Faramir Fiction Archive

So Small a Thing

Written by Ithiliana

04 April 2004 | 66841 words

Frodo opened his eyes, stretching, and tried to sit. He could not move. Boromir slept next to him, breathing deep and regular, arm draped over Frodo. Wriggling around, he realized he was wearing only his trousers under the blanket and that white bandages were wrapped around his chest.

They were not in Boromir’s room. Frodo looked around the small space with bare walls that held only the bed they lay in, a table where candles shone, and a wooden chair. Leaning against the wall next to the bed was a white staff. Frodo frowned. One wall held a bare fireplace, the other a wooden door which was closed. There was no window, no way to tell where they were or what day it was. What had happened?

As Frodo pushed at Boromir’s arm, the door opened.

“Good, you’re awake,” Gandalf said as he entered. He set the tray he was carrying down on the table and came to stand near the bed, smiling at Frodo.

“Gandalf!” Shocked, Frodo lay back, staring. He remembered entering the hall, seeing the shining figure, before Denethor attacked. “I thought you were dead,” he said, trying to reconcile what he saw before him with his memory of Gandalf in Moria, dragged from the stone bridge by the Balrog’s whip of flame. “How can you be here?”

“Much happened in and since Moria, Frodo. I fought the Balrog. When we fell, it was not the end—for now, I will say only that I was sent back. What I must know is why you are here in Minas Tirith. When I met Aragorn and the others, he told me that you and Boromir had planned to journey from the River through the Emyn Muil. You should never have come to Gondor with the Ring. In doing so, you have brought a deadly peril here.”

Frodo stared, his mouth falling open. “Aragorn said that? But he told me to go with Boromir down the River, to Ithilien. We meant to go to Mordor by that road. But Denethor—”

Gandalf looked at Frodo, eyes keen. “Aragorn told you to go to Ithlien? When?”

“At Parth Galen. After, after the Orcs attacked. Before he and the others left to help the Rohirrim. After he rescued Sam, and Merry, and Pippin from the Orcs.”

Frodo watched as Gandalf shook his head, turned to pull the chair closer to the bed and sat.

When he spoke, Gandalf’s voice was gentle. “I met Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli in Fangorn Forest, Frodo. They came too late and could not rescue the hobbits from their captors who had been killed by the horsemen of Rohan. But Merry and Sam and Pippin escaped before that battle, into the Forest, where they met Treebeard and the Ents.”

“But, but, I saw them—” Frodo’s voice faltered as Gandalf shook his head, laying a hand on Frodo’s.

“No, Frodo. I do not know what you saw, but hear me. What the hobbits told Treebeard led to the destruction of Isengard and the downfall of Saruman. Aragorn and the others came to the aid of Rohan, and even now are traveling to Gondor. Pippin and I came ahead after he put himself in danger through his own folly. Aragorn told me how you insisted he go after Sam and Merry and Pippin, how you would not leave Boromir. Do you remember that?”

“I, yes, but—” Frodo remembered the vision of his friends’ death and pleading with Aragorn. But he remembered as well how they had come back to him, what Aragorn had said.

“What then did I see?” He clasped Gandalf’s hand, comforted by the warmth and strength.

“I do not know. Aragorn thought there was some evil at work when you seemed to fear his touch and clung to Boromir, but not even Aragorn thought you had lost the Ring.”

Boromir had taken the Ring.

Frodo raised his hand to his chest, surprised to feel the cloth there.

“Yes, you were wounded when Denethor tried to take the Ring. But Boromir had it. And had carried it since Parth Galen, he said.”

Frodo remembered Boromir in the hall, facing Denethor. Closing his eyes, Frodo remembered the weight and the pain of the Ring as they journeyed down the River. And then seeing the Ring around Boromir’s neck in Cair Andros. And, finally, seeing the Ring blazing as Boromir held it high, surrounded by flames and darkness.

Shivering, Frodo opened his eyes. “What happened? Where is the Ring?”

Gandalf looked at him a moment in silence, then rose, white robes whispering along the floor as he walked across the room. He picked up an envelope that was sitting on the mantelpiece and turned back to face Frodo, holding it out. Frodo could see the red wax seal.

“It is here, Frodo. Come to me, and you may take it back.”

Confused, Frodo pushed again at Boromir’s arm, wriggling away from his side, intending to rise from the bed and walk to Gandalf’s side.

Boromir’s arm tightened around Frodo, pulling him back, into the curve of the warm body. Frodo could feel the breath on his neck, felt a half-voiced word mumbled against his skin. Fearful, Frodo pushed harder, causing the strong arm to contract around him. Pain in his ribs and chest finally forced him to halt his efforts.

Panting, Frodo said, “Gandalf, help me.”

Gandalf sighed as he set the envelope back on the mantelpiece. Returning to the side of the bed, he sat, frowning.

“Gandalf!”

“It has been two days since I came to Minas Tirith, since Denethor first told me you and Boromir were in the city. When Denethor tried to take the Ring from you both, I stopped him. The two of you collapsed, the Ring falling from your hands, but you have been like this ever since. None could part you from Boromir. I had hoped, when you woke, that it would be different.”

Frodo tried to relax against Boromir’s body, felt the tension of his arm relax slightly, enough to let Frodo breathe more easily. He remembered what had happened when he tried to leave, how he had known Boromir would follow him if he left again. But this was different.

Cautious, Frodo turned toward Boromir, seeing the raw skin on his neck, the blue stains under his eyes. His face was pale, fine lines around his eyes more apparent, Frodo thought. Placing his hand against Boromir’s face, feeling the soft hair against his palm, Frodo said, “Boromir. Boromir!”

Boromir sighed, a soft moan, shook his head, burrowing deeper into the pillow. He licked his lips.

“Boromir, please!”

Another long sigh, then a louder mumble. “What, Frodo?”

Raising his head, rising on one arm, Boromir opened his eyes.

Frodo was relieved to see the familiar expression, the eyes green rather than darkened, a quirk of the lips that often signaled confusion.

“Let me go!”

“What? What is wrong?” As Boromir sat up, he released Frodo who rolled quickly off the bed, taking refuge with Gandalf who rose, stepping in front of Frodo and reaching to grasp the white staff from where it leaned against the wall.

Shaking his head, Boromir ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back.

“What day is it? Where are we?” His voice was hoarse but clear.

“It is the evening of the twelfth day of March, in Shire reckoning,” Gandalf said. “You are in the Houses of Healing.”

“Why? What happened?” As he spoke, Boromir’s hand went to his neck, rubbing.

“You nearly claimed the One Ring for your own, Boromir.” As Gandalf spoke, the white light that Frodo remembered from the hall swelled around him. Power pulsed through the room. “I do not know if you have fallen although before I allow you to leave this room, I will.”

“Boromir. Boromir!”

Frodo’s frantic voice pulled Boromir from the dark depths of sleep. He burrowed into the pillow, longing for a respite.

“Boromir, please!”

Boromir tried to swallow, his mouth dry. He ached all over. But he could not ignore the appeal in Frodo’s voice. Sighing, Boromir forced himself to wake enough to speak. “What, Frodo?”

He opened his eyes, rose to balance on one arm beside Frodo, blinking. Had he drunk too much again? His head ached, pain throbbing as if in time to his heart beating.

“Let me go!”

“What? What is wrong?” Confused, Boromir sat, looking to see what threatened them.

Frodo rolled away from him, off the bed, to stand beside Mithrandir. The wizard picked up the white staff that leaned against the wall and stepped in front of Frodo.

Boromir at first feared he was dreaming, in some fever, for Mithrandir had fallen in Moria. But the foul taste in his mouth, the reek of his body and clothing, the hardness of the bed under him seemed far too real. Boromir pushed his hair out of his face, shook his head, trying to make sense of what he saw.

“What day is it? Where are we?”

“It is the evening of the twelfth day of March, in Shire reckoning,” Mithrandir said. “You are in the Houses of Healing.”

Houses of Healing? Boromir’s hand went to his neck. He winced, feeling the rawness of the flesh. “Why? What happened?”

White light welled from Mithrandir’s figure, growing, filling the room. “You nearly claimed the One Ring for your own, Boromir. I do not know if you have fallen although before I allow you to leave this room, I will.”

“What?”

The wizard, seeming made of light, stepped forward, to bend over Boromir who tried to recoil. Before he could slide from the bed, a strong hand gripped his shoulder, pushing him down onto the bed. Pinned, unable to move under the heavy hand which moved from shoulder to chest, Boromir closed his eyes against the glowing face that filled his vision, the looming staff a promise of punishment if he tried to fight.

He could not evade the sight of eyes like shining spears which somehow pierced his flesh, sinking deeply into him, stripping him of flesh and blood.

Boromir had watched Frodo suffer, his pain growing every day as they journeyed toward Mordor. The Ring was beautiful. But Boromir could think of naught he had seen in his life more beautiful than the simple perfect shape before him.

The first layer was peeled back, the pain slight, like that of a nearly-healed scab.

Frodo ran after the Orcs who bore the captured Halflings away. “Frodo, you fool!’” Boromir nearly fell, stumbling forward, forcing himself to run, breath tearing at his lungs and his body aching. To lose Frodo was unthinkable.

Claws sank deeper, pulling at the next layer which flaked away like dead skin, stinging, hinting at deeper pain yet to come.

A moan.

Boromir looked at Aragorn. “I do not know what hope we have, but by the Tree, I swear I will not abandon Frodo.”

Aragorn knelt in front of Frodo. “You must go with Boromir down the River to Ithilien, Frodo,” Aragorn said. “I trust him as I trust no other. We have learned the folly of following the advice of elves and wizards. You must trust in men now. When you travel with him, you must take his advice. He knows better than any of us what is happening in Gondor. He is the best one to guide you.”

Blood welled from the cuts made to grip the next layer.

A strangled cry through clenched teeth.

Voice hoarse, Frodo spoke so softly Boromir had to bend close to hear him. “Will you kill me too?”

Boromir gathered Frodo into his arms, pulling him against his chest, holding him tightly. Face buried in Frodo’s curly hair, Boromir had to fight back tears.

“Frodo, no, I did not mean to kill it, but it would have killed you. I had to save you. You’re safe now. It can’t hurt you.”

A faint sense of warmth seemed to suffuse the twisting body, no less pain but some regret for the necessity that led to pain.

In the silent movements of sleep, two bodies twined together, urgent, curling around the Ring, hand clasped around hand. “This is what it will be like after….all you need do is consent.”

The focus sharpening, cutting deeper, precise and potentially deadly. . . .

Boromir saw Beregond and the small body in his arms and felt as if he could breathe easily for the first time since he had returned to their room and found Frodo missing.

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

. . . .ignoring the helpless body’s frantic attempts to escape. . . .

Boromir saw Frodo, his body tied, helpless, across the bed, the dark blue of the silk cutting across his white skin. As if in a dream, Boromir saw 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, finding therein a pleasure unlike any other he had tasted. Grimly, Boromir went to find more wine. He would return to the room only when he was incapable of anything but sleep.

. . . . pushing through the last layers, forcing a final tortured scream. . . .

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

Boromir saw the blood dripping down Frodo’s chest, saw him roll helplessly toward killing stone, stunned by the blow from the old man.

“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.”

Boromir pulled the neck of his tunic open, grasped the Ring and pulled it free, holding it high. He already held the only weapon that could save his people. He had only to find the strength to claim it and all would be well.

He was lost in red flames until Frodo called his name. Why had he taken the Ring?

The pain would end when he answered this one question.

“To. . . help Frodo,” he said. “I took it to help Frodo.”

“Stop, Gandalf, you must stop hurting him.”

Boromir twisted under even the slight weight on his chest, unable to believe the agony of the light slicing through him had stopped.

Small hands held him, wetness cooled his burning skin.

Release.

Floating in the warm bliss that comes when pain ceases, Boromir waited, fearful. Would it begin again? He flinched when he heard his name.

“Boromir. Boromir, it is over. You did not claim the Ring.”

Cautious, he opened his eyes to see Frodo’s face close to his, tears streaking the pale skin. Beyond, Boromir could see Mithrandir standing beside the bed, an old man in wrinkled white robes, leaning casually on a staff. He was smiling.

Slow, in case his movement started the pain again, Boromir raised his hand, touched Frodo’s head. His smile shone like the sun after a rain shower, and he hugged Boromir, burying his face in his hair.

Boromir licked his lips, blinking, trying to remember what had happened. The images jumbled in his memory. He felt as he had as a boy, waking from a long bout of summer fever—so weak he could hardly move, unsure of what day it was, feeling as if something had been stolen from him.

“Frodo must take back the Ring, Boromir, and leave the City to continue his quest to Mount Doom.”

“That is impossible, Mithrandir. News has come from the Rammas Echor. Cair Andros has been taken, and a force moves through Anórien. Another army has forced a crossing at Osgiliath and moves toward the City—the report from the wall is that the torches they carry are numerous enough to show for leagues. We are beseiged. Rohan has not come. I have come to ask for your help in defending the City, but none can now leave.”

Boromir stared in shock at Faramir who stood just inside the doorway, Pippin by his side, wearing black.

Minas Tirith was under attack. And the Ring was in the City. He had brought it here.

Frodo sat staring down at the plate of food balanced on the pillow across his lap. The plate held fine white bread, savoury meat, cheese, and sweet fruit. He knew he had to eat but felt no hunger.

After Faramir had brought the news of the impending siege, Gandalf had called a halt to any discussion until Boromir and Frodo were able to wash and change. They were now wearing simple white robes, ones that the Healers had been unable to put on them earlier because of Boromir’s hold on Frodo. Gandalf had then insisted that they eat while talking.

Frodo and Pippin were sitting together at the foot of the bed, Boromir at the head, leaning against the wall. Gandalf sat in the chair, and Faramir leaned against the table. There had been food enough for all on the tray although only water to drink, but only Pippin was eating with enthusiasm.

Gandalf and Faramir were the only ones who spoke, going over the news that Faramir had received, planning the defense of the city.

Frodo did not know what to say. His head was now clear. He could tell himself that what he remembered Aragorn saying had been a deception of the Ring although it seemed as real as his other memories of their journey. Pippin had told him in great detail of their captivity among the Orcs, their daring escape and the meeting with the giant Ent, Treebeard. So Frodo knew that his memory of the captives returning to Parth Galen was false.

What he could not know was which of his memories of journeying with Boromir and of their stay in Cair Andros and then in Minas Tirith were true and which were false. Boromir had washed and eaten in silence, addressing no word to Frodo, seeming unwilling even to meet his eyes. Frodo realized Boromir had not spoken at all since Faramir had entered.

“Are you going to eat that?” Pippin leaned against Frodo, trusting and friendly as always.

Frodo shook his head, handed his plate to Pippin, smiling weakly.

The youngest hobbit was wearing a rich black tunic embroidered with the same emblem of the White Tree of Gondor over black leggings. The Tree was the same one that was on Faramir’s armour. Pippin was serving Faramir and, in fact, Pippin had told Frodo, the black suit had been Faramir’s own when he was a boy.

Of course, Frodo was happy Pippin had been saved. Seeing his young cousin walking happily beside Faramir, laughing and joking with him, and then bringing him food and drink, had nonetheless made Frodo shift uneasily on the bed.

He looked up, was caught in that strong blue stare once again.

He’d immediately recognized the strange man who had caught him when Denethor had knocked him down. And when Gandalf had introduced him as Faramir, Boromir’s younger brother, Frodo told himself that his feeling of recognition was due to the features of face and hair the brothers shared. Nothing more.

Boromir would not look at him at all, but Faramir had not stopped looking.

Every time Frodo had looked up from his plate, he had seen the blue eyes on him, weighing him, finding him lacking. Mordor was attacking Gondor, but had Frodo not come to Minas Tirith, the situation would not be so dire. From what Frodo had learned, Denethor was ill, also in the Houses of Healing, which meant that Frodo had deprived the City of its Steward on the eve of battle.

As Faramir stood, leaning casually against the table, clad in cloth of green and brown and the leather armour, Frodo saw that the only change in him from their first meeting was the cleanliness of his hair and clothing. Faramir had eaten little, had talked instead to Gandalf.

They had spoken of the number of men in the companies from the Outlands. Of what groups should be placed where in the city’s defenses. Of when the Rohirrim were likely to come, Gandalf insisting that the only question was when, not if, although Faramir was more doubtful. Of what the forces in Anórien might do. Of the impact of the Nazgûl who flew, shrieking despair, over the City.

But no matter what Faramir or Gandalf had been saying, those blue eyes had not left Frodo.

He swallowed hard, forced himself to look away. “Tell me more about what happened at Isgengard,” Frodo said to Pippin who swallowed a huge bite of meat and bread and launched happily into a story of finding hidden stores of Longbottom leaf in the wake of the battle.

“Longbottom leaf?” Frodo’s attention was caught, truly, for the first time. “How could Saruman have gotten Longbottom leaf all the way from the Shire?”

Pippin shrugged, pulled out his pouch, and showed Frodo the leaf. Rubbing a leaf between his hands until it crumbled and sniffing it, Frodo nodded. It was Longbottom leaf as far as he could tell.

“Frodo.”

Heart pounding, Frodo looked guiltily back to Gandalf. “Yes?”

“It is time.” Gandalf stood and crossed the room to stand by the mantelpiece, picked up the envelope. “You must take back the Ring.”

Elation blazed high within but was matched by fear. Hands cramped on the pillow in front of him, Frodo swallowed against the dryness in his throat. He saw Pippin’s eyes on him, looked across to see Faramir watching him gravely, and only then dared to look at Boromir who sat, slumped, head down, the strong hands still in his lap.

“Boromir?” Frodo’s voice was small even in the quiet room.

Boromir shook his head but said nothing as Gandalf spoke.

“Boromir knows you must take back the Ring, Frodo. He cannot touch it again. I believe none of us in the room save you can touch it without being destroyed, sooner or later. Come.”

Pushing the pillow off his lap, Frodo straightened his legs, pushed himself forward to slide off the bed. The stone floor felt cool under his feet, and he forced himself to walk steadily towards Gandalf who stood, tall and straight, holding the envelope out to Frodo.

He remembered taking another envelope from the wizard’s hand in Bilbo’s study at Bag End. Although he’d heard the story and warnings, Frodo knew that he’d had no true sense of the nature of the Ring then. He had taken it, expecting to carry it only to Rivendell, there to pass it on to someone stronger and wiser. Only at the Council had he seen, as if through a glass darkly, that the others could not act. Only he had spoken. He and Sam, Frodo remembered, his heart aching at the memory of Sam’s cry: “But you won’t send him off alone, surely?”.

Elrond had not sent Frodo off alone, choosing a host of companions, all now loved, but it seemed as if he was doomed to go to Mordor alone.

Between one step and another, Frodo nearly faltered, remembering how comfortable and warm he had felt in Boromir’s lap, held by Boromir. Only now could Frodo realize that in part that feeling had come because Boromir had taken the Ring. And although Frodo had later tried to fight Boromir for the Ring, there had still been a kind of comfort in his loss as Boromir had held him down, stroking him.

Because someone else was bearing the weight.

Frodo forced himself to take the last step, to take the envelope from Gandalf, and to rip it open. The Ring, strung again on a fine chain of gold, slid into his trembling hand. As often, it seemed heavier than it looked, shining as if all light in the room were held in its gold. Dropping the envelope unheeded onto the floor, Frodo took a deep breath and slipped the chain over his bent head, letting the Ring fall against his chest.

Eyes closed, he staggered as the weight of the Ring nearly dragged him to his knees, hearing, helpless, the gloating laughter that none besides him could hear. Frodo felt his head falling forward, felt as if he would fall, helpless, into endless darkness.

“Frodo!”

Strong arms caught him, bore him up, held him.

Frodo grasped Boromir’s shoulders, at first relieved that the strength that had helped him earlier was still present, then shocked by the feel of smooth leather under his hands. Frodo’s hands fell away, and, opening his eyes, he stared into the blue of Faramir’s, even closer than in the hall when Faramir had last held him.

Boromir sat on the bed, staring at his hands. Over and over, the memory of what he had seen and felt in the Hall took him.

He tasted the dizzying rush of red-gold power pouring into him like the best wine, laughed at the follies of those around him. The smoothness of the Ring filled his hand as he raised it high, the heft of it like some storied weapon of the First Age flowing easily into his hand, ready to strike. Waiting only for Boromir to claim it for his own, waiting only to claim him.

The memory of his hand wrapping around the Ring ran like fire through his body. He hated it. He feared it. He wanted it. Then came the memory of his father stalking forward, darkness flowing around him, claw-like hands reaching for Frodo. At that moment, Boromir had not recognized his father’s face, twisted, intent, lusting for the Ring.

Boromir feared that same look had twisted his own face. He had taken the Ring to help Frodo he knew, but that same light that had revealed his desire to help had also shone on the part that had nearly claimed it, wanting the power it promised.

Wrapping his left hand around his right wrist, he forced himself to look up. The room seemed small, a trap. Boromir wondered how long it had been since he’d been able to be alone.

Faramir was setting Frodo down on the floor, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Boromir frowned. What was Faramir doing with Frodo?

Standing, Boromir moved stiffly forward, reaching for Frodo, not recognizing the smile on his brother’s face as he looked down at Frodo, not liking the trusting way Frodo tilted his head back to look at Faramir.

“Come, Frodo,” Boromir said, staring directly at Faramir, reaching to grasp Frodo’s shoulder.

Before Frodo could reply, Mithrandir stepped forward.

“Pippin! Can you find a Healer and ask for another room to be prepared for Frodo?”

The brisk voice seemed to jolt Frodo who looked around, moving away from Faramir.

Boromir let his hands drop to his side, watched Faramir who stood quietly, attention on Frodo.

“Another room? Why?”

As Frodo spoke, Pippin slid off the bed, grinned at the wizard, and dashed off.

Boromir found himself smiling, remembering how Pippin never walked if he could run.

“You need to rest, and I do not think it safe here.”

“Not safe!” Frodo’s voice rose as he faced Mithrandir.

Boromir made himself step back, sit on the bed, feigning an ease he did not feel. “Mithrandir is right, Frodo.”

Frodo turned to him, frowning, but seemed to catch himself as he saw Boromir, hands clasped.

“You cannot stay here.” Boromir did not trust himself to lie next to Frodo again although he was dismayed to see hurt replacing the anger on the small face. They had been so closer for so long. Boromir tried to count the days and failed. Cair Andros, what had happened in his room, played over in his mind.

“But—” Frodo stepped forward, reaching out to Boromir who flinched back, unwilling to bear the touch, unable to look away from the gold Ring that shone against the white of Frodo’s robe.

Boromir bit his lip, felt the strain of muscle against muscle.

Mithrandir stepped forward, his own hand settling on Frodo’s shoulder. “It’s not safe for Boromir,” he said.

Frodo’s hand dropped. He let Mithrandir pull him away, across the room, to stand near Faramir.

They stood talking until Pippin returned, with a Healer who listened to what Mithrandir had to say, nodded briskly, and left with Faramir escorting Frodo. Pippin followed, and the wizard shut the door behind him and turned to face Boromir.

Mouth dry, Boromir made himself breathe evenly and face Mithrandir. What did he want now?

“We need to talk about your father, Boromir.”

Frodo followed the Healer down the hall, Pippin and Faramir behind him. The corridor was wide. Other Healers passed their small group, all looking at Frodo, some smiling and nodding at him. Others did not seem to see Frodo at all, their eyes moving down his face and chest to the Ring.

Looking down, Frodo made himself keep moving. The grey stone walls and floor seemed to press in on him. He fumbled, pushing the Ring inside his robe. Finally they stopped, the Healer gesturing to Frodo to enter an open door.

“I think you’ll be comfortable here, Master,” he said, smiling at Frodo.

“My thanks,” Frodo mumbled, ducking his head and hurrying into the room.

Once inside, he felt he could breathe again, out of the passage which had become more frightening than the tunnels of Moria. Before he had a chance to do more than see that the room looked very similar to the one he and Boromir had woken in save for a narrow door in the opposite wall, Pippin pushed past him, sniffing critically.

“Not very comfortable, if you ask me,” Pippin scrambled up onto the bed, bouncing. “Hard. And narrow. How you fit into that bed with Boromir I’ll never know. And look at these pillows!” He flung the bedding back to reveal two pillows which looked perfectly fine to Frodo. “You think they’d do more for the Ringbearer.”

“Pippin!” Frodo flushed, feeling embarrassed and relieved at the same time to hear Pippin sound so like himself.

“Can’t Frodo come back to the Citadel with us?”

“You would have to ask Mithrandir,” Faramir said, entering the room. “However, I think he would have told us if he thought Frodo well enough to return with us.”

Frodo turned to look at Faramir, was caught once again in that blue gaze which was so different than the way the others in the passage had looked at him. Earlier Frodo had thought Faramir disapproved of him, was angry with him, but now Frodo could see no sign of that anger.

He thought Faramir must be younger than Boromir although perhaps it could be that he was not as broadly built in his shoulders and chest. His hair and beard shone more reddish than the gold of Boromir’s. Although Faramir greatly resembled his brother and father in the long curve of his nose and the strong bones of his face, his eyes seemed gentler than Boromir’s, his lips fuller. The greens and browns of his clothing, woven and durable, under the leather breastplate inlaid with the same White Tree Boromir’s gear had shown, seemed homelier, more familiar to Frodo. Away from Gandalf and his brother, Faramir seemed more at ease.

“I’ll go ask,” Pippin said, bouncing off the bed and dashing through the door.

“No, Pippin, don’t. . .” Frodo started to say, echoed by Faramir almost word for word. They were too late to stop Pippin, of course.

Faramir looked at Frodo’s face, and laughed. After a moment, Frodo shrugged off his irritation with his young cousin and smiled, tentatively, at Faramir.

“Would you like to sit outside?” Faramir asked. “The day is warm, if gloomy with the fumes from Mordor.”

Frodo nodded, then followed Faramir out the narrow door into a small courtyard. The day was shadowed, but the green grass under Frodo’s feet cheered him, as did the sight of a huge tree which seemed to shelter the small space. The trunk was a silvery grey which seemed to hold light even in the gloom, and the strong arch of the branches, the green of the leaves, comforted Frodo as he sank to the ground in a hollow between two large roots. He was content to lean against the trunk, eyes closed, supported by the strength behind him, a hand resting on the the warm wood.

Whatever would come, he would cherish these few moments of peace, he told himself.

“Might I ask a boon?”

Surprised at the change in Faramir’s voice, Frodo opened his eyes to see him standing still, one hand resting on the finely-wrought swordhilt. Frodo sat straighter. “Did I do something wrong?” He felt his heart beat faster. Perhaps he had misunderstood again, perhaps Faramir was angry at him.

Faramir bit his lip, glancing aside, behind him. He turned back to Frodo, shook his head. Almost stiffly, he lowered himself, tilting his sword to cross-legged, within arm’s reach of Frodo.

“No, you did nothing wrong. I only hoped,” Faramir stopped, breathed deeply, then continued. “I wished only to ask what happened, what you saw happen, to my brother. He seems so changed.”

“We all are,” Frodo said, could not look away as Faramir watched him.

“The Ring, I know, is a thing of great power and evil although almost forgotten in the long years since the Last Battle. If he thought it a weapon that he could use to save the land we both love, I can understand that Boromir might wish to take it. That I do not question. But—” Faramir hesitated again.

“But what?” Frodo shifted, not understanding what Faramir wished to hear.

“How did Boromir come to take it while you yet lived? And traveled with him? I asked Mithrandir and he said he did not know for what little he had learned of the Ring had made him think that none could pass the Ring on by choice.” Faramir leaned forward, his voice dropping. “How did this happen, Frodo? Why does Boromir cling to you as a parent to a threatened child, or as a man fearing to lose his lover?”

“I do not know.” Frodo shrank back against the hard wood, flinching away from the passion that seemed to blaze from Faramir as he leaned forward.

“Frodo!”

Pippin’s voice broke the tense silence and Frodo relaxed as Faramir sat back, replying, although he did not stop watching Frodo. “Out here, Pippin.”

“There you are!” Pippin pushed the door shut behind him and came to stand beside Faramir. “Gandalf said Frodo had to stay here, but that we could visit him once a day. I offered to stay here with him, but he said that I had to ask you whether I could leave my duties and even if you said yes that Frodo would be the one who had to decide whether or not he wanted to put up with me while recovering.” Pausing to breathe, Pippin beamed trustingly at Frodo.

“Pippin, I—” Frodo could not continue. He loved Pippin, but he was too weary to wish to spend all his time with him given all the strength and energy the young hobbit seemed to radiate. But how could he say so without hurting him?

“Pippin, I know you love Frodo, but I need your help as well,” Faramir interrupted Frodo, reaching out to lay a hand on Pippin’s shoulder.

Pippin stood up even straighter, and nodded seriously.

“Would you return to the Citadel now and tell them Mithrandir and I will not be back for daymeal, but that we will need to meet with the Commanders at the second bell tomorrow?”

“Yes, my lord,” Pippin said, and dashed off.

“Did you wish Pippin to stay, Frodo? If so, I can send him back later, but you looked as if you wished to refuse him but dare not.”

Speechless, Frodo shook his head. He thought distantly that perhaps he should be afraid to be alone with Faramir, but something deep inside urged him to trust.

“Do you wish me to leave you as well? I did not think how weary you must be. I should not have pressed you as I did.”

“No!” Frodo felt a sudden panic. “No, please, it’s just. . . hard.” It had been so long since he had spoken to any save Boromir. But perhaps speaking to Faramir would help Frodo understand as well.

Faramir settled back, nodded at Frodo but did not speak.

Clasping his hands, Frodo looked down, away from those blue eyes. “I don’t remember everything, no, that’s not quite right. I have memories, but I now know some are wrong, false. We were talking, Boromir and I, at Parth Galen. And I fell. He offered to help me. I think. He must have taken the Ring then.”

Frodo shifted on the grass, feeling the cool blades tickling against the skin of his legs and feet, remembering lying across Boromir’s lap. “Then it gets confusing. I thought Aragorn told us to go by way of Ithilien. Not Emyn Muil. But Gandalf says not. I think I was sick, when we were on the River. And then, we came to an island, Boromir told me the name, but I cannot recall.”

“Cair Andros?”

Nodding, Frodo felt himself flushing again at the memory of waking up in the stained, crumpled sheets, having to wash the dried crustiness off his belly and thighs. He could not say that, nor speak of Boromir leaning over him, hand stroking down him, speaking softly, lovingly of torment and rape.

“And then we came to the City, he said to rest and learn what news there was. And Lord Denethor said we must stay here.”

“And?” Faramir’s voice was gentle, soft enough to blend with the sound of the wind in the leaves.

Wrapping his arms around himself, shaking, Frodo said, “I sometimes feared he would kill me. He killed Gollum.”

“Gollum?”

“The one who had the Ring before, before Bilbo.”

“The gangrel creature Mithrandir has spoken of?”

Frodo nodded, remembering the blood streaked sword, Boromir bending over him. “But he always protected me.”

“Gollum?”

“No, Boromir.” Looking up, Frodo struggled to find words. “I know it sounds strange, it is as if he changed from day to day, night to—” Frodo stopped, appalled at what he had nearly said.

“Night?”

His mouth open, Frodo stared at Faramir who leaned closer, reaching to him. Blindly, Frodo tried to push him away, feeling the Ring burning against his chest, but Faramir took Frodo’s hands.

“What happened at night, Frodo?”

Frodo shook his head, tugging futilely, unable to break the strong grip. He could not speak of what had happened to Boromir’s brother.

“Were you lovers?”

Shock jolted through Frodo, and he tensed, clenching his hands within Faramir’s warm ones, stumbling to his feet, trying to pull away.

Faramir pulled Frodo forward. “Frodo!”

Off balance, Frodo fell to his knees, suddenly limp. “I don’t know. I don’t know what happened. Let me go.”

Suddenly free, Frodo panted, sank back to sit, pulling his legs close, curling around himself, bowing his head.

“Something is wrong, Frodo. I wish to help, if I can. Both you and my brother.

Feeling the cautious touch on his shoulder, Frodo shuddered, wiped his face, feeling the wetness smear across his skin. He had to speak now, had to say something. Frodo closed his eyes thinking he could not look at Faramir without losing his courage.

“The Ring sends. . . visions. Dreams so real that what happens in the light of day seems to fade. And, yes, I think, somehow, we were, we did, something happened. I could not think when Boromir was gone, the pain was so great. The closer we were, somehow, the more sense things made.” Frodo wondered if he was making any sense at all. “As if the Ring bound us together. I do not think we had any choice, do not know what I dreamed or what we. . . did together.”

“Boromir feels much the same although I think he would punish himself for not resisting.”

Gandalf’s voice was quiet, but Frodo gasped, his eyes opening. He saw the white figure, shining faintly in the gloom, standing in the doorway.

“Come inside, Frodo. You need to rest.”

Before Frodo could move, Faramir had risen, kneeling down again to wrap his arms around Frodo before standing. Before Frodo could protest, Faramir had carried him back inside the room and set him down on the bed, drawing the bedding over him.

“My apologies, Frodo. I was not thinking—”

Frodo grasped one hand between his, holding it a moment. He was surprised to feel oddly relieved, almost at peace.

“No, I think it helped.”

“Here, drink this.” Gandalf stood on the other side of the bed, a goblet in his hand. Grímacing in resignation, Frodo released Faramir and took the goblet to drink it. The draught was thick and cool but tasted mildly sweet. Much better than some of Gandalf’s other potions. As he handed the goblet back to Gandalf, Frodo felt his eyelids grow heavy. He yawned.

“Sleep, Frodo, and do not dream. Heed no nightly cries for you are safe here. We will talk more tomorrow.”

As Frodo snuggled into the pillows which felt perfectly soft despite Pippin’s complaint, he felt a warm hand on his head, stroking gently through his curls.

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