Day Sixteen: Boromir
Bilbo took to shipboard life almost as if he had been born to it, much to the surprise of everyone. He delighted in learning the ways of the crew and the operation of the small village afloat on the seemingly endless expanse of water. Lord Cirdan, captain of the swan ship, was charmed to find such an apt student in the ancient hobbit. Bilbo was eager to learn about navigation, star charts and ocean current maps. The Elf had not had a pupil in many long years, and Bilbo's enthusiasm pleased him.
"Oh, how wonderful!" Bilbo declared the third day they were at sea. Cirdan had invited the two hobbits into the Captain's quarters in the aft cabins. The Elf-lord was showing them the nautical library with its numerous maps and cunning instruments for measuring depths, speed, time and distance. After orienting them to where the different subjects were stored, the Elf retired to his private cabin and gently closed the sliding doors separating his quarters from the library.
Bilbo spent the next few hours reading weather-related pamphlets and charts. He would occasionally pull out a scrolled map tucked away in a corner of the room and add it to his ever-growing pile of reading materials overflowing the small wooden table bolted to the floor in the center of the room. Frodo privately chuckled. Bilbo was quickly turning the neat and tidy Elvish library into his own preposterously messy hobbit study.
While Frodo was equally fascinated with the wealth of information suddenly available to him, he was not as natural a sailor as his uncle. The persistent rocking motion of the ship, and the close, dark and rather stale air of the library made him feel as if he had eaten something not quite right.
The thought of food was not a good idea. Not a good idea at all!
Frodo tried to swallow down a growing sense of doom rising from the pit of his stomach. His mouth watered uncontrollably. A sour hiccup convinced him of his need for air. He looked about frantically, and found a small window latched shut between bookcases built into the ship's hull. Frodo quickly pulled a chair over beneath the window and climbed up to unlatch the painted iron hardware. He spent a good portion of day three hanging his head outside and throwing up.
Bilbo hardly noticed.
After Frodo finally found his sea legs on day four, he visited the library more frequently, though he always unlocked the little window and propped it open, just in case. Only during days and nights of rough weather did the hobbit experience the seasickness. Bilbo never suffered, much to Frodo's annoyance.
"Natural born sailor, my lad," Bilbo bragged. "Must have got it from the Took side of the family. The Old Took had some relations that went to Sea. It's in our blood, you know."
"Perhaps it's in our blood, Uncle, but I think I missed out on that family trait," Frodo weakly jested. "I prefer to have my blood, as well as the rest of me, firmly on dry land."
The evening of their fifteenth day at sea was again rough, and Frodo was feeling decidedly queasy. He decided to err on the side of caution and went to bed early that evening without supper. Frodo changed into a nightshirt and placed a familiar metal bowl up inside the crook of his bunk. 'Just in case,' he grimly thought. The last thing he did before retiring to the upper bunk was to remove the Evenstar, gently wrap it in a pale green silken handkerchief, and carefully tuck it away inside the little chest-of-drawers bolted to the cabin's wall. 'No use throwing up on that again,' he reasoned before settling in for another night of rough seas.
Day sixteen quietly slipped into a wet dawn, with steady, light drizzle, calm seas and no wind. Bilbo woke first, tossing off the quilted covers and stepping onto the smooth, cool wooden floors. He still occupied the lower bunk, even though his aches and pains were so greatly diminished as to be of very little bother.
Bilbo dressed himself in the dark; faintly surprised to see Frodo still asleep in the tangled blue blankets covering the upper bunk. The ship's motions where so subtle they almost seemed to be stationary. No creaking or thumping noises from the wooden planks sealed with tar. For the first time since boarding, Bilbo did not notice the constant vibration of waves pressing against the sideboards and keel. Nor did he hear the rhythms of ropes and pulleys above deck.
'Either we've docked and no one's come to tell us,' he thought as he quietly finished dressing in the dim blue light filtering in from the lone porthole above Frodo's head, 'or we're becalmed. Might as well find out.'
He heard Frodo grunt slightly as the younger hobbit turned over and clutched the woolen blankets more tightly to his slight frame.
"I'm off to breakfast. Can I get you anything, my boy?" Bilbo whispered, half afraid of waking his heir if indeed Frodo was asleep.
"No," whispered the faint reply from within the covers.
"Right," Bilbo said. "There's a full water bottle on the chest-of-drawers. I'll be in the mess if you need me." He removed the unused metal bowl from Frodo's bed, and then left the cabin, gently closing the door behind.
Frodo lay awhile in the stillness and relative warmth of the many blankets, but he could feel it beginning again.
'No,' he thought. 'Not now. Not here. What day is it?' The ache in his shoulder. The nausea in the pit of his stomach. The distinctive metallic taste of poison in his mouth. This was not seasickness. It was happening again. Would he never be free of it? Of the pain? The unwanted desires and memories? The madness?
If he stayed below… if he stayed here in the cabin… here in bed… perhaps he could ride it out without the others knowing. Frodo felt waves of shame rise like vomit to lodge itself atop the ever-increasing feelings of hopelessness and emptiness. He curled himself into a tight ball, swallowed hard, and crawled as deep into the corner of his bunk as he could. His vision narrowed and darkened as he gazed up in longing at the empty sky shimmering through the porthole. He soon lost all peripheral sight even as the cold in his left shoulder snaked its way along familiar lines down into his arm, up his neck and across his chest.
Bilbo returned after a few hours above deck. "Frodo?" There was no answer from the huddled mass of blankets tucked into the foot of the upper bunk. Bilbo climbed onto his own bunk and reached out to gently pat the body tightly curled under the blankets. "Frodo?"
"Please…" The voice sounded terribly old and tired and frightened. "Please leave me alone. Don't touch me. Please. Don't hurt me again. I don't have it anymore."
Bilbo could feel the shivers running down Frodo's body even as he curled himself tighter and tighter into a ball against the wall. Bilbo gently pulled back the cover from Frodo's face. He was drenched in sweat yet cold to the touch as Bilbo gently caressed the flushed cheeks.
"There, there," Bilbo crooned as to an ill child, "I'll go get Elrond. He'll be able to help. You stay here, my boy. I'll be right back."
The hobbit soon returned with a concerned Elf, closely followed by the Wizard. As they could not all squeeze into the hobbit-sized compartment at one time, Bilbo and Gandalf waited outside as Elrond quietly shut the door.
"No… Noooooo… Oh, noooooo… Please! No… Please, don't…"
Tears started to Bilbo's eyes upon hearing the heart-wrenching cries as they carried through the door. "What's wrong with him, Gandalf?" Bilbo sobbed.
The Wizard sighed and hunched down into the hallway. "Do you remember his Morgul-blade wounding?"
"Yes, yes. Of course," the elderly hobbit gruffly sniffled. "He got over it."
"Not completely," the Wizard whispered.
"What? You mean to tell me you lied to me?" Bilbo could hardly control his fury. "Elrond lied? Frodo himself lied?" The hobbit's fists shook in anger. "Tell me the truth, you scheming old thing, you!"
The unexpected sound of the door opening abruptly cut short their argument. "I need a bit of brandy, a bowl of cool water and some towels, please." Elrond closed the door again before either Wizard or hobbit could reply.
Bilbo took off running down the hallway, and soon returned with the items. Gandalf lightly tapped on the door, and Elrond deftly took the objects from Bilbo.
"So… cold…" The door shut abruptly, leaving the Wizard and hobbit alone in the hallway once again.
"My dearest Bilbo," Gandalf gently continued, "We never lied to you. Frodo did recover from the wound, but he was never completely healed. Elrond fought the evil enchantment on the blade, but even his considerable powers have their limit. And with the destruction of the One Ring, all the good created by the use of the Elvish Rings of Power also failed or became undone. This includes what Elrond did to help Frodo through that wounding. Frodo knew he would carry this with him for the rest of his days." The Wizard sighed. "I think this is the only reason he agreed to travel to the Undying Lands. Elrond once told him healing might be found in the Blessed Realm. I believe this is Frodo's final hope."
"Hope." The word fell flat from Bilbo's mouth. It tasted bitter like ashes and sour milk.
"Ahhhh…. I… don't… have… it!" The dreadfully painful shrieks and loud thunks against the hull cut like a knife through the stillness of the becalmed ship. Several curious heads peeked out into the hallway, only to quickly disappear upon seeing the hunched form of the Wizard and a hobbit with his head in his hands.
Tears flowed unchecked down Bilbo's weathered cheeks. "What hope is there in this?" The distraught hobbit gestured wildly into thin air. "Tell me that, Gandalf. Why does this evil endure when goodness fails? Hasn't he done enough already? What good can come of my poor boy's continuous suffering?"
"I do not know," was all the Wizard could manage. "If it were in my power to alleviate his suffering right now, I would do so. I would sacrifice myself again for him, if it could somehow change his fate. But such graces may only be made by powers greater than I. That, my dearest friend, is why we are taking Frodo to Tol Eressea. For while Frodo yet lives, there is hope."
The Wizard gently enfolded the crying elderly hobbit inside his arms and gently stroked the grey curls. "There, there, my dearest Bilbo. Frodo IS strong. He is stronger than he himself believes. He will come through this day as he has come through others like it."
They heard a sharp bang as if someone inside the cabin were ripping it apart plank by plank. "Ah!" Elrond's voice was heard through the door. It was the first time he had spoken.
"Please… stop! Please! I… don't…. know….. where…… it……. is…….." Frodo's tortured voice faded into a whisper, and then was silent.
Bilbo could not recollect how long he and Gandalf paced the hallway before the door finally opened and Lord Elrond stepped out. "He is calm now," the Elf-lord quietly stated, then turned to Bilbo. "Make certain he wears my daughter's pendant at all times," he abruptly said. "I know all about it. She gave it to him for a very good reason. There is no need to hide it from my eyes."
Bilbo blinked in surprise, but gravely nodded.
"The worst is past and he has regained his mind." Elrond turned to Gandalf. "Frodo has asked to talk with you, Mithrandir."
Bilbo's heart sank within his breast. "Fear not, dear Bilbo," Elrond smiled. "Frodo has also asked for you. He wishes you would remain with him when he sleeps. He loves and trusts you like none other here. Come with me. Gandalf will find you when Frodo is ready." The two friends walked down the hallway, leaving Gandalf to enter the small chamber.
The cabin was a jumbled mess of clothing and wood strewn across the floor.
Gandalf found Frodo propped up against multiple pillows on the shadowy lower bunk, tightly clutching the pendant that now hung about his neck. Several blankets covered him from the neck down. And though he was sitting upright, his knees where drawn up against his chest. A faint sheen of sweat covered his upper lip and clung to his hair even though a damp towel was draped across his brow.
Gandalf noted the dark circles under the closed and reddened eyelids. He carefully replaced the top of the chest-of-drawers that had evidently been ripped off by Elrond in his haste to locate the pendant. The Wizard sat down upon the poor abused chest-of-drawers and waited.
"Gandalf?" The voice in the dark was faint, but steady.
"Yes, Frodo."
"Do you think I will last as long as the other?"
"What other, Frodo?"
"The other person who lived after receiving a wound such as mine."
The Wizard grunted slightly. "Oh. Interesting. How did you learn about him?"
"I spent time in the great library while convalescing in Minas Tirith," Frodo replied without opening his eyes. "I was interested in reading the history of the Kings and Stewards." He paused briefly, and then continued. "It was one of the early Stewards of the Second Age. Another Boromir, if I am not mistaken."
"You are correct," Gandalf replied. "Boromir, son of Denethor the First, Eleventh Ruling Steward of Gondor. He also suffered a Morgul-blade wound at the hands of the Witch King of Angmar."
"The journals do not reveal much about his wounding," Frodo whispered. "But I gather Lord Elrond must have treated him before he treated my Morgul-wound." He shifted slightly, wincing as a sharp pain ghosted along his neck.
"How did you surmise that Lord Elrond treated him?" Gandalf asked. "That detail is certainly not written in the annals."
Frodo opened his eyes. "That Boromir lived twelve long years after his wounding before finally succumbing to the poison. Lord Elrond's powers of healing are well known, and I imagine Steward Boromir tried consulting with him about the pain as I have." Frodo accepted the water bottle Gandalf offered. "Tell me, Gandalf. Did Boromir travel to Rivendell or did Lord Elrond make the journey to Osgiliath?"
"Minas Tirith," Gandalf quietly replied. "The capital of Gondor was Osgiliath during that Age, but Osgiliath was destroyed by the Witch King during Boromir's Stewardship. He knew he was too weak to repulse an attack from Minas Morgul. He abandoned Osgiliath. We were in Minas Tirith when Elrond came at my bidding."
"Why did Lord Elrond agree to treat me, when experience with Steward Boromir showed that this sort of wound is incurable?" Frodo asked.
"Ah, Boromir," Gandalf sighed. "Such a hard head, just like his namesake. Both stubborn, proud and willful men." Gandalf patted Frodo on the foot. "Not like you, my dear hobbit." Gandalf leaned back against the doorframe. "Boromir suffered from the folly of pride. It was pride that drove him to challenge Angmar in personal combat in the first place. And it was pride that kept him from asking for help until it was too late.
"You, my dear hobbit, harbor no such fatal flaws. You were treated within a month of your wounding, though even that short of a delay almost cost you your life. The Steward waited five years before calling for aide."
Frodo stared into space. "If a strong and powerful Man – a descendant of the Numenoreans – only lasted twelve years, and I have already lived four years since my wounding, how much longer will I, a hobbit, linger before I also succumb?"
"That, no one can answer," Gandalf quietly replied.
Frodo swallowed tightly. "I thought… or at least, I hoped, I would be spared this by leaving Middle Earth."
"Perhaps you shall," the Wizard replied. "We are still on the Great Ocean. It is October the Sixth, and we have not yet left Middle Earth."
Frodo sighed and stretched out on the bunk. Gandalf removed the compress, gently rearranged the covers, and tucked the weary hobbit into a warm cocoon of blankets. Frodo sighed and closed his eyes.
"Gandalf?" The Wizard had a hard time hearing the faint voice. "Even if we find the Path to Tol Eressea, what will happen to me when I try to set foot on its shores? Will I die immediately? Or will the land simply refuse me?"
"Why do you think you won't be allowed onto Tol Eressea, Frodo?" Gandalf asked, gently stroking the flushed cheek.
"I had a dream…" He was asleep.