Chapter 9: The Price of the Ring
Leaving Lothlórien came as more of a relief than Boromir wished to show. The Elves had allowed them to heal, to rest and enjoy some safety, yet he never felt safe inside their enchanted borders. He knew that their stay inside the Golden Wood had also allowed them to wait out the worst weather. The Anduin valley was rarely cold for long and what little snow came in winter should be passed by now. Of course, there had been discussions on how to continue their journey. It had quickly become clear that the others were set against going to Gondor, instead favoring a path across the wilds to enter Mordor from a less guarded side. There was little doubt in Boromir's mind that this was a bad plan, but they had been adamant on that point.
A little contention had arisen when Aragorn mentioned that at least one of them should go with Boromir to Gondor; that no one should travel alone. None of the others had wished to join him, though he had seen Merry and Pippin looking uneasily at him when they had stated they would not leave Frodo. They had spent considerably more time with him, practicing their skill with the sword and he had done what he could to look out for them, still he understood their loyalty to Frodo who stood closely with them and gave him a sad look. Boromir managed to give the young Hobbit a small smile, Frodo was the one who did not need to feel bad about this, he had the burden to bear… the Ring. And Boromir considered again to go with Frodo, to make sure the Ring was safe. But… he could not leave Faramir to handle the full defense of Gondor for who knew how long. Not with the armies the East was mustering.
Gimli and Legolas had voiced their wish to not go with Boromir in little words and he had expected nothing else. Both had held their distance to him since the day on the pass and he could do well without this Dwarf's company anyway. That left Thorongil, who would be needed to guide Frodo through the wilds. Boromir knew there was little in terms of choice here.
"I should be able to do fine on my own until I meet the first patrols of Rohan, once we are downriver," he ended their discussion. "I have travelled all the way north alone, this will not be any different."
Inwardly, Boromir was glad: he knew that he would not be alone once he left the Company, which would be upon the Falls of Rauros. He had not shared that fact with the others. He could not quite say why but he hoarded the knowledge that a friend was awaiting him downriver like a treasure, like Frodo hoarded the Ring he carried around his neck and was not sharing either.
The boats the Elves gave them were a most thoughtful aid, sparing the Halflings the long, weary marches on the cold riverbanks. Boromir knew it was twenty days' worth of marches to follow the river to Falls, and the grounds were rough at best. For several grey days, they followed the Anduin, Boromir felt it was seven or eight days, but he lost count after one bitterly cold and restless night on a sandbank amidst the rushing waters. Winter had fled the land but spring was reluctant to grace the northern vale of the great river and once the wind turned to fall from the icy mountains it still held the chill of the passing winter. For the first few nights, Boromir's dreams had been troubled, but the dreams were short and he had evaded them by simply sleeping less. Often he would rise from his nightmares and relieve whoever was at watch to stand guard over his comrades until dawn came. On the sixth evening of their journey, he was so exhausted that the others noticed.
Despite their aversion to the cold, Merry and Pippin hurriedly jumped from the boat to help push the boat ashore. They both had resolved to help their comrade better, as they noticed the weariness creep more and more into Boromir's drawn features and the perpetual shadows under his eyes. "You need to rest, Boromir," Merry said when they set up camp. The Halfling stepped from one foot to the other nervously, unsure if he should meddle with the big warrior like this. "I mean, I love to sleep through the night and not to have stand watch but you need to rest too." He had already conspired with Pippin and spoken to Strider, who had decided that Boromir should not have a watch hour this night so he could get some rest.
Boromir shook his head. "That's very honorable of you, Merry, but I can take the watches. You little ones need to conserve your strength; for once we reach Rauros you will have to cross the wilds on foot. I'd rather have you all well rested and ready for that march." His eyes went to Frodo, who sat with Sam on the other side of the fire. Frodo looked paler and more tired than he had this morning or the day before.
"Merry is right," Thorongil interjected. The Ranger was busy with tossing some roots into the stew pot. "You have hardly slept the last few nights, Boromir, and while I do not doubt the strength of Gondor's soldiers, I do doubt you can take much more. A good night's sleep will help you to recover. The river passage ahead of us is dangerous and I need you sharp and alert when we enter it."
"The river is going to be even worse?" Frodo asked, tensing, his shoulders slumping, his whole posture crumbling.
Boromir left the debate with Thorongil; he by now knew the way the Ranger gave orders and though he disliked it, he had learned when to follow orders and not undermine a leader by gross displays of disobedience. Instead, he walked to the other side of the fire, squatting down beside Frodo. "Are you all right? You look ill…"
Sam shot Boromir a glare. "Hobbits and boats don't mix, Mister Boromir. It's an unnatural way of travelling, if you ask me." His entire posture tensed when he spoke of the vessels that had aided their journey downriver.
"Your boat is safe, Sam," Boromir pointed out, seeing the Halfling was truly afraid of the water, if the tense demeanour had not given it away, the voice would have. It might be funny in a way, but Boromir never made fun of his comrades' fears, not when he could try to calm them. "Thorongil… Strider… is a Ranger, they are good in handling boats. I should know – my brother is one of their kind."
"You have a brother?" Sam asked, interested, his head perking up. "I think this is the first time you spoke of your family, outside of your father… beggin' your pardon."
"Faramir is my younger brother," Boromir replied, settling down with them, relaxing against the trunk of an ancient tree. "He is a Ranger in Ithilien, swift with a bow and always able to sneak up on me. He holds command of Gondor's armies in my stead until I return."
"You are worried for him," Frodo observed.
"Aye." Boromir stared at the fire, seeing the crackling flames reflect on Thorongil's face, Faramir would be so excited to know that he had met the heir of Isildur. Quickly he looked back to Frodo. "When I left we had just retaken Osgiliath, and I doubt the Enemy will wait long to retaliate. Faramir… he is a wonderful brother and good fighter, a better soldier than he gives himself credit for… but he hates being a warrior, he was not born for this… and I hate knowing him out there, facing the Shadow…"
Frodo's small hand touched Boromir's sword calloused fist. "You want to protect him, like you want to protect your people," he said softly. "You always worry for them… If they are like you, they will hold out until they have you back."
"I know Veryan will have Fari's back, and Thoroniâr will whip Minas Tirith into full war shape…" Veryan's name evoked the dreams again, drawing Boromir's glance more intensely to Frodo. The Halfling nearly jumped at his gaze, and the warrior quickly amended his mistake. "And now you have distracted me from why you feel so bad on the boats, Frodo. If you'd rather be on another boat, we could ask Merry and Pippin to switch. I dare say Aragorn could put up with their chatter for a day or two."
"No." Frodo shook his head. "It is not who guides the boat, Boromir…" He wrapped his arms around his knees protectively. "My parents drowned in a boating accident on Brandywine River… Sometimes when the boats skip and jump they remind me too much…"
"Boromir!" Gimli called, having come close. "Can you take a look at your boat? I don't think it's firmly ashore."
The warrior rose, following Gimli's words to check on the boat. He did not expect to find anything amiss and cast a frown at the Dwarf. It seemed that whenever he was in a longer conversation with Frodo, Gimli or sometimes even the Elf would interrupt it. He shrugged; their trust was not something he was striving for. He returned to camp and lay down to rest, as Thorongil had insisted he did.
Exhausted that he was, Boromir fell asleep the moment he had lain down on the cold ground. But the sleep brought dreams, creeping from the shadows like monsters.
The Plateau of Gorgoroth was ablaze with fire and battle. Orc legions had poured down from Lithlad in one last attempt to stop Men's advance into the Land of Shadow. Standing upon a high hill, Boromir watched the battle unfold. His troops were making strong progress, beating the enemy back further and further – as well they should. The great Captain did not hold with fools or cowards. This army was the best the world of Men had ever mustered and it was slicing the Shadow like a ray of light would part the clouds.
What still stood of the Orc center was amassed at the very bridges of Barad-Dûr. Boromir saw how his legions split apart: Veryan – trusted, capable Veryan – led the center attack, while Thoroniâr and Beregond respectively took command of the wings, moving the legions to flank the enemy to encircle them again. The fighting at the center was vicious – Barad-Dûr was pouring out its remaining Elite troops. Of the Nazgul, the three still left to Sauron were in the field; the others Boromir had ripped apart in Minas Morgul.
He could clearly see the Nazgul taking command of the center, closing the Orc ranks. With the Nazgul the faltering formation became strong again, his will and presence driving the Orcs into a frenzy. Their counterattack was terrible, cutting through Veryan's troops like a hailstorm through the ears, pushing them back from the bridge. Veryan and a core of hardened fighters held it together, but the Nazgul was flaying them. The Captain sighed. He could not leave Veryan to that. Or rather, he could, but it would mean the death of the Man. Boromir still held some lingering affection for the valiant Swan Knight – he reveled in the devotion he saw in the other Man's eyes, and he relied on his absolute loyalty. Veryan would be the first permitted to swear fealty to the new king, once this was all over.
Boromir drew Truefire, the Ring aglow like flame on his gauntlet. He did not call for any troops or personal guard: he did not need these petty trappings of weak kings. Without anyone supporting him, he cut through the enemy ranks effortlessly: Orcs and Harad-men fell before him, crushed by the trusty axe in his hands, a true blade that could cut through steel and stone, a true friend's gift. He reached the center of the battle to see Veryan had actually managed to regain a foothold on Barad-Dûr's very bridge. He smiled; the Swan Knight rarely failed him, and he sometimes managed to surprise. There he was: on the very bridge, fighting a Nazgul, not giving ground with a fierce courage that made Boromir all the more proud. This was the strength of Men, the shining beacon of light that would end a darkness neither Elves nor Valar had cared to destroy.
He saw Veryan duck under the attack of the Nazgul, but the next strike swept him off his feet. The Swan Knight stumbled; on his knees, he parried the next attack, the Morgul blade sliding off his heavy gauntlet. Boromir rushed the bridge, effortlessly cleaning away the few Orcs still daring to hold out. He slipped past the faltering Veryan and, with one fierce strike, flung the Nazgul blade into the chasm under the bridge. A second strike destroyed the creature entirely, a golden band falling from the ghostly appearance to clatter on the dull grey stone of the bridge, flaring gold shining on dead grounds. Boromir picked it up and slipped it with the other six Rings in the pouch on his belt.
Extending a hand, he grabbed Veryan's arm and helped him up. "That was brave… and could have killed you. I told you not to die on me."
"I do my best, my Lord." Veryan stood shakily, blood smearing his armor, a gash on his throat the lightest of his wounds, but he stood at once again, ready to fight.
"It's Captain – I told you to leave those pretentious titles to old men and doddering fools," Boromir chided him. It was something he had to remind them of a lot, lately. He saw Veryan's smile, the adoration in the blue eyes, and felt a warmth rise inside him. They'd follow him to the very end of the world. In that moment, Boromir decided that Veryan would be the one to wear the Ring of the Witch-king once this battle was over.
In the morning, Boromir woke even more exhausted then the evening before. He felt like his whole body had been pummelled through a battle; he found no appetite to eat even a bite of the tasty breakfast Sam had prepared, and he hardly noticed the glances the others cast him. Had he been speaking in his sleep or just tossing restlessly during the night? Why had they not woken him then? They had done so before. When he met Legolas' gaze, the Elf turned away to speak to Thorongil, and Gimli, still chewing on the last of the roasted food, shot a distrustful glare his way.
Boromir's heart sank, feeling the deepening distance. They knew his weakness. Shame welled up inside him. He was failing them. He was failing Frodo. He looked for the Halfling, who sat beside the Ranger, and met his eyes with such a worried expression that it cut right into Boromir's soul. He rose swiftly. "Merry, Pippin, come on, we don't have all day," He chased up his two Hobbits, sending them to the boat. Pippin stuffed his last crumbs into his mouth and Merry made a face as he lifted up his pack, but they did not argue. Small favors indeed. He pushed the boat off the shore and out on the river.
While steering the boat downriver, Boromir pondered what to do. What could he do? One day and a night he told himself – he had to hold out for that long. They were approaching Rauros Falls. From there, they'd go their separate ways. He could hold out that long. Once he had seen them well on their way, he would meet up with Kíli and go on, preferring to be remembered as the one who left the Quest than the one who became a traitor. The very idea of betrayal made Boromir feel sick; he had despised those who would not keep their word all his life, and he could not bear the thought of falling to the same vice, becoming a traitor, an oathbreaker… It was something worse than death. But still… the thoughts haunted his mind and the whispers continued…
The tower was an appalling maze of spiky stairwells and twisting hallways that led nowhere, an abomination that only a sorcerer's twisted mind could think up. Followed by Veryan, Thoroniâr, and Beregond, he approached the throne hall of the tower. Here it would end. The night would end.
The heavy black steel doors adorned with blood runes were guarded by the last of the Nazgul and what few Orcs remained. None of Boromir's men hesitated. "For the Lord of the Morning!" It was Thoroniâr who had minted that battle-cry. It had quickly taken hold with the legions, and while Boromir often reminded his troops of not calling him Lord, he was secretly pleased with the title. He charged ahead, Truefire in his hands, right at the two black figures awaiting them. In another time their fear had ruled the hearts of Men, but they had grown beyond that and would never again cower from the shadows. A Morgul Blade came down on him. He blocked the attack with the axe, barely feeling the cold seep into his arms as he broke free and brought Truefire's silver blade down on the black armor. The blade sliced through the black hauberk like it was butter and Boromir felt the churning heat in his sword hand as the Ring burned brighter, scorching away what was left of the ghost, leaving only ash behind. Boromir whirled around and at the very last of the Nine, Khamûl, at once time the feared Emperor of the Easterling Empire and now the last of an abomination that would end here. Their weapons clashed, and even now Boromir had to admit that this Nazgul was something of a skilled fighter, but ultimately he was no match for him. One thrust of the axe shaft against the midriff and then he brought the blade about, beheading the last of the Nazgul. With one fell blow the Nine were ended forever. Their fear might have ruled over Men for the best part of an age but now they were broken. They had been pathetic. As pathetic as the kings that they once had been. Sauron's judgment in strength for his Ringbearers had been as appalling as everything else in his reign.
The gates opened and Boromir faced the Shadow. Fire hailed came down like a scorching wave, a fiery whip lashing at them, but he stood, and his faithful stood with him. The Ring burned in golden light as Boromir's blade sliced the Shadow, destroying what was left of the Dark Lord. The Shadow fell with a last shriek of a fell voice that would not be heard again in this Age of the world.
Still breathing hard, feeling the fight had taken more out of him than he had though, and so relieved that it was over, that they finally were free, he turned around to find Veryan, Thoroniâr, and Beregond, who had kept Sauron's guard at bay, but the Easterling guard had now retreated to the walls, shocked by the fall of their Master. Veryan bent down and picked something up. When he approached Boromir, the other two followed behind. Two steps from Boromir, who stood on the stairs of the Obsidian Throne, Veryan stopped and dropped to one knee, presenting the black crown of Sauron to his Lord…
Boromir jerked awake by a heavier movement of the boat. He found he no longer held an oar. Merry stood behind him, balancing on the boat's narrow sides, and was using the oar to steer. "Don't worry, Boromir," he said with a grin. "I can steer a boat – I am a Brandybuck, you know. I must have done this dozens of times on Brandywine River."
"No, I should not have fallen asleep." He took the oar and helped Merry return to the middle of the boat. He then brought them up with the other two boats in a few powerful strokes, wishing his dreams could be left behind so easily. This day and maybe the night, he reminded himself. Maybe he should leave the camp this night already.
"Look!" Pippin pointed forward, where two gigantic stone statues stood high above the waters. Two mighty, towering figures standing guard at the narrow passage of the mighty river, their hands extended North in a warning gesture that sent a shiver down Boromir's spine. Whom did they warn away? Attackers? Enemies? Or the unfaithful? Their stern gazes seemed to touch him as he steered the boat closer into their shadow. Their faces were made in semblance of the Kings of old, he was a little surprised to detect a true resemblance to Thorongil in their faces, he truly had the noble features of the silent stone Kings. He looked at their faces, and he found no scorn in their expression, but watchfulness and… trust. These pillars had not been erected as a warning against someone, but as a beacon of hope, in a time when the vast wilderness of Middle-earth must have been strange to the new arrivals from sunken Numenór.
It was a strange thought for Boromir, for he felt less connected to an island long swallowed by the angry waves but to this land, to this Middle-earth, with all its flaws and shadows. And while he knew that Elendil and Isildur's landing had brought a ray of light to this world, they had come as strangers, as conquerors. Never before had he wondered that if he had lived in their time… would he have been with them, or opposed them? Still, it was with great relief Boromir stared up at those stone kings, not for what they depicted or what they meant in the history of his people. It meant he had nearly done it. A little more only a few short hours longer and he'd have made it without becoming a traitor to anyone.
They could already hear the waterfalls and see the white foam rush rise from the edge of the falling waters. The river widened here to form a calmer lake before plunging into the deeps of the crushing waters. They landed the boats on the riverbank, careful to avoid the strong pull that led to the waterfalls, dragging them up to hide them beneath the low-hanging branches of the dense weeping willows lining both sides of the river. "We'll cross the lake after nightfall," Aragorn told the others. "There we will hide the boats for good and continue on foot."
"Oh, yes?" Gimli grumbled sarcastically, "It's just a simple matter of finding our way through Emyn Muil – an impassable labyrinth of razor sharp rocks! And after that, it gets even better! A festering, stinking marshlands, far as the eye can see!"
"That is our road. I suggest you take some rest and recover your strength, Master Dwarf," the Ranger told him.
Boromir was almost amused at their bickering as he pulled the boat deeply into the shadow of the willow branches sweeping the water. He looked at them from the shadow of the same branches hiding him. They had not even noticed he was lagging behind, busy with their camp and conversations. There was a strange detachment between them, or maybe it had always been there, maybe he had never truly belonged to them, just gone with them because it was the only thing to do. He seemed also to be the only one who spotted Frodo trailing about on the outermost fringes of the camp, as if not quite sure if he should vanish into the forest. It would not do for the Halfling to go astray.
Boromir shouldered his pack and grabbed Truefire, the heavy axe feeling good in his hands as he headed off into the forest.
Aragorn had continued the debate with Gimli. The Dwarf was flustered by the suggestion he take some rest and denying it loudly to Merry and Pippin. The two small Halflings were already settling at the fire. He turned to look for Boromir, who should have come with them from the boats. If their friend was truly set on leaving them here, he best say it now. A part of Aragorn hoped the Gondorian would reconsider his decision – Boromir was a strong man and a powerful fighter; on the other hand, he had behaved strangely these last days and that worried him. But as Aragorn quickly surveyed the camp, he did not spot the Gondorian anywhere, nor his pack and weapons. He was gone.
TRB
Frodo had seen Boromir take off right after the boats had been secured, while the others were bickering about the path ahead of them. The Gondorian Captain had taken his pack and weapons and walked away into the woods. His behavior deeply troubled the Hobbit, because it did not seem to fit the proud warrior he had gotten to know on this journey. Boromir was not a Man to just slink away into the night – he would say his goodbyes and wish them well, that much Frodo was sure of. Yet he had noticed a certain… aloofness the others sometimes displayed to the Gondorian Captain ever since the incident on the pass. He was not entirely sure of it; there had been moments when he found the dynamics between his comrades very had to read.
Strider and Boromir seemed to be comrades one moment and uneasy allies the next, to be adversaries on the verge of arguing only a day after. Frodo had the impression they had declared a kind of an armistice during the long night of Moria, but Boromir had been frustrated with the decision to send Kíli away. Sometimes he had perceived those rifts stronger, especially between Gimli and Boromir. But had it gone so far to drive him off without a word? Even with the fears the others harbored about Boromir, he deserved better than that. His strength and courage had carried them through many dangers – he was a loyal friend and should not feel he had to leave into the night without a word.
Quickly, Frodo set down his pack with the others and slipped away on soft feet, following where he had seen Boromir vanish into the woods. While Frodo was in no way a tracker, he had the keen eyes and quick senses of his people, thus finding it not so hard to follow Boromir's way up the hill and deeper into the woods. He could neither see nor hear Boromir move through the forest, but soon discovered a set of overgrown, moss-stained stairs leading towards a ruined overlook. A ring of stone arches, remains of tower long shattered, still surrounded a circle of cracked old flagstones.
Frodo raced up the stairs that led to the broken tower and, to his surprise, found himself in a small, well hidden camp. A bedroll lay on one side of the circle under the most solid wall still standing. Beside it leaned a pack, and beside the ashes in the fire pit sat a black battered iron teapot. The patterns once wrought into the dark iron had been stained by ashes and battered by too much field use, but Frodo had seen such work before in Bilbo's home in Bag End. It was Dwarven make, beyond a shadow of a doubt. His eyes darted about; there were few ashes in the fire-pit, but the stones of the pit had been set cleanly and were scorched by days of flames shining. Dwarven fire! He had seen that before, during the visits of Bilbo's friends when Frodo had been young and new to Bag End. He remembered the Dwarven warrior who had been sitting by the fire for a few icy winter nights, reading or playing his harp, the fire never burning out. Had a Dwarf been camping here?
"You should not sneak around where you are not invited." Boromir's voice had Frodo nearly jump so suddenly was he ripped out of his reveries. The Hobbit turned around and saw the Captain had arrived just after him. "Few people like strangers wandering into their camps."
"That would be true for you too – we should tell the others that someone his here," he replied, taking a step towards his comrade; Boromir may have startled him, having approached so silently, and still having that axe in his hand, but he was still glad to have found him.
"No." Boromir put down his pack. "It won't be necessary. By nightfall Aragorn will have you all on the other side of the river. This is nothing that concerns him."
"So you know who is camping here!" Frodo exclaimed, realising that Boromir had come straight to this camp. He must have known it was here in the first place. "You are meeting someone here. Why are you keeping it secret?" The thought that Boromir would not be alone on his journey home was a good one. Kíli! Frodo suddenly realised Boromir had befriended the Dwarven warrior and… could Kíli have reached this place on foot and alone before them?
"Secret? You would know about secrets best, wouldn't you, Halfling?" Boromir's pose shifted: he had put his pack down along with the weapon, and now crossed his arms in front of his broad chest. His voice had deepened and his gaze was intensely directed at Frodo.
Remembering the warning Boromir had given him weeks ago, Frodo retreated, his back hitting the pillar holding one of the last arches standing of the tower. He peered past it into the forest. He could try to dart away yet he knew he could never outrun the tall Man. "Let me go, Boromir," he said softly. "I know you can… you are stronger than you think. I only wished to say goodbye to you."
"Did you?" Boromir stepped closer. "You of all people should not stray into these woods. There is something else creeping along these shores and you wandered off alone. Do you not see the risks you take?"
Frodo moved away from the pillar and into the archway, ready to flee. Boromir had told him to run, if the Shadow ever came for him again and… his eyes… they were so angry and pained. Frodo found he could not move, transfixed by the glance of the green eyes.
"You carry something you have no right to. If anyone has a right to it, it is Men, not Halflings or Elves." Boromir spat, advancing towards him. All of sudden, Frodo felt a hand on his shoulder, and then someone was pushing him aside, standing between him and Boromir.
"You will not harm him," Kíli said firmly. The Dwarf stood on the stairs of the arch between Frodo and Boromir. He was still shorter than the towering warrior but the way he had raised his arms and spread his feet, he was already in a fighting stance. Dark eyes searched Boromir's face, hoping for a recognition that was not there.
Boromir's eyes flashed in anger and his noble feature contorted in rage. "Do not interfere, Dwarf," he spat. "You may have resigned yourself to be a king in rags on the road, but I will not see my people fall like yours did." Frodo had moved away a few steps but he could see Kíli's face and there was a moment of hurt in his eyes before an impassive mask settled on his face, hiding his feelings, moments before Boromir tried to push the Dwarven warrior out of the way, but Kíli managed to grasp both of the Gondorian's wrists, his hands strong as the tongs in a forge. Horrified, Frodo watched both fighters, unable to run away or even move.
"I will not let you," Kíli said, his voice firm and stern. The Dwarf had locked away the hurt at the words his friend had hurled at him. He could not allow them to get to him. Not with the maddened craze he could see so clearly in the Man's green eyes. "Boromir, it is not you speaking. You hear it call; you feel the curse reach for you. I have seen that before."
Boromir tried to break free, cursing, but the Dwarf was much stronger than he had ever thought. His gaze found Frodo and with a scream of sheer rage, he pulled at the steely grip that locked his arms. Standing taller than the Dwarf, he brought leverage to the struggle, bearing down on his opponent as hard as he could, his rage willing to break this imprudent Dwarf who knew little of Men and their plight. With his mighty strength, he did not break the grip but leaned on it, forcing the Dwarf to his knees.
Kíli's knees hit the stone stairs, he had not relinquished his hold on the warrior's wrists, but the sheer strength of the Gondorian pushed him down. He panted, their struggle eating at his strength. Changing tactics, he stopped fighting the force used against him and simply remained kneeling, looking up at his opponent. Deep, dark eyes found Boromir's gaze, holding it. "Thorin, he fell under the spell of the Dragon's gold. Driven by greed and fear, he became a shadow of himself." Kíli spoke softly, the words hesitant to come out; he had never spoken of those final days at Erebor, of the nightmare that preceded the battle to the death. "It came to him, like it does to you… in whispers, in echoes, until he believed the accursed gold was all he cared about, all that mattered…"
The deep, soft voice echoed through the haze of Boromir's rage. Maybe it was the strange timbre that always belonged to the Dwarf's speech, maybe it was the musical accent that made it stand out so much, but for a moment he was the stronger one, and even in the height of his anger he would not hit or kill a man on his knees before him. "Then he was weak…" he spat. "Like so many in this world. Too weak to gain what he truly wanted."
The words cut into Kíli, evoking painful memories, and pains he had never shared. Thorin, his uncle, who had been father, mentor, friend and King to him… taken by the spell of gold, his eyes darkening until they only shone in the light of the gold. The slap across his face for not supporting him against Bilbo… "I had to stand by and watch him slip away, day by day, until only the curse remained, and when he broke free, all that remained for him was death in battle," Kíli whispered, his voice shaking. The hill before the gates, the blood fields – it all came back to him in a crushing wave. His brother… smashed by Azog's mace, Thorin dying in a deathly embrace with the pale Orc, having finally conquered the foe that had haunted him for so long. The wounded hand, grabbing Kíli's own. I failed you… forgive me. I failed you so horribly, I led you to death… Tears stung Kíli's eyes, the memory breaking its way into his mind, bringing back Thorin's final words. He had kissed the bloodied hand and told Thorin he had not failed them, but led them home, only to see the Dwarven King's eyes had broken and Kíli had leapt to his feet and fought the Orcs, standing over the body of his King, willing to stand and fight until they cut him down too. "Death. Death. Death." The words broke out of Kíli's throat, hoarse and raw, full of pain and fierce will to still not give in. "That was all that remained. He died bravely, atoning for his weakness… He was hacked to pieces by Orcs, his breaking eyes not seeing victory, only darkness. Do you want to end like that?"
Frodo had put a hand over his mouth, to stifle a noise rising in his throat. The struggle of the two warriors had moved from a physical contest to a battle of wills, and he could see that Kíli's words reached Boromir: the Gondorian's face lost the fierce rage, the clouding anger clearing away, becoming again the man Frodo called a friend.
"No." Boromir's voice was hoarse, as though he too was struggling against the tears. "No… I will not end like that. I will not break my word. Never." He pulled Kíli up. "I… I am sorry…" The apology was meant for the Dwarf only, for what had just transpired between them.
Frodo breathed a sigh of relief. "I knew you were stronger than that," he said softly. He was not sure what had shaken him more: the close call with Boromir or the pained recollection Kíli had shared with them. Bilbo's tale had been sad when it came to the death of Thorin but it had never grasped the pain it held for Thorin's surviving sister-son.
Boromir hardly heard the words of vindication, of forgiveness – his eyes went past his friends to the other side of the ruin. Orcs, unusually tall Orcs, marked by the white hand of Saruman, had appeared there and were advancing towards them, fanning out with weapons drawn. "Frodo, run." Boromir drew his sword. "Run and don't look back."
With Kíli by his side, the Captain of Gondor charged into battle. Behind him, he knew Frodo was racing towards the river. They needed to buy him – buy them all – time.
TRB
Frodo ran downhill towards the water, he felt small and useless in this moment. His friends were fighting an overwhelming number of Orcs and he was running. Maybe it was because of what had been said back on the hill that he suddenly feared that they too would soon lie dead amongst the host of Orcs they had slain. He heard the sounds of fierce fighting behind him and to either side.
When he reached the shoreline, he was only found by Sam, the stout Hobbit running towards him. "Master Frodo, I was so worried. There's Orcs everywhere, the others went to fight them off, told me to hide here. Where were you?"
Frodo peered through the trees and he could see more Orcs, a whole host of them move through the forest, and for a moment he could see Legolas and Gimli, attacking them. More friends fighting, and possibly dying. His heart became heavy, knowing what he had to do.
"Grab your pack, Sam. Quick! Bring it to the boat," he said, getting his own pack from the camp, glad he had not unpacked anything yet.
"But Master Frodo… what about the others?" Sam asked, even as he obeyed Frodo's command. "We can't leave them like that, can we?"
A black arrow shot past them, hitting a tree, but the Orc that had fired it was cut down by Gimli's axe. "Sam!" Frodo said more fiercely than he had ever felt. "Our friends are out there fighting, laying down their lives so we may get away… to allow the Ring to escape this trap. They will die… and if we fail, they die in vain." It hurt to say it, but he knew his obligation. He would not see all their courage having been for nothing. He headed towards the boat, letting Sam get in. This time Frodo did not think of his fears or of his dead parents when he entered the craft. When he pushed off the shore, he thought of Strider, whom he had not seen; of Legolas and Gimli, giving the Orcs a fight they would not easily forget. He thought of Boromir and Kíli… whom he had left behind. He prayed to the silent stars that they may have mercy on his friends as he steered the boat towards the dark eastern shores of Anduin.
TRB
The fight was brutal from the very beginning. The Orcs of Isengard were taller and stronger than their mountain-bred brethren, and they had numbers on their side. Kíli and Boromir kept their ground in the middle of the ruin, even though it was a tough battle. Kíli was capable of covering a wide area of ground, fighting in an aggressive style that toed the line of wild. Wielding his blade in his right hand and a blazing torch in the left, he was a storm of power as he leapt and whirled and spun, always in swift motion, always in attack, always hacking, stabbing and slashing, piling the corpses of Orcs on the ground. Boromir had his hands full taking on all the Orcs who thought they could circle round the battle-frenzied Dwarf. And, by the fathers of Gondor, this was necessary. Kíli seemed not to care much about his back, or about the opponents who slipped by him. Or perhaps he just trusted Boromir to guard his back closely.
When the Orcs eventually broke off, the ground around the two fighters was littered with stinking, dark carcasses. Trying to catch his breath, Boromir leaned on his blade, startled to hear the strangest sound of all – Kíli was laughing, his deep voice echoing past the running Orcs. Boromir turned towards the Dwarven warrior, who stood as he had fought: his sword in one hand and a torch in the other. His bright eyes blazed like fires as he raised his torch towards Boromir in a gesture of victory.
The moment of hope was short-lived. Boromir saw the movement amongst the trees. "More come."
"Good, you did not think they would run out of their favourite foot fighters yet?" Kíli replied, his eyes shining with a fierce will. He had transformed his pain into a weapon and he would fight and make them pay a dear price for finally killing him.
More Orcs came, from both sides of the ruin this time. The woods must be been crawling with them. Boromir closed ranks with Kíli, ready to fight. The Ring was leaving. It had left scars on Boromir's soul, but now the whispers were retreating, for the Ring was moving away and he could not reach it any more. Tormenting as the whispers might be, he could no longer do anything about them. The decision had been made and he was relieved for it. He would stand. Frodo needed him to hold out and thus the Captain of Gondor would stand.