Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. They belong to the Master, J.R.R. Tolkien.

I Need You

Chapter One: A Change of Direction

Boromir sat down heavily on a tree root. The intrusion into his mind by Galadriel had left him shaken and unsure. He buried his head in his hands, willing the pictures that flashed through his mind to disappear. At the crack of a twig he stiffened and looked around. Aragorn was standing there, watching him. But Boromir was surprised to see none of the hostility that usually darkened his gaze. Aragorn was looking at him with something almost like compassion. Boromir tuned away. He didn't need Aragorn's pity. A slight creak told him that Aragorn had sat down next to him.

"You should take some rest," said the Ranger. "These borders are well protected."

"I will find no rest here," Boromir replied bitterly. "I heard her voice inside my head. She spoke of my father and the fall of Gondor. She said to me, even now there is hope left. But I cannot see it. It is long since we had any hope. My father is a noble man, but his rule is failing. And then our people lose faith. He looks to me to make things right, and I would do it. I would see the glory of Gondor restored. Have you ever seen it Aragorn? The white tower of Ecthelion? Glimmering like a spike of burning silver, its banner caught high in the morning breeze. Have you ever been called home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets?"

Aragorn had noticed Boromir's discomfort at his first meeting with Galadriel. He reached out a hand and squeezed Boromir's shoulder gently, offering comfort in the only way he knew how. "I have seen the white city, long ago," he said.

Boromir felt Aragorn's hand on his shoulder and heard his words. He felt oddly comforted, knowing that someone else understood him. He looked around at Aragorn. "One day our paths will lead us there. And the tower guard will take up the call. For the Lords of Gondor will have returned."

For a second Aragorn was startled. Boromir's contempt for his claim to the throne of Gondor was no secret, and Aragorn had thought that it had built up a wall between them that could never be breached. But Boromir had seemingly forgotten all that, and was including Aragorn in the nobility of his city. Aragorn's grip tightened slightly, letting the other man know that he appreciated the gesture, and what it must have cost him. They sat like that for some time, until footsteps announced the approach of an intruder. Unwilling to let their peace be shattered by another, Aragorn himself ended it by standing up and moving away from Boromir. "As I said," he threw back over his shoulder, "you should try to get some rest."

As the Fellowship packed up to leave Lothlorien, Aragorn watched Boromir closely. He could see that their time in the elf-kingdom, whilst beneficial to everyone else, had adversely affected the man of Gondor. He did not seem to be able to settle, and it saddened Aragorn to see Boromir becoming day by day more haggard and tired. He had some idea what was wrong. Indeed, it would hardly be possible to miss the frequency with which Boromir's eyes strayed to Frodo, and the hungry, longing look that appeared in them when they did. The Ring was exercising its full influence on Boromir, and there was nothing Aragorn could do to stop it.

Several days later the Fellowship reached Parth Galen and the Falls of Rauros. The time had now arrived for Aragorn to make the decision he had been dreading ever since they had left Moria. They – he – had to choose whether the Fellowship should carry on down the river to Minas Tirith, or whether they should leave the river and go east, to Mordor. He sat, deep in thought, next to the boat, paying no heed to the activity that went on around him. Suddenly a voice intruded upon his thoughts.

"Where's Frodo?" asked Merry.

Aragorn jumped up. Where was Frodo? And then he saw something that chilled his blood. Leaning up against a tree was Boromir's shield. But of Boromir there was no sign either. Aragorn set off running. He vaguely heard Merry and Pippin dash off in another direction, yelling Frodo's name, but his one thought was to get to Boromir before he caused his own destruction.

He reached out, clawing at Frodo's neck. The Ring was so close. It would be his, it belonged with him. Then he felt himself being pulled backward, off of Frodo, and he yelled in frustration. His hand went to his sword and as he drew it he swung around to face his assailant. It was Aragorn. "Draw!" snarled Boromir.

"I will not fight you, Boromir," replied Aragorn simply. "You are not yourself. It would be wrong."

Boromir lunged forward, and Aragorn stepped swiftly out of the way. Unable to stop himself, Boromir tripped and fell. He groaned softly and his body went limp. Aragorn went over to him and gently drew his sword from his hand. Boromir offered no resistance, and as Aragorn leaned down he could hear the other man sobbing.

"What have I done!" gasped Boromir. "Aragorn, what have I done?"

"You are not to blame, Boromir," said Aragorn. "You were under a powerful influence – something that would have affected us all in the end. Frodo," he continued, turning to the hobbit. But Frodo was not there. "Frodo!" cried Aragorn, looking wildly around.

Boromir struggled to his feet, swaying unsteadily. "He has gone," he said dully.

Aragorn looked at Boromir, and understanding dawned. "You mean he has left us – gone to Mordor alone," he said. He paused, lost in thought. "Perhaps it is for the best," he said at last. "The Fellowship can no longer protect Frodo. We must choose a new path." Boromir nodded. Aragorn looked into his eyes and felt a chill. They were completely blank – all the life had drained out of them. "Boromir," he said softly.

Boromir looked up and smiled, but the expression still did not reach his eyes. "A new path," he repeated. "We must find the others," he said.

The two men made their way back down to the shore. Legolas, Gimli, Merry and Pippin were all standing by the boats.

"Aragorn!" cried Legolas. "Where is Frodo?"

Aragorn looked at Boromir, but Boromir was gazing out listlessly over the water. "He has gone – to Mordor," he replied.

"Sam is not here either," said Merry. "Surely he has not gone too!"

"I believe he has," said Aragorn. "Frodo will need him. It is a dangerous quest they have gone on, and friendship will help them on their road."

"But we must go after them!" cried Pippin.

"No, Pippin," said Aragorn. "We can no longer be of aid to Frodo and Sam. I had thought that my decision when we reached this place would be difficult, but it seems it has been made for me. Our path now leads to Minas Tirith." He looked over at Boromir to see if his words had registered, but Boromir had not moved. "We cannot however continue down-river. Orcs guard both Cair Andros and the remains of Osgiliath. These are obstacles too great for us to overcome. We must leave the river and travel overland. We will be hindered by the many mouths of the River Entwash, but the way is less dangerous for so small a company. We will leave the boats and unnecessary baggage here – we must travel light and make all possible speed."

As they sorted what remained of the baggage, Legolas drew Aragorn aside. "What is wrong with Boromir?" he asked.

"He succumbed to the influence of the Ring," said Aragorn quietly. "But he is not to blame for his actions. His recovery will be slow. Perhaps returning home to his father will help."

For the next few days the Fellowship trudged along in a damp, misty world. As Aragorn had said, the mouths of the Entwash indeed proved a hindrance. The entire area was one great marsh, and every so often the group would find themselves brought to a halt by yet another channel of water, which required careful fording or wading. Their progress was also hindered by Merry and Pippin, who found the going hard on ground that threatened to swallow them to their waists, and by Boromir. He seemed to have detached himself from the world around him. He would obey Aragorn's gently given instructions, but when asked a question he just smiled vaguely and went back to gazing off into the distance. He walked along as if in a trance, and no amount of encouragement could make him move faster.

After six days the ground grew firmer, and Aragorn knew they were coming to the end of the marsh. The next stage of the journey involved crossing the plain of Anorien to the road. Aragorn was unwilling to expose the Fellowship by using the road, but he knew that they needed to reach Minas Tirith as soon as possible and they would only be on the road for a short stretch. As they travelled Aragorn watched Boromir, hoping that as they neared his home city his spirits would revive. But Boromir remained exactly the same. Aragorn watched him with increasing worry. Every evening when they stopped to rest he sat down next to Boromir and talked to him, trying to draw him out with a stream of inconsequential chatter, telling him about his adventures in the wilderness, his friendship with Gandalf, reminding him of Merry and Pippin's antics during the day, hoping against hope to get some reaction from the other man. Finally, one evening as they were nearing Minas Tirith, something happened. After relating yet more stories about his past Aragorn fell silent. Boromir had not moved once since they had sat down, and Aragorn began to despair that he would ever recover, would ever show any emotion, whether good or bad, again.

"Boromir," he said softly. "I'm worried about you. We're all worried about you. I know you're hurting very much, but please try to come back to us." But Boromir just sat, gazing vacantly into the distance. Deep inside Aragorn something stirred. He grabbed Boromir by the shoulders, pulling him around to face him. "Damn you Boromir, why won't you listen to me? What happened is not your fault. Try and understand that. You cannot behave like this for the rest of your life. There are people who need you. Your father needs you. The Fellowship needs you. I need you." Abruptly, Aragorn stood up and walked away. He hadn't meant to go that far, he hadn't meant to say that last part, but he had been so desperate to provoke a reaction that he had got carried away. What he had said was the truth, but it should never have been spoken.