A Heart for Falsehood Framed
by Soledad
Disclaimer:
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only the Lady Aquiel belongs to me.
Rating: PG – 13, for heavy angst stuff and implied m/m interaction.
Author's notes:
Before you go on reading, let me make a statement: this is not a smutty slash story. That is right. You read it correctly. This is a Hurt/Comfort story – or a Hurt/No Comfort one, depending on the eye of the beholder.
Yes, there will be some emotional tension between two male characters, and you can easily conclude that they ended up making love. But that is not what this story is about.
This is about guilt, inner struggle, major angst, reconciliation and a cruel fate that cannot be avoided.
This is about Boromir's state of mind, which finally leads him to his fall.
That is what this whole series is about.
I just wanted to make this very clear. For those who are offended by m/m interaction. And for those who hope to find smut here. They would not.
For background trivia check out Part One. The description of Sauron's temple in Númenór was taken from the Unfinished Tales.
Many thanks to all those gracious people who took their time to review. I wouldn't have been able to finish this monster of a story without you, friends!
And now, on we go!
Chapter Six: Decisions
''It seems to me now clear which is the road that we must take'', said Elrond gravely. ''The westward way seems easiest. Therefore it must be shunned. It shall be watched. Too often the Elves had fled that way. Now at this last we must take a hard road, a road unforeseen. There lies our hope, if hope it be. To walk into peril – to Mordor. We must send the Ring to the Fire.''
Silence fell again. Boromir frowned, fingering the blackened silver clasp upon his throath as if for aid. For even in the fair, sunlit house of Elrond, he felt a dead darkness upon his heart – the same shadow that darkened it in Osgiliath and settled down, it seemed, for ever, when the wizard foolishly uttered those cursed words of binding power in the Black Speech.
One Ring to rule them all,
One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all
and in the Darkness bind them.
These dark words of doom, it seemed, had been floating over him ever since Osgiliath. And now that they were spoken, he could see no way to escape his fate. What a pitiful way to fulfill one's destiny. To have been found by the Darkness, even before he would have learnt about the Ring. To be brought here, to the Ring itself. To fall before temptation.
At length he spoke, and his words came hissing through clenched teeth.
''One does not simply walk into Mordor. Its black gates are guarded by more than Orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep, and the Great Eye is ever watchful. It is a barren wasteland, riddled with fire, ash and dust. The very air you breathe is poisonous fume. It is folly. Not with ten thousand men could you do this.''
He glanced at Aragorn, and for the first time ever since this very Council had set on, he saw a flicker of understanding in those grey eyes, the ones of his so much alike. And he, too, understand at once that the words of his King-to-be about facing the perils of Mordor were no idle boasting, after all. The Ranger truly had walked the Black Fields.
Yet it was Legolas who answered him, fair Prince of Mirkwood, still irritated from his recent clash with Aragorn.
''Have you heard naught the Lord Elrond has said? The Ring must be destroyed!''
''I heard all of it'', Boromir replied with growing anger, ''yet I understand naught. Curunír is a traitor – this I have known since I crossed the borders of Rohan –, but did he not have a glimpse of wisdom? Why do you speak ever of hiding and destroying? Why should we not think that the Great Ring has come into our hands to serve us in the very hour of need? Wielding it the Free Lords of the Free may surely defeat the Enemy. That is what he must fear, I deem.''
Here, he had said it. Not everything that had been on his mind, but most of it.
All that needed to be said.
All that could have been be said.
''The Men of Gondor are valiant, and they shall never submit'', he added softer, his heart warming with the thought of the many good and brave men that had gone into battle with him, ever since he was old enough to wield a sword, but also saddening with the memory of how few of them were still alive; ''but they may be beaten down. Valour needs first strength, and then a weapon. Let the Ring be your weapon, if it has such power as you say. Take it and go forth to victory!''
For one fleeting moment he almost believed that they would listen to him… the Dark Lord was their enemy as much as he was Gondor's. But after a look at Elrond's distant face his hopes faded into nothingness.
''Alas, no'', said Elrond. ''We cannot use the Ruling Ring. That we know too well. It belongs to Sauron and was made by him alone, and is altogether evil.''
Boromir shrugged.
''What then? Who cares? The one who made it, is he not evil, too? Let us beat the evil with his own weapon. It has most of his old strength, you said. Why not turn that strength against him and make it be his downfall?''
Yet Elrond only shook his head, and when he looked at the driven Man, there was great sadness in his eyes. For he knew well that they could not do as Boromir suggested and felt pity for him who only wanted to protect his land… even with means that surely would destroy it.
''Boromir'', he said, and now his voice was almost gentle'', its strength is too great to wield it at will, save only those who have already a great power of their own.''
''Why cannot one of you take it, then?'' Boromir asked stubbornly. ''Are you not the great war heroes of the Last Alliance, you and Glorfindel? And what of Mithrandir? Is he not a wizard? Does he not know the old lore better than any one among Men? Surely he could tame the power of the Ring when the need arises.''
''For us'', Elrond responded gravely, ''the Ring holds an even deadlier peril. The very desire of it corrupts the heart. Consider Saruman. If any of the Wise should with this Ring overthrow the Lord of Mordor, using his own arts, he would then set himself on Sauron's throne, and yet another Dark Lord would appear.''
A strange vision awoke in Boromir's mind at this words: Armenelos he saw, the Golden, capitol city of the Númenórean Kings in an age long gone, as it was described in many old scrolls in his father's archives; and a mighty temple, built upon a hill in the midst of the city; and it was in the form of a circle and its walls rose from the ground five hundred feet, and they were crowned with a mighty dome.
And that dome was roofed all with silver – but its light was darkened and the silver had long become black. For there was an altar of fire in the midst of the temple, and in the topmost of the dome there was a louver, whence there issued a great smoke, so that the land lay under a cloud for seven days.
For in that temple, with spilling of blood and torment and great wickedness, Men made sacrifice to Morgoth, the First Evil, that he release them from death.
And the King sat there and watched them with horrible delight on his keen face and with madness in his grey eyes.
And behind his throne, there stand he who once had been his enemy and now became his master. The Necromancer behind the throne of a fallen King…
''And that is another reason why the Ring should be destroyed'', added Elrond quietly, as if he had seen the cruel image of Númenor's fall in Boromir's mind; ''as long as it is in the world it will be danger even to the Wise. For nothing is evil in the beginning. Even Sauron was not so. I fear to take the Ring to hide it. I shall not take the Ring to wield it.''
''Nor I'', said Mithrandir.
Boromir looked at them doubtfully. Especially at the wizard, whom he trusted even less than all those Elves. Was Mithrandir not a member of the same order that's very head was drowning the green fields of Rohan in blood at this very moment? Was he not held prisoner in Isengard for a length of time? Who knows what orders he was given before he fled – if he, indeed, was rescued by the Great Eagle, as told, and not simply released by Curunír with a dark and evil errand. Surely, he had spoken the Binding Curse on the Black Speech easily enough. Like someone who is used to that evil tongue.
Yet as a soldier Boromir knew when to accept defeat. He bowed his head towards Elrond.
''So be it'', he said. ''Then in Gondor we must trust to such weapons as we have. And at the least, while the Wise ones guard this Ring, whe shall fight on. Mayhap the Sword-that-was-Broken may still stem the tide'', he added with a bitter irony and a sideway glance at Aragorn, ''if the hand that wields it has inherited not a heirloom only, but the sinews of the Kings of Men.''
''Who could tell?'', said Aragorn. ''But we shall put it to the test one day.''
''May the day not be too long delayed'', said Boromir; once again, he fealt the weariness spread through all his limbs. ''For though I do not ask for aid, we need it. It would comfort us to know that others fought also with all the means that they have.''
''Then be comforted'', Elrond said. ''For there are other powers and realms that you know not, and they are hidden from you. Anduin the Great flows past many shores, ere it comes to Argonath and the Gates of Gondor.''
Boromir rolled his eyes at this very Elvish comment that sounded so pretty yet said naught, as usual – but he spoke no more, letting Glóin, the Dwarf question the Elves about the other Rings. He cared no more. Now that these fools had, indeed, decided to destroy the One Ring – a plan that's success he greatly doubted –, his only wish was to return home. Should the Heir of Isildur accompany him, it might give the people of Gondor new hope, as long as the fight went on. What after that might come, with his father and the Ranger King under the same roof, he dared not even to think about.
''But what then would happen, if the Ruling Ring were destroyed, as you counsel?'', asked Glóin.
''We know not for certain'', answered Elrond sadly. ''Some hope that the Three Rings, which Sauron has never touched, would become free, and their rulers might heal the hurts of the world that he has wrought. But maybe when the One has gone, the Three will fail, and many fair things shall fade and be forgotten. That is my belief.''
''Yet all the Elves are willing to endure this chance'', said Glorfindel, ''if by it the power of Sauron may be broken and the fear of his dominion be taken away for ever.''
Lightly do you speak of endurance, my Lord Elf, Boromir thought grimly, yet what fate do you expect Gondor to endure? For you, the world may become a much darker place – dark enough, indeed, to leave it behind and sail to the Blessed Realm. But we – we shall be dead by then. My beautiful city in ruins, her people slain, the memory of her wise and valiant Kings forgotten. The fields of Rohan stained with the blood of its brave warriors and their horses. You shall be gone and live on for ever. But we… we shall be dead.
''Thus we return once more to the destroying of the Ring'', Erestor said, ''and yet we come no nearer. What strength have we for the finding of the Fire in which it weas made? That is the path of despair. Or folly I would say, if the long wisdom of Elrond did not forbid me.''
For the first time during this Council, Boromir found himself in complete agreement with an Elf. Not so Mithrandir, though, it seemed.
''Despair or folly?'', he said, his deep eyes gleaming. ''It is not despair; for despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt. We do not.''
Speak for yourself, wizard.
''Well, let folly be our cloak, a veil before the eyes of the Enemy! For he is very wise, and weighs all things to a nicety in the scales of his malice. But the only measure that he knows is desire, desire for power; and so he judges all hearts. Into his heart the thought shall not enter that any shall refuse it, that having the Ring we may seek to destroy it.''
Why, indeed, should he think such a thing? 'Tis madness.
''If we seek this, we shall put him out of reconing'', Mithrandir finished, with a self-content glare around.
''At least for a while'', Elrond added soberly. ''The road must be trod, but it shall be very hard. And neither strength nor wisdom will carry us far upon it. This quest may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong.''
The next words of Elrond were lost on Boromir, for he saw that weathered little midget stir next to the Elf-Lord.
''Very well, very well, Master Elrond'', he quieked on that scratchy little voice of his like a little Orc fallen into a wolf trap. ''Say no more. It is plain enough what you are pointing at. Bilbo, the silly hobbit started this affair, and Bilbo had better finish it – or himself. When ought I to start?''
Boromir looked in surprise at the wrinkled little creature, asking himself whether he had finally turned mad, but the laughter died on his lips when he saw that all the others regarded the old hobbit with grave respect. Now what was he meaning of this? Only Glóin smiled, but his smile, too, seemed to come from old memories.
Then suddenly Mithrandir laughed and told the little wight that this quest was beyond his strength and that his part in the Tale of the Ring had ended, unless as a recorder. And Bilbo, too, laughed, relieved, that his brave /or foolish/ offer, given under jest but meant seriously, was not accepted.
''I do not suppose I have the strength or luck left to deal with the Ring'', he mused. ''It has grown, and I have not. But tell me: what do you mean by they?''
''The messengers who are sent with the Ring'', Mithrandir explained patiently.
''Exactly! And who are they to be? That seems to me what this Council has to decide, and all that it has to decide. Elves may thrive on speech alone, and Dwarves endure great weariness; but I am only an old hobbit and I miss my ninth-hour-meal. Cannot you think of some names now? Or put it off till after dinner?''
Boromir waited with caught breath, for the little midget's question seemed justified for him. Who, indeed, shall be sent to their certain death in the Black Lands? During the Last Alliance, the greatest hosts of Elves and Men failed to fulfill this very same task. What hope could they have now, when all their powers faded away, slowly but inevitably?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
No-one answered the question. The bell, signaling the ninth hour of the day, rang. Still no-one spoke. Boromir glanced at all faces, but they were not turned to him. All the council sat with downcast eyes, as if in deep thought. Only the young hobbit, Frodo returned his glare, deep blue eyes wide with fear, a graet dread on that small, innocent Elvish face as if he was awaiting the pronouncement of some doom that he had long foreseen and vainly hoped might after all never be spoken. An overwhelming longing to rest and remain in peace, too, here where no evil could touch him – for awhile, at least.
How well Boromir himself knew this feeling! Having lived under the shadow so long, only to have the curse spoken over him at last, here, in Imladris, where he would expect to have his fate sealed the least. To fall into darkness ere it had even tempted his heart. For there were other hindrances on his path to bring him to fall, and his steps were faltering already, with or without the binding power of the Ring.
At last the small, trembling voice of the young hobbit spoke.
''I will take the Ring'', Frodo said, and Boromir's heart went out for him, seeing the infinite sadness on that child-like little face, ''though I do not know the way.''
Elrond raised his eyes and looked at the hobbit, and his keen glance was piercing sharp like a dagger.
''If I understand aright all that I have heard'', he said, ''I think that this task is appointed for you, Frodo; and that if you do not find a way, no one will.''
Boromir felt like screaming. Were they all out of their minds? These, who called themselves the Wise, had they no pity for this fragile little creature? How could they seriously consider sending him out into the Black Lands, with the most dangerous weapon ever forged in Middle-earth, only to be slain? What hope could this innocent little fellow have where armies of Elves and Men had failed?
''But it is a heavy burden'', Elrond added, stating the obvious like Elves always loved to do. ''So heavy that none could lay it on another. I do not lay it on you. But if you take it freely, I shall say that your choice is right; and though all the mighty Elf-friends of old, Hador, and Húrin, and Túrin, and Beren himself were assembled together, your seat should be among them.''
And we all know too well how they all ended, Boromir, well-versed in the legends of the Elder Days, as it suited for a born ruler, added grimly. For indeed, all the Elf-friends of old had to endure great perils, torture and pain, and most of them died young and painfully – and even in madness and dishonour. One could not say that being an Elf-friend was desirable for mortals, in any way.
''But you would not send him off alone surely, Master?'', another hobbit – as it seemed, Frodo's man-servant – jumped up from the corner where he had been quietly sitting on the floor.
''No indeed!'', said Elrond, turning towards him with a smile. ''You at least shall go with him. It is hardly possible to separate you from him, even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not.''
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
End note:
Now, that the important things have been decided, there still is the small matter of broken hearts that needs to be solved.
The question is: has Boromir the strength to swallow his pride?
And if he has, how will Elladan react?
To find it out, go to Chapter Eight.