Title: When Darkness Falls
Author: Random1 (also known as Adi)
Rating: PG-13 for violence and character death
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Tolkien, and I thank him from the bottom of my heart for gifting us these characters and this universe.
Notes: Character death. This is very much a WIP and I will be fairly slow to update, but I am working on it. Feedback and constructive criticism welcome.
Prologue
Somewhere far away, the Falls of Rauros sang out their song. The canopy overhead was green and lush, and almost silent. The natural world whispered to itself in its own private language of insect hum and birdsong and wind through leaves. There was an impression of tranquillity, of... rightness in the world.
But the impression was a false one.
They stood facing each other, the man and the hobbit, with more than just cold stone between them. In the near silence, the whisper they could hear came not from nature, and its voice was ugly and commanding, brutal and harsh. Boromir's face twisted with something akin to madness, and Frodo was afraid.
'Why not be free of it?' Boromir said, softly, ever so softly. 'You can lay the blame on me, if you will. You can say I was too strong and took it by force.'
It was almost a snarl. It was surely a threat. It was an offer perhaps too good to refuse. Frodo longed to be rid of it, this they both knew, and yet he could not bear to be parted from it. Force he feared and welcomed both. In some ways it would be a relief to have the thing taken out of his hands in a way that was beyond his control.
But madness shone in Boromir's eyes. Slowly, with great difficulty, Frodo shook his head. They stood there, eye to eye, with more than just cold stone between them, and let the strange whispers wash over them in the silence.
Suddenly, Boromir sprang over the stone, and leapt at Frodo, knocking the hobbit to the ground and pinning him beneath the full weight of his body. Frodo struggled fiercely, involuntarily, moved by sheer terror... but Boromir was stronger by far. The hobbit was afraid. Boromir saw his fear, and it fed his anger. All he wished for was to see the White Tower stand tall, free at last from evil and war. All he wished for was that no more sons of Gondor should die in her defence.
And yet they feared him. Fear blazed in Frodo's eyes, and anger, and betrayal, and beneath all that, something that twisted Boromir's tortured heart until he though that it might snap with rage or sorrow, he knew not which.
Pity. Pity shone in Frodo's eyes.
He knew what it was that choked at Boromir's throat, he better than any other. He knew what it was that had driven him to this desperate act of violence.
And he knew that Boromir could not lose this contest of strength. He knew that there was only one way for him to escape now.
And he stopped struggling, went limp in Boromir's arms, and then at last, desperately, reached out for the Ring, gave in to the call of its power.
But Boromir had seen it coming. Boromir knew what he would have done, had their positions been reversed. Any weapon to defeat a stronger enemy... Any weapon, even that one. Especially that one. Boromir would have given in to its call long ago. This he knew, even before he saw Frodo's hands reach out. And Frodo knew it too.
The sudden flash of gold stopped both their hearts. They were so close together that they both could hear it as they caught their breath together with the intensity of it, and then broke into the same ragged, painful gasps. They both could feel their hearts beating together, racing to the same uneven pulse, separated only by cloth and skin. And they both could feel it as the same longing rose in both their breasts: a sickness, a pleasure, an unendurable pain.
But Frodo had the means to end that longing. The Ring shone bright against the pale skin of his shaking hand. He clasped his hand around it, pulling it from its chain, his eyes closing with relief, with guilt, with guilty pleasure at the thrill of its touch.
And in that moment, Frodo's guard was down. And in that moment, such madness rose within Boromir as he had no hope of controlling. And in that moment, his hands were around Frodo's neck...
Three minutes, it would have taken him to kill a grown man. Three minutes, give or take; time, perhaps, to break free of the madness that had overcome him, to realise his error.
Time to stop himself from becoming a murderer.
Three minutes, it would have taken him to kill a man.
But Frodo was no man. And the madness leant Boromir strength, even as it robbed him of mercy.
And the hobbit fell limp against him. And this time, it was no feint.
And in his madness, Boromir laughed as he took the Ring and claimed it for Gondor. And he put it upon his finger, and welcomed it with his whole heart, and it took him for its own, and his world swirled away into darkness.