It must have been the air of Rivendell. The high songs of elves, the lush
forests, the feeling of peace. It must have been those things together that
made him say yes to this quest. Made him actually step forward and
volunteer.
Because the moment they were outside of Rivendell, charting their slow way through the forest beyond, Boromir saw clearly that the entire quest was a mistake.
They were setting out to do what couldn't be done - take the Ring of Power to Mordor, to the heart of Sauron's land, to destroy it. Destroy the one thing Sauron would give most to get back.
If that wasn't impossible in itself, Boromir only had to look at the company ahead of him to seal his conviction that they were doomed.
The bearer of the ring was a halfling. One of the silly, small, weak, laughing and trifling halflings.
Granted, Frodo seemed more serious than the two Boromir had met in the woods. But no larger, and no stronger.
Frodo was followed closely by Sam, another halfling. His servant, Boromir thought at times, though he was not treated as such. Still, he was trailing at Frodo's feet in the manner of a servant.
The elf, Legolas. Strong, probably, and a good ally. But only one of a race that couldn't defeat Sauron in the hundreds.
Gimli the dwarf. Again, probably a staunch ally. A little quick-tempered, it seemed, but who among them wasn't? Still, one dwarf to fight off thousands?
Gandalf. He seemed strong, but Boromir never had lost much love towards wizards. They often only granted their attention to men long enough to do harm.
Aragorn. The Ranger, Strider, the man who would try and make Denethor the Last Steward of Gondor. The man who would no doubt try and usurp the throne, claiming nothing but a diluted bloodline.
The one good thing about this suicide mission - if Aragorn was dead, he could bring no harm to Gondor.
And, of course, marching right in front of Boromir. Merry and Pippin themselves. Careless, thoughtless halflings, who had no interest in the quest, no idea what they were marching towards, and most importantly no clue how to handle themselves when it came down to a battle.
Their presence in the group was the one thing Boromir could not understand. Everyone else had their place well enough - even Sam was justified in going along, if only to keep the Ringbearer settled and less nervous.
Merry and Pippin were useless. Absolutely useless. They would use up precious food and supply, and bring nothing to the field of battle to justify that waste.
They would get someone killed before it was all over.
As if in confirmation of his thoughts, the group had been marching less than an hour when the hobbits in front of Boromir broke the silence with casual voice.
Merry started it. "I expect we shall bring up the end of the line the entire length of this journey. As if hundreds of miles of hard road and three small meals a day weren't enough, we get to hold our eyes to this unflattering view."
Boromir frowned at their backs, but couldn't stop his eyes from moving past them, to the rear ends of Sam Gamgee and Bill the pony, which were all that could be seen from where they stood. Of course the halflings were just the right height to get a closer view of the pony than was fitting.
He almost smiled in realization; strange, how he actually had to bite back the urge. As if a smile was his normal response to such trifling creatures.
Also surprising, he heard himself speaking in answer to Merry's comments. "Perhaps one of your friends will want for cheerier company and will send for you, master hobbit."
Merry glanced back, and instantly slowed his pace to close the gap. "Perhaps you could trade places with us and shield us from Sam's new friend."
Pippin moved at that moment around a still-warm pile of reason why walking behind a horse was never a smart thing. He wrinkled his nose in distaste.
Boromir laughed, a sharp sound that surprised all three of them. "If that's to be my purpose on this quest, I should turn around and go home."
Merry frowned instantly. "No, no. You shouldn't bother thinking of purposes and quests."
Pippin scoffed. "Being as we are on a quest, how do you propose to do that?"
Merry waved a hand. "Simple. We stay here in the back of the line, Boromir and you and I, and we will leave the purposes to those whose names shall be sung when we're through."
Pippin turned to him with a frown. "Well, that's not an answer, is it? Why shouldn't songs be written about us?"
Boromir found himself keeping pace with the two hobbits, walking at Merry's left, as the talk went on. He looked over at them as often as he looked at the trees around them.
Merry was laughing. "We should have to write them ourselves, I'm afraid. Who would do it for us? The dwarves will ever after sing of their Gimli the stout, sure with axe and strong of heart."
Pippin laughed. "'Stout' and 'heart' is a clumsy rhyme."
Merry glanced at him. "Did you hear the songs the dwarves sang in Rivendell? It's good enough."
Boromir stifled a chuckle. His eyes instantly left the hobbits, as if attention to the trees and behavior more responsible would make up for his unwitting inability to ignore the hobbits' talk.
Merry continued beside him. "The elves shall sing of Legolas the woodland son, but of course in grander words than I'm sure I could come up with."
"Undoubtedly," was Pippin's automatic response.
"And that comes to the three of us. Our apple-wounded friend Boromir is badly served, because when men pass their tale down in song or story, it's quite certain to be Aragorn they sing about."
Boromir's eyes went back to the hobbits. "You believe so."
"Well. He's at the start of the line. He's been on the quest as long as anyone but us hobbits. He is a friend to elves and a confidant of wizards. He is made for songs."
Pippin smiled. "I should think they'd have to write whole songs just to keep his many names straight. I've called him Strider so long that when someone says Aragorn I have to stop myself looking around for the stranger who's snuck along with us."
Boromir looked ahead, past Sam and at the head of the line. Gandalf was leading, with Frodo close behind. And Aragorn, of course, right at the hobbit's side. He smiled, and it felt bitter to him. "I suppose the Ringbearer will usurp the songs hobbits will write."
Merry sighed. "You see now? Doubtless, he and his trusty helper Sam. Which is a shame. Our names are so much easier to rhyme to. How many words that sound like Baggins are there in the world?"
Boromir looked over the two of them, suddenly curious to go deeper into the minds of the strange, careless creatures. "Then tell me. If the two of you, who have already said they have nothing to do with this quest, are so sure you're to be forgotten, why take the journey at all?"
Pippin looked up past Merry at Boromir and smiled. "Why, for that very reason."
Merry completed the thought. "To take the journey. Besides, we weren't going to leave Frodo and Sam to it, were we?"
"This is a hard road to volunteer for out of loyalty to a friend," Boromir answered seriously, since it was obvious the two young hobbits had no idea what they were in for.
Pippin shrugged. "It was a hard trip coming this far. And I do believe we won't be seeing our Shire again. But there's so many new things we will get to see."
Merry made a noise of agreement. "A revolutionary idea for a hobbit, but we are just the two lads to start a revolution."
Pippin smiled at that. "I rather like the idea."
"And I myself take comfort in the anonymity of our humble roles as followers. Frodo, and so of course Sam, are already too cross with responsibility and burden. And Aragorn and the others will work so hard to make their verses proper and heroic. Here in the back of the line we can behave as we like. No false demonstration of bravery, no sacrificing nobly and needlessly."
"It is a comforting thought, isn't it?" Pippin turned a smile to Merry, pleased.
Merry smiled back.
A comfortable silence settled again as they walked.
Boromir could see fondness between the two of them. He imagined that at their Shire they would be very much behaved the same. They were undoubtedly close and affectionate as brothers.
Boromir could almost picture afternoons just like the one in Rivendell, in some lovely and green Shire. Wasted by two boys who had nothing better to do than throw apples and laugh.
Such a strange idea. Hobbits indeed had to be opposite of Gondor's people. Hobbits seemed to love their peace and their quiet, and had probably never known anything else. Growing up in Gondor had been quite different.
And if Boromir had grown up in a place like the Shire? Would he be like Frodo, quick to bow and grow solemn under responsibility? Or would he have ended up like the two boys beside him, quick to laugh and smile?
A needless wonder, of course. He would never know, and could hardly be expected to guess. If he had grown up in the Shire he would not be himself.
And if these two smiling hobbits had grown up in Gondor, they would not be themselves.
It surprised Boromir how sharply the idea of that displeased him.
An interesting phenomenon about hobbits: no matter where they lay their bedrolls to sleep or how many bodies lie between them, they always seemed to wake up curled together.
At least, the two Boromir had taken to keeping an eye on did.
Frodo and Sam might have been the same but it was hard to say - Sam practically forced his way to Frodo's side every night to sleep, so there was never a chance to find out.
Merry and Pippin, though. Despite nights where one fell asleep by a rock wall and the other fell asleep in mid-conversation with Sam or Aragorn across the camp site, at the sun's rise they were together, curled to each other in sleep.
Was it a conscious thing, Boromir wondered. Certainly they were together all the waking hours of the journey. In fact, they were never referred to by the others except as part of a pair. They were Merry-and-Pippin, and so close to being one single creature that it could be argued there were only eight members of this fellowship.
He had to admit to feeling something like fondness for the little beings at times.
The journey so far had been easy - hard and long marching, to be sure, but no sign of the mystical black riders that so many of the others lived in fear of, and no hint of their way being blocked or guarded.
The hobbits were surprisingly good travelers, though. Merry's one complaint about the walk and the scant meals when they were first starting out was the beginning and end of the complaints. They kept the pace well. The fellowship didn't seem to be slowed much by the little ones, which was a minor miracle in Boromir's eyes.
He didn't want them there. Nothing was going to change that. He still didn't understand the need for them. And he remained convinced that being ignorant of the Enemy they were facing would hurt more than the hobbits in the long run. It would hurt all the others in the fellowship, who needed to rely on them and could not.
Boromir kept his eyes on them, though. Because, true to Merry's prediction, quite often the three of them walked together, followed or lead by Aragorn, always trailing behind the others.
Also because they seemed to have this odd, innate ability to pull Boromir out of his own thoughts for a while.
Boromir couldn't help it when his thoughts bent more towards Gondor than to this task they were on. He couldn't help but look at this Ring and this quest in regards to what it could mean for his land.
He understood on some level what Gandalf meant when he said it was unsafe to wield the ring. He understood that the council had come to a decision, and the ring had to be destroyed.
But it was hard. Very, very hard. Every step that Boromir took towards that end was one step further from helping his own people. And in more ways than just one. It kept him physically away from the battles on the borders of Gondor. It deprived his men of one more leader, and deprived his father of a dependable chief.
And to destroy the ring - this one thing that could ruin or elevate Sauron beyond their reach. To take it right into the arms of the dark lord, when every instinct in Boromir told him to take it to his father, to use it to good end.
It was hard. He was not a man used to fighting his own instincts, and it felt wrong to him what he was doing now.
He brooded.
But there were his new, strange little companions to get him out of it. To tell pointless stories about some farmer and a pack of dogs, or to share their entire families' blood lines with Boromir as if it was the most fascinating subject in the world.
They talked of trifles. They laughed, though a bit quieter now out of respect for the journey they were on.
And they quite often made Boromir smile along with them. It was something he was not at all used to. He rode into battles with men as solemn and brooding as he himself. He had never spent time with beings who saw a long road as a chance for entertainment.
They were strange creatures, hobbits. That was something else he would never change his mind on. So lively and quick to joke. So accepting of the quirks of Legolas and Gimli, of the erratic actions of Gandalf the wizard, and the quick-change temperaments of Boromir and Aragorn.
They honestly seemed to care nothing for the danger they faced or the long miles ahead. They lived for the next meal, or the end of the next story. They were bright-eyed little children in the bodies of undergrown men.
His opinion of them didn't have much reason to change from his initial impression. And it didn't - he still recognized them as careless and lackadaisical. But he no longer thought it as a curse, or a thing to be disliked.
He suspected it was just what they were, and what their lives had made them into. As much as Boromir's own life had shaped him.
So it happened that as he walked with them, and watched them, and used them to keep his mind off the thousands of troubles in his thoughts that he couldn't control, his feelings for the two hobbits changed.
He began to feel pity. He looked to the road ahead in foreboding. When their first fight came, when the hobbits were finally shown that this journey was no adventure but a death sentence, their sheltered, laughing spirit would collapse.
He didn't look forward to seeing that happen. Not at all.
In fact, it led to a rather odd pronouncement on his behalf.
"I think I shall start teaching you little ones how to use those swords you have strapped to you."
The two hobbits looked at him, surprised: he watched often, but he hardly spoke.
And then Pippin simply shrugged. "It couldn't do us any harm, I suppose. If we find our way back to the Shire someday it will be worth a few drinks to show off some new talents."
Boromir smiled at that. "It will definitely improve your odds of getting back home, at any rate."
"Do you think we will?"
Boromir almost slowed down.
Merry's eyes were on him. Not solemn, but the question was a serious one. Merry wasn't looking for a flippant answer, but the truth as Boromir saw it.
He hesitated. "We will all do what we can to insure it."
Merry kept looking, obviously not accepting that as an answer.
Boromir looked away from the wide, innocent eyes. He sighed, speaking true. "I don't expect to see the shores of Gondor again. But perhaps hobbits are made of stronger or luckier stuff than Men."
There was a silence.
Boromir looked down at them and saw that Merry was holding on to Pippin's hand, squeezing slightly. Only for a few seconds, then it stopped.
The two hobbits carried on with their interrupted conversation, light voices tinkling on about some unimportant bit of Shire talk or another.
Boromir glanced at them once or twice, but couldn't see the signs of concern or fear on either of them.
Either they hadn't taken his word seriously or they somehow thought they were stronger or luckier than men.
Or it could have been that they were just brave enough to hide their fear.
But as fond as he was of them he wasn't willing to give them that much credit quite yet.
Because the moment they were outside of Rivendell, charting their slow way through the forest beyond, Boromir saw clearly that the entire quest was a mistake.
They were setting out to do what couldn't be done - take the Ring of Power to Mordor, to the heart of Sauron's land, to destroy it. Destroy the one thing Sauron would give most to get back.
If that wasn't impossible in itself, Boromir only had to look at the company ahead of him to seal his conviction that they were doomed.
The bearer of the ring was a halfling. One of the silly, small, weak, laughing and trifling halflings.
Granted, Frodo seemed more serious than the two Boromir had met in the woods. But no larger, and no stronger.
Frodo was followed closely by Sam, another halfling. His servant, Boromir thought at times, though he was not treated as such. Still, he was trailing at Frodo's feet in the manner of a servant.
The elf, Legolas. Strong, probably, and a good ally. But only one of a race that couldn't defeat Sauron in the hundreds.
Gimli the dwarf. Again, probably a staunch ally. A little quick-tempered, it seemed, but who among them wasn't? Still, one dwarf to fight off thousands?
Gandalf. He seemed strong, but Boromir never had lost much love towards wizards. They often only granted their attention to men long enough to do harm.
Aragorn. The Ranger, Strider, the man who would try and make Denethor the Last Steward of Gondor. The man who would no doubt try and usurp the throne, claiming nothing but a diluted bloodline.
The one good thing about this suicide mission - if Aragorn was dead, he could bring no harm to Gondor.
And, of course, marching right in front of Boromir. Merry and Pippin themselves. Careless, thoughtless halflings, who had no interest in the quest, no idea what they were marching towards, and most importantly no clue how to handle themselves when it came down to a battle.
Their presence in the group was the one thing Boromir could not understand. Everyone else had their place well enough - even Sam was justified in going along, if only to keep the Ringbearer settled and less nervous.
Merry and Pippin were useless. Absolutely useless. They would use up precious food and supply, and bring nothing to the field of battle to justify that waste.
They would get someone killed before it was all over.
As if in confirmation of his thoughts, the group had been marching less than an hour when the hobbits in front of Boromir broke the silence with casual voice.
Merry started it. "I expect we shall bring up the end of the line the entire length of this journey. As if hundreds of miles of hard road and three small meals a day weren't enough, we get to hold our eyes to this unflattering view."
Boromir frowned at their backs, but couldn't stop his eyes from moving past them, to the rear ends of Sam Gamgee and Bill the pony, which were all that could be seen from where they stood. Of course the halflings were just the right height to get a closer view of the pony than was fitting.
He almost smiled in realization; strange, how he actually had to bite back the urge. As if a smile was his normal response to such trifling creatures.
Also surprising, he heard himself speaking in answer to Merry's comments. "Perhaps one of your friends will want for cheerier company and will send for you, master hobbit."
Merry glanced back, and instantly slowed his pace to close the gap. "Perhaps you could trade places with us and shield us from Sam's new friend."
Pippin moved at that moment around a still-warm pile of reason why walking behind a horse was never a smart thing. He wrinkled his nose in distaste.
Boromir laughed, a sharp sound that surprised all three of them. "If that's to be my purpose on this quest, I should turn around and go home."
Merry frowned instantly. "No, no. You shouldn't bother thinking of purposes and quests."
Pippin scoffed. "Being as we are on a quest, how do you propose to do that?"
Merry waved a hand. "Simple. We stay here in the back of the line, Boromir and you and I, and we will leave the purposes to those whose names shall be sung when we're through."
Pippin turned to him with a frown. "Well, that's not an answer, is it? Why shouldn't songs be written about us?"
Boromir found himself keeping pace with the two hobbits, walking at Merry's left, as the talk went on. He looked over at them as often as he looked at the trees around them.
Merry was laughing. "We should have to write them ourselves, I'm afraid. Who would do it for us? The dwarves will ever after sing of their Gimli the stout, sure with axe and strong of heart."
Pippin laughed. "'Stout' and 'heart' is a clumsy rhyme."
Merry glanced at him. "Did you hear the songs the dwarves sang in Rivendell? It's good enough."
Boromir stifled a chuckle. His eyes instantly left the hobbits, as if attention to the trees and behavior more responsible would make up for his unwitting inability to ignore the hobbits' talk.
Merry continued beside him. "The elves shall sing of Legolas the woodland son, but of course in grander words than I'm sure I could come up with."
"Undoubtedly," was Pippin's automatic response.
"And that comes to the three of us. Our apple-wounded friend Boromir is badly served, because when men pass their tale down in song or story, it's quite certain to be Aragorn they sing about."
Boromir's eyes went back to the hobbits. "You believe so."
"Well. He's at the start of the line. He's been on the quest as long as anyone but us hobbits. He is a friend to elves and a confidant of wizards. He is made for songs."
Pippin smiled. "I should think they'd have to write whole songs just to keep his many names straight. I've called him Strider so long that when someone says Aragorn I have to stop myself looking around for the stranger who's snuck along with us."
Boromir looked ahead, past Sam and at the head of the line. Gandalf was leading, with Frodo close behind. And Aragorn, of course, right at the hobbit's side. He smiled, and it felt bitter to him. "I suppose the Ringbearer will usurp the songs hobbits will write."
Merry sighed. "You see now? Doubtless, he and his trusty helper Sam. Which is a shame. Our names are so much easier to rhyme to. How many words that sound like Baggins are there in the world?"
Boromir looked over the two of them, suddenly curious to go deeper into the minds of the strange, careless creatures. "Then tell me. If the two of you, who have already said they have nothing to do with this quest, are so sure you're to be forgotten, why take the journey at all?"
Pippin looked up past Merry at Boromir and smiled. "Why, for that very reason."
Merry completed the thought. "To take the journey. Besides, we weren't going to leave Frodo and Sam to it, were we?"
"This is a hard road to volunteer for out of loyalty to a friend," Boromir answered seriously, since it was obvious the two young hobbits had no idea what they were in for.
Pippin shrugged. "It was a hard trip coming this far. And I do believe we won't be seeing our Shire again. But there's so many new things we will get to see."
Merry made a noise of agreement. "A revolutionary idea for a hobbit, but we are just the two lads to start a revolution."
Pippin smiled at that. "I rather like the idea."
"And I myself take comfort in the anonymity of our humble roles as followers. Frodo, and so of course Sam, are already too cross with responsibility and burden. And Aragorn and the others will work so hard to make their verses proper and heroic. Here in the back of the line we can behave as we like. No false demonstration of bravery, no sacrificing nobly and needlessly."
"It is a comforting thought, isn't it?" Pippin turned a smile to Merry, pleased.
Merry smiled back.
A comfortable silence settled again as they walked.
Boromir could see fondness between the two of them. He imagined that at their Shire they would be very much behaved the same. They were undoubtedly close and affectionate as brothers.
Boromir could almost picture afternoons just like the one in Rivendell, in some lovely and green Shire. Wasted by two boys who had nothing better to do than throw apples and laugh.
Such a strange idea. Hobbits indeed had to be opposite of Gondor's people. Hobbits seemed to love their peace and their quiet, and had probably never known anything else. Growing up in Gondor had been quite different.
And if Boromir had grown up in a place like the Shire? Would he be like Frodo, quick to bow and grow solemn under responsibility? Or would he have ended up like the two boys beside him, quick to laugh and smile?
A needless wonder, of course. He would never know, and could hardly be expected to guess. If he had grown up in the Shire he would not be himself.
And if these two smiling hobbits had grown up in Gondor, they would not be themselves.
It surprised Boromir how sharply the idea of that displeased him.
An interesting phenomenon about hobbits: no matter where they lay their bedrolls to sleep or how many bodies lie between them, they always seemed to wake up curled together.
At least, the two Boromir had taken to keeping an eye on did.
Frodo and Sam might have been the same but it was hard to say - Sam practically forced his way to Frodo's side every night to sleep, so there was never a chance to find out.
Merry and Pippin, though. Despite nights where one fell asleep by a rock wall and the other fell asleep in mid-conversation with Sam or Aragorn across the camp site, at the sun's rise they were together, curled to each other in sleep.
Was it a conscious thing, Boromir wondered. Certainly they were together all the waking hours of the journey. In fact, they were never referred to by the others except as part of a pair. They were Merry-and-Pippin, and so close to being one single creature that it could be argued there were only eight members of this fellowship.
He had to admit to feeling something like fondness for the little beings at times.
The journey so far had been easy - hard and long marching, to be sure, but no sign of the mystical black riders that so many of the others lived in fear of, and no hint of their way being blocked or guarded.
The hobbits were surprisingly good travelers, though. Merry's one complaint about the walk and the scant meals when they were first starting out was the beginning and end of the complaints. They kept the pace well. The fellowship didn't seem to be slowed much by the little ones, which was a minor miracle in Boromir's eyes.
He didn't want them there. Nothing was going to change that. He still didn't understand the need for them. And he remained convinced that being ignorant of the Enemy they were facing would hurt more than the hobbits in the long run. It would hurt all the others in the fellowship, who needed to rely on them and could not.
Boromir kept his eyes on them, though. Because, true to Merry's prediction, quite often the three of them walked together, followed or lead by Aragorn, always trailing behind the others.
Also because they seemed to have this odd, innate ability to pull Boromir out of his own thoughts for a while.
Boromir couldn't help it when his thoughts bent more towards Gondor than to this task they were on. He couldn't help but look at this Ring and this quest in regards to what it could mean for his land.
He understood on some level what Gandalf meant when he said it was unsafe to wield the ring. He understood that the council had come to a decision, and the ring had to be destroyed.
But it was hard. Very, very hard. Every step that Boromir took towards that end was one step further from helping his own people. And in more ways than just one. It kept him physically away from the battles on the borders of Gondor. It deprived his men of one more leader, and deprived his father of a dependable chief.
And to destroy the ring - this one thing that could ruin or elevate Sauron beyond their reach. To take it right into the arms of the dark lord, when every instinct in Boromir told him to take it to his father, to use it to good end.
It was hard. He was not a man used to fighting his own instincts, and it felt wrong to him what he was doing now.
He brooded.
But there were his new, strange little companions to get him out of it. To tell pointless stories about some farmer and a pack of dogs, or to share their entire families' blood lines with Boromir as if it was the most fascinating subject in the world.
They talked of trifles. They laughed, though a bit quieter now out of respect for the journey they were on.
And they quite often made Boromir smile along with them. It was something he was not at all used to. He rode into battles with men as solemn and brooding as he himself. He had never spent time with beings who saw a long road as a chance for entertainment.
They were strange creatures, hobbits. That was something else he would never change his mind on. So lively and quick to joke. So accepting of the quirks of Legolas and Gimli, of the erratic actions of Gandalf the wizard, and the quick-change temperaments of Boromir and Aragorn.
They honestly seemed to care nothing for the danger they faced or the long miles ahead. They lived for the next meal, or the end of the next story. They were bright-eyed little children in the bodies of undergrown men.
His opinion of them didn't have much reason to change from his initial impression. And it didn't - he still recognized them as careless and lackadaisical. But he no longer thought it as a curse, or a thing to be disliked.
He suspected it was just what they were, and what their lives had made them into. As much as Boromir's own life had shaped him.
So it happened that as he walked with them, and watched them, and used them to keep his mind off the thousands of troubles in his thoughts that he couldn't control, his feelings for the two hobbits changed.
He began to feel pity. He looked to the road ahead in foreboding. When their first fight came, when the hobbits were finally shown that this journey was no adventure but a death sentence, their sheltered, laughing spirit would collapse.
He didn't look forward to seeing that happen. Not at all.
In fact, it led to a rather odd pronouncement on his behalf.
"I think I shall start teaching you little ones how to use those swords you have strapped to you."
The two hobbits looked at him, surprised: he watched often, but he hardly spoke.
And then Pippin simply shrugged. "It couldn't do us any harm, I suppose. If we find our way back to the Shire someday it will be worth a few drinks to show off some new talents."
Boromir smiled at that. "It will definitely improve your odds of getting back home, at any rate."
"Do you think we will?"
Boromir almost slowed down.
Merry's eyes were on him. Not solemn, but the question was a serious one. Merry wasn't looking for a flippant answer, but the truth as Boromir saw it.
He hesitated. "We will all do what we can to insure it."
Merry kept looking, obviously not accepting that as an answer.
Boromir looked away from the wide, innocent eyes. He sighed, speaking true. "I don't expect to see the shores of Gondor again. But perhaps hobbits are made of stronger or luckier stuff than Men."
There was a silence.
Boromir looked down at them and saw that Merry was holding on to Pippin's hand, squeezing slightly. Only for a few seconds, then it stopped.
The two hobbits carried on with their interrupted conversation, light voices tinkling on about some unimportant bit of Shire talk or another.
Boromir glanced at them once or twice, but couldn't see the signs of concern or fear on either of them.
Either they hadn't taken his word seriously or they somehow thought they were stronger or luckier than men.
Or it could have been that they were just brave enough to hide their fear.
But as fond as he was of them he wasn't willing to give them that much credit quite yet.
