February 26, 3019
He took a step forth, left hand outstretched and extended at length, his right loosely twirling around the pommel of the sword which hung at his belt. Longer was the following step and the third lengthier yet, and the man steadily rose to full height, head poised upwards and raised bravely towards Anor, and with every closing step, mightier, he appeared, than even Húrin of Emyn Arnen and Cirion from whose lines he descended. The shining sword, now drawn, spun slowly in his right hand and his left hand curled in on itself; tighter and tighter, it got, as his prey, the young hobbit, stepped away from him, until his knuckles were white as the snow of Caradhras and blood dripped slowly from his clenched fist onto the dying grass of Amon Hen. A crazed grin grew slowly over his face, from ear to ear it stretched, and his eyes widened as though to truly see for the first time, his new-found gaze focusing on a chain precariously swinging gently with every step around gentle hobbit's neck. There it was; within reach and, yet, just out - he could feel it in his hands already, wrapped gently around his finger, gold shining with the brightness, and even strength, of the Silmarils of old. A fourth step forth, he now took.
"Have you seen the great white towers of Minas Tirith, my friend? Once, they stood tall and unyielding; Tower of the Sun, it was named then by Anárion, son of High-King Elendil, and its splendor stood second to no settlement of Men in the West. Its outer wall impenetrable, the city a fortress, and every dwelling in splendor. The true last holding of the great Gondor, it remains - Minas Ithil now Minas Morgul of the Nine and Osgiliath fallen. The Enemy, we have fought, since the sun set on the Second Age, and only now, the strength of Men dwindles. Long have we given our lives to protect our fellow Men, and where have they been? Where are the great Elven armies of the First and Second Ages? Or the great hosts of battle-hardened Dwarves? They are afraid, Frodo, and it is only the Men of Gondor that can hold this darkness at bay." He drew his voice in closely, hand unclenching and opening towards the young hobbit, who stood, shaking gently, with his back against the fallen ruins of the great Seat of Seeing. The man then took another step forth, his hand brushing the chain on the hobbit's neck gently before drawing away.
"We of Gondor have sacrificed again and again. Yet, now, within my grasp, the suffering of my people can be quelled, the enemy vanquished. It is no great evil that you carry, but a gift! A gift to the people of Gondor with which the White Tree of Minas Tirith can regrow, Osgiliath retaken and rebuilt, Minas Morgul restored to the seat of Isildur as it once was. Greatness will come to us, Men of Gondor, for all that we have sacrificed to protect against the Enemy; and it will come as payment. For our injured. Our dead." For a moment, he paused, and then he continued, his voice lilting wistfully.
"I shall take you there one day, my dear Frodo, and you will see how great a gift you will have bestowed on my people. How great our suffering and, yet, how brilliant our triumph. How, even in the darkest hour, the courage of Men will not fail. How, even as the Enemy approaches, the Men of Gondor refuse to fall. And when they will tell tales of us, immortalized in song as we will be, they will sing of Boromir, Saviour of Gondor, and Frodo, he who gave Boromir the power to defeat his enemies, to save his men. Frodo, they will remember you, granter of the Ring!" Frodo but shook his head vigorously, slowly backing out to the clearing from whence they came, and Boromir stood, the shadow of the great Amon Hen worn as a cloak, light glimmering on the edge of his Númenórean blade, the tip of which deftly sliced the grass beneath his feet. Then, suddenly, he launched forward, left hand outstretched towards the hobbit's throat but too quick was the hobbit, and having deftly slipped the ring onto his finger, he disappeared from sight, leaving the man to collapse to his knees, sword digging into the ground, his hand clenched once more, now freely watering the ancient watchtower with the blood of the House of Húrin. Once more, his head flew upwards, his sword reappeared in his right hand, and from his belt, he withdrew the Horn of Gondor with his left. He stood, entering the watchful eye of Anor, and then said only a word more.
"Orcs!"
Frodo Baggins, Ring-Bearer and Elf-Friend, on The Sacrifice of Gondor
