(Sorry I can't make this longer, but I have to pack for a trip. I promise
there will be a new, longer installment when I return on Monday! But for
now.)
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An uneasy silence loomed over the fellowship as each member buried themselves in their own task. Gimli was hard at work removing the wooden seats from the Lothlorien boat to serve as a wooden casket. Pippin and Merry took care of packing up their supplies, while Sam searched for white lilies to adorn the small boat with a silent and pale Frodo in tow.
Aragorn had given them individual instructions on what needed to be done before they could depart and that was the last anyone had spoken. The fellowship almost seemed thankful for the small tasks that were appointed to them, anything to take their minds off of this tragedy. Yet even as they worked, their minds drifted.
They would continue towards Mordor, the ranger had decided. "If the ring truly seeks its creator, then there is little doubt that the ring will use Legolas to carry it there," he had said, his voice forcibly calm and his expression cool. The words came from him as if he was merely speaking of how a bird flies or how the shore rolls in.
The words brought no comfort to Frodo.
Sam dared to break the silence, seeing the tension in Frodo's form as he listlessly followed along into the forest. "Mr. Legolas will be okay," Sam spoke softly, trying to bring some cheer into his voice. He turned to face the other hobbit with an timid smile.
Distracted from his reverie, Frodo looked up into those honest eyes without an answer.
Sam tried again. "Those elves, they're good people. Don't forget, he stood up against the cave troll AND a balrog without so much as blinking!"
It was on the tip of Frodo's tongue to remind Sam about the last person who took on the balrog . and lost. But the hobbit chose to remain silent.
Sam bent over to pluck another long stemmed white lily to place in the cradle of his arm. Sensing that he was coming no closer to assuaging Frodo's concerns, the sandy-blonde hobbit tried a new topic. "These sure are pretty," he remarked, holding up a lily and gazing at it admirably. The long petals were glistening white against the healthy green of the strong stem. "It always makes me wonder why so beautiful a flower is use to represent death."
Frodo gave no reply.
Sam gestured to the bundle of white lilies in his arm. "This should be enough, don't you think? Should make the boat look very nice indeed."
Absently, the other hobbit gazed to where the patch of white lilies used to lay. Now the patch was barren save for one last lily. The lily was not as healthy as the ones that Sam had picked. In his reverie, Frodo had noticed Sam skip over it. The stalk of the lily was starting to give under the weight and the tips of the white flower were shriveled and black.
Frodo broke his silence. "You missed one."
Following his friend's gaze, Sam glanced at the flower. Frodo could see the distaste in his expression. "That one's no good, Mr. Frodo. See the black tips? True, it may not be dead yet, but it isn't long for this world." He turned from the flower and started to make his way back. "We should be getting back now, Mr. Frodo. Aragorn told us not to be long."
But Frodo didn't follow his friend. The young hobbit rubbed at his chest where the ring used to lay cool against. It was the fourth time he had done it since the uruk-hai had ripped the chain from his neck and he still hadn't realized that he had done it again. For a long moment he gazed at the wilting flower with a mixture of fear and sorrow.
Gently, he plucked the last lily as carefully as he could and tucked the small stem into the soft pocket of his vest before he turned to rejoin the fellowship.
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As the fellowship labored quickly at their tasks, Aragorn set himself to his own. The ranger was grateful that their tasks had turned their attention from him. The pain and fear of losing Gandalf had been delayed due to the orcs on their trail. Now they had lost Boromir to the uruk-hai and Legolas to the ring and the pain of both crushed him till he felt numb inside. They had to keep moving. The more they waited, the less chance there was of catching up to Legolas before he reached Mordor and the more that the elf's soul would be destroyed by the will of the ring. But Boromir was his ally, his friend. The man had nearly lost himself to the ring but had triumphed in the end. The Steward of Gondor had valiantly given his life to keep the hobbits from harm. The man deserved a warrior's burial, but given their meager supplies the boat would have to do.
Aragorn gently wiped the blood from his face the best he could. Despite the gruesome way he had died, the ranger would make sure that he looked every bit as noble as he truly was when they send him to the river.
"You have fought bravely, my friend," Aragorn whispered. "Not only in your fight against the uruk-hai. You have done what so many before could not, you have fought the lure of the ring and have won."
The hand that brushed Boromir's strawberry blond hair from his face trembled slightly. "I will see that the great Halls of the Kings bears your name, my friend, that others may know of your bravery, of your." his voice broke, ".your sacrifice."
Overcome by grief, the ranger lowered his head till his forehead touched Boromir's. A solitary tear slipped from Aragorn's eyes to land upon the fallen warrior's cheek. "You will not have died in vain, my friend. I promise you, come what may we shall destroy the ring and the great walls of Gondor will not fall!"
The ranger took a few breaths before he raised his head, his shoulders once again square, his face grim but composed as he reached out with tender fingers to close those sky blue eyes forever. "Rest well, my brother. I shall be with you soon."
"Aragorn?" Pippin's timid voice came to him over his shoulder. The fellowship had finished their tasks. There was only one thing left to do.
The ranger slipped his arms under the fallen warriors body and lifted him as he himself stood. Aragorn did not meet the five pairs of mournful eyes that fell upon him. He kept his eyes focused on the nothing before him as he strode to the hollowed boat to lay his friend's body gently in it. Without a word, he reverently placed Boromir's sword upon his chest and folded the pale hands over the hilt.
The man stood, taking in a deep breath, then turning his eyes to Gimli who stood beside him. The dwarf understood his silent request and in his own language he began to speak the dwarven Rites of Mourning.
Summoning the strength, Aragorn placed his hands upon the lily-adorned boat and pushed it free of the shore to be gently carried away by the river current.
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An uneasy silence loomed over the fellowship as each member buried themselves in their own task. Gimli was hard at work removing the wooden seats from the Lothlorien boat to serve as a wooden casket. Pippin and Merry took care of packing up their supplies, while Sam searched for white lilies to adorn the small boat with a silent and pale Frodo in tow.
Aragorn had given them individual instructions on what needed to be done before they could depart and that was the last anyone had spoken. The fellowship almost seemed thankful for the small tasks that were appointed to them, anything to take their minds off of this tragedy. Yet even as they worked, their minds drifted.
They would continue towards Mordor, the ranger had decided. "If the ring truly seeks its creator, then there is little doubt that the ring will use Legolas to carry it there," he had said, his voice forcibly calm and his expression cool. The words came from him as if he was merely speaking of how a bird flies or how the shore rolls in.
The words brought no comfort to Frodo.
Sam dared to break the silence, seeing the tension in Frodo's form as he listlessly followed along into the forest. "Mr. Legolas will be okay," Sam spoke softly, trying to bring some cheer into his voice. He turned to face the other hobbit with an timid smile.
Distracted from his reverie, Frodo looked up into those honest eyes without an answer.
Sam tried again. "Those elves, they're good people. Don't forget, he stood up against the cave troll AND a balrog without so much as blinking!"
It was on the tip of Frodo's tongue to remind Sam about the last person who took on the balrog . and lost. But the hobbit chose to remain silent.
Sam bent over to pluck another long stemmed white lily to place in the cradle of his arm. Sensing that he was coming no closer to assuaging Frodo's concerns, the sandy-blonde hobbit tried a new topic. "These sure are pretty," he remarked, holding up a lily and gazing at it admirably. The long petals were glistening white against the healthy green of the strong stem. "It always makes me wonder why so beautiful a flower is use to represent death."
Frodo gave no reply.
Sam gestured to the bundle of white lilies in his arm. "This should be enough, don't you think? Should make the boat look very nice indeed."
Absently, the other hobbit gazed to where the patch of white lilies used to lay. Now the patch was barren save for one last lily. The lily was not as healthy as the ones that Sam had picked. In his reverie, Frodo had noticed Sam skip over it. The stalk of the lily was starting to give under the weight and the tips of the white flower were shriveled and black.
Frodo broke his silence. "You missed one."
Following his friend's gaze, Sam glanced at the flower. Frodo could see the distaste in his expression. "That one's no good, Mr. Frodo. See the black tips? True, it may not be dead yet, but it isn't long for this world." He turned from the flower and started to make his way back. "We should be getting back now, Mr. Frodo. Aragorn told us not to be long."
But Frodo didn't follow his friend. The young hobbit rubbed at his chest where the ring used to lay cool against. It was the fourth time he had done it since the uruk-hai had ripped the chain from his neck and he still hadn't realized that he had done it again. For a long moment he gazed at the wilting flower with a mixture of fear and sorrow.
Gently, he plucked the last lily as carefully as he could and tucked the small stem into the soft pocket of his vest before he turned to rejoin the fellowship.
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As the fellowship labored quickly at their tasks, Aragorn set himself to his own. The ranger was grateful that their tasks had turned their attention from him. The pain and fear of losing Gandalf had been delayed due to the orcs on their trail. Now they had lost Boromir to the uruk-hai and Legolas to the ring and the pain of both crushed him till he felt numb inside. They had to keep moving. The more they waited, the less chance there was of catching up to Legolas before he reached Mordor and the more that the elf's soul would be destroyed by the will of the ring. But Boromir was his ally, his friend. The man had nearly lost himself to the ring but had triumphed in the end. The Steward of Gondor had valiantly given his life to keep the hobbits from harm. The man deserved a warrior's burial, but given their meager supplies the boat would have to do.
Aragorn gently wiped the blood from his face the best he could. Despite the gruesome way he had died, the ranger would make sure that he looked every bit as noble as he truly was when they send him to the river.
"You have fought bravely, my friend," Aragorn whispered. "Not only in your fight against the uruk-hai. You have done what so many before could not, you have fought the lure of the ring and have won."
The hand that brushed Boromir's strawberry blond hair from his face trembled slightly. "I will see that the great Halls of the Kings bears your name, my friend, that others may know of your bravery, of your." his voice broke, ".your sacrifice."
Overcome by grief, the ranger lowered his head till his forehead touched Boromir's. A solitary tear slipped from Aragorn's eyes to land upon the fallen warrior's cheek. "You will not have died in vain, my friend. I promise you, come what may we shall destroy the ring and the great walls of Gondor will not fall!"
The ranger took a few breaths before he raised his head, his shoulders once again square, his face grim but composed as he reached out with tender fingers to close those sky blue eyes forever. "Rest well, my brother. I shall be with you soon."
"Aragorn?" Pippin's timid voice came to him over his shoulder. The fellowship had finished their tasks. There was only one thing left to do.
The ranger slipped his arms under the fallen warriors body and lifted him as he himself stood. Aragorn did not meet the five pairs of mournful eyes that fell upon him. He kept his eyes focused on the nothing before him as he strode to the hollowed boat to lay his friend's body gently in it. Without a word, he reverently placed Boromir's sword upon his chest and folded the pale hands over the hilt.
The man stood, taking in a deep breath, then turning his eyes to Gimli who stood beside him. The dwarf understood his silent request and in his own language he began to speak the dwarven Rites of Mourning.
Summoning the strength, Aragorn placed his hands upon the lily-adorned boat and pushed it free of the shore to be gently carried away by the river current.
