The Last Hope

Boromir stopped on the banks of the Anduin and gazed past Rauros falls at the long road home. The fire in his mind burned bright and fierce, and once again he fought against it. It sought now to destroy him, to consume him. It had tried to bend him to its will, and it had failed. Now it tried to weaken him.

And it was working. He was so wracked with pain that he could scarcely think. If he could only use the fire that burned within him before it consumed him utterly, then the pain would be worth it. He could not control it, this he knew, for he was not a fool. It was too strong for him, and it burned. But if only he could turn that destructive power outwards, he would have the victory he needed.

Briefly, his gaze turned eastward and he looked out over the Emyn Muil. Pain surged within him, and he almost cried out. His vision dimmed, and he tasted blood.

He looked away, trying to get a hold on himself once more. Not yet. He could not yet face up to the Eye.

He would take it to Minas Tirith. Perhaps from within his own stronghold he would have the strength to face down his enemy. He turned towards Rauros and his homeward road once more.

He knew not how long he had stood looking over the falls when, dimly, he began to be aware of the sounds of battle – and high, clear hobbit voices calling out for aid. At first, he thought they might be only the product of his tortured mind, but the harsh cries of orcish voices were real enough, and the hobbit cries grew desperate.

Boromir shuddered. Frodo had not cried out as he had choked out his life with Boromir's heavy hands around his throat.

Oath breaker. You were sworn to protect them.

Boromir groaned aloud, burying his face in his hands. Blue eyes glittered accusingly in the darkness of his mind, and he knew not whether they belonged to Frodo or Sam; Gandalf or Galadriel; Faramir or himself. And yet somewhere deep in his heart he knew that they spoke the truth.

But the fire burned fierce.

Minas Tirith calls. Protect your people. Leave the little ones to their fate.

Boromir hardened his heart, and turned south towards Gondor. Before he had gone more than a few steps, the fire had receded, the pain was lessened.

But he could not feel relief.

Minas Tirith bought with the blood of innocents is the same as Minas Tirith fallen. You are playing into his hands, son of Denethor.

He knew not where the voice had come from, but it stopped him dead. Frodo's face flashed before his eyes, and then Merry and Pippin cut to pieces on orcish blades.

What have you become, son of Denethor? You are an oath-breaker, a murderer. Are you also a coward?

Boromir felt his skin crawl. He cursed, and began to run, westwards this time, towards the shouting. Pain ripped through him, almost enough to stop him in his tracks, but he welcomed the pain, it showed him that he fought against the Enemy yet.

He burst into the clearing, sword already drawn. His vision was dimmed, he could barely take in the scene at all, but he thought that Pippin lay unconscious. Merry he could not see, but all through the clearing swarmed the orcs, great and terrible.

Both halves of his severed mind understood the sudden rush of bloodlust that swept over him like a wave of nausea. The sword was naked in his hand, and now it burned. He let go of all thought and swept through the clearing in fire and blood. There was no conscious thought; no fear; and no pain. Nothing but anger and hatred; and a sickening pleasure in the blood he spilled and the anguished cries of his enemies.

Always, always before he had held himself back from this. It was dangerous – he had no care for himself, no thought at all, no strategy, nothing but sheer physical strength and the might of rage. And always before there had been the fear that he would never come back from it, the fear that hurting and killing were... too attractive.

Now... he was lost anyway. He let himself go. And knew no more.

Merry's short sword was drawn, and black with orcish blood. He ducked and weaved between the great heavy bodies. It was no use trying to stand his ground. They were bigger than him and there were too many of them and they swarmed from all directions. He couldn't see Pippin. He ducked behind a tree, stabbing above his head into the groin of the orc that was about to decapitate him. His sword was wrenched from his grip; off balance, he stumbled and fell. He rolled, crawled away on his elbows, lay still. All around him was chaos. He froze, hoping to be overlooked.

Somewhere out of his line of sight, Pippin was screaming. Merry knew that there was nothing he could do. Even had he not lost his sword, just fighting his way across the clearing to Pippin's side would have been more than he was capable of. He buried his face leafy earth, bit his lip, tried to keep from moving. His only hope of survival was to keep still and unnoticed. There was nothing more he could do.

But then Pippin's scream was cut off short, and Merry knew that he could bear it no longer. He dragged himself to his feet. There was nothing he could do, he was powerless, hopelessly outnumbered by enemies twice his size, and swordless. But he ducked and weaved between the heavy bodies nonetheless, trying to find his friend.

'Strider! Strider!' he cried out, his voice carrying shrilly across the noise and chaos. 'Legolas! Boromir! Help!'

Over at the far side of the clearing there was a cry that might have been rage or triumph or despair. For a moment, he thought it was Boromir's voice, and hope flared in his heart. But though he darted this way and that about the clearing, dodging cruel blows from heavy iron swords as he ran, he could not catch sight of Boromir. Despair overtook him once more. It was all he could do to remain on his feet.

But all of a sudden, the orcs were fleeing. He could not understand it. He could hear swords clashing, erratically, and harsh, guttural cries of terror. Bodies were beginning to pile up around the clearing. And now and then, he thought he heard snatches of wild laughter and muttered words in a familiar accent, but always just beyond his sight. He snatched up an impossibly heavy and unwieldy sword from a lifeless orc, and darted and ran about the clearing, hither and thither amongst the falling bodies, calling Boromir's name. He did not understand.

Most of the orcs had drawn back now. In the center of the clearing, three of the tallest, ugliest, and evilest-looking of the lot were fighting ferociously with the empty air. Merry frowned in confusion, backing away with growing fear. The savagery of the orcs was growing, and the leaves and mud underfoot were trampled with blood both orcish black and human red. Merry could hear the guttural growling of the beasts, but also the desperate hitching breaths of a man at his last gasp.

Boromir fought there, unseen. Merry was beginning to grow sure of it.

How it was possible, he knew not. And he did not want to guess. But he dared hope, now. He trusted Boromir. Boromir would drive the orcs away. Boromir would save Pippin.

And then there came an anguished cry which cut Merry's heart, and suddenly Boromir was on his knees amongst the bloodstained leaves, clutching his swordarm to his chest. Merry started forwards with a yell, as Boromir crumpled forwards, a terrible, choked scream escaping him.

'Leave him!' one of the orcs growled. 'The Halflings! They made for the trees. Now, you lazy maggots!'

And the orcs were tramping across the clearing once again, and all was chaos. Merry tried to crawl unnoticed to Boromir's side, hacking out at feet and ankles whenever he had to, or freezing motionless against the earthy ground. By the time he reached Boromir, he had lost all sense of time. He felt as though he might have been crawling for hours. He touched the Man's shoulder, but Boromir flinched away from him. Before Merry could react, the flat of a heavy blade had caught his shoulder a glancing blow, and he cried out, cowering to the floor.

Something soft and still faintly warm touched his cheek. Without knowing what it was, Merry instinctively recoiled. He reached out a trembling hand and touched... flesh. Fingertips. Broken nails and sword calluses.

Before Merry had had a chance to take in what this meant, a flash of gold had caught his eye, and his heart stopped. Without further thought, and with the sole purpose of protecting it from the orcs who would surely otherwise claim it for their own, Merry reached out again.

It was Boromir's forearm, severed. And the Ring gleamed dully on his fourth finger. Merry bit back a wave of nausea and cradled it to his chest. He cowered once more against the earthy floor, knowing that something terrible and incomprehensible must have just happened. The world stood still around him. Harsh whispered words of black speech washed over him. Tears leaked out of his eyes and spilled down his cheeks though he could not have said why.

Boromir was whimpering, softly but uncontrollably. It sounded so unlike him that Merry began to shake with fear. Still he cradled the... the thing to him, though blood soaked his front.

Not more than a few seconds had passed. Merry's shoulder ached terribly, and he still could not see Pippin, and he felt sick and cold, and any second now these great, fierce, terrible orcs would stop overlooking him and then it would all be over, not just for him, but for all Middle Earth, for he held the One Ring clutched against his blood-stained chest. He trembled uncontrollably at this thought. He did not know what to do. If he moved, he would be seen. He could not fight his way free. He dared not hope that his luck would hold out and he would remain unnoticed until the orcs had passed.

Put on the Ring, and they will overlook you, whispered a rash voice at the back of his head. Merry gritted his teeth and shook his head. He knew from Frodo's mishaps in Bree and on Weathertop that to put the Ring on now would be fatal.

And suddenly an idea came from him. With shaking hands, he ripped the horn of Gondor from Boromir's belt. Boromir cried out, presumably at the pain of being touched, though it felt to Merry as though he knew that he had been bereft. I will return it, if I can, he promised silently. Several orcs had started at the cry and turned to see, to gloat at the Man's agony, perhaps, or to check that he wasn't rising to his feet once again. Hurriedly, Merry pressed the horn to his lips and blew. At first his mouth was too dry to make a sound. Desperately, he wetted his lips – the orcs were closing in – and this time, the horn sounded. The horn-call of Buckland came naturally to his lips, but on this great horn of Gondor, he could not control the pitch, and so he simply sustained a single, clear, desperate note until all the breath was gone from his body and grey streaks swirled across his vision. He dragged in another painful breath and set the horn to his lips once more.

Aragorn! Legolas! Gimli! he called desperately, silently. And the note of the horn rang out fierce and proud. But the orcs closed in around him.