Faramir Fiction Archive

So Small a Thing

Written by Ithiliana

04 April 2004 | 66841 words

Part 2

Wet hair lank against his neck, head pounding an odd beat that did not match the rhythm of the steps of the Guard in front of him, Boromir walked as carefully as he could. He was thirsty yet felt as if drinking anything would make him vomit. Not hungry. Even the thought of food made him swallow convulsively. He had been a fool to drink so much last night, but he had not dared go back to their room until he was incapable of anything but sleep.

He had not thought his father would summon them so early. That was all the Guard was, Boromir told himself. A messenger, nothing more. If it had been Beregond, it might have been possible to discover the reason Denethor had summoned them. Frodo’s light footballs sounded behind Boromir, and he could feel the drafts of cool air in the stone halls of the Citadel brushing against his skin.

Boromir set his will and followed the Guard into the hall. He had fought battles half sick with the bloody flux, even half sick from too much wine, he told himself. He could do this.

Searing light filled the Hall. The light pained him, he brought up a hand to shade his eyes, fell back a pace.

The Ring pulsed against his skin, golden warmth filling him, washing aches and pains away, a deep tingling in blood and bone healing him. He could feel muscles relaxing, leaving him loose and ready to move, alert and well enough to guard against the danger that waited at the end of the Hall.

He blinked, opened his eyes, and cursed to see the face of the figure clad in shining white robes who swung to face them, intricately carved staff held casually at an angle. Boromir reached out to grasp Frodo’s shoulder, pull him close.

He had fallen in Moria! How could this be!

“Frodo!”

Pippin dashed forward, grabbing Frodo in an exuberent hug, pulling him loose from Boromir’s grasp, then tugging him forward to hug Gandalf in turn.

Following slowly, Boromir was shocked to see Faramir as well.

Denethor sat in the Steward’s low chair, at ease, leaning on one elbow, his chin resting on one hand, half-smiling. The white rod of the Steward’s office lay across his lap, his other hand curved around it. Boromir watched the smile on his father’s face as he watched the Halflings and Mithrandir hug.

Faramir was watching Boromir as if he was a stranger. Dressed as a Ranger, Faramir was standing beside the black chair, bow slung across his back, one hand on swordhilt, boots and leathers splashed with mud. The leather breastplate with the inlaid silver Tree was scuffed and worn, his cloak pushed casually back. He must have just arrived in the City from Ithilien.

The blue eyes were steady, watching Boromir as he approached, the familiar face unsmiling.

Boromir nodded at Mithrandir shortly, refusing to ask how he had survived. There was no need since Frodo was demanding to hear the story.

“We have no time for all that has happened since we parted,” the wizard said, smiling down at Frodo. “I bring counsel and tidings for the Lord Denethor in this dark hour. The Rohirrim led by Théoden King have fought a great battle, and Isengard is overthrown, Saruman defeated. There is little time to spare. Why are you here?”

As he spoke, Mithrandir rested his hand on Frodo’s shoulder, and Frodo leaned against him, trusting.

Boromir clenched his hands. Frodo should be at his side, not with the wizard. But as he spoke the question, Mithrandir looked at Boromir, eyes keen as lances. Boromir had to struggle to keep his own eyes level.

“Aragorn and I met in the wood of Fangorn,” Mithrandir said softly. “He told me what happened at Parth Galen, and of your plan to escort Frodo through the Emyn Muil and the Dead Marshes to the Black Gate. Did Orcs bar your way? What brought the two of you here to Minas Tirith?”

Boromir stared at the wizard, defiant, but as he opened his mouth to speak, Denethor rose in his chair.

“Do not question my son’s decision,” he said. “For any to attempt the Black Gate would have been rank folly, and had they done so, the Ring would now be on the Enemy’s hand. The eyes of the White Tower are not blind. Easterlings and Southrons arrive at the Black Gate daily, swelling the ranks of Mordor. They could not have passed that way.”

Denethor moved forward, the rich black robes whispering along the floor. Mithrandir turned, frowning, and Frodo fell back. Boromir stepped forward, pulling Frodo close to him, away from Pippin and the wizard, arm around the slim shoulders.

For a change, Pippin was silent, watching.

“The Ring cannot stay here.”

“If you do not trust me to stand this test, you do not know me,” Denethor said. “Despite the gloom that comes from Mordor, the men of Gondor are strong, fearing no evil, because the weapon of the Enemy has come to Gondor, as foretold.”

“I do not trust you. Had I done so, I would have sent this thing to your keeping at the start and spared myself and others much anguish.” Mithrandir’s voice was calm. Light seemed to well from the staff he held. “I do not trust even myself in this matter. This thing can overthrow any mind, can burn your will away as darkness grows. If you keep it here, worse things will come upon us than any force from Mordor.”

Denethor frowned, the staff in his hand striking the stones, as he stalked closer. Pippin slipped away from the wizard, moving to hide behind Boromir.

“It I keep it, if you had known! Such words are spoken in vain, Mithrandir. You waste your breath. The Ring is here. The Bearer is here. You are here. And none of you will leave while I am Steward. I command here.”

Denethor turned to Faramir. “What think you of the garrison at Osgiliath?”

“It is not strong. I have sent the company from Ithilien to strengthen it.”

“Not enough. The hardest blow will fall there, or Cair Andros, where the River can be crossed with ease. They need a strong captain there.” Denethor swung back, eyes on Boromir.

“You must go to Osgiliath, my son.”

Boromir heard Frodo’s gasp, felt the small hands tighten on his arm.

“No,” he said. “I am sworn to aid Frodo. I will not leave him.”

Denethor flushed, red mottling his skin. As he opened his mouth to speak, Faramir stepped forward.

“Send me in his stead.”

“You! You could not even lead your men to the City without this wizard’s help! And You would go to Osgiliath? What could you do there?”

Boromir blinked, seeing the shadow pass across his father’s face, hearing the snarling voice. He did not recognize the man in front of him.

Faramir stood, head lowered, saying nothing.

Mithrandir stepped forward. “This is fear and despair speaking, my Lord Steward. You must—”

“Must? You dare to tell me what I must do, you who long ago stole my son’s heart? I see how he looks to you as we speak, seeking your counsel. He longs to be as a king of old though in these desperate times such gentleness will be repaid with death, death for all. And now you have taken my other son as well. He would never have refused my command before.”

Denethor moved forward, sweeping by the wizard, reaching for Frodo.

Boromir tried to step back, pulling Frodo with him, but ran into Pippin who cried out and Boromir’s waist. Stumbling, twisting to keep his balance, Boromir released Frodo.

Before Boromir could regain his footing, Frodo tried to run. He was caught by Denethor who tossed aside the white rod and drew a knife from under his robes. One arm around Frodo, Denethor backed away, pulling the struggling Halfling along.

Boromir heard Frodo choke, saw his hands scrabbling at Denethor’s mailed arm. Pulled by the tall figure, Frodo stumbled, unable to stand. Rage bleeding into him, Boromir pushed Pippin aside, ignoring the cry as he fell to the floor, lunged for Frodo.

The knife flashed at Frodo’s throat.

Boromir halted, stunned, barred by Mithrandir’s staff.

“Come no closer,” Denethor said softly. “I trust none of you in this matter. For I have seen what none of you have seen, the numbers that swell the Enemy’s ranks, the black ships that sail up the River to take us unawares. For all your wisdom, Mithrandir, you do not know what I know. Your counsel is a web spun by wizards. Men do not need to follow your counsel.”

“What have you seen, and how?” Mithrandir’s voice was cold.

Boromir tried to push the slender staff aside, but it was like pushing the great gate of the City.

“Release him!”

“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.”

“No!”

Even as Boromir spoke, Denethor’s hand slid under Frodo’s clothing, groping. Frodo twisted, trying to break free. The knife flashed again, cutting Frodo’s jacket and vest away, then his shirt. Despairing, Boromir saw red stain the white linen.

Choking, Frodo tore at the arm that wrapped around him, felt his hands slip off the mail under the rich black cloth. He could not breathe. Denethor backed away from Boromir and Gandalf, Frodo scrambling desperately to stay on his feet as he was hauled along by the tall man.

Boromir pushed Pippin away, reached for Frodo, hands out.

Frodo was pulled closer to Denethor’s legs, the black robes wrapping around him. He gasped a breath with gratitude as the arm around him loosened, but froze when he saw the knife just before it stroked along his throat, cold and steady.

Gandalf thrust his staff in front of Boromir, who stopped. His face was twisted, his rage clear.

Frodo could feel the tension behind him as Denethor spoke.

“Come no closer. I trust none of you in this matter. For I have seen what none of you have seen, the numbers that swell the Enemy’s ranks, the black ships that sail up the River to take us unawares. For all your wisdom, Mithrandir, you do not know what I know. Your counsel is a web spun by wizards. Men do not need to follow your counsel.”

“What have you seen, and how?” Gandalf’s voice was steady, his face calm.

Boromir tried to push past the staff. “Release him!”

“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.”

Frodo flinched as the cold hand slid under his clothing, sliding like a spider over his flesh. He felt the blade shift away from his throat, tried to pull free, heard Boromir’s cry.

“No!”

The knife ripped through his jacket and vest, slid under his shirt. Frodo felt warmth on his chest, then felt his shoulder gripped, his cut clothing pulled away, leaving him naked but for his trousers.

“Where is it?” Denethor’s voice deepened to a snarl as he dropped the knife, seizing Frodo, shaking him. “Where is the Ring?”

Frodo stood, stunned, as silence filled the Hall. All were watching him. He raised his hand to his chest, then pulled it away, looked dully at the red staining his palm, dripping down his belly. The Ring. It was gone. Memories ran like water through his mind.

Boromir reached for him, eyes avid. “If you would but lend me the Ring, Frodo!”

Boromir knelt over him, hands heavy, stripping the Ring from him.

Boromir held him, comforted him. “I will help you bear this burden. For a short time.”

Boromir slept next to him. Light flickered from the gold Ring that hung on a chain around Boromir’s neck, against the smooth skin of his chest.

Boromir sat beside him. “Were you leaving me?”

Boromir faced Denethor, defiant. “I am sworn to aid Frodo. I will not leave him.”

Gandalf stepped forward. “Where is the Ring, Frodo?”

Frodo raised his head, looked at Boromir who stood beyond Gandalf, beside Pippin who sat on the floor near him, looking up at him.

Shifting his stance, legs braced, Boromir stood straight and proud. “I bear it,” he said. “I have borne it since Parth Galen.”

Gandalf turned to face him, white robes swirling.

“You fool,” Denethor shouted, and swung around, his heavy hand striking Frodo’s head, knocking him over and down, the momentum of the blow sending him sliding toward the stone seat.

Helpless to halt his fall, Frodo rolled, closing his eyes, into strong arms, not hard stone, felt himself lifted, opening his eyes to see blue eyes and redgold hair close to his face. Warmth flooded through Frodo, and he smelled leather and salt and under it the scent of earth and growing things.

The strange man who’d been standing by Denethor when they’d entered the Hall had caught him before he’d struck the chair.

The man spoke, his voice low, soothing, resonating through Frodo’s body.

“How badly are you wounded?”

Frodo blinked. He was wounded? Before he could answer, Denethor’s voice filled the Hall.

“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 menace in Boromir’s voice pulled Frodo’s eyes back to him.

He stood, shoulders hunched, the light of the candles behind him shining in the dark Hall, the only light in the darkness that had consumed the day. Boromir seemed to grow taller, looming over the crouching shape that grovelled before him, twisted and black.

“The weak do not deserve to rule. Only one who is strong can wield the One Ring.”

Boromir’s left hand rose to his neck, pulling the red tunic he wore open, his white skin shining in the shadows of the Hall. The Ring hung against his chest. In one smooth movement, he pulled on the chain, breaking it, to hold the Ring up before his face, red gold flames filling the air, surrounding him. His beauty was flawless save for the rawness around his neck, where the skin was abraded.

“Do you wish to see what this weapon I have brought to Gondor can do?” The voice that came from the shining figure was mocking, filling the Hall with echoes of a snarling laughter, holding no note that Frodo could recognize.

Shadows unfurled around and beneath the red-gold flames, rising against the wall like the huge wings of some fell beast. A cold wind whispered through the Hall, bearing a scent like rotting flesh.

Holding the Ring before him, Boromir gazed at it, smiling.

“Boromir!” It was Pippin, rising from the floor, reaching to touch Boromir’s arm.

He stepped back.

Frodo struggled against the arms holding him. “Let me go,” he pleaded.

“Frodo, no!”

Amidst flickering shadows and burning flames, a cool white light rose like water as Gandalf raised his staff.

“Boromir! Listen to me!”

“Another old man speaks!” The voice sneered. “What would you say, wizard?”

“Why did you take the Ring from Frodo?”

“Please!” Frodo touched the face so close to his.

The man knelt, releasing him.

Frodo staggered as he walked, the air burning in his lungs, fighting to reach Boromir. “Boromir!” His voice seemed to fall, lifeless, as if into an abyss, but Boromir looked away from the Ring, looked at Frodo.

His hand fell to his side. He frowned, shaking his head as if awakening from a dream.

“To. . . help Frodo,” he said. “I took it to help—” He licked his lips.

Frodo stumbled, but Pippin caught him, held him, steadying Frodo as he reached to grasp Boromir’s hand, holding it, and the Ring, between his own two palms. Fire lashed through him, boiling through blood and bone, and Frodo would have fallen save for Pippin’s arms around him.

Boromir fell to his knees, crying out, as Denethor rose in turn, black robes billowing in the cold wind, reaching for the Ring.

White light rose like a wave, towering over Frodo’s head, and crashed down upon him, driving him to his knees. Only his grip on Boromir’s hand kept him from being swept away.

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