Notes: A What-If that follows a slightly different path, but ultimately achieves the same result. I tried not to rehash repeated events; you all know what goes on off-camera, as it were.
"But fear no more! I would not take this thing, if it lay by the highway.
Not were Minas Tirith falling in ruin and I alone could save her, so, using the weapon of the Dark Lord for her good and my glory. No, I would not wish for such triumphs."
-Faramir; The Lord of the Rings, Book V
CHAINED TO FATE
PART I: THE FELLOWSHIP IS BROKEN
Faramir stood in the courtyard under the White Tree of Gondor and heard the ringing of the trumpets from the outer walls of the city-the trumpets that heralded the returning of the Steward's eldest son and Captain-General of Gondor. Even then he knew he stood in a dream, for the yard was empty of any other soul. Not even his father Denethor was waiting there to welcome back his most beloved son.
The trumpets ceased and an unnatural stillness fell. He could hear no sounds, feel no breeze nor sunlight upon his face. The courtyard began to darken and Faramir turned his face skyward to see a black cloud passing over Minas Tirith; but this cloud did not approach from the east, from the nameless land. It came instead from the north. It moved with frightening swiftness, reaching out in all directions to cover the whole of the sky.
He felt the presence of another nearby and turned to face the eastern edge of the courtyard. Boromir stood there, adorned in his finest armor, his sword belted to his waist and the Horn of Gondor hanging from his shoulder. The shadowed mountains of Mordor framed his stately figure. He smiled and opened his arms in greeting.
Faramir began to move toward him, but stopped when he saw the shine of gold upon his brother's chest. A small ring hung on a silver chain, resting against Boromir's breastplate and shining with a light that did not come from the darkened sky. It shone with some hidden, malignant fire that yearned to escape and steal over the world and turn it all to ashes.
Boromir stepped toward him, reaching out one hand, but Faramir made no move to take it. He could see the true nature of the thing around Boromir's neck, and he felt repelled by it. It radiated darkness and evil and a lust for domination. It called to him, whispering promises of power and glory. But Faramir knew that to take Boromir's hand would doom him forevermore. He wanted nothing to do with that ring.
Refusing the whispers and the hand that reached for him, Faramir retreated. Boromir's smile faded as he withdrew his hand. Darkness overtook his features and his eyes burned with a violent fire. He made no more toward Faramir, but instead turned and swept his arm toward the east, where the Ephel Duath and the shadowed lands beyond were broken asunder and crumbling into dust. The noise assailed him and it seemed to him as though the whole world might crack in two.
But even over this rose another sound from below, and Faramir was drawn to look down over the edge of the courtyard. Below, people filled the streets of Minas Tirith and beyond, the fields of the Pelennor darkened with uncountable thousands. Their voices ran over the din of destruction, chanting the name of the savior of Gondor and the new King of the West:
Boromir.
Faramir awoke not in Minas Tirith, but in the camp in the remnants of Osgiliath where his company held the ford against Minas Morgul. His ears still rang with the sounds of his dream. Here in the waking world it was nearly silent. Most of the men were getting a few hours of sleep during a gap in the enemy's onslaught.
It was still dark; Faramir guessed there was a long while yet before sunrise. He rose from the broken wall he had fallen asleep against. A powerful feeling of dread took hold of his heart when he looked to the north. This dream had not been a dream; it had been a vision of something that might come to pass. Faramir looked to the east, where the mountains smoldered amid the shadows, and heard again the terrible thunder of its destruction. To see the end of that dark place had been the wish of all who lived and struggled in its shadow, but the vision had shown him that were it to pass like in this way, something just as evil would rise to take its place.
He was unsure of what he should do; should he tell his father? He had not had his ear in such matters before. Boromir was the one his father listened to, and yet the one man he could not go to for aid. This burden, it seemed, was his to bear alone.
.oOo.
The Fellowship had been broken.
Aragorn stood at the site where a struggle had taken place only minutes ago, yet he had been too late to prevent it. Hobbit and orc footprints covered the ground about him; past him, only those left by orcs crossed the earth, showing their coming and going. They alone told the tale of what had happened here. And yet that was not the most fearsome thing that had come to pass today.
Legolas and Gimli found him then, and he turned to face them, seeing their weapons bloodied and questions burning in their eyes.
"Have you not seen Frodo or Boromir?" Legolas asked.
"Frodo is beyond my sight, I fear," said Aragorn, "but as I sat in the seeing chair, I spied Boromir on a southern course from here. Listen to me! Two of the hobbits at least have been taken from this very spot. They will need you."
"You mean to follow Boromir!" said Gimli. "Why indeed has he deserted us?"
"I fear that Boromir has fallen to the will of the Ring and overcome poor Frodo," Aragorn said. "He does not understand that no good thing can come of its use. I cannot allow such a thing come to pass if it is within my strength to stop it."
Aragorn knew that Legolas understood, and he saw that Gimli did also, though it was plain that all were deeply saddened by the further fracturing of their Company. And with that, they said their goodbyes to one another, for it was uncertain when or if they would ever meet again.
.oOo.
Samwise Gamgee, you great fool, he thought to himself, now you've gone and got yourself lost on top of everything!
Sam, unable to keep pace with Strider's swift gait up the steep hill, had gone off to seek Frodo on his own. But he had not found Frodo-not at the campsite nor the boats, nor anywhere in the woods that he had yet been. And now, he could not seem to find anyone else, either. Once, he thought he heard shouting, but had been unable to determine from which direction-and had got himself all turned around trying to find out. Later he had seen orcs moving through the trees some ways off and had hidden for a long time. That was hours ago now, and he had not seen anyone else since then.
He wandered until the sun began to disappear over the hill, not calling out to anyone for fear that orcs still lurked nearby.
Hold up! he told himself. If you go wandering about after dark, all you're going to do is get yourself more lost, or worse. Back at the campsite, that's where you need to be. But which way is it?
He remembered then that the sun was setting, which meant it was in the west, the opposite direction of the river. He just needed to walk east, until he reached the river, and then south, because they only could have camped south.
So he found the sun and turned the other way, and hoped that he at least found the river before it got too dark.
.oOo.
Frodo awoke quite all at once, his eyes flying wide, and bolted upright. He looked round in all directions, his breathing sharp and heart thundering as if he had just fled a great distance; but the woods were shrouded in the glow of twilight. He was unsure if this meant it was dusk or dawn. He knew that meant he must have lain there for a long while, either way.
His hand went to his neck-but the chain with the Ring was gone. He began to search about on the ground, thinking for an instant that he had simply dropped it, before he remembered he had done no such thing.
Boromir.
But what of the others?
Frodo jumped to his feet despite the ache that crept through every joint and muscle. He had fallen to the bottom of a steep hill. Moving carefully, he walked in the direction of the camp.
The river was not very far away, but the sky had become dark on his journey there. A foul smell became known to him, a smell like that of rotting meat, but somewhat more odious, as if it were diseased. Frodo quickened his pace through the darkening woods. He passed something, a hulking shape in the near-darkness, that seemed too unnatural to be a rock or tree. His foot caught and he tripped and fell, scrambling immediately back to his feet. He ran then, a stumbling flight through the suddenly monstrous trees, twigs and branches reaching out to claw at him, shadows lunging at his feet to bring him down, but he kept running until he found a gap in the trees-the campsite! He stopped running as his feet touched bare ground, his hopes fading. No one was there.
Only one boat remained tethered to the shore. One for Boromir, he figured, on his way home to Gondor with his new prize. As for the other... surely the rest of the Fellowship could not have all followed in a single boat? Not unless there were not many of them left. He could not fathom where else they could have gone to.
Among the equipment that still lay about, he spotted Sam's pack and sank down next to it. He had failed all of them. All of the Fellowship, and everyone back home; the burden of Ringbearer had been placed on him and he had not been able to complete his task, and now he was all alone.
He lay against Sam's pack for a long time, until stars glittered in the sky. As sleep finally threatened to overtake him, he heard a noise in the trees beyond the camp. He hunched next to Sam's bulky pack and reached for Sting belted at his side. A look at the blade showed no glow; whatever approached, it was not an orc. Could that mean...
"Who's there?"
Sam! It was Sam's voice! All the cares of the Quest and the loss of the Ring were put aside then, and Frodo ran to him; for even if the world were to begin to crumble into dust around him, at least Sam would be by his side.
.oOo.
After two days, even without rest Aragorn could no longer catch any sight of Boromir. Even though Aragorn knew his destination and could track him on the ground without much difficulty, he had a greater need to catch up with Boromir before he reached Minas Tirith-a chance that slipped away from him with each passing hour. Boromir seemed to be driven by a swiftness not born of nature. Aragorn kept full pace at all hours, and carried only what he needed to make the journey to Minas Tirith, and still he fell behind.
He could only hope that Legolas and Gimli fared better in their search for the hobbits.
.oOo.
Sam and Frodo passed a restless night in the empty campsite. On the first day they remained near the site, but searched for signs of the rest of their Company. Though they found no bodies of their friends, which was heartening, they did discover several of those of orcs. It still did not tell them where all the others had gone to, or why they had left them behind.
In the evening they returned to the campsite to decide what to do next. Obviously, they could not wait here forever in hopes that the Fellowship would return. And since they did not know which way they had gone, there was no hope in trying to catch them up. There was no reason to head south anymore, either, without the Ring. Frodo especially hated to leave the Quest unfinished, and with no knowledge of what had happened to everyone else-Merry and Pippin in particular-but he could not think of anything else he could do.
And then Sam said, "What about the elves, in Lorien? Surely they'd let us stay with them again, and maybe Lady Galadriel could even help us find the others."
So it was decided. In the morning they would take the remaining boat upriver to Lothlorien.
.oOo.
The next morning, Sam and Frodo gathered all they would need to make the journey, and left everything else behind. Just before they departed they made a message in stones in case anyone else did return: Gone Back, SG & FB. They thought it vague enough that only one of the Fellowship could know which way they had gone and follow.
Traveling upriver was far slower than down, but the river was wide and lazy and the elven boat was swift. Before nightfall, they found a spot on the riverbank to make camp. They built no fire, but pulled their cloaks and blankets tight about their shoulders, and sat side by side against a mossy log.
Frodo, wearied by the long day of travel and the events of the last days, let his eyes drift closed. The sound of the river soon lulled him to sleep. It did not seem that he slept for long before he felt himself being poked awake by Sam, who silenced him before he could speak.
"Someone's here," Sam whispered.
Frodo froze, straining his eyes and ears. A flash of white glinted between the trees not very far away. An elf, perhaps? But they were nowhere near Lorien yet, and even so, when the Lorien elves did not wish to be seen, they were not. Gandalf had spoken of Saruman the White, who had betrayed him, and Frodo very much hoped it was not him, though he did not think they were very close to Isengard, either. There was no hope of escape from a wizard of his power.
The figure appeared through the trees again, much closer this time. He could clearly see now long white hair and beard, and that the walker carried a white staff. Frodo did not know what to do except hide. Could a wizard see through their elven cloaks?
The figure disappeared again. Frodo strained to see where he had gone when he appeared once again, stepping out from behind a tree directly in front of Sam and he. The figure turned to look straight at them, and Frodo heard Sam gasp at the same time he did.
It was not Saruman at all.
It was Gandalf.
.oOo.
Faramir stood outside the doorway to the great hall of Minas Tirith, a sense of dread filling his heart. The doors were behind him, and he faced the empty courtyard of the White Tree. In the skies above him, the dark cloud from the north had arrived and spread out over all of Gondor. Before his eyes, it flowed eastward, toward the Land of Shadow. The two clouds seemed to join, but Faramir heard the sound of great thunder and saw the bright flashes of lightning, and knew that the two dark clouds did not merge, but fought for dominance.
He turned away. Ahead of him now the doors to the great hall loomed dark and threatening. He opened them and his eyes were drawn toward the raised platform on which rested the long-vacant throne of the King of Gondor.
On the throne sat a figure enshrouded in darkness. From one arm, lying draped over the armrest, a silver chain dangled, and on the end of the chain glittered something gold. Faramir did not want to enter and move toward the throne, but he found himself walking under a willpower that was far stronger than his own. The shadow on the throne lifted a hand to welcome him. Faramir ascended the steps of the dais and did not look twice at the blood that lay spilled there. As he rose toward the throne he heard shouts from the courtyard, from the streets, from the whole of the city below, carried by the dark winds across all of Gondor and Middle-earth, chanting the name of Boromir, the new Lord of all.