Chapter 6: A measure of trust
Boromir's arrow struck down another rabbit. They were not exactly fat animals but they'd do. The Company was on their sixth day of crossing Hollin. The rugged hills were dominated by grass and grey rocks, with groups of barren Hollin trees and dry juniper bushes strewn in between. The group was conserving their provisions by living off the land as much as possible, which was working out fairly well, as they had several experienced hunters among their ranks. With both rabbits slung over his shoulder. Boromir fell into a sharp pace and caught up to where Sam was leading the pony. It was a habit of the hunters to deliver all their catches to the stout Halfling, who was the cook of the camp; he would tell them if there was already enough there to provide for the day, or if they were still lacking the quantity the group would need.
The Hobbit took both animals to examine. "They look good, Boromir. Not so much like that dreadful old hare Gimli caught yesterday," he stated, putting them on the pony where already several more were tied to the packs.
Frodo, walking by Sam's side, laughed his serious expression melting away for the moment, the simple fun about food bringing the much younger looking Hobbit back to the foreground. "Bilbo always said Dwarven cooking was somewhat unpalatable. Except if Bombur did the cooking."
"Bombur was one of the thirteen brave, was he?" Boromir asked, falling into step beside them. During the journey to Rivendell, Kíli had spoken of these events, and he was still amazed at the daring venture of thirteen fighters who had gone to reclaim a Kingdom from nothing less than a Dragon. He wished he had the chance to hear the full tale.
"I all but forgot that you came to Rivendell with Kíli," Frodo replied. "Bombur too was part of Thorin Oakenshield's company, along with his brother Bofur and cousin Bifur. Gimli's father was there too – Gloin."
"Bombur... He isn't that fat Dwarven merchant in Bree, is he?" Sam's eyebrows furrowed at the mention of the familiar name. "Master Bilbo introduced him to my old Gaffer, amongst others – always paid right good prices for our produce, he did. He shared a recipe for stuffed partridge that wasn't half bad cooking, if you get my meaning."
"It seems a number of them did not stay at the Mountain when it was retaken?" Boromir recalled Bofur's reaction when he was asked about that. The Dwarf had nearly physically retreated from him when asked about this topic and quickly brought the evening to an end. Still, Boromir had noticed the quick exchange of glances between the old miner and Kíli, and Kíli's resigned shrug, even though what wordless message had been conveyed between them, Boromir had been left with the feeling that it was an uneasy topic to say the least. And the grim words Kíli had shared with him on his brother's fate in the ensuing battle, warned him to carelessly poke at this story at all.
Frodo sighed. "Bilbo rarely spoke of that – of all that happened in the Battle of Five Armies. He lost friends there. He only said that with the King under the Mountain dead, there was some dispute about succession among the Dwarves and that a number of Thorin's companions did not like the outcome and chose not to stay at Erebor. Dwalin and Kíli accompanied Bilbo on his journey home." A small smile now lit up Frodo's face. "Dwalin's encounter with Lobelia Sackville-Baggins ruined Bilbo's reputation forever, and the old rascal so loved it."
Suddenly, something shook the bushes off to their side. Boromir at once moved between the Hobbits and whatever was there, axe poised, ready to strike.
The bushes shook again – branches cracked and broke as a cursing Gimli freed himself of the uncooperative undergrowth. He shook off the branches and tossed another rabbit at Sam that the Hobbit nearly dropped, having not expected the animal to sail through the air at him. "There ya go, laddie, something to cook stew with tonight."
Relieved, Boromir lowered the weapon but didn't sling it into the sheath onto his back. When not hunting, it was easier to keep it at hand like the Dwarf sometimes had. "Gimli, you make enough of a racket for a dozen Orcs!"
The Dwarf snorted and glared up to the much taller man. "Dwarves don't make a racket, they walk," he grumbled, stomping past them. When he brushed past Boromir, though, his eyes caught the glint of the Dwarven weapon. Gimli stopped, scrutinizing the sharp blade he saw glittering in the sunlight, his eyes narrowing and his thick eyebrows forming a brushy line above his brow. "How did you come by that?" he demanded. "It can't be yours. Where did you get it? Did you steal it? Rob the dead?" The Dwarf's temper flared and in all but a moment it was as hot as his forge.
"I am not answerable to you, Gimli," Boromir said sharply, his hand closing harder around the hilt of the weapon he was carrying. What was that Dwarf thinking to accuse him of grave robbing? He was aware that the axe was very distinctive: the silver blade's long, elegant curve looked deceptively weak, so finely wrought it appeared almost delicate, but was anything but. The dark shaft, along with the blade itself, was adorned with intricate engravings that he could not decipher, and he wondered if they were ornamental only or actual writing.
Aragorn, who had been walking at the head of the Company, turned around. "Gimli, take point. We can discuss this tonight at camp, not in the middle of the march."
The Dwarf grumbled but moved ahead as he was told. "Dwarves and their treasures." Legolas shook his head, heading off to scout ahead.
They marched until nightfall, when they made camp in a small forest. There was enough dead wood for Gimli to get a fire burning swiftly, although Boromir noticed that he worked differently with the fire than Kíli had, maybe it was his own perception tricking him, but Kíli had seemed close to the fire, almost comforted by its presence and mostly in control of whatever fire he was close to, Gimli was different in that regard. At least he did not believe again to see flames dance on a Dwarf's hands. Sam took to cooking immediately. Gimli had pointedly kept his distance from Boromir, pacing impatiently between the trees, grumbling unintelligible things into his beard.
Aragorn, sitting on a rock to the side of the camp, looked at him. "Gimli, why do you take issue with Boromir's axe?" he asked. "It is of Dwarven make, but that does not say anything. Cardemir had been trading weapons and armor in the south for decades. I would not be surprised if a good number of their works ended up in Gondor's armories."
Gimli crossed his arms in front of his chest, and shot a glare towards Boromir before he focused visibly on Aragorn. Still leaning on his axe it appeared to Boromir that the dwarf still felt attacked about whatever issue he had taken with the axe. But when he spoke, he kept his words levelly, as far as this seemed possible with him. "It isn't just an axe of any ordinary make, Aragorn," Gimli explained, again pointing his huge hand towards Boromir. "This one comes from the very treasury of Erebor itself! There are only three others of the same make and none of them have been wielded by anyone outside the House of Durin! One of them was buried with its bearer after he fell in battle, while the other three should be in the hands of Dwarves – one wielded of King Dáin himself. It could not have come into the hands of any Man except through theft." Craning his neck, his stared challengingly up at Boromir, like he wanted to hear him contradict his words.
Aragorn shook his head. "You are too easy to make this accusation, Gimli," he pointed out, his eyes calmly turning to Boromir, the question easily visible in his glance.
"The axe was the gift of a friend," Boromir said, trying to ignore the angry glares he got from Gimli. If the dwarf disliked the friendship with Kíli, it was nothing that would faze him. "When we said goodbye, we exchanged weapons – he gave me this axe, for luck in battle. His name was Kíli."
"Kíli?" Gimli's voice became a thunderous shout, when he spoke the name. "I had heard he was skulking around Menfolk lands; but that he should hand over Truefire… he truly fell far."
"They came to Rivendell together, Gimli," Aragorn said, forestalling any direct answer by Boromir. "And it was a gift amongst comrades, you should not scorn that, no matter your own position in King Dáin's court." The Ranger's words were stern and the stare he gave Gimli made the dwarf take a step back.
Gimli heaved a heavy breath, still glaring at Boromir. "I will admit Kíli had a right to Truefire," he said softly, his voice suddenly sinking low. "It was given to him by his King before the Battle and he kept it after his Uncle… It was his right." He did not go on, but frowned deeply at Boromir. "I will accept your claim to the weapon, Gondorian – but if you think of taking issue with –,"
"I do not take issue with anything, Gimli son of Gloin," Boromir said directly, staring down at the dwarf. "except a certain Dwarf implying I am a thief, or slandering my friends."
"Bah! What do you know of the one you claim to have befriended?" Gimli turned and walked off ostensibly to gather more firewood.
Aragorn let out a slow breath. "His temper makes him speak harsher than he intends," he said to Boromir, "and had I not seen you and Kíli, I might have asked also. That axe is distinctive."
"It's a remarkable weapon," Boromir agreed. "I have seen some fine works but none like this." Gently his hand traced the black steel hilt of the weapon, it felt almost warm under his hand. "You said something about weapons from Cardemir being traded south, Thorongil. I know those but it's not Dwarves we buy them from."
"Cardemir is a Dwarven settlement in the Ered Luin, close to the ruins of one of their oldest kingdoms," Aragorn explained. "Their steelwork is among the best there is these days. I think they make use of some trader in Bree for their contracts."
Boromir sat down by the fire, back against one of the rocks, resting the weapon on his knees, relaxing finally for the first time in days. On the other side of the fire Legolas was conversing with the Hobbits in hushed tones, while Sam was rattling around with the cook pot. "But why do they not trade them directly?" he asked. "I am aware that Gondor does not have much experience dealing with Dwarves directly, outside the very few who came through our land as wandering workers." He had noticed his own lack of knowledge regarding the subject several times on the journey, and wished more than ever he had Faramir at his side to explain the intricacies of what he was dealing with. "However, no leader or ruler with any degree of wisdom would easily spurn people who can make such weapons."
Again, Aragorn noticed how much Boromir weighed his opinions in regards to the war Gondor was fighting. Was there anything that he did not see that way? Had the war touched him and his people that deeply already? Aragorn recalled Gondor in the late years of Ecthelion's rule, and while the threat from Umbar had been looming over the land, he had not encountered such a grim soldier among them until now. "They are being careful," he replied. "After the tensions about the succession in Erebor, those Dwarves who chose exile over following King Dáin learned to be cautious. I do not know the depth of their trade conflicts, but I know that the exiles tread carefully and keep away from anything connected to throne of the Longbeards."
Thorongil's words began to clear up some things for Boromir. So Kíli belonged with the exiles. After seeing his uncle die, after seeing a king fall too in that often-mentioned battle, he had found himself in conflict with the successor, Dáin. Boromir could not begin to guess whom Kíli had supported over said Dwarf, but he could well understand what strife regarding an empty throne could mean. His eyes went to the Ranger. At least with him, he knew what he was dealing with. "So Kíli did not support this Dáin for the throne?" he asked.
"I dare say no one knows what Kíli son of Dari thought of Dáin or the conflict," Aragorn replied diplomatically.
TRB
It was past midnight when they heard the first wolf. The howl echoed in the breeze, mingling with the eternal mourning of the whispering wind, sometimes becoming indistinct, and then returning tenfold. There were more wolves answering the first one: their voices travelled through the night, drawing closer and closer.
Boromir, who woke nearly at once, woken by the howls ripping through the air. He jumped to his feet and hurried across the half asleep camp to the remains of the fire. There was some wood left, stacked by the side. Hastily he grabbed some of what was left and tossed the pale, dry branches into the slowly glimmering embers. A tongue of flame licked up the wood, another followed as one of the branches cracked loudly when the fire woke from the smoldering ashes.
Aragorn came close to reading his mind, as he hastened back to them, selecting the longest branches from the firewood and lit them as torches, handing them to the Hobbits. "There, they will be better than swords."
They exchanged a swift glance, and there were no words needed, as they swiftly pushed the Hobbits close to the fire and joined the defenders around the camp. A cold gust of wind brushed against Boromir's skin when another howl rose in the air. He listened to the deep wolf's voice, was this a normal wolf or a Warg? Had Warg riders found them again? He was about to ask Aragorn, when he saw a movement in the shadows outside their circle. The enemy was here!
The next moment, the wolves were upon them, attacking from nearly every side. Boromir saw their shadows move through the darkness, racing here and there as they sought for a weak spot in their circle. They clearly tried to reach the Hobbits, who stayed close to the fire, within the protective ring the other members of the Company formed around them.
Boromir had not heard the wolf coming, but he saw the shadow moving from the corner of his eye. Reacting in reflex, his body acting before his mind caught up, he drew his sword, ducking under the jump and then coming up, thrusting the sword straight up, the hitting the wolf's underside as they hairy beast was above him. The blade thrust deeply into the beast's belly, he could feel the hot blood run over his hands before the dying wolf's jump broke and he fell to the side, his weight a merciless pull on Boromir's arm, , yanking the sword from his hands.
He had to let go of the blade, and used the short moment he had to grab Truefire. The hilt did not feel slippery even as his hands were gory. Swinging it, he beheaded the next wolf in one clean stroke, the corpse tumbled to the ground, but more were coming their howls like angry shouts in the darkness.
Arrows hissed into the dark, Legolas shooting wolves on the other side of the camp, preventing their approach from that angle. Standing with their backs to the fire, Gimli, Gandalf and Legolas defended the far side of the camp, while the two Men held the other one. Boromir saw a wolf slide past Aragorn, it was a huge beast the Ranger had not seen coming and that was trying to get into his back. Sprinting over Boromir buried the axe deep in the wild beast's neck, hearing a scream behind him, where Aragorn had destroyed a wolf who had come up behind him. They had saved each other. Turning around they attacked the wolves again, covering each other as they reduced the number of the attackers.
A scream made both Men turn. One wolf had made it past Legolas and jumped at the Hobbits. Merry and Pippin both moved towards it, trying to keep it off Frodo as they brandished their swords at the unimpressed beast. Boromir winced. No swordsman could see their movements without feeling pain; those two were in desperate need of some lessons. Before he could tackle the wolf, Gimli had already the beast's furry skull with his axe. With a last, furious howl, the remaining wolves backed off and fled into the night.
TRB
"One, two, three – good!" Boromir easily caught the smaller blade in a block, but Merry was improving.
It was the seventh night since the wolf attack, and each evening had been spent giving some much-needed sword lessons to Merry and Pippin. The way they had held their swords had been enough to make any warrior cringe, and he had found it outright offensive. Both Halflings were eager to learn and once they learned to use their small stature to their advantage, they would become quite good in their own way. Much of the lessons had to take their height into account, but Boromir found he enjoyed the challenge teaching them presented.
The Halflings kept surprising Boromir. They were strangers to long travels or hardships of any kind, but they were eager to do their part and learn, and when pushed, they proved hardier than their youth and cheerful attitude suggested. Time and again, it made Boromir wonder about their homeland – it must be a peaceful and safe place. In all his life, he had rarely seen such a place, for peace and safety were a luxury his people did not have any more. But seeing these two young Hobbits, he thought that it was maybe not as useless that they were fighting the Shadow.
They exchanged another set of attacks. Merry had become quicker during the last days; he also had lost his fear of blocking the attacks of a taller opponent, two things vital for such a small warrior. He even tried the ducking block Boromir had shown him the previous night.
Pippin, who already was through with his lesson today, was sitting close by on a boulder, his hairy feet happily dangling in the air as he watched and cheered Merry on, much like Merry had done for him before.
"Move your feet!" Aragorn was watching the lesson again, often helping by showing the Hobbits the proper forms or giving advice. He put away his pipe to get up just as Merry lost his blade for the fourth time in a row. Gracefully, Aragorn picked the sword up, handing it back to Merry, who smiled ruefully.
"Thanks so much, Strider. I never seem to get anywhere. Boromir is so strong." Merry said, casting a glance at the tall Gondorian.
Aragorn hesitated a moment, before he squatted down to talk to the Hobbit. "That he is. But that does not make him invincible…"
Boromir did not catch what the Ranger whispered to the Hobbit – he only saw that Merry returned back to the field more confident. Thorongil had a skill in instilling confidence into others, and a way of understanding that often echoed the wisdom of e healer.
Boromir stepped back to give Merry some more room for the next bout. "And again." They went through the forms again; it was the first blocks, parries and thrusts that nearly all swordplay was built upon. Merry managed to last through more repartees than before, and then he suddenly ducked and dodged one of Boromir's attacks, causing him to overbalance and stumble. Quickly, the Hobbit used the advantage he had to tackle the taller warrior and toss him down.
"For the Shire!"
Their scuffle only lasted moments before Boromir managed to grab the Hobbit and toss him off. He was careful to not toss him too hard, though, as Merry had not yet learned to break a fall and would more than likely end up injured being thrown on the stony grounds. Getting to his feet, he saw Thorongil grin and he realized he had just seen something that closely resembled a prank comrades may play on each other. His good humor was unfortunately disturbed by Gimli discussing the Mines of Moria with Gandalf again.
"I have my doubts about that path," Aragorn said softly, his gaze darting forth and back like the mention of the place alone was enough to make him restless. "Moria is a dark place."
It was easy to hear the worry in Aragorn's voice, but Legolas' warning shout alerted all of them of the Crebain-swarm approaching quickly. They scrambled to hide under the bushes and branches as the crows swooped past them. And for the first time in weeks, Boromir had the same feeling of being watched that he had felt when he first passed the Gap of Rohan more than three months ago.
TRB
Frodo slipped on the snow on the icy pass, his feet scrambling in the loose snow as he tried to find purchase. The soft material gave in even more, sending him tumbling downwards and to the edge of the cliff.
Boromir who was further above turned and hastened back as swift as he could. He hardly cared about the treacherous ice under his feet, trusting his own balance to not fail him as his eyes were trained on the small tumbling figure, grasping for hold on an iced over rock spike. For a moment it looked like Frodo's fingers had found support in the dark stone, for his fall broke and Boromir breathed a sigh of relief. It would not do for the Ring to land in a deep chasm stretching thousands of feet below to their left.
A shriek alarmed him to Frodo who had lost his grasp on the rock and was yet again sliding down the slopes. Inwardly Boromir hated that he had thought of the Ring first and not of the small figure quickly slithering towards the abyss. Taking the risk he jumped on the hard icy edge of chasm, sliding down some of the way, reaching out to grasp Frodo, their hands touched and he pulled with all his strength, but the small hand slipped through his fingers as Boromir landed further down in a heap of snow.
But the short yank by Boromir's arm had redirected Frodo's fall a little and he was lucky that Aragorn caught him swiftly before he could slip down farther or fall off the jagged cliff's frozen edge. Boromir pushed himself back to his feet, the fall had not injured him and turned to Frodo to check if he was alright. But before he could walk up to him his eyes caught on a glittering spark in the snow, highlighted by the rays of the winter sun. Only a step away the ring lay on its silver chain between the treacherous heaps of fresh snow.
Boromir reached down, picking up the Ring on the silver chain the Halfling wore. It glittered with a frosty pale spark in the sunlight, colder than the snow itself and was much heavier than the fragile thing looked to be.
An icy hand seemed to brush Boromir's back as a hot wind tousled his hair. He stood at the crossroads in Ithilien, facing towards the road to Minas Morgul. At his back stretched an army: hardened fighters, survivors of countless battles, Men of Gondor, Riders of Rohan, Rangers of the North, all waiting for his command, ready to march up that pass and retake the former Minas Ithil and cleanse away the shadow that was now called Minas Morgul. They stood in silence, awaiting their Captain's command. His command. He drew his sword, pointing it towards the pass…
"Boromir! Give the Ring back to Frodo!" Aragorn's voice cut through the whispers, bringing Boromir back to the harsh realities, to the cold pass in the heart of the Misty Mountains.
A part of Boromir wanted to retaliate with the sword for the harsh words, he wanted to silence the Man daring to oppose him. The Ring shone like spark before his eyes, and suddenly there was the cold gust of wind again, brushing through his hair. Slowly Boromir exhaled, trying to focus on where he was, marshaling all control he had.
He had sworn to protect the Ringbearer… and yet the Ring in his hand seemed to create a distance between him and the promise he had made. He would only need to close his hand around it and… No! He had given his word. Holding himself to that one thought Boromir walked down the icy slope towards Aragorn and Frodo. The chain with the Ring weighed heavily in his hand – even the movement of extending his arm to give it to the Hobbit made the small thing weigh more than a steel great sword and for a moment he feared that he could not let go of the chain but Frodo grabbed the Ring the moment it was in his reach and pulled it out of Boromir's hand.
"Surely. I care not," Boromir said, forcing the words out and quickly ruffling Frodo's hair. He could well see Aragorn's hand on the hilt of his weapon and Frodo's gaze that all too clearly accused him of betrayal. Boromir turned quickly and headed on, evading their eyes.
Shame welled up in him. They trusted him to be reliable where their Quest was concerned and he… he still harbored doubts about their chosen course. No; he had to be honest with himself: he had not been in control of himself only moments ago. That was what frightened him the most. Had he acted out of a well weighed, rational decision, he would not be ashamed, but this… He had been acting beyond the control of his own mind, and that was inexcusable. Others were relying on him and he could hardly keep command of himself. The gaze from Frodo, the silent accusation of betrayal, stung more than anything else. Boromir had never broken his word, never gone back on a promise in all his life, and now… now he nearly had broken his word to Frodo and the Council. It was a shameful admission, even inside his own head.
And the worst was he knew that no matter his doubts, no matter his fears or hopes, any slip up, any weakness, any moment such as this meant he would do the work for the Enemy, becoming a tool in the hands of the one he had been fighting for all his adult life.
TRB
It was a way without ways it was a day without light, snow fell thickly from the skies, veiling anything further away than two steps in a pale blur. Boromir pushed his foot deep into the snow to create a kind of path for Frodo and Sam walking right behind him. The two Halflings walked with their shoulders hunched, drawing their cloaks deeply around their small shoulders. At the end of the group Aragorn provided similar aid to Merry and Pippin, who walked as shivering, sometimes Boromir believed he could hear Pippin's teeth chatter.
A noise from above warned him, he knew that sound, the hard, dry crack in the ice, immediate herald of an avalanche. Pushing Frodo and Sam towards the rock face, Boromir stood before them, leaning against the rock to provide some additional protection as a heavy mass of snow crashed down on them. He felt the heavy impact on his arms and shoulders pressed against the icy rock, but under him was a space of air, preventing the Hobbits from being buried fully.
It was over as swiftly as it had begun and he could move again, shaking off the loads of snow still on his shoulder. He thought his back would break but he managed to push the snow behind him and down into the ravine.
"Thank you, Boromir," Frodo peered up at him, the Halflings brows were snow-encrusted and the dark locks hanging into his forehead were frozen stiff.
Carefully clasping their shoulders Boromir guided the two Hobbits along the narrow passage, lifting them across the heaps of snow, where Gimli was being dug out by Legolas. The dwarf appeared more disgusted than hurt by snow. Peering ahead Boromir could see Gandalf, leaning heavily on his staff. When would the wizard realize that crossing any Mountains in the midst of winter was a bad idea?
The second avalanche nearly took the two Halflings for it came without warning, except for Legolas mention of fell voices in the air. Boromir counted himself lucky he managed to hold onto Frodo and Sam as the tumbling snow nearly ripped them all into the chasm yawning to their right. He could feel both Hobbits cling to him as while the snow almost buried them. When it was over he carefully set them down as close to the rock face as possible. It would provide a little shelter at least. "Boromir, are you all right?" Frodo shouted over the storm, cloth-wrapped fingers reaching for his own cheek.
Touching his face, Boromir realized that an ice shard had cut him. The wound was already freezing over. "It is nothing, just a scratch," he shouted back. "Try to keep to the rock face."
They marched on, and the wind began to howl with such an anger that Boromir truly believed Legolas heard voices in the air. He kept his eyes on Frodo and Sam, as he tried to shelter and aid them best he could, just as Aragorn was doing for Pippin and Sam behind him.
The snowfall increased and the blizzard became stronger as they advanced farther on the Redhorn Pass. For each step they climbed up the wind seemed to push them harder and icicles began to mingle with the snow, their sharp bite hardly to be distinguished from the cold teeth of the wind.
The third avalanche was not just snow – it was also rocks having come loose high above them. Boromir only just managed to push Frodo against the rock and Sam before him, leaning over them against the cold stone again, to shield them as the stones began to fall with the snow like hailstones, most of them landing in the masses of snow, but some did not miss the group: one bounced off Gimli's helmet; another hit Thorongil's shoulder. Boromir felt some bounce of his back but he did not move, gritting his teeth until it was over.
"Frodo, Sam, are you alright?" The words were accompanied by another load of snow coming down on them, free of stones thankfully. He could see the frightened faces of both Halflings, they were half frozen, surrounded by a merciless storm in heights that they should never have been dragged into.
Boromir irascibly shook off the snow that was cloaking his shoulders with a thick white layer. "Gandalf! We can't go on. It will be the death of the little ones," he snapped, angry at the Wizard. Even he or Thorongil would hardly last another day in these conditions. The Halflings would be the first ones to freeze to death or fall if another cornice came down. "We need to find shelter and wait the storm out."
Gandalf did not react to his words, nor did he look his way, his eyes were focused on a peak above them and he suddenly raised his staff, shouting words into uncaring grey of the day. Whatever it had meant, Boromir could not decipher, but it seemed like the wind lessened a little.
Gimli came up under some snow with a growl and reached for Legolas. "He is right," the dwarf grumbled, looking up at Boromir. "and you are wrong, caves in these parts are rarely unoccupied."
Boromir had squatted down, putting his arms around Frodo and Sam, sharing what warmth his furcloak could give. "I will gladly risk an audience with his Malevolence if it gets us out of this storm, Gimli!" he shouted back, to be heard over the wind.
Wordlessly Gimli turned away, following Legolas who moved easily over the snow to search for a hiding place. It did not take long for Legolas to return with reports that Gimli had found a cleft they could find some shelter in.
The cleft proved to be the entrance to a small cave, not very deep, yet enough to provide some shelter from the wind. Boromir had guided Frodo and Sam inside, remaining at the entrance to help Thorongil with Merry and Pippin, who looked even more frozen than before. The air inside the cleft was chilly, but without the wind's perpetual draft it felt less cold than outside. The bundles of wood they brought with them from Hollin were all but frozen in the storm and it took Gimli time to start a fire and keep it ablaze. The warmth it gave seemed shallow in the icy breath from the storm outside, but it would keep them alive.
"All paths across the Mountains seem barred to us," Legolas stood at the far end of the cleft; he alone did not feel the chill and left the room by the fire to his comrades.
"We cannot go back," Frodo said to Gandalf, who was standing near the entrance, peering out into the storm. "There must be another way."
"We could go south," Boromir spoke up, helping Merry to get out of the frozen straps of his pack and remove the cloak that was frozen stiff around his shoulders, before the melting ice could soak the Halfling. "Split up in groups and sneak past the Gap of Rohan unseen. Once we are in Rohan, we reunite and go on. The Rohirrim are friends of Gondor and would give us aid to reach Minas Tirith."
"The Gap of Rohan is closed to us, Boromir, as long as Saruman holds Isengard," Gandalf said turning around to face them. He leaned on his staff heavily and suddenly seemed older than he had been ever before. "There is yet another road we may try. I did not speak of it before – not before it was needful, for it is a dangerous path to choose."
"No." Aragorn looked up from where he was crouched beside Pippin, helping the Hobbit melt the ice that welded his scarf to his hair by cupping his hands, already heated above the fire, around his curly head. Traces of deep pain lingered in his grey eyes, before he lowered his head to return to his task, and Boromir found his thoughts drawn to Kíli, who wore a similar expression when speaking of the battle for the Mountain home. "We spoke of it before, Gandalf. It is not a road we should use unless all other options run out. Lord Elrond sent scouts ahead of us – one of the lower passes may still be open."
The Wizard's brows furrowed as he considered the advice. "No, Aragorn. The passes are closed to us, as surely as the Gap of Rohan. The Mines of Moria are the one way that we still may take."
Gimli nodded eagerly, his eyes shining with new fire. "Some of my kin ventured there years ago, led by Balin son of Fundin. My uncle Óin went with him too. They would lend us aid."
Boromir cast a glance at Aragorn. Why was it that the Ranger was the one who usually talked sense in this group? "The one time Kíli mentioned Moria, it was in dark words. He did not say much, but anything to bring such a haunted, pained expression to anyone's eyes can't be a good place."
Now he had drawn Gimli's attention, for the dwarf frowned in his direction before waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. "It's Dwarven politics, Boromir. Balin's decision to reclaim Moria broke the remaining exiles apart. With Kíli's role as something of a leader among them, it most likely came as a bad blow for him to have disappointed Balin as he did."
Aragorn, now finished with Pippin, raised his hand, forestalling more words. "I agree with Boromir: the whispers I have heard of Moria in recent years are dark indeed. No one dares to speak out loud of this place anymore."
"Yet it is the road we must take," Gandalf said, his voice firm and brooking no arguments. "We cannot go back, and we have no other road forward."
A hush fell over the Company, one which naught but the frigid whistle of the wind dared disturb.
Eventually, Frodo stirred. "We all are tired," he said, his pale face taut with strain. "Let us rest for the night and decide our new road in the light of another day."
There was another piece of sense in this madness. "I will take first watch," Boromir volunteered, seeing the others were as exhausted as he was. After what had happened on the mountain, after having nearly fallen to the lure of the Ring, it was the least he could do to make up for his fault. The others agreed and soon settled down close to the fire. Boromir stood, leaning against the still frozen wall of the cleft entrance, watching the storm raging outside. There was nothing but the dark and the whirling snow, yet now and then he thought he could hear fell voices over the wind.
"It's calling to you, is it?" Boromir flinched at the small voice, soft but an edge of resigned strength, hand leaping to his sword before he could stop it. He craned his head left to watch Frodo settle down on a rock by the cleft's narrow entrance. .
Boromir averted his eyes, unable to meet Frodo's friendly gaze, ashamed for what had transpired earlier on the pass. He knew that with any derision, with any slip up, he'd only do the Enemy's work. The Enemy worked through betrayal and dissent, he had seen it before, he should know better. But it was hard to keep the gnawing doubts at bay. "I can only beg your forgiveness for what I nearly did," he whispered.
A small hand reached for his, squeezing his rough fingers. "No… I understand." Frodo looked at him earnestly, understanding and compassion in his wide eyes. "I feel it too. It whispers, it grows. It wants to leave me – it knows I am a prison to it. It longs for someone stronger, someone like you through whom it could achieve true power."
Freeing up his hand, Boromir grabbed Frodo's shoulder. "Promise me when it happens again you will get away. You will run. Do not look back – do not let me break the trust you so freely gave. Promise me."
"You are stronger than that, Boromir," Frodo replied, not pushing his hand away. "I know you'd never allow yourself to betray us. You are too strong for that."
"I do not know how much strength I still have, Frodo," Boromir was surprised that he could confide in Frodo of all people. "my people expect me to be strong, to lead them through this war, to somehow keep us holding up if not winning… and I see how we are pushed back, little by little, step by step… and I see only more darkness ahead."
"But this time you do not have to bear it alone," Frodo said gently, "I know little of war, or how to save your people… but I will promise you to run should it ever be necessary, and you will promise me that you will seek me out, when you feel the burden getting too much."
Boromir closed his eyes, leaning slightly against the cold rock of the entrance. How could he respond to such trust, to such loyalty, undeserved as it was? He must not allow another moment of weakness to happen. He had to keep strong, even if he hardly knew how to fight off the call, or to somehow silence his doubts regarding this mission. He nodded silently, the only agreement he dared to give, not trusting his voice, and Frodo settled down beside him, sharing the watch.
TRB
The next morning, the storm had not passed, merely lessened to a point that allowed them to make their way down the pass again. Aragorn and Boromir carried the Hobbits through the drifts of snow back towards safety. Boromir was not sure who was more surprised, himself or Aragorn, that Frodo choose to go with him when it was his turn to be carried across the deep drifts When they were below the dreaded Redhorn Gate, a last avalanche came down, blocking any path back up the treacherous slope.
It seemed like a sign of sorts that the weather got better the farther they got away from the passes. Eventually, they were on snow-free grounds again, and the wind was not so cold. Instead, there was a darkness that began to hover over the land, like shadowy mists creeping from barren trees, growing stronger and stronger with each mile they got closer to Moria. Boromir could not help it, the sight of the mighty dark mountain roots encompassing the path to Moria felt darker and more fearsome than even the word passes in the Mountains of felt a dread chill clasping his heart when the true walls of Moria finally came in sight. Nothing good awaited them here.