The Breaking of the Fellowship

'I like not this waiting,' Legolas said. 'If my ears do not deceive me, there are fell things in these woods, and they draw ever closer. I do not believe that Frodo is safe alone any longer.'

'He has had his hour and more!' Sam cried. 'I say it is time to go after him, Strider. I'm afraid he may be trying to journey on without us. In the time he's been gone, he could have gotten half way to Mordor and back!'

'Not without going past us to the boats, Sam,' Aragorn said softly. 'That is the only route eastward from here.' He sighed, tearing his gaze away from the falls of Rauros and the path to Gondor. 'Nonetheless, Frodo's hour is long passed, and I think it is time we sought him out.'

'And the sooner the better!' Sam said darkly. 'Boromir has not yet returned either.'

'Ay, but Boromir is a warrior both fierce and stout of heart,' Gimli put in. 'Orcs there may be in these woods, but he has naught to fear from them.'

Legolas' brow creased.

'I think it is not Boromir's safety that Master Samwise is concerned with,' he said simply.

Aragorn looked up sharply.

'Boromir is a man of honour,' he said fiercely. 'He may disagree with Frodo's course, but that does not mean that Frodo need fear him.'

Legolas said nothing, but Sam's eyes narrowed.

'Oh, enough of all this talking!' he cried suddenly. 'We know what needs doing, and the longer we leave it, the greater the danger to Frodo!' And without waiting for any further response, he tore off into the trees, calling Frodo's name.

'Wait a moment!' Aragorn called, but it was too late. Sam had disappeared; Merry and Pippin were running one way, Legolas and Gimli another. It was as though a sudden madness had fallen on the company.

'We shall be scattered and lost,' groaned Aragorn, but none heard him. He was desperately worried for the safety of the young hobbits Merry and Pippin, but instinct told him that Sam would have picked the right path to find Frodo, and with no further time to think, he sprang swiftly in pursuit of Sam.

A great fiery Eye ripped and pierced through Boromir's mind, but he had the strength of the One Ring, and nothing could hurt him now. Anger and hatred coursed through him and he directed their full force at the fiery enemy, but all his efforts seemed only to make the fire burn more fierce. It felt like fighting a physical battle in the darkness of his mind.

He wanted to fight, to kill, to hurt and maim. It was the only way to protect his people. In his mind's eye the White Tower ran red with blood, but it stood still, stood tall and proud and true, and that was the only thing that mattered.

And he was King, King of the White Tower, King of all Gondor, King rightly crowned and truly loved, but most importantly a strong King, a Warrior King. His people were soldiers undefeated, and they rode throughout Middle Earth waging war on all who opposed them, because it was the only way to keep the White Tower standing safe.

At the back of his mind, a tiny voice was screaming; screaming that this was madness, screaming that he was a murderer and a traitor, that he deserved to die, and that the White Tower bought with the death of innocents and red with bloodshed of its own devising was no different to the White Tower fallen.

But he couldn't listen to that voice. It was taking all his concentration to fight against the fire that was consuming him. The images of victory leant him strength, he was sure of it, they kindled the righteous anger that was all that stood between him and the flames. Minas Tirith would stand! Had he not taken the Ring to make it so?

And he pushed the voice from the back of his mind, even as it was screaming at him to take off the Ring, fool! Take off the Ring!

Something was shining brightly in the darkness of the world beyond the fire and the spinning shadows. If Boromir concentrated, he could make out the figure of a man. On his brow a crown shone with the light of Numenor; but the sword at his side held terror for Boromir, though he knew not why.

A Ringwraith, Boromir wondered? But no, though he was horribly, mortally afraid, he could see that the face was noble and uncorrupted.

The Eye was fighting him no longer, but was instead watching, watching. Here was the source of all his woes, a voice whispered in the darkness of his mind. To fight this Man was to fight all that threatened his city.

With some difficulty, Boromir drew his sword.

The Man stopped still at the noise, and dropped to a crouch, listening, listening. Boromir froze.

'Who is there?' the Man called. 'Frodo, is that you?'

The voice was distorted, almost unrecognisable from this side of the shadow and fire. But Boromir did recognise it, though he did not understand. He took a step backwards.

Strike him now! Strike him while he is blind!

'Boromir?' the Man called, perhaps recognising the heavy tread of a warrior. This Man was a Ranger, Boromir remembered dimly. His view of the world came not from sight alone, and though his eyes saw Boromir not, still he was aware of him, aware of where he stood and how he breathed.

It matters not. Prove your true strength, Boromir son of Denethor.

Boromir gritted his teeth and shook his head. The fire flared around him, but he heeded it not, though the pain of it seared his very soul.

Strike him down, and Gondor will be yours.

Boromir caught his breath. His sword felt heavy in his hand, heavy and alive.

'I am a man of honour, Aragorn,' he called suddenly. 'And so I will give you fair warning. Stand and fight, or flee now! I have the Ring, and I will lead my people to victory. But first, I will kill you if I can.' Hatred choked him, hatred for this usurper and his quiet superiority.

He embraced the hatred, because to do anything else was to remember that once, they had been shield brothers, had fought together, helped one another, shared a meal, a joke, a moment of silence, or leaned against each other's shoulders around a common fire.

He watched Aragorn's shining face, though the light of it hurt his eyes. There was little of fear in it, just shock, and anguished horror, and a little anger.

But also pity.

A hiss of mingled anger and despair escaped Boromir's lips. Would Aragorn pity him so if he knew that the hobbit lay dead, he wondered?

Without warning, in one lighting-fast motion, the Ranger had drawn his sword and thrust the point towards Boromir's throat.

Boromir blocked, a wild grin breaking across his face, though he knew that Aragorn could not see it.

And the fight was on.

Their swords flashed and rang, locked together at the hilt, held for a moment, and then Aragorn leapt away on the balls of his feet. Boromir stood as silent as he could, wordlessly daring Aragorn to make the next move. But Aragorn would not; he dropped to a half crouch and waited, listening for the noise that would give Boromir away. After a long, tense pause, Boromir lunged forwards, knowing that he would not be able to move in silence, or at least not silence enough to fool Aragorn. The man was a Ranger, a Dunedan of the North, he could follow the sound of steel moving through air, or a slight gasp of breath, even if Boromir could silence his heavy tread. But Boromir was glad of this. He didn't want Aragorn helpless. He wanted a fight to test them both.

Aragorn blocked, danced away, turned, and brought Anduril crashing down towards Boromir's shoulder. Without thinking, Boromir stepped forwards, and the blade whistled harmlessly past.

Aragorn's eyes instinctively scanned the middle distance – he thought that Boromir had stepped away. But Boromir was close enough to reach out and touch him. He held his breath, tried even to silence his heartbeat, and prepared to make the killing thrust upwards into Aragorn's gut. At the last moment, the Ranger jumped away, swinging Anduril down to turn aside Boromir's blade. He had felt the hiss of Boromir's breath against his cheek.

Boromir smiled savagely.

Without warning, Aragorn went for the attack, and their swords met together in a fury of blows and parries, until sparks flew and the sound of steel against steel echoed from the trees. Boromir tried to break away, but this time the Ranger would not let him. As long as sword rang on sword, Aragorn could judge where the next blow was coming from and the fight was almost evenly matched. He kept up his attack; furiously Boromir countered. The pace intensified until both men were fighting at the very limit of their abilities, but neither could land a blow.

And now it becomes naught but a question of how soon you will tire, Boromir thought with something approaching triumph. For while desperate concentration exhausted Aragorn's strength, within himself, there was a well of fire which had not yet even been touched.

Aragorn longed to speak with him, he could tell. Longed to fling questions at the empty air and hope that they would be answered. But the fight took all his focus. His eyes darted wildly, and Anduril flashed in the sunlight. To Boromir's eyes it was so bright that he could hardly follow its movements. And when he left himself time to think, he feared it still, with a terror that was almost paralysing.

Just once, Aragorn called out.

'Boromir, this is madness!' he cried suddenly, as though the words had been ripped from him against his will. His voice was filled with such sorrow.

But Boromir had already set his heart against such a plea, and it simply redoubled his anger. Aragorn stepped back, again and again, his sword loose by his side now, only raising it to deflect Boromir's blows. It seemed that at last he had wearied of the fight, not in body but in mind. And yet it was not the despairing clumsiness of mental exhaustion, but more a kind of... insolent boredom. Again and again Boromir tried to provoke him to violence, but the Ranger would not do more than turn his blows aside. In utter frustration and anger, Boromir lashed out his sword to mark Aragorn's face. This time, Aragorn did not even try to deflect the stroke, but instead mirrored it. Both sword tips came away red with blood.

Boromir cried out, a howl not of pain but of anguish. And Aragorn....

... Aragorn fled.

Boromir stared after him. For a moment, something that was almost elation swept over him. He had driven the Ranger away! The Ring had not been taken from him.

And then despair ripped through him. His foe had escaped alive. The Eye was burning him up from the inside with such intensity that he bent double with the pain of it.

One task I set you. And you have failed it, whispered that harsh voice at the back of his mind.

And a small part of his mind screamed that the heir of the Steward of Gondor answered to no-one, that he set his own tasks and had chosen to let Aragorn go free, because it was the right thing to do, and he had honour yet.

But the rest murmured Yes, Lord, and knew that he would agree to anything, anything as long as his city was safe.

He had killed the hobbit, had broken his oath, and now he had attacked his rightful King. Honour was dead. What did it matter now?