Return to the Golden Wood
They entered Lothlórien at dusk, and seeing how weary the Halflings were, Gimli agreed they could stop for a time just inside the borders of the land. "But we should not linger," he said. "The sooner we find our erstwhile hosts, the happier I think we shall all be."
"Then be glad of heart," came a voice from the trees, and there emerged two grey-clad Elves from the shadows, "for you have found them, or they have found you."
Gimli turned, a grin spreading across his broad features at the familiar voice, and scarcely wondering at the fact that not so long ago, he would have been hardly more pleased to see an Elf than one of the Black Riders. "Haldir!" he said, "and Orophin, well met!" and he came forward to clasp their hands as Merry and Pippin followed behind.
"Well met indeed," said Haldir, kneeling down to greet the Hobbits as well, of whom he had become somewhat fond during their stay in the wood. "But some mischance must have befallen you," he said. "Where are your companions?" He hesitated then, and looked towards Frodo and Sam, who had not approached nor offered greetings of their own. Frodo was seated on the ground, and Sam stood beside him; both were pale, and Sam's hand rested protectively on his master's shoulder. Sam met Haldir's gaze uncertainly.
"The Ringbearer," said Haldir. "What ill fortune brings you here rather than eastward towards the Ring's destruction?"
"The Ring has changed hands," said Gimli. "Aragorn now carries it to Orodruin, with Legolas and Boromir."
An expression flickered over Haldir's face which Gimli could not read, and he spoke quickly in Elvish to Orophin, who just as quickly melted back into the trees. Haldir turned to Gimli.
"The Lady must know of this," Haldir said. "I have sent Orophin with word, and we must follow as soon as we can. But I have glad tidings," he said then, as if to ease the sternness that had coloured his voice. "Mithrandir fell, yes, but he has been returned to us! He rests in Caras Galadhon, and will be glad to see you, though I know not what he will make of your news."
It did not seem possible to Frodo that he was sitting quietly with the wizard - white-robed now instead of grey, but still his Gandalf, lost no longer, arisen from the depths of Moria - telling him of his failure.
He sighed, and Gandalf reached out to touch his hand. "I did not mean it, Gandalf," he said wearily. "Or, rather, I did, but I only meant to -" and he sighed again and shook his head. "I do not know what I meant to do," he said at last. "Keep it and be rid of it both, I suppose. For though it wore upon me, I did want to possess it," he said, raising his eyes to the wizard's. "I did, though I tried to pretend I did not. The closer we came to Mordor, the more it wore upon me, and the more it seemed to sound in my heart."
"You were beset from without and within, Frodo," said Gandalf gently. "You should not have surrendered it, that is true, but there may yet be a way to wring good from this ill."
Stung, although the wizard had been far gentler than Frodo had been to himself, Frodo replied, "Why should it have been left to me to carry it, anyway? Might not Strider have been right to say Men should destroy this thing, which Men kept in the world?"
"Men are poor choices for a task such as this," Gandalf said. "Even one as stern of will as Aragorn. Perhaps especially so, for he has great power and strength of his own, and great desire to do good. The Ring may turn these things against him, as it did his ancestor."
"As it did when I told him of my fears, and let him see my weariness," said Frodo sadly. "He asked if I should like him to carry it for a time, as I suppose I knew he might, or I hoped. And I agreed. Oh, Gandalf, when did I become such a fool?"
Gandalf squeezed his hand gently. "Aragorn wished to help you," he replied, "and you wished for succour. If any has been a fool, perhaps it has been me, to give such a terrible task to so vulnerable a company."
"Vulnerable?" said Frodo, wondering what the wizard could mean. "I can see why you would say that of me, or my cousins and Sam, but the others?" he said, puzzled. "Such steadfast warriors? How can you call them weak?"
"Oh, I do not, Frodo," said Gandalf, shaking his head. "Nor would I call you sturdy Halflings weak. No, you may be the strongest of us all, though you do not feel it now. No," he went on, "not weak. But the Men carry within them the threads of their own undoing - Aragorn his love for the Evenstar, and Boromir his love of Gondor, which surpasses all in his heart save perhaps his brother."
Frodo glanced at his hands in his lap, where his fingers twisted and twined together. He wished to reach for the Ring, which had left a cold and hollow place in his chest. "I do not understand, Gandalf," he said finally. "How can love be their undoing? Surely love would be their salvation."
"Love can lead us to both good and ill, Frodo," he said, "you must know that."
Shaking his head, Frodo replied, "I only know that love has been my salvation, and has never led me to do ill. Had I loved Strider more, perhaps I would not have passed this burden to him so gratefully." He hesitated then, and said, "But Strider has Legolas with him - surely Legolas can help him defeat that thing, as Sam has helped me."
"Let us hope so," Gandalf said. "But now we must consider what to do. You tell me they travel down the Anduin, towards Ithilien and thence into Mordor, though by what path they have not yet decided. They will find Boromir's brother, I think, and Faramir may right this thing if it has not righted itself."
"How?" asked Frodo. "And how could it right itself? If I were truly the one to whom this task was appointed, and I surrendered it, how can things be righted?" He shook his head, some of his strength seeming to return to him as he spoke. "Should I not pursue them?" he asked. "Should I not undo the wrong I have done?"
Gandalf did not answer at first, and as the silence stretched thin, Frodo began to be afraid again, and he took a breath and steeled himself. In his mind, the Shire lay like everything cool and green and growing, everything worth saving in the world. Bag End, and the bright garden, sunflowers and snapdragons and nasturtiums glowing red and gold in the afternoon, and the sweet smell of earth and flowers, and the teapot coming to a boil. He recalled the vision he'd seen in Galadriel's mirror, that single eye, rimmed in fire, seeking, seeking him out, as it must now seek for Strider, who would walk into Mordor with none but Legolas and a man who had little love for him, and with little hope of walking out again. Frodo shuddered involuntarily, and Gandalf turned to him as though surprised to find him still there.
"Much is yet to be done, Frodo Baggins," he said. "If you pursue them into Ithilien and Mordor, you might find them, but what then? Slip in and steal it from around the Ranger's neck? Take it by force?"
"What, then?" asked Frodo. "What must I do to -" and his voice broke. "What must I do to protect what I love?" A thought struck him suddenly. "Gandalf," he said, "what of the Elves? Could they not be persuaded to help?"
Gandalf looked at him, his fathomless eyes calm. "What would you have them do?" he asked.
Frodo shook his head, words tumbling out of his mouth before he'd quite had a chance to think about them, and he said, "I cannot take the Ring, no, I know, he is far stronger than I, and Boromir would - I think he still may want it for himself, but could not the Elves, could they not," and he hesitated, suddenly realizing where his thoughts had led him, and he shuddered again. "Could they not speak with him?" he said at last, though it had been a different plan which had almost escaped his lips.
"Persuade him of his folly?" asked Gandalf. "No, I think not, my young friend. But was that what you set out to ask?"
After a moment Frodo shook his head. "No, I admit it Gandalf, a terrible thought took hold of me, worse than any the Ring put in my head. I did not mean it."
"Did you not?" Gandalf asked. "Even for the Shire?"
Frodo did not answer, watching his hands twist in his lap.
"There are those in this place," said Gandalf then, "both strong enough and willing to wrest the Ring from Aragorn, or even to put death through his heart from afar if need demanded. But can good come from an evil action?"
Frodo was silent for a long time. Strider, his friend, his guardian, had taken from him - no, no, that was not right; had accepted what he himself had offered - the one thing Aragorn should never have touched. And now the Shire was threatened, and Frodo had a sudden thought of the garden in flames, not merely aflame with the beauty that Sam tended there.
And he recalled the look that had passed across Aragorn's face when Frodo had started to ask for the Ring back. That black look, angry and implacable.
"Perhaps not good," he said finally, "but if love can lead to ill, then perhaps one evil act could tear us loose from a course which can lead only to the end of everything."
Gandalf did not answer, but gazed long at Frodo, and thoughtfully, and Frodo considered what he had himself suggested, as though it had come from a heart not his own. Had he really thought to murder Strider?
But the Shire, with its cool green hills, great blue skies, and velvet dark nights lit by all the stars. Neat little hobbit-holes, and merry people, and fine ale and pipeweed, and laughing hobbit-children. If Aragorn claimed the Ring, what would become of the Shire? Surely Aragorn would not destroy that. Surely not.
Eastward
With only the three of them, they moved fast, traveling long into the night and waking early to begin again. When they came at last to Nen Hithoel they unloaded the boats on the western shore and praised the Elves for their light workmanship, carrying boats and provisions down the long North Stair.
The path was narrow and steep, the boats awkward to manage, and more than once Boromir cursed that they had not simply sent the things over the Rauros Falls and hoped to catch them unbroken beneath. Still, each step brought them closer to his home, and to where Faramir's Rangers kept watch on the Black Lands.
"The River will carry us to Ithilien," he said after a time to the two who laboured below him on the path. "My brother and his men will give us rest, and respite there. They will have news of the Enemy, and may know how we might -"
But Aragorn turned then, and his fierce expression stopped Boromir's voice. "You think to enlist your brother's aid in this?" he said angrily.
Boromir halted where he was, and said, "Why would we not? Faramir -"
"Is no doubt of his brother's mind," said Aragorn, "but do not think that a Southern Ranger can wrest this burden from me any more than you will be able to."
Surprise was written across the Gondorian's features, and for a moment Aragorn wondered if he had misjudged. But no, for while the wizard's affection for the younger of Denethor's sons was enough for Aragorn to trust that the youth would be wiser than his brother, yet Aragorn knew that Boromir would hope to convince the younger that the Ring should be used.
But the journey was long, and Ithilien's Rangers would have knowledge they needed. And surely Faramir would be easy to control, once he had been made to understand.
"We will go to Ithilien," said Aragorn, his tone steely, his eyes dark, "but your brother will not aid you in taking this thing."
Stunned into silence, Boromir tried to formulate a response, but for all his efforts the only response that seemed enough would be to match the violence in the Ranger's voice and eyes with violence of his own. And there seemed little good that could come of that.
They reached the foot of the Stair scarcely before nightfall, and in the deepening dark they made camp.
Boromir chose a place for himself a little ways away from the other two, removing the larger of the stones from the ground where he lay his blanket. The sounds of the night were a comfort to him - the strangely musical sounds of insects, the call of a nightbird, the wind breathing through the treetops high above. The air smelled of pine and earth and stone, damp with the mist that had settled on the land. It put him in mind of nights he and Faramir had spent as boys, and of nights together in the field. The younger had been a comforting presence to him, and the fragrance of the night around him was comforting in its memories, making them as solid as the earth beneath him.
It was cold, though - colder than it had been in many nights, and too cold for the season. He wrapped his cloak around himself and tucked his icy hands beneath his arms to warm them. He wondered where Faramir was, and whether he looked out on the river from where he watched, and whether he kept warm.
Nearby, he could hear the soft voices of Legolas and Aragorn, but they spoke in Elvish and he understood only stray words or phrases. He knew they discussed the Ring, and once he heard his name, and something that might have been his brother's name, but the mist muffled the sound, and he did not want to ask them what they spoke of.
He did not like the feeling that had nestled around his heart, that clenched it when he looked on his would-be king.
Aragorn the Ranger had been, if stubborn and arrogant, at least cautious, wise, compassionate. And when Boromir was honest with himself, he admitted that the man had a right to some part of arrogance. He had done great deeds as Thorongil, though Boromir knew Denethor would not be glad to see that his old rival still drew breath. And he had persevered as Aragorn, against difficulties that would have been the end of lesser men.
Aragorn the heir to the throne of Gondor had been little different, once Boromir had reconciled himself enough to look past his own anger and see the man who stood before him. Indeed, had it not been for the ache that the Ring had put on his heart, Boromir would have tried to make a friend of him - a true friend, not a friend of circumstance, who is a friend because to do otherwise would mean hardship for their companions. But his longing for the Ring had set him somewhat apart, made him always a little alone.
And now that he no longer felt but a whisper of that longing, Aragorn the Ringbearer was come. And he was not what the others had been. From moment to moment, Boromir was not sure what might spark that fey light in Aragorn's eyes. When Boromir's mention of his brother had provoked such a heated response, the violence in the Ranger's gaze had made him long for violence of action, of impact and bloodshed, and he was sure it would come when next Aragorn thought Boromir made any misstep. But when, later, Boromir had accidentally kicked loose a stone and it had struck Aragorn's back, he had braced himself for a similar confrontation, but none had come; Aragorn had glanced over his shoulder with a grin and had lobbed a pebble back up, striking Boromir's chest, and Aragorn had laughed to see the surprise on the other's face. Boromir wished he knew from whence the Ranger had thought his surprise had come.
And Legolas. What of the Elf? They two seemed as close as ever, but twice Boromir had caught Legolas regarding Aragorn with something like worry, and something like fear. It had alarmed him more than his own concerns which, left to himself, he might have supposed were sprung from his jealousy, or his fears for Gondor. For he felt both. How many years would it take to make a Steward a king, if the true king did not return?
No number was enough. And here the true king was, and possessed of the Ring which had bought his ancestor's death, and the deaths of his sons. Which might yet buy death for them all. But in possession of, or possessed by, Boromir could not tell.
And some little ways away, Legolas put his hand on Aragorn's arm and spoke softly in Elvish. "You should try to make a friend of Boromir," he said. "He will not deny you if you do."
Aragorn shook his head, answering in his friend's tongue. "Legolas, I have tried to make a friend of him. Until Moria, when he angered me so, I thought we had become friends, or something like, but now," and he paused, and said, "something has changed. I fear it is the Ring."
Legolas' fair skin paled in the dimness, but Aragorn did not see.
"I fear it still calls to him, Legolas, though he says it does not." He raised grey eyes to the Elf's and Legolas thought there was fear in his voice when he said, "We cannot lose this thing to him, my friend. I am glad you are with me," and he clasped his hand over Legolas' where it rested on his arm, then glanced away, towards the Gondorian. "The Stewards do have royal blood in them, Legolas," he said quietly. "He has a strong will. And he will be the Steward, and Mithrandir feared such a one claiming it - one with power, or with royalty in his veins. It would not take him in a day, but it would take him." Aragorn's voice was low, and muffled by the mists, but to Legolas it seemed sharp as a blade. "He would grow in power," the Ranger went on, his eyes distant, "and he would come to dominate all around him." He looked at the Elf again. "And he could not be slain. If Boromir claims this thing, all will come to ruin. The Dark Lord's servants will become his slaves, as will we all, and yet Sauron would be defeated but not destroyed. Oh, Legolas, I fear it. I do. Boromir is not evil, but he would become so."
"Do you truly think Faramir would aid him in this?" Legolas asked. He, too, had heard from Mithrandir of the young scholar of Minas Tirith, more thoughtful than his brother was rash, and learned in the lore of Men and Elves. "He would know the evil that would be done to his brother, whom he loves."
Aragorn sighed. "I do not know, Legolas. Love can turn the mind and will to places they would never travel on their own."
After a moment, Legolas said, "What did the Gondorian do that provoked such anger from you in Moria?" he asked.
"I know not, Legolas," he replied, his voice weary. "He - I suppose he simply questioned me too often. Questioned my decisions, my leadership." He paused, then went on, "The thing he said at last, which proved too much, was when he told me I had not his experience fighting the servants of the Enemy." He chuckled then, a humourless sound. "I had not the experience."
Legolas smiled to think of it, then said, "But he did not know of your past. He would not have known."
"Now he knows," said Aragorn, speaking then in Westron, and Legolas could not tell whether Aragorn's flat tone indicated regret, or that stern resolve Legolas had seen so often in Aragorn when the other was confronted by one who doubted him. He hoped not to hear that tone used towards himself.
After a moment Aragorn sighed, and pulled away from Legolas' touch. "We will go to Ithilien," he said, "but now the night is cold, and we cannot risk a fire. I shall take first watch."
Legolas shook his head. "I shall watch tonight," he said. "I feel no need for sleep, and both of you are weary, and I think heartsore. Rest, and I will guard you both."
Aragorn nodded. "As you will, my friend. I am grateful." Turning to where Boromir sat, he called out softly, "Boromir," jerking the other out of his thoughts. "Come here."
Reluctant to obey, but more reluctant to spark further hostility in an atmosphere that had already been too close to violence, Boromir rose and went to Aragorn.
"Legolas will watch tonight," said Aragorn, "and will wake us if he feels the need of sleep. Bring your blankets here; it is too dangerous for a fire, and too cold not to share warmth."
Once more the icy fear coiled about Boromir and squeezed, but hoping he hid his apprehension, he gathered up his blankets and returned to where the Ranger lay, annoyed that if the other had intended this, he could not have said as much before Boromir had gotten settled. Wordlessly, he re-made his bed beside Aragorn, once again removing the larger stones, and together, he and the Ringbearer lay down and spread the blankets over themselves. Boromir turned to his side as soon as he was able, away from the eyes that had begun to haunt him as fiercely as the Ring ever had.
Aragorn pulled the heavy wool close about them, wondering at this new compliancy. He had expected another confrontation, had expected to have to convince Boromir of the wisdom of lying together rather than apart, for he knew the man was not inclined to touch him, nor even stay too near. A whimsy took him then, and with a smile, he moved his hand to rest on the broad back of his companion, pleased to feel the tension there, pleased to feel him start to pull away, and then restrain himself. How far would he have to go to make the other abandon that restraint, make him pull away entirely? He felt the struggle in his companion, and relished it. How different he was from the Elf, on whose friendship he had come to depend. Both such fierce warriors at need, yet Legolas was all contained ease, controlled and serene. Boromir's rage might flare up in an instant and die away just as quickly, and his strength was stern, unsubtle, and hard to bend.
Aragorn caressed the broad back, and could feel the other's tension mounting, could feel him straining not to move or shy away. Legolas did not struggle against himself; Boromir seemed to do little else.
Slowly, he ran his hand down the other's spine, slipped across his waist, drew back up and rested it on the soft skin of Boromir's neck. He pressed his fingers to the pulse, felt Boromir's heartbeat fast and hard, and he smiled faintly to know he inspired such trembling in such a warrior.
He brought his lips to Boromir's ear and whispered, "Do you fear me then, Gondorian?"
Boromir did not answer, his eyes shut tight against an intrusion he could not name, that silky voice slipping into him and curling around his mind.
Aragorn pressed his lips to the other man's hair, and whispered, "Answer me, my Captain."
Scarcely able to move, Boromir opened his mouth and lied. "No, I do not."
A velvet chuckle escaped Aragorn's lips. "Speak no more untruths to me," he said softly, pressing slightly on that tender pulse. "You should earn my trust, not my displeasure."
Boromir pressed his lips together against the acquiescent response that tried to escape, that wished to placate the one who pressed cool fingers to his heartbeat.
Caressing the other's throat, Aragorn said gently, "You will call me lord, one day, Boromir. You will kneel before me as helplessly as you tremble now."
His breath coming tight into his lungs, Boromir found himself again unable to raise his voice past a whisper. "This is the Ring, Aragorn," he said, hardly sure he spoke at all. "You are not yourself."
"You are wrong, Gondorian," Aragorn replied. "But if it eases your mind to think so, for now, I will not fault you. You have never been one to welcome fear, or weakness, and though it is not weakness to tremble before a king, I understand your fear. Indeed," he said, with amusement in his voice, "if it makes you so compliant, I shall treasure your fear."
Boromir felt as though he were wrapped in the paws of a lion, could almost hear the purr of a cat with its prey. With growing desperation to be away from that touch, from that silky voice, he said shakily, "I am weary, Aragorn, and we have far to go. I would sleep. "
Idly stroking the soft skin of the warrior's throat, Aragorn replied, "Of course. Only face me first."
Reluctantly, Boromir turned onto his back, and in the darkness saw Aragorn above him, eyes shining in the shadows.
Boromir's face was drawn tight, and Aragorn wondered at what he saw there - fear, yes, and supplication beneath the anger that the other tried to hide, but not submission, not yet. The struggle would continue, and Aragorn smiled to think of it, the smile chilling Boromir's heart. "Ah, you are a soldier of Gondor indeed," Aragorn whispered, and leaned down to press a chaste kiss to Boromir's lips. "Sleep now. As you said, we have far to go."
Boromir felt bile rising in his throat, not for the touch of a man, no, he had felt that before, welcomed it on cold nights when death waited on the dawning. No, bile at the taint of the Ring, which touched him with every caress, and Boromir fought to keep still, fought to keep from hurling the other away from him and inviting the violence he knew would follow, and was not sure he could defeat.
And over Aragorn's shoulder, Boromir saw the figure of the Elf, silhouetted against the starlit sky, watching them.
Ithilien
Faramir crouched on the shore of the Anduin, gazing with sharp eyes at the river, and at the opposite shore, and the moonlight that glimmered on the water. Something was amiss, he knew not what. Much had seemed amiss since they had had word that Boromir's horse had returned riderless to the Mark, and they had hoped for months for news, or some sign of the Captain-General's fate.
Some sign of his brother's fate.
But none came, and there was still the Enemy to be fought, to be spied out, to be pushed back and harried. And so he was here, carrying on, and there was joy to be had here, here in this wildness, this Ithilien, though it came in small things and minor victories, whether it be the sweet call of a nightbird or the scattering of Haradrim coming to join the Dark Lord's armies, or the soft track of a cat in the sand beside the river.
Ithilien was a darkling emerald jewel in the night, cool and fragranced with evergreen and the threat of snow. Swift and silent as a fox, Faramir made his way up the shoreline, drawn northwestward by something he could not name. Perhaps his brother was too much in his mind, for ever did they look for his coming from the west, though the chance of him riding down the river in a boat this cold night seemed as remote as the chance of Denethor appearing with a host of men to strike at the Black Gate. Faramir smiled grimly to himself. Such might yet happen, he thought, though there was time, there was time. A last stand in Minas Tirith before the fall of the West, or to ride forth before the Dark Lord and bring the fight to the Enemy? Either path seemed doomed, but one would surely be chosen. One would surely have to be, for what other hope did they have but to die as sons of Gondor, protecting what they loved?
'Oh, I am in a fey mood tonight indeed,' he thought to himself, his grim smile changing to one of amusement. He slipped through the trees and towards where Mablung and the rest of their scouting party would meet, and though his heart stayed on the Anduin, and searched in the dark for his brother, his mind turned to the tasks at hand, in the velvet night in Ithilien.
Morning on the river
The day dawned cloudy and cold. Boromir shivered beneath the blankets, turned to find the Ringbearer gone, the Elf standing watch. He lay still for a moment, trying to place the strangeness he felt, and then realized, the fear had gone. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply for what seemed like the first time since the Golden Wood, then rose and made his way to Legolas.
The Elf glanced at him, but did not speak.
"You know," Boromir said, "what has happened. What is happening."
Legolas turned away, looked towards the river.
"Where has he gone?"
"He seems changed this morning, Boromir," said Legolas softly. "I think the man who spoke so strangely to you in the night is - perhaps departed. Perhaps hidden."
Boromir followed the Elf's gaze, but saw nothing. "You heard?"
Legolas nodded. "When he arose he was troubled," he went on. "It may be that you have underestimated his will."
"He should never have taken it," said Boromir, trying and failing to keep the harshness from his tone. "Tell me he has not kept it and left us."
"He has not," said Legolas, glancing at him. "No, I mean only that Aragorn is more Estel this morning, and less the," and he hesitated.
"Less the one who pushes me to submit, and draws you to his side with friendship?" Boromir asked archly.
"And why should you not submit to him?" Legolas replied. "He is your king."
"Nay, Elf," said Boromir, "he is only a claimant to the throne. He will not be king until the Steward declares him such, and I am not the Steward."
"He served Gondor," said Legolas. "He loves her. Were you Steward, you would do ill to reject his claim."
They stood quietly together for a moment, and finally Boromir said, "He would not push me so were it not the influence of that thing," and he sighed. "No, he loves little, I fear, save perhaps yourself."
Legolas smiled, a cold, humourless smile. "He loves greatly, Boromir. He loves greatly, but unwisely. A lady who does not requite him, a land which you would keep from him."
Boromir scowled. "You know nothing of it, Elf," he said sharply, "if that is your thinking. I would give Gondor to the true king, if the true king were come and it were mine to give. But would the true king take this trinket and -" but he stopped then, unwilling to try to explain the web of power that he felt himself trapped in when Aragorn chose to loose it, unwilling to admit to the fear the other had inspired in him.
"And destroy it, Gondorian?" said Legolas. "Yes, he would, and he will. It is more than you would do."
With a low growl, Boromir turned away from the Elf and said, "Where has he gone?"
"To the river."
___________Note: The description of what the effects of the Ring would be on one who claimed it are from HoME vol. 8
