Chapter 5: The Third Day
He ran faster, his breathing was laboured and harsh; terror seized his body. He was strong, but the fear and whispering voices were wearing away his strength and he knew he would not last. He could not outrun it because the thing, the thing that filled him with loathing and drove his heart to bursting was perched upon his back like a black monster, its misshapen hands digging into him, its clawed feet spurring him on. He was running heedlessly, throwing himself forward blindly through the darkness that surrounded him. He felt something hit him hard in the chest. He stumbled but continued to flee, and then again and again he was struck in the arm and the shoulder, the shafts digging deeply, seeking his life. The black thing grew heavier and heavier. As he fell, he caught a glint of gold... of perfect, round gold, spinning in the air before him. He reached out to touch it but found he hadn't the strength to lift his hand. He called, but no one came. A voice whispered in his mind, weary and sad, and he felt the claws in him tighten.
"I am afraid. Simply afraid."
The black thing laughed, a low, mocking laughter, and the sound thrilled through him, shook him to the core.
It was his own laughter, cold and detached, ringing in his ears.
Boromir rose the next morning as the first pale hint of light was appearing on the eastern horizon. He lifted his head from his bedroll and freed himself from tangled blankets; he slept restlessly these days, though he could not remember his dreams. For weeks now, since entering Lorien, it had become customary for him to wake with a start, bathed in a cold sweat; he could not for the life of him say why. He was anxious to return to his home and to his people and always the worry of responsibility weighed heavily upon him, though that was too familiar a burden to inspire nightmares. He felt a sense of urgency now that he drew closer. Urgency, and -
Frustration.
He ran a hand over his face, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and cast a glance over at the vague forms of his slumbering companions. Closest to the cold campfire were the hobbits, curled next to one another, feet to head, feet to head, Frodo encircled protectively within the group.
Frodo.
Boromir forced his eyes from the Halfling. Across the way, Boromir could hear the deep rumbling of the sleeping Dwarf and he could make out Gimli's solid body buried completely within his blankets, his axe propped close at hand against the trunk of a tree. Not far away, Aragorn was wrapped in his grey elven cloak, his long legs stretched out before him. He was also asleep, but even in the early peace of dawn the Ranger's face looked weary and worn. Boromir wondered if Aragorn had ever looked any way but thus. It was the same look his father wore of late, the same look that had been on Denethor's face when Boromir had begged leave from the palace to ask for council and the unravelling of strange riddles in Imladris.
Boromir had found answers, such as they had been. Yet what aid would he bring back to his father, what hope for the Steward of Gondor? He was returning with empty hand and empty heart and almost he would dread to hear the horns from the White Tower calling to Denethor, telling him that his son had returned home to him. He had made promises and had naught to show for his long absence.
He banished such thoughts and sat silently, reluctant to disturb the perfect morning. He glanced up to see the sky begin to grow lighter beyond the branches of the small, grey grove of trees they had chosen for shelter. The voice of the nearby water filled the air as did the trilling of a small bird above his head, who had also risen early and was calling out its greetings to the Sun's first rays. The bird's whistle was met by another's bird's reply, and another, and then the first called out again, more persistently. One of the hobbits stirred; it would not be long ere the others awakened.
He shivered. Boromir leaned over and reached for his pack. He drew forth a warm shirt and shrugged it over stiff shoulders that were not used to the particular effort required to steer and thrust a boat through the force of rushing water. He stood and tiptoed softly to the campfire. He picked up a branch of wood from the pile and stirred the ashes. The embers beneath were still warm, but they were not enough to catch fire to the handful of dry leaves and bark he poked beneath. Though they drew nearer now to a more temperate clime there was yet a faint touch of frost upon the grass in the mornings and he could still see his breath hang in the air.
Aragorn was roused by the rasp of flint against steel. He opened one eye to see Boromir hunched by the fire, cursing the errant flame that would dance upon the tinder teasingly and then waver out. Several times Boromir struck sparks, and several times he scowled and muttered dire oaths when they died. Aragorn watched as Boromir finally managed to coax a fire and set a small blaze flickering over the pile of driftwood. Aragorn let the warmth creep over his numbed legs and feigned sleep for some time ere he sat up and bid Boromir good morning.
"We have yet several days on the River... six days, maybe, to reach Parth Galen," said Aragorn.
Boromir nodded. "My body shall protest, but we could make it in five if we pressed on as fast as we can during the daylight hours."
"We might, yes," said Aragorn, "yet I see no need to hasten at the expense of our strength and our sanity. I, too, feel time weighing upon me, Boromir, but we are not yet ready to face what next challenge we may meet; we began this leg of our journey low in spirit and I would not press the others any harder than is necessary. We must not tarry, but neither must we rush headlong into the unknown. I will be content to remain steady and cautious and to reach Amon Hen in six days."
Boromir was quiet for a moment, and then he nodded and smiled swiftly, humorlessly. "Whatever path we choose, 'tis a path of gloom," he said. "Perhaps we might have done better to cower in Lórien and wait out the end as the Elves have chosen. If the darkness is closing in upon us never to be lifted, why not cling to whatever light is left until it too has gone out?"
Aragorn did not answer. He drew forth his pipe from his belongings and tamped a bit of weed into it, then lit it. He tasted the smoke and let it curl from his tongue. He watched it dissipate into the air, and then his eyes shifted to Boromir. "I worry for you, son of Denethor," he said. "You travel with us and yet you distance yourself. You are a brave fighter, my friend, and we have been grateful for your sword hand more than once upon this disheartening quest, but often I wonder if you are of this Fellowship or merely heading in the same direction."
"You worry for me, Aragorn? Or is it that you worry about me?" asked Boromir.
Aragorn regarded Boromir thoughtfully. "I worry for all of us. Our path will grow darker and none should walk it alone," he replied. "None can walk it alone. You are caught up in the strife and significance of your own purpose to the point of distraction."
"Aye." Boromir sat up straight, his face proud. "I worry for my people, and for Gondor. It is foremost in my mind and I see nothing amiss in that. I should think Elendil's heir would assign some importance to the fate of the people of Minas Tirith!"
"I do, Boromir. We all do, though you may not think it. I would not see the White City fall. It is one of the few strongholds that stand mighty against the forces of the Enemy and it is dear to me as well. But we have not undertaken this quest for the people of Gondor, Boromir. At least, not for them alone. This war we wage has much larger stakes and if we fail, it is not simply the White City that shall fall. Sauron's domination will be complete and shall perhaps never be cast off again as long as this world lasts."
"I know this..."
"Do you? Because you behave as if you alone among us risk losing what you love and it seems as if you do not understand that others suffer as well. If we fail, Boromir, the White City shall be no more; but the Shadow will not be satisfied. If we fail, the darkness shall spread even to the home of our gentle hobbits upon the far Western shores. Gimli's people beneath the mountain will be destroyed, for no Dwarf could ever be enslaved. Legolas's people are doomed to sorrow and change no matter the outcome; if the Dark Lord regains the Ring, the Elves shall fall, and if it is unmade, their realms will be diminished and they will fade. Yet gladly would they accept this in order to see Sauron defeated once and for all. Their strife with the Enemy stretches far beyond our comprehension, Boromir, ere our race walked this world."
"I am not a child, Aragorn. Do not speak to me as if I were!" Boromir lowered his voice as one of the Halflings shifted beneath their covers. He stared moodily into the fire for a long moment, and then continued. "I understand, and I find it all the more confounding that everything is not being done to aid Gondor in holding back the Enemy. We are all that stands between the might of Mordor and the prize that it seeks! Why then are we not bound for the White City? What confusion can there be?"
"You seek to wage war upon a solid front, Boromir, while the threat is much closer. You hold out hope for a triumphant victory, though you know the might of Gondor cannot hold back the might of the Dark Tower, or you would not have journeyed so far to seek aid from Rivendell. You sought wisdom, but the wisdom given to you by Lord Elrond you have shunned. How now, then, do you believe you can withstand the power of Mordor? Why are you so eager to return to Minas Tirith? I believe I know your mind, Boromir, and I fear for you. Sauron is more devious an enemy than a simple commander of Orcish armies, else he should have been a passing shadow long since vanquished by the Elves. He feeds upon our fears, Boromir, and would use our own doubts and faults and hatred to his advantage. It is his way. This little thing that Frodo bears about his neck is not a sword you might pick up from the battlefield to turn upon your foe."
Boromir cast his eyes upon the ground and his jaw tightened. He said naught, but stabbed fiercely at the fire with a branch, refusing to meet Aragorn's gaze.
"It never has been such a weapon," said the Ranger. "It is a much subtler instrument. It eats at the mind and soul of the one who carries it, coaxing and nurturing the cruelty and greed that lies in every Man's heart. That is why none but the Dark Lord may wield it, for the two are one. It is a magnifier of corruption and only evil can come of it. To wield it and not be mastered by it, you would have to become Sauron, or be of purest heart to resist it. Not even the Elves are so flawless. You are loyal, Boromir, to your people and to your father. You yearn to save them, but what would you sacrifice? What would you have others sacrifice?"
Boromir hurled the branch into the fire. "I was told to seek Isildur's Bane."
"Nay. You were told to seek the Sword that was Broken. At least, so you said your brother envisaged."
Boromir bristled. "The dream came to me also! I undertook this journey, not he, for I knew the way would be perilous."
"Perilous indeed," murmured Aragorn.
"Would you save them then, Aragorn?" whispered Boromir harshly. "Do you believe you could do more? I would give my life for Gondor. Do you believe that you are our salvation? Forgive me, but cannot see it. It shall take more than one man bearing a sword to save my people."
"Aye, Boromir. And it shall take more than a band of gold upon your finger. It is too easy. The Ring is false hope. Do you think that you are the only one to whom it calls? We each feel its presence; that it is the reason I am at once anxious to press on and loth to do so. We are all at risk, being so near Frodo, and I know not where our road shall take us. I am not Gandalf, though I have tried to lead you as best and as wisely as I could. For all my effort the Fellowship is in jeopardy, and I speak not of spying eyes from Mordor, nor of Orcs lurking in the forest. The longer we tarry the worse it shall become. We need you."
Seeing doubt upon his companion's face, Aragorn leaned forward. "Take a look about you, Boromir. Our Company has been forged of the best and bravest of each race. Think you it came about by chance? A mere whim of the Lord of Imladris? We cannot allow our differences to break us. We must unite or we shall fall, and I speak not only of this Fellowship but of all the Free Peoples. This isn't any one man's war, Boromir. Should we be divided between races, between friends, between kin, then he shall conquer. If we are to succeed in saving Minas Tirith, in saving Middle-earth, the battle shall be fought and won during these small moments. No trumpets shall ring. No songs will be sung. The most difficult victories come without glory. It shall be our own prejudices, our own fear, our own hatred we must overcome. We will prevail, Boromir."
Boromir licked his lips and swallowed hard. "How can you be so certain, Aragorn?"
The Ranger tasted his pipe and blew a long, thin stream of smoke into the air. "I cannot," he replied simply. "But I have faith."
Pippin moaned and ignored the jab to his ribs. A harder nudge caught him below the sternum, accompanied by Merry's voice, and he ignored that too. His eyes refused to open. The ground was so nice and firm beneath him... no water, no boat rocking back and forth. He would just stay there and they could return for him later.
He made the mistake of turning over to his side and found that the ground had been a little too firm; he had slept the entire night with a tree-root digging into his back. Pain shot up his spine and ruined any notion of sleeping late. He cast off his blankets with a moan. After a prolonged fight to pull on his clothing, he stalked to the small cook fire with an odd gait and one shoulder hunched higher than the other. He bid a surly good morning to his companions who had - to his further annoyance - started breakfast without him. Pippin was tempted to return to bed, tree-root and all.
It was not shaping up to be a better start to the day for Gimli son of Glóin. He had gone to bed with a dragon of a headache as he had never experienced without at least the pleasure of a night's heavy drinking first. Legolas had informed him with an arch of an elegant eyebrow, in a manner only an Elf could manage, that if the Dwarf were daft enough to fall asleep in the sun, his headache was no one's fault but his own.
Gimli woke to find that his head still throbbed. Legolas had been wrong, and that gave him some satisfaction; a simple sunstroke would have left him by now, and if anything, the pain was worse. If he died from it, he hoped the Elf would live out the rest of his everlasting life wracked with guilt.
He laughed to himself, and then groaned when the ringing in his ears grew louder; he buried his aching head in his hands and waved off Sam's attempt to shove food at him. When the pain subsided a little he cast a glance around the fire at his bleary-eyed companions. The hobbits were tucking into breakfast; Aragorn was heating water over the fire; Boromir had a dagger in hand and was staring into the burnished metal of his shield, dragging the blade smoothly over the stubble of his jowls with a single-minded concentration. Pippin was grumbling about a stiffness in his back. Frodo and Sam were chatting quietly, but for the most part the Company seemed subdued.
Gimli rubbed the back of his neck, and then straightened. He looked about for the Elf, hoping to let loose a few choice remarks he had been rehearsing during the long, sleepless hours of his night; but his target was missing. Legolas had taken the last watch and Gimli knew that he would be nearby, down by the River or hanging from some tree.
Gimli felt disappointed. And then felt foolish for feeling disappointed. More and more he had grown accustomed to having the Elf around. At the start of their journey he had stayed close to Legolas to keep an eye on him, since the rest of the Fellowship seemed to have no qualms about having him as a companion. "Never trust an Elf" was an adage Glóin had repeated to Gimli since he was old enough to travel with his father and his cousins to Esgaroth for business and trade, and he found still that the words sounded faintly in his mind when he looked upon any of the forest folk, even Legolas.
And now he was waiting on Legolas to come back. He could not explain it, but the Elf's presence put him at ease. He was someone with whom he could talk, even if their conversations consisted mostly of guarded jibes. Boromir and Aragorn shared a common heritage; the hobbits had ties of friendship and family. Though they were worlds apart, Thranduil's realm and Dain's kingdom were less than a week's march from one another. Having Legolas in the Fellowship had set Gimli's teeth on edge at first, but at least the Wood-elf had been a familiar foe.
And now he was a familiar friend. Perhaps it had been the Lady's spell, or perhaps their shared grief for Gandalf. So much had changed in such a short time. It was Gimli who had suggested the two of them share a boat out of Lothlórien. His father's beard would wither and fall out if he knew.
Gimli sighed heavily, and then a steaming cup of tea was placed into his hands. He caught the bright, pungent smell of peppermint and he looked up at Aragorn.
"Drink. It may help. If your pain worsens, Gimli, let me know."
Gimli accepted it from him with a nod and sipped at the hot liquid gratefully.
It did help him to forget his headache, though perhaps not in the manner he wished. A loud yelp nearby caused him to start and spill the tea, scalding his hand. He put his burned fingers to his mouth and turned to see that Pippin had been accosted on his way back to his bedroll. Aragorn had seized him and wrenched him upright, unkinking him. The little hobbit straightened slowly and cast a look of simultaneous relief and offense at the much taller Ranger.
Aragorn gave him a respectful bow. "Boromir and Merry shall thank me at least, Peregrin Took, for sparing them a long day's journey with a hobbled hobbit."
Gimli chuckled. The days of their journey had been hard and swift since leaving Rivendell, and the Companions cared for each other in simple ways. One stirred the fire. Another caught game or fished for fresh meat to eat. One gathered wood. One prepared the meals. Another would wash clothing or hang their cloaks to dry, while another one had a talent for finding perfect campsites. Every little task they performed conveyed the bond that had inevitably grown between them and they were comfortable with one another. It was the way it should be and Gimli took great pleasure in these quiet mornings when time was not yet pressing and they could take joy in simple tasks.
The hurt behind his eyes persisted. It drew him away from his reflections and he lowered his head with a grimace.
"The pain has not left you, then?" a voice asked softly.
Gimli glanced up to see that Legolas had returned and stood now before him, flicking water from his hands. The Elf set Gimli's replenished water flask at his feet and searched the Dwarf's face.
At least he has the decency to look concerned, thought Gimli. However, any witty remarks the Dwarf had been considering vanished from his mind. He found he had not the energy to bandy words with the Elf. He simply shook his head and drank his tea.
Legolas folded his long legs and sat on the ground close beside Gimli. He accepted waybread from Sam and ate it quietly. Gimli felt the Elf's bright eyes fixed upon him and he wanted to speak to him, to reassure him. He tried, but when he looked at Legolas the throb in his ears became unmerciful.
"Gimli?"
The Dwarf furrowed his brow and squinted. His vision seemed blurred and he regarded Legolas with detachment. Never trust an Elf.
"Gimli?" Legolas leaned toward him. "You do not look well. Aragorn...?"
Gimli winced. The Elf's gentle voice pierced his mind and sent shocks through him that made his teeth ache. He growled at him not to call Aragorn, that he would recover, but the Ranger was already striding towards him and the Dwarf was subjected to several moments of scrutiny and examination. Aragorn's fingers touched the soft flesh at his temples and his grey eyes peered into Gimli's dark brown ones.
"'Tis nothing, Aragorn!" muttered Gimli. "You concern yourself over naught. Leave me be."
Aragorn regarded him long, and then nodded reluctantly and stood up. "You are to take your ease today and not burden yourself with any effort. Legolas shall handle the oars, if he will, and allow you to rest."
Aragorn's tone suggested that he would brook no argument; Gimli accepted his orders without comment, a sure sign to the others that the Dwarf was indeed feeling poorly.
Gimli braved the surge of pain and glanced in Legolas's direction. He had risen with Aragorn and was speaking to him. He narrowed his eyes. The Elf seemed to smile. Was he amused by his companion's weakness?
No. Legolas turned back and Gimli caught sight of the strong, fair face. It was pale with concern for him, seeming paler in contrast to the black hair tucked back behind the delicately pointed ears; it was a face he had come to know well, but every detail of the Elf's features became suddenly painfully clear to him and strange, as if he were seeing Legolas for the first time.
Aragorn called to the others and they roused themselves to prepare for the day's journey. Legolas gathered his belongings and Gimli's.
Gimli stared at the Elf, watched him as he moved through the camp. He watched as Legolas quenched the fire, smothered the smoke with sand, and then knelt to gather their blankets. He stood up and reached for Gimli's axe; he gripped the haft and lifted it from its resting spot by the tree. He hefted it up with a graceful sweep and cradled it in his arms.
Gimli's heart surged; he could feel it thudding within his breast, matching the rhythm of the pounding of his head. For a moment, for the briefest moment, he was filled with the impression, nay, the certainty! that the Elf meant to attack him.
He saw the Elf turn lightly upon his heel, caught the slight flex of the archer's muscled forearm, the steeling of his leaf-green eyes. The Elf's grip had tightened about the axe, ever so subtly, but then Elves were subtle creatures, dangerous creatures...
It was all Gimli could do to keep from hurling himself backward to find cover and seek a weapon himself. His instincts screamed at him and he clenched his fists in agitation. But it was Legolas! It was Legolas. He could not move, could not speak. He was filled with a frenzy of emotions and he wondered that the Elf could not see it, wondered that the whole Company could not see it.
...wondered why he did not simply leap at the Elf... grab his knife... grab it and slit that bare, slender throat... never trust an Elf...
Gimli shuddered and thrust the evil thought away from his mind. The ache in his head increased and he could have wept.
Legolas drew near. He pressed the axe into Gimli's hand. His face was once again familiar, and it was filled with worry for the Dwarf who sat there ashen and shaking from the pain.
The tension drained from Gimli. His face burned with shame and confusion. He could not meet Legolas's gaze. It hurt to look at him. He stood up abruptly, irritated with himself and irritated with Legolas, though he knew he was being unreasonable. He snatched his weapon away turned his back. He felt Legolas stiffen behind him, knew that the Elf had opened his mouth to speak, but Gimli walked away and did not give him the chance.
They left the grove and came down to the shore where they had moored their boats. Merry and Pippin climbed in and huddled with Boromir in their small vessel and Frodo and Sam were with Aragorn.
Gimli picked his way over the rocky riverbank; Legolas followed. The Elf lifted the edge of their boat with an easy effort and shoved it into the shoals. He sprang lightly over the side and balanced there, then steadied the boat for his companion.
Gimli waded out and clambered over the bulwark, feeling the vessel sink lower in the water with his armoured weight. He settled in front of the Elf without a word. He pulled his hood low over his face and folded his arms across his chest. He wondered that the boat was not foundered by the very heaviness of his heart.
Nearby, Gollum tore into the fish with sharp white teeth, slavering and biting. His thin fingers dug into the slippery, white flesh and stripped it from the scales, gripping it, squeezing it. He watched from the shadows over his meal, staring at the flickering of their campfire within the trees upon the opposite side. He cursed the sun as it crept over the horizon; how he hated its light. He scuttled back further beneath the sparse foliage. He waited, sucking the meat from the bones with relish and licking his thin lips.
He froze. The Elf stepped from the trees and walked to the shore upstream from where their boats lay nestled in the sand. He moved lightly along the River's edge, seemingly absorbed in his thoughts. Gollum knew better. He knew the Elf was always watching, always alert, his nasty, piercing eyes catching the smallest movements, the slightest twitch, and so he stayed still, very still, with strings of fish dangling from his mouth and didn't move.
The Elf knelt by the water's edge. He held a leather bottle beneath the surface and let it fill. The Elf stood and capped the bottle, then paced back along the riverbank and disappeared back into the trees. Gollum remained motionless for a very long time, watching with wide, staring eyes until he was certain that the Elf was not coming back.
He chortled and choked. For so long he had waited and he thought himself lost. He would have been lost, had he not felt it at last. It called to him and he had left his hiding place to come for it. He had found them again. They had taken to the River and that was an easy path to follow.
He gulped down the last of the fish and laved his hands clean. The sky grew brighter and he crouched low, squinting between branch and leaf to watch them break camp. His eyes gleamed as the hobbits waded out into the water and clambered into the boats. The Baggins reached up a hand to grope for a moment at something beneath his shirt, and Gollum grinned.
Déagol had not let him touch it, had not even let him see it after that first glimpse. He had crouched upon the shore with the pretty golden thing cupped in his hands, gazing at it in wonder.
His cousin's voice had been high and thin and almost he did not recognize it. "I'm keeping it, Sméagol! I found it, after all!" Déagol had cast him a look of pure malice and he pressed his treasure to him, coveting it, cradling it. Sméagol had felt rage enter his heart.
It wasn't fair. He had practically saved him from drowning, had hauled him up from the deep, dark pool and it was only by chance that Déagol had found it! It could have been his. It should have been his. The least Déagol could have done was let him hold it for a bit. Just for a while. It was his birthday! Déagol should have given it to him.
He had grasped at Déagol with clinging hands, meaning only to grab him and turn him about, but his fingers had dug into his flesh so easily, and he squeezed... squeezed until Déagol ceased to fight him, squeezed until the pretty golden thing fell from the limp hand and the light, the life - the magic - vanished from his cousin's eyes.
