Lie Down in the Darkness, Rise up from the Ash
By Dwimordene 
dwimmer_laik@yahoo.com


Summary : This is a VERY dark AU for LOTR. The premise: without Gollum, how does 
the Quest turn out? Angsty drama ensues as the storyline of the Lord of the 
Rings unfolds differently as we attempt to take "the road less traveled by.



Chapter One
The Arrow of Fate



 Galadir sighed softly, gazing up at the immense fir tree that spread its 
branches overhead. At the very top there was a bulge, and the Elf warden shook 
his head in a disgusted manner and glanced over at his companion. Erinoth 
fingered his bow and stared out into the night, seemingly lost in his own 
thoughts. "‘Tis near midnight, my friend," Galadir said, casting another dark 
look at the bulge. "And I tire of this game! Does he think to stay there the 
whole night?"

"I know not. What matter if he does? Ere dawn he will descend again, for he 
cannot bear the sunlight. Have patience!" Erinoth replied.

"Nay, he has tried my patience once too often, and will he or nill he, he shall 
return now with us," Galadir said, pulling on his gloves in preparation for 
scaling the rough-barked tree.

"Have a care! He threw Anardil from his perch last time, and Anardil still wears 
a sling!" Erinoth warned. Galadir merely grunted in response, already picking 
his way through the lower branches. The prisoner was a twisted, pitiful thing 
indeed, and though Galadir agreed that he ought not to be left in his cell to 
mutter in the darkness, it was too much that this Sméagol-creature should impose 
thus upon them all. As he climbed, he looked out over the forest, which showed 
dark and indistinct on a moonless night. In the distance, vaguely, he could see 
the malevolent peak of Dol Guldur, and he shuddered, staring at it. For some 
reason it caught his eye tonight, and perhaps it was merely his imagination or a 
trick of the eye, but it seemed to waver like smoke, or as if a thousand dark 
tentacles gripped and writhed all about it. Galadir found he could not take his 
eyes off of it, strangely absorbed by that eerie display, and so it was that he 
did not at first notice the other dark trail that wended its way beneath 
Mirkwood’s eaves. It was only Erinoth’s cry that roused him and he tore his eyes 
from the tower, looking down to see, to his horror, the misshapen Orcs come 
spilling from the trees. Their harsh voices echoed in a battle cry, and Erinoth 
was overborne, buried beneath their clawed forms. A hiss sounded suddenly near 
at hand, and Galadir jerked his head up to see two pale, luminous eyes a bare 
foot away.

"Nassty cruel Elfff!" Sméagol hissed. Then more loudly, he called, "It 
esscapesss! Help usss, preciousss! It escapesessss!" Below, the Orcs cried out, 
pointing upwards, and Sméagol, with a horrible, gurgling cackle, leapt past 
Galadir to drop onto another branch, clearly bent on escaping himself. Galadir 
glanced down again, and saw that the Orcs were beginning to climb, were already 
in the lower branches. Then he looked out again at the small, fleeing back, and 
made his decision.

Using his legs to brace himself against the trunk and a sturdy branch, he 
reached back and pulled bow and arrow into his hands. With the care of an 
artisan, he took aim and pressed, ignoring the laughter of his enemies, and his 
keen eyes narrowed. There! With a sharp twang! an arrow whistled through the 
night, and there came a shriek, and then a small, dark form plummeted to the 
earth and lay utterly still. Galadir let fall his bow, that task complete, and 
he pulled a dagger from his belt. The Orcs were still climbing, and would reach 
him soon. But I shall not go quietly into the night! he vowed, and smiled as he 
faced his murderers.

And on a plane far above the physical, something bent, giving almost to the 
breaking point, and then suddenly it twisted itself, creating a ripple in the 
pattern of fate, and something new began to grow…

"Will you not tell me, old friend, what it is that weighs so heavily upon your 
mind?" Gandalf looked up to find Aragorn standing at his side, arms folded 
across his chest as he, too, gazed out at the valley of Rivendell. The Ranger 
had clearly planned his approach carefully, which did not surprise the wizard, 
but Gandalf did wonder how much Aragorn guessed already.

"Naught that I can explain in precise terms, dear boy." Aragorn smiled slightly 
at that, for it was a standing joke between them.

"I ask not for precision, for I know well that I am no wizard," the Ranger 
replied.

"Hmmph!" Gandalf snorted, but then sighed and shook his head. "If you would know 
truly, I like not the news that Legolas brought."

"Grievous news, but I see not why the deaths of two Elvish guards should be 
cause for such concern."

"I meant Gollum’s death, Aragorn," Gandalf said, a trifle impatiently, and 
Aragorn gave him a skeptical look.

"To me, that seemed the only encouraging part of his message. Sméagol was 
incurable, and a danger to all had he in fact escaped."

"It seems so on the surface, and my logic tells me no differently," the wizard 
replied. "But when I heard that, my heart misgave me, and I felt my very marrow 
freeze! There is great evil in that death, my friend," he sighed, laying a hand 
upon Aragorn’s shoulder, "and the consequences are literally unthinkable. I fear 
we may rue it greatly in the end."

"I see not how," said Aragorn, but he paused and pursed his lips, considering 
his words. "Well," he said at last, "if you say your heart misgives you, then I 
must defer to your judgment. How, after all, shall a Man argue with a wizard?"

"Rigorously and often, if you are any example!" Gandalf replied instantly, with 
a trace of his usual quick humor. But then it faded, and Aragorn, frowning, 
asked:

"Think you that we ought to reconsider our plans?"

"That would serve no purpose. To remain here, or flee west is to bring certain 
doom upon us. There is still hope, however little, that the route to the fire 
shall remain open long enough for the Ringbearer to unmake It. Nay, we must 
continue. What news from Elladan and Elrohir?"

"They rode far, down to Lórien and back, and they brought to me news of 
Saruman’s treachery, so that your tale was not wholly new to me today," Aragorn 
replied, and then gave a slight smile. "They also bring word that Arwen fares 
well in that land." Gandalf laughed at that, and gave Aragorn a shake.

"I am glad to hear it. More so than you may suspect," the wizard said, his eyes 
narrowing as his bushy brows drew together. "Yes… I think that even this news is 
not without merit, my friend, though I know not why I say so." He paused, then 
shook his head again and looked up at the tall Man at his side, and said in a 
low voice, "Say nothing to the others of my fears, Aragorn, I beg you! There are 
some things that I would keep from them, lest they lose heart utterly. I fear 
our road will be hard—harder, even than they can possibly imagine."

"As you wish," Aragorn replied simply. "I leave tomorrow to see what may be 
found of the Riders. Mayhap when I return, we shall speak on this again?"

"Perhaps. Walk in safety, my friend!" Gandalf said, and watched as Aragorn 
strode away. The old lips tightened, and the wizard stroked his beard in an 
agitated manner. "Yes," he murmured, " the way will be hard, and perhaps even 
you, Aragorn, are not prepared to know the truth. A bitter end, I foresee, and 
hope unlooked for, though I know not how it shall be born, should we fail." In 
the distance, he heard light voices lifted in laughter, and recognized the 
hobbits, Merry and Pippin, as they came strolling out of the forest. "And if you 
cannot, then how shall their gentle hearts bear such doom as I prophesy?" The 
wizard sighed once more, then carefully locked his fears and worries away in the 
vault of his mind, where they could do no injury to the innocent. Time will 
tell, he thought, striving to seem determined. But if the hobbits greeted him 
without suspicion, Gandalf’s dissembling was strictly for others. He could not 
lie to himself, and when he turned his eyes to the western horizon, he saw 
darkness falling upon all the land.

 

*Note: This story will be either very long, or forever incomplete. I do not know 
at this stage what its ultimate fate will be. It is projected to get very 
violent, and even darker than most of my writing. If I don't complete it, it 
means even I couldn't stand how depressing it got. Please give me all the 
feedback you can find it in your heart to give as this one starts to develop. 
Thanks--Dwimordene.



~~~




Chapter Two
Bridge Into Darkness




 The Song of the World is a melody so complex, so perfectly entwined within its 
own harmony, that even a single new note may change it; and yet at the same 
time, because it is so integrally itself, it remains stable, even the face of 
severe dissonance. Not all things change, though all the rest of a stave may 
shift about them. So it was that the Company’s journey south, ordained by the 
Song, was made still, but under the new shadow it led them through new verses… 
while still leading ultimately to the same destination. Caradhras loomed still 
large in the Music born of the disharmony; the snows still beat them from the 
mountains slopes, and the Watcher remained still to drive them into the depths 
of Moria. And their hearts were heavy, for though none but Gandalf could hear 
the changing of the Notes, all sensed it, though they knew not that there was 
any "change" to speak of. The Music simply was, and they existed in its midst, 
ignorant of its manifold possibilities… and of the fact that they stood now on 
a path bound into the Soundlessness of the Void….

 

Frodo trudged wearily along, following Gandalf in the darkness, and he felt his 
burden heavy. Moria passed all about him, seemingly endless, concealed in a 
cloak of tragedy and fear that pressed close on all sides. Nothing seemed to go 
right on this journey, though he hoped still that he might find a way to the 
fulfillment of the quest. The disastrous attempt to pass the Redhorn Gate had 
only seemed to strengthen the fearful mood that had hovered over their departure 
from Rivendell. Then the birds, the wolves, and the Watcher had further sapped 
the spirits of the Company, and now they wandered the long-deserted halls of the 
Black Pit of Khazad-dûm. Gandalf paused suddenly ahead of him, and Frodo would 
have collided with him had his stride been any longer; as it was, his momentum 
carried him right up to the hem of the wizard’s cloak, as Gandalf stood 
examining the empty space before them. Behind them, there came the sound of feet 
shuffling awkwardly to a halt, as everyone stumbled a bit at the unexpected 
pause. Glancing back, Frodo saw the dim outlines of his companions: Merry and 
Pippin, standing close for comfort, and Sam, looking ill at ease but determined. 
Beyond them was Gimli, and some distance further away stood Legolas the Elf, 
whom Frodo recognized instantly in the darkness by the faint glitter that seemed 
to emanate from him—a hint, perhaps, of the inner fire that dwelt in the Elvish 
race. And between them , as always, lurked the tall, broad shadow of Boromir. 
Poor Boromir, Frodo thought, feeling a ghost of a smile rise in him. I think he 
is not best pleased to be ever pinned between those two! For the Man of Gondor 
served more often than not as a physical barrier between Elf and Dwarf, neither 
of whom were willing to come any closer to each other than necessity required. 
The hobbit guessed that if Boromir had not come with them on this journey, they 
would have made Aragorn their wall. Indeed, it seemed to him that the only 
reason Strider was spared that difficult position was a prior friendship with 
Legolas, which the Elf was unwilling to hazard in this almost childish 
animosity.

"Gimli," Gandalf spoke, striding forward, and the Dwarf grunted and followed. 
The two went and stood together before the looming maw of a great door, and to 
either side by the light of Gandalf’s staff showed dimly the lintels of another 
door, leading off into still more darkness. Behind him, a sigh gusted softly, 
and Frodo guessed that was Boromir, either enjoying the respite or else annoyed 
at the delay, or both together. After some moments, Gandalf spoke again, "Well, 
I do not remember this place at all!" He paused, holding aloft his staff for 
some moments, and then he said, with a shake of his head, "And Gimli can give me 
no insight, either. Better that we take what rest we can for the remainder of 
the night, I think, for I expect all now are as weary as I am, or more." The 
tension eased a bit, as everyone brightened at the thought of rest. Merry and 
Pippin, eagerly seeking a place to lie in seeming safety, were quick to discover 
a little space beyond a half-closed door. But as they made quickly to open it 
and enter, the wizard forestalled them.

"Steady!" Gandalf said sharply, restraining the young hobbits with the snap of 
his voice. "Let me go first, and see what may lie before us, for you know not 
what may be within!" The Company crowded close in behind Gandalf nonetheless, 
but the wizard had gone only a few paces when the light from his staff revealed 
a hole in the ground: the remains of a well, it seemed. From behind and above 
Frodo came Aragorn’s mildly reproving voice, which nonetheless held a note of 
amusement for the hobbits’ familiar antics: "One of you might have fallen in and 
still be wondering when he would strike the bottom. Let the guide go first while 
you have one!" Though softly spoken, Aragorn's words reverberated chillingly off 
the walls of the hall, filling the air with mocking, whispering echos: …while 
you have one… have one… while you have one… one…ne….



After that, even the silence was welcome.



***

Some hours later, Frodo lay exhausted in the little nook that he had claimed to 
sleep in, but sleep toyed gently with him without ever descending. He closed his 
eyes and willed himself to sleep, but to no avail. Memory of those hammer 
strokes from deep in the well haunted him, riding on the current of his unease. 
What had Pippin wakened? And when would it show itself? Of a sudden, in the 
darkness at his back, he heard the rustle of clothes and then soft footsteps as 
someone rose and moved. His ears pricked up, curious but also fearful, wondering 
if one of the others had heard something to alarm him. But then Gandalf’s voice 
sounded, greeting one unseen in a soft voice:

"Well, it is later indeed, my friend." And to Frodo’s surprise, the wizard spoke 
not Westron, nor even Sindarin, but Quenya, which Frodo could understand only 
generally. In spite of the dread that welled up within him–for he guessed that 
Gandalf did not wish this conversation to be understood by any save the one to 
whom he spoke (and Frodo knew now whom the other must be)–he eavesdropped, 
translating frantically. And what he heard filled his heart with foreboding….

 

***

"Well, it is later indeed, my friend," Gandalf said as Aragorn wandered over. 
The Ranger braced his back against the stony doorframe and then slid easily to 
the floor, sitting with his legs crossed and his hands in his lap. But if his 
body was relaxed, his grey eyes, lit in their depths with an eerie red by 
Gandalf's dim flame, were troubled. The wizard quirked a brow, and demanded, 
"For do I not guess correctly that you would speak to me upon those matter which 
we discussed in Imladris?"

"I would. Later still might be more… apt… but I fear there may be no other time, 
Gandalf. For the dread has not abated, and I see now in your every step a last 
one," Aragorn replied, gazing with concern through the curling tendrils of smoke 
at the fire-lit, seamed face of the wizard. The cares of a millenium rested 
there, in that aged visage, and Aragorn frowned. In all the years that he had 
known Gandalf, he had never thought of him as old. Ancient, in the timeless 
manner of Elves, yes, but old? Physically bowed by the unbearable pressure of 
too many centuries of struggle, even as a mortal creature? Never that! But 
tonight, as the Ranger stared at the wizard, it seemed to him that for the first 
time, Gandalf looked his age and he feared what that might mean. So much rides 
upon him, he thought, and yet beyond Moria, I can see him no more among us. My 
heart tells me that death comes soon to you, Gandalf my friend, and what I would 
not give to be proven wrong! It gave him chills to think further down that path, 
to a world without Gandalf, but he steeled himself out of habit and prepared to 
follow that grim trail still further if he could. For one must forget how to 
flinch if one would meddle in a wizard's affairs!

"That is as may be. It is not given me to know my end; ‘tis a blind spot for us 
all, perhaps," the wizard replied, and wondered at himself for that oblique 
warning. Aragorn seemed not to notice it, though, which was perhaps good. Or 
else, he might have taken the remark to mean no more than it said. "What shall I 
say?" he finally asked. "The darkness grows, as we knew it would, and it veils 
the land. And in the end, it matters not, for we are committed. Even were the 
domination of Sauron now upon us, insurmountable save by means the Valar alone 
know, we would still be bound to do that which is right, accepting the 
consequences as they came."

"True," said the Dúnadan, "and I do not seek to know that safety lies ahead, for 
any of us. I would, though, know what hope you have, for I think you were not 
wholly frank with me in Imladris. This matter of Gollum troubles you still, and 
more deeply than you would admit to any."

"I fear I can say little more on that matter than what I have already 
disclosed," Gandalf replied, inhaling deeply the sweet-scented smoke. "Those who 
have borne the Ring are marked by it, and about them does our fate revolve. Even 
one so small and filled with malice as Sméagol has great significance, and his 
death, too, will mark this age. Is that enough for you?"

"Even were it not, I think you would say no more," Aragorn replied heavily, and 
glanced about at the sleeping bodies. "Have you decided which gate to take?"

"My mind is made up. But we are all in need of rest," said Gandalf, stressing 
the last word slightly as he scowled in Aragorn’s direction. For his part, the 
Ranger only smiled and held up his hands in acquiescence.

"I go, I go! Trust me to have some sense!" And Aragorn rose and went silently 
back to his corner, where he wrapped himself in his cloak and lay down. The 
veteran of many a lonely and wary journey, he had no trouble falling instantly 
asleep in spite of fear…

… but Frodo son of Drogo remained awake, and felt his heart pounding in his 
breast at what he had overheard. He trusted Strider’s judgment implicitly, as he 
had ever since they had left Bree in spite of Sam’s misgivings; if he were 
worried, that was cause enough for alarm. But if Gandalf himself found cause for 
concern in Gollum’s death—and oh, how Frodo’s own words in the Shire came back 
to haunt him now!—then the situation must be grave indeed. They are trying to 
protect me, Gandalf and Aragorn, and all of the others, from everything that 
they can foresee, but no one can save me from myself. Have I a hope? I know not! 
Elbereth Gilthoniel, why should this age of the world suffer so? To that, Frodo 
knew there could be no answer, and he hardened his heart against his own fears. 
Gandalf speaks rightly: it matters not what may happen; what matters is that I 
do what is right. I must take the Ring to the Fire. I must try, and let nothing 
I hear or feel stop me!

 

And yet in spite of all resolutions, at the edge of the Silence there loomed 
still the Bridge of Khazad-dûm— its span the last tendril that would bear the 
Company now into the rift of the Disharmony. Grief shouts the more loudly for 
never having been voiced, and foreboding makes loss more bitter than poison. 
Beneath Gandalf’s staff broke the bridge of Khazad-dûm, and all recourse out of 
the Void failed irrevocably when fell Olorin of Valinor.

 

 

*Thanks to a German Benedictine nun named Hildegaard von Bingen for the idea 
that the Devil cannot sing.

 


 ~~~



 Chapter Three
 Falling




And then into the Song came the great Silence, and even the least were not 
untouched by it… .

"Ai! ai! A Balrog! A Balrog is come!" Pippin jerked his eyes from the towering 
horror that stood before them and glanced up at the Elf. Legolas's eyes were 
wide, and his teeth were bared in a grimace of hatred and anguish so strong that 
the hobbit felt nausea roil through his already cramped stomach. Then Gimli 
moved to stand beside the elven prince, heedless for once of the animosity he 
bore for his companion. The Dwarf’s horror was no less great than Legolas's, and 
he slipped heavily to his knees as a harsh whisper emerged from his lips: 
"Durin’s Bane!" Then, as if overborne by the sight, he cast his hood over his 
face. Pippin looked from Dwarf to Elf and then back again, unable yet to 
comprehend their words but equally unable to bear to turn back to the bridge. 
Nearby, Frodo stood gaping, sheet-white with some terrible emotion, and his left 
hand clutched his chest just at the level where the Ring should lie concealed on 
its chain about his neck. What is happening? What do I do? Pippin felt utterly 
at a loss, seeking reassurance that someone among them knew how to deal with 
this fell thing.

"A Balrog," breathed Gandalf, shaking his head in wonder. "Now I understand. 
What an evil fortune, for I am already weary!" The wizard stared a moment 
longer, then his old face hardened and his eyes gleamed. Of a sudden, he was 
striding back onto the bridge, moving with a vigor that belied his words, and 
Pippin gasped, unable to imagine what the wizard intended. He had wanted surety 
in action, but it was a fool’s errand to go back onto that narrow span of stone, 
surely…!

"Gandalf!" Aragorn’s voice sounded harsh and strained (And afraid, Pippin 
thought miserably), but then the Ranger was sprinting after Gandalf, sword 
drawn. Boromir, too, gave a cry, though it sounded like a curse. Pippin had been 
too stunned to move when Aragorn did, but now he perceived the other Man’s 
intentions and something stirred in his heart. With a shout of his own, and 
without thinking clearly what he did, he lunged forward and caught the edge of 
Boromir’s cloak. If he had thought to try and restrain him, though, that hope 
was quickly dashed, for the Man of Gondor seemed not to notice the hobbit’s 
weight at all: he dragged Pippin forward almost to the brink before the hobbit 
thought to let go and drop back from the precipice.

"W-what…? Wait! Come back!" Pippin cried, or rather croaked, and then swallowed 
any further words in terror. His eyes were drawn irresistibly upward, to the 
looming figure in the midst of all that blackness; something like awe blossomed 
in his breast, and it pulsed sickly there. It came into Pippin’s head, briefly 
and confusedly, that this was a power of the world, and that before its black 
master they would bow in the end! And then all within him was stilled as 
Gandalf’s challenge rang clear and desperate in the hot air.

"You cannot pass," he said. The Orcs stood still, and a dead silence fell. "I am 
a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The 
dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot 
pass!"* Pippin quailed and flinched, unable to watch the blow descend. But then 
came the clash and ring of steel on steel, clear even through the blood pounding 
in his ears, and the young hobbit managed to open one eye to peer fearfully at 
the frozen tableau. Gandalf and the Balrog still faced each other, but the 
Balrog’s sword was no where in evidence, while Glamdring glowed white. Some ten 
paces behind the wizard stood Aragorn, and a pace or two behind him Boromir, and 
the tall silhouettes of the two Men were poised to spring forward should their 
help be needed. Yet Pippin guessed that they, too, were held in place by the 
power of the demon, unable to break free until something changed—

The Balrog let out a roar, and it leapt high, its whip streaking outward in a 
dark blur. At that same moment, Gandalf cried aloud and rammed his staff down 
upon the white stone. The staff shattered and fell away, and Pippin was 
momentarily blinded by an intense light. It was slow to fade from the hobbits’ 
eyes, but when it did, he saw that the bridge was cracked beneath the Balrog. 
Yet the battle was not over, and Pippin stared, struck dumb by amazed grief as 
time moved forward once more….

***

The instant that Gandalf smote the bridge, Aragorn felt the spell broken, and he 
gasped, flinging up an arm to protect his eyes from the stabbing light. "Valar 
save us!" Boromir’s prayer was nearly lost in the explosive sound of stone that 
split itself asunder. Nevertheless, Aragorn heard it, and a part of his mind 
spared a moment to add his own petition, but he feared it was too late—that it 
had been too late for Gandalf from the moment the Balrog had appeared, just as 
they had crossed the bridge. It was too late the moment we entered this pit! his 
inner voice snapped bitterly, cursing his own impotence. Never had he loathed 
foresight more than in this moment, for he knew that he was powerless to prevent 
what was about to occur. But that did not stop him from trying to stave off fate 
nonetheless, and, sheathing his sword, Aragorn lunged desperately forward….

***

The Balrog’s whip burned through the air and the thongs curled about the 
wizard’s legs. Gandalf cried out, falling to his knees as he was pulled bodily 
towards the abyss. Instinctively, his hands shot out, seeking purchase on the 
too-smooth stone, knowing it was a futile effort. The Ring! At least this 
monster will not have the Ring! Gandalf thought, and braced himself for the 
headlong plummet into darkne—

A jolt ran through his body as something caught him, and the wizard looked up in 
shock to see Aragorn staring back at him. The Ranger had his arm, and he slowed 
Gandalf’s sliding descent enough for Gandalf to latch onto the stony protrusion 
of what was left of the bridge. The strength granted a Maia in utmost need is 
greater than any Man’s, and it was Gandalf rather than Aragorn who held them 
briefly on that precipice, as the Balrog fell still below him on its long whip. 
But he could not hold on forever, and Gandalf knew it. So did Aragorn, but he 
did not release him, and there was a challenge in his eyes that the wizard knew 
well: Let Sauron himself come forth, the Ranger would not be forced to leave a 
friend in need. "Fly, you fool! Live!" It was all Gandalf could manage in the 
seconds remaining him, and then he shoved Aragorn back, breaking free… and was 
borne into the chasm.

***

Pippin felt a keen rise up in him as Gandalf disappeared, but it never left his 
throat for it died aborning, crushed by the bedlam darkness that seemed to crash 
down upon them all. Upon the bridge, Aragorn seemed unable to move, but Boromir 
yanked him to his feet and after a moment’s hesitation, they both turned and 
fled as the bridge crumbled in their wake. Still stunned himself, Pippin did not 
at first realize that he was in their way until Boromir tripped over him and 
fell hard. Aragorn, forewarned, managed to throw himself to one side, and he 
rolled and came smoothly to his feet again. A bruised and much chagrined Pippin 
crawled towards them, and as he looked up at Aragorn, the Ranger looked down and 
met his eyes. The light of Strider's eyes seemed extinguished by grief, but then 
Aragorn bestirred himself, reaching out to shepherd Pippin firmly back towards 
the remainder of the Company, while Boromir picked himself up from the ground.

"Come! I will lead you now!" Aragorn said, and his voice was taut as a drawn 
bow, but nevertheless it was the voice of authority, a voice which knew it had 
to be obeyed in this moment. "We must obey his last command," he continued, 
giving Pippin a shove and forcing Sam and Frodo forward with his body while 
Merry staggered alongside. The hobbits, dazed, moved in one huddled mass, 
trusting Strider blindly as they had in the beginning. Legolas and Gimli, 
suddenly aware of each other again, paused uncertainly, and Aragorn called out 
over his shoulder with a trace of impatience, "Follow me!" At last, they did, 
and Boromir, grim and silent, brought up the rear. Once they had begun to move, 
it seemed their legs took on a life of their own, and soon all were running 
through the last hewn hallway, plunging ahead carelessly, seeking only to leave 
Moria behind at last. The gates loomed bright before them, seeming to mock their 
grief for having been so very near at hand. Pippin wept as he ran, and he swiped 
at his eyes, unwilling to fall now and delay them. Something hot splattered on 
his face, and he blinked them open again quickly, staring in horror as his hands 
came away bloody from his cheeks. Then he saw the headless Orc captain, and saw 
Andúril flash red in the sunlight as they spilled out of the eastern gates, and 
he understood. It was a measure of his discomposure that he did not think to 
wipe the blood away.

 

Upon the land of Lórien there lay no stain of evil, unless one brought it 
thither oneself. But the Music was changed, and they lay now in the heart of the 
Silent Void. Galadriel, who sat upon the throne of Lothlórien, was troubled in 
her heart, and so the land itself knew doubt, for she could not defend it 
against that which the Void woke in her…

Tears burned hot against his lashes, but they did not fall. Yet that was not due 
to any strength of will on Pippin’s part, but to the blindfold that drank them 
in. With a start, he woke fully, disoriented for a moment before memory 
returned. We are in Lórien, passing blindfolded through the land, he thought, 
and wondered if he ought to be relieved. But though he walked now in safety, led 
by the elvish guards, he felt nothing, unless it were a dull ache for the fact 
of his continued existence. Gandalf is dead! He died for us… died to save us… to 
save me! Why? It made no sense to one Peregrin Took, and he pressed at the 
bandage, grateful that no one but their guides could see him. And perhaps the 
others, too, relished this time of private grief. Pippin sighed and lay still, 
thinking.

Though he knew better, the journey to Lórien had seemed to stretch on into 
eternity. Aragorn had led them on from the gates at such a pace that even 
Boromir had been winded when they had come to a halt. The hobbits had collapsed 
in their tracks, exhausted and grieving, and the Company had surrendered at last 
to helpless tears. Pippin had wept in the circle of Merry’s arms, while Frodo 
and Sam had sat together. He had been too absorbed by his own sense of loss to 
note the manner in which the others mourned. Finally, Aragorn had roused them 
all, reminding them of the danger of vengeful Orcs, but the look that he had 
cast back at the mountains had been as close to murderous as Pippin had ever 
seen. He had not actually thought Strider could carry such rage within him, and 
he shuddered at the memory, wondering what it meant.

When at last they had reached Nimrodel, Pippin had been staggering and half 
asleep on his feet. Though Legolas and Aragorn had seemed relieved to have come 
at last under the eaves of the golden woods, even there they had not been wholly 
without fear. For Legolas had cocked his head and listened to the stream, which 
carried a music in its rushing falls, and he had frowned. For the song of 
Nimrodel was disturbed: it lured the ear, and yet it did not quite achieve 
melody, wavering between song and sickness. "I like it not," Legolas had said, 
"There is something amiss even here!" Boromir had darted a dark look at 
Aragorn’s back upon hearing that, as if he counted this pronouncement as 
evidence of the malice of Lothlórien. And what would make him do such a thing? 
Pippin wondered briefly. He had not taken Boromir for a grudge-holder, and he 
was glad that Aragorn had missed that resentful gaze. Having glimpsed briefly 
Strider’s own anger, he decided that he would not want to be present if the two 
Men ever found reason to quarrel.

Of course, Boromir was back to being stuck between the openly resentful Gimli 
and Legolas, which had to be a trying place to be, though the Man made no effort 
to escape the tedious duty. Pippin sighed again. He knew too little of the 
history of the Elves and Dwarves to understand what drove such relentless 
hostility, however muted, but he knew better than to ask. Even Gandalf had not 
wanted to broach that subject! In the mean time, he knew not where he went, 
trusting the guides to lead them well, and he wondered at the changes that he 
felt within himself. Once, he would have been content to lean upon the guidance 
of Frodo and Gandalf and the others without question, but now… now he flung 
himself after Men twice his size in efforts to save them! Now he found himself 
watching his companions closely for the first time, and though his gaze remained 
light, he had begun to notice things. Frodo seemed so tired and grave at times, 
and Gandalf was gone. Strider’s thoughts were veiled as always, but it was clear 
that he was worried, and Boromir had suddenly (or so it seemed to him) grown 
moody. For a hobbit new to the wide world, it was all overwhelming, and for the 
moment he wanted nothing more than for this journey to end.

***

Galadriel stood silently upon the edge of the talan, and gazed out over her 
realm as it lay under the twilight. Lothlórien the Beautiful, fairest land of 
the Elves in exile. How I grieve for all that shall pass away! Even here, the 
stars do not shine so brightly as once they did. Alas, that the Shadow of the 
East lies no longer only in Mordor! she thought, remembering the hard words in 
the council. She had sensed the pain that the Company bore from the moment that 
they entered her realm, and she had also missed Gandalf’s presence among them. 
But she had not seen—or perhaps would not see—how the one inspired the other 
until Aragorn had told their tale of woe. There was no comfort to be had in 
words, and she had had to release them without it, saying only that they should 
have refuge here until they were prepared to go on. For if the stain of her own 
troubled heart lay upon the land, still it was a restful place, and she imbued 
it with the desire to forget, to set aside the darkness that crowded upon its 
borders. At least Gimli now knows some peace, she thought, smiling at the memory 
of the Dwarf’s sincere gratitude for her words to him. At least I have still the 
power to ease some hearts… though not all, she thought.

Galadriel sighed. She had looked into the hearts of the nine companions, and 
knew well the temptations that pushed ever more sharply against the demands of 
conscience and duty. Boromir, she sensed, suffered more than any other, and she 
felt an immense pity for him. Yet she could not help him, for he did not trust 
her. What would become of him, she knew not, but she wished him well. As for 
Aragorn, who had now to assume the mantle that Gandalf had let fall, it was not 
her words that he needed to hear, and she knew that her grand-daughter was not 
in her chambers. She did not doubt where she might find Arwen at this moment, 
and she smiled slightly. Last but not least in her thoughts was the Ring-bearer, 
Frodo son of Drogo, for Galadriel felt the tug of warring desires within her. On 
the one hand, she wanted nothing more than the success of his mission for the 
salvation of all, knowing well the burden that he bore. And on the other hand, 
there was, of course, temptation. The longer he remains with us, the more will 
the malice of Sauron’s tool make itself felt in my heart. I know what I must do, 
but ah! How carefully does Mandos take our measure in the end! And yet she could 
not resist the desire to touch once more upon Frodo's mind, and she felt his 
agonized fear, and his doubt. Some debate, she guessed, took place among the 
Company, for she felt the touch of other thoughts, tense, confused, uncertain… 
then all faded from her mind as she let go Frodo's thought.

At last, she sighed, and turned her head and smiled sadly at Celeborn, who had 
come noiselessly up behind her. Her husband spoke no word of greeting, only 
wrapped his arms about her and pressed his cheek against hers. She laid her 
hands atop his, and Nenya glittered upon her finger, winking bewitchingly at 
her, like a lost star. Let us not fall into the darkness! She sent her thought 
out to whatever power might hear it, and knew not yet that it was too late 
indeed to escape it.

***

Aragorn sat with his back to a great tree, legs crossed, hands resting lightly 
upon his knees, and he savored the knowledge that there was no one about him for 
miles. He should have remained with the others, he knew, but he simply could not 
bear to face them and their pain as well as his own. The fear that had haunted 
him ever since that long ago conversation with Gandalf in Rivendell had at last 
been borne out upon the bridge of Khazad-dûm, and his own self-control was near 
to breaking. For unlike the rest of the Company, Aragorn had enjoyed a long and 
intimate friendship with Gandalf, and the wizard was more than a guide to him, 
however dear. His thoughts returned incessantly to Moria, to the bridge and to 
the terrible sense of helplessness as Gandalf had writhed violently out of his 
grasp. That he could not have saved the wizard in any case—that Gandalf, indeed, 
had not wanted him to try—was no comfort at all to one who had loved him as a 
second father.

But there was more even: for in that moment before Gandalf had escaped him, as 
he had ordered him to run, the wizard had looked straight into his eyes, and 
Aragorn son of Arathorn had felt a spark leap between them. And suddenly, he 
knew. He knew, with dreadful certainty and clarity, what it was that Gandalf had 
concealed from them, and in that very moment he misdoubted his own strength. How 
can I carry this? How can anyone bear such a burden? His mind shied away even 
now from the contemplation of that presentiment. Before the others, Aragorn 
could not pretend that all was well; he could not even summon the strength to 
keep his pain safely inside, where it could harm no one. In the swift journey 
south from Dimrill Dale, he had tried to push the pace not simply because of the 
danger of pursuit, but because he knew of only one way to stop his mind from 
thinking: physical exhaustion. But he was bound to others who could not match 
his speed, and so he had been forced to wait for them, feeling guilty for having 
tested the limits of their endurance for no reason but a selfish one.

And so, after washing, he had gone not back to the clearing beneath Caras 
Galadon.

Instead, he had slipped away and wandered in the glades of Lórien, having for 
once no particular destination in mind. And yet, once he had reached this 
isolated hillock, with its screen of gold-leafed mellyrn trees and grass laden 
with sleeping elenyr**, he felt as though he had always intended to come there. 
It was now late indeed, and he had been sitting there for long hours, but he 
felt no desire to return yet. Though he supposed his companions were long since 
asleep, he had no heart for company of any kind.

"If that be so, my love, then I fear you will be disappointed," came a soft 
voice, near at hand, and Aragorn glanced sharply left. There he beheld the 
slender, grey-clad form of Arwen as she paused and stood a moment against the 
trees. A small silver lamp she held, and its soft light cast wavering shadows 
upon her, giving the illusion that she shimmered as her namesake did. Then came 
she unbidden to his side and sat gracefully, draping her skirts about her as she 
set the lantern down. She reached out and gently touched his face with her 
fingertips, and her eyes gleamed in the night. "Have you no word for one who has 
long missed you?"

"Arwen…." Words failed him momentarily, and he closed his eyes, feeling the heat 
of her body as she kissed him lightly on the mouth. Will I ever touch her again, 
once I leave this place? How many times have I drunk her kisses like wine and 
hoped for a day beyond the Shadows? Now though…. "How did you find me?"

With a soft laugh, and a light touch as she smoothed a lock of hair from his 
eyes, she replied, "As I always do." Aragorn caught her hand in his, and she 
gazed solemnly at him in the close darkness. "I know you mourn, Estel," said 
she, and her tone was gentle and sad, "and I can taste your grief as my own, and 
your fear also. But why suffer alone?"

Aragorn sighed and shook his head, lowering his eyes as he sought an excuse. "I 
am not fit company tonight, beloved… for anyone." He started to look away, but 
Arwen laid her hand to the side of his face and restrained him, forcing him to 
look at her as she leaned close, and he saw that she was troubled.

"Aragorn, wilt thou then hide even from me, who would be thy wife? Shall the 
darkness drive thee ever from me, even when we are together? Beloved, look to 
thine own heart and have a care, for break it in thy solitude and I cannot help 
thee!" Arwen replied earnestly, and her eyes pierced him to the core, laying 
bare the wounds he bore, and Aragorn felt his breath catch hard. It was almost a 
sob, for he could raise no subterfuge, no defense against that penetrating 
stare. And though a part of him resisted, habitually seeking to protect Arwen 
from the maelstrom of anguish, a greater part recognized that to do so would 
only cause her more pain, which he could never have inflicted intentionally. 
More, he wanted to yield, to let her see what he hid from the world, but there 
he hesitated, feeling himself poised on the brink, and he feared to lean too far 
lest he fall. Estel I was called, but I can bear that name no longer, he 
thought. Perhaps if he had not had that epiphany, even Gandalf's death could 
have been borne. But though he sought the means to turn Arwen's question aside 
unanswered, Aragorn felt himself utterly adrift in despair.

"How if thou shouldst fall with me, Arwen?" he managed at last, knowing that he 
made no sense, but unable to stop himself. "If what I have seen is true… and I 
think it must be… how if there is no sunrise tomorrow?" Arwen was gravely 
silent, listening as he continued on, "Gandalf said once that we might greatly 
rue the death of Sméagol in the end, and I see now what he saw then. There is no 
end to this Darkness, beloved, only a beginning that stretches out infinitely…."

"Even in Lórien, the stain has begun to seep through for I think grand-mother is 
filled with misgiving," Arwen said slowly as he trailed off. "I have not known a 
day without fear since the day the sun shone dim on this land, and now I hear 
thee name what my heart has long known but refused to acknowledge. For if the 
Day is no more beyond the Night…." She cast down her proud eyes, and Aragorn 
swore bitterly if silently, feeling the rebirth of that fury he had known after 
their escape from Moria: the despairing fury of one to whom the bitter truth is 
both unacceptable and yet undeniable. To bear the knowledge of the coming 
Darkness alone was impossibly hard, but to see Arwen crushed under that same 
weight of terror was a desecration, and he caught her in his arms, seeking some 
faint glimmer of hope to comfort her, but he could find none. Instead, he began 
to kiss her, desperately at first, then with increasing passion as she responded 
in kind. Arwen clung to him, unresisting as he laid her down amidst the flowers, 
and she gave only a little moan when he undid the buttons at the back of her 
dress. The corner of his mind where dwelt all the codes of honor and decency 
that he had been raised to respect screamed at him to stop, but he could not. He 
half-hoped Arwen would stop him, but she seemed to have decided to fall with 
him. It was a moment of weakness, and yet somehow so much more than that. There 
was a blindness to their loving that nevertheless bespoke an absolute trust, 
both of them surrendering to impulse, snatching this one chance to taste, 
however imperfectly and illicitly, what they had always thought to share one 
day. Always before, there had been a reason to wait, to hope still for a better 
day, for such blissful eternity as mortality permitted. Now, though, as they 
faced Darkness unremitting, the old reasons and constraints were no longer 
sufficient to hold in check the fire that kindled between them, and which grew 
stronger with each touch. Aragorn felt his very blood burn at Arwen’s caresses, 
and at last surrendered even guilt, abandoning himself to the logic of the 
abyss, which knew but one law: take, hold, have.

Such was the intensity of the moment that there was no drawing it out, and 
Aragorn groaned softly, the noise forced from him by a mixture of pleasure and 
shame. They lay there entwined, sprawled one atop the other in the grass, and 
simply to breathe was an effort. All about, the forest was silent, save only for 
the rustle of wind in the trees, and the pounding of their hearts. Below him, 
Arwen’s face, lit by the lamp, was flushed and her dark hair, studded now with 
pale yellow blossoms, spread like an aureole, burnished in places to radiance by 
the silvery light. Ghostly she seemed, ethereal, and her beauty was now laden 
with the sadness that comes to all things finite. "Arwen," he murmured, fighting 
for breath and for a coherent thought. How could I do this to thee, my love? It 
was in his head to apologize profusely for having brought her to this pass, but 
Arwen reached up and pulled him close, forestalling him with a kiss.

"Be still, my love, and do not draw away from me now!" she whispered. "I made my 
choice long ago, and when we promised, then was I thy wife in spirit even if not 
in name. And that makes thee mine… and I would have thee, come what may." She 
paused, running a fingertip lightly down his chest as she gazed deeply into his 
eyes. "So speak no words of regret to me, and when thou leavest again, as thou 
must, then set the memory of tonight against the pain, and let me help carry 
thee through this darkness."

"And if there is no end to it, as thou and I foresee?" he asked.

Arwen smiled sadly as she gazed up at him with a knowing look, yet her voice was 
serene. And such was his love for her that Aragorn felt the spark of that love 
burn bright against the veils of hopelessness, compelling his belief in spite of 
himself. "If there is no end to the night, then so be it!" said she, stroking 
his cheek. "For Aragorn, even in the blackest night, we cannot sorrow forever, 
even if we should try to do so. There must be—there will be—moments of joy, else 
we do not live!" After that, they lay silently together in the darkness. Shyly 
at first, and then with a great tenderness born of their need, they loved each 
other and were comforted, til at last the tears that came were a release; a 
measure of healing rather than of hurt.

 

***

The sun had just begun to show itself on the eastern horizon when Aragorn at 
last stood in the tent, and gazed down at the sleeping forms of the Company. 
Well, he thought with a forlorn sort of dignity, I am back.

 

 

And in the midst of the Silence, there rose a faint Note, clear and sweet, and 
then the Music began to change again. But the Void remained, for the time was 
not ripe, and the Note faded once more…

 

* FOTR, 322 For a direct lifting with no intervening made-up lines, I do cite 
sources.

** According to the site Ardalambion, elenyr should be the Sindarin plural of 
elanor.

 


 ~~~~~




Chapter Four
Alone Together




 Frodo woke the next morning slowly, and felt for a moment confused by the soft 
golden light that filtered through the trees and tent. From somewhere nearby, 
an elvish voice raised itself in song, and the sad melody brought the memory of 
loss sharply to his mind, making it impossible to sleep again so he rubbed his 
eyes and then sat up. All about him his companions lay slumbering, and for once 
none so much as twitched in his sleep. We wore ourselves out, doubtless, he 
thought, thinking of the odd and almost painful discussion they had had last 
night. Chief among the topics of debate had been the unusual audience with 
Galadriel and Celeborn, for none of them had withstood the gaze of that high 
lady, and none save perhaps Legolas knew what to make of it. But if he did, the 
Elf kept the knowledge to himself, for he had said nothing from his place in 
the corner the night before, content to listen to his more vocal comrades.

"I liked it not," Boromir had said immediately. "What sorcery she sought to 
cast, I know not, but I trust it not either."

"I don't know about that." Surprisingly, it had been Sam who spoke up in 
response, and a very thoughtful look indeed he had worn.. "I don't know… it 
weren't magic, I think, unless all Elves are magic, beggin' your pardon Master 
Legolas. But it was less about her and more about us, if you understand me, 
sir."

"I think I do." Pippin had interjected, which had been even more surprising. "It 
was… well, I saw you blush, Sam, and I thought to myself 'guilty.' And that was 
exactly how I felt! Guilty! It was as if she knew everything about me, and 
showed me the one thing that I wanted most and said I could have it, if only I 
would turn aside. I mean, I do want the quest to succeed, so it can't be what I 
wanted most…but, well… you know…." he had amended, stumbling over the oblique 
assurance as he blushed in his turn. Finally, he had fallen silent.

"You speak truly," Gimli had said then, taking up the conversation as he had 
stroked his beard, considering anew, perhaps, his own experience. "And though it 
seemed we stood naked before her, yet my choices in this matter would remain 
secret. Or so I perceived."

"It was but pretense–what choice could any of us have made that would not be 
known instantly to the others?" Boromir had challenged. "And what purpose lay in 
this… this testing? Have we not yet proved ourselves true?"

"In the matter of the Ring," Frodo had said, speaking at last, "there is no 
proof that is final, until It be unmade. How could there be? Else we would not 
suffer so under the weight of Sauron's malice. Gandalf said it once himself: he 
could trust no one, not even himself, in matters concerning the Ring. As for the 
Lady Galadriel's purpose, none can read it, but neither can any doubt it. You do 
wrong to speak ill of her, for what evil lies upon this land comes but with us, 
and does not lie with her." Frodo had met Boromir's proud eyes, and for a moment 
they had seemed to strive against each other. But in the end the Heir of 
Denethor had looked away, and though there had remained tension in his posture, 
he had said no more. So relieved had Frodo been by this seeming withdrawal that 
he had needed a few moments to realize that he had won the contest of wills in a 
battle he had never thought to fight. He had felt a thrill of misgiving over the 
victory, doubting whether a quarrel might not break the fellowship, and 
wondering whether this was an omen of things to come.

Perhaps it was, for though they had passed eventually to other topics, an aura 
of palpable tension had hovered in the air between them, and would not 
dissipate. Eventually, their conversation had fallen silent, and the companions 
had bidden each other an uncertain good night. Despite that, Frodo had fallen 
asleep almost instantly, and if he had dreamed he could not remember any of it. 
Perhaps that is just as well, he thought, for waking life grows harder with each 
day, and I dread the nightmares! Since that fateful night in Moria, when he had 
eavesdropped on the secretive talk between Gandalf and Aragorn, his dreams had 
grown dark indeed, and fear was ever in his heart. He could not yet clearly 
perceive the danger that Gandalf had foreseen, but the dread had grown 
nevertheless. Almost his courage had failed him when the Balrog had appeared, 
and who knew whether it would now prove sufficient to carry him to the Mountain 
of Fire? He wished he could talk to someone about such fears, but he could not 
bring himself to broach the subject with Sam. And he could not speak with 
Aragorn on this matter either: he had sensed a change in the other that had come 
hard upon Gandalf's fall, and he feared to learn what dark care preoccupied the 
Ranger.

And where was he last night? Frodo wondered, frowning as he glanced over and saw 
Aragorn asleep upon his couch. Strider had disappeared early and the hobbit 
could not imagine what had kept him so very late. I could ask him…. But once 
more, doubts welled up, and in the end, he decided to let it lie. What, after 
all, did it matter if the Ranger preferred his solitude to the company of others 
in this time of grief? All I see is the Shadow, Frodo thought tiredly, closing 
his eyes again as his left hand rose almost habitually to the Ring upon its 
chain. All I see is darkness spreading further and further until it swallows the 
sun. I know I must come at last to Orodruin, if I can, but how? I thought to 
leave all others behind, but now I am bereft ere ever I could fly myself for 
that dark realm! Frodo bowed his head. Foolish was I to suppose I would be the 
first to break with this Fellowship! But… I needed to hope. Now, as Strider 
said, I must do without it for a time. His eyes strayed round once more to his 
companions, who were beginning to stir. Yes, I shall carry on, I suppose, to 
whatever end awaits. I only wish it would come quickly!

***

Gimli frowned as he gazed up at the heights of Caras Galadon, squinting at the 
noon-day sun, wondering if he dared leave this clearing without Aragorn in tow 
as a witness to his good intentions. He doubted not that the Lady would laugh at 
his fears, and though he trusted her implicitly now, he found that trust in 
general still came hard to a Dwarf adrift in the land of the Elves. With a snort 
for his own ridiculous anxiety, he turned and took a few hesitant steps beneath 
the bows of the mellyrn, then paused again, turning back towards the clearing. 
What is it that holds me back? Shall a Dwarf feel constrained by the faintest 
hint of Elvish displeasure? Gimli grimaced, feeling riven by uncertainty as he 
never had before. As he stood there, he saw Aragorn emerge at last from the 
tents and, after a moment's hesitation, make off quickly northwards. So much for 
a witness!

"Some of us seem born to wander whither they will," said a wry voice softly from 
behind him. Startled, Gimli turned and saw, to his surprise, Boromir. The Man 
stood with his arms folded across his chest and he leaned against a tree, gazing 
out after Aragorn, apparently. Boromir looked down at him, and his grey eyes 
held an odd gleam as he continued, "While the rest of us remain tethered in 
place, hmm? Do you not feel thus, Master Dwarf?"

"Tethered… yes, I suppose that that is an apt word," Gimli replied, and cocked a 
heavy brow at the other. "And you, Master Boromir? What has a Man to fear from 
Elves that he feels… tethered?"

"There are some things that Men were never meant to see," Boromir replied, 
seeming to repeat a maxim of sorts. "'Tis perilous to meet with the Firstborn, 
for such encounters change one. Some say that one loses a part of one's humanity 
in such a meeting."

"I had not heard such rumors," Gimli confessed, and shrugged. "For myself, I 
know not what to think of your humanity, Boromir; I know only that I am and 
shall always be a Dwarf, let the Elves do as they will! Perhaps Aragorn could 
better reassure you as to the truth or falsity of such a notion." It was meant 
as a friendly suggestion, but Boromir's eyes narrowed and the gleam grew 
stronger, so that Gimli began to feel a certain uneasiness.

"Ahh… that one! I think not, for he is too much an Elf himself, though his blood 
run as red and mortal as any of ours… saving only Legolas's, of course. I wonder 
sometimes whether he has not been too long sundered from his own kind."

"You speak as if you have some grievance against Aragorn, my friend," the Dwarf 
replied carefully, scowling this time for he liked not the course of this 
conversation and wondered what lay behind it. He scrutinized the other's face 
carefully, but unless it were the flash of some peculiar emotion in those 
intense eyes, he could discern nothing of the other's thoughts. And perhaps I am 
not a fit judge in these matters. But even as he thought it, his heart misgave 
him, though he knew not why, precisely.

"'Tis hardly his fault, I suppose," Boromir said in response, speaking slowly, 
almost as if to himself now. "Fate is an unfaithful mistress, and cruel are her 
ways. Nay, 'tis not his fault… nevertheless…." Boromir shook his head and 
brushed irritably at a long lock of jet black hair that fell into his face. "It 
matters not. Only I am not at ease in this wood, and shall be glad to see the 
land of my home again!"

"Aye," Gimli agreed wholeheartedly, though he spoke with reluctance, as if 
unwilling to accept the change of subject but equally unwilling to argue it with 
his companion. "Aye, you speak for me there. But, since we are here, I shall 
make the most of it… insofar as it is granted a Dwarf to do so in the midst of 
Elvish ways. Good day, Boromir." The Dwarf bowed, after the manner of his 
people, and Boromir smiled absently and returned the salute, hands crossed upon 
his breast according to Gondor's customs. Then the Man strode quickly away, 
vanishing swiftly into the woods at the opposite end of the clearing.

Gimli meanwhile stood still as stone and pondered what meaning that odd 
conversation might have had. He did not even realize he was not alone until a 
sigh ruffled his hair, and he turned sharply, hand going swiftly to his ax in a 
reflexive motion. But then his eyes widened in astonishment as he gasped 
incredulously, "Legolas!?" The Elf''s mouth was a tight line of worry, and he 
seemed not to realize how very close to death (or at least to injury) he had 
come. "What do you here? And why came you behind me?"

"I came to see who might remain in the glade. And I came behind you because I 
heard your voices on the breeze."

"And so an Elf of the Woods is drawn to speak to a Dwarf? Are you ill?" Gimli 
demanded, abandoning tact. Legolas's eyes flashed a bit at that, but then that 
fire faded, and was replaced by an emotion strange to the Dwarf.

"Nay, not ill, unless it be that grief is illness. And perhaps for Elves it is. 
Too many of us have died of that wasting disease!" Legolas sighed, and Gimli 
felt abashed for his outburst, which drew Gandalf so sharply and easily to mind. 
But before he could formulate an apology, the Elf continued, "Something eats at 
him."

"At Boromir?"

"Yes," Legolas looked down at him again, and his gaze was unusually frank and 
solemn, "You see it, too. How could we not, we who have so often stood at his 
sides?" Gimli raised a brow, surprised by the acknowledgment of their private 
war of wills. "Shall we not be honest with each other for once, Gimli, and set 
aside our quarrel for a time?"

"For the sake of the Company?"

"If you will," Legolas replied with an impatient shrug. "I care not what reason 
you give, but I like not the mood that has fallen upon us all."

And Gimli, gazing hard at his rival, asked suspiciously, "Is that the only 
reason?"

"Oh, very well!" Legolas gave an exasperated sigh, and his voice bespoke 
irritated embarrassment, a state altogether foreign to the Elf. But then, so are 
these clumsy attempts to disguise his feelings, Gimli thought, realizing that 
the other truly was concerned about something. "In truth, I came hither because 
I heard your voice, and I…I wished to ask you what you thought of this matter of 
Boromir."

"Why not ask Aragorn? Surely a Man would better suit your need in this case."

"Aragorn was not present to hear our companion last night," the Elf countered, 
"and he, too, has troubles that he does not wish others to see, though I cannot 
guess what they might be. But I think that they are not of the same sort as 
Boromir's. Alas! An Elf has little understanding of Men at times, and I fear to 
misread him. I thought to ask you because…."

"Because Dwarves, too, are mortal?" Gimli asked when Legolas faltered. "That may 
well be, but I am no more a Man than I am a hobbit! Think you that I understand 
Frodo any better?" Legolas pursed his lips, and his brows drew together as he 
considered this, and Gimli nearly laughed aloud. The Elf seemed so utterly 
puzzled, as if it had not occurred to him that a Dwarf might labor under the 
same burden of incomprehension as he! Not all mortals are alike! That Lindir 
fellow back in Rivendell was more right than he knew, perhaps, when he said that 
mortals were not the study of Elves, Gimli thought. Finally, he took pity upon 
the other's confusion, and said, "You and I look into another world, Legolas, 
and it is foreign to us both. Nevertheless, we must do what we can to aid the 
Quest. Perhaps we may between us discern what lies at the heart of Boromir's 
temper." Elf and Dwarf stared at each other across the gulf of their 
differences, and for a while they seemed poised thus, unable to move toward each 
other. And yet, that very estrangement which separated them from each other also 
lay between them and most of the others of the Company; thus ironically, what 
kept them apart was also that which gave them solid ground to stand upon 
together.

"Perhaps," Legolas allowed finally, and he cocked his head slightly, and his 
posture relaxed ever so slightly. "Perhaps we may. And perhaps we may speak 
further upon this?"

"If we do, we must wait for the others to disperse, for I would not risk being 
overheard again," Gimli warned.

"Why not go our own way, then?"

"Ah…hmm," Gimli's eyes flicked towards the treetops involuntarily, as if seeking 
Elves hidden among them, or else monsters. Legolas noticed, and something 
suspiciously like a smile passed quickly over his face.

"The wardens would not dare to arrest you in my presence, if that is what 
worries you," the prince said, and there was a hint of true mirth in his voice. 
And even, Gimli thought suddenly, surprised by the insight, even a touch of 
endearment… as if the Elf were charmed by that uneasiness. For a long moment, 
the Dwarf gazed at his strange would-be companion, and it was as if he had at 
long last begun to see him.

"Very well, Master Legolas," he said at length, and there was now in his voice a 
certain bemused challenge. "We shall see how high the Elves of Lórien esteem 
their kinsman from afar. Lead on!" And for the first time since the Watcher had 
driven them into Khazad-dûm, the Dwarf felt the shadow upon him lift. 





~~~~~





Chapter Five
Leaving Lothlórien





 Pippin gazed up at the waxing moon, which rode pale and high in the afternoon. 
Soon we will leave this place, he thought regretfully. The world outside 
remained a shadowy horror, but over the course of long, aimless days, he had 
felt his grief ease gently aside, drawing back from him enough that it no 
longer crippled him. And though the darkness remained deep beyond the golden 
woods, he, irrepressible as ever, faced it now with a sense of determined 
anticipation. But for the moment, he was more than content to remain absolutely 
still and let the world flow past him.

"I wonder if Mr. Bilbo is looking at that same moon!" said a wistful voice at 
his side. Pippin glanced right and saw Sam standing there, gazing up intently.

"I shouldn't wonder if he were!" Pippin replied. "Funny, isn't it? I haven't 
noticed the moon of late, yet it seems to me that I've seen it like this before. 
I wonder how long we've been here."

"Strider says time is different here, but what he means by that I couldn't say, 
unless it means just this: all the days run together, and somehow Moria seems 
very far away." But as remote as the vast mines and terrible, darksome splendor 
of Khazad-dûm were, the hobbits fell awkwardly silent. Gandalf's face flashed 
before Pippin's eyes, and he felt his heart speed in response. When we set out, 
Gandalf shan't be with us, and there will be no waiting for him to arrive and 
save us. Now it is up to us! The time was now past when he would have shuddered 
at the very thought, or wept; but he felt a thrill of dread nonetheless. Beside 
him, Sam was blushing fiercely, whether from embarrassment for the slip or in an 
effort not to cry himself, Pippin knew not.

"Time does flow by here, like a river over rocks: heedlessly, I mean. And though 
I do want to stay, I have this feeling that it is time to move on at last."

"So do I, sir," Sam replied, nodding, his plain face set in a stalwart 
expression that caused Pippin to frown and blink, for he had not seen the other 
in such a mood before. "So do I, and Mr. Frodo does, too."

"Say Sam, how is old Frodo? He keeps much to himself these days," Pippin 
inquired.

Samwise glanced at him from the corners of his eyes, and when he spoke it was 
with great reluctance. "Yes, well… I suppose he has, sir. And… you being his 
friend… I don't like to speak where I'm not wanted, Mr. Pippin, but I don't like 
how he's so quiet all the time. Of all of us, he seems the only one who hasn't 
got past that blasted bridge, if you understand me."

"I do indeed. Not that we shall ever truly 'get past' I suppose," Pippin replied 
thoughtfully. "But you mean he hasn't moved away from it at all."

"Aye, that's it. He clings to it, sir, and won't let nothing, not even 
Lothlórien, pull him away. That's no way to start a long journey–I know that 
now! And it isn't right, I think. There's something more in this than… than 
Gandalf's fall." Sam managed with only a slight stumble to force the words out. 
"I think he must have–"

Of a sudden, he stopped, scowling, and spots of red appeared once more on his 
cheeks. "Go on!" Pippin urged, unwilling to let the matter drop here. "Frodo 
must have what?"

"I don't know as I'm supposed to say anything," Sam tried lamely to avoid an 
answer, but Pippin only shook his head and laid his hands on the other's 
shoulders firmly.

"Sam lad, you must tell me! If something is amiss with Frodo, then we must try 
to help him. But how can I do that if I don't know what is wrong?"

"It's just… it concerns the lady," Sam coughed, and his eyes cut upward to the 
treetops, where lay the hall of Galadriel. Pippin pursed his lips in a low 
whistle.

"Sam…." the young Took pressed, more in earnest than he had perhaps ever been in 
his life.

"Alright! Alright! We, Mr. Frodo and me, we went with the lady Galadriel to her 
mirror. Just a basin filled with water, but you could see… visions… in it," Sam 
admitted. "I don't know if any are true, or if they're all only in my head, if 
you know what I mean. The lady said some don't come to pass, because the future 
is not something to be grasped from the present. But I think… I am nearly 
certain that Mr. Frodo saw something he didn't like. Something on top of 
everything else, for enough's happened to unsettle even Strider. But this 
touched something deeper, I think."

"And you don't know what he saw? He would not say?"

"No, sir, he wouldn't. Very queer it was: he and the lady started talking, and 
they both seemed to know what the other meant, but I couldn't make heads nor 
tails of it." Sam paused, shaking his head ruefully. "Something about rings and 
the Dark Lord, and the First Song of the Aye-noor," he said at last, pronouncing 
that last quite awkwardly.

"The Song of the what? What are these… these… creatures?"

"As I said, sir, I don't rightly know. I think, though, that Elbereth is one, or 
perhaps close to one. Might be a question for Legolas or Strider, if I thought I 
could explain why I was asking! But Mr. Frodo seemed dreadfully pale of a 
sudden, and Lady Galadriel, too. As if they had both thought of the same thing, 
and didn't like it at all."

"And you haven't any idea what it might be," Pippin sighed, discouraged.

"No sir," Sam replied softly, bowing his head. "Not for the likes of me is such 
talk. Me, now, I've enough to worry over with just my Gaffer and wanting to go 
home to my own hole in Bagshot row… I miss him, sir! Him and… and Rose, too, 
especially!" That last came out in a punctuated rush, as if torn from Sam by his 
own conscience, and he seemed close to tears. Pippin swallowed hard, and put his 
arms about the other's shoulders and gave him a gentle shake.

"There now! Brave lad!" Pippin mumbled by way of clumsy consolation. Bagshot 
row, and the Cotton's farm! Rosie Cotton…. It was hard to comfort someone when 
one suffered from the same affliction, but Peregrin Took gave as easily as he 
laughed. Besides, he felt guilty, knowing that his own feelings for Rose Cotton 
were hardly disinterested, and that Sam had not the least suspicion. Years ago 
he had fallen under the spell of Farmer Cotton's lovely daughter, but shyness 
had gotten the better of him. Not that it would have mattered if I'd said a 
word, for she'd eyes only for Sam. And I wouldn't think of trying to convince 
her to look my way, when Sam loves her so, he thought. Still, it was hard to 
wish Sam well of her, in this time and place, when he knew that to do so meant 
he would never achieve his heart's desire.

"And that's not all, sir!" Sam whispered, hoarse with the effort to control his 
tears. "Bad enough, missing home and Rose and the Gaffer, but there's worse 
things. I couldn't tell this to Mr. Frodo, it would've been cruel. But I can't 
keep it to myself either. I… it was almost at the end of the visions when 
suddenly everything got very dark. I was about to pull back, when the water… it 
wavered and it seemed as though there were shapes in it. Nazgûl, I thought to 
myself. And they were, sir! Black Riders pressed so close in a ring about us 
that I couldn't see even the sky… but then I couldn't even look that far up, I 
think!" Sam paused, and his voice grew softer, yet more shrill as it tightened 
further. "Me and Mr. Frodo were trapped somewhere. And I couldn't let those 
filthy creatures have him… him with a Ring on and… and I knew it wasn't going to 
be him much longer. So I… I…"

"What did you do, Sam?" Pippin coaxed, easing the other down to sit upon the 
turf. "I promise you, I'll not say a word to anyone!"

"They were going to take him to the tower," the other said, tone dull and flat 
now, lacking all inflection. It was as if Sam spoke in a foreign tongue, 
repeating the words verbatim as he received them, without understanding enough 
to give them life. "They would have taken him, and to die with the Ring on his 
hand… no. No that was too much. I had to save him, sir, you understand. I had 
to, and there was only one way out. Through Sting…."

"Sting? I don't underst–" Pippin stopped abruptly, and the last syllable hissed 
through his teeth as enlightenment struck painfully. "Sam, no!" he murmured 
softly, shaking his head in denial. "No, no! It was only a vision. You said 
yourself that the Lady Galadriel said they don't all come true. Maybe even none 
of them, if we are all careful."

"I don't know, Mr. Pippin," Sam buried his face in his hands and scrubbed at his 
eyes, leaving white runnels as he let his hands slide clenched over his cheeks. 
"I just don't know. But if that's even a possibility… I couldn't do that, any 
more than I could fly!"

"Well then, doubtless it will never happen unless you sprout wings!" Pippin 
said, falsely bright in an attempt to push the darkness away. "Come now, my dear 
fellow, let's not think on such things any further. Alright? Think instead how 
glad Rose will be to have you home again."

"You're right, sir," Sam sighed, heaving to his feet. "But I do wish I had never 
even dreamt that!"

So do I, Sam, Pippin thought, as he wordlessly fell in at his friend's side. So 
do I!

***

High above the floor of the valley, Legolas perched easily upon a slender branch 
and looked out at the golden roof of the forest. A butterfly, with wings no less 
brilliant than the day itself, fluttered past, following its erratic path, and 
the Elf watched it go. Thus do we journey: the destination is clear before us, 
but our path is crooked and twisting out of necessity! But for the moment, even 
thought of the long road, which they must soon face again without the shield of 
Lórien's gilded girdle, could not dampen his spirits. The day was fair, and his 
own winding explorations of the forest left little room for discontent….

"Elves are daft indeed if they think any wingless creature was meant to see the 
earth from such heights!" The growled complaint issued from behind and below 
him, but though Legolas sighed dramatically, his lips quirked in a smile as he 
glanced over his shoulder at Gimli, Glóin's son. The Dwarf was wedged firmly 
between two stout branches, unwilling to risk the freer (and more dangerous) 
'paths.' His face was set in a formidable glower, but Legolas knew well that it 
was assumed. In truth, he suspected the other of enjoying the outing, though 
Gimli might never admit to such heresy. Strange how transparent he is, now that 
I turn my eye to him! How did I overlook that before? The elven prince turned 
fully and began to make his graceful way back down to where his friend clung 
like an abandoned kitten.

"Trees have not wings, yet they do see the world from above," he pointed out, 
raising a pale brow.

"Trees, he says!" Gimli replied, sounding exasperated, but there was a glint of 
real humor in his voice. "May we now descend so that I need not fear for either 
of our necks should our conversation distract us?"

"This way then, if you be not craven!" Legolas replied, and began to scramble 
down swiftly. Gimli uttered something in his own tongue, which sounded rather 
like a curse, but he followed his friend and tormentor, if more slowly. When at 
last, Legolas set foot on the ground, the Dwarf was still upon the rope ladder 
that dangled from the lowest branch.

"You will be the death of me yet!" Gimli declared when at last he stood before 
him, scowling up at Legolas, and the Elf laughed.

"I doubt it not! But, we are now upon the ground, and you were quite right: we 
have much still to discuss."

"Indeed! I thought you wished to keep an eye upon Boromir today," Gimli replied, 
abandoning in an instant their banter for more serious matters.

"And I did," Legolas responded. "Even now, he is not far: perhaps a mile from 
here."

"And are your ears, perchance, as sharp as your eyes?" Gimli asked, raising dark 
brows.

"Even were they, it would have mattered little. He spoke to no one, and has 
wandered alone the entire day," Legolas sighed, and his face was troubled on 
Boromir's behalf.

"And when he is with us, he says little." Gimli frowned, stroking his beard. "I 
like it not. I think that Boromir is not accustomed to loneliness, and I fear 
what that might mean."

"You o'erpass me in this," Legolas admitted. "Speak more plainly!"

"I mean that Boromir is not one to keep much to himself, nor to suffer dispute 
easily or in silence. He is a warrior," the Dwarf shrugged. "It is in him to 
fight, yet he has said no contrary word, nor spoken without prompting, since the 
argument that first night. And yet is it not clear that he feels alone? That he 
feels 'tethered' as he said?" The Elf was silent for a time, considering the 
other's conclusions.

"You may be right. But this brings us no closer to the heart of the matter."

"True, but it gives us a place to begin: with the argument," Gimli replied, and 
then frowned again. "I wish Aragorn had heard it, for perhaps he might have seen 
or heard something that we did not. Should we speak to him on this matter, do 
you think, Legolas?"

"Nay, not yet! I think, in the days to come, he will recognize himself the 
change in Boromir, if he has not already. The time is not yet come, I think, and 
while we have this brief time of safety, I would rather Aragorn see to his own 
needs than burden him with another responsibility."

"What needs are those?"

"I know not precisely," Legolas replied. "But one hears things."

"What things?"

"Naught that I should speak of here," the Elf demurred, ignoring his companion's 
exasperated snort. "But he will soon have to take up our troubles as well as his 
own, and I would spare him that awhile longer. Come my friend, we came to speak 
of Boromir, not of Aragorn. And to say farewell to good Lórien, fairest of all 
forests!" So saying, Legolas led the way through the woods, and Gimli shook his 
head in a resigned, if amused, fashion, surrendering to Elvish deadly-serious 
whim, and followed along, thinking: Yes, it is not good for a Man to be alone as 
Boromir is. Nor for a Dwarf, nor even for an Elf. At least I am no longer lonely 
on this long path!

***

"What think you, love?" Aragorn asked in the darkness. Before him stood Arwen, 
silhouetted against the open window, and the starlight glittered pale on her 
dark hair. Long had they sat in this little chamber among the high boughs of 
Caras Galadon, talking quietly together while the sun sank into the west. 
Eventually, they had fallen silent, and Arwen, restless, had risen to go and 
stand so as to catch the evening breezes, leaving Aragorn to attend to his own 
concerns while she wrestled with whatever demons tormented her.

"That if you must leave soon, then I shall miss you, and even Lórien shall hold 
little joy for me," she sighed in response. Aragorn rose and silently stalked 
over to stand behind her. He drew her into his arms, holding her gently, and 
together they gazed out at the velvet night. The candle on the stand had long 
since extinguished itself, but neither had moved to rekindle it. Darkness was 
more comfortable of late, more concealing, protective… forgiving… than was 
pitiless daylight. And though they had not in all their time together in the 
past days and weeks surrendered again to their passions, that first night 
together hovered ever in the background of their thoughts. Aragorn found it 
difficult to reconcile himself to his own thoughtless actions, but on the other 
hand, he could not make himself regret them either. It was problematic, for now 
every least touch of Arwen's hand or body against his felt like a caress, and 
maintaining decorum was an exercise in brutal self-discipline. And yet we tempt 
ourselves, he thought, arms tightening slightly about Arwen's waist. It would be 
easy, so easy to succumb to his desire! There was no one about, and the couch 
upon which he had sat was comfortable, wide enough for two, if only just…. For a 
long moment, Aragorn savored the memory of their lovemaking, swallowing both the 
bitter and the sweet; then he sighed and let it wash away from him. Just to hold 
her was comfort enough for him, and if there was now more behind that easy 
conformity of body to body, and heart to heart, then so be it!

"Since that day in Rivendell, you have been always in my thoughts, Arwen," he 
murmured. "Were it not for that, I might have died long ago in the wilderness."

"Nay, love, for you have more strength in you than that!" she replied 
affectionately. "Would that we had this night, and we could talk 'til the sun 
rose, as we did often when you came to Imladris!" She paused. "Think you that 
you shall go forth tomorrow?"

"Perhaps. By the week's end at latest," he answered softly, and she nodded 
slightly.

"And will you come again?"

"You know I cannot answer that!" Aragorn responded, and not without a touch of 
anguish. Arwen turned gently in his arms and looped her arms about his neck. As 
they stood there, holding each other, he felt her disengage one hand and run it 
down his chest, over his stomach, and pause at his hip. Subtle pressure of her 
fingers invited him to yield, inciting a deeply-centered heat as her fingertips 
began to wander further down his body, but he knew that once he stepped fully 
into that embrace, he would not leave it ere dawn. "Arwen!" he managed, staying 
her hand.

"I know, love," she murmured sadly. "Forgive me that! And remember me, when the 
road is hard."

"I shall." A pause, and then, "I should leave."

"Yes… yes, you should. Good-night, Aragorn!"

"Farewell, Arwen!" Still, they held each other, and Aragorn willed his mind to 
stop its racing thoughts, wished time would stop indeed and leave him at least 
this bliss. But at last, by unspoken accord, they drew apart. He bowed over her 
hand, brushing his lips across the backs of her knuckles, and then went slowly 
to the door, passing into starlit Lórien in silence.

It had never been so hard to turn away!

 

And as Aragorn left Arwen, the dissonance at the edge of the Void reached the 
peak of its creative frenzy, fracturing the Song, and falling into deadly 
Silence. The Rift opened wider as the Fellowship prepared to depart upon its 
appointed path….





~~~~~~



Chapter Six
Adrift




 Anduin the Great glittered bright all about, and Pippin stared out at the land 
passing swiftly away. After the long days and weeks spent climbing, crawling, 
scrambling, and walking from Imladris to Lórien, Pippin had well nigh forgotten 
that any other means of travel existed, and he had never imagined that boats 
could speed the journey so. As if in response to his thoughts, the water at the 
prow leapt higher as the skiff surged forward, and Pippin, caught unawares, 
nearly had the paddle wrenched from his hands. Boromir again! he thought. 
Glancing back over his shoulder, Pippin caught Merry's eyes, and the two 
hobbits shared a brief, puzzled look. Then Merry shrugged minutely, adjusting 
his own strokes so as not to hinder Boromir's, and Pippin followed suit, 
wondering at the Man's behavior. Since their departure from Lothlórien four 
days ago, Boromir had been agitated: it showed in his silence, in the way he 
watched Aragorn and especially Frodo, and in his fidgeting, which Pippin had 
never remarked in him before. Whatever it was that gnawed at him, he gave it no 
voice but it was palpable, akin to the dread that shrouded Frodo. I think it 
must have begun after Gandalf fell, Pippin thought, recalling Boromir's subdued 
hostility towards Aragorn as they had made their weary way towards Lothlórien. 
But though he sifted his memories through a fine-meshed sieve, he could recall 
no incident that might have provoked such a reaction in the other. Nor could he 
imagine why that brooding discontent should linger so long, growing stronger as 
the days passed.

I should think he would be glad, Pippin reflected. Gondor is not so very far, or 
so I gather, and one has only to listen to him to know that Boromir misses his 
home. As we journeyed south, whenever we spoke in the mornings, just ere we 
retired, he always had some tale of Minas Tirith to add to Aragorn's stories of 
far countries. Just as Legolas always had a song for us! Yet the closer we come 
to Gondor, the more anxious he becomes. Why should that be?

This latest habit—whereby Boromir would suddenly send their boat surging 
forward, 'til the prow seemed likely to grate against the boat ahead of them—was 
as unnerving as it was inexplicable to the hobbit's mind. And there was 
something in the way that Boromir stared at Frodo that bred fear in Pippin's 
heart, though he knew not why. "Tell us of Gondor, Boromir!" he said suddenly, 
feeling the silence too thick to be borne.

"What would you know?" the Man asked, shaking his head slightly, as if coming 
out of a daydream. But his eyes were oddly distant as he glanced sharply at 
Pippin.

"Whatever you care to tell us. If we come there, then it shall be useful, but if 
not, at least I shall know somewhat of it!" Pippin replied, attempting 
diplomacy.

"This is not the time or the place for travelers' tales," Boromir answered. 
"Have you some specific question?"

"Er, well," Pippin stammered, seeking a topic and finding very few for his 
knowledge was quite limited. "What would we do, Merry and I, if we came there? 
As hobbits, you understand."

Boromir gave a curt bark of laughter and replied sardonically, "What indeed? 
Minas Tirith is an armed camp, Peregrin Took, and if you came there, you would 
fight when the enemy at last unleashed war." He paused, and then softly, as if 
speaking to himself, he added, "As will we all!" Pippin, sitting before him, 
tried not to cringe noticeably at the other's disheartening response. It is that 
strange worry that preoccupies him, he thought, unwilling to think ill of the 
other. But the young hobbit sat quietly, and made no further overtures while the 
day lasted.

***

As rain weathers rocks to pebbles, so time whittled away certainty and the miles 
wore hard upon each other as another day drew on into night. Boromir liked not 
this period of waiting, knowing the decision that loomed before them all. I may 
not abandon Minas Tirith to go with this Company if it chooses the dark path, he 
thought. But by all that I hold dear, shall I meekly depart, knowing whither the 
Bearer is bound? 'Tis madness! Mayhap were Aragorn the Ringbearer, I would have 
more faith in his ability to reach Orodruin alive and free, but Frodo? Let it be 
Legolas, or even Gimli ere we send a hobbit into that wasteland! Thus his 
thoughts ran, but beneath that current of conscious reflection, continually 
thrust down where he could avoid acknowledging it, there flowed doubt more deep 
than the abyss. Doubt, and resentment stirred by he knew not what. Or rather, he 
refused to look further for the source of that unreasonable anger which surged 
ever against the draconian constraints he imposed upon it. Why must it be thus? 
he demanded of the unfeeling stars. If this journey be ordained, as so many say, 
then spare me these doubts! And unbidden there rose again the memory of that 
first night beneath Caras Galadhon, and words born of his own anguished, 
half-acknowledged suspicions: Have we not yet proved ourselves true?

For Boromir, warrior born and heir to the last bastion of the Dúnedain upon 
Middle-earth, such uncertainty was utterly foreign and he felt himself drowning. 
All of his life had been devoted to the protection of Gondor and to the men who 
served her, and that anyone should question his loyalty was an affront to his 
pride. Yet Galadriel's bright eyes had pierced him, and Frodo's answer to him 
that night had touched him close, between them tearing the veil aside and 
forcing him to see a part of himself that he had shunned. Now, that furtive 
darkness nestled at his core whimpered and whispered incessantly, on the one 
hand inflaming his wrath and resentment, and on the other miring him in a 
profound mistrust that was the more vehement for having been exposed. Thus 
whenever he thought of the likely direction of the Quest, of a hobbit alone in 
the ash slags of Mordor, that insistent voice demanded, Why not Boromir? Why 
should I not have a share of this burden? Let others say as they please, must I 
not trust my own judgment? For if I cannot trust myself, then shall I blindly 
trust others? Aye, there is the hook upon which all my doubts catch, Boromir 
thought with a grim smile that was hidden by the darkness. For I do not trust 
others, therefore I must trust myself, for what else have I? I am no wizard, nor 
a wizard's pupil, after all.

At that moment, a voice drifted back to him, "Turn to the shores!" And he 
gritted his teeth at the sound of it, for it was Frodo's. Do I hate him? Surely 
not! But how can I trust the fate of Minas Tirith to him? Galadriel's face 
flashed before his eyes, seeming to stab him with her regard once more. Who is 
she to hang Gondor's survival from so weak a thread? Or is there indeed anything 
at all that holds us up? And who is she to judge my loyalty? Hard upon such 
angry recriminations, though, came a brooding fear that was more fundamental 
than any anger. For in spite of his surly temper, he had seen in Galadriel's 
eyes the terrible grief that racked her. However he might resent her judgments, 
he recognized that one such as she was not given to tears for less cause than 
the peril of the world. And if she mourns it already, then are we doomed to 
fail? There is a malicious pall upon the world of late, and if this is but the 
beginning… why not try, then? Why not take the risk and wound the Dark Lord as 
heavily as we might? It needs only the Ring, and one willing….

The keel grated on the riparian sands just then, halting his feverish thoughts, 
and the hobbits fairly leapt from the boat, grateful to stretch their legs. Or 
else relieved to escape from me! Boromir thought with no small chagrin for his 
curt and unfriendly words to Pippin that afternoon. He had never been a very 
patient man, but neither was he cruel, and in truth he knew not what compelled 
him speak so to a comrade. Unless it were weariness of a strange and unnatural 
sort—weariness born of the conflict within himself that he strove to suppress. I 
feel stretched thin as a wire! And what happens when it snaps? With a soft sigh, 
he waded through the shallows, dragging the prow of the boat higher up onto the 
shore. My thoughts fly every direction today, Boromir reprimanded himself, 
striving for a wry resignation at the end of the day. For though he feared the 
trend of his own speculations, he feared even more that others should discover 
them. Even now, he shot a look sideways at Aragorn, who was performing the same 
task as he, while Frodo and Sam saw to their baggage. The Ranger glanced up, 
seeming to feel Boromir's eyes upon him, and the Man of Gondor looked away 
swiftly.

I should speak to him, he thought, gritting his teeth. And yet I cannot! Of all 
those now bound southwards, Boromir knew on some deep level that Aragorn would 
understand him better than any of the others. But for that very reason, he 
balked at revealing himself, for Aragorn's very perception made of him both 
friend and foe. He who could best comprehend all that Boromir suffered was 
equally most likely to discover those doubts uninvited. That made him a 
dangerous friend, and Boromir knew not which he dreaded more: Aragorn's pity or 
his contempt. Defensive and distrustful, he thus made every effort to turn the 
other's regard aside, for if his feelings toward him had always been somewhat 
ambivalent, of late they had tilted more towards a jealous fear… and shame. 
Fear, lest Aragorn discover the rot that lay beneath a fair surface. Shame, 
because the more he shrouded his feelings, the more that same envy fed his 
unreasonable anger and dislike, 'til he could scarce bear to speak Aragorn's 
name. Jealousy, because he knew well that Aragorn was a Man, weak and mortal as 
any other, and must surely be prey to the same temptations that he suffered. Yet 
the other was esteemed the more, and Boromir was guiltily aware in the depths of 
his heart that there was reason for that. Why must it be thus? Unused to the 
tearing pressures of doubts and secrets hidden even from himself, Boromir was 
stricken with sudden loathing: of the quest, of Aragorn, of war, of peace, of 
indecision… and of himself. I hate this silence most of all! And yet it endured.

***

The first watch of the night drew slowly towards it end. Frodo sat quietly on a 
comfortable tussock of grass and felt the slow, night-time pulse of the earth 
surge through him, urging slumber and dreaming forgetfulness. But Frodo ignored 
the temptation, gazing out across the river to the mist-shrouded eastern bank. 
There lies my way, the hobbit thought. Soon… soon I must leave this Company. Or 
let them leave me! It had been in his mind of late that he could ask the others 
to simply go, to depart and leave him to his fate, to the task that called him. 
I might even be able to force them to do it, he thought. For since that argument 
with Boromir, he had become more aware of the Ring as it hung upon its chain, 
secure in its dreadful power. It had silenced one opponent already, but if he 
dared to draw upon it, Frodo knew that his friends would have no choice but to 
obey his request. And is that not a terrible thought? Valar help me, this is 
what Gandalf—may he rest in peace!— warned me against from the beginning!

Sighing, he bowed his head, slouching beneath the weight of the burden and the 
terrible suspicions he now harbored. Galadriel's evident distress in Lórien as 
she spoke of the Song had been as telling a sign as the conversation he had 
overheard in Moria. More so, even, for with Gandalf's death, Frodo found himself 
willing to believe the worst… if only someone else would confirm it for him! 
Galadriel would not, and he understood why, for they were Ringbearers both, 
their thoughts having a terrible power to heal or destroy. For himself, he 
marked that the others had by and large gained some measure of peace while in 
Lórien, and he did not begrudge them that. So he had kept held his tongue–or 
bitten it, rather–out of pity and friendship. But oh, how he wished just one of 
them would speak of his own fears, and give shape to the dread that Frodo 
suffered! Then perhaps he might be able to ask what he longed to ask!

The sky darkened as a cloud drifted slowly before the moon, and Frodo stared up 
at the dimmed stars. Anduin murmured softly before him, but otherwise the night 
was silent… unnaturally so. Not a cricket sang, nor did bats or owls call out 
their hunting cries. His mouth gone suddenly dry, Frodo swallowed hard and 
stood, drawing his sword. In that instant, he heard movement behind him and 
turned to see Aragorn stirring restlessly. Does he dream? the hobbit wondered, 
watching as the Ranger turned away, seeming to recoil from something, and then 
suddenly pushed himself up on one elbow, breathing quickly. Their eyes met in 
the gloom, and after a moment, Aragorn rose, drawing his cloak about him against 
the damp chill, and came to kneel by Frodo's side. "What is it?" he asked in a 
low voice.

"I know not," replied Frodo. "It seemed to me suddenly too quiet, as if 
something were creeping nearer." Both of them glanced down at Sting, whose edges 
glinted. But it was only the faint light of the stars that made it glitter, not 
the presence of their enemies. Yet Aragorn, closing his eyes to shut out all 
distraction as he took in the sounds of the night, agreed with Frodo: even to 
his sharp ears, the land seemed to lie under a deep and disturbing silence that 
strangled the voices of those creatures whose domain was the night. Not all evil 
comes of Orcs, either, he thought, opening his eyes and glancing doubtfully 
about. "We began this journey under the shadow," Frodo said quietly, "and now 
the darkness has extended to other senses as well. And it will go on… and on 
unchecked." The hobbit paused, then asked grimly, "You knew, did you not? You 
and Gandalf both?"

And Aragorn, hearing that, was silent a long moment. He might have tried to turn 
the other aside with some well-crafted and misleading response, but that he 
perceived that it was fruitless to hide such secrets from the hobbit. I know not 
how he comes by this knowledge, or how he guesses that I share in it, but does 
that matter? Still, he hesitated, unwilling to say anything that might prove 
fatal discouragement to the Ringbearer. But if he were unwilling to say aught, 
Frodo refused to leave him his silence. "Speak, Aragorn!" Frodo urged. "I think 
that nothing you say will be new to me." He laid a small hand on Aragorn's 
shoulder a moment, and the Ranger sighed softly.

"Gandalf, I think, knew from the start that the Darkness would overtake us," he 
murmured. "I suspected his silence, but only upon the bridge of Khazad-dûm did I 
learn the full truth."

"I thought as much," Frodo replied sadly.

"Knowing this, what do you intend to do?" Aragorn asked.

"I shall continue, of course. What choice have I? What choice have any of us 
when the field is set against us? Did not Gandalf say it himself? That in the 
end, it matters not what fate decrees, but only what we choose, and the manner 
of our choosing?"

"So you heard us that night!" Aragorn's eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. 
"And you never said aught!" He paused, and for a brief moment debated with 
himself ere he said slowly, "You say you shall continue. But whither? To Mordor, 
beyond the Ephel Duath? Or to Minas Tirith?"

"Which path do you advise?" Frodo asked, curious.

"Do not ask me that, I beg!" There was a note of sharp entreaty in the other's 
voice that the hobbit had not heard before. "If I cannot decide for myself, then 
how shall I decide for another?"

"Then do not advise, only say what it is in your heart, my friend!"

Still, the Ranger did not speak for awhile, and when he did respond at last, it 
was with manifest reluctance. "As your friend, then, I would have you turn west 
to Minas Tirith, for I would not have you endure the ruin that is Mordor. If 
there is no hope, then there is no purpose in daring that deadly land. But a 
part of me warns that there are worse things than pain, however unmerited or 
unprofitable; and I know that were it my own honor, and my own task, I could not 
refuse the way, nor treat with one who would so advise me. Is that enough for 
you?"

"Enough, and more than that!" Frodo replied. "Your words, alas! are but the echo 
of my own reasonings, and yet…." Frodo sighed, unable to continue. And yet, he 
thought, I cannot say that I shall indeed turn east. Not yet, for to say it is 
to set foot upon that lonely path, and I am not yet ready! His glance strayed 
over the sleeping forms of his companions as Boromir stirred in his sleep. A 
moment he seemed on the verge of waking, but then, abruptly, he quieted again, 
sinking deeper into his dreams. "What of them, Aragorn?" Frodo asked quietly, 
changing the subject. "Boromir at least will see his home again, whatever I 
decide. But what of the others?"

"I know not," Aragorn replied, frowning in the darkness. Mention of Boromir drew 
to his mind once more concerns he had lately conceived. Not that he and Boromir 
had grown particularly close over their long journey, but there had been, ere 
Lothlórien, an understanding between them, and a certain satisfying camaraderie. 
But of late, there was a wall between the two of them, and Aragorn did not like 
the feel of that barrier. Something is wrong, and I fear to give it a name, he 
thought. I would speak with him, if I thought it could be done away from the 
others. But even luck seemed to be against that conversation's occurrence, for 
they drew ever lots for the opposite watch, and as they traveled, there was 
neither time nor privacy for such a difficult discussion. "It may be that we 
shall go severally to our ends, whatever they may be. But insofar as it is 
granted me, I would hold all together, for friendship may be our last defense." 
Another pause, then: "If you wish, I will take the rest of this watch, Frodo," 
he offered. "Sleep is now far from me, but you have not yet had a rest." After a 
moment, Frodo nodded his acceptance.

"Thank you." It was all he could say, but Aragorn laid a hand on his shoulder 
and Frodo sensed that the other understood. And Aragorn, watching as Frodo lay 
down amid the others, sighed inwardly, grieved on Frodo's behalf… on all of 
their parts, truly. So the trial of our wills begins in earnest! Bitter the 
thought of Frodo's labors, when we know they are in vain! Will that turn him 
aside to Minas Tirith? He did not know whether to hope for that or not, knowing 
that both choices would lead to the same end. And whither shall I go? Shaking 
his head, he glanced once more at the Fellowship, at friends who were 
nonetheless withdrawn from each other. Something must be done, whatever road we 
choose, or we shall have nothing to rely upon when most we need companionship. 
Glancing up again at the shrouded sky, Aragorn grimaced. How hard must this test 
be?

To that, the stars made no answer. 




~~~~~




Chapter Seven
Riven





 The Song of the World grows even in the midst of Silence, for the Void cannot 
sustain itself in its purity, but exists through a destructive symmetry. Out of 
it can come a note, solitary until its opposite arises and the two destroy each 
other, falling back into silence. The Company of the Ring journeyed still down 
Anduin, towards the Falls of Rauros, and the Orcs, wandering upon the east 
bank, were aware of them. The Nazgûl still rode the skies above them, to be 
felled by the bow of Legolas. And their decision still loomed before them as an 
oppressive shadow, an echo of the horror of the Void which engulfed all the 
world….

"Parth Galen," Sam muttered, raising a brow as he surveyed the green sward, with 
its two hills rising up above them. "Well, it's a nice spot, Mr. Frodo, if we 
have to stop. Never thought I'd say it, but if those Orcs are on our side of the 
river, I'd rather be floating in the middle of it than sitting alongside it!"

"I know, Sam, but I am afraid we must halt here awhile," Frodo murmured, gazing 
about and then up at Aragorn who joined them at that moment, and the rest of the 
Fellowship gathered round. "Do I not guess rightly, Aragorn, that we must decide 
our path ere we journey farther?"

"Yes, for we are come now to Tol Brandir and the falls of Rauros. The path to 
the Morannon lies straight east, just north of the mires of Nindalf. Few are the 
soldiers of Gondor who come so far north, so the risk of detection and detention 
is slight. If we wait longer, our journey will become more difficult as we shall 
be forced to backtrack through Ithilien and the southern reaches of the fen." 
There were some dark and anxious looks exchanged among the Fellowship at that, 
but none spoke, and eventually, all eyes were turned once more to Frodo. "I fear 
it falls at last to you, Frodo," Aragorn continued gravely, pinning the hobbit 
under his sympathetic gaze. "Whither shall you turn? For by your choice, others 
shall choose for themselves: the eastward path, or the route to Minas Tirith, or 
elsewhere if that is their desire."

Frodo was silent then, and the stares of the others pressed heavily upon him, 
yet he could not speak. Not yet! Looking up once more at the midmorning sky, he 
sighed. There is no choice before me, truly, but the choice to accept. I know 
it, and Aragorn knows it. And yet my tongue refuses the words! "Give me some 
small while to think," he said at last. "At noon, I shall declare myself." With 
that, he turned and walked a short distance away, followed by Sam. The others 
gazed after the two of them a moment, and then by unspoken accord, separated, 
withdrawing naturally into pairs. Merry and Pippin hovered together just far 
enough from Sam and Frodo to give the latter two privacy; Legolas and Gimli 
retreated to the banks of the river some small distance upstream; and though 
Boromir stared at the hobbits in frowning concentration, seemingly oblivious to 
all others, Aragorn came and stood at his shoulder.

"Boromir," the Ranger spoke softly, and Denethor's son turned quickly, as if 
startled. One who knew him well might have recognized the flash of nervous 
loathing in his eyes, but if Aragorn noticed it, he gave no sign, saying only, 
"Walk with me a ways, please."

"If you wish," Boromir replied after a breath's hesitation, turning to follow 
the other towards the woods that lay all about the feet of the hills. Legolas, 
standing with Gimli, stiffened as he noticed the two Men departing, and his eyes 
narrowed.

"At last!" the Elf breathed, laying a hand on his companion's shoulder by way of 
warning, and Gimli turned to look as well. Just ere the two passed out of sight 
into the trees, Aragorn paused and glanced back at the others, as if to fix 
their positions in his mind, and his eyes met Legolas's bright gaze. An almost 
imperceptible nod answered Legolas's expectant regard, and the Elf raised his 
chin slightly in acknowledgment.

"Mayhap we shall soon learn what ails Boromir!" Gimli muttered, stroking his 
beard contemplatively.

"Yes… mayhap." Minutes passed, and neither Elf nor Dwarf spoke. But after a 
time, they began to move unerringly towards the forest eaves.

 

Aragorn glided through the woods ahead of Boromir with an almost elvish grace, 
and perversely, Boromir found that unconscious ease irritating. He felt clumsy 
by comparison, and though he knew it was a ridiculous sentiment, he suspected 
every bush and clinging weed of slapping or clawing at him. But all such 
annoyance merely cloaked the deep uneasiness that stirred in his heart, for he 
guessed the other's purpose in bringing him here, and he wanted nothing more in 
the world than to run. But the Heir of Denethor of Minas Tirith had not the 
habit of retreating from his enemies. And besides, Aragorn, Elf though he seems, 
is no enemy! So reason claimed, and he knew the truth of it, yet that knowledge 
did not soothe the fear that settled within his breast.

They did not go very far, for the fear of pursuit lay heavily upon all of them 
after that night upon the water beneath the Winged Shadow—just far enough to 
insure that no others could overhear them by accident. Then Aragorn halted and 
turned to face him, just the two of them alone in a small clearing. For a 
moment, neither spoke, but Boromir felt tension rise in him as they locked eyes 
and he felt the other's searching regard like a brand pressed hot against his 
soul. Let him read it! The thought entered suddenly into his mind. Let him read 
all, if he will, and rid me of this festering guilt! Almost, Boromir yielded to 
the temptation to speak, to confess and let the wounded part of his soul bleed 
clean through his words. But he had lived with it now too long, and though a 
part of him keened in despair, pride and distrust reasserted themselves, 
grinding that impulse back down. His eyes hardened and his jaw clenched as he 
waited, determined that the other should speak first.

For his part, Aragorn noted the flicker in the other's grey eyes, the sudden 
tension that rippled through the other's frame, and he sighed inwardly. Now do I 
regret the more that I let wait this matter for so long. I should have made the 
time earlier! But recriminations could change nothing, and so, girding himself 
unobtrusively, he said, "So we come at last to the day long feared! Each of us 
must choose his path and decide whether to hold together for Minas Tirith, or to 
follow Frodo into Mordor, or to go severally along different paths. If we two 
are soon to part, though, I would do so in friendship, and with nothing left 
unsaid between us."

"You say 'if,'" Boromir countered, deliberately ignoring the invitation to speak 
as a friend, to speak freely of his troubles without fear of scorn. Instead, he 
focused upon the conditional, trying still to hold Aragorn at arm's length. 
"Surely you shall go with Frodo?"

"If he will have me," Aragorn replied, feeling his mouth tighten in worry, 
liking not Frodo's silence but liking even less what he sensed of Boromir's 
purpose in directing the conversation thus. "Of late, I suspect he leans to the 
lonely path. And above my judgment, I trust that Sam's anxious looks are not for 
naught." I trust Sam's anxious looks…. Boromir grimaced slightly as those words 
pricked deeply at his conscience, arousing envy of that easy trust, and sharp 
disgust and fear at the reminder of the peril in which all now stood.

"A hard choice for us all, should he choose to go eastward," the other finished.

"Hard choice!" Boromir echoed, his voice pitched low but sharply. "A hobbit 
alone in Mordor…that is not hard, that is madness!" He could not restrain that 
bitter condemnation, though he rebuked himself the moment it escaped his lips.

"Madness it may be," said Aragorn, slowly, watching Boromir closely now with 
darkened eyes. "Perhaps it is even truly hopeless, but if so, then no choice of 
mine can mar or mend the powers that shape these times. Nor can any of yours, 
Boromir, nor even Frodo's."

"Then are we puppets, and not Men!" snapped the other, fighting against a snarl 
of disgust that covered over a deeper terror. Hopeless…. Such was the division 
within him that while he instinctively trusted that Aragorn spoke truly, he 
hated him the more for it and sought ever the more desperately to hide the 
twisted side of himself from the other. But such efforts seemed only to feed the 
malice that lived now within him, making it more unruly, harder to conceal… 
harder to resist.

"Is that what has troubled you of late?" asked Aragorn, but there was little 
conviction in his eyes as he searched the other's face intently. Boromir was not 
a man to concern himself with philosophical questions, after all. Wordless 
suspicion that rang unpleasantly of certainty planted itself firmly in the 
Ranger's heart, and yet he said nothing of it, only let the other feel the 
weight of his silence. Why must I torture him thus? But much though Aragorn 
disliked the role he had assumed, he knew that he could not abandon it, for 
there were no others to play the part of inquisitor. Boromir clearly could not 
overcome this evil alone, nor even admit to its existence. And I am not naïve! I 
knew well what awaited us both, or why else did I delay so long? If I like not 
the task that falls to me now, I do but reap the rewards of my own reluctance. 
Alas, Boromir is not alone in his weakness!

"What matters it to you what worries I conceive?" Boromir muttered, turning away 
under the pressure of the other's gaze.

"This voyage is dark enough already!" A pause. "I know there lie between us 
certain matters which neither of us can change, but shall they drive us so far 
from each other that we shall not be concerned for the other?"

That, too, hit far too close to the mark for pride's comfort, and Boromir 
gritted his teeth as he grated, "I know not whereof you speak!"

Behind him, he heard the audible intake of Aragorn's breath, and could not 
forebear to wince. "I have never known you to lie, Boromir," came the other's 
voice, deadly soft; and if there was fear in Aragorn's tone, it was the worse 
for the disappointed shock that rang clearly in it. And it was too much!

"Do not presume to judge me!" Boromir snarled, turning sharply back to face the 
other, and his voice rose with the crescendo of angry, envious fear. "What do 
you know of my fears? You are Isildur's Heir, Aragorn, yet you would gamble that 
inheritance and the last of our people on this foolish errand? On the teary 
hopes of fading Elves? If you were any part a Man you would not sit idly by and 
wait, or trail after Halflings to your death and theirs!"

"What, then, would you do in my stead?" Aragorn asked quietly.

With an hysterical bark of laughter, Boromir shook his head—in denial, in 
horror, in disgust… he could not say which coursed more strongly in him. 
Emotions twined themselves so tightly together he could not separate them out. 
The voice of sanity wailed thin and piercing protest, and yet was impotent 
before the maelstrom that boiled over. Into his mind blossomed suddenly and with 
frightening clarity, the image of a thin, golden circle clutched in Frodo's 
trembling hand. The Ring! It glittered with an inner fire, seeming to waver 
almost coyly, aware of its splendor as Boromir bared his teeth in a soundless 
snarl. So small a thing, and yet the foundation of Sauron's might: the thread 
upon which they dangled now, and the menace of the world. A mad light, infected 
with lust and despair, gleamed sickly in his grey eyes, and he drew his sword as 
he answered with sudden and disturbing calm: "Take what is mine!"

Aragorn dodged the first blow, but could not clear his own weapon before Boromir 
sprang at him, slamming him against a tree and pinning him there. Still, he 
managed to catch the other's wrists in an iron grip and he pushed back, locking 
the two of them into a grappling stance in which neither could move. The sword's 
edge lay against Aragorn's throat, but it moved no further: for though Boromir 
was the broader in build, Aragorn had not less strength for his leanness. Evenly 
matched, they gazed at each other over the length of steel, and then Boromir 
leaned closer to whisper in his ear in an obscene parody of intimacy: "Against 
Mordor there is but one tower, and one weapon alone can wound the Dark Lord." 
Aragorn closed his eyes, fairly sick with sorrow and frustration as Boromir went 
on with smooth urgency. "The Ring! It shall never reach the Fire in Frodo's 
hands—even you know this! And yet Frodo is our only hope, they say. Let it not 
come to that then, my friend! Take the Ring. Take it, or I shall!"

 

***

"Think you that the Shadow on high shall come again?" Gimli asked, squatting on 
his haunches under the eaves of the woods and gazing moodily out at the east 
bank of the river. Legolas had already vaulted to the lowest branch of the tree 
at his back, seeming to need the comfort of a familiar environment, and the 
Dwarf fought a smile. Often he forgot that the elven prince was yet accounted 
young among his people, and he supposed that this eager flight to the treetops 
was a sign of the other's youth. Rather like a child who runs immediately to 
find a spot near the fire whenever storms threaten, he thought. It was an odd 
insight into the other, but a dear one as well. For ere Lórien, Legolas had 
remained always earthbound, though he had oft raised his eyes to the treetops 
with longing. That he gave in to the impulse now, and in Gimli's presence, 
struck the Dwarf as a compliment of sorts—as if the Elf had permitted him this 
glimpse into a little-seen part of his soul.

"I know not," Legolas's voice drifted down in response. "But my heart warns that 
we shall see more of these fell creatures ere the war ends." A pause. "Whither 
will you go once Frodo has made his choice?"

The Dwarf blew a large, considerate sigh through his mustaches, and scowled 
thoughtfully. "When we left Rivendell, I swore that I was willing to go 
whithersoever I was needed, yet I had never looked further than the mountains. 
Now we are come far south of Erebor, and Mirkwood, too, is many leagues behind. 
'Tis a hard choice. What of you, Legolas? Will you return to your home?"

"Once I thought to turn aside after the gate of Caradhras," the Elf confessed. 
"Yet I remain here with this company, and I do not regret the choice. Indeed, 
the world is wider than I thought, and there is much to see, even in dark times. 
Much to see, and more to do, and more still that needs doing."

"I think that if Frodo decides for Mordor, I would go with him, if he asked," 
Gimli said at last.

"Ah," Legolas replied, and a half-smile curved his mouth, "There you find the 
heart of the matter. If he asks us to go, who would refuse? Save Boromir, but he 
has other duties that he may not lightly abandon."

At that, both fell silent once more. Merry and Pippin wandered nearer, and Gimli 
sighed softly, wondering whither their deliberations led. Of a sudden, there was 
a blur of motion in the corner of his eye as Legolas landed on the ground beside 
him. "What is it?" he asked, startled by the other's abrupt descent and even 
more so by the arrested expression on the Elf's face.

"Listen!" Legolas replied tautly, and the Dwarf followed his gaze into the 
woods, whence emerged, in a muffled fashion, Boromir's voice, sounding harsh and 
angry. Gimli bit his lip hard as the words became intelligible: "— you know of 
my fears? You are Isildur's Heir, Aragorn, yet you would gamble that inheritance 
and the last of our people on this foolish errand? On the teary hopes of fading 
Elves? If you were any part a Man you would not sit idly by and wait, or trail 
after Halflings to your death and theirs!"

Aragorn's reply was too low and shrouded to make out, but Boromir's response was 
clear enough: "Take what is mine!" And then came the slither of steel, which all 
the members of the Fellowship knew too well. Gimli and Legolas shared a 
horrified look with each other, and then darted into the woods.

 

"Pippin!" Merry clutched his arm tightly, pointing after the Elf and Dwarf who 
fled into the trees.

"I don't like that!" Pippin replied, glancing anxiously at his friend.

"Nor I!" Sam and Frodo had come running up, having seen the other two depart in 
haste, and now the hobbits hesitated, wondering what might have occurred. And 
where were Boromir and Aragorn? A moment longer they wavered, uncertain, and 
then all plunged after their companions into the woods.

 

 

"Take it, Aragorn!" Boromir hissed in his face, eyes alight with an unholy 
desire, and Aragorn swallowed a groan as he opened his eyes once more.

"No!" he replied, and gritted his teeth, feeling the blade press harder against 
his throat as Boromir leaned into him. "Are you blind, Boromir, that you do not 
see whence this comes? I am not your enemy, but the Ring is!"

"Is it?" Boromir snapped. "I see clearly enough the choice before me, and I say 
that the Ring is less an enemy than are indecision, mad schemes, and blind 
trust! But I can act, and if you seek to stop me, then…."

"Then?" Aragorn demanded when Boromir hesitated. "Will you kill me for this 
accursed trinket? Is that truly your wish?"

"I warn you again, do not presume too much!" Boromir snapped. "Think you that 
there is anything that I would not do for Minas Tirith? What is your life, or 
even Frodo's, weighed against a kingdom?"

"What worth has a kingdom, if it is founded upon murder?" countered Aragorn. But 
ere Boromir could respond, there came the sound of running footsteps, and for a 
moment, the other was distracted. Boromir glanced swiftly over his shoulder just 
as Legolas and Gimli appeared, coming swiftly through the trees towards them. In 
that instant, Aragorn attacked. Leaning back against the tree as a brace, he 
drove his knee into the other's groin, then pushed hard as Boromir gasped. 
Retaining his hold on the other's wrists, he shoved away from the tree trunk, 
then used momentum to swing round and reverse their positions, so that he now 
held Boromir pinned between himself and the tree. Boromir, though, did not 
surrender easily, and as Elf and Dwarf arrived, they quickly lent Aragorn their 
aid, restraining the swearing, writhing Boromir with their weight.

"Boromir, let it go!" Aragorn spoke urgently. "Let it go!" Whether the others 
understood his meaning, he knew not, but Boromir dropped the sword at least as 
he gazed past Aragorn, stricken with sudden and rigid immobility. With Gimli and 
Legolas helping to hold the other back, the Ranger risked a brief glance over 
his shoulder to see the hobbits, all four of them, standing and watching in 
uncomprehending horror. Except for Frodo, Aragorn noted grimly as he turned back 
to Boromir again. He knows. How could he not? Denethor's son must also have felt 
his treason under the hobbit's agonized regard, for he hung his head, and there 
were tears in his voice as he gave a low, wordless cry. Then, without warning, 
he slumped to the ground, and Aragorn staggered under the sudden weight as he 
awkwardly broke the other's fall.

"Do not touch me!" Boromir muttered, drawing his knees up to his chest and 
hiding his face in his hands, withdrawing as much as he could from the others. 
Dead silence fell as all hovered about, immobile with shock. Legolas and Gimli 
looked away, ashamed before the other's shame, but Aragorn could not turn from 
him. More, he would not—not after he had failed the other so singularly, 
refusing to see clearly the danger that lay before his eyes.

"Wh-what has happened?" Sam's voice, gruff with worry, sounded then, but none 
could speak. What, indeed, could anyone of them have said when each knew the 
answer to that question? Among the Fellowship a guilty complicity settled, as 
each saw now in Boromir's fall his own failures, recognizing the divisions that 
had perhaps blinded them to a companion's need.

"I will go to Mordor," Frodo spoke suddenly, and his voice was grave and 
grieved, and all turned to look at him. He stood there, clutching the Ring 
tightly in one hand as it hung upon its chain, and there was no sign of doubt or 
disquiet, only determination. "I see clearly now that I can delay no longer, for 
all of our sakes."

"Then I am coming, too!" Sam spoke up fiercely, and wagged a finger at his 
master when Frodo began to shake his head. "No, you listen to me a minute, Mr. 
Frodo! You're right about the danger, but alone in that ugly place, you'll need 
help! This… thing… it feeds on us most when we're as low as we can get, and you 
can't get no lower than Mordor, that's for certain. It needs another to help you 
along."

"I think Sam speaks wisely in this, if I may say so," Aragorn added, lending his 
support unexpectedly. "Any of us would go with you, Frodo, if you desired it."

"Yes," Legolas said, "You need only ask, or failing that, choose!" There was a 
heavy silence, as the Fellowship awaited a response. Frodo glanced about, 
searching each face in turn, even Boromir's, ere he sighed and glanced down at 
the earth.

Finally, after a long moment, he laid a hand upon Sam's shoulder, confirming the 
other in his station. No words, not even a final look at the others. Only that 
spare gesture which yet conveyed so much, and then he turned away. Sam, 
following obediently and with obvious relief, yet hesitated, turning back to 
those friends whom he would leave now behind. He raised a hand hesitantly, 
offering a wavering half-smile in wordless, nervous farewell, and then he, too, 
was gone.

 

The remainder of the Company remained silent, unmoving as stones beneath the 
trees. Thus was the tale of the Fellowship of the Ring ended, though already, 
things moved that would drag them back into the struggle once more.



~~~~~~






Chapter Eight
Shrive Me Graceless on My Path




How long the others remained frozen in place, hardly able to accept that indeed, 
Frodo was gone, that their days together were at an end–and so horribly 
ended!–none could say with certainty. It seemed an eternity ere Legolas at last 
shook his fair head and glanced once more with concern at Boromir, who yet 
refused to meet anyone's gaze. "Well, now must we make our own choices," said 
he. Still, no one moved, and the silence stretched on.

Aragorn, deep in his own thoughts, was aware of the leaden shock that still 
draped them, and sought a means to lift it, or at least to escape it for a time. 
But as his mind raced, his attention caught suddenly on a noise, as of many 
creatures moving through the forest. Jerking his head up, he glanced about 
sharply, and the others, startled by his sudden motion, looked up in surprise. 
Legolas was first to recognize the threat, and even as he rose, realization 
struck the others as well. Boromir grabbed his sword off the ground and stood, 
while Gimli laid his hands on the haft of his ax. The hobbits drew nearer their 
taller companions, and the remainder of the Company pressed close, facing 
outward in a defensive knot. Harsh voices cried out as the first dark shapes 
appeared amidst the trees, and then that fell company turned toward the 
remainder of the Fellowship.

"Cursed Orcs!" Gimli grated, and left unspoken the concern that all shared: 
Frodo and Sam could not have gone so very far, and might still be at risk, 
especially without the protection that numbers offered. Aragorn and the Dwarf 
exchanged a grim look, knowing that whatever passed next, they could not allow 
the Orcs to break past them without a fight. Not that that seemed to be at 
issue, for their foes were streaming about them, cutting off all avenues of 
escape, muttering in their harsh tongue as they came.

"Moria again!" Merry groaned, gripping his Barrow-blade tightly.

The Orcs yelled out a harsh war cry, and the Company braced itself as its 
enemies swarmed forward, surrounding the six of them. Boromir's horn blast 
startled them, and for a moment they hesitated, which let Legolas shoot four in 
swift succession. But such diversions could not save them: as the echoes died, 
the battle was joined in earnest as the Orcs closed in from all sides. If the 
Orcs, however, had anticipated a quick and easy victory, they swiftly learned 
their error. Boromir and Aragorn, by unspoken agreement, stood directly behind 
each other so as to best exploit their greater reach, while Legolas and Gimli, a 
pair as ever, stood together, with Gimli somewhat before the Elf to give him 
room enough to swing. Merry and Pippin huddled to either side of Boromir, 
determined to help their friends as best they could. Thus when the Orcs closed, 
they faced no confused assortment of warriors but found themselves repelled with 
brutal efficiency. Within the first few exchanges, Aragorn had acquired a shield 
from a fallen Orc, whereas Legolas had added a long dagger to his elven-blade 
and wielded both with graceful lethality. Boromir, veteran of many campaigns, 
laid low any who dared approach him, and the haft of Gimli's ax soon was 
bloodstained. Even Merry and Pippin proved formidable as they fought to buy 
their friend and cousin time enough to escape….

 

For perhaps a half a mile away, just on the banks of the Anduin, Frodo and Sam 
went rigid as Boromir's horn call reached their ears, clear and defiant in the 
otherwise still air. "But we only just left them!" Sam protested, looking back 
anxiously at the woods.

"Aragorn feared there were Orcs on this bank, and I think he must be right!" 
Frodo replied slowly, and then turned quickly to the boats. Throwing his pack 
into one, he grabbed Sam's and, with a grunt, managed to heft it over the edge. 
"See to the other boats, Sam!"

"Sir?" The other hobbit frowned, uncomprehending for a moment. Then he sucked in 
a breath. "But won't the others…?"

"Sam, whatever befalls them, they shan't need the boats again, but our enemies 
may realize what we have done and come for us if we leave them intact. It need 
not be anything fancy, just keep them from floating!" Frodo replied, and began 
to drag their chosen boat off of the shoals and into the water. Samwise watched 
him a moment, then drew his Barrow-blade with a sigh and went to work. It seemed 
wrong somehow to damage something that came of elvish hands, yet his master was 
correct. So as the sounds of combat drifted downwind to his ears, he resolutely 
began to cut through the bottoms of the little boats, a task which proved far 
easier than he would have guessed it to be. Perhaps, he thought, they knew 
somehow of his intentions and let themselves be mauled.... Nonsense, Sam, that's 
a bit of absurdity there! Boats don't think nothing! And yet, when he had 
finished, he felt constrained to bow politely ere he turned to join Frodo in the 
shallows.

"Well, it's done. But I can't feel right about it, nor about leaving the others 
like this!" Sam said worriedly, glancing back at the lawn and the ominous trees. 
"Poor Merry and Pippin! Do you think they'll be alright, sir?"

"I hope so. They have Strider and Legolas to look after them, and Gimli and 
Boromir would never leave them. That I know, whatever else may be said," Frodo 
muttered, and then his mouth tightened as he clutched the Ring. "But we cannot 
concern ourselves with that now. If they live, then they must away to the end 
that awaits them."

"And if they do not?" Sam asked softly as they began to paddle out into the 
deeps.

"If they do not, then we must not let their deaths mean nothing at all!" Frodo 
grated harshly, hating to say so when he knew very well that the Darkness 
covered all and that hope, unless wholly unforeseen, lay smothering beneath that 
dreadful veil. We must not look now for a final victory, he thought. I must take 
what small ones I can find, and if the others die to let us get only as far as 
the Bla