Faramir Fiction Archive

So Small a Thing

Written by Ithiliana

04 April 2004 | 66841 words

Frodo started as a hand touched his face, pulling him from sleep, his heart pounding.

“Sssh,” he heard as he opened his eyes to see Pippin standing close to him.

Frodo was lying in bed, head pillowed on his arms, Faramir’s arm across his back. Next to him, Faramir was asleep, breathing deep and regular.

Hazel eyes twinkling above a beaming smile, Pippin laid his hand across Frodo’s mouth, then beckoned.

Confused, Frodo rose to his elbows, watching as Pippin backed away, crossing the room to open the door, gesturing more emphatically that Frodo should follow him.

Wondering what was wrong now, Frodo slid slowly out from under Faramir’s arm and the bedding. Faramir mumbled something, turned onto his back, pulling the bedding off Frodo entirely. He froze until he was sure Faramir was still asleep, then cautiously slid one leg, then the other, over the side of the low bed until he was standing next to it. Moving as quietly as he could, Frodo backed away until he was standing next to Pippin who grabbed his arm, hustled him out the door, and shut it quietly behind them.

“Pippin, what are you doing?” Frodo tried to demand although it was hard to convey much of what he was feeling in a whisper.

Pippin grinned more widely and leaned close, breath puffing against Frodo’s skin, to whisper, “Follow me!”

Shrugging, Frodo let Pippin tug him down the hall, around the corner, and through a narrow door that led into another courtyard. Blinking in the sun which shone brightly on the square of green grass, Frodo could hardly believe what he was seeing.

Two figures stood in the center of the grass, smiling.

“Sam! Merry!”

Frodo pulled free of Pippin to dash into Sam’s arms, turning to pull Merry into the hug as well. After a long hug, Frodo pulled back, wiping his eyes, to look at his friends.

Sam was wearing his familiar homespun, brown and cream, faded and worn. He had a bandage tied around his head. Merry was brightly clad in rich clothing of red and gold, but his right arm was in a sling.

Pippin joined the group, an arm around Merry.

Frodo tried to speak and could only smile. He had not dared to dream of seeing all his friends again, and here they were, a joy beyond measure.

A babble of voices surrounded him, familiar and loved, as Merry and Pippin tried to outdo each other in telling what had happened.

Finally Frodo raised his hands. “Let’s sit down, please, and then tell me what happened, one at a time!”

They sat in a tight circle, knees touching. The warmth of the sun on the grass, the scent of Sam’s hair and skin as he sat next to Frodo, the firm touch of Merry’s knee against his, the sound of Merry and Pippin’s laughter, wrapped around Frodo. This was real, solid, grounding Frodo.

Struck by the difference between this moment and the false memory from Parth Galen, Frodo wondered how he could ever have believed in what the Ring had sent to trick him, the vision that paled next to the warmth and sweetness of his friends.

He barely listened, wondering at what he had learned today, but he soon realized it hardly mattered. Speaking in turn, interrupting each other in a torrent of words, Merry and Pippin were telling over the tale of their captivity, the Ents, their time with the Rohirrim before Gandalf brought Pippin to Minas Tirith, all that he had already heard from Pippin once.

Only then did Pippin slow, letting Merry tell of his and Sam’s sojourn among the Rohirrim, and how Merry became King Théoden’s esquire.

“But why not Sam,” Pippin interrupted, elbowing Sam in the ribs, “why isn’t he an esquire too?”

Sam frowned at him. “I serve Mr. Frodo. The King of Rohan is a very nice old gentleman, but I told him I’m not free to serve anyone else. “

“Oh, Sam,” Frodo leaned over to hug him again, unable to stop the tears this time.

Sam gripped Frodo’s arms, looked at him. “I knew something was wrong with Master Boromir, I could tell by the way he was looking at you as we traveled down the River. It got worse the further we were from Lothlórien. But stealing your Ring, I never thought it would come to that. I should never of let you go off on your own.”

Frodo shifted, uneasy, pulling out of Sam’s grasp. He could never tell Sam much of what happened, but he could not let him think too badly of Boromir. “I had to, Sam, I needed to think. Alone.”

“And look what it got you!”

Taking Sam’s hand between his own, Frodo said, “Boromir wanted to help, Sam. He didn’t steal the Ring. He didn’t hurt me. He bore the Ring for a while. I was ill, and—”

Sam’s hand clenched in Frodo’s, turning to clasp Frodo’s hand in turn. “I’ve heard some stories since we came here, stories about what he’s done. And you’re wounded, I can see the bandages.”

“That was Denethor,” Frodo said. He wondered what Sam had heard.

“He attacked his own brother, and you!” Sam was flushed, frowning.

“Yes, he did. But, he thought he had to, to save the City.”

“I’ll just have a word or two with him, the next time I see him.” Sam nodded firmly.

Frodo laughed. He was half horrified, half admiring, and could think of nothing to say that would stop Sam from speaking his mind.

Merry said, “It’s true that Sam turned the King of Rohan down, Frodo, but I think he was tempted by Treebeard!”

“What?” Frodo thought that Merry was simply teasing Sam and was surprised to see how red he turned.

“Oh, yes,” Pippin said. “Sam was a great favourite with the Ents. I don’t think Treebeard wanted to let him go.”

“Don’t deny it, Sam, they liked you best!” Merry said.

“Sam?” Frodo was bewildered.

“Pay no attention to them, Mr. Frodo. All it is is that Master Treebeard understands what every gardener knows, that there’s no use in trying to force things to grow before their proper time or outside their proper place. He called it not being hasty, but that’s what he meant.”

Relieved, Frodo laughed and was able, when Merry demanded to hear what had happened with Boromir, to tell much of what had happened without betraying Boromir further.

From there, the talk moved on to more stories, more laughter, until Faramir interrupted them.

“Frodo? Aren’t you hungry? They’ve brought food for us, but not enough for your friends, I fear.”

Pippin jumped to his feet and stumbled over Merry’s. Frodo wondered at the sudden clumsiness, then forgot it when Pippin spoke.

“I can fetch more food!”

Merry frowned at him. “We’ve already eaten,” he said.

“Nothing wrong with a second breakfast!” Pippin dashed off before anybody could say anything.

“Sam? This is Faramir, Boromir’s brother. And this is Sam, my best friend.” Frodo felt suddenly shy as Sam rose, nodding to Faramir.

Sam walked to Faramir and held out his hand. Faramir took it, smiling as Sam shook hands firmly.

“I’ve heard how you saved Frodo,” Sam said. “And wish to thank you for it.” He released Faramir’s hand.

Faramir shrugged slightly, tilted his head. “You owe me no thanks,” he said, “I could do nothing else. And Frodo saved me in turn.”

Frodo felt his face turning red as Sam and Merry turned to look at him. He had not told them much of what had happened with Denethor and did not wish to speak further of it.

“Should we go inside?” he suggested, shoving Merry forward.

Turning, Faramir gestured for Sam and Merry to precede him. Frodo sighed, relieved, and walked beside Faramir, feeling suddenly hungry.

Frodo shut the door behind Merry and sighed, feeling the tenseness drain from his shoulders. The meal had not been difficult, exactly. Sam had asked Faramir a great many questions, not all of them about Boromir. Pippin had spent most of the time watching Faramir while Merry had watched Pippin.

The only thing everybody seemed to agree upon was that Frodo should not see Boromir. That, Frodo thought wryly, they had spent a great deal of time discussing. Not that he had been allowed to speak!

He wondered what would happen if he simply went back to Boromir’s room. He was tempted, but, remembering Boromir’s strength, he did not wish to do so except as a last resort.

Maybe he could speak to Gandalf.

Frodo turned back to the room, searching for his clothes. The table was full of mostly empty dishes, serving platters and goblets. The only food left was the heel of one of the five loaves of bread Pippin had fetched and a small crock of butter. When they had crowded around the table to eat, Frodo’s pack had been moved from the chair.

He found it tossed in a corner under a pile of clothing, both his and Faramir’s. Sorting through the clothes, Frodo found his and pulled off his nightrobe to dress.

“Frodo.”

Slowly, he turned, his shirt in one hand. Faramir’s voice was low, but the room was quiet. He was sitting on the bed, eyes intent, the blue stare that had been the first thing Frodo had noticed about him back.

There was nothing of anger in his gaze, Frodo thought absently, feeling his breath catch.

Faramir’s lips were parted. He reached his right hand out to Frodo.

“Come back to bed.”

“I was going to dress.”

“Why?”

Frodo swallowed. “To see Gandalf, talk to him about Boromir, of course.” His voice didn’t sound very sure, even to himself.

“Even after all we talked about? You can’t. . . “

“It’s, you, I don’t think you understand.” Frodo felt the cool air on his skin, fresh moistness from the open door carrying the scent of grass and sun. He gripped his shirt firmly, feeling as if it would slip from his hand.

“No, I don’t understand. Come here.” Faramir’s voice dropped even lower on the last words.

He leaned forward, and Frodo dropped the shirt and crossed to him, clasping his hand, being tugged closer to the bed, leaning against Faramir’s thigh.

“You’ll have to trust us, love,” Faramir said. “Aragorn and Gandalf know what to do.”

It wasn’t a matter of trust, Frodo thought, frustrated. Or maybe it was. They did not trust him. He opened his mouth to point that out, but before he could speak, Faramir leaned forward to kiss him.

Sweet and warm, Faramir’s mouth explored Frodo’s, then moved down to his neck, opening, sucking.

Shivering, Frodo decided to wait until later to talk about Gandalf and moved eagerly around and between Faramir’s legs when he shifted, tugging Frodo around to stand in front of him.

Leaning back, Faramir released Frodo briefly, long enough to raise off the bed and tug his own nightrobe off. Then, in a breath, he slid his left arm around Frodo, reaching over him, toward the table, with the right.

Frodo wondered briefly about the clanking sound from the table, but clasped his arms around Faramir’s neck, pulling him forward. He gripped Frodo firmly, sliding his other hand under Frodo’s rear, and lifting him off the floor.

Surprised, Frodo clung as Faramir lay back across the bed, pulling Frodo up and on top of him, until their mouths could meet again.

Closing his eyes to better enjoy the sensation of warm skin and hair against his body, Frodo wriggled happily, sliding his legs down to clasp Faramir’s sides, arms tightening, rubbing against the strong body, wanting more.

Then he felt Faramir’s hand, slowly, sliding between his legs, up his cleft, gentle, as he pressed a slick finger against Frodo, rubbing a small circle.

Releasing Frodo’s mouth, Faramir whispered, “How’s that feel?”

“Ohhhh,” Frodo said, marveling at the sensation that arced through him as Faramir pressed down. He shuddered, but when Faramir pulled away, said, “Oh, no, more, please.”

Faramir’s left hand smoothed down his back, as the right pushed down, pressing further in, slow, gentle, in, out, then in.

Frodo arched his back. “Yes,” he gasped, feeling himself harden, a rhythm of pleasure inside responding to Faramir’s touch, rocking against Faramir’s body rising and falling beneath him as Faramir breathed deeply, mouth taking Frodo’s again, tongue sliding deeper.

Frodo felt himself open to Faramir’s touch, braced himself on his knees, pushing back, enjoying the warmth growing within from the deeper touch. When Faramir slowly pulled out, Frodo moaned, hands clenched in the long soft hair, tugging in protest.

Sliding his hands up Frodo’s side, Faramir said, “On your belly.”

Impatient, Frodo pushed himself away from Faramir, moving off him to kneel, then lie on the bed, spreading his legs. He relaxed as he felt two finger pushing in, straining back.

Faramir worked patiently for some time.

Frodo gritted his teeth, panting. “Now,” he said.

“A bit longer. Just. . to. . be. . safe,” Faramir said softly, pressing deeper with each pause.

Frodo slid his hand under himself to grip his member, rubbing, felt muscles in belly tightening, felt the growing pressure between his legs.

Finally, Faramir pulled out, gripped Frodo’s hips, pressing him gently open, positioning himself, and began to work in.

Gasping, Frodo felt bright pain when Faramir first entered him, but in a breath or two, his body relaxed, and Faramir slid deeper, braced above Frodo save where their bodies touched.

Spreading his legs, Frodo rubbed harder, gripping himself, holding himself back. One hard arm slid under Frodo’s belly, pulling his hips up, as Faramir thrust forward, gasping, moving faster and harder.

Frodo moved against Faramir, establishing his own rhythm, hearing his own moans, until he could hold no longer, feeling the wetness pulse against his hand, collapsing, feeling Faramir’s movements, slower, longer, and impossibly deeper, until he strained, trembling against Frodo, then relaxed, half falling, half lying on the bed, pulling Frodo over onto his side. They lay, spooned together, bodies connected, arms and legs tangled, beating of hearts and harsh breathing slowing together.

Finally, Faramir stirred, burying his face in Frodo’s hair.

“Promise me one thing,” he said softly.

“Yes.”

“Don’t go to Gandalf. Let me talk to him.”

Frodo swallowed a protest, nodded. “Very well,” he said.

Faramir hugged him, and Frodo clasped his hand around Faramir’s.

As they lay silent in the room, light growing around them, the songs of birds outside breaking the silence, Frodo thought.

He needed to speak to Pippin who certainly knew where Boromir’s room was.

Boromir lay on the rumpled bed, a sheet pulled across bare legs, arms crossed beneath his head. Aragorn had been summoned to a meeting of the commanders by Gandalf. Boromir could have gone with them but had refused when Aragorn had asked.

He knew he needed time, time alone, to think and try to work out what was truth and what was lie so that he could no longer be manipulated by the Ring. His injury served as reason enough, if anyone asked. Aragorn had left, promising to bring him back news of what was decided.

Boromir had spent the time since forcing himself to lie still, to think back over the past days, back to Parth Galen. He needed to understand what had truly happened, what had been the Ring’s lies.

Now, his head aching, he was wondering if he would ever know the truth of what had happened with Frodo.

He was now sure, deep in his bone and blood, that Aragorn did not have the Ring. Boromir had slept beside him for hours, wrapped around him, and had risen, feeling stronger than he had in days. The hectic flush of rage and longing that he remembered of his days with Frodo was a thing of shadow and memory now. When he touched Aragorn, he felt a strong, silent flow, green and welcoming, one that could not come from the Ring, one that was like a hidden spring of water found in a waste of sand and rock.

And he knew he had truly killed the slinking creature when it had attacked Frodo. He remembered its dying shriek, the stinking blood on his blade, Frodo trembling in his arms. That had happened.

Nights on the River, days slept watching and sleeping, the stay at Cair Andros, those hours seemed real enough.

Even clearer was the memory of Frodo lying still on the ground before him, of his own hands on the Ring, his decision to take the poisonous thing from Frodo. That, he would not allow himself to forget again. He and no other had taken the Ring.

The times that would not come clear, that fragmented in his mind like a jumble of oddments swept onto a junkpile, were the times alone with Frodo. The night at Cair Andros, taking Frodo from Beregond, bringing him back to the Citadel, sleeping beside him in his own bed.

When he tried to think back, the images hazed in a mist of blood-red and he felt himself harden, thinking he heard Frodo crying out under him as he moved to take his own pleasure from the shrinking body.

He stood, shaking his head, crossed to the table where he found a jug of water. He sluiced it over his body, cold taming his flesh, and turned to seek for his clothing. He could not stay here any longer. He needed to move, to do something. Searching in the jumble of oddments, he found the nightrobe he had pulled off last night, but nothing else.

Frustrated, he pulled the thin robe over his head. Perhaps he could find someone to get him a tunic and leggings. He turned to the door and was surprised to hear a firm knock.

Boromir crossed to the door and opened it, seeing only empty air until he looked down and saw Sam and Pippin, standing side by side, looking up at him.

“Oh,” he said. “Enter.”

He stood back and waved them in, wondering. He had not seen Pippin since he had left him during the battle, had not seen Sam since Parth Galen.

They came into the room and waited until he shut the door.

“I am sorry, I have no refreshment to offer you,” he said, at first embarrassed to see the look on Sam’s face as he surveyed the mess in the room—the pallet in disarray on the floor, the plates and jugs and goblets scattered around, the burned out candles, unmade bed—then shocked as Pippin drew his small sword, holding it in a position Boromir remembered teaching him one afternoon in Hollin.

“What’s wrong?”

“This isn’t a social call, Master Boromir,” Sam said firmly. “And we don’t know yet if we can trust you.”

Boromir nodded. He bowed his head and knelt, not moving any closer. “I understand, Master Samwise,” he said. “I did a great wrong to your master and must also beg Pippin’s forgiveness for how I treated him. I do not yet know how I may repay what I have done, but I wish to make amends.”

He saw Pippin relax slightly, lowering his guard and made a note to warn him against that in future.

Sam frowned, crossing his arms in front of his chest, still watching Boromir closely.

“That sounds very nice, but actions speak louder than words at times,” he said. “And where’s Strider?”

“He has gone to the Citadel, to meet with the commanders.”

“And left you here? Unguarded?”

Boromir nodded. “He has healed me,” he said simply.

“So you no longer want to take Frodo’s Ring?”

Sam’s bluntness was refreshing, Boromir thought wryly. He had spoken the least with Sam of all the hobbits, but there was no doubt of his incorruptibility and his love for Frodo.

“I would not trust myself to be alone with Frodo, given what I did,” he said, feeling Sam’s honesty deserved nothing less in return. “But I do not wish to fall again. I know the Ring’s deceit leads to nothing but death and worse than death. I hope that I am cured.”

Pippin smiled, sheathing his sword, and elbowed Sam. “I think it’s all right,” he said.

“Hmm.” Sam uncrossed his arms, frowning at Boromir. “Perhaps.”

Boromir shifted his weight, the stone floor cold beneath him. “May I ask why you have come to me?”

“It’s Frodo,” Pippin said, then stopped when Sam turned to him, frowning.

Seeing the exchange of glances, Boromir kept silent. He did not know what this visit had to do with Frodo, but he did not want to risk Sam’s anger by pushing him.

“It’s all right, Sam, he looks different, I tell you.” Pippin spoke loudly.

“Different how?”

“His eyes. Before, you could tell, he seemed to look right through me, didn’t even see me. And there was a different colour. When he looked at me, it was as if. . .well, do you remember the eyes of those wargs that night in the Wild?” Pippin’s voice lowered, and he shivered.

“Yes,” Sam said, and turned back to Boromir. “I think he was starting to look like that on the River. I remember.”

Sam stepped forward, looking at Boromir intently, searching for Boromir knew not what. He kept still, eyes on Sam’s, forcing himself to wait until Sam sighed, and spoke.

“Very well, then. I think Pippin’s right. We are here because of my master. He wants to speak to you, I don’t know why, and all the others, Strider and Gandalf and even Faramir, are trying to stop him.”

Boromir blinked. Gandalf had said something about Frodo wanting to see him, he remembered.

“And I won’t lie to you, I’m against it, all the way,” Sam said, shaking Pippin’s hand off his arm. “And told him so. But he’s stubborn, always has been, just like Master Bilbo, and the most I could make him agree to is that I’d come speak to you first.”

“And?” Boromir held his breath, waiting for Sam to speak, not knowing what he felt at the thought of speaking to Frodo.

“I won’t let him speak to you alone, we’ll all be there, and we’ll be armed,” Sam said. “What do you say to that?”

Boromir bit his lip, knowing it would be fatal to smile at the way Sam seemed to bristle, stepping forward, ignoring Pippin’s muttered remonstrances and tugs. Frodo was lucky to have such love and such a friend.

“I think you are right,” Boromir said when he could speak. “I agree to your terms.”

“And not in here. Outside, where there’s room to move and fresh air.”

Boromir nodded. He had no right to disagree with Sam’s plan to protect his master.

“Very well then. You can come with us, and we’ll take you to him.”

Boromir rose, rubbing his knee, and followed Sam and Pippin to the door and out into the hallway.

Boromir followed Sam and Pippin through hallways and around corners and into a small room. There, he saw an open door that led outside and heard voices, even laughter. Sam and Pippin went out, side by side, but Boromir paused in the open door, breathing deeply in the fresh air, blinking.

The sunlight, the air itself, seemed cleaner than he remembered for some time. Even though he knew that around them the city was preparing for the next battle of a great war, what he saw reminded him of pictures in the old scrolls that Faramir kept in his room. Those images were small but brightly coloured and so full of life that at times Boromir had thought he could reach out and touch them.

The green grass, the silver trunk of the large tree that seemed to touch the blue sky, were a frame for Frodo and Merry who sat under the tree. Merry was wearing unfamiliar clothing in bright colours, red and brown and gold, but Frodo wore a faded blue shirt and trousers that Boromir remembered from the journey south. He was pale, but looked better than he had for some time, Boromir thought.

Looking up and seeing Boromir, Frodo jumped to his feet, hands extended, smiling.

“Frodo, no,” Merry said, scrambling to his feet, grasping Frodo’s arm.

Sam and Pippin drew their swords and stayed between Boromir and Frodo.

“Now, Master Frodo, I don’t want you getting in arm’s reach of him,” Sam said. “You can talk without getting any closer, and we’ll stay between you both.”

“Sam, please.” Frodo’s face was flushed, but he dropped his hands.

Heartened by the fact that he felt only a decent concern for Frodo, nothing of the lust he recalled, Boromir relaxed. Sam’s concern made sense given what had happened before, but Sam wasn’t thinking strategically.

“Why don’t you let me sit under the tree,” Boromir said, “and, Frodo, you come over here.”

“Why?” Sam turned, frowning at Boromir.

“Because Frodo should have a clear line of retreat, Sam,” Boromir said. “If he’s by the door, and I’m sitting there, with the three of you between us, he’d have a better chance of escaping if anything happened. I do not believe it will, but when you’re planning, always plan for the worst. That way, you will rarely be surprised.”

“All right, then,” Sam said. He nodded, turned back to Frodo and the others. “Let’s do it that way.”

Frodo shrugged, and moved aside, surrounded by his friends, so Boromir could cross the yard, grass cool against his bare feet, and sit, back braced against the sturdy trunk of the tree. “And keep your guard up, Pippin,” he said.

Pippin nodded seriously as he stood beside Merry, swords ready. Sam was beside Frodo.

Boromir swallowed hard, watching Frodo’s face as he stood in the sunlight. Perhaps it was the afternoon sun reflecting off the snow and ice the mountain always wore, perhaps it was Boromir spending so long in the dark room, but Frodo seemed to shine. And despite everything, he did not seem to fear Boromir who could hardly believe Frodo had asked to see him.

Wondering uneasily if the Ring was still acting on Frodo, Boromir finally spoke. “Why did you with to see me, Frodo?”

“You were ill, Faramir told me,” Frodo said. He paused, breathing deeply and looking away, then raised his head, confronting Boromir directly, stepping forward, ignoring Sam’s hand on his arm. “I remember my illness when we first came to Minas Tirith, how I felt better in your presence. And I thought, well, I hoped, I could help.”

Remembering Frodo lying limp in Beregond’s arms, how the blue eyes had opened when Boromir held him, Boromir nodded. “ I remember.” Boromir also remembered what happened after but could not bring himself to say anything in front of the others, especially Pippin who had dropped his guard again. “I thank you, but I believe Aragorn has healed me.”

He wondered what would have happened if Frodo had come to him earlier, feared the worst. Both had suffered from confusion, nausea, chills. Boromir remembered a friend he had served with in Ithilien. They were both young, had enjoyed spending time in the city Inns, but this friend had suffered in Ithilien when Orcs had attacked one summer, stealing the supplies meant for the garrison. With little wine, they had to make do with water. Most of the men had complained, but Celrain had been become ill, unable to serve. What Boromir had given Frodo, what Frodo might have given him before Aragorn came, would have been no better for them than the wine Celrain had craved so badly that he’d deserted.

Frodo smiled, appearing relieved.

“Is that all, then?” Sam asked.

“No!” Boromir leaned forward, clenching his hands in the grass. He must take this chance, must find a way to ask Frodo even in front of the other. “Please, a moment, Sam. I must ask a boon.”

“Wait, Sam.” Frodo tugged free, smoothing his sleeve, and looked at Boromir.

Surely Frodo would not have wished to help if what Boromir feared was true. But he had to know. He drew a deep breath, looked at Frodo, tried to pretend the others were not there.

“Frodo. I have been trying to remember what happened. Since Parth Galen. So much is unclear—”

Frodo nodded, biting his lip. “I know.”

“I beg you, tell me, did I—attack,” Boromir closed his eyes briefly, cursed himself for a coward, and forced himself to continue. “Did I rape you?”

“No!”

Boromir exhaled, falling back against the tree, limp, hands trembling against the grass, blinked back tears. The shock in Frodo’s voice, his look of amazement, carried conviction.

There was silence as Pippin bent to pick up the blade he had dropped, fumbling, eyes on Boromir who sat still, feeling the sweat cooling on his back.

Sam pushed Frodo behind him, stepping forward, eyes narrowed, blade ready. “Why would you even ask such a thing?”

“Sam, no!” Frodo grasped Sam’s shoulders, pulling him back, shaking him. “Enough. You do not understand. Put down your sword. Let me speak. Merry, Pippin, you too. Stay if you will, but you must see there is no need for weapons.”

Reluctant, slow, Sam sheathed his sword, eyes on Boromir who sat still. Anything he said would make it worse. Pippin and Merry avoided his eyes, fumbling as they put away their weapons.

“Sit,” Frodo said. As they arranged themselves on the grass, Frodo walked forward, standing in front of Boromir.

“I do not think we will ever know clearly what happened in truth and what was a vision send by the Ring. The longer you bore the Ring, the more—frightened I became. We could not freely choose what we did, but remember, here, in the Citadel? That night when you left me tied to your bed?”

Boromir nodded, feeling the heat rising in his face, dared not look at the others.

“You came back to the room so drunk you could barely speak. Was that chance?”

Boromir’s mouth opened. Shocked, he remembered. He could see himself standing in the Great Hall, empty goblet in one hand, remembering Frodo tied across the bed, the dark blue of the silk cutting across his white skin. Boromir imagined himself entering the room, all light centering on the still figure. Saw himself pulling the bedding back, turning Frodo’s body, mounting him, hands sliding under the taut body to tease the hardening flesh, sinking deep into the unimaginable heat and tightness, seeking pleasure unlike any other. Grimly, Boromir had gone to find more wine. He would not return to the room until he was incapable of anything but sleep.

Shaking his head, Boromir looked at Frodo. “No. No, it wasn’t.”

Frodo smiled. “Your brother said he recognized your tactics.” He hesitated, then went on, voice low. “You took the Ring.”

Boromir nodded, grim. He had.

“But you could have done much worse. And I, I, part of me was glad you took it, wanted someone else to carry the burden. I agreed to it.”

Frodo’s voice carried so much pain that Boromir reached out without thinking, clasping the small hands, cold and shaking, between his own. “Frodo, no, you cannot blame yourself. I am at fault. I should have been stronger.”

“Frodo! What are you doing?” Faramir appeared in the doorway, striding forward.

Frodo had time only to smile at Boromir and shake his head before Faramir leaned down, frowing at Boromir who released Frodo’s hands as he was lifted in Faramir’s arms.

Boromir saw Frodo’s arms go around Faramir’s neck, the gold and dark heads so close, his brother’s arms wrapped tightly around Frodo.

They looked right together, so perfect and complete, Boromir thought.

“I had to speak to Boromir,” Frodo said, his voice muffled against Faramir’s neck. “Sam and Merry and Pippin helped.”

“So I see. Are you all right?”

Boromir did not move, meeting his brother’s challenge directly, hands loose in his lap.

“Yes.” Frodo shifted, leaning back enough to meet Faramir’s eyes, one hand on his cheek. “And so is Boromir.”

Faramir laughed, shrugging helplessly. “Very well, Frodo. But come inside, all of you. We must talk.”

He set Frodo down, urging him inside, followed by the other hobbits, and turned back to Boromir who rose. “I went with Aragorn to meet with the commanders. When we returned here, with Gandalf, I was met by one of the Healers.” Faramir paused, running a hand through his hair, before continuing. “Our father has died.”

Boromir sat, head down, watching but not seeing the grey stone of the floor, pretending to listen to the council taking place around him. The voices in his head kept drowning out what the others were saying, their talk of the need for Frodo to resume his journey toward Mt. Doom, the need for a diversionary force to draw the Nameless Enemy’s eye away from his land. Frodo would be going through Ithilien, as Boromir had once planned, and the forces led by Aragorn would march north, to assail Morannon.

‘Do not move, or your Halfling dies. I do not recognize you, Boromir, not since you returned. Wizards or Halflings or both have changed you. You do not understand what must be done to save Gondor. Once, you would have listened to me when I said we must set this thing deep in the vaults of the Citadel, not denied me.’

The knife flashed in Denethor’s hand, cutting Frodo’s jacket and vest away, then his shirt. Red stained the white linen which hung open, showing the wound on the slim body held by darkness.

‘You fool! You had the Ring all this time and did not tell me? We could have used it to—’

‘We could have done nothing, old man. The weak do not deserve to rule. Only one who is strong can wield the One Ring.’

The black form groveled before him, hair trailing on the ground, face twisted into a snarl, hands clawing at him.

‘Do you wish to see what this weapon I have brought to Gondor can do?’

He could have killed his father then, without a second thought, Boromir knew and shuddered away from the knowledge. He had questions for which there were no answers. How long had his father been shadowed? What went wrong, and when? What would have happened had he taken the Ring? How great a boon was his death?

“Boromir!”

Starting, Boromir looked up, blinking. Aragorn was looking at him. The others were sitting in a council made up of the original Fellowship and Faramir.

“Yes?”

“We would know what you think, which among us you would choose to accompany Frodo to Mordor?”

“Before, I thought none should attempt this quest, that it was folly. Now,” Boromir paused, looking at those who had come so far, achieved so much, “I am sure any plan born of logic and strategy will fail. Only love can hope to succeed.” He paused, smiling at the two young hobbits, hoping they would not take what he said amiss. “I think Sam and Faramir should go with Frodo.” He did not say all of what he thought, that only those two had enough love for Frodo to resist the temptation of the Ring.

Protests from Legolas and Gimli drowned out even Merry and Pippin’s high voices, but Boromir took pleasure in the smile on Sam’s face, the surprise on Faramir’s, so said nothing further. Gandalf nodded, as if to himself, and when the babble showed no sign of fading, tapped his staff several times.

“Everyone has spoken save for Frodo,” he said into the silence of the room. “He has heard all your counsel. I believe we must give him some time to think, and to choose. He will not be leaving today, no matter who goes with him.”

“But you cannot mean us to stay here,” Pippin jumped up and crossed to stand in front of Gandalf, arms crossed, glowering.

“No, my dear hobbit. Do not forget the other task we have, to challenge Sauron in such a way as to draw him out. Those who accompany Aragorn will also face great danger. But for now, let us leave Frodo in peace.”

Merry jumped up and crossed to Pippin’s side. “Good. Well, now that’s settled, what about something to eat? I’m hungry!” The two young hobbits left together, tugging Gandalf along with them.

Legolas and Gimli spoke to Aragorn, then left side by side.

Boromir watched Frodo, sitting quietly between Faramir and Sam, his eyes lowered, one hand pressing against his chest. Faramir touched his shoulder, leaned over to speak to him and Sam, then stood, crossing to Boromir, hand out.

Surprised, Boromir stood and leaned into his brother’s one-armed hug, unsure of what to say. Soft hair brushed his cheek, and he felt the strength under worn cloth, inhaled, closing his eyes a moment and remembering happier days.

“Imrahil thinks father’s—that he should be taken to the Citadel.”

Boromir sighed and opened his eyes, standing back. “He’s right. Whatever happened at the end, he was Gondor’s Steward, and must be honored in whatever time is left. I’ll talk to the Healers. They can arrange it.”

Faramir nodded and might have left but Boromir grasped his shoulder.

“Faramir, I—” Boromir looked away, searching for words.

A warm hand clasped his, gripped hard.

“I am sorry. There is no excuse for what I did, and I don’t know what Frodo has told you, but—”

“Much, I think, at least all that he can remember. I do not blame him for what happened, nor do I blame you.”

Frowning, Boromir tried to speak, but Faramir shook his head. “No, listen. Do you blame Frodo?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why blame yourself?”

“But—”

“Boromir, had you been with us when I first learned some of what happened, I do not know what I would have done. But the more I’ve learned of the power of this thing, from Mithrandir and from Frodo, the more I am amazed. You did not kill Frodo.”

Boromir relaxed, gripping Faramir’s hand in return, then releasing him.

“And more, you brought him here to Minas Tirith, where we could meet, a meeting that might never have happened had things gone otherwise. How could I blame you for that?”

Boromir’s mouth dropped open and he could find no words. He stared at Faramir who smiled widely, clapping Boromir on the shoulder.

“By all logic and reason, we should never have won against the first great assault. I journeyed from Ithilien and Osgiliath under the smokes and fumes of Mordor, fearing that the City would fall, that the long darkness was just beginning. Yet here we stand in sunlight, all of us together, some able to divert the Eye’s attention from Frodo as he starts the last stages of his journey. Do you think all of this was simply chance, brother?”

“I do not know,” Boromir said, speaking the only truth he knew.

“None of us can know,” Faramir said, turning back to Frodo and Sam. “But we can always hope.”

Boromir watched as Sam smiled at Faramir, and the two left with Frodo.

Only Aragorn was left, sitting at ease in one of the uncomfortable chairs that the Healers seemed to require. At least Boromir had not been able to find a comfortable seat during his stay. He had decided that the furniture and beds were another incentive to recover.

“When will we be leaving to assail Mordor? It will take some time to muster a force and still leave some to protect the City. I would not leave Minas Tirith unprotected.”

“Neither would I,” Aragorn said. “Which is why I think you should stay to command the forces here.”

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