When their fine elvish boats drew up on the pebbly shore of the river Anduin, Boromir was the first to set foot on the west bank, followed swiftly by Legolas, Aragorn, Gimli and the four hobbits: Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin.

"We will make camp here for tonight; at sunrise, we move out."

"No, Aragorn, we cannot stay here; I feel a darkness falling around us, ever thicker as long as we remain in this place!" Legolas was deadly serious in his concern, and Aragorn's choice of camp was unsettling to him.

Boromir came up behind the two of them to have his say:

"The little ones are tired, let them rest!"

"Boromir is right, Legolas." Aragorn nodded towards the huddle of hobbits, almost sleeping where they stood, "they cannot travel further today."

"Good," Boromir raised his chin victoriously, "I will help them set up camp."

Later that night, as the fellowship sat wearily around a makeshift fire, an absence was noticed in their ranks.

"Where is Boromir?" Frodo piped up, "he is not here."

Sam spoke next, "Mr Frodo's right, Mr Boromir isn't with us."

"Ach," Gimli grunted, "let the man have some peace! This journey is harder for him than he'd lead most of us to believe."

"The dwarf's right, for once." Legolas gave Gimli a sly smile, and the whole company began to laugh and Boromir was left to whatever peace solitude gave him.

Undisturbed, Boromir wandered the woods surrounding the camp. Dotted around him were the tattered remains of long gone stone buildings; what purpose they once served was indiscernible, but the somewhat crumbled remains of stairs and moss mottled pathways made navigating the woodland far easier for a man used to the stone streets and unforgiving walls of Gondor.

It was while remembering those very structures that Boromir's thoughts turned to his brother. It seemed like an age since he had last seen Faramir, perhaps the war had passed him and his city by, perhaps Faramir – son of Gondor – had found a wife and lived now happy with his young family. While unlikely, this picture still gave Boromir a degree of comfort... and pain.

Pain, because Boromir himself had never loved in that way. He loved his family; his kingdom, but he had never loved a woman. Never had he felt the soft embrace, or the hard kiss of a lover, such as great songs were sung of.

Losing his light, Boromir began to turn back to camp; they'd be starting to wonder where he'd been, and the night was growing old. But, by the chance of his torch flame flickering in the cooling night breeze, a strange, shadowed shape in the leaves to his right caught his eye.

"Tisn't a rock," he thought, as he reached out to the bundle...

"Boromir!" Legolas called.

"Boromir! Where are you? It's late!" Aragorn too was out looking for him.

"Great, pretty boy and the ranger king." Boromir chuckled to himself, before calling back. "Over here, come! I have found something!"

The sound of footsteps began to quickly approach the son of Gondor and the mysterious bundle of cloth on the ground before him.

"What is it, friend?" Aragorn asked in haste.

"I do not know; I am yet to uncover it."

Incidentally, as the three of them were about to do just that, the bundle... it moved, then let out a strained groan.

Boromir, Aragorn and Legolas were all instantly poised to bear the brunt of an attack. Boromir – who stood nearest the bundle – could hardly believe his eyes when the cloak covering the bundle fell aside to reveal the maker of the groan...

"A... a woman..." Boromir's words stumbled clumsily out of his hanging jaw, for she was beautiful: rugged, but stunning.

Her eyes snapped open, immediately fixed on the three travellers, now looming over her, blocking the moonlight. She sprang to her feet and drew her bow, fully and horizontally, so the tip of her arrow was resting atop Boromir's Adam's apple.

Her expression was hard as marble and a defensive rage flamed in her eyes amid the bruising along her high cheekbones. Beneath her worn, leather waistcoat, her shirt was torn and stained with blood and dirt. She wore trousers, as a man would; it's clear that they were once the same leather as her waistcoat (which was also the material her boots and archer's gloves her crafted from) but now they were practically patchwork. Boromir could see why: there was a large slit down her left thigh, through which he caught a glimpse of her creamy skin, badly wounded by the same cut that had torn through her armour.

"Who are you all?" Her words were short and clear; she was not to be messed with.

She flicked her oatmeal blonde hair out of her eyes and it fell behind her ear, to reveal a slight point on them. It was slight, but her ears were pointed...

"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn."

"And I am Legolas, son of King Thranduil, of The Woodland Realm."

The woman's gaze lingered on Legolas, eying him with a sort of deep rooted contempt.

"And you?" She raised her bow, lifting Boromir's chin slightly as she addressed him.

"I am Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain of the White Tower." He swallowed nervously. "Please, calm down, lady elf..."
"I am no elf!" She shouted, pulling her bowstring so taught that it started to cut into her slender fingers, as the anger in her eyes flared to hatred. "Drop your weapons."

Boromir lowered his sword.
"All of you!"

Aragorn and Legolas – reluctantly – did the same.

"Beg pardon, but what is your name, and where do you hail from, miss?" Aragorn asked from over Boromir's broad shoulder.

"Your niceties are wasted here, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. I am Amela, and you shall not know my lineage, for I did not ask for yours."

She lowered her bow, letting the arrow hang loose before – in one swift movement – replacing it in her quiver and expertly swinging her bow back into place on her back. Without paying any further attention to the three men, she turned, tied her dark grey cloak around her once more and gathered her belongings. Within moments, she was almost out of sight.

"Wait!"

Aragorn and Legolas stared at Boromir in astonishment; what was he doing?

"Boromir, have you lost your mind? How do we know we can trust her?" Trying to reason with him, Aragorn's words were hushed, but stern.

"We can't." Legolas scoffed under his breath.

"Don't get your ponytail in a twist, Legolas. The lady does not take kindly to elves; that does not mean we cannot trust her. We could benefit greatly from a companion with her skills."

Boromir had a great deal more to say on the subject. But, before he had a chance to fight the battle, he lost the war.

"I travel alone, captain of Gondor." Having returned as swiftly and quietly as a hawk gliding on the summer air, the woman – Amela – continued to drag the rug from beneath Boromir's feet, "and I am sure that I would find far less benefit from your party than your party would find in me. I do not wish to waste any more of the night..." As she turned to leave once again, Boromir found his winning strategy.

"You won't go far, not with that wound, lady traveller."

She paused. Her head turned toward her shoulder; her fingertips resting lightly on the slash in her creamy flesh. It stung. It stung with a searing pain; the orc blade had been jagged and coated in grime.

"We have supplies. We can give you food, warmth and care for your leg."

"I suppose you have a point, captain..." Sighing with defeat, she let the man of Gondor have his way, "this leg won't carry me much further, so I will stay. I will stay for now."

So the four of them made their way back to the fellowship's camp by the dwindling light of Boromir's torch; the sky was clear, making for a cold night. But, when they returned, there was nobody sat at the fire. Noticing that this was not what the others expected, Amela joined them in scanning the area for signs of any companions.

"There, by the river!" Called Aragorn from across the camp.

A short, stout dwarf and what looked like two children stood at the edge of the water,

"They're hobbits..." Seeing the confusion on her fair face, Boromir answered Amela's unasked question.

"Two hobbits, a dwarf, a ranger and a wood elf: you keep interesting company, son of Gondor." She smirked and – leaving Boromir to watch her walk away – followed Aragorn and Legolas to the shore of the River Anduin.

"Aragorn, Frodo and Sam have reached the Eastern shore, we must hurry!"

"No, Gimli..."

"You mean not to follow them?" Legolas interjected.

"Frodo's burden is not ours to carry; he must complete his quest alone."

Pippin, confused, couldn't help but point out: "but... Aragorn, Sam is with Frodo."

"Pippin, Sam couldn't be kept away from Frodo by all the armies of Mordor." Merry chuckled, and then the whole company joined in. Even Amela – who had no idea who Sam and Frodo were – smiled to herself at the thought of the loyal Samwise.

Then, out of the dark, their laughter was joined by a fast paced rumbling coming from through the trees.

"Legolas, what is that?" Trusting his elf friend's hearing more than his own, Aragorn needed confirmation of what he already feared.

"It's o-"

"Orcs." Answering before Legolas could, Amela knew the sound of an orc troop better than most and knew just how much damage they could do.

Before the group could grab anything other than their weapons, the first few of many orcs burst into the clearing.

"RUN!" Boromir bellowed the order at Merry and Pippin, before giving Amela the same look of protective authority.

"Scared of being shown up by a girl?" Amela teased, as she unsheathed her sword from the scabbard she wore at her hip and beheaded two charging orcs in one deadly pirouette.

Thus the battle began. Aragorn and Gimli headed upriver to cut off as many of the advancing orcs as they could. Legolas took the high ground atop the stone ruins surrounding the camp and Merry and Pippin were chased into the woods by a small group their foul enemy. Boromir and Amela were alone in the clearing with at least sixty orcs; they stood – not facing eachother – each mowing down another enemy with every swing of their sword. Metal clashed on metal; limbs and blood fell in all directions as the fight reached its height.

"How many more, do you think?" Boromir shouted over the sound of this sword breaking through orc armour.

"I'd say about twenty five, but there may be more to come."

Astounded by her swordsmanship, Boromir couldn't help but glance over at her when he got the chance. He'd always been taught to never let his mind stray from the battle, but he couldn't help himself; she was so... dangerous.

However, the next time he flicked his shoulder length hair to marvel at the mysterious woman, she was gone: totally out of sight.

"Damn that woman!" He cursed under his breath, he trusted her! Then she abandons him, mid battle. "Never trust a nomad, Boromir." Why didn't he follow his own advice?

"Help!" The cry came from the forest.

"The little ones!" Boromir gasped as he ran from the clearing to the hobbits' aid.

Holding onto eachother tightly, Merry and Pippin's expression of pure terror would have been greatly amusing, if not for the orc war hammer about to bear down on them. Sprinting towards the orc that towered above the helpless hobbits, Boromir raised his sword above his head, leaped into the air and – with all the might he could muster – plunged the blade into the hideous creature's chest. Merry and Pippin watched – speechless – as Boromir rose to his feet and slew orc after orc with his expertly wielded sword.

But, as those orcs died, another was very much living, and aiming an ebony arrow straight at Boromir! Flying through the air like a winged death sentence, the arrow spun and twisted as it approached its target.

But it didn't hit.

Just as the arrow had been about to pierce the captain of Gondor's heart, he had been knocked to the ground by an altogether unexpected ally.

"A-Amela?" The captain could barely speak, having had the air knocked out of him by the very blow that saved his life.

"Get up and fight, fool. And – unless you want the next arrow to fly straight through your chest – I suggest you cover me while I take out that bastard orc."

Their teamwork was impeccable; to see them, you'd think they'd been fighting together for years. Circling around his partner, Boromir ducked, parried, jabbed and slashed any enemy that came near her. Calmly, as if the bloody battle happening inches from her was miles away, she drew her bow, then an arrow; she lined up the shot...

It was the orc's turn to duck this time, but it moved too late, the razor point of the arrow had already cracked the creature's skull and driven through its brain.

When Amela was satisfied that one shot had done the job, she turned to see Boromir beheading the last of the entire orc troop.

"Good work, Captain. But, where are your hobbit friends?" She asked absentmindedly while she wiped the orc blood from her face.

"They left. They went to find the other two, I tried to stop them bu-"

"They'll be fine, Boromir." Aragorn had run in from his post upriver, with Gimli following comically behind.

"So, what now?" Legolas too had rejoined the party.

Aragorn paused – not wanting to rush into a decision that could cost them their lives. "Well... Boromir, do you still aim to return to Minas Tirith?"

"That I do, but not before my part in this quest is over."

"That may be sooner than you think..."

Casually pacing around the ruined camp, Amela didn't care enough about Boromir's plans to pay attention to his conversation with Aragorn – who seemed to her to be the closest the party had to a leader. So, she busied herself with menial tasks, such as cleaning her blade, counting her arrows and ensuring that if anyone were to pass through after they left, they'd see no trace of a previous camp.

"Better safe than sorry." She thought to herself as she kicked the last of the logs and ashes, from the fire, away from the clearing, before returning to the four men, still in discussion of their next move.

"Then it's settled," Aragorn concurred, "Boromir will return to Minas Tirith, and our new friend will accompany him."

"What?" Not sure she had heard right, Amela needed confirmation, "me? Go to Minas Tirith? With him? He can't even watch his own back, never mind mine!"

"I did a pretty damned good job back there, miss 'stand in the middle of a battle spending a lifetime on one shot'." Boromir jumped in to defend himself.

"I was making sure YOU didn't get killed, 'captain'! If I hadn't taken my time with that shot, it would've cost me at least three more arrows."

Turning to Aragorn, Boromir made his plea: "I cannot travel with this woman, Aragorn. Do you not hear her?"

Smirking as he spoke, Legolas said his piece: "It was you who invited her to join us, Boromir. I'm sure the two of you will make an excellent partnership."

Amela sighed; she was left with two choices. She could either give into peer pressure from a wood elf and travel with Boromir, or try and make it alone without care for her wound.

"I will go to Minas Tirith with..." she looked over at Boromir, "you".