From Darkness Into Darkness
Without slowing his pace, Aragorn touched a hand to the side of his face, and winced. Blood flowed freely from the shallow gash. Aragorn cursed, and blinked back the threat of tears.
Boromir had fallen.
Where lay the fatal weakness, Aragorn wondered? Was it some flaw in the other Man's soul? Or was it the nature of all Men to give in to the corruption of power? Boromir had been so fair, and so proud; strong of will and great of heart. And now... what was he?
And what had kept Aragorn himself from such a fate? Some inner strength, some fire that burned brighter and purer within him than the other Man? Or simply a matter of circumstance, of chance? He had felt the Ring's call, heard its whispered promises; indeed, had spent much of his waking hours guarding his heart against them.
But had he come across Frodo in that moment when Boromir had; alone, defenceless, and the Ring within his grasp... would he have been able to resist?
He wanted to believe that he would, but the uncertainty sickened his heart.
And where was Frodo now? He would not have given up the Ring without a fight. Aragorn bowed his head and tried not to think the worst.
Though it was Frodo he feared for, his heart kept turning back to Boromir. How could so noble a Man have been so utterly lost? Aragorn had failed him. He had known that Boromir's heart was tortured by the Ring's whispered promises, but he had been unable to protect him, for so too had his own heart been. Isildur's heir might not have been Isildur himself, but he was no more than a Man, and always tortured by the thought that Isildur's fate might one day become his own.
He had thought that the Ring's test was for him and him alone. By right of blood, he could have made claim to the wicked thing, could have tried to bend it to his will, for Isildur's fate was his birthright. And he fought against it, as was his destiny and his duty, to atone for the mistakes of his forefathers. Each day of the quest, he had fought against it, and each day he had won. And he had thought that that would be enough to redeem the race of Men, to undo the evil that Isildur had begun all those years ago.
But the weakness of Men was not confined to the line of Elendil alone.
The burden of the Ring was not Boromir's by bloodright or by destiny, but by mere unhappy chance. And neither destiny nor duty had bid him fight it, but he had all the same, had fought alongside Aragorn to resist the fate of Isildur and redeem the race of Man. Each day of the quest, he had fought it, and each day he had won... until today.
Temptation had proved too strong. Boromir had fallen.
And Frodo? Aragorn cursed, and shook his head. The redemption of Man was all very well, but he had to find Frodo. He dashed away the tears that he had scarcely noticed falling, and picked up his pace.
Upon the throne of Amon Hen, Sam sat, staring unseeing into the distance. The stone seat was great enough to dwarf the frame of a grown man; Sam looked little more than a lost child.
He was sobbing
Aragorn's heart froze.
'Is he so gravely hurt, then?' he called to Sam. The hobbit gave a small start at the sound of his voice, and then bowed his head.
'Gravely indeed,' he choked out eventually. 'He is dead.' And he could say no more.
Horror overwhelmed Aragorn. And yet even now he could not believe that Boromir would have done such a thing. He cast his eyes around for Frodo, expecting any moment to see him take off the Ring and flicker back into plain sight.
But Frodo did not have the Ring. Boromir did. Aragorn had seen proof enough of that.
His eyes lighted finally on the crumpled figure slumped against the rocky base of the stone seat. Hopelessly, Sam rested a protective hand on the dark, curly head.
Aragorn crossed to them and knelt by Frodo's side. There was no blood; he had expected bloodshed and violence. But only one mark marred Frodo's sleeping form, and that was the livid bruise around his throat. His eyes were open, and lifeless, and filled with an expression that was mingled fear and regret and relief.
No blood. Not a single cut upon him. And yet Boromir was a swordsman. This choking off of life with bare hands and uncontrolled rage did not seem as if it could possibly be the deed of the warrior that Aragorn knew and respected. It sickened him.
He closed his eyes and steeled himself.
The orcs and trolls of Moria had been unable to fell Frodo. Even the deathly strike of a Morgul blade had not doomed him, though it had taken all Elrond's healing to call him back from that darkness.
How then could nothing more than the hands of a Man have taken his life?
Gently, Aragorn took the hobbit's shoulders and shook them, calling his name, calling so as to bring him back to himself if there were any life in him, commanding the hobbit to respond with the power of the Kings of Numenor; and then, though it was clearly hopeless, begging and pleading with him, tears of anguish starting up in his eyes.
Sam watched him wearily. There had been a momentary flicker of suppressed hope in his eyes, but it had quickly dimmed.
Frodo was dead.
Finally, when the last of his strength was spent, Aragorn conceded defeat and turned his attention to the living, gathering the weeping Sam up in his arms and rocking him against his chest.
'I am sorry. I am truly sorry,' he whispered. Sam's tears were warm and wet in the crook of his neck, but his own had frozen on his face and would fall no more. There was no more use for tears. Tears were for healing, but this time the grief ran too deep, and hope was gone.
'The Ring's gone,' Sam said eventually, when he could speak again.
'I know,' Aragorn said softly, trying to keep the despair out of his voice.
'It was Boromir, wasn't it?' Sam said fiercely. 'No orcs did this.' Aragorn shook his head.
'No orcs indeed. This was Boromir's doing.'
Sam bowed his head once more and wept.
'But I knew not to trust him, Strider!' he cried. 'I said to myself, it's the Ring he's after, Samwise Gamgee, and no mistake about it. I knew! And still I couldn't protect Frodo.'
'I was a fool to trust in the strength of Men to protect him,' Aragorn said, almost to himself. 'In the end, it was not the Enemy he had to fear.'
'The Enemy!' Sam cried, sitting up bolt upright. 'I had almost forgotten!' He looked about him as though waking up from a deep sleep. 'The Ring must still be destroyed, or all Frodo's suffering has been in vain!' he said. 'Oh Strider, don't you see? The quest can't fail now!'
At Sam's words, Aragorn felt a new strength growing within him. He closed his eyes and forced air back into his lungs.
'You give me such hope, little one,' he said quietly. Sam looked away.
'Hope? I've precious little of that, Strider,' he said. 'All I hoped for was to see Mister Frodo safely back in Bag End, and now he is...' Sam choked on the word and could not go on. 'Well. Let's just say hope is lost to me now,' he managed in a thick voice. 'But... this was always a hopeless quest, if you get my meaning. From darkness into darkness, with no clear idea of the way. Mister Frodo said that, or something very similar.' Sam squared his shoulders. 'I can carry on without hope,' he said fiercely. 'To the very end.'
'To the very end,' Aragorn echoed. He thought about all that was waiting for him still if, even now, the quest should succeed. He thought about Arwen waiting for him in Rivendell, and the White Tower welcoming him home, and the Sword that was Broken re-forged at his belt, and he realised with a jolt that he would never know what it was to be as utterly without hope as Sam was in that moment.
Why did he not kill me? Aragorn thought suddenly. Why did he not pursue me? Why did he let me go? He had no answer save the one he did not dare hope... that Boromir fought the Ring's corruption still, that it had not taken him completely.
The Nine... the Nine have not found him. So it is hidden from Sauron yet, though I understand not how. Perhaps then there is hope for him. Perhaps there is hope for us all. The hope was so slender that he dared not voice it out loud. But hope was kindled in his own heart, at least, now. He could follow this through to the very end. Out of hope for Arwen, for Anduril, for Minas Tirith, and maybe, just maybe, for Boromir too.
'But the end will come sooner rather than later if we don't find Boromir,' Sam was saying. 'If he has the Ring... he won't take it to Sauron, will he?'
Aragorn shook his head.
'No, he wants it for himself. Sauron will try to wrest it from him, but Boromir will not willingly part with it.'
'Then we must go after him,' Sam said, and his face was dark.
'He has done a great evil, Sam,' Aragorn said gently. 'But if you have it within your heart, be merciful. The Ring is both powerful and evil.'
'Do you think I do not know that?' Sam said angrily. 'I pity Boromir, don't you think that I don't! But only as you might pity a poisonous spider, dying trapped in its own web. You can pity it still, even though the world is better off without it, and even though its death is of its own devising. But that does not mean that you would save it, had you the chance.'
Not a spider, Aragorn thought sadly. A moth, and the candle-flame will singe your wings whether I would save you or no. But he said nothing.