"What deception is this?" Boromir cried in much shock. "Have I not broken your power? What dominion have you left?"

"This," I answered as I abandoned the piece of staff still held in hand. And I stepped into his open guard and punched him across the mouth. I'd like to think that I still had a decent haymaker, though I've been out of practice for a while now.

The heir to the steward stumbled back in utmost disbelief as blood spilled from his ruptured lower lip, and in the light his blood glistened red and unctuous. He raised his hand to his mouth and stared at the liquid dotting his glove, and a fury came over the man then, well and true and full of a hatred that I believe he had only ever shown at the Battle of Osgiliath previously.

Yet I spoke before he could, nor take further action.

I stared back grimly and said thus; "Fool, I name you, Boromir eldest child of Denethor. I have warned you against undue haste not once but twice this morn, and look!" Though my knuckles felt bruised from the blow I pointed beyond his back, where even now Gimli and Aragorn were returning instead of marching on to face the troops exposed. "What you take for a few soldiers is in fact dozens, perhaps as many as four score, and that I could smote them had I still my full power I would. Yet now we must face this threat otherwise and trust that fate will be more merciful than the Orcs afield."

Boromir spat as blood pooled in his mouth, that he could then speak in response.

"You are gifted truly of guile and deceit, Wizard." His own hands clenched into fists, but though his rage was indeed a grand thing, perhaps my punch had at last shaken the certainty of his will, enough then for my words to slow his thoughts, and for the remaining Fellowship present to return to his side.

"Aye, what a fine mess." The dwarf turned the haft of his axe between his hands and stared at me shrewdly. Aragorn examined the scene and his brow bent at the red shining between his fellow man and myself, the sword in the mud beside my ruined staff. I could not infer an exact emotion from his expression then, but he placed a hand upon Boromir's shoulder, and they two men looked long into one another's gaze while behind the Orcs began to rally.

I knew that to speak now could change much.

Boromir hung on a precipice built from his father's teachings and the shadow of Mordor ever bearing down upon Minas Tirith, and not by my hand would he be risen to shelter, though I should offer it in open faith. He would sooner slip then clasp my fingers, and nothing I said would change that.

But his king-in-exile? It was Aragorn who would pull Boromir up, if any of us could. So I held my tongue and crossed my arms, and looked at the horde beyond as they clamored with a ruckus.

And as the seconds passed Aragorn tried.

"We have known each other long under the name of Thorongil, my steward-prince, though it be in the final years of Ecthelion II your father's father when I served the fleet of Gondor. He trusted my advice and my judgment afield and at sea, and now I ask of you to renew that trust, for we have not the time for this quarrel. We swore an oath together in distant Imladris, and though the means have traveled beyond us to give full aid, the vows remain intact so long as you, I, and Gimli still draw breath. I am not Frodo, but I ask of you- do I still have your sword?"

"No," Boromir answered softly around the blood in his teeth and clinging to his tongue. I tensed as he stepped forward, bent, and wrapped his fingers around the hilt waiting there, and as he rose he drew out his blade with a wet squelch.

But he did not swing his fouled sword toward me a third time, but rather turned toward Aragorn, and went to his knee then with his head bowed. He measured the blood in his mouth wherever mud clung to steel, and continued when at last his mouth was empty, "For this sword was promised to a halfling, and I have sullied it. May this blood wash away that taint." He then drew a dagger and held it toward Aragorn. "But you have my dagger, and my strength, and my life, so long as it shall last, Thorongil, and king."

Minutes ago I could not have predicted such an outcome. I looked upon him and saw the tension that held his shoulders and spine, and if I could guess it would be that he still carried his fury, yet for now it had lessened, and the merit of that wroth was short against the valors and values that had brought him to this point across his life.

It had just taken a little reminding of what mattered.

Gimli grumbled about his choice of deception, but Aragorn's expression now had softened, and he placed a hand to Boromir's own that held the dagger and drew him upright now as he had me in the fields of Parth Galen.

"I will guard this trust and your life as I have my own." An archer ahead nocked and aimed. I stepped forward and thrust my shield bracelet out and that missile fell aside harmlessly. They three turned toward the rising slope and the foul creatures descending, and the Dúnedain resumed his battle-ready pose. "Now let us put an end to this threat! Dresden the Black, will you assist our plight?"

"Of course," I answered simply.

The Orc who had fired his shot abandoned the bow in light of its futility and shook a short but broad sword as he neared. No match for Boromir's, yet dangerous nonetheless.

"Then do what you may to stem their flow, and we shall do the rest."

-(Istar i mor)-

As the sun sank that evening, the Uruk-hai of Isengard had been routed. It was a long, tiring affair, made little better by the powerful creatures' resilience and stamina. I have contended with demons and vampires who could have learned a lesson from Saruman's elite troops. When their last soldier lay bifurcated the river nearby had darkened around the corpses and the constant flow of life's blood.

It was a miracle that the Fellowship-three had survived. Wounded, to which I was eminently grateful that their injuries were not life-threatening, but alive.

In the aftermath of the combat we had searched deeply to be certain the last Orc was vanquished, and then set about cleaning up from the grime where the river still waited clean. I was supposed to be gathering firewood, but my legs had gone weak since stepping into the Anduin, and now some few minutes since, I sat down upon a downed tree and ran my hands through my hair in the small campsite we had agreed upon. For the first time since stepping into Arda the weight of my existence felt strained. When I looked down to my fingertips in the fading sunlight, I could see the ground underneath.

Why?

So simple a question. So many possible answers. I did not like to think of myself here as I had been on my own earth when I first cast Be, but it could not be denied that the power which made up my physical form had diminished. Perhaps it was the running water. Perhaps I had tapped too deeply into my own reserves without a staff as focus to my magic. Or perhaps it was something else.

What I knew was that I had to be careful for now. I wasn't much more invulnerable within Middle-earth than I was used to being back in Chicago.

I rose wearily and used my toe to scuff a rough circle around a small pile of brush nearby. It had been years since I worried over my element of choice. When I was satisfied it would do I knelt, held my hands forward, and murmured, "Flickum Bicus," with a tiny investment of willpower and energy. A few embers sparked to life as I felt the backs of my fingernails shave that much closer to the ether. I breathed out hard and the embers swirled into a quiet fire less than a foot across by tall.

Then I sat back down and closed my eyes. I could just make out the shape of the flames through the lids. This isn't optimal, but… it may pass. It should pass, once I've rested. I had arrived in Arda as a naked spirit, and I hadn't vanished back to Uriel's side. But would that still be the case now? Would I become like Sauron had when the sea flooded in and destroyed Númenor? Maybe.

I sure as hell wasn't interested in finding out soon.

End of Chapter Four.