Tarnished Ivory

By Yavie


Disclaimer: Sadly enough, none of Tolkien's work is of my imagination. I merely… borrowed it. Without permission. He doesn't have to know.

A.N.:Well, here we stand again. It feels good to be back in the Lord of the Rings fandom… It's been a while. Please, enjoy. Oh! A few notes, to begin with.

1. Ah… It's rather difficult to fit any story within the confines of Tolkien's work and still stay true to what he wrote, so I'm not going to be particularly specific about their journey on the River. I didn't want to stay too long in this portion of the story. I also realize that I have problems with using too much dialogue to tell my stories.

2. This story is in no way bashing Boromir! It is simply the story of his battle with temptation. If you want Boromir-bashing, look elsewhere.

3. I'm trying to go by the book's descriptions of the characters. Some of them are lacking, of course, but I suppose one can simply fill in the blanks with evidence from the text or imagination. You may see a bit more of the latter category.


Chapter I: On the River

"But the world is changing. The walls of Minas Tirith may be strong, but they are not strong enough. If they fail, what then?"

Frodo Baggins, "The Breaking of the Fellowship"


The graceful leaf-shaped crafts slid smoothly over the water, propelled almost soundlessly by sleek paddles. The passengers and oarsmen were but a small burst of color in the dismally grey atmosphere of the river, though faint that color was.

"Mr. Frodo?" The Halfling's eyes wandered listlessly, unseeingly over the glassy expanse of the water. He had not shifted his position in the boat for some time, and could feel knots beginning to form in the muscles of his legs. He paid them no heed. "Mr. Frodo?" the question came again, more urgent.

Frodo Baggins tore his gaze from the grey face of the water, hastily pasting a warm smile onto his pale features. "Yes, Sam? What is it?"

The plump gardener breathed a sigh of relief, fidgeting with the hem of his cloak. "Well, Mr. Frodo… You haven't moved in a while, and I wondered if you were comin' down sick," he fussed, peering into his master's face with anxious brown eyes. "It's all of this water. We weren't meant to float on top of it, or we'd have been born with webbed toes like ducks." He shot the river a withering look, a scowl on his kindly face.

"Fear not, Master Gamgee." The statement came from the oarsman, the ranger Aragorn. "Unlike ducks, you will not find this boat tipping bottom-up on you." He smiled, the expression contrasting most peculiarly with his weather-beaten, gruff features.

"'T ain't natural," Sam maintained sullenly, settling back in beside Frodo. "M' legs are all cramped up from sitting in here."

Frodo raised one brow. "Would you rather swim?" he chuckled. At the look of abject horror on Sam's face, his laughter only grew broader.

Despite this, Sam felt a small measure of relief. It had been a good while since he'd last heard his master truly laugh. "Well, don't you try it!" he admonished, shrinking away from the boat's edge. "Poor Sam. Drowned by his own master."

"We will toss no one overboard," Aragorn laughed as well, shaking his head at the pair's banter. "Although, he who begins snoring again this night will wake to a most unpleasant surprise involving a freshly caught trout."

Sam spluttered indignantly, obviously attempting to imagine exactly what it was that the ranger was planning for the unfortunate sleeper. Frodo, quite satisfied that he had diverted his almost motherly gardener's attention, turned his attention to the broad, watery road ahead.

For much of their journey on the river, the Fellowship had remained silent, content to dwell within their own thoughts as they paddled quietly along. The silence fell heavily on all, though they were reluctant to break it for fear of an almost physical shattering. Occasionally, Man, Elf, or Dwarf would exchange suggestions, but that had been the limit of any discussion thus far.

It was difficult to count the days they had been on that wide, dreary river. The grey, colorless landscape seemed to blend seamlessly, one hour bleeding into the next. Frodo had long since given up count.

"It's so quiet." The youngest of the halflings in the boat behind, Peregrin, had become tired of the oppressive silence and stillness. "When will we be out of this dreadful place? I would kiss the ground were I allowed upon it, now."

"Perhaps that wish may be granted." The rower of Pippin's boat spoke up, pausing briefly in his work. Boromir's remark was more of a question than a statement, directed at Aragorn. The muscular, richly-clad man gazed questioningly in the Ranger's direction. "Aragorn?"

"Perhaps."

Boromir grunted, seemingly unsatisfied with the Ranger's curt reply. Raking a hand through his dark hair, he took up his oar once again. "We cannot live on this river as fish," he snorted. The Hobbits nodded whole-heartedly.

A sigh escaped Aragorn's lips. "If it is the desire of the Company, we will go ashore."

Murmurs of assent sounded throughout the boats. "Yes, please," Pippin groaned, slumping down further, nearly into his cousin Merry's lap. This earned him a cuff over the head from the irritated Hobbit.

"Stay in your own seat," Merry grumbled. "You've got plenty of room."

"Hardly," Pippin muttered.

"I shall drown you both if you start that up again," Boromir warned, his tone vaguely reminiscent of that of a chastising mother.

Pippin offered an impish grin. "Apologies, dear Boromir, but we seem to have you outnumbered."


Frodo's knees very nearly buckled beneath him as he stepped onto the rocky shore, a dull throb pulsing in his aching legs. He gritted his teeth as he stretched, reveling in the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet.

Behind him, the Dwarf Gimli was hauling one of the boats further onto the ground. "Give me that rope," he grunted, seemingly unaware that his long, rust-hued beard trailed through the lapping waves. It was a most peculiar sight, watching the armor-clad Dwarf lumber through the water.

"As you wish, your highness." Stepping off onto the shore himself, Legolas took up a thin, elegant length of grey Elvish rope and tossed it to his Dwarven companion. The Wood-Elf turned, pushing the strands of dark hair that had escaped his long braid behind one ear. "Aragorn, how long do you plan to stay?" He cocked his head, stepping lightly away from the toiling Gimli.

"Thank you for all of your assistance," Gimli growled, scowling at the Elf's green-clad back.

Ignoring the complaints of the Dwarf, Legolas made his way toward the rest of the Company.

"Will you please gather wood for our fire?" Aragorn inquired, carefully dropping his pack against a large stone. "Samwise can prepare supper, I assume?"

"Not like I'd let anyone else do it," Sam agreed, clutching one of his beloved pots protectively. "Goodness knows what they'd do to it. Good, sensible food. That's what we need."

He went on in a similar fashion for several minutes.

Merry slumped onto the ground, giving it a friendly pat. "Well, dirt old friend, it is certainly nice to make your acquaintance again!" he sighed happily. He was closely followed by Pippin.

"I don't care what it is. Just so long as it's edible," the dejected Hobbit groaned, rubbing his legs.

Despite the vaguely light-hearted attitude of his companions, Frodo was ill at ease, and the whisperings of the Ring around his neck were not the sole cause of it.

The only member of the party who had not joined in the weary yet cheerful banter was the second Man of the Company. Boromir stood silently a ways off, his eyes fixed on Frodo. It was not a menacing glance, but nor was it friendly. It was an unnerving, searching gaze. Frodo could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising.

"Boromir." Aragorn's voice cut through the momentary staring match.

The Gondorian Man looked up, giving no sign of the previous events between he and the Hobbit. "What is it you would ask of me?" he asked courteously.

Aragorn's eyes were wary. "I would have you accompany Legolas. Do not stay out long."

Boromir nodded once, and strode toward the Elf. "Come, then." With that, he was off into the thick woods. Legolas lingered momentarily, blinking thoughtfully after him. Frodo wondered whether he was put out at being addressed like a servant or a pet. Within seconds, however, he had followed the Man into the wood.

The Ranger stared after them, his face unreadable in the slowly dimming light.


The Man and Elf walked and worked quickly and in relative silence, preferring to extend the inscrutable silence that reigned between them. By this time, both had gathered a good armful of kindling and a few logs, all dry and brittle from the lack of rain in recent days.

Truth be told, neither had exchanged more than an offer to take the watch or a silent nod throughout most of the journey. Boromir supposed that it was simply a lack of common interests, and his companion's Elvish aloofness besides. "Perhaps we should return. The light is dying." He turned his face to the rapidly dimming sky.

Legolas followed Boromir's gaze, nodding once in agreement. "Indeed." A dry smile tugged at his fair features. "And I hardly wish to be on the receiving end of Master Gamgee's wrath when we return late. A cooking pot to the head could leave a good lump."

Boromir snorted, turning back in the direction from which they had come. His efforts to disguise his fondness for the Halfling were half-hearted at best. "I find it hard to imagine our gardener pitching one of his beloved pots at anyone, let alone an Elf." He had heard the Elf exchange jests with Gimli the Dwarf, but had rarely had one addressed to him.

It appeared that Legolas had lost interest, as he now fell silent as before, and Boromir was once again left to his own musings.

"You truly do care for them, do you not?"

Boromir's gaze snapped to the Elf's face, startled. "I beg your pardon?"

"The Halflings, Merry and Pippin… Sam… Frodo," Legolas said lightly, his own dark eyes still focused ahead. "They are dear to you."

Boromir nodded warily, baffled by this sudden change in subject. "Aye… Why do you ask?"

The gaze now turned to him was strange: frostily cool, yet sad. "You will not allow them to come to harm." Boromir realized absently that they had stopped walking. The Elf's eyes had taken on an almost pleading expression. "Nor will you harm them, though your intentions be noble."

Boromir furrowed his brow. "What are you saying?" he inquired slowly.

He received no reply but for a mournful smile before Legolas moved on.


"Where could they be?" grumbled Sam, tapping the side of his prized cooking pot. "They left well nigh an hour ago!" If there was one thing he couldn't abide, it was tardiness.

"Patience, Sam," said Aragorn from the rock on which he stood lookout. His pipe was clenched in his teeth, and sweet-smelling smoke ringed his head. "If there is one thing that I am sure neither of them will do, it is abandon us. They must have had a difficult time locating firewood."

Merry grinned suddenly, motioning with his own pipe toward the far end of the camp. "Speaking of whom."

Two familiar figures could be seen emerging from the grey wood, laden down with what promised to be armfuls of wood for a good cooking fire.

Sam 'harrumphed' in slight aggravation as Boromir and Legolas dropped their loads. Gimli roused himself from the ground to busy himself with the campfire. "Any later and we'd have been asleep by the time you got back," the gardener muttered to himself.

He reached for his pack, intent on locating the few scraps of food (or so they would call them in the Shire) he had saved. Though he would not dare allow the larger Man to know, he kept a close eye on every movement of Boromir's.

The Gondorian had crossed the campsite to resume his position at the base of a tree. He took up his sword, an action at which Sam had to suppress a small shudder. To say that he distrusted Boromir was a bit of an understatement.

The Hobbit finished unloading the meat onto a frying pan. Water. He would need water if he were to make a decent stew. He stood with the pot to make for the river.

His eyes slid momentarily back to Boromir. Something about him disturbed the gardener's master. And what disturbed Master Frodo was most often something about which Sam himself should be concerned. Truth be told, there was something shifty about the big Man that Sam found downright queer, but he could not quite put a name to it. Whatever it was, the Hobbit was sure that it would bring them to naught but trouble in the end.

Sam stooped by the water's edge. As the riverbed consisted mainly of gravel and a multitude of small pebbles beaten off of the surrounding rocks, the shallows were relatively clear of the silt that so often polluted moving water.

He briefly rinsed out the pot, then filled it with the cool water. If he brought every Goblin and Orc that ever drew breath down on their heads, Sam would be sure that Master Frodo ate a good, decent meal this evening.

"…So we hid in the closet," Pippin was saying to the Company, grinning impishly. "To this day, I don't believe that he knows it was us that pilfered his cakes."

All chuckled appreciatively. Sam had decided a while back that perhaps it was a good thing after all that they had not tied the young Hobbit up and shipped him back home—he had lessened the tension among the party considerably along the way with his antics and amusing stories. "And you're lucky I didn't turn you in!" Sam admonished half-heartedly, setting the pot over the fire. "Your father would've tanned your hides for sure!"

Frodo shook his head. "I'm sure he still would."

For a moment, Sam briefly toyed with a mental image of an angry Thrain storming up over the hill yonder, waving an empty pie tray at his errant son. Snorting lightly at the absurdity of his own thoughts, he set about adding dried herbs to the now-boiling pot.


Boromir was uneasy.

He paced the campsite alone, dark eyes flashing in the scant light cast by the dying fire. Young Peregrin had awakened him some time ago for watch, and so he now kept his lonely vigil over his slumbering companions.

Something about this night was all wrong; something made him jump at every slight sound. The air itself seemed to wait with bated breath.

"You seem ill at ease."

Mentally cursing himself, Boromir whirled about to face the intruder. Perched upon a boulder was Aragorn, lighting his pipe. "I do not need my heart giving out on me to add to my list of worries, Aragorn," the Gondorian hissed, broad shoulders slumping in irritated relief. "Why do you not sleep with the others?"

"You can feel the tension in the land, as well." Aragorn's statement was not a question.

Boromir snorted. "Of course. It would take one both blind and deaf to ignore it. We have entered hazardous territory, it is no secret."

Smoke curled upward from Aragorn's pipe as he contemplated the other Man. Boromir schooled his face to stony indifference, though he writhed inwardly under the Ranger's level gaze; why, he could not say. "Indeed," said Aragorn slowly.

'You and I both know that it is more than that.' The statement hung unspoken on the chill night air.

"You should sleep." Aragorn stood, making for the fire. Stooping, he gathered up the last of the fuel and threw it onto the dying blaze. "I will take the watch, now."

Boromir did not protest. He was in no mood to argue with the strange, moody Ranger. His arms cried out for rest from the day's paddle, and he was quite eager to heed their complaint. "Keep your eyes open," he grunted curtly, sinking to the ground beside his pack and shield. "I like this place not at all in the dark."

"And I shall like it no more by the light," piped in the voice of Meriadoc Brandybuck.

"Merry!" Aragorn chided gently. "You should be asleep. Why are you awake at this hour?"

Merry grimaced, shifting uncomfortably on the root-encrusted ground. "You should feel lucky that your hissing and whispering did not wake any of the others up. How am I expected to sleep between your conversation and these blasted roots in my back? It sounds like two snakes are having an argument over there."

Boromir grinned sheepishly. "Many apologies, Master Brandybuck," he chuckled softly. "This snake is heading off to sleep as well, so you need not worry further."


The sun had not yet cleared the horizon.

A thin shroud of mist hung silently over the dampened ground, shimmering eerily in the blue light of dawn. A soft sigh feathered through the lips of Meriadoc Brandybuck, though it seemed muffled by the uncanny silence of the riverbank. The Hobbit pried a small stone from the rock-encrusted shore and turned it disconsolately in his fingers. Merry had relieved Aragorn of his watch a while ago, and had sat by himself on the riverbank. Within the hour, the remainder of the camp would waken.

Were they bound for Gondor, Merry wondered silently, or Mordor? He had heard whispered arguments between the Fellowship's warriors for several nights. Boromir was, of course, in favor of Minas Tirith, and Aragorn for Mordor, but Merry could not quite tell where the others stood. As for he, himself… He really hadn't the faintest idea. A part of him longed to reach the comfort of a bed and the safety of a house once more, but something else entirely had decided that a straight course would most likely be the wiser of the two.

'Well,' he mused, 'I suppose we'll have to decide before we row ourselves right off the edge of the falls.' Drawing back his arm, he cast the pebble into the river.

"Merry?"

Pippin's voice, raspy with sleep, caused Merry to give a slight jump. "Pip? Why aren't you asleep still?"

His cousin scrubbed at his eye with his fist. "Can't," he grumbled. "You're throwing rocks." The younger Halfling pulled his blanket tighter about his shoulders and blinked owlishly through the mist. There were pronounced circles beneath his eyes.

Pippin gathered his blanket about himself and got to his feet, stifling a yawn. He seated himself beside Merry, and the two simply sat in comfortable silence. That had always been nice, Merry decided. If they felt no need to say anything, then they didn't. For all of his foolish antics and jokes, Pippin seemed able to sense when one wanted to be alone with his own thoughts. At times, the mere feeling of companionship was enough.

At last, Merry took it upon himself to speak. A sliver of liquid gold had shown itself over the horizon. "We should prob'ly wake the others," he murmured. Groaning at his aching back, he hauled himself up and made his way to the first bundle of blankets.

The mist began to lift as the sun rose, staining the barren landscape a rosy hue. It did not seem that any in the Company had slept particularly well, as the task of waking them was not difficult to accomplish.

There was no wood left from the previous night, and Aragorn did not seem keen to start a fire. Merry supposed that it made sense, considering they often left almost immediately upon waking. And so, despite Sam's protests, all made do with dried venison and water. As so many of their days had both begun and ended, they sat in silence.


Gimli chewed thoughtfully on a piece of waybread, watching his Elven companion's sinewy back as he pulled the oars. Legolas had been oddly quiet the past few nights. Quiet and watchful. While this would not usually have struck him as out of the ordinary, he had become quite adept at discerning the Wood Elf's moods. Gimli suppressed a snort. Imagine that. A Dwarf fathoming the mind of an Elf. What a strange place the world had become.

However, irony aside, there was most certainly a tense atmosphere among the Company. In truth, it seemed to Gimli that they had begun to watch one another. They were only small, furtive glances, but they were there nonetheless. The Ring's whisperings were growing in the minds of the Fellowship.

Something odd had been tugging at the back of the Dwarf's mind for some time; a strange dread. He could not seem to put a name to it, though he had tried. It seemed to him a fear that spoke of loss and of sundering. And yet he had been unable to pinpoint exactly what would be the source of such an anxiety.

Lost in his thoughts, the Dwarf did not notice that Legolas had stowed the paddle in order to ride the current and turned toward him. "May I inquire as to the reason that you are attempting to stare a hole in my back?" The Elf lifted one brow, a wry smile upon his lips. "Try as you might, I do not think that is possible."

"I figured it was worth a try," Gimli rumbled, shifting his position in the boat. "After all, I cannot see past you. I wondered what lay ahead."

Legolas smirked and shook his head. "Forgive me, Master Dwarf. I will attempt to be more transparent from now on." He ran his hands absently over the smooth wood of the paddle, pausing to rub out a slight snag with his thumb. "As to what lies ahead, I do not think that you can discern that by looking ahead of me."

In the boat ahead, Merry and Pippin had begun yet another friendly quarrel. Boromir threatened them with the oar as the boat rocked dangerously. "It seems to me that they are the only speck of light in this whole company," Gimli grunted fondly, tugging on his beard.

"Or at least the only ones who will never intentionally harm another."

Gimli shot the Elf a sharp glance. He had felt it as well, then. There was something beneath the surface… and he feared it. Something unnamed, something intangible, but it was there nonetheless. An unspoken menace, a tension. He could feel it as if it were in the very stones he walked upon.

Two boats ahead, Frodo clutched his shirtfront, or perhaps something that lay beneath.


End Chapter I.