In Spirit – Chapter 2: "Revelations"
A/N: See the first page of this story for the disclaimer.
Hope you are enjoying the story! Thanks everyone for all your comments! Please R&R!
He awoke.
Where was he? Had it all been a dream?
No. He was still… there; he felt it. But he also felt a strange sense of vigour growing inside him, and his strength returning. He remembered feeling incredibly disorientated, and, wincing, remembered also the sharp, piercing pain which had forced him to the floor. But it had all vanished, disappeared. And now, he felt, he was not in the same place he had been before. What had that strange falling sensation been?
He slowly, and somewhat hesitantly, felt the ground around him. Incredulously, it was not the fine grains of sand from the shore; it felt hard, cold, like stone. Groaning, he propped himself up, and began to scan his surroundings. He did not recognise them; he realised he had never been there before. This sudden surprise caused him to laugh weakly.
"What kind of trickery is this?" he scoffed, hardly believing his eyes. The landscape was littered with sharp, jagged, monstrously cruel rocks, and the air was misty; it was difficult to see anything in the distance. There was a foul stench in the air, which he could not quite place.
He abruptly felt angered that he was there with no explanation. He was, after all, a man of reason. Glancing around, he could not see anything of any familiarity. The scenery was hostile to him, and he felt slightly threatened at its appearance. Frustrated, he pounded the rock with his fist. And then he left it there, clenched tight, for he was staring disbelievingly at it. As he shakily lifted his hand off the stone, it confirmed what he had thought he had seen – his hand cast no shadow.
He gasped, taken aback by this sudden discovery. Then, trembling, he leaned forward to look at the ground, for conformation. There was the shadow of the rock, cast upon the barren earth. But he himself caused no shadow at all – not even a faint glimpse was visible.
"This is no dream," he whispered shakily to himself. After steadying his breathing and settling himself down, he thought for a moment. Thoughts of his homeland drifted into his mind. He hastily shook them off, scowling to himself, realising worrying would do him no good. Finally he came to a decision. If he was going to be in this situation, it was sensible to observe what he was able to do.
Looking to his side, he noticed a weed sticking up from between two rocks. It was sprouting from a small crevice, not wide enough even for his hand. He reached cautiously for it, and delicately touched one of the leaves. He felt it; it was prickly and unpleasant. But, to his surprise, the leaf did not move an inch. This bewildered him. He tried to force the weed over. But no matter how much pressure he applied, the plant remained still. Withdrawing his hand, he relinquished.
Pitifully, he sighed. Realisation. No longer would he draw steel against steel in the heat of battle, to defend his beloved Gondor. Nor see the glorious White Tower again. Osgiliath had fallen, and, grimacing, he knew that the days of Minas Tirith were diminishing also. He heaved a deeper sigh, realising that he, the Captain-General, was powerless to stop it. Yet a glimmer of hope remained when he thought of the surviving members of the Fellowship. Aragorn had promised him in his final moments that he would not let the White City fall. This single thought gave Boromir the strength to prevail.
That, and the thought of his brother. He had been attempting to block thoughts of Faramir from his mind, instead concentrating on where he was, what he was doing. But a lump formed in his throat as the thoughts resurfaced. Thoughts of failure, of guilt, and of utter desolation. As much as he tried to deny it, he felt privately that he had abandoned, and thus failed, his brother. He remembered that fateful day he set off for Imaldris, the troubled look Faramir had given him. Pangs of grief now surged through his body as he realised he would never see his brother again. And he would never be able to tell him he was sorry…
"Who are you to pity yourself," he muttered sourly under his breath. "You deserve no forgiveness." He clenched his hands together, subconsciously pressing them so hard against each other with anguish that it caused him pain, which forced him to draw them apart once more. Conflicted, he swiftly stood to his feet. He noticed quickly that his great shield was still missing, returning thoughts of the falls, and the boat… no, he must not think of such things, he harshly reminded himself. After checking his precious horn and sword, he resolved to find, if it was possible, a way out of this endless torment. Perhaps there was a way to escape the taunting of his mind. Well, he thought, if there is a way, I will find it.
He decided to climb his way down a rocky prominence before him. The angle was reasonably steep, and he almost would have regretted it, had it not been for the numerous natural formations in the rock, which served as footholds for his awkward boots. It was a lengthy climb, and difficult, but one who was carrying such equipment would expect complications. In particular, his horn would knock repeatedly against the stone, distracting him. Once, unwillingly, he had to stop in order to adjust its position. He was relieved when he reached the base of the hill, and took the time for him to catch his breath to inspect his surroundings.
He was rather surprised to find how alike the whole area looked – no two areas looked dissimilar. Of course, he could not see far; but he got the impression that the situation was the same in every direction. Rocks, menacing, intimidating, formed the only significant landmarks in this stale environment. And there was still that stagnant smell in the air that he had found incredibly difficult to ignore. Sighing piteously, he now realised his location. The Emyn Muil. He commented privately to himself that he would not be surprised if anybody had become lost in this labyrinth of stone. He just had to hope that he would not become one of them.
He walked on. The maze of jagged rocks now seemed endless, as more and more stones appeared, ghost-like, out of the mist. He had been walking for a whole half hour before something caused him to halt.
He was following a rock-strewn path when it happened. At first, he was unsure of it, and somewhat in denial that it even existed. It felt weak, and infrequent. But he was experiencing a sickening feeling that was all too familiar. No, he told himself, impossible. Yet, by some strange chance, he could not bring himself to believe even his own reasoning. Maybe if he kept moving, it would leave. But no. As he walked further, it only increased in strength. He tried desperately to deny it, to banish it as his cruel imagination. Only, no matter how forcefully he struggled, it was there. And he knew, as cold reality dawned on him, that it was close.
And suddenly he heard them.
Voices. Were they real? He instinctively drew his sword. Although knowing it would do him no good, he felt increasingly secure with a weapon in his hand. Who were they? Or were they there at all? His movements became a clumsy series of frantic jerks, as he attempted to detect the direction of the strange sounds. And with his panic still came that overwhelming feeling of familiarity; but it was entirely unwelcoming, false.
The voices were coming closer. This enabled him to find their source of direction, as sight was not much of an aid in the enveloping mist. He tracked them silently, save for the sound of his trembling, irregular breaths. The hand which held the sword began to shake, at first only a small twitch, but becoming increasingly violent. He had to bring up his other hand to force it under control. His mind was racing with thoughts he had just dismissed as foolish! How? How could this be happening? He had realised his weakness, and yet was allowing it to be exploited once again. He could not understand, and he could not overcome it.
Already fearing what he might observe, he slowly prised himself up onto a large rock and peered over its jagged edge. And whom did he see but Samwise Gamgee, stumbling over the dangerous, rocky slopes. He felt incredibly relieved to see another of his companions alive. If only I could say the same for myself, he thought rather acidly. Boromir saw his face brighten with delight as he noticed a rather more even section of rock ahead of him. He was reasonably close to Sam, and so kept his head down. He was still not sure of himself, of what he was.
But then again, he had never really known himself…until he had been put to the test.
He watched as Sam heaved his large pack onto a great slab of stone, after which he sat down somewhat thankfully. Boromir guessed, by the manner of these actions, that he had been travelling for some time. Sam sat for a few seconds, breathing quickly, inhaling as much air as was possible with each gasp. Then, he turned, facing back up the path from which he had come.
"Mr. Frodo?" he inquired enthusiastically, "Come here, see what I've found!"
Boromir shivered, and grasped his head with both hands, causing his sword to drop. It fell to the ground, landing on the rock with a metallic clutter. The second hobbit appeared from the path. Towards him came Frodo Baggins, and with him, he knew despairingly, the One Ring.
The Ring. The words stuck in his throat painfully, heartlessly. And he felt within him the same cruel, merciless temptation as he had before. Falling back behind the rock, he buried his head in his hands, and let the tears come. He would never be free of it. The temptation had pursued him to all ends. There was no escape. It was hopeless, futile. He had the overwhelming desire for grief to envelop him, somehow transport him out of this vile place, anything to be rid of his yearning for the Ring and its hollow promises.
Yet when he was near it, its promises seemed anything but hollow. Power. The power to save his people. And the glory of Gondor. No, he thought, wiping tears from his eyes, it does not bring either. It is deceit; it is idiocy to listen to such madness. But yes. Yes, it brings power. And it brings glory, to the one who carries it…
No!
"No…" he whispered softly to himself. This word alone seemed to be enough to give him the strength he needed. Defying the Ring's tempting words had somehow made him feel stronger inside; he would not concede defeat. Not this time. He gripped his sword, which was still lying on the rock below him, and once again sheathed it.
He climbed down from his vantage point to the hobbits' stone platform, attempting to put aside any thoughts he had of the Ring. His eyes were still rather tearful, causing him to blink repeatedly. Nevertheless, he made it quite easily, as the descent was not as steep as before.
To his disappointment, the hobbits did not seem to notice him. Sighing regrettably, he sat down heavily on a nearby rock.
"Do you know how long we've been travelling, Mr. Frodo?" asked Sam, reaching for something from his pack.
"I lost track long ago," said Frodo, "but it seems like forever. Everything here looks…alike." Boromir saw the hobbit glance at the area around him, for a moment looking straight at him. Hopeful, he fixed his eyes on Frodo's. Frodo quickly turned away, looking rather anxious.
"Ah," said Sam, lifting an item from his pack, "here. Lembas bread. Do you want any, Mr. Frodo?"
"What?" said Frodo, gratefully turning his attention to Sam, "Oh. No thank you. I'm…not hungry." Sam looked at the hobbit questioningly, and opened his mouth to say something. But he stopped himself, instead breaking off a piece of lembas and chewing it thoughtfully.
"Well," he said with his mouth full, "there's always some here, if you want it, that is."
Frodo smiled.
"Thank you, Sam," he said kindly, before looking in Boromir's direction again. He saw him reach uneasily for the chain around his neck. Did he feel it was under threat in some way? Boromir was slightly angered. This was not the Frodo he had known before. There was something different about him, although he was unsure of what it was.
Boromir stayed with them until nightfall. He listened to their hobbit tales, taking great pleasure in having company. The hobbits had carried enough material with them to make a small fire, and Boromir was thankful, for its warmth was comforting and gentle. He had managed to suppress his longing for the Ring thus far; but it was steadily becoming more difficult, especially as he had it within his grasp. He would try to resist for as long as it was possible for him to do so. But he had no idea how long that would be.
It was when the hobbits put out their fire that Boromir realised he was beginning to fade. But it was not painful, like the last experience; it was more of a subtle numbness that seemed to shroud his body. He was quickly becoming weaker, and also more frightened, as his vision started to blur, and then blacken, turning to darkness. He was… falling, somewhere, through space and time. And as he left them, he heard a voice; a menacing, rasping voice, alike to a distant memory…
"We wantssss it…"
A/N: It doesn't end there! ^_^ I'll write more soon! I also plan to draw a picture to accompany each chapter. In the meantime, please R&R!
-EmberDragon