Faramir Fiction Archive

So Small a Thing

Written by Ithiliana

04 April 2004 | 66841 words

Boromir woke slowly, savouring the soft bed and the quiet that wrapped around him, the golden glow behind his eyelids speaking of sunlight shining through the window. He felt rested despite waking at intervals to care for Frodo, more rested than had been possible during the long journey down the River. The last leagues to the City could be done in daylight, by horse, he thought, sure that the commander would allow him the use of one of the horses that were pastured on the bank and used to carry messages.

Finally, reluctant, Boromir stirred under the bedding, feeling the warm weight of Frodo next to him curling closer. Frodo could sleep if he wished, but Boromir knew he had to speak to the commander.

Reminded, he opened his eyes, the memory of what had happened deep in the night flashing through him. How could he have acted as he had, even if Frodo had asked? Guilty, Boromir looked at the small figure sleeping next to him, wrapped in his arm, lying curled against Boromir’s side, head resting on Boromir’s chest.

Absently, Boromir wrapped his hand around the Ring, trying to slide away and out of bed without waking Frodo. The wrinkled and stained sheets under them, the smell of sex and sweat jarring with the green scent of Frodo’s spilled draught, all spoke more clearly than any words could of what had happened.

Frodo murmured a slurred protest, but Boromir pulled away from his reaching hands, tucked the bedding over him, and stood. He watched a moment, but Frodo simply burrowed deeper into the pillow without waking.

Using the tepid water from the night before, Boromir washed. Toweling his face dry, he stood, considering the mess in the room. He could take a few moments to pack before going to see about food and a horse. Then when he returned with food, they could eat and leave.

Moving as quietly as he could, Boromir dressed, then went to the packs. He found a shirt in Frodo’s that was not as stained as the one hanging on the chair, so he pulled it out, piling it with Frodo’s other clothes on the bed. He packed the dirty shirt, and set Frodo’s pack by the door. They would be traveling safely enough this day, so he took his elven cloak and wrapped it around the mail shirt and Frodo’s sword, packing the bundle away in the bottom of his pack for safekeeping.

Then he went to find the commander.

He met the commander outside the citadel. They stood together in the sunlit street as men went back and forth around them on the business of defense.

“You are wise, my lord, to leave Cair Andros,” Irolas said. “What our scouts report and messages from Lord Denethor make it clear that a force will come from the Morannon through Ithilien. We know not when it will attack here, but attack it must, to try to force a passage of the River. We can give you both horses and supplies. Minas Tirith is but a day’s ride.”

“One horse is enough,” Boromir said. “And I thank you for your news and for the food. Would you have me bear any message to the City?”

“Only this,” Irolas paused, looking up at the banner that flew above their heads. “Tell the Steward that the men of Cair Andros will hold this island or die in the attempt.”

Boromir blinked, eyes burning, seeing as if in a dream the dark vision of Irolas dead on these steps, a black arrow buried deep in his chest, his blood running down into the street below.

He could protect them all, he thought suddenly. If he but claimed the Ring. It would give him the strength to defend his people. They need not die. None need die.

“My lord?”

Heart pounding, dizzy, Boromir felt as if he had nearly stepped into a chasm. He forced himself to look into the worried grey eyes of the man next to him.

“My apologies,” he said. “I will bear your words to Lord Denethor. You have my thanks for all you have done.”

Irolas smiled at him, gesturing to the men around them. “You have brought us hope, Lord Boromir, not only because you return to Gondor before Mordor’s next attack but also because you bring with you the Halfling whose appearance has been spoken of in the City since you left. Any small thing we have done for you here is nothing compared to that.”

Sick and suddenly weary of these courtesies on the brink of war, Boromir forced himself to smile before leaving Irolas to his duty. Frodo and he would eat and leave, riding from this place before the dark wave of war broke on it.

Frodo shifted, trying to find some position to relieve his sore muscles. When he next saw Sam, he would have to tell him that the great horses of Gondor were even more uncomfortable for travel than the boats of Lothlorien. The large saddle forced his legs apart. His inability to balance on the huge body that surged under him, the lack of stirrups to brace himself against, left him constantly tensing, fearing a fall. After a hard day’s ride at the hard jolting run, pain was shooting from his hips up his back, and his legs were numb.

Boromir behind him had one arm wrapped around Frodo, holding him against the hard body. Frodo thought he could feel every buckle, every ring of metal, through his clothing. Boromir had woken him this morning, saying little but bringing food and warm water for washing, then had rushed them off the island, which Frodo barely had seen, onto this great brown beast, nothing at all like the friendly ponies he was used to in the Shire.

Sighing, Frodo tried to shut his eyes and relax. He was becoming tired of the feeling that he was being carried everywhere, that he had no choice, no control. He missed Sam and the others who had traveled so long with him. He wanted to feel the grass between his toes, to be able to walk at his own pace.

“Look, Frodo.”

The horse stopped, its sides heaving from the pace that Boromir had forced it to all day.

Frodo opened his eyes and gasped. Ahead of him a mountain loomed, no, it was a city. It was a city built on the lower slopes of a mountain, and he could not believe that any mortal hand made what shone before him. The sun setting behind it flooded the heights with golden light, bled shadows down the side of what looked like intricately carved cliffs that leapt from the grassy plain in front of them to pierce the sky.

“Is it your City?”

“Minas Tirith, yes. You will be safe there, Frodo.”

Twisting, Frodo tried to look into Boromir’s eyes. “But you said we would go to Ithilien.”

Boromir smiled down at him. “We will, Frodo. Soon. But we have to pass Minas Tirith to come to where we can cross the River. You seem to have recovered from the marsh fever, but I will feel more at ease if you can rest a day or two. And we need more supplies, and information about what is happening in the Black Land.”

Reassured, Frodo turned to marvel at the mighty work that lay before him. A spur of the mountain thrust through the center of the city, like the prow of a huge ship, and the city sprawled up the side of the mountain in levels, each one walled.

As Boromir encouraged the weary horse into a trot, Frodo counted seven walls. As they approached the first one, he saw the huge iron gate that pierced the white stone. As they rode toward it, they rode into the shadow of the mountain, and Frodo shivered.

The doors of the smaller gate set within the mighty mass opened to allow them entrance as armed men cried greetings to Boromir.

He did not halt, but he pulled the horse to a walk, nodding at the men who greeted him. “Let me pass,” he said. “I must come to the Lord Denethor.”

None questioned him further although Frodo squirmed as he saw their eyes on him, heard the word “Halfling” passed among the crowd as Boromir and he rode through the gate and up the paved way that turned back and forth as it climbed, passing through more gates and through the tunnels that pierced the great grey spur of rock he had seen from below. Not even the pressure of the eager faces which greeted them could stop Frodo from staring, open-mouthed, at the great stone city that was more vast and splendid than anything he had heard or dreamed of in his life. The memory of the huge mass of the Argonath came to mind as they passed the great houses, many with carved statues of men larger than any who walked the streets before them.

Finally, when Frodo felt almost dizzy from craning his neck to look up the looming stone masses on either side, they stopped at a gate that pierced what must be the final wall. Guards stood at the gate, but they left it to greet Boromir eagerly.

He dropped the reins and the horse stopped.

“One of you, help me! Frodo, here,” Boromir said, slipping his hands under Frodo’s arms and lifting him up and off the horse, then handing him down to the man who stood closest to the horse.

Panicked, Frodo tried to twist away, seeing the armoured hands reaching, but before he could say or do anything, the hard hands had gripped him and set him easily on his feet. A moment later, Boromir stood beside him, giving orders for their packs to be taken to his room, for the horse to be stabled and fed after the hard day’s ride.

Frodo looked around, trying to breathe. Tall men surrounded him, with the taller wall behind him. He could see little of his surroundings, few faces, just the large bodies and legs in armour, with black cloaks. He moved closer to Boromir who smiled down at him, a hand on one shoulder.

“We can ride no further, Frodo, no horses are allowed in the Citadel. Come with me.”

With that Boromir strode through the gate and up the narrow stairs. Frodo had to hurry to stay near him. They crossed a court where Frodo was surprised to see a fountain playing in a space green with grass yet with a dead tree in the midst of all. Its barren branches were twisted and broken, and he wondered to see it here.

Before him a huge hall stood, the white stone of its walls grey in the darkening evening, and here alone the silent men who guarded the entry spoke no word to Boromir as he climbed the steps, Frodo labouring behind him. They opened the door, nodding as Boromir passed into the shadows of the house of stone, staring over Frodo’s head as if he was not there.

Frodo walked as softly as he could down the passage, cold stone striking a chill through his bones. He followed Boromir, hoping to remain unseen in his shadow. The space opened around them, the echoes of Boromir’s boots dying into the emptiness. Torches flickered at intervals along the walls. The white stone of the walls and the floor was echoed in carven statues which reminded Frodo of Weathertop. He shivered, felt the pain deep in his shoulder.

Tall pillars marched beside them, black and gleaming in the light, carven with many strange figures. Frodo swallowed and followed Boromir toward the dais at the far end of the hall. An empty throne brooded under a high canopy of carved stone while at the foot of the steps a stone chair, black and plain, stood.

Upon the chair sat an old man who, seeing Boromir, started from the low chair and hastened down the great hall to greet then. His hair was long, graying, his robe made of many layers of fabric, richly black with touches of silver, swirling around and behind him as he walked. As he came closer, smiling, Frodo saw that his face was strong, his eyes the same green as Boromir’s, the strong bones of his face under the lined skin echoing Boromir’s.

“My Boromir!” The voice was deep and joyous, but some note in it caused Frodo to falter, falling back as the man wrapped his arms around Boromir, the dark cloth masking his bright mail.

“Father!”

The man stood back, hands gripping Boromir’s shoulders, smiling broadly. “You have returned as I knew you would! Your brother feared you would not and spoke ill-omened words before he left for Ithilien. But what is this?”

Boromir slid free of the claw-like hands and turned to gesture Frodo forward. “Frodo, here is my father, the Steward of Gondor, Lord Denethor.”

Hesitant Frodo came forward, unsure of how to greet so lordly a man. Clumsily, he bowed.

A large hand, cold but strong, slid under his chin, tilted his head up.

“Is this the Halfling your dream spoke of, my son?”

“It is. His people live far in the North. His name is Frodo, son of Drogo.”

Denethor smiled, white teeth gleaming. “Good. But then what is Isildur’s bane? What mighty spell or weapon have you brought to defend us?”

The green eyes darkened as he watched Frodo who trembled.

“That should not be spoken of here,” Boromir said. “We have had a long journey, have seen much, and I have much to tell you. May we not eat as we talk?”

The hard hand released Frodo who stepped back, relieved to feel Boromir’s hand settle on his shoulder.

The Steward’s smile lingered on his lips as he nodded, once.

“I will have food brought to your room and will join you there shortly,” he said. “And you will tell me all.”

Boromir set the dish piled high with food in front of Frodo who was sitting on pillows piled high in the wooden chair. He had eaten his first helping so quickly that Boromir feared he would become ill, but Frodo’s colour was good and his voice strong when he asked for more.

The food had come quickly, the servants who carried trays laden with meats, breads, and fruits, entering and covering the table with dishes before leaving silently. Pitchers of wine and water accompanied the meal.

None had stayed to wait on them, but Boromir would have ordered any who had out of the room. What he had to say to his father was best said without any other to hear.

Washed and enjoying the softness of clean cloth against his skin, Boromir had searched in old chests, finding buried deep in one some clothing he had worn as a boy. The tunic and leggings were large on Frodo, but they were clean.

The dark blue tunic made his eyes seem darker, his skin fairer. The light from the candles on the table brought out a gold gleam in his curls as he ate greedily. Sitting back in his own comfortable chair, directly across the table, Boromir drained his goblet, the rich red wine flowing smoothly down his throat. It had been a pleasure long missing to sit at a table, clean and well-clad, enjoying meat and bread, savouring the sweetness of fresh fruit.

A peremptory knock sounded, jolting through Boromir, causing Frodo to look up, the soft flush that had come to his face with the food and wine draining away.

“It will be my father,” Boromir said, smiling reassuringly at Frodo, wishing himself for a longer respite from the questions and demands that he knew were coming. “Do not fear.”

Boromir rose and went to the door, opening it, bowing his head as Denethor swept into the room.

Boromir offered him wine, which was accepted, and a chair, which was refused. Denethor took his goblet, but paced the room as Boromir sat, pouring himself more wine. Frodo focused on his plate of food, saying nothing.

Quickly, Boromir told of the Council of Elrond, of the nature of Isildur’s Bane, of what was agreed upon, and the journey south. He spoke little of Aragorn, beyond saying that a Ranger had accompanied them. Denethor smiled grimly when he learned of Mithrandir’s fall in Moria, and nodded when Boromir told of the attack of the strange orcs and the breaking of the fellowship. The journey down the Anduin, Frodo’s fever and the stop at Cair Andros completed Boromir’s tale, and he ended by giving Irolas’ message to his father.

Stopping near the table, setting his goblet down, Denethor leaned over Frodo, the full black sleeves falling over his hands as he braced them on the table. A gold ring set with a red stone gleamed on one hand before being obscured by darkness.

“So you have brought the One Ring to Gondor,” he said. “I would see it.”

Frodo shrank back in his chair, hand clutching protectively at his chest, shaking his head, mute.

“No,” Boromir said, voice ringing through the room, standing.

Denethor turned to him, frowning.

“No, Father,” Boromir said, his voice softer, standing back from the table. “It is dangerous. You must trust me. Once and once only did Frodo show the Ring to the Council. All felt the temptation of this bane, even Elrond Half-elven. It should stay hidden.”

The Ring burned against his flesh, and Boromir forced himself to show no reaction. What he had said was true. The sight of the Ring, he knew, would tempt his father beyond all reason. It had to remain hidden.

“What of Lord Saruman? He is one who has long studied the lore of the Enemy’s Rings, and I would trust him to give the best counsel. Why was he not at Imladris? I do not trust Mithrandir who has long worked against me, making your brother his pupil, sneaking in and out of Gondor for his own purposes.”

Boromir dropped his eyes, studying the wet rings left by the goblets on the table. This was tricky. “What was reported at the Council was that Saruman wished to claim the Ring for his own. He and Mithrandir fought. I do not think Saruman can be trusted any longer.”

Stepping closer to Boromir, Denethor’s voice dropped, low and dangerous. “He shall not have it. But I do not agree with those who say this mighty gift must be destroyed. It could be the weapon that saves us. It must stay here. I will set it deep in the vaults beneath the Citadel, to use if need be.”

“No!”

Frodo’s voice was high but strong, and he scrambled down from his chair, scattering pillows, to back across the room, as Denethor turned, robes swinging wide, to pace after him. Boromir moved in his turn, grasping his father’s arm, feeling the mail underneath the rich robes.

“You cannot do this, Father.”

Denethor turned, pulling his arm free, striking Boromir’s hand aside. “Cannot? You dare to tell me what I can or cannot do? It is folly to think you can send this thing into Mordor carried by a Halfling. They will find him and take him directly to Barad-dûr, and the Nameless Enemy will have the last thing he needs to cover the world with darkness. All will die.”

Boromir flinched. Much of what his father said made sense. “I do not say you are wrong in what you say, but you cannot take the Ring from its Bearer,” he said, urgent. “Such an act would drive him mad, perhaps kill him.” Boromir gestured at Frodo who was in a corner, unable to flee, but still glaring defiance at Denethor.

He took a deep breath, stepping away from Boromir, straightening his robes. “We must speak further of this, my son. You do not know what news has come to the White Tower. I know the forces that will move against us. Thousands of Southrons and Easterlings have marched to the Enemy’s gates. All the men in Ithilien could do was report, after killing a few, on the masses coming to join the Orcs which were already numberless. To think you could journey into Mordor now is madness and will lead to your death. Even if you had ten thousand men, you could not win past the black walls. I will not let you or this Halfling leave the City. Perhaps, as you say, the Ring cannot be parted from its Bearer. But that Bearer will stay here, safe, in my Citadel.”

“Father,” Boromir began, unsure of what protest he could make. Deep within him, something exulted at what the old man had said, while another part of Boromir knew that evil would come of this choice. But he had no chance to speak.

“I am the Steward. The rule of Gondor is mine until such time the King should return. And I command you to remain here until such time as I deem it safe to leave. Will you force me to set a guard at your door, or will you give me your word?”

Swallowing the fiery protest that he yearned to make, Boromir bowed his head, deeply, spreading his hands, feigning submission. “You have my word, my lord Steward. We will not leave the City without your permission. For you have said much that is wise, and I do not disdain your counsel.”

“Good.”

Boromir breathed out, hearing the smile in his father’s voice, raising his head to see Denethor turn to Frodo, extending his hand.

“Come, little one. I am an old man, burdened with many cares. Do not let an old man’s folly cause you to fear me. You are safe here in this City where we have long stood against the greatest Enemy on Middle-earth. All that I can do to help you, I will.”

Slowly, Frodo moved forward, eyes on Denethor’s face.

“My thanks,” Frodo said, his voice hushed. He bowed.

Denethor stroked his head, said, “Charming. I hope in these dark hours you can find some time to spend with me, Master Halfling, to tell me the story of your people. There is nothing in the lore of Gondor about your land.”

Frodo nodded, silent, eyes down.

Denethor turned to Boromir and hugged him, strong arms tightening a moment around his neck.

“Rest well tonight, my son. Tomorrow, come to me after the third hour has rung and let us take counsel on these grave matters.”

Boromir nodded, wary, and watched his father leave the room, wondering whether he would find a guard at his door in the morning.

A small hand slipped into his, tugging, and Boromir looked down to see Frodo leaning against him, face pale, eyes agonized.

Kneeling, Boromir slipped an arm around the slim shoulders, pulling the shaking body closer to his. Frodo’s voice was muffled in Boromir’s clothing as he spoke.

“What will happen to us? We will fail!”

Boromir stroked Frodo’s back and thought. Denethor’s decision was not unexpected. Indeed, much of what he said, Boromir had spoken at the Council. Perhaps it would be best to stay in the City. For a short time. But Frodo did not need to hear that. Not yet.

“I will speak with my father in the morning. Once he has slept and I have the chance to tell him more fully of the danger, I am sure he will understand what we must do. Until then, we should sleep.”

Frodo raised his head, his eyes heavy, cheeks flushed. He looked around the room. “Where shall I sleep then?”

“In my bed, Frodo. Where else?”

Frodo sat on the floor in the corner of the room, back pressed against the wall, eyes fixed on the door. He huddled, arms wrapped around his legs, shivering. Boromir had been gone for so long.

They had eaten breakfast together, fine white bread and cheese, a hot savoury drink that had warmed Frodo to his very toes. And then Boromir had left, promising to return as soon as he could, after he had spoken with Denethor. Frodo had hoped they would be able to leave before the fall of night.

Denethor. Frodo shivered, remembering the hand on his head, the false smile on the thin lips, the strange flame in the green eyes, so like to Boromir’s. The silver bell that rang to mark the hours had rung time after time. Boromir had not returned.

Frodo had lost track of how many hours had passed.

He had thought to sleep, but tossed and turned on the bed, rising to pace the room. The slow pace of the day passing had weighed him down. Outside the window it seemed as if the sky had turned darker, casting the room into shadow.

Frodo’s hand rubbed against his chest.

The Ring was treacherous. At times, it was as if had slipped away, so light on its chain that he forgot he wore it. At other times, it grew in weight into a great fiery wheel that threatened to pull him down into an abyss.

He had felt all day as if eyes watched him, had gone time and time to the door to open it and peer out, fearing to see the guards Denethor had threatened to send standing in the hall. Or, even worse, coming to take the Ring. Any noise in the hall had brought him up short, breath catching in his throat. Once, the clanking of metal had nearly driven him to hide under the bed but it had turned out to be two of the black-clad servants, as tall and ominous as all others in this city of stone, bringing food for nuncheon. He could barely bring himself to eat after they left, his throat so dry the food had tasted like ashes.

All had come to ruin. Frodo could see Boromir with his father, growing angry at the pride that would not listen, striking out. He would be taken to the vaults in chains, imprisoned there. And then Denethor would come. For the Ring.

Frodo rose, shaking, but suddenly his head felt clearer than it had in some time. He knew what he had to do.

He had to leave. He had to get away. Boromir could no longer help him.

Licking his dry lips, Frodo walked as quietly as he could toward the heavy door, opened it, and looked into the hall. No one. He slipped through the door and walked down the passageway, the stone cool under his feet. When he had followed Boromir to the room the night before, he had seen a door large enough that it could lead outside.

Pushing against the heavy door, Frodo smelled fresh air and greenery. He smiled, hope unfolding within him. Perhaps he would be able to escape from this City. He imagined himself running free across the fields, grass fresh and green under his feet, and slipped out the door.

An uncounted time later, Frodo stopped, sinking down to sit on the hard stone. He was dizzy, his head aching, his eyes blurred. He could no longer tell how long he had been wandering in the dark. The ways of the city confused him, streets winding around the mountain, short passages between the huge houses and courts leading off and connecting with each other, unexpected stairs. No way to tell his direction other than to try to move downhill. He felt trapped.

The more he had walked, the more ill he felt. He felt chilled but could feel sweat, greasy and strong-smelling on his skin. He had stopped and vomited once, had tried to rinse his mouth and drink from one of the many fountains, only to have a huge dog, black and looming, lunge at him, snarling, white fangs dripping.

He’d run, then, afraid of such dogs ever since Farmer Maggot had set three on him, and had seen an arched tunnel, one he thought he remembered from the ride with Boromir. But when he ran into it, he’d found a group of what he first thought, in a moment of joy, were hobbits. But they weren’t. Most were about his size, some taller, some shorter, and they had tripped him, then jeered at him as he lay on the street, blinking at them.

One had accused him of stealing the tunic he wore from the Citadel, and had dragged him to his feet, pulled it off him. They’d threatened to take him to the Guards, and he’d pulled away, his shirt tearing, to run in a blaze of panic until he could run no further. He had to rest. Perhaps when he caught his breath, he could find his way out of the maze.

“Master Halfling! What are you doing here?”

Frodo raised his head, blinking. A tall man loomed over him, dark hair loose on his shoulders, eyes grey. He was wearing black and white, and Frodo thought he looked somehow familiar. He smiled, but Frodo was wary.

“What?”

The man set a hand on his shoulder. “I am Beregond, son of Baranor, Master. You do not know me, but I am a Guard at the Citadel. I saw you arrive last night, with Lord Boromir. The City is rejoicing that you have come.”

Frodo shrank back. Had Denethor sent guards after him already?

“You should not be wandering alone, without a guide. Come back with me.”

Frodo shook his head. No. He had to leave. He tried to say so, but the words would not come clearly. He felt a hand on his forehead, sagged back.

“Are you ill?”

Frodo tried to stand, to run away, but his legs gave way.

Strong arms caught him and bore him up. He was so weary, could fight no longer. He opened his eyes, seeing the darkening sky above. A sign on the wall above his head swung, creaking, in the breeze that crept through the street. Shaped like a shield, the sign was blue, with a white tree painted on it, and gold lettering. “The Five Armies.”

“Come, let me take you to the Houses of Healing. Does the Lord Boromir know where you are?”

Boromir. Frodo closed his eyes, despairing, as the strong man carried him back up the paved way. Back to Boromir.

• * *

“My lord!”

Too weary to deal with what would come, Frodo kept his eyes closed when he heard the glad shout that followed the man’s greeting.

“Beregond! By the Tree, I am happy to see you and what you carry! Frodo, where have you been? Frodo!”

“I think he’s ill, my lord.”

“Where did you find him? When I found him gone, I feared for him.”

“Down in the Second Circle. Outside ‘The Five Armies,’ do you know it?”

“I do. Faramir took me there some years ago.”

“He was sitting on the ground outside, looking pale. He could not talk. I was taking him to the Houses of Healing.”

A warm hand was laid on Frodo’s forehead. He did not move, refusing to open his eyes.

“Let me take him, Beregond.”

“He’s light, and we’re nearly at the Houses. I can easily carry him the rest of the way.”

“Give him to me. Now.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Hearing the dark note that threaded through Boromir’s voice, Frodo stayed limp, barely breathing, as he felt Boromir’s strong arms take him from Beregond.

“Go to the Houses, and tell them to send a Healer to my room. Tell them everything you saw or know, and ask them to come as quickly as possible.”

Frodo heard nothing but the noises in the street as Boromir bore him rapidly away. Despairing, he felt tears creep down his face.

“I know you’re awake, Frodo.”

Frodo opened his eyes as he was set down on the bed and rubbed his face. He sat up. At least he did not feel as dizzy and confused as he had earlier.

The trip through the streets and into the Citadel had seemed both long and short. Now he had to confront Boromir.

Sitting down on the bed, Boromir slid an arm around Frodo’s shoulders.

“Where were you going Frodo?”

“I. Don’t. Know.” Frodo rubbed his head.

“Were you leaving me?”

Frodo stared into the green eyes. So concerned. Loving. Had he been leaving Boromir? He could not remember.

“I don’t think so.”

“Then why?”

Frodo tried to think. Had he been going to Mordor to destroy the Ring? Or leaving the city to find Aragorn? Or to rescue Merry and Pippin and Sam? No, they had already been rescued. He remembered. And as he dully tried to think, an idea came to him. Perhaps he had been trying to return to his home. To the Shire. The green quiet land he ached to see again.

“I wanted to go home.”

“Home, Frodo? Beregond is right. You must be ill again, your fever has returned. Why did you go out without your cloak?”

“It’s warm today,” Frodo said uncertainly. Had it been warm? He remembered cold stones weighing him down. Clouds and a darkening sky. But he had felt hot, stumbling over the cold stones, as if his body were burning.

Now, listening to Boromir’s reply, he felt cold again, shivering within the warm embrace.

“Today yes. To stroll in the courtyard, perhaps, a shirt is enough, but Beregond found you in the Second Circle. And when night comes, the air is chill here close to the White Mountains. Snow lingers on them year round. But even if the air was warm, it would be dangerous for you to leave the City. War is coming. Orcs have been seen from the walls. Remember what happened to our friends, Frodo. And it would be even worse if you were taken. They would take the Ring and you would wish for death. But death would be denied you during the slow torment of years in the dark Tower. Never have I seen Orcs take captives as they took Merry and Pippin and Sam. They must have been under orders from the Nameless Enemy to bring Halflings to him. Alive. But long leagues lie between the River and Barad-dûr, and you would be alone in the wilderness with them for days. And nights. Even with orders to keep you alive, there is much they could do to amuse themselves.”

Boromir bent over him, pushing him back to lie on the bed, one large hand warm sliding down over his chest, pushing aside the ripped shirt, calluses from long sword play rasping over the skin of Frodo’s belly.

Frodo stared, trapped, hardly daring to breathe, seeing the green eyes darken above him as Boromir’s leg slid between his, pressing against him.

“They would strip you and bind you,” Boromir said softly. “Your body would be searched. You have no idea, coming from your little land, what that means. And that would be only the beginning.”

Boromir held Frodo down, lying across him, one arm sliding hard under his shoulders, his other hand sliding up to wrap around Frodo’s throat, tightening. He felt the hot breath against his cheek, their faces so close Boromir’s lips brushed Frodo’s as he spoke.

“The Ring would be taken. You would be bound. And if they desired sport, your body would provide it to them. Orcs delight in torment, Frodo.”

The Ring pulsed between them, caught between their bodies. Skin to skin they lay, heat kindling at the center of their bodies.

Eyes closing, head falling back, Frodo felt as if the Ring was growing, consuming, sucking at his very soul.

“I have seen the ruin Orcs leave behind,” Boromir said, voice growling deep in his chest vibrating through Frodo. “The bodies twisted in torment, raped, impaled, even eaten while living. Yet in time you would look back at the rape of your body for refuge. The Dark Lord can rape the mind and spirit. You would beg for death but your death would not satisfy him. Tales handed down from earlier ages tell of how Morgoth kept his enemies alive through endless torment, Frodo. You would be his slave, his cur, crawling at his feet, begging for release, seeing the Ring on his hand every moment.”

Frodo lay limp, feeling the cold tracks of tears along his face, fearing to move lest he rouse Boromir from whatever dream he walked in.

Shuddered, he felt his heart pounding as the warm hand stroked down his throat, fingers circling, pinching his nipples, moving lower. Fumbling at the laces of the leggings, pushing down to wrap around Frodo’s member. And most horribly, as golden fire blazed through him, Frodo felt himself harden, moaning, thrusting against the warm hand which tightened around him, stroking, then crying out as he convulsed in pleasure and in pain.

Shuddering, feeling sweat rolling down his back and the hard ache between his legs, Boromir lay curled around Frodo who was limp, eyes half closed. Boromir knew, as he had earlier, that Frodo was neither asleep nor unconscious. Rising to lean over Frodo, bracing himself on one hand, Boromir looked down, admiring.

Frodo’s head was tilted back over Boromir’s arm, his arms and legs sprawling, his skin whiter than the rags of the shirt that Boromir had pulled off him earlier. The leggings were unlaced, sagging down around Frodo’s hips. The way his body lay, loose and open invited Boromir to pull the leggings the rest of the way off, to turn him, then push inside. Belly and thigh muscles clenching at the thought of the heat and tightness, Boromir slid his hand under Frodo’s rear, pulling his other arm back under his shoulders, to push him over to lie face down.

No movement. Remembering Frodo leaning over him two nights ago, Boromir knew Frodo wanted this, was simply afraid to say so. His submission spoke exquisitely of his desire. Slowly, Boromir tugged the leggings down over Frodo’s hips and legs, pulling harder to yank the cloth over his feet.

Feeling the beat of his heart pounding in his chest, echoing in his ears, a counterpoint to the pulse of the Ring against his skin, Boromir ran his hands up Frodo’s legs, pushing them apart, could not resist squeezing the soft mounds of flesh, hard enough to force a moan. The sound, soft and aching, seemed to drive through Boromir’s flesh, and he fumbled with the lacings at his waist, his hands trembling, clumsy, needing to bury himself in that small body.

Three loud raps echoed through the room.

Boromir flung himself back, breath forced from his lungs, as terrified as if the door had slammed open to reveal an armed enemy.

What was he doing? He rolled off the bed, away from Frodo, forced himself to call out, voice hoarse, “A moment.”

Panting, Boromir found his tunic on the bed, yanked it over his head, pulling it down. Jumbling the ripped shirt and leggings together, Boromir shoved them under one of the pillows, then scooped Frodo up in one arm, pulled the bedding back, and lay Frodo down. He covered the still body with the bedding, then went to open the door.

“My thanks,” Boromir said as he closed the door behind the Healer.

Sighing, Boromir stood a moment, leaning against the door, then went to the table. Yes, there was wine. He filled one of the globlets and drained it quickly, then filled it again. He sat, slumped, in the chair that faced the bed, his body aching, the pain growing, centering in his chest and head.

Frodo had no fever, the Healer was sure of that. In fact, she could find no sign of illness, and even Boromir had to admit that Frodo showed none of the signs that Beregond had described in the street, none of the signs Boromir himself had seen as he carried Frodo back to the Citadel. She had recommended a light diet, mostly liquids, and rest, and left, shaking her head.

When Frodo had spoken to her, he seemed confused about why he had gone out into the City, but not as incoherent as when he had spoken to Boromir. He shook his head, pushing his hair back, gulping the wine as if it were water. Frodo had seemed well this morning when Boromir had left him, to meet with his father, and he was well again, now that Boromir was with him.

But Boromir had been ordered to meet with his father this morning, and again for daymeal. Their first meeting should not have turned out as it did, or lasted as long as it had. Boromir was used to his father trusting him, following his advice at least when it came to questions of tactics or strategy. But today had been different. Denethor had demanded not only that Frodo stay in Minas Tirith forever, he had wanted to imprison the Bearer of the Ring, although he had not used that word, until peace was restored. He had spoken of safety, quiet, peace in solitude. There were rooms in the Tower he thought of using for his purpose.

Running one finger over the shape of the Tree engraved on the goblet, Boromir wondered how much his refusal had angered his father. If Denethor learned, as he well might, that Frodo had left the Citadel alone, had tried to leave the City that very day, he would be locked away.

And then Boromir would have to fight his father for rule of the City. Deep inside him, something stirred, gloating.

He was young and strong. He was the leader whose arm had kept Gondor safe against all attack during the past years. The old man had sat back in the Hall, crouched like a spider in that black chair. Had he been truly strong, he would not have been content to rule as Steward all these years. A strong man would take the throne, would ride forth under the banner with the seven stars, go forth as King to defend Gondor. A last heir of a ragged line long bereft of lordship was no fit king for Boromir’s people. Only Boromir could save the world of men. Boromir was stronger than he had ever been. If the old man challenged Boromir, he would prove that. On his body. But for now, he was content to stay in the City. With Frodo. And the Ring. For now.

“Boromir.”

As soft as Frodo’s voice was, the sound brought Boromir to his feet, blinking. He must have been half asleep, his mind wandering. Setting the goblet down, he crossed the room to the bed. Kneeling beside the bed, not trusting himself to sit too close, not yet, Boromir said, “Yes, Frodo?”

“Will we be leaving for Ithilien soon?”

Biting his lip, Boromir hesitated, tempted to lie, to say yes, soon, tomorrow, to give Frodo that ease. But something in the blue eyes stopped him, a look he saw as weariness, perhaps sorrow.

“No, Frodo. My..the Lord Denethor thinks it best we stay here, behind the walls, because of the forces moving against us.”

“He thinks it best to stay here where the armies of Mordor will come?”

Boromir began to see what Mithrandir meant when he said halflings could always surprise him.

“No, not that it is best to be here, but that since we are here, to try to force our way to Mordor where all of the Nameless Enemy’s forces are massing would be folly. Had we left Imladris sooner, had we not lingered in Lothlorien, then, yes, we might have had a chance to destroy the Ring although my father does not believe we could have done it. But chance kept us tarrying along the road so long that we cannot do what we first planned. The world does not always move as we wish it, and now we must devise a new plan, take new counsel.”

Frodo sighed deeply, the small chest rising and falling under the bedding, his eyes half closed. “What then will we do?”

“Wait. If we can defeat the armies, then there will be a chance to move into Mordor and destroy the Ring.” Boromir felt sudden pain strike through him, sharp blades cutting into his flesh. He rubbed his neck, wincing.

He would help Frodo destroy the Ring. That was his plan. That was all he had ever hoped for.

Seeming to hear mocking laugher, Boromir shook his head. He was tired. The day had been long, and too much talk was wearying.

His father ordered him to come to the Great Hall for daymeal, dismissing Boromir’s desire to eat in his rooms with Frodo. For Boromir was needed in the Hall, with or without the Halfling, to show the nobles and commanders that he had returned, to show them that the City would be safe now that the One Ring was here. Even before returning to his rooms and finding Frodo gone, Boromir had not thought he would wish to join them in the Great Hall. Sunset was upon them, although it was hard to tell the hours with the dark fumes that had come from Mordor during the day, and Boromir was sure his father was already angry, wondering where his son was.

“Frodo.” Boromir waited until Frodo opened his eyes, looked at him, then laid a hand against his cheek.

“I must leave you for daymeal.”

“No, please,” Frodo pleaded.

“I have no choice, Frodo. But I fear to leave you alone again.”

“Please.” Frodo gripped Boromir’s hand in his. “Stay with me.”

Boromir knew, somehow, as surely as if he could see it, that Frodo would leave the room again when Boromir left. He trembled to think what might happen to a Halfling adrift in the city that was on the brink of war.

Tugging his hand free of Frodo’s grip, Boromir rose and went search his chests again. He thought that he had seen what he needed when he was looking for something Frodo could wear. Pulling the two lengths of embroidered silk out, he considered them, tugging one between his hands. It was strong enough, but the material slipped so easily through his grip that he would have to take care for what knot he used. He knew Frodo had a coil of elven rope in his pack, but Boromir did not wish to use that rope. Not for this.

He returned to the bed where Frodo was sitting, watching him. Boromir sat by his side, hugged him, pulling him close, head resting against Boromir’s chest.

“I must go to the Hall,” he said. “You will try to leave again, won’t you?”

A pause, then, “Yes.”

Boromir could feel him trembling and smoothed a hand across Frodo’s upper back, for comfort only, fighting the urge to stroke lower over the smooth skin, slide one finger into the cleft, press inside the willing body.

“Will you let me keep you safe, keep you from leaving me?”

“Please,” Frodo whispered.

“Do you trust me, Frodo?”

Nothing. But Boromir could wait no longer. Rising, he pulled the bedding back, tossed the pillows aside. Then, he slid his arms under Frodo’s legs, turning him, pressing his shoulders down, until he was lying on his back, across the head of the bed.

“Put your arms above your head, Frodo.”

Eyes closed, Frodo obeyed.

Boromir looped the sash around and between Frodo’s wrists, tying the end in a slip knot around the sash that let him tighten the loop around Frodo’s wrists. Then he wound the rest of the sash several times around the bedpost, tying another slip knot, tugging it tight. Then he lashed Frodo’s ankles together in the same manner, attaching the other sash to the other bedpost. Testing the knots, he thought they would not last too long, but it was only for daymeal.

The dark blue of the silk was startling against Frodo’s skin. His body was stretched taut, across the head of the bed. Boromir laid his hand on Frodo’s chest, feeling the tremors in his body.

“Are you cold, Frodo?”

A pause, then half in a whisper came the answer. “Yes.”

Boromir pulled the bedding loose, drawing it over Frodo, so that it draped upon the floor, tucking it close around him. Regretting covering such beauty, Boromir hesitated, fingers tracing the exquisite curve of Frodo’s lips. Perhaps there was time before the daymeal—

A knock at the door, followed by a voice, interrupted him.

“My lord Boromir, the Lord Denethor commands you attend him in the Hall.”

The old man was a nuisance, but a necessary one for now.

“I will bring you drink and food when I return,” Boromir said and rose from the bed. Frodo would be safe until he returned.

Frodo forced himself to lie still. He had tugged and twisted, hoping to pull free of his bonds. But Boromir knew how to tie a knot too well. Frodo’s efforts had tightened the silk around his wrists and ankles, leaving him breathless, arms and legs aching, sweating under the layers of bedding. He panted, then closed his eyes, forced himself to relax, breathe slowly.

He had to think. For the moment, his head was clear although he knew, deep in his blood and bone, that the longer Boromir was gone, the more fear would cripple him. He could feel the pain waiting for him, a silent predator. It was only for the daymeal this time. Surely that would not be long.

He tried to think. So often since Parth Galen he had seemed to feel ill or dizzy. Being close to Boromir, touching him, kept the agony of confusion away but carried its own danger. Remembering the hard hands pressing down on him, the pain of the fierce grip, Frodo shivered.

He could not think of that. Parth Galen. He remembered, as if in a dream, drawing Sting, his mind clearing, being able to move, to think, to speak freely. Sting. When had he last carried Sting and worn Bilbo’s shirt of mithril rings? He had been armed when he left Parth Galen with Boromir. When had his weapon disappeared?

He could not remember.

Frodo shifted position, hoping to ease the ache in his arms and thighs. Boromir would return. And Frodo would ask him a question. The gnawing in his belly reminded Frodo of another reason to hope Boromir would return soon. He had promised to bring food!

Setting himself the task of remembering the best meals he had ever eaten in order to select the five best, Frodo waited.

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