Grima must have kindled new hope after his fight with Eomer and it showed whenever he returned from his scouting excursions. There was something of a sneer on his less-than-pleasant features whenever he met Eomer's eye and Boromir felt certain that he would have to intervene to stop this fight likely to ensue, but to his relief the two never even exchanged words with each other. As they ventured further on down the side of the river, their spirits rose just enough out of the bottomless pit of despair to tolerate conversation, though the words spoken were not often cheerful or encouraging.
Elrond and Theoden performed most of the talking and the individual who spoke the least was Faramir, secluding himself similar to how Grima had been, but unlike Grima, Faramir chose to separate himself from the Fellowship. His demeanor was strange to Boromir who sensed that some unknown pain was brewing within his brother. If Gandalf's death still weighed heavily upon his shoulders it needed to be lifted so that Faramir could reclaim his old self, the young man who had been full of life and happiness defending the streets of Osgiliath despite an ever-disapproving father's eye. There was no smile to be seen on his features now, not the slightest trace of happiness. Boromir feared that if he did not solve the mystery of Faramir pain soon, he might never see the kind twinkle in his brother's eye again.
By Boromir's calculations, he had been carrying the Ring for a little less than Frodo had from the Shire to Rivendell and he often wondered how the Hobbit could have managed to hold on to his contentment and sanity. It was nothing short of torture feeling the gold against his skin, chafing its way through the first layer so that whenever he reached down to feel the irritated skin it was tender and raw to the touch. He dared not show the skin to anyone else and so he had to pretend that it did not bother him. Of course, there was no hiding anything from Haldir who would have noticed it if Boromir started walking with his left foot in the lead instead of his dominant right. Haldir noted how Boromir was tugging at his tunic to prevent it from rubbing against the cut skin, though he did not know this was the reason why.
Boromir suspected that Haldir would be asking him what ailed him at any moment and he was trying his best to prolong the time between then and now and he therefore encouraged Elrond to keep them walking as the sun went down in the West, casting their long shadows across the wild grass. It grew tall around them, shielding them from view of whatever might be prowling around, but hiding any approaching enemies from their view as well.
But they did not need to see to know what was coming at them as a piercing scream set them all into panic.
"Nazgul," warned Aragorn in a low voice.
"Lie flat and spread apart from each other," said Elrond, disappearing as he dropped down. "Cover yourselves as best you can."
Boromir came onto his knees, rolling onto his back so that his shield would not catch the last rays of light and betray his presence. He turned his head to the side and saw Eowyn covering her head in the forest of tall grass several feet away. She appeared as frightened as he felt. The temptation to grab onto the Ring was overwhelming and he dug frantically at the do-up of his tunic to plunge his hand into it and feel the simultaneous warmth and coldness of it. His fingers found it and he tugged hard to bring it out where he could see it.
"Boromir, put it away," hissed Faramir from nearby, though Boromir could not see where.
The Nazgul's screams grew louder, though Boromir couldn't tell from which direction they were closing in. His instincts told him to prepare for battle and yet the Ring was urging him to slip his finger through it and flee. It was only a few moments that he spent contemplating his situation when suddenly he heard Grima give a cry of alarm and then there came the sound of metal clashing. Boromir sat up and saw a black hooded figure bearing down on Grima who lay unseen by the Fellowship and in full view of the enemy. He wanted to react, but he knew that Elrond would see it as unwise to reveal their position and he closed his eyes in a futile attempt to block out the sounds of his friend who was so desperately in need. His hand was on his sword hilt when he saw Faramir scramble forward to avoid a Nazgul blade as another cursed Rider penetrated their hiding place. Faramir had just unsheathed his sword when a third Wraith appeared above him and stabbed downward. It was only by pure luck that the blade missed his heart and touched the flattened grass beside him.
His brother was trapped. Boromir did not hesitate. He yanked the chain off of his neck and held the Ring to his finger. Somewhere to his left Haldir hollered in warning, but Boromir ignored him and plunged his index finger through the golden circle.
A high wind blasted his hair about in all directions and tore at his clothes like hands scrabbling to steal them. The colors of the world around him turned pale and cold; all was white, gray, and black. He could see faint outlines of his companions hidden amidst the tall grass, but what he saw most clearly were the Kings of Men. Their faces were distorted, wispy, frail, and evil, but they were clearer than anything else in this twilight world. They all had their eyes on him and as they took a collective step towards him Boromir saw a cloaked figure at their feet slink away. Faramir was safe, but he had to lead the Wraiths away from the Fellowship. They could see him as clearly as he saw them, this he knew now, and they would follow him. He freed his arms from his pack and saw it pass from a thing of clear visibility to fog as it joined the world to which he did not presently belong.
He stood up and ran. He did not feel the grass whipping past his face as he cut through it, feeling rather than hearing the Nazgul bearing down on him from behind. His heart was pumping madly against his chest, hard enough to beat an imprint against the raw skin. When he thought he was hearing his companions call out to him, he turned back and then came to an abrupt halt. The Nazgul were nowhere to be seen. He was utterly alone on the plains that did not even know he existed. To the rest of the world, he was invisible.
Then he heard the whispers. They intermingled and became a deafening buzz in his ears. Here and there he imagined he could distinguish the voices of certain people: Gandalf, his father, his mother…
A blinding red light burst out of nowhere, baking him in its evil rays as he stood rooted to the spot. The tinted and pale scenery was swallowed in the color of blood as a giant, lidless, narrowed eye centered its gaze on him. Terrified beyond anything he had ever known, Boromir felt his blood run cold and his heart scream. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He was staring at the Dark Lord, what was left of him, and Sauron could see him as clearly as Boromir could distinguish the Eye's blackened pupil. There was no hiding now.
He tugged at the Ring at his finger, but it suddenly seemed loathe to let go, wrapping itself around his skin and bone with an iron fist. The more he pulled, the tighter it latched onto him until he could see something gray seeping out from under it and realized it to be his own blood. With a roar unheard by anyone, he wrenched the dreaded thing from his finger and stumbled back into a world of color and oncoming darkness. Night was almost upon him and he did not know where he had run to. The Nazgul were still unaccounted for, as were his companions. He could head back and attempt to regroup or he could continue on, stalking through the night until he came to some sort of shelter. What he needed now was a place to collect his wits after the terrible image of the Eye, an image that would never leave him for as long as he lived. His sword hilt felt heavy as he attempted to pull it from its scabbard, so instead he reached for his knife, taking comfort in the sharpness of it.
He could not tell which way he was traveling other than away from the spot that he had last been in the company of others. His fear mounted with every step he took through the wild grass until he felt as if he were wading through a sea of doubt and horror. His body was exhausted beyond any weariness he could ever remember and the urge to drop down where he stood was extremely tempting at the moment. He was just lowering his guard and preparing to sheath his dagger when a voice cried out, "Show yourself!"
With his gaze elsewhere occupied, Boromir had not noticed a lantern bobbing towards him through the darkness and now that it was mere feet away, he could clearly see three figures, all of considerably different height. One was a normal man's size, one was almost an entire three feet taller, and the third was about a third of the height of the normal-sized man. At first Boromir believed the short one to be a child or a Dwarf, but upon closer inspection he saw that the face belonged to an older man. He and the giant man both had blonde hair, though vastly different in color and length. The shorter man had a few golden blonde strands that somehow made the dirt and grime on his face presentable but the taller one's hair was almost the color of snow and it was extremely short—almost as if someone had burnt it off. The middle man had rather dark hair rich brown in color and a thin beard and he was the one who carried the lantern, but the shorter one was the one who had a short sword drawn.
"I'll not tell you again, show yourself or I will not hesitate to slay you once I find you!" shouted the shortest man with a deep, elegant voice quite unexpected for one of his height.
Boromir kept his dagger at hand and called out, "I am coming in and I have a weapon in hand."
"Keep the weapon where we can see it," ordered the tallest man.
Cautiously, Boromir approached the light, making sure to tuck the Ring away before he revealed himself. The three men observed him with equal vigilance until finally the tallest one asked, "Where do you hail from?"
"I am the son of the Steward of Gondor and I have lost my traveling companions."
"These are dangerous times to be traveling, my friend, but I see that you are well-armed," noted the regular sized man. "In our village we heard the cry of something most foul, though we cannot distinguish what, for we have never heard anything of the sort. The men in the village are not plentiful and so my friends and I set out to discover the source of the noise."
"It was not me, I can assure you," said Boromir, "but I can inform you that it was the Nazgul who were pursuing my companions and I, which is how I became separated. I do not know what has become of them, but I am merely passing through and do not wish you any unpleasantness."
"You look absolutely terrible," said the shortest, unabashed. "We might have a space to accommodate you for the night if you were to give us your name, stranger."
"I hardly think a name is of any consequence," said Boromir warily.
"Mine is Irlef, son of Urfel," said the tallest, lowering his own broadsword. It was not a fancy thing, rather rusted in some spots, but it was quite large and it looked as if it had been used on an enemy before. The fact that this giant of a man trusted Boromir enough to put his weapon aside eased Boromir's doubts ever so slightly. "The one who carries the lantern is my friend Norwerlas, son of Nomherlas and the last is my younger brother Mahren."
It did not surprise Boromir that two men of such different height would be brothers, but it did puzzle him that the two did not look even remotely alike. For one thing Mahren had a hardened look to him, an unpleasant scowl etched into his features whereas Irlef had an ever-saddened expression. Both of them, however, had underlying fear in their eyes and Boromir could see that though they did not completely trust him, they were willing to offer their home against a common enemy.
"I am Boromir, son of Denethor, and I would greatly appreciate any assistance you might be able to give me."
"This way, my friend, we must make haste, for the plains often yield a deadly enemy once the sun disappears."
Boromir fell into step behind Irlef, beside Norwerlas, in front of Mahren, and hoped that wherever his brother and friends were, that they had not met an undeserving fate.
