Faramir Fiction Archive

So Small a Thing

Written by Ithiliana

04 April 2004 | 66841 words

WRITTEN AS: A birthday pressie for the seductive and deadly duo, savageseraph and caras_galadhon.
PAIRINGS: Boromir/Frodo, Boromir/Aragorn, Frodo/Faramir.
NOTES: AU. Boromir takes the Ring at Parth Galen. Since part of inspiration was costume fic lust, this fic is more movie than bookverse though I feel free to steal from book when necessary (especially chronology and some events that fit AU needs better).
RATING: Adult
FEEDBACK: Always Appreciated! Some explanation of what that means to me is here if you wish to see it
DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to the Tolkien estate. This series is written out of insane addiction to the book/movieverse, not for money, with no intent to infringe upon copyright.
WARNINGS: Interspecies & Man Slash. Dark elements but as this brilliant definition by Savageseraph makes clear, the story is not truly a Darkfic. I’m not sure that there shouldn’t be a “non-con” warning on it although once you start considering the Ring as a major character, the concept of “consent” becomes complicated. So you have been more or less warned.
ADDENDUM: Yes, another AU. I’m not giving up on Roads or the main principles I have for AU series in LotRFPS. The idea for this story hit me recently, and won’t stop, so I decided to share the burden addiction insanity joy!
POSTED: My lj, interspecies & sons_of_gondor & lotr_fanfiction
THANKS to the lovely and forgiving gotham_syren for brilliant fb as I was flailing around.

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Part 1

The woods around them were silent. No sound of water or wind. No sound of bird or animal. The only sound Boromir could hear was his own harsh breathing. He knelt over Frodo who lay still on the damp ground, eyes closed.

Boromir touched the slim throat, seeking a pulse. He breathed out in relief as he felt the thready beat against his fingers. The pulse was faster than his own heartbeat normally was though the rapid beating in his chest now nearly matched Frodo’s. Boromir did not know what was normal for a Halfling, but the pulse seemed regular and strong.

Frodo had slipped and fallen on the hillside as they were speaking about what to do with the Ring. While gathering wood, Boromir had found the Halfling wandering alone among the trees on the slope of Amon Hen. Behind him lay the massive carven head of some early Númenorean King, fallen from a high pedestal. For a change, none of the other Halflings had been with Frodo. Boromir had been sure he could convince him of the need to go to Gondor, to learn more of what their Enemy was doing and to spend time recovering in a safe place before setting out for Mordor.

Now, all of Boromir’s attention focused on the still features before him. Long dark eyelashes shadowed pale skin. He ran a careful hand around and under Frodo’s head, the silky curls winding around his fingers. He felt no swelling or other injury. Perhaps the thick hair had protected Frodo when he fell.

Boromir breathed more easily. He could easily carry Frodo back to the camp if need be but he did not seem to be hurt. Merely stunned.

Reaching out, Boromir pushed aside the grey elven cloak and parted the jacket Frodo wore. Underneath, Frodo’s vest and shirt were buttoned close to his throat. He would breathe more easily if his clothing was loosened. The brass buttons of the vest were soon undone, and Boromir opened the vest to reveal the shirt, strained with travel. Biting his lip, breathing faster, Boromir undid the small wooden buttons with unsteady fingers. The garments he handled were finely made in weave and construction. Whatever else the Halflings did, they were near the equal of Gondor in the creation of cloth and clothing although they seemed to prefer plain fabrics and natural colours.

Frodo’s shirt fell open to show the Ring gleaming against the silver of the mithril chain mail which was woven fine as spiderwebs. The small chest rose and fell, Frodo’s regular breathing reassuring Boromir.

Mouth dry, Boromir reached out, his hand trembling, and laid his right hand over the Ring, pressing down, the round hardness warming under his touch. Closing his eyes, Boromir waited.

When he had picked up the Ring on Caradhras, he’d thought he had heard something. Voices in the air, perhaps, although who knew what uncanny spirits haunted that mountain. The mountains and forests of the North and West were foreign to the Men of Gondor. All had seemed haunted to Boromir after he had left Imladris with the Fellowship.

Now, though, he heard and felt nothing. He relaxed and raised his hand, then hesitated.

Boromir had watched Frodo suffer, his pain growing every day as they journeyed toward Mordor. Mithrandir had assured Boromir that the strange race from the North was stronger than they looked, but he had fallen in Moria. His leadership had brought the Quest nearly to disaster. Surely, Boromir had thought more than once, the Halfling’s role was to bring Isildur’s bane out of the deeps of time, to stand forth with the weapon and to deliver it to Gondor. The dream that had been sent to Boromir and Faramir, the command to travel to Imladris, must mean that one of them was meant to carry the burden back to Gondor.

Frodo turned his head slightly, sighing.

Boromir hesitated no longer. He slid his fingers under the fine gold chain, raising the Ring from Frodo’s chest, watching him carefully. There was no response.

Frodo’s fear of Boromir as they had spoken together on the hillside had hurt him. If the Halfling could no longer see that Boromir was his friend, then Frodo was in danger of losing his will to the Nameless Enemy. Boromir knew his life had been spent fighting the evil of Mordor. He had shed much blood, had seen many friends die, had watched his father grow old before his time, even had to force his brother from the path of books and lore he so loved to command the Rangers in Ithilien. Gondor had long stood against the blackness in Mordor, and if, in recent years, their guard had lessened, then perhaps Boromir was the one to restore the city’s strength.

If what he had gathered from chance words Mithrandir and Frodo had shared over the nightly fires before sleeping was true, then the Ring had some awareness, was a part of the Enemy. So the Ring could be aware of the threat Boromir was to its Master’s plans, and Frodo’s fear of Boromir was proof that the Ring was corrupting him.

The gold shone richly in a stray sunbeam that slipped through the trees. The clouds above were lifting. The Ring was beautiful. Minas Tirith, though fallen into decay, still held many beautiful things, all made by the hands of Men. But Boromir could think of naught he had seen in his life more beautiful than the simple perfect shape before him.

Frodo moved, his hand sliding from the ground to move up over his belly, groping toward his chest.

Boromir watched the pink lips parting, the slight movements of eyelids increasing. His grasp on the chain tightened. Frodo was weak. He needed help. Surely Boromir could help him bear this burden. No one else need know. It would be only for a short while.

Licking his lips, Boromir slid his left hand under Frodo’s head. It was awkward, but he did not want to release the Ring. The small head rounded easily into his palm, and Boromir tilted it off the cold ground to lift the chain up and over Frodo’s head. Gold leaves caught in the dark curls fell away. Frodo smiled slightly, Boromir was sure, as he laid him down, his freed hand moving to the chain so that he clasped it in both hands.

The chain hung from Boromir’s fingers, the Ring trembling at the end of it, gleaming, filling his vision. Shutting his eyes, Boromir bowed his head and slipped the chain over his head, around his neck. Finally, he closed one hand around the Ring, the warmth of it against his palm causing his breath to catch, and slid it under his clothing.

Frodo had always kept it hidden, and Boromir knew that was best. Under the layers of leather and mail and silk, the Ring caressed his flesh. Boromir knelt, eyes closed, waiting for his breath to even. Watching how Frodo had walked every day, his pace slowing, his shoulders rounding as the day’s march went on, Boromir had expected that the Ring to weight heavily. It had obviously burdened the fragile Halfing.

But as he straightened, he could feel no sense of weight. Just warmth and smoothness that was pleasant to the touch. As the Ring moved against his flesh, his nipples hardened. The air was chill. The lack of weight was another sign that he was the right one to carry the Ring.

Carefully, he buttoned the small shirt and vest over the mithril shirt, then pulled the layers of jacket and cloak tightly around the slight figure. The air this close to the water, in the shadow of the trees, was cold. Boromir felt the dampness of the ground soaking through his wool leggings.

He sat, cross-legged, thinking. Frodo’s eyes opened, and he murmured something too low for Boromir to hear. Without thinking, he reached out, sliding his arms under shoulders and back, lifting Frodo and pulling him onto his lap. Holding him in one arm, stroking his hair, Boromir waited for Frodo to wake fully.

Frodo felt ill. His mouth was dry. He struggled to sit. When he forced his eyes open, his vision was blurred. He blinked. The ground under him was oddly yielding, yet something was holding him down. He struggled to free himself.

“Frodo!”

Boromir’s voice struck deep into Frodo’s body. He realized Boromir was holding him and pushed against the broad chest with his one free hand. It was useless. Boromir was too strong.

“No!” Crying out made Frodo cough. He shook as the harsh spasms cut through him. The attack left him limp, breathless, and he collapsed back against the hard arm under him, eyes closed. Slowly, the world stopped spinning.

“Here.”

Frodo felt the mouth of a flask press against his lips and opened his eyes, struggling to sit. Boromir raised his head enough for him to swallow. Frodo opened his mouth and sucked greedily, the cool water soothing his throat. Finally, Boromir pulled the flask away, setting it down beside him.

“It’s all right, Frodo. You fell, but you’re all right. Don’t be too greedy though, or you may make yourself ill.”

His eyes closing, Frodo shivered as Boromir’s hand stroked his head. The touch was gentle but Frodo felt chilled.

“What happened?” Frodo asked, his voice hoarse.

“We were talking and you slipped and fell. The damp leaves make treacherous footing even for a Halfling.”

The rhythm of the stroking almost soothed Frodo.

“I could find no injury, so waited for you to wake. It took only a short time. I doubt the others will have missed us.”

Talking. They had been talking. Frodo tried to remember what they had been talking about when he fell.

He could not remember falling. He did remember Boromir reaching out to him, his voice raised in anger.

The Ring!

Frodo stiffened. Boromir wished to take the Ring to Gondor.

Opening his eyes, Frodo stared at the face so close to his that he could feel the warm breath on his cheek. Boromir stopped stroking Frodo’s head. The green eyes were serious, intent on Frodo, but Boromir’s face showed none of the anger Frodo remembered. None of the greed for the Ring that distorted his face and voice as he demanded it for his City.

But did Frodo remember truly?

Perhaps it was another shadow, a false vision sent by the Ring like the time when Bilbo had turned into a greedy and grasping creature when they first met again in Rivendell after so long apart. Frodo still winced when he remembered the tears in Bilbo’s eyes as he asked Frodo’s forgiveness for passing the burden of the Ring on to him.

The Ring lied.

Frodo had to remember that. Frowning, Frodo tried to think, tried to tease out the truth from the images jumbled in his head which was beginning to ache.

“What were we talking about?” Frodo reached up with his left hand, his right trapped between his body and Boromir’s, and rubbed his forehead.

Boromir smiled down at him. “Nothing important,” he said as he smoothed the hair back from Frodo’s face, beginning to stroke his head again.

Frodo felt his eyes drift shut, felt taut muscles loosening.

Boromir continued, his voice low. Frodo could feel it vibrating through the warm body that cradled him, protected him.

“I was collecting wood for a fire. I’m sure Pippin is hungry for a hot meal even if nobody else is. And Aragorn has decided we won’t risk moving until after dark. I warned him that Orcs patrol the eastern shore. So did Celeborn. It will be safest to continue our journey at night. So we have time to eat and rest before beginning the next stage of our journey. A hot meal would do you good as well.”

The ache in Frodo’s head lessened. He relaxed even more as the warmth from Boromir’s body surrounded him, the familiar scent of leather and mail overlaying the spicy scent of Boromir himself.

“We spoke of our plans. Nothing important, Frodo. We were turning to go back, to join the others, when you slipped and fell. I had to stay with you, to help you, to make sure you were not injured. You have borne so much for us, and so much depends on you.”

Frodo’s head tilted back, and he relaxed completely under the large hand. He was warm. Safe. Boromir would look after him. Would help him with the burden that was too heavy.

Arms and legs sprawling, Frodo breathed deeply, content to rest against Boromir. It had been so long since anyone had held him, helped him.

He felt Boromir’s lips against his forehead. In a voice so low that Frodo could barely hear it, Boromir spoke. “You are well, Frodo. But I will help you bear this burden. We should not burden our companions. They would worry if they heard of your fall. We should not speak of it to them when we return.”

Frodo nodded. It made sense.

“We will return and say nothing. You know I wish only to help you. You can trust me to do what’s best, Frodo. Let me help you. The Ring is very heavy.”

“Yes,” Frodo said, drowsy, his hand settling on his chest. The Ring was heavy. But somehow, when Boromir held him, the weight seemed less.

“It’s only for a short time.”

Even a short time would help, Frodo thought.

“Do you feel strong enough to return now?”

Frodo sighed, turning his head, feeling the smooth leather, the strong arm, beneath him. He did not want to move.

“Could we rest a while longer?” he asked. “I am so tired.”

“Of course, Frodo. Whatever you wish.”

Boromir watched Frodo’s face as the day around them faded into shadow. The slanting sunbeams seemed to linger on Frodo, his pale skin almost shining. Beautiful. They would have to return to their companions soon. But perhaps they could take a few more moments for Frodo to rest. The others meant well, but they so demanded so much.

The din of metal striking metal cut through the quiet air. Boromir’s head came up as cries and roars sounded in counterpoint. An attack. He had feared it. They had traveled too long unscathed. Their luck could not hold forever.

“Frodo!” Boromir stood, holding Frodo carefully then setting the drowsy Halfling on his feet.

Frodo blinked, his gaze unfocused, his lips parted.

Boromir laid his hands on Frodo’s shoulders. “Frodo!” Impossible to leave the dazed Ringbearer alone, vulnerable as he was to any attack.

“Frodo!” Boromir’s voice rose as his hands tightened on the slim shoulders, feeling the hardness of the mithril shirt beneath. Frodo had to respond.

Frodo winced and looked up at Boromir, the blue eyes focusing on his face, awareness sharpening his features.

“We must go. Our companions need us. Can you draw your sword and follow me?”

Licking his lips, Frodo shook his head, almost as if he were only now hearing the clamour. He frowned. The greater alertness of his expression and the way his eyes were tracking relieved Boromir of some of his fears. He released Frodo and stepped back.

Frodo drew the small blade he carried which was glowing blue.

“Orcs!” Boromir said. “On the western shore. These are evil tidings.” He drew his own sword and bit back a curse as he realized that he had left his shield in camp. No time to worry over that mistake. He turned to try to track the direction of the sounds.

The swelling noise rolled through the woods. Pivoting, the leaves crackling under his boots, Boromir was frustrated. Difficult to tell from which direction the sounds came among the smothering trees.

Frodo’s eyes narrowed as he gazed around, then closed as he tilted his head, mirroring Boromir’s movements without the noise of the leaves. He was smiling when he turned to Boromir, his eyes opening.

“That way!” he gestured down the slope of the hill, back toward the River.

Boromir frowned, then shrugged. Perhaps Halflings’ ears were keener than Men’s he thought. He could offer no better direction, so chose to run the way Frodo had pointed. Pacing himself, Boromir moved more slowly than he would like, knowing from their long journey together how to match Frodo to avoid leaving his companion behind in the woods.

The noises became louder as they ran and Boromir smiled as he saw the enemy through the woods. Orcs, he thought, but some new form. Larger, more fell, differently armed than ones he’d fought before.

Crashing through a thicket of brush into a clearing, he saw with shock that Pippin and Sam were standing back to back over a fallen Merry, the two Halflings fighting bravely despite being vastly outnumbered by the hulking orcs who surrounded them.

Grasping Frodo’s shoulder, Boromir pushed him back against a tree. “Stay here. Guard yourself,” he gasped, and plunged into battle.

As often happened in war, time seemed to stretch and fold around him, the sounds around him fading. He slew two from behind before the group, intent on the Halflings, realized he was there. Some turned to fight him, seeming clumsy and slow, while others moved closer to the Halflings. Bellowing a wordless challenge, Boromir tried to turn their attention to him but failed.

Despite the ones he killed, more were coming through the trees, splitting, some to fight him, others to stalk Pippin and Sam. They had been forced away from Merry who was slung over the shoulder of one of the orcs.

The stink of sweat and blood surrounded Boromir, a fog, as sweat ran stinging into his eyes.

Something was wrong here. The orcs seemed content to engage him one or at most two at a time. There were more than a dozen. Why were they not swarming him in a group?

It was impossible but Boromir thought they seemed almost reluctant to face him.

Pippin was knocked off his feet by one, the blade falling from his hand as he was snatched up by another and carried off, shrieking.

“Sam!” Loud and clear as a horn on an autumn hunt, Frodo’s voice rang out over the battle.

Slaying the orc in front of him, Boromir turned to see Sam grabbed by two orcs, one at each arm, and hauled up into the air like so much baggage. The orcs ran, the clatter of the pans tied to Sam’s pack sounding in their wake. The remaining orcs turned as one and ran after the ones bearing Sam.

Boromir realized the only orcs still in the clearing were dead or dying. He had never seen Orcs retreat from a battlefield as these had.

He stood panting, black blood dripping from his sword. The joy that took him in battle drained from his body, leaving him shaking.

Frodo ran after them, silent as a shadow under the trees.

“Frodo, you fool!’” Boromir nearly fell in his shock, stumbling forward, forcing himself to move as quickly as he could. Breath tearing at his lungs and his body aching, he ran. To lose Frodo now after all that had happened was unthinkable.

Frodo moved like quicksilver ahead of him, crying Sam’s name. Boromir began to fear Frodo might outpace him and catch the Orcs who seemed to wish to take Halflings prisoner rather than killing them.

Elven arrows pierced two of the Orcs and Boromir heard Gimli’s deep voice ringing through the forest.

“Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!”

The sturdy dwarf charged, hewing the legs out from under two orcs with economical strokes of his axe.

The flight of the Orcs faltered as several halted to fight Gimli. Others dropped in their tracks as grey arrows hissed through the air with fatal accuracy. Boromir could not even see Legolas.

Faltering, Frodo stood, sword falling from his hand, eyes searching the woods for his friends.

“Frodo!” Boromir saw that Frodo was apparently blind to the danger around him.

Then, as Boromir moved to defend Frodo, a final arrow flew toward the only Orc left standing. By luck or chance, the creature shifted so that its iron helm deflected the arrow which, as Boromir watched in horror, struck Frodo who dropped to the ground.

Frodo stood, Sting glowing in his hand, desperately searching the woods into which Sam and his cousins had disappeared. Taken by Orcs!

When Frodo had drawn Sting on the hillside, he’d felt warmth and strength flowing into his body from the glowing blade. His head had cleared. Whatever had happened with Boromir had slipped away. It wasn’t important. Aiding Sam and the others was.

But he had failed.

Frodo felt his strength draining from him, let the glowing blade, now darkening to mark his failure, rest on the ground which was rent from the battle and stinking of blood. Broken weapons and bodies lay around him.

He loved Merry and Pippin, and seeing them snatched from the ground by the clawed hands of Orcs had hurt Frodo deeply. But when Sam had been pulled away, the brown eyes under sandy curls seeming to stare into Frodo’s in accusation, Frodo had nearly fallen to the ground, screaming. Sam was the only one who could help—

“Frodo!”

Boromir’s voice tugged Frodo’s head around as if he was on a leash.

Stepping over and around the still bodies and parts of bodies, Boromir came toward Frodo, raised sword stained with black blood. His vambraces and leather tunic were splotched with more blood. A cut marred his cheek, and his hair was lank with sweat and blood. The green eyes watched Frodo closely as Boromir reached out to touch him.

Dizzy, Frodo tried to step back. He had to escape. Boromir would take the Ring. Stumbling on the uneven ground, he blinked as a dazzle of sun cut through the trees behind the warrior. The sun seemed blinding, striking Frodo like a weapon. He welcomed the darkness that rose to take him.

Darkness. Harsh voices cut through Frodo, pulling him from the haven of sleep.

“Will he recover?”

“I believe so. The wound is shallow. And Elves do not poison their arrows as Orcs do. Hand me that cloth.”

Frodo winced, crying out as pain blazed through his head.

“He’s waking!”

“Frodo, can you hear me?”

Turning his head, Frodo struck out, flailing, sweeping his arms wide and kicking as hard as he could. “No, no, you cannot have it,” he cried.

Strong hands grasped his wrists, pressed them to the ground.

Panting, Frodo twisted against the weight above him, his breathing shallow, rapid. He was lost.

He had lost his Precious!

He had failed. All would come to ruin.

“Frodo, please, let me tend you.”

Pulling as much air as possible into aching lungs, Frodo shrieked, arching up against his bonds. “Give it back!”

“Shhh, Frodo,” a deep voice soothed him. Gentle hands stroked his head, fingers trailing down his cheek, wiping away wetness. Frodo recognized Boromir’s voice.

“No one has stolen the Ring. You are safe. Let Aragorn heal you.”

Wary, Frodo stilled. The hands continued to stroke his head, but the other hands, the hard ones that pinned him down, released him.

Wrapping his arms around himself, Frodo shivered. He felt warm dampness on his face and tensed.

“I’m just cleaning blood away, Frodo. You were wounded. An arrow grazed your head.”

This time, Frodo recognized Aragorn’s voice and relaxed slightly. He reached up, blindly, seeking and was rewarded when the hand on his head, warm and strong, moved to clasp his.

“I’m here, Frodo, it’s all right.”

“There, can you open your eyes now?”

The warmth left his face and Frodo forced his eyes open, feeling as if his eyelashes were sealed together. He lifted his free hand to rub his eyes, then was able to see.

Aragorn knelt on one side of him, sitting back on his heels, holding a blood stained cloth in one hand. He too showed the marks of battle, blood matted in his beard, staining lips and chin, another wound showing on his upper arm through a rent in his sleeve.

On the other side, Boromir sat, leaning over Frodo, one hand resting on his head, the other holding Frodo’s.

Frodo swallowed, feeling the dryness in his mouth. He felt as if he had been beaten. Images jumbled in his head, Boromir, no the Orcs attacking him in the woods. They had fought. Boromir had hurt him. Boromir had defended him.

“What, what happened?”

“Hold his head.”

Boromir released Frodo’s hand and shifted to sit closer to his head, clasping it.

Aragorn dropped the bloody cloth and reached into a bowl next to him to pull out another cloth. He wrung the cloth out and laid it on Frodo’s head. He winced, feeling pain at the touch but recognizing the scent of athelas as water trickled down his skin.

“Orcs attacked.” Aragorn held the soft cloth against Frodo’s aching head, watching Frodo intently. “We were searching for you, in the woods, when the attack came.” Sighing, Aragorn shook his head. “Merry, Pippin and Sam had dashed off. They feared you were lost. I tried to keep them close to us, but it was as if some madness took them. They ran, shouting for you, into the woods. We lost them and were attacked ourselves. Later, although Legolas and Gimli found the Orcs who had captured them, it was too late. The Orcs escaped with our friends.”

Closing his eyes, Frodo gritted his teeth against the sorrow that threatened to burst from his chest. It was all his fault. He had failed them all.

The cloth lifted away. Frodo heard the splashing of water, smelled the freshness of the herb, and when the soft warmth was laid against his head again, felt the pain there begin to recede. Aragorn’s touch did nothing for the pain in his heart.

Frodo opened his eyes, stared into the blue ones above him. He had to know the worst. “Legolas and Gimli?”

“They are safe.” Aragorn smiled at him. “Although Legolas grieves that it was his arrow that struck you down. They are searching out the Orcs’ trail. Boromir rescued you in the woods and brought you here, where I found you both.”

Aragorn lifted the cloth away from Frodo’s head, dropped it into the bowl.

Frodo glanced to his other side where Boromir sat, hands warm on Frodo’s head.

Boromir smiled at him, releasing him, although one hand remained, stroking Frodo’s hair.

“You were wandering alone in the woods, Frodo. Do you remember what happened?”

“Not, not clearly,” Frodo wet his dry lips. So many nightmares since Gandalf died and Boromir had held Frodo back from the perilous chasm in Moria. So many dangers.

Boromir reached to grasp and hold Frodo. “If you would but lend me the Ring.” His sword dripped blood. He raised it over his head to kill the Orc before it reached Frodo.

Frodo shuddered, pushed the nightmare from his mind. Boromir had saved him. He swallowed, the taste of blood and tears catching in his throat.

“Is there water?”

“Here, Frodo.”

Aragorn uncapped his water bottle and held it to Frodo’s lips as Boromir lifted his head so Frodo could drink. The cool water flowed into his mouth, cleaning, soothing. It helped clear his head.

Frodo struggled to sit up. He felt trapped between the two Men, both covered in blood, swords lying close to hand. Their large bodies were too close, pressing against him. He could not move.

Warm hands supported him from behind.

Aragorn laid a hand on his shoulder, pressing down. “Wait, Frodo, let me bind your head first. The wound is not deep, but—”

Frodo jerked back, freeing himself from Aragorn’s grasp. It felt dangerous, somehow.

Behind him, Boromir supported him. “Wait a moment, Frodo.”

Relaxing against Boromir, Frodo shut his eyes. He felt the smoothness of salve on his skin, Aragorn’s touch gentle, almost hesitant. Then cloth wound around his head. A soft pat on his shoulder.

“There you go, Frodo.”

When Frodo opened his eyes, Aragorn was kneeling by the water’s side, washing his face. He stood, shaking his wet hair back, and went to his pack.

Boromir slid an arm around Frodo who leaned against him, suddenly deeply weary.

Aragorn pulled out another length of cloth, smeared salve on it, and awkwardly tied it around the cut on his arm.

Frodo and Boromir sat in silence until Aragorn turned back to them.

“We have to choose what to do,” he said. “Legolas and Gimli both believe we should pursue the Orcs.”

Frodo frowned. Of course they should. Sam and Merry and Pippin were taken. He opened his mouth to speak, but—

“Frodo should not be put in further danger,” Boromir said firmly. “He was nearly lost before. To drag him in pursuit of a company of Orcs who are behaving as these are would be folly. I have never seen Orcs fight in the light of day. These do. And no Orcs I have ever fought have taken taken captives, or retreated even when outnumbered, let alone when they have the superior force.”

Aragorn nodded. “This day is an evil one. I would not abandon the captives to torment and death, but I must guide Frodo to Mordor.”

“I think—” Frodo began, but was cut off again.

“We can do nothing until Legolas and Gimli return,” Boromir said, his arm tight around Frodo. “But I believe I can counsel you on what path we should take.”

Returning to where Frodo sat against the warmth of Boromir’s body, Aragorn dropped easily to the soft grass. “What would you have us do, Boromir?”

Boromir looked at Aragorn sitting in front of him, seeming ready to listen. He had expected Aragorn to retreat, as he had done before. The angry words they had exchanged the night before as the others slept sounded in Boromir’s mind.

I would not take the Ring within a hundred leagues of your city.

Aragorn had agreed to come to Minas Tirith at Elrond’s council, had sworn to bring the sword of Elendil to the defense of the city his fathers had founded. When Mithrandir had fallen in Moria, Aragorn had taken on the leadership of the company. Aragorn had changed since the wizard’s death. He had fallen away from his chosen task of defending Gondor to cleave more to Frodo. The change was ominous Boromir now understood. For was it Frodo that Aragorn cared for, or the Ring?

Feeling the warmth at his chest, Boromir realized that had the strange Orcs not attacked, the company would have followed Aragorn across Nen Hithoel to the eastern shore and started the long journey through the Emyn Muil. To assail the realm of Sauron by way of the Morannon, the great Gate that Gondor had built and allowed to fall into his hands, would have been folly even if they had ten thousand men.

Aragorn had not even considered the other road they might take, down the old portage way and further on the river, to Ithilien. He would rather take the Ring into the Dead Marshes than take the chance of drawing near to Boromir’s city. Aragorn wished to help Frodo, but Boromir realized that he would hinder him all unknowing. There was a better way.

“Boromir?” Aragorn’s voice pulled Boromir’s mind away from the picture of him and Frodo traveling toward Minas Morgul.

The glimmering of a plan surfaced. It was for the best, Boromir was sure.

“Think, Aragorn. The Orcs did not strive to take any of the rest of us captive. Why would the Orcs take only Halflings unless someone has realized they are important? The Orcs must be bringing them to someone who wants Halfings. And who would that someone be if not the Nameless Enemy or someone closely allied with him? Our plan has failed. What will Merry and Pippin and Sam endure before death if they are brought living before their captor? What will they reveal when their love and loyalty cannot stand against all the torment he can bring to bear on them?”

Frodo pressed closer to Boromir, grasping his arm, shaking him. “We must follow them,” he said, his voice urgent.

Shaking his head, Boromir continued. “Frodo, you are the Ringbearer. You were nearly taken in the woods. You cannot risk yourself. You must continue the quest.”

“You say that the captives must be rescued and that Frodo must go to Mordor. Must he go alone?”

Boromir felt himself turning red at the mocking note in Aragorn’s voice. “No,” he said shortly. “The Company has played its part. We must break our fellowship, some to follow the Orcs, others to continue the quest. It was never meant that all of us would travel to Mordor with Frodo, remember.”

Licking his lips, forcing himself to remain still, not to reach out as he had tried the night before, Boromir watched Aragorn closely. The intense blue eyes had left Boromir’s face. Aragorn sat at ease on the grass, but the movement of his hands, twisting the silver ring he wore, showed his tension.

“Much has changed since Rivendell,” Aragorn said. The mocking note had disappeared. His voice was low. “I do not know what Gandalf had planned. I had hoped that when I stood on Amon Hen I would see some sign that would guide us.”

“Did you see any sign?” Boromir frowned. He knew the old kings had set high seats on Amon Lhaw and Amon Hen to mark Gondor’s bounds and had kept watch there, but they had been long deserted. When he had stood on the hill speaking to Frodo, he had felt no connection to the land. All seemed a wilderness, the only signs of the past the scattered and moss-covered ruins.

But Aragorn might have the ability to see something more.

Aragorn shook his head. “Nothing save smoke. The skies were clouded. I had little time before I heard the cries of the Orcs. All our choices seem evil.”

The silence was broken only by the sound of wind across the water. Boromir breathed deeply, feeling Frodo trembling against him, then chanced all.

“We dare not delay. When Legolas and Gimli return, you should accompany them to save the Halflings. I will go with Frodo to Mordor.”

Aragorn’s head rose. He watched Boromir as a man watches an enemy over his sword blade. “No.

Frodo sat staring at Aragorn. Water trickled from his hair down his throat, down his chest, slicking the tanned skin where the green shirt gaped open. As Frodo watched, the water met the cloth, soaking into it, darkening it, the stain spreading toward Aragorn’s heart.

For the first time since Boromir had found Frodo in the woods, his mind was clear. His friends were in terrible danger, the two young cousins who had refused to allow him to leave the Shire alone, and Sam, dear Sam, the only one who truly knew him. The only one who—

“We dare not delay. When Legolas and Gimli return, you should accompany them to save the Halflings. I will go with Frodo to Mordor.”

“No.”

The single word cut Frodo like a knife. He gasped, felt himself falling forward, darkness towering over him like a huge wave. Pain crushed his heart, spread throughout his body.

As if through a distant window, he saw Sam’s broken body hurled from a high tower falling into a fiery abyss, watched from above as clawed beasts fought over Pippin’s bleeding flesh, chewing and slavering, while Merry, naked and tied to the ground nearby, writhed. One of the beasts lifted its head, attention caught by the frantic movements, then began to stalk him.

“Frodo.”

Warm hands held him, pulled him through darkness back into the light.

Opening his eyes, Frodo stared wildly, seeing Aragorn stooping over him.

“What happened?”

Frodo reached up, sinking his hands into Aragorn’s shirt, tugging him down, feeling the damp cloth over hard muscle. “You must save them, go, please, I beg you.”

“Frodo, what are you saying?” Aragorn tried to pull back but frantic, Frodo clung to him. He had to make him understand.

“You swore at the Inn that night to save us, by your life or death, you said. They’ll die if you don’t go. I saw.”

Aragorn’s hands covered Frodo’s and gently tried to loosen his grip. Frodo resisted until Boromir’s arms came around him, lifting him up and away from Aragorn to sit in Boromir’s lap.

“Let go, Frodo, please.”

Weeping, Frodo released Aragorn, who straightened, holding Frodo’s hands in his own.

“Merry and Pippin and Sam will not suffer torment and death,” Aragorn said. “Not as long as we have strength to save them. But Boromir could go with Legolas and Gimli while I—”

“No!” Frodo shuddered. The thought of Boromir leaving him drained all strength from his limbs. He felt as if he were dying as he fell back against the strong body behind him. “No,” he breathed. “Please.” Tears filled his eyes, and he pulled his hands out of Aragorn’s grasp to grip Boromir’s arm.

“Aragorn,” Boromir began only to be interrupted by a call from the woods.

“We have followed the trail which needed little skill to find.” Legolas came swiftly to join them, the great bow of Lotholorien in his hand, followed by Gimli who bore his bloodstained axe as if ready to strike.

Frodo wiped his face, feeling Boromir’s arm around him, watching Aragorn stand and turn to speak to the two hunters.

“They were moving west, swiftly. We must follow immediately or we will lose any chance to save them.”

“We must save the young hobbits,” Gimli growled. “I would have pursued them but Legolas refused.”

“I counted at least four dozen before they left our sight. More joined the ones who took the hobbits as they moved through the woods. There may be more still.”

“We could have taken them,” Gimli muttered into his beard.

“The hobbits were bound tightly and passed from Orc to Orc to carry. Their weight did not slow their captors.”

Aragorn shook his head, turning back, one hand reaching toward Frodo and Boromir.

“Boromir, will you not—”

Frodo felt Boromir’s body tense behind him. He hardly spoken since Aragorn had rejected his plan, and Frodo feared what he might say.

“You are the Ranger,” Frodo said as strongly as he could. “You are the only one who can save them from what will come.”

Aragorn frowned, but Frodo thought he was confused rather than angry.

“What did you see, Frodo?”

Shuddering, Frodo shut his eyes, but he could still see the pain and death. “I, it was, Sam burning. Pippin—” Frodo could not speak the unspeakable. Leaning forward, opening his eyes, Frodo tried again. “I saw what will happen if you fail. They will die. Please! Boromir will go with me. He knows the way!”

“We will rest a few hours, cross the lake under cover of darkness, and find our way through Emyn Muil,” Boromir said. “I do not know what hope we have to pass the Dead Marshes or the Black Gate, but by the Tree, I swear I will not abandon Frodo.”

Aragorn nodded. “I see evil in the wake of any choice I make,” he said. “But since you wish it, Frodo, I will try to save the captives. Come, then, Legolas and Gimli, if you will go with me. Leave all that can be spared behind. Carry only food and water. With hope or without it we will follow the trail of our enemies.”

Legolas and Gimli went to their packs.

Shakily, Frodo stood and went to Aragorn who knelt and set his hand on Frodo’s shoulder. Pain shot through him from the wound he had taken at Weathertop, but Frodo ignored it. “Thank you,” he said.

Aragorn kissed him on the forehead, lips warm. “Go with the blessings of all free people,” he said. Standing, Aragorn looked at Boromir, hands still on Frodo’s shoulder. “My heart fears what may come, Boromir. Keep your oath, son of Gondor.”

Boromir said nothing and, after a moment of silence, Aragorn turned and went to join Legolas and Gimli. Within a few minutes, bearing only food and water, the three hunters left. None looked back as they disappeared under the tangled branches of the trees.

Frodo shivered. The sun was setting and the shadow of Amon Hen crept over the grass moving toward the water. A chill wind seemed to rise. He stood, wondering what would come.

“Eat and rest, Frodo. We must wait for darkness.”

Boromir’s voice warmed Frodo. He looked up and smiled. The last light of the setting sun caught in Boromir’s hair, streaking it with gold, and the green eyes gleamed as he held out the leaf-wrapped lembas.

Frodo reached for the elven bread eagerly. He was not alone. Boromir was with him.

Smiling, Boromir watched Frodo devour the waybread, greedy as a child with a favourite food, eyes half closed in pleasure at the sweetness. Gondor had its own version of travel bread which Boromir had eaten for days on his trip to Imladris. Shuddering at the memory, Boromir remembered Gimli assuring the company that in this one thing the skills of the elves proved to be far above those of dwarves as well. One cake was enough keep Boromir on his feet for a long day’s march, but he had seen Pippin eat four at once. Offering Frodo another piece of lembas, Boromir smiled to see him snatch the food.

Frodo’s appetite was a good sign. Boromir felt no hunger himself at the moment, at least not for lembas. He wiped his hands on his leggings, the lingering smell from the leaf wrappings seeming to catch in his throat. They still had some dried meat and fruit which would let him save the elven food for Frodo.

Reminded, Boromir gazed at the campsite with a critical eye. The fire Gimli had lit earlier had burned to smoldering coals in its ring of stones. The packs and goods left behind lay scattered on the ground. He did not wish to leave such obvious signs of their presence to be seen by any who passed. Boromir set his water bottle down near Frodo, who nodded his thanks, and stood.

He searched the packs left by Aragorn and the others for food and found little. They had taken the waybread for ease of carrying. Merry and Pippin’s packs had been left at the camps as well, and Boromir found more food there including dried meat and fruit. He left their strange dried herb untouched, seeing no use for it. After a moment’s thought, he took their waterbottles and blankets as well. They would not need them, but Frodo and he might.

He packed the supplies into his and Frodo’s pack and prepared them for travel. It was the work of a few moments to douse the smoldering coals with water and cover them with earth. He gathered all the goods they did not need and could not carry and laid them beneath one boat under the shelter of the trees.

Returning to the beach, he knelt and took a few moments to wash the worst of the blood from his face and arms. Hair damp against his face and neck, he stood to push the second of the three boats from the beach out onto the pale water. The boat drifted a few moments before the current took it.

Boromir stood watching the silver-grey boat move over the water. It disappeared into the dazzle of foam and light as Rauros took it. Boromir blinked, dizzy, as he had a strange vision of the boat somehow surviving the force of the falls, breasting the water to ride the River lightly through the Wetwang, past Osgiliath, and down to the Great Sea at night under the stars, the Sea from which Elendil and his sons had come, borne safely ahead of the great wave that took Númenor.

Shaking his head, Boromir turned away from the River. They had no time for such dreaming. The day was darkening into evening as the sun sank behind the high cliffs. Bromir returned to Frodo. Their bulging packs, neatly trussed, sat near him. They would take the remaining boat to travel down the River. Together.

Frodo smiled at him but Boromir thought he looked tired.

“Could you sleep a while, Frodo, if I watch?”

Yawning, Frodo nodded.

“Here, then.”

Boromir sat at the base of a large tree, leaning back against it, stretching his legs. The grass was soft under him, and the wind had fallen with sunset. All was quiet, and Boromir could see a pale star in the eastern sky. “Come. Lie by me.”

The dark brows drew together as Frodo watched him, seeming to hesitate.

Boromir held out his hand, smiling. “Come to me, Frodo. You need rest before we start the next part of our journey.”

Frodo rose and walked slowly toward Boromir, hesitating, but finally he put his hand in Boromir’s. Boromir guided him to sit then lie back, resting his head on Boromir’s thigh. Boromir cast the corner of his cloak over Frodo for additional warmth, and set his hand on Frodo’s chest.

“Sleep now and dream of our friends,” Boromir said softly. “All will be well. I promise you. I will take care of you.”

The eyelids sank, then opened, almost as if Frodo was struggling against sleep. Boromir stroked his hand over the small chest, hoping he could relax and sleep. Frodo’s eyes closed, his breath sighing out, his whole body relaxing as he had earlier in Boromir’s lap. One small hand crept up to rest on top of Boromir’s as Frodo’s head tilted back on Bormir’s leg. His breathing slowed to that of slumber.

Boromir rested his head against the trunk behind him. Shadows hid Frodo’s face but Boromir could remember the jewel-like beauty from earlier as Frodo had looked up at him, trusting.

It had been a long day, but Boromir felt in no danger of sleeping. His body tingled, all his senses alert. He felt he could see more clearly in the darkness than before. He would let Frodo rest and then they would start down the old portage way. He thought he and Frodo together could carry their boat although the way was steep and rough.

For Boromir felt stronger than he ever had before.

Frodo relaxed against the strong warmth of Boromir. His sudden fear drained from him. The Ring had tried to trick him one last time. After Lothlorien, as they moved closer to Mordor, carried inexorably forward on the wide Anduin, Frodo had begun to feel as if the Ring was watching him. He feared some fell purpose was awakening in it and wondered uneasily if it could act.

He had not dared speak of his feeling to anyone, not even to Sam. Instead, Frodo would lie awake at night, holding the Ring, watching it. Even on the darkest of nights before the waxing moon rose, the Ring seemed to gleam with its own light.

Yawning, Frodo felt his heavy eyelids drifting shut. Cool darkness soothed the burning in his eyes. He was so tired. It was safe to sleep now, with Boromir watching over him. And the Ring.

Frodo’s hand settled on his chest, travel-worn cloth smooth against his palm, the hard roundness of the Ring distinct underneath the layers of clothing. Frodo pressed down, grasping the Ring through the cloth. He would not let the Ring fool him further. Sleep would help. A wave of darkness rose and took him.

“Frodo! Frodo, wake up!”

Frodo twisted, trying to pull his blanket over his head. He’d just fallen asleep. He was too tired. Aragorn couldn’t expect him to—how could it be Aragorn calling!

Sitting eagerly, casting his cloak back, Frodo opened his eyes, squinting in the hot golden sunlight that ringed them.

Aragorn was standing in front of him, travel-stained and weary, but smiling. He extended his hand, the silver ring on his finger catching the light, gleaming.

“Look, Frodo!”

Behind him, Merry and Pippin and Sam clustered, arms reaching toward Frodo, faces beaming despite the cuts and bruises.

He leaped up, crying for joy, and they hugged him, standing around him in a tight circle.

Legolas and Gimli were there, Gimli with a blood-stained bandage tied rakishly around his head, Legolas lamenting the loss of his arrows. He undid the leather straps, slid his quiver off and set it down. The empty quiver and the bright metal circles of the buckles caught Frodo’s eye, but then Sam grabbed him into a hug to tell him how clever Pippin had been taking his chance to cut his bonds. And Merry had food in his pockets. They’d escaped!

Even before the others had caught up with the Orcs.

“Your stories will be a wonder among the hobbits,” Frodo said, laughing and crying.

Eventually, Aragorn had called them to a council. They had to consider what path they would take. They sat in a circle on the soft grass to talk.

Boromir sat across from Frodo, smiling. He had cast off his cloak and leather surcoat in the golden heat of the day. The red silk of his tunic gaped open at his throat, and Frodo found his eyes drawn to the chain mail gleaming on his body and arms. So intricate. The small rings of metal woven one into the other, each circle joining other circles, no ending or beginning. The patterns teased his eyes, beguiled him as he sat, warm in the sunlight and the love of his friends.

Birds sang and the wind cooled his brow. Frodo had paid so little attention to the maps in Rivendell that he was content to be guided by those were older and wiser, those who knew these lands. He let their talk wash over him.

He was tired even though he had slept the full night and morning away.

He shifted, uneasy. Why had Boromir let him sleep so long?

Aragorn stood, hand on the hilt of Andúril, and came to kneel in front of Frodo, putting a hand on Frodo’s shoulder. He looked into the blue eyes ringed with gold.

“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.”

“But, but where will you be?” Frodo was bewildered, dazzled by the golden light that shone on, or from, Aragorn.

“As we followed the trail of the Orcs, we met a company of the Horse-Lords, the Rohirrim. Their leader had ill news of their King, Théoden. He is being poisoned by a wizard. They gave us aid to help us save our friends, and gifted us with horses. Now I see that we must go to their aid. We will wait until nightfall and then go west, to Rohan. If I can heal Théoden, he will muster the Rohirrim and ride to Gondor. We will bring an army to the defense of Gondor and to attack Mordor. That will keep Sauron blind to you and Boromir who will travel south, through the hidden ways of Ithilien, and enter Mordor through the Morgul Vale. That way is sure to be less guarded. This is the best way, Frodo.”

Nodding, Frodo agreed. He could trust Aragorn. The rest of that golden afternoon was spent with his friends, sharing stories and songs, binding wounds and sharing a last day together before the final parting.

Then at dusk, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli each mounted a horse, setting a hobbit behind them, and left Frodo and Boromir to rest before beginning the long journey south.

Standing in the darkening air, Frodo watched his friends leave, hearing the last clatter of Sam’s pans, Pippin’s high voice calling a final farewell, the steady beat of the great horses’ hooves.

Frodo blinked away tears. Boromir knelt beside him, holding Frodo in the circle of his arms. “Sleep for a while, Frodo,” he said.

Frodo curled up beside Boromir, the Ring weighing more heavily than it had for some time, and slept. When he woke, they would begin the next stage of their journey.

“Frodo, Frodo wake up!”

Opening his eyes, Frodo saw the stars clustered thickly above him, brightly shining in the dark sky. Low on the horizon, a pale young moon could not match the stars’ light which comforted Frodo.

“It is time, Frodo.”

Yawning, Frodo stretched and stood up. It was time. He could travel safely with Boromir down the River to Ithilien, knowing that all was well with the rest of their company.

“What is Ithilien like?” Frodo asked as they donned their packs and carried their boat along the beach to the old portage way. He stifled a sigh, thinking of how sore he was going to be before morning. The portage at Sarn Gebir had been difficult. This, he thought, would be punishing from what Boromir had said at the council earlier.

“It is green and beautiful,” Boromir said as they began walking under the stars. “A garden. You will love it, Frodo.”

Boromir took off his elven cloak, folding it several times, and laid it in the bow of the elven boat. “Rest here, Frodo.”

“I can help paddle,” Frodo said, his hand pressed against his chest.

Behind them, the Falls of Rauros roared unceasing. The air was heavy with moisture, the land and water mingling, stitched together with the rushes that grew everywhere.

They had spent the day sleeping and would begin their first night’s travel soon. The last light of the day shone on Frodo. Perhaps that was the reason for the hectic flush on his cheeks and neck and the brightness of his stare, but Boromir feared not.

Their climb down the steep portage way had been hard on Frodo who had fallen several times. He seemed unwilling to use both hands fully, one always slipping back to his chest, pressing against it.

“You look ill. The fens and marshes of the Wetwang breed sickness like flies. You dare not risk a fever. Sleep—the River will bear us, and you will be stronger when we have to leave it.”

Frodo shook his head, and Boromir knelt beside him, a hand on his shoulder. “You must rest, Frodo.”

Finally, yawning, a reluctant Frodo agreed. Wrapping himself in his elven cloak, he settled into the boat, stretching out on the folded cloak. Boromir slid the boat onto the darkening water, climbed carefully in. Picking up the leaf-shaped paddle, he began paddling. He was not familiar with this part of Gondor, but if he remembered the maps he had seen, it would take them at least seven nights to reach Minas Tirith. Perhaps more.

On the fourth evening after the Orcs had attacked the company, Boromir and Frodo were preparing to start that night’s travel. A chill wind sighed through the rushes, a sad sound, Boromir thought as he trussed the packs and picked them up, one in each hand. He hoped the stars would not be veiled since they were his only guide in the complex web of streams and waters that ran from the Entwash into the Anduin. He felt more and more strongly that they must come to the City quickly or they would not come at all. Some threat loomed over Gondor.

A hissing shriek and a cry pulled Boromir’s head around. He dropped the packs, drawing his sword, and turned, frantic. He could see nothing of Frodo!

Searching the shadows along the riverbank, Boromir first saw the thrashing among the rushes, clear evidence of a struggle. He moved forward, sword ready. He saw a hobbit foot flailing, a sight he would recognize anywhere, and pushed forward to see the fight behind the masking rushes.

Frodo rolled on the ground, fighting another. No Orc surely, the wiry figure wound around Frodo was too small for that. It bore no weapon, wore nothing but an old cloth twisted around its loins.

Shouting, Frodo tore free, trying to push it away. As the creature’s face came into view, Boromir realized it was the one he and Aragorn had seen at night along the river.

“Thiefs, Baggins, you stole it, give it back, give it back!” the creature’s voice hissed and shrieked, agile hands ripping and clawing aside Frodo’s coat and vest. “Where is it, thief? We wants it, yes we does.”

Hissing and cursing, the creature grabbed Frodo by the throat, long fingers tightening.

Frodo’s choked gasp broke through Boromir’s confusion, and he strode forward, shouting a challenge.

The ugly thing released Frodo and leaped, twisting in mid-air, off him to land facing Boromir. It crouched on all fours, fangs gleaming.

“What iss it, my Preciouss?”

Frodo lay still.

Boromir advanced, sword held low.

A green light flamed in the creature’s eyes as it growled, “That’s the thief, gollum, gollum!”

More quickly than Boromir would have believed possible, the thing leaped at his throat.

Exultant, the Ring blazed against Boromir’s chest, golden fire shooting through his body, as he brought up his sword, stepping back, desperate to avoid Gollum’s clutching hands.

Gollum shrieked as Boromir’s blade slid into his belly, gripped it with both hands, and fell to his knees. In almost perfect harmony, Frodo shrieked as well, arching up and over, his body spasming.

Horrified, Boromir tugged the blood-streaked sword out of the creature’s body, but it was not dead. Eyes half-lidded, glowing faintly, it fell forward, hands scrabbling at the mud of the riverbank, keening a last word as it thrashed.

“Mine!”

Stepping well around the twitching body, Boromir fell on his knees beside Frodo who was lying face-down in the mud.

“Frodo!”

Boromir set his sword down beside him, unwilling to sheathe it, and gently turned Frodo. His pale face was streaked with mud and tears, his eyes and mouth open. He was panting, ragged breaths tearing through the small body, and his eyes stared blindly past Boromir.

Gently wiping Frodo’s face with his palm, Boromir laid his hand on Frodo’s head, calling his name softly. With each breath, some of the tension went out of Frodo’s body.

Finally, he seemed to see Boromir. He blinked.

Voice hoarse from his cries, he spoke so softly Boromir had to bend closer to hear him. “Will you kill me too?”

The words cut Boromir deeper than any wound he could recall. He 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 before he spoke.

“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.”

Frodo drifted.

An Orc raised its blade, snarling, fangs dripping blood onto Frodo’s face.

The Orc turned into Sam, jubilant after killing his first Orc in Moria, the cut on his head bleeding, dripping onto Frodo’s face, trickling down his chest.

Frodo lifted his hand to wipe away the golden blood.

A warm hand clasped his wrist. “No, Frodo. Rest. Sleep.”

Comforted, he slept.

Helpless, Frodo lay on the ground seeing Boromir above him, jubilant, smiling, teeth gleaming against his beard, as he raised the Ring and slipped the chain over his head.

Clasping the Ring in one hand, golden light bleeding through his fingers, he set his other hand on Frodo’s chest. The weight of the mailed hand was greater than the mace which had struck him down in Moria, was forcing the air from his lungs.

Gasping, Frodo opened his mouth, straining to breathe, and Boromir bent over him, his mouth opening.

“No!” Frodo knew the sound of his cry could barely be heard. He struggled to breathe.

A warm hand stroked down his chest. “Sleep, Frodo.”

The deadly blade slid through his body, pain bleeding through him in a wash of golden light. Frodo felt himself fall, dimly aware of wetness spreading around him, as the blade was pulled out. Almost grateful, he fell into the warm darkness waiting for him.

“Frodo! Frodo, wake up!”

Turning his head, Frodo tried to pull the darkness back around him. A hard hand patted his face, an urgent voice calling his name, pulled him back into light.

Forcing his eyes open, he saw Boromir leaning over him. Where was Aragorn?

Swallowing the dryness in his throat, Frodo forced the words out. “Will you kill me too?”

“Declare yourself and your errand,” the tall man clad in green and brown said sternly. He was standing with a band of others who were dressed and armed as he was.

Boromir sighed and stood, keeping his hand well away from his sword, mindful of the arrows trained on him. The skill of the Rangers who patrolled Ithilien and manned the island of Cair Andros with their great bows was the pride of Minas Tirith.

He stepped forward, moving from the shadow of the trees, into the light, hoping Frodo would not wake. A sudden movement from something as unusual as a Halfling could lead to grave consequences. Boromir did not recognize the leader of the Rangers, but the man’s grey eyes widened as he saw the great horn that hung at Boromir’s side and looked again at his face.

“My lord! You have returned!”

Boromir relaxed as the bows around him were lowered.

The days since Parth Galen had blurred as Boromir and Frodo traveled down the Anduin. Here on the plains, the River spread, its current slow and wandering. On the morning of the seventh day, as far as Boromir could tell, he had seen the towering cliffs of Cair Andros in the pre-dawn light, foaming water white around its base where the River parted to flow around the island.

He had sighed. Leagues left to go then. He had hoped to be home by now.

Paddling strongly to take them out of the current which was strengthening, he had driven the boat up on the western shore. They could eat and rest.

Frodo was sleeping heavily, wrapped in all their blankets and both cloaks. As had become common since Boromir had killed the creature Gollum, Frodo did not wake easily. He seemed to wish to take refuge in sleep, curling in on himself, reluctant to wake. Only food could tempt him from what Boromir feared was an unnatural sleep.

And after he had washed and eaten, Frodo fell quickly back into sleep, one marred often by what seemed to be fearful dreams that made him cry out.

Boromir regretted Frodo’s illness, if illness it was. He could not stand a turn at watch. The one time Frodo had tried, Boromir had wakened well after dark to feel the warm weight of a Halfling curled up against him.

Fortunately, Boromir was able to travel through the night and doze lightly, sleeping in short naps, waking at the least sound, during the day. He had comforted himself with the thought that they had seen no other sign of the the enemy on the western shore.

This morning had been full of the soft sounds of water, wind and the birds that nested along the banks. Boromir had thought it would be safe enough, under the shadow of Cair Andros. Perhaps the thought that he was so close to a fortress of Gondor had lulled him into deeper sleep than previously. He had not heard the Rangers until he was challenged.

They had been found within an hour or two of sunset. Their journey would now be delayed, Boromir thought as he endured the welcome of the soldiers of Gondor.

The smiling greetings and demands for news had stilled quickly when Boromir asked for help for his companion, a Halfling, yes, the one in spoken of in the dream. The Rangers had moved quickly. Leaving the elven boat for their own, they had taken Boromir and Frodo back to the island with them, brought them to a quiet room in the fortress, and sent the Healer to them.

The Healer stepped back from the bed upon which Frodo lay, frowning.

“I am not certain, my lord,” the man in the grey robes said slowly. “It could be a fever. Those who travel through the Wetwang often suffer from such. We have healing draughts for the fever that we know work on Men. But what their effect might be on a Halfling, I do not know.”

Boromir sighed, rubbing his aching head. Mithrandir had said once that Men and Halflings might be related, but what use was that now.

“They eat and drink as we do,” Boromir said. “Albeit often more heartily. He has been suffering like this for days, now. I fear that doing nothing may be dangerous.”

The Healer nodded, stood a few moments longer, considering the still form before him. Light from the candles set on the table by the bed flickered in a breath of wind from the open window. Behind the Healer, the shadows danced on the wall.

“I will give him the fever draught, but I want to give him smaller doses, and more often, than I would give a man, more as I would treat a woman or a child. No matter how much he eats, the Halfling’s size is closer to that of a a child of ten year or so. He must have repeated doses during the night if we hope to break the fever. Let me take him to the sickroom where I can care for him. Bathing him in cool water could help as well.”

The man moved forward and bent to lift Frodo from the bed, but Boromir grasped his arm.

“No.”

Wincing, the Healer stood. “You will be eating with the commander, and must sleep, my lord. Let me take him.”

Boromir’s grip tightened, wringing a gasp from the man before he stepped back, bowing his head.

“Bring the healing draught here,” Boromir said quietly, forcing himself to release the man. “You will instruct me in what dose to give and how often it should be given. Then you will send my regrets to the commander. I must care for my companion. It is more important than any of you can realize. And for good or ill, we will be leaving Cair Andros tomorrow.”

Massaging his arm, the Healer nodded. He left the room, saying nothing further.

Frodo sighed, fretful, his hands restless on the bed, shifting onto his chest. Boromir sat on the bed beside him, laying his hand firmly over Frodo’s. The Healer could provide the healing draught, Boromir thought, but only he could take care of Frodo.

A knock on the door startled Boromir who jerked awake. For a moment, he stared, his heart pounding, at the stone walls which closed around him, then relaxed. He’d slept a moment, beside Frodo.

Standing, Boromir stretched. “Enter,” he said.

The door opened to show the Healer, carrying a flask and a small cup, standing behind another man who carried a large basin with care.

“Set it down on the table, there,” the Healer said. Then, speaking no more than was necessary and avoiding Boromir’s eyes, the Healer filled the small cup and deftly tipped the dose down Frodo’s throat.

“Every second bell, my lord. I will take your message to the commander.” The Healer set the flask and cup down beside the basin, bowed shortly, and turned to go.

Boromir watched the two men leave, then shrugged as he turned back to Frodo.

Their rudeness was unimportant.

Boromir bent over the bed and began to undress Frodo. He did not respond as Boromir unbuttoned and pulled the small jacket, vest, and shirt off. His breathing seemed easier which gave Boromir hope.

The mithril shirt was difficult to remove from the limp body. Trying to tug it off over Frodo’s arms with one hand as he struggled to hold him up with the other, Boromir could almost wish the Healer had stayed to help. But finally, the shirt of silver rings pulled free, and Boromir lowered Frodo gently back down onto the clean linen.

He seemed almost to shine in the candlelight. Boromir saw the scar on his shoulder, skin puckered slightly around what looked to be a knife wound, but except for that, his body seemed perfect. Dark hair, brows, and eyelashes set off the whiteness of his skin, but Halflings apparently had no hair on their bodies. Lying on the large bed, Frodo looked almost a human child, except for the hairy feet.

Boromir hesitated. Yet the Healer had said that bathing Frodo would help. So Boromir unbuttoned the trousers and tugged them free, lifting each leg in turn.

Shaking out the small garments, Boromir draped them over the back of a chair. They were damp from sweat and travel along the River and would be the better for airing overnight.

Turning to the table, Boromir picked up the soft cloth lying next to the bowl, dipped it in the water and wrung out the excess. The coolness of the water soothed him, and he began to wash Frodo, starting with his face, then lifting each limb in turn.

Frodo sighed, his body seeming to relax into the softness of the bed.

Dipping the cloth again, Boromir smoothed it over shoulders and chest, seeing how the small pink nipples hardened under the rasp of the cloth before it moved down down over arch of ribs to the belly.

Really, Frodo’s body was not like a child’s, Boromir thought absently. It did not have the unformed roundness a child’s had. Instead, looking beyond the soft white skin and the small size revealed arms and legs and chest which showed fully developed muscles, no surprise perhaps given how he and the others had kept pace with men and elf and dwarf on the journey from Imladris.

His hand sliding lower, Boromir saw how Frodo’s body responded as no child’s would to the touch of his hand behind the soft cloth. Pulling away, biting his lip and turning hastily to the bowl, Boromir dropped the cloth beside it and blew out all the candles save one.

He would rest until it was time to give Frodo his draught. The bell which sounded regularly would wake him if he slept.

Boromir slid his own clothes off, fumbling with the laces of his tunic and leggings, angry at his own clumsiness. He tossed them over the chair, and washed, the water cool on his face and body. He was not hungry.

Frodo had turned, burrowing into one of the large pillows, and Boromir was heartened to see what seemed a more natural sleep. He slid into bed beside Frodo, pulling the bedding over them. The small flame of the candle burned steadily on the table beside the bed, pooling around the flask and cup.

It seemed natural to slide one arm over Frodo as they lay together, pulling the warm body close to his own, protecting him.

Frodo shivered.

He was cold, so cold. Wet. Drowning. Alone.

Or perhaps not.

He seemed to see faces, all of men, shouting. First in sunlight, in joy, so many of them, standing shoulder to shoulder, mail-clad, in streets of stone. Their joy seemed strange to Frodo because around them were ruins, buildings with gaping holes in walls and roofs.

“For Gondor!”

Then, as if a wave of darkness snuffed the joy, the cheering men disappeared. Orcs and beasts prowled the streets, mail clad forms lying silent, unmoving. Darkness covered the sky. A white flag with a silver tree lay crumpled in the mud.

And somewhere behind the darkness, something stirred, snarling. Cold gloating gnawed at Frodo’s bones. Somewhere, an Eye searched for him.

Twisting, Frodo cried out against that terrible joy. Never! You will never have me!

Frodo woke, suddenly, sweating. Panting, he pushed against the weight that held him down.

Where was he?

Blinking, Frodo realized he was lying on his side, warm and comfortable, on a large bed. A soft light from a single candle on a table nearby gilded white linens and grey stone walls. A flask and a silver cup were beside the candle which had dripped a long stream of wax down its side.

Looking down, Frodo could see a large arm, pale skin under gold hair, strongly muscled, draped over him. When he turned his head, Frodo saw Boromir lying close behind him, head pillowed on his other arm, curled around Frodo, sound asleep.

They were both naked.

That thought came and left Frodo’s mind as light flickered from the gold Ring that hung on a chain around Boromir’s neck, against the smooth skin of his chest, rising and falling as he breathed deeply.

Frodo turned under the heavy weight, reached out to touch the Ring.

A bell sounded, ringing loud and clear in Boromir’s ears.

“For Gondor!”

The men thronging the ruined streets of Osgiliath below cheered with him, voices ringing out in a harmony of resistance and joy, a challenge to Mordor and the evil that threatened the world. Standing high above them, Gondor’s flag beside him, Boromir felt the power rising in him like a gold tide. He could lead these men anywhere!

A moment of dizziness overcame him, and Boromir swayed, shutting his eyes.

He would go down, have a drink with his men. Today was a good day.

When he opened his eyes, Boromir was riding at the head of an army. As he looked at those men closest to him, his breath stopped. They seemed to be men of Gondor, but their armor did not shine in the sun. A sickly gleam like the false light of the marshes hovered over armor and the weapons that were rusted, corroding but still deadly.

Shadows surrounded them, the sky dark above Boromir’s head. These men did not speak or laugh, their eyes were fixed, their skin blotched, bleeding.

Ahead, a gleam of sunlight heartened Boromir. But when he rose in his saddle to look, he saw what was arrayed against him was an enemy that was not the host of Mordor.

What stood across his army’s path was a small host of Elves and Dwarves, with a scattering of Halflings, yes, and a few men who reminded Boromir of Aragorn. Boromir’s army saw their enemy and cried out, foul sounds without words that somehow spoke of pain and of a pleasure in others’ pain.

Boromir tried to speak, to order the evil that he led to halt, but the words that came from his mouth were in a language he did not recognize, the sounds so foul that they seemed to blight the earth.

He could not order even his own body to stop and, helpless, Boromir was carried forward to the slaughter of the Free People of Middle-earth.

Boromir woke, hearing the dying echoes of his shout, seeing the shocked blue of Frodo’s eyes as he recoiled.

Swallowing, his throat dry, Boromir pushed hair out of his eyes and sat, reaching to touch Frodo.

“Are you all right?”

The forehead under Boromir’s fingers was cool, dry. He lifted his hand and smiled at Frodo.

“I don’t know, yes, I think so. Where are we? What day is it?”

Frodo’s voice was low, hoarse from disuse, but he looked more alert than he had while awake for some days. He sat, the bedding pooling around him.

“Cair Andros.”

Seeing the frown on Frodo’s face, Boromir realized the name would make no sense to Frodo. “One of Gondor’s guardposts, an island. You were ill, Frodo, with a fever. What do you recall of our journey down the river? It has been at least seven days since we left the others.”

Frodo looked down, smoothing one hand across the linens. “I do not recall. I think I dreamed,” he said, hesitating between each word.

Dreams. Boromir shuddered at the memory of his dream, his heart pounding as if he had been running. Or fighting.

He made himself breathe deeply, deliberately gentled his voice. “Such dreams cannot harm us,” he said. “Do not fear them.” Remembering the bell that had wakened him and looking at how much of the candle had burned down, he said, “The Healer left a healing draught for you. It’s broken your fever, I think, but he said you should take it throughout the night. Here.”

Boromir leaned over and behind Frodo, picked up the flask and filled the small cup, then sat back on the bed, offering the cup to Frodo.

In the quiet of the room, in the dim light, Boromir saw that Frodo was sitting as still as one of the statues that lined the Hall of the Citadel, his eyes fixed on Boromir’s chest, pupils dark, enlarged. His cheeks were flushed, the pink lips parted, the small chest rising and falling quickly.

Slowly, one hand lifted, reaching, as Frodo leaned forward, intent on the Ring.

“No, Frodo,” Boromir said, wrapping his free hand gently around Frodo’s wrist.

Surprised at how strongly Frodo pushed against his hand, struggling to reach the Ring, Boromir tightened his grip.

“We agreed that I would help you bear this burden for a short while. You have been ill. I think you would have died had I not done so.”

“I am better now,” Frodo said, voice lower, more intense. “It is my burden.” He reached out with his other hand, fingers curled into claws, grasping.

Flinching back, Boromir dropped the cup to grasp Frodo’s reaching hand, feeling the liquid soaking into the linen under him.

“Give it to me!”

Frodo lunged to his knees, hands scrabbling in the air, fighting to take the Ring.

Twisting, Boromir reversed his effort and pulled Frodo forward instead of trying to push him away, tugging the straining Halfling over Boromir’s legs, to pin him.

“Mine!” Frodo panted, over and over, as Boromir held him. With some effort, Boromir pulled Frodo’s wrists together, holding them in one hand, using the other to hold the jerking body down.

Wincing, Boromir felt the Ring blazing against his skin, seeming to exult at the conflict between the two Ringbearers. Suddenly, the power seemed to drain from Frodo, and he went limp against Boromir, weeping. Cautious, Boromir waited a few moments, the fire in his body subsiding, trying to ignore the ache between his legs, then released Frodo’s wrists and turned him over.

Smoothing a hand down the heaving chest, Boromir waited until Frodo opened his eyes, blinking, like a child after a nightmare. His pupils had returned to normal.

“Can you take your draught now?”

Frodo nodded.

Boromir helped him to sit, searched the bedding for the cup, and filled it again.

“Here,” he said, holding it to to Frodo’s mouth.

Grímacing, Frodo gulped it down. Silent, he let Boromir set the cup back on the table, pull the bedding straight, and gently push him back and down to lie on the large pillow.

“Sleep, Frodo,” Boromir said.

Frodo’s eyes closed and he lay still.

Boromir watched over him until his breathing deepened, then lay down himself, keeping an arm’s length between them. This night would be long.

They slept.

Frodo turned, one hand moving forward to touch, then clasp the Ring.

Frodo set down his empty plate. He was full and happy. The meal had been wonderful, all his favourite foods. Empty dishes and goblets were scattered about on the grass, only a few crumbs of the feast remaining, and the courtyard looked like a plundering army had gone through, a remarkably hungry one.

Next to him Boromir was lying on his back, head pillowed on his arm, wearing a tunic of his favourite red, the heavy silk embroidered with the emblem of the city, gold rings, a host of them, so many Frodo could not count. The gold hair shone in the sun, loose on the grass.

After so much turmoil and grief, the peace that Boromir had finally brought to Middle-earth had finally left him time to enjoy life, Frodo thought fondly, watching him sprawled on the grass in only tunic and leggings, no need for the armour and weaponry of months past.

The others were close as well. Legolas and Sam were working among the rosebushes. Gimli was talking to Merry and Pippin as they strolled among the flowers. All his friends who’d helped him on his journey. And closest, reaching lazily out to stroke his head, was Boromir.

The warm hand slid through his curls, circled his neck.

“Are you happy, Frodo?” The deep voice made Frodo shiver with pleasure, gold fire curling in his belly. He could feel himself hardening just at the sound of his name in Boromir’s mouth. And then, beyond all his hopes, the hand tugged him down.

“Yes,” he said, leaning forward, eager to taste what was offered, the mouth beneath his rich and sweet. Breathless from the long, ardent kiss, Frodo paused a moment, only a moment, to breathe, “Oh, yes.”

“Oh, yes,” Frodo half breathed, half sighed.

Boromir’s hand covered Frodo’s.

Warm lips pressed Boromir’s mouth open, the tip of a tongue, teasing, darted between. Sweetness.

Drowsy, Boromir blinked. Had he overslept, dreaming deeply enough to not hear the bell? Did Frodo need him?

“Please,” a whisper, breath sliding over Boromir’s skin. He shuddered, opened his eyes.

Frodo bent over him, hands on his shoulders, blue eyes intent behind tumbled curls.

“What?” Boromir stirred, but Frodo slid his hands up, tangling his fingers in Boromir’s hair, sliding then lying across Boromir’s chest. He swallowed, feeling the hardening between his legs, slid an arm around Frodo, feeling the soft skin heat under his hand.

“Frodo?”

“Please, take me,” Frodo kissed him again, urgent, the movements of his mouth and body against Boromir’s sending golden waves flashing through him.

He could not speak, but as he opened his mouth to Frodo’s seeking tongue and tightened his arms around the lithe body, he thought, “Oh, yes.”

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.”

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.

A slam jolted Frodo. He blinked, confused, turning his head to see Boromir standing with his back to the door, leaning against it, his hands pressed against his eyes.

Squirming, Frodo tried to see if there was food. He could not see the table.

“Boromir?”

A moment passed, then Boromir’s hands dropped, and he shook his head sharply, several times.

He looked at the bed. The dim light cast by the one lamp in the room meant that much of it was in shadow. Yet Boromir seemed to have more trouble seeing Frodo than he should.

“What?”

Frodo thought Boromir looked ill. His voice sounded different.

“Are you ill?”

Boromir shook his head again, pushed his hair out of his eyes, then straightened. “No. No. Not ill.”

He crossed the room slowly, eyes focused on the floor in front of him, moving as if he was trying to cross the icefields of Caradhras in a high wind. He stopped beside the bed, standing near the post to which Frodo’s feet were tied, and undressed, dropping his clothing on the floor. His leggings seemed to give him particular trouble.

Wary, Frodo said nothing about food.

Straightening, Boromir licked his lips. “Have to sleep, Frodo.” He pulled the bedding away, and blinked

“Oh.”

Silence. Frodo watched as Boromir stood, holding the bedding in one hand, frowning. Something was wrong.

“Could, could you untie me?”

Silence. Frodo held his breath, but finally, Boromir nodded, dropped the bedding, and moved around the bed. When he leaned over Frodo to tug on the knots around his wrists, the heavy smell of wine told Frodo what was wrong. Relieved, he lay still, eyes half closed, as Boromir worked to undo the knots. It took him considerably longer than it had to tie them, but, finally, Frodo sighed as first his arms then his legs were freed. He sat, rubbing his arms, then his legs, watching Boromir pick the pillows up from the floor and try to restore the bedding to some order.

Finally, Boromir half-sat, half-fell, rolling into bed, reaching out to slide an arm around Frodo’s waist and pull him over and down next to him.

“Sleep, Frodo,” he mumbled, eyes closed, hair falling over his face.

Frodo curled up next to the warm body, tensing as Boromir wrapped both arms around him. When Boromir made no other movement, Frodo spoke softly. “Boromir?”

“Hmmmm?”

“Where is Sting?”

“My pack.”

Within a breath or two, Boromir was lying still, relaxed, face buried in Frodo’s hair, breathing heavily.

Frodo lay, feeling the pounding of his heart slow. He closed his eyes and waited, trying to remember as much as he could of Beren and Luthien’s tale, sung in part by Aragorn at Weathertop then in full one night in the Hall of Fire. He had sat, enchanted, seeing the light on fair faces, hearing the beauty of the woven music and voices. He tried to capture that memory now, trying to ignore the fire that seemed to be gnawing in his belly.

Finally, cautious, Frodo slid free of Boromir’s arms, to sit next to him in the silence of the room, watching. His breathing did not change, and he did not stir.

Sliding off the bed, Frodo crossed the room to where their packs had been left leaning against the wall. His hands trembling, he opened his, searching for lembas. Nothing. He turned to Boromir’s, knotting the leather ties in his haste. He bit his lip, made himself work patiently at the knots. Finally, the pack opened. Frodo searched, pushing aside a jumble of cloth until he found the leaf-wrapped elven bread. He unwrapped one of the sweet cakes as quietly as possible and ate.

The food satisfied him as nothing else could. He felt stronger and turned back to search Boromir’s pack, groping down through a jumble of clothing and blankets, until his fingers brushed against an elven cloak wrapped around something.

He pulled the bundle out and turned to sit cross-legged so he could watch Boromir as he unwrapped it.

Sting and the mithril shirt fell into his lap. Frodo sat, head bowed, eyes closed, near weeping, as he remembered Bilbo in the bedroom at Rivendell. Running his hands over the supple smoothness of the mail, the smooth leather of the scabbard, Frodo forced himself to think what must be done. He and Boromir had to leave the city, had to continue the journey to Mount Doom. There was no other way. But Boromir refused to go against his father’s will.

Frodo wrapped his hand around the hilt which warmed against his skin and pulled Sting free. He seemed to feel a silver glow trickle into him, calming. He opened his eyes and sheathed the blade then turned back to the pack. Frodo opened his pack, pulled out the rumbled clothing to make room for the mail shirt and sword. As he grasped his spare vest and pulled it out, he felt the small round shape in the breast pocket. Gripping it, Frodo remembered.

“May it be a light to you in dark places, when all other lights go out. Remember Galadriel and her Mirror!”

The phial. Frodo dared not take it from the masking cloth, but he remembered how the perfect shape, the light of the crystal, the clearness of the water shone in the light of Lothlorien. Frodo realized what he had to do.

He was able to wrap the mithril shirt in his own elven cloak and pack it, but Sting would not fit. Frodo set the blade aside for the moment, and moved all the lembas from Boromir’s pack to his own. Remembering his earlier attempt, Frodo knew that if he left, Boromir would follow. But he would not bring his pack. Searching the room, Frodo found a metal pitcher that he wrapped in Boromir’s elven cloak and pushed down to the bottom of his pack in case Boromir opened it to search for something. He repacked Boromir’s, hoping he would not open it to see that the lembas was missing, then re-tied both packs.

Perhaps he should leave now, while Boromir slept so heavily, but the memory of his efforts to move through the twisting ways of the city earlier made him hesitate. The Guards he had seen when they first arrived would no doubt be more alert at night. But he might gain enough of a lead that Boromir would have to follow him well outside the city walls. And if the armies of Mordor were close, Frodo would have more of a chance of passing them by in the dark. He was not sure even the elven cloak would hide him from Orc eyes in the light of day.

Frodo picked Sting up, considering. Just holding the weapon seemed to help.

He walked quietly to the bed, slid the sword under the large pillow closest to him, and climbed back onto the bed. Boromir tossed in his sleep, restless, and Frodo froze.

“No, no, no, no!” Boromir’s voice was slurred, but the one word was repeated enough for Frodo to understand.

Heart pounding, Frodo waited, watching as closely as he could in the dim light. Boromir’s face seemed drawn, perhaps in pain, but slowly, he relaxed, lying on his back, arms flung wide.

The Ring shone, seeming small against the broad expanse of his chest.

It drew all the light in the room to it, pulsing, ringed in shadow.

It grew.

Frodo’s breath caught in his throat. So beautiful. So perfect. It was his, and he was its. Boromir had helped him. But he was better now. He could take the burden that was rightfully his. Boromir had no right to keep it from him.

If he had the Ring, Boromir would be sure to follow. Frodo would lead Boromir then, and Boromir would do as he said.

Golden music sounded, fair voices promising safety and power, driving the memory of Elvish voices from his mind.

Frodo reached, but as soon as his fingers touched the smooth metal, Boromir cried out.

Scrambling back, Frodo crouched, trembling. He clenched his teeth to prevent the cry he felt growing within from escaping, grabbed the pillow and sank his face into it to muffle any sound as he wept.

He had to have it. But he dared not risk waking Boromir.

Moments passed without further movement or sound from Boromir.

Frodo lifted his face from the pillow, relaxing, his hand touching the scabbard of Sting.

He would rest a while, he thought, suddenly weary. Then he would leave. Even without taking the Ring, Frodo was sure Boromir would follow him. They were bound.

Pounding.

Boromir swallowed, the bitter taste catching in his throat.

More pounding mixed with shouted words.

What was wrong?

Boromir tried to think, his head throbbing painfully.

What had happened last night? What had he done?

Boromir laid a 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, tucking it close around him. 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.

Many had gathered in the Hall, all the commanders and many from the noble houses. Boromir saw they were wearing their best and brightest. He paused just outside the entrance. Candles and lamps clustered on every surface, spreading golden light over the white walls, ceiling, and floor. This gathering had been summoned to celebrate the return of the Heir. To celebrate a victory not yet won.

The sound of voices and laughter in the heat of the room was a roaring wave in what Boromir felt should be a silent place. He found his eyes drawn to the empty throne under the elaborately carved dais. For a moment, he imagined Aragorn seated, one hand reaching.

Sighing, Boromir blinked. He had no time for such thoughts. He searched for the smile he should be wearing when he entered and caught the sympathetic eye of the black-clad Guard who stood to his right. Beregond smiled briefly, nodded.

“My thanks,” Boromir said softly.

“It was nothing, my lord. Did the Healer help the little one?”

“He has recovered,” Boromir said and, nodding farewell, passed into the Hall.

Some time later, Boromir slipped behind one of the huge black columns that sprang from floor to ceiling down each side of the Hall. He leaned his head against it, relishing the cool smoothness, then drained his goblet of wine in a single swallow. He had eaten little during the meal, the rich food turning to ashes in his mouth at every word and smile from Denethor.

Word had gone swiftly around the City of Boromir’s return, and people were repeating the dream prophecy. Stories were running through the streets like a flood. All knew that the Lord’s heir and first-born son had brought back the Halfling, along with a mighty weapon. Those in the Hall had come to rejoice in the victory foretold by Denethor. Smiles and words of joy met Boromir on every side.

As he smiled and nodded back to the smiling faces around him, he saw again, as he had in Cair Andros, the wave of darkness that was flowing from the mountains. Columns of marching orcs, rusting spear heads, massive catapults pushed by trolls, warg-riders.

War was coming.

He had to drown that vision with wine, drown the words of warning he longed to shout in draughts of red. The women and children should be taken from the City to refuge in the mountain-villages. The men should be arming. The Outland companies should be summoned, the beacons lit to call the Horselords.

But 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.

“Take it, my son!”

Startled, Boromir spun, his heart pounding, to see Denethor standing at arm’s length, smiling widely, holding a jeweled goblet out.

“My best vintage, for you!”

Boromir forced himself to loosen his grip on the empty goblet he held, to set it carefully on the tray a black-clad servitor held, before reaching for the rich one his father held.

“My thanks,” he said, saluting the old man, and drinking.

The liquid flowed down his throat like the blood of the sun, rich, red-gold, warming. He had tasted nothing so fair in all his days. Boromir finished the last swallow with regret, licked his lips, feeling the warmth enfold his limbs.

“It is a noble draught,” he said. “And strong. More might prove too much for me.”

“I have waited long for this day.” Denethor poured the goblet brimming full from the pitcher on the servitor’s tray. “Drink. You have done more than I hoped. I believe your return with the One Ring is a sign.”

“A sign?” Boromir sipped, wary, feeling the burning against his chest, the burning within. His hands felt numb, and he tightened his grip.

“The House of the Stewards saved Gondor in the days of the last King. But I have long seen how the land fails without a King. Too many noble houses are empty, too few children are born every year. We have waited long enough. There will be no return of the House of Elendil to Gondor. When we defeat Mordor in the final battle of this age, the people will demand a King to lead them into the Fourth Age.”

Shocked, Boromir looked into the green eyes that blazed into his. Had Denethor guessed what he planned?

“I shall be that King,” Denethor said, pouring more wine in his own goblet and raising it high, “and you shall follow me.”

Boromir looked away, raising the goblet to his lips, gulping down the wine without tasting it. Yes. Gondor needed a King. But not this old withered man. Before Boromir could speak, Denethor was called away by one of the commanders.

As the Hall began to empty, Boromir thought he could safely return to his room.

He saw again the image of 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 not return to the room until he was incapable of anything but sleep.

How much had he drunk, he wondered, trying to force his eyes open.

“Yes? What?” His throat hurt as he forced the words out.

“Lord Denethor commands you to bring the Halfling to the Great Hall, my Lord.”

“Very well.”

Boromir forced his eyes open, rolled over carefully, feeling the pounding in his head increase, pain spilling down his spine. He leaned up, swallowing the hot rush of saliva, to see Frodo, standing across the room, already dressed, staring at him, blue eyes huge in the dim room. Boromir wondered how early it was, whether a storm had come over the Ered Nimrais last night.

“Frodo. You’re awake. Good.”

Relieved, Boromir began planning the best way to stand. He was not sure what Denethor wanted, but that question would have to wait until after Boromir learned if he could move without vomiting.

The cold metal pierced Frodo’s flesh as the King stood over him, clawed hand reaching. Frodo shrieked in pain, twisting, feeling the claws sink into him. He would be taken to Mordor.

Jerking awake, feeling hot sweat chilling on his body, Frodo sat, gasping. The smooth linens under his clutching hands, the white stone walls, reassured him.

He was not on Weathertop. It had been a dream.

The cold shriek that echoed in the room, sounding of death and despair, was real, and forced him back, hand on his shoulder, as pain echoed deep inside him.

The Black Riders were in the City—the Enemy had come!

Frodo forced himself up. He must escape. Boromir slept beside him, unmoving, breathing harsh and rasping. Outside the window, the sky above was dark, but not the dark of night, lit with stars. This darkness was low, brooding, dark brown and shifting like smoke.

Sliding slowly off the bed, Frodo went to the window, standing on tiptoe to rest his arms on the wide sill and lean out. He could see little beyond the City because of the dark fumes that shrouded the sky. What sounds he could hear, and what little he could see of the street below, told him it was day, though this day seemed darker than a moonlit night.

He hurried to dress, needing to leave before Boromir woke.

He was buttoning his shirt when a someone began hammering on the door.

Frodo froze, afraid to move, to speak.

“Lord Boromir! Lord Boromir!”

The voice was loud.

Boromir groaned, voice muffled. “Yes? What?”

“Lord Denethor commands you to bring the Halfling to the Great Hall, my Lord.”

A pause, then, “Very well.”

Frodo saw Boromir turn, slowly, in the large bed, then raise his head. As if he knew exactly where Frodo was, he looked across the room.

“Frodo. You’re awake. Good.”

His voice sounded harsh, and he coughed as he pushed himself up to sit on the side of the bed.

Frodo thought about taking his pack and slipping out before Boromir was dressed. But whoever had brought the message might still be there.

Watching Boromir, slow and clumsy, dressing, Frodo despaired. He should have left last night when he had the chance. Should not have slept so long and heavily.

Finally, Boromir crossed the room to pour water into a basin, drink from cupped hands, and splash water on his face. Then, shaking his wet hair back, Boromir turned to Frodo.

“Are you ready?”

Frodo nodded, shrugging on his jacket and buttoning it to his chin. The room seemed cold. He wished he dared try to take Sting from its hiding place.

“Come.”

Frodo followed Boromir from the room, walking as slowly as could. As he had feared, a black-clad guard stood in the hall, waiting until they passed, to walk behind Frodo.

Surrounded by the cold stone and hearing the echoes of large boots in the silence, Frodo dared not try to escape even if he knew where to run which he did not after several turns.

Some uncounted time later, they arrived at a massive door Frodo remembered which swung open, silently, as they approached. They entered the Hall.

As before, the columns of black stone and tall statues brooded high over Frodo’s head. The tall windows showed the darkening sky, but a light at the end of the Hall, near the steps leading to the throne, drew Frodo’s eye, making him blind to all else in the room. He pushed past Boromir, trying to see, trying to understand why his heart felt near breaking with joy.

A tall figure, white hair and staff, white robes shining, turned and, unbelieving, Frodo saw a familiar face.

Gandalf!

It could not be.

A hard hand gripped Frodo’s shoulder, pulling him back, as Frodo heard Boromir’s muttered curse.

“Frodo!”

The glad cry dragged his eyes from the shining figure as Pippin dashed forward to fling his arms around Frodo.

(End of Part I)

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.

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.

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

Boromir struggled to remain sitting, to regain control of himself. He would not stand, would not to try to assert a dominance he could never achieve. He owed Mithrandir a great debt despite the anger that tried to insist otherwise.

Dimly, Boromir felt gratitude that Mithrandir said nothing more, standing quietly in front of the door as if he understood Boromir’s struggle. Remembering the piercing eyes and the light that had stripped his soul naked, Boromir knew how much the wizard understood. That memory led him back to anger, and he set his teeth, closed his eyes, held the memory of his father’s face as a warning.

The quiet of the room was broken only by the sound of harsh breathing. Slowly, Boromir began to relax, to feel he was in control again. Frodo could not stay with him. Mithrandir had sent Frodo away for the good of all. The desire to strike the wizard or his brother for touching Frodo was due to the Ring, was what Boromir must fight in himself.

Frodo had to take the Ring to Mordor. Boromir had no further part to play in that task, could only hinder it, serve the will of the Enemy. Perhaps he had no real part to play, he thought, tasting the final bitterness in the cup.

Drawing a deep breath, Boromir looked at Mithrandir. “What of my father?”

“He is here in the Houses of Healing, but he says nothing. He tried to claim the Ring for his own. Yet even before that, when I first arrived, he spoke of knowing and of seeing more than others, saying much about the forces of Mordor. Do you know how he came by such knowledge?”

Boromir frowned, shaking his head. “My father is sent information from all the outposts, has always studied to know the forces arrayed against Gondor. I know nothing more than that.”

Mithrandir shook his head. “Reports, yes, from many including Faramir who has spoken to me of how your father has changed during the time you were away. That information which is known by Faramir and Imrahil among others would not let your father speak as he has, revealing knowledge beyond the skills of any ranger or force of men to gather. I suspect he has done more. He must not return to the Citadel, Boromir.”

“He is the Steward. After he has recovered. . .”

“No. If what I believe is true and your father leaves here, Sauron will learn enough to cause our destruction, if he has not already.”

“Sauron? How?” Bewildered, Boromir wondered if Mithrandir believed Denethor had betrayed them.

“A palantír, one of the seven Seeing Stones of Númenor, was placed at Minas Anor. If the House of the Stewards kept it, none have spoken or it or dared to use it. But in these dark days, I believe that, driven by despair, your father may have used it. More, if he has looked into the Stone since you and Frodo came to Minas Tirith, Sauron now knows the truth about the Ring.”

Boromir nodded, hearing the truth in Mithrandir’s words, remembering how his father had spoken to him of forces beyond the Black Gates, of how he had changed since Boromir had left Gondor.

“But while he lies unspeaking, as if in a fever dream, none will expect him to lead. While you and Frodo slept, Faramir led. Now that you are awake, you are the eldest. Will you lead?”

Boromir looked down, away from the keen grey eyes, feeling the tightness in his throat. “No.”

Silence.

It would not be so easy, Boromir realized. Mithrandir still stood in front of the door, unmoving, as if solidly rooted in place, able to stand beyond the end of time. There was no escape from what must be said.

Standing, hands clenched, moving away from the bed to the center of the room, Boromir faced the wizard. “You know better than any why I am not fit to lead. You say you fear what my father might do, but I am no different. I took the Ring, I took Frodo from his path and brought him here.” Panting, Boromir closed his eyes to make the final admission. “I might have killed him. I—” he faltered, unable to say what he had done, what they had done, remembering Frodo crying out, convulsing under Boromir’s hands, seeing Frodo tied across his bed. It had to be said. “I think. . . I raped him.”

“No.”

Gasping, Boromir opened his eyes, stepped forward, gripping Mithrandir’s shoulders, ignoring the staff held casually in the crook of one arm, shaking him.

“What would you know of it, old man? I failed him, I should have been stronger!”

Although the flesh and bone in Boromir’s grip seemed to be the body of an old man, the white figure did not move, was not affected by Boromir’s strength, brushed him casually off as a boy brushes a fly.

Staggering, Boromir fell, sprawling on the floor, unable to stand.

White light pooled around the figure which moved to stand over him, the light growing more intense each moment. “I know much of what happened, Boromir. You and Frodo talked long in your sleep as I sat beside the bed. What happened between you was done by the Ring. I do not understand all the Ring is or can do. None living today can know that except perhaps Sauron, and even he has been parted from it for long ages of the world. Had you killed Frodo when you took the Ring, I would have grieved, but I would not have been surprised. Think, Boromir. Gollum killed his cousin for the Ring. Isildur released it only in death. But you bore the Ring and did not kill Frodo. You protected him. He called you back and saved you from the Ring in the Hall. Something bound the two of you together, yes. And if there was a rape, you and Frodo both suffered it because of the Ring. But the two of you also resisted, together.”

Boromir flung his arm across his face, trying to block the power of the light which seemed to pull at him. With the final words from the shining figure, the light ebbed, slowly, leaving Boromir flat on his back, blinking.

“So, Boromir, will you refuse to defend your people?”

Mithrandir extended a hand, and Boromir frowned, thinking he saw a ring gleaming red. But it was only a trick of the light, he told himself. He extended his own hand and was pulled easily to his feet.

“But, Faramir—”

“He leads, but the fear you are wounded or ill affects many. The Nazgûl fly over the city, their weapon is despair. Your return would restore strength to many. Faramir knows this.”

Pushing his hair back from his face, Boromir stood, feeling at ease for the first time in many days, he could not remember how many. He smiled at Mithrandir. “I will go to the Citadel,” he said. “For whatever good it will do.” He plucked at the white nightrobe he wore. “Although you will have to find me something else to wear.”

Mithrandir smiled in return. “Clothing is easily found,” he said. “And although we cannot know all that will come, I think you have made the right choice.”

“Have some of this, whatever it is, it’s my favourite!”

Frodo smiled at Pippin who had shown up at mid-day lugging a huge basket of food. He had insisted on eating on the grass outside which turned the meal into a picnic. Frodo ignored the darkness above. At least the Nazgûl has left the sky above Minas Tirith. Frodo did not know why, he did not care why, he only knew he could relax in their absence. Pippin had told him that walking through the streets made him feel as if the whole City was holding its breath before the plunge into war.

Pippin was holding out a sticky dessert, sweet fruit filling layered between light pastry. It had been packed on top, and Pippin had already eaten more than half of the generous serving before starting to unpack the rest of the food.

Frodo could not resist learning forward to brush the crumbs off his cousin’s face. “You go ahead,” he said. Frodo had never had as much of a sweet-tooth as Pippin did. No one did, he thought.

Smiling happily, Pippin dived back in, and Frodo began to unpack, spreading the feast, and it was a feast, on the white cloth which had covered the basket. A small round of cheese and two loaves of the fine white bread he remembered from his first meal at the Citadel. Cold beef. Small red apples. Raisin cakes. He bit into one happily, enjoying the soft texture and the sweet burst of flavour on his tongue. A jug of beer and a flask of wine.

“What would you like to drink?”

Pippin swallowed the last bite of the pastry, and said “Wine,” spraying a few crumbs and wiping his mouth with his hand.

When Frodo pulled the cork out of the flask, the rich sweet scent flooded his senses. His head swam. He poured the wine for Pippin, but then chose beer for himself. The rich nutty taste slid over his tongue, and he smiled as he swallowed.

“Eat, Frodo, you’re not well,” Pippin urged. He cut Frodo several thick slices of bread and piled cheese and beef high on each before pushing them into Frodo’s hands.

“I’m feeling much better,” Frodo protested, but bit into the food appreciatively. Everything he tasted seemed to burst with flavour, as if some muffling veil had been stripped away.

He had slept well through the night, whether because of Gandalf’s potion or his words, hearing no noises, suffering no dreams. Chewing, oddly at peace, he could almost believe the days since Parth Galen had been an evil dream, one that had nearly torn him from this world. But he now woke, walked and breathed under the sun, feeling the earth under his feet again. Sitting and eating with Pippin he could almost imagine for a while that they were back in the Shire, on an afternoon outing, and would return to Bag End that night.

Frodo reached for more of the raisin cakes.
A short time later, all that was left of the picnic nuncheon, a few apple cores and the cheese rind, was returned to the basket, and Frodo and Pippin stretched out on the grass.

Pippin sighed happily, wiggling his toes. “That’s much better,” he said. “The food is very good at the Citadel, but they don’t seem to understand how much to feed a hobbit. They seem to think that because we’re smaller than a Man, we should eat less! But Faramir gave special orders today.”

“How did you come to be serving Faramir?” Frodo felt a bit shy asking about Boromir’s brother, but he could not help himself. He kept remembering how Faramir had held him in the Hall, his rich scent, the way his voice had resonated through Frodo’s body. “What is he like?” Frodo swallowed, kept his eyes on the green leaves overhead.

“Oh, he’s wonderful,” Pippin said. “I was in disgrace, you know, for looking in the palantír at Isengard as if I could have helped it! So Gandalf took me with him, to keep me out of trouble, he said. But Frodo, if Gandalf ever offers you a chance to ride with him on Shadowfax, my advice is to say no!”

“Shadowfax?” Frodo was confused.

Pippin giggled. “Sorry, he’s Gandalf’s horse, remember the one he told us about at the Council? From Rohan? He’s huge, and fast, and well, beautiful, but not at all comfortable to ride. No saddle. And put Gandalf riding right behind you holding that staff, and I was bruised from head to toe. Anyway, we came to Minas Tirith that morning, early, and the first thing we saw as we came over the hill was a battle! Faramir’s men were being pursued by Orcs, but they had horses, so they could have escaped into the City, but the Nazgûl were in the sky, riding these huge winged creatures, and they would just swoop down on a horse and man like a hawk taking a rabbit,” Pippin paused and illustrated by waving his arms like wings, knocking his empty goblet over.

“Oops. Well, anyway, Gandalf saw it, and called to Shadowfax, and somehow the horse ran even faster, and Gandalf raised his staff and white light came, even more than in Moria, and the Black Riders flew away just like, just like, well, swallows when the cat arrives at the feeder. And we all rode into the City together, and the people were shouting Faramir’s name, he was riding at the head of his men, and he called Gandalf over, and, well. . .”

Frodo looked at Pippin as his voice trailed off, hearing an unfamiliar tone, seeing a strange look, almost serious, on his face.

“And?”

Pippin blushed. “Oh. He smiled at me. He had the dream too, you know, and recognized I was a Halfling. That was all then. But later, after what happened in the Hall, he said he wanted to, well, honour us for what we did. He could not make you a Guard because you have to take the Ring to Mordor, so he made me one.”

Sitting and smoothing a hand over his fine black tunic, Pippin said, “Merry’s going to be very jealous, don’t you think?”

Frodo laughed and nodded, enjoying the sensation bubbling up inside him. When was the last time he had laughed?

Pippin picked up his goblet, set it carefully back in the basket. “He’s very different from Boromir in some ways.”

“Oh?” Frodo shifted, looking back at the leaves overhead. He wanted to know more, wanted to ask, but something halted him.

“Yes, they might look something alike, but Faramir is so. . . quiet. Serious. I try to make him laugh, but. . .” Frodo waited, was surprised when Pippin said, “He asked me about you, you know.”

“Me?” Frodo held his breath.

Pippin nodded. “Last night, when he came back to the Citadel. He asked—”

“Pippin. Come at once.”

Gandalf’s voice jolted through Frodo, and he sat. Pippin jumped to his feet, looking confused.

“Faramir has been wounded. You need to take a message to Boromir.”

Boromir shifted, tired and aching, on the hard stone seat. He rubbed his head, shutting his eyes for a moment.

He had not slept well last night, in his old bed. It was too soft. The room seemed too large, too full of shadows, yet at the same time too small after the months he’d spent
sleeping on the ground under the stars. He could not breathe, kept rising to stand by the window and stare out at darkness unrelieved by any star. He had not slept, or, if he had, had dreamed he could not. He had left his room before the bell that marked the rising of the Sun, not that the Sun could be seen on this day.

The day so far had been long, spent in meetings with the commanders and Mithrandir. Faramir had gone out into the City, to hearten the men. And now came this news.

“He was on the first wall when he was struck by a dart. Some said it came from the air, but others say not. Gandalf said the weapon may have been poisoned and is tending him. I was sent to bring you the news as quickly as might be.”

Boromir forced his eyes open.

Pippin stood, face and voice utterly serious, in front of Boromir who sat in his father’s chair in the Hall.

Shaking his head, Boromir forced himself to speak. He thanked Pippin, and sent him to deliver the news to Imrahil.

Boromir had returned to the Citadel last night, had been welcomed by Faramir. They had talked.

Faramir stood over the large table in their father’s rooms. Piled with maps and scrolls jumbled between dirty dishes under scribbled notes, surrounded by burnt-down candle stubs, and several sheathed knives, the table’s top could hardly be seen.

Unfolding a map of the City, Faramir smoothed his hand over it.

“The first thing I did was to send the women and children to the mountain villages. Some of the older women insisted on staying, to help in the Houses of Healing, and there are some boys, not old enough to fight, too old to be ordered to leave, who stayed to run errands and work with the Healers as well. So there are few animals left, other than the knight’s horses. Provisions, well, our father has much stored. We will not suffer hunger soon.”

Boromir nodded. He would have done nothing different. He bent over the map as Faramir began to show him where the companies were stationed in the City.

“My lord?”

Boromir jumped, heart pounding. He had fallen asleep, slumped back in the narrow chair. A black-clad servant was standing in front of him, and he’d not even heard the man approaching.

Sweating, Boromir stood. It was time for daymeal. He had no appetite, had not eaten since the meal with Gandalf and the others. But he had to go to this meal, had to speak to the commanders and the nobles still left in the City, especially with Faramir in the Houses of Healing. He wiped his face and followed the servant out of the room. He could not let any see or suspect his weakness.

Frodo groveled before him, naked, weeping. Boromir breathed deeply, smiling as he tasted the scent of blood and fear on the air. He raised the whip, slowly, the gold Ring glinting on his hand. . .

“No!”

Boromir heard his shout echoing in the room. He was in his bed but was cold, shivering. The bedding had been kicked away. He sat for a few moments, feeling his heart pounding. His mouth tasted of blood, the bitter taste strong.

He stood, crossing the room to find water. But after he had drained a goblet, he felt the churning in his gut, reached hastily for a basin and vomited the water along with what little had had been able to eat earlier. The spasms wrenched him, even after his belly was empty, and he could only retch helplessly.

When he was finally free of the pain, he sank back to sat on the cold floor, leaning against the wall. He was sweating now, could feel the robe he wore sticking to his skin, could smell the stink of fear on himself.

He moved enough to grasp the side of the heavy table, pull himself to his feet. Moving slowly, he rinsed his mouth, spat the water out, afraid to try to drink again. He pulled the stinking robe off and sluiced cool water over himself.

When he looked out the window, he could see the dim light that meant it was day. He did not know what hour it was although he thought it must be fairly early. Dully, he tried to think what he must do.

News had come last night that the Rammas was broken. The Pelennor was overrun, the last guards coming in from the northern Gate which was the way to Anórien and Rohan had reported no sign of the Rohirrim. Cair Andros had fallen to a force of Orcs and Men of the East.

The City was besieged. None could guess the numbers that had moved to surround the City.

The only good news had been brought by Mithrandir who had come to Boromir late in the night to tell him that Faramir lived.

Boromir stood, pushing the pain and weariness from his mind, and went to dress. He had to go out in to the City, speak to his commanders and his men. The walls of the City were high and thick, built by the men of Númenor. But walls would not stand if no men defended them.

Later, on the fourth wall, Boromir stood between Pippin and Mithrandir. They looked out to see the trenches filled with fire, the companies darkening the green fields. Huge engines moved ponderously, slowly, closer to the walls.

“There will be fire later,” Mithrandir said. “Warn the commanders, let them tell everyone to collect water.”

Boromir nodded, sent Pippin on the errand. The young hobbit had been by his side all day, mastering any fear he might feel, doing anything he could to help. He nodded and took off running.

“Will you arm yourself and fight in this battle?” Mithrandir asked, leaning on his staff.

Boromir wondered how long it had been since the wizard had slept. His eyes were still bright though he had not smiled during the long day.

“No,” Boromir said. “I dare not. And I will keep Pippin by my side. He will not be put at any further risk, at least not until the last fight.”

“Good.” The wizard straightened, stretching. “I will see you later, then.” And he left.

Boromir leaned on the wall. He had seen how men smiled when Mithrandir passed them, how he had always a word for everyone. Imrahil had the same effect and, Boromir hoped, he did as well. They had spent the day moving through the City, encouraging all those they met.

There was something about the dim light and the looming threat which sapped everyone’s will. Boromir knew what it was as, high above his head, a cold shriek sounded, a deadly voice riding the air. The men close to Boromir shuddered, one dropping his spear.

Gasping, Boromir felt all strength leave him. He fell forward, across the wall, nerveless, the deadly voice winding around him like a whip, choking him.

All was lost. He had failed. His City would fall. Those he loved would die, slowly, cursing him with their last breaths. Because he had been too weak to claim the Ring. He deserved death.

“My lord!”

An idiot child crying, tugging at his arm. Boromir snarled, turned to strike the fool down.

“Boromir!”

He was held, and a blow rocked him backward.

Blinking, Boromir cursed, shaking his head.

Bergond stood close, frowning, voice urgent as he spoke. “I thought you would throw yourself down, my lord!”

“What?”

Beregond released his arm but remained close, watching Boromir closely.

“You were standing here, my lord, and then you seemed to fall forward. Then you seemed to wake but began to mount the wall. You did not seem to hear me when I called you.”

Boromir pushed his hair back. He could not recall what had happened. “Do you have water?” he asked.

He had dared not eat or drink that day, but the burning in his mouth and gut demanded some relief.

Beregond nodded, handed him a flask. Carefully, Boromir drank a swallow or two, waited. Some relief.

“You pulled me back?” he asked, capping the flask and returning it with a nod of thanks.

“Yes.”

“My thanks. Again.”

Bergond smiled, his relief plain in his relaxation. He stepped back a pace or two.

Boromir looked around. It was darkening toward night. The fires in the trenches and beyond in the camps were blazing. He should return to the Citadel, he thought. But first, he had to ask.

“Beregond, I do not know what happened, but I, will you,” Boromir bit his lip, not sure how to say what he must.

“I will say nothing, my lord. But, if I may ask?”

Boromir nodded, relieved.

“Will you speak to the wizard about it? Perhaps he can help.”

“I will.”

Boromir left Beregond, began the weary climb back to the Citadel. Few would sleep this night.

Frodo sat, stunned, then as Pippin followed Gandalf into the room, Frodo jumped to his feet and hurried after. After giving Pippin the message and shooing him into the hall, Gandalf swept out of the room, the tapping of his staff marking his swift steps. Frodo followed unobtrusively.

He had to know what had happened.

Through the halls Frodo followed Gandalf. Unlike the journey yesterday, today he passed unnoticed, felt no pressure beyond the fear that was pulsing inside. Gandalf met two Healers who followed him into one of the rooms. Frodo waited a few moments, then slipped through the door and sat in the nearest corner.

Gandalf and the Healers were clustered around a low bed, a table drawn close holding candles, bandages, pots, and a scatter of metal instruments.

Frodo shivered, drew his legs up and wound his arms around his knees. Between the white and grey robes, he could see flashes of green and brown. And red. Swallowing, Frodo closed his eyes, rested his head on his arms.

The murmur of voices went on for some time. Finally, silence.

Frodo looked up into Gandalf’s eyes and flushed. Gandalf smiled, held out a hand, and Frodo grasped it, was pulled to his feet.

“He will recover, in time,” Gandalf said.

Frodo took a step closer to the bed. Faramir lay still, eyes closed. His redgold hair was bright against the pillow, but his face was pale. White bandages stained with red were wound around his left shoulder and chest. The bedclothes were pulled only to his waist. Piled on the floor at the foot of the bed were his clothes and gear.

“He will?” Frodo thought that Faramir’s stillness was frightening.

“He will. Why did you follow me here?”

Frodo kept his eyes on Faramir’s face, shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Shall I take you back to your room? You should rest.”

“No!” Frodo moved away from Gandalf, closer to the low bed. “Please. I, well, I don’t want to be alone.” He held his breath as Gandalf, head tilted, looked at him, feeling as if the grey eyes could see through him.

Finally, Gandalf smiled, releasing Frodo, and nodded. “I have to go to the Citadel and give Boromir news of his brother. You may stay, if you wish.”

Turning, Gandalf crossed the room to the door and opened it. Before leaving, he turned back and said, “Don’t wander about alone, Frodo. Denethor is here in the Houses of Healing. He seems lost in a dark dream, but if he should wake, I do not wish him to find you.”

Frodo shuddered, remembering the strength of the arm around his throat, touched his chest, feeling the bandages under the thin robe. He did not want to meet Denethor again. He nodded.

Gandalf left, shutting the door behind him. Frodo sat again, feeling relaxed for the first time since Pippin had left.

The room was quiet. Frodo leaned back against the wall, watching the movement of the candle flames. Light pooled golden on the table around them, gilded Faramir’s hair and face. The smell of herbs overlay that of blood. As Frodo sat, he began to hear the soft sound of Faramir’s breathing, began to match his breath to Faramir’s.

After an uncounted time, a soft knock sounded, and the door opened. A woman looked around the door, smiled at Frodo, and came in, carrying a white roll.

“Mithrandir said to bring this to you, young master, that you’d be spending the night,” she said and knelt by the bed to unroll a pallet and blankets.

“Are you hungry?”

Frodo admitted he was, and she said she’d get food. After checking Faramir, she left but returned in a short while with soup, bread, and water.

Frodo thanked her and ate hungrily.

Then it seemed the most natural thing in the world to lie on the soft pallet and draw the blankets up to his chin. Within a few breaths, he was drifting into sleep, feeling the softness under him like that of the soft grass he had lain on that afternoon, imagining himself back in the Shire, in a green glade, sleeping in the sun.

“Frodo.”

“Urrrmm,” Frodo mumbled, turned over, pulling the bedding higher. He was comfortable. Surely it wasn’t time to get up.

“Frodo!”

“Whazzit?” Grumbling, opening his eyes, Frodo turned over to see who was bothering him so early and froze.

Faramir was in bed, leaning on his good arm, looking down at Frodo. The candles had burned low, the light was dim, but there was enough to see the confusion on Faramir’s face.

“Where are we? What happened?”

Licking his lips, Frodo sat. “You’re in the Houses of Healing. You were wounded today, well, maybe yesterday now. Don’t you remember?”

Faramir shook his head, slid down to rest his head on his arm, wincing as he moved. “No. I don’t.” He coughed.

Frodo tossed the bedding back and stood to cross to the table. There was a pitcher of water left, as he’d thought there would be. He stood on tiptoe, pulled a plain clay goblet toward him, and filled it with water.

He brought it back to Faramir who sat awkwardly, took the goblet in his right hand and drank thirstily.

Seeing the darkening stains on the bandages around Faramir’s left shoulder, Frodo found himself rubbing the old wound from Weathertop on his left shoulder.

“It was a dart of some sort. They thought it was poisoned at first.”

Faramir drained the goblet. Frodo reached for it, fumbled, feeling the touch of Faramir’s hand against his, barely managing to catch the goblet before it fell.

“Does Boromir know?”

“Gandalf sent Pippin to tell him, first thing.”

“Good.” Faramir piled one pillow on the other, then cautiously lay back.

Frodo returned the goblet to the table.

“Frodo?”

He turned, feeling suddenly awkward in the thin white robe, and looked at Faramir.

“Why are you here?”

Feeling the hot blood rise in his face, Frodo searched frantically for something to say, something that would make sense. Nothing seemed right. He felt trapped, as he had earlier, in the blue gaze, could not look away.

Faramir smiled, held out his hand.

Crossing the room, Frodo clasped Faramir’s hand, let himself be tugged closer to the bed until he was leaning against it.

“I’m glad you’re here.” Faramir raised Frodo’s hand, held it against his face.

Heart pounding, Frodo leaned forward, opening his hand, feeling the soft skin and bristle of beard against his palm.

“But you should not be sleeping on the floor,” Faramir said, tilting his head, rubbing against Frodo’ hand. “What kind of host would leave his guest lying on the floor?”

“I have a pallet,” Frodo said, not moving away.

“Umhmm,” Faramir said and pulled Frodo closer.

Moving easily, Frodo leaned over into a warm kiss, lips parting, drowning in the scent and taste and touch of Faramir. The moment seemed both long and short, ending too soon, Frodo thought, as he opened his eyes.

Faramir smiled at him, his hand moving through Frodo’s hair. “The bed is narrow as Master Pippin noted, but would you share it with me?”

“Yes.”

Careful not to jostle Faramir, Frodo lifted the bedding, sliding underneath, into warmth.

Faramir slid his good arm around Frodo, shifting over, pulling Frodo down to lie by his side.

“That’s better,” he said drowsily, arm tight around Frodo who could not have agreed more.

He watched Faramir’s face as his eyes closed, the half smile on his lips.

Frodo closed his eyes, feeling the warmth beside him, around him. Drifting off to sleep, Frodo thought that if being with Boromir had been like the night in the rapids at Sarn Gebir, smooth water suddenly snarling white around sharp rocks, then tonight with Faramir was like the deep waters that ran through Lothlorien. The image drew Frodo into dreams of green glades and sweet-sounding water.

Darkness. . . .

Drifting hands touch as if in a dream skin slides across skin, kindling warmth shared in touch, soft touches become urgent, trail down a trembling body to slide between legs, cupping, rubbing, until a kiss, lifelong hunger now well fed, sparks appetite green and growing until new life arcs from one to the other, feeds back, redoubles, explodes in showers of silver rain.

. . . is reclaimed and made new.

Frodo drifted awake, feeling better than he had in days. Weeks. Months. The light in the room was dim. Only one or two candles still burned, nearly down to stubs. He yawned, felt the smooth skin of Faramir’s right shoulder under his cheek.

Lying on his side, Frodo felt Faramir’s arm wrapped around him, holding him pressed close to Faramir’s body. Frodo realized that while he slept, the white nightrobe he had been wearing had been cast off. Save for the bandages they both had wound around them, they were naked. And he had never felt so good.

He was aware of the Ring, trapped between their two bodies, but it seemed small, a minor irritant until he felt damp stickiness on the wrinkled sheet beneath him and between his body and Faramir’s. What had happened in the night? Had the Ring begun to act on Faramir?

Frodo felt heat rise in his face, tried to slide out of Faramir’s grasp. He must leave, go back to his room, try to pretend this night had never happened. He could not believe he had followed Gandalf here. Thinking of what Boromir would say if he found his brother with Frodo made him shudder, twist to slide out of bed.

“Ummmm, Frodo, it’s too early to get up, love. Sleep.”

Frodo froze in place as Faramir shifted under him, arm tightening, pulling Frodo closer.

“No, no, please, let me go.” Remembering Boromir’s arm painfully tight around his ribs, Frodo pushed at the strong body without effect.

“What?”

Faramir released him, bit back a curse as he tried to raise his left hand to push hair out of his face, shook his head. Rising stiffly to his right arm, Faramir asked, “What’s wrong?”

Trying to wind the sheet around himself, looking for his nightrobe, Frodo could not look at Faramir. “I have to leave, it’s the Ring, you don’t understand. . . .something happened.”

“Yes, yes, it did. And it was very nice, I thought. Didn’t you?”

The laughter in Faramir’s voice shocked Frodo. He stilled, wary, sitting near the edge of the bed with as much of the sheet as he could grasp pulled around him, and finally looked up to see Faramir smiling at him. The bed was so narrow that the space between them was small, but at least Faramir was not touching him. He was not touching Faramir. If it was like it had been with Boromir, perhaps the Ring needed that closeness to work.

“But why do you want to leave?” The smile disappeared as Faramir sat, reaching out to touch Frodo gently on the cheek. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Frodo dropped his hands, still clutching the sheet, to his lap. “No, I’m not hurt. But, but do you remember what happened?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I? I’m not that badly injured.”

“I thought it was the Ring, again, doing what it did to Boromir.”

“Oh.” Faramir pushed the pillows together, lay back on them, grimacing, then watched Frodo a moment in silence. “But you said you did not know what had happened between you and Boromir.”

Frodo bit his lip, closed his eyes. He would have to speak, have to warn Faramir. Frodo could not stand it if he brought harm to anyone else, especially to this man. Haltingly, he spoke, eyes still closed, of waking in the bed of Cair Andros after fever dreams, or perhaps visions sent by the Ring, but having to wash himself, seeing the stained sheets.

“I still don’t know what happened,” he said. He made himself open his eyes, look at Faramir. “But after that night, I slept in Boromir’s bed. We never talked. I don’t know what he’d experienced, or thought.” Frodo knew he could never tell Faramir what had happened in the Citadel after Frodo had tried to leave. Boromir did not deserve that betrayal. It had been the Ring, Frodo knew.

Faramir held out his hand. Hesitantly, Frodo reached out, felt the warmth and strength of Faramir’s hand around his.

“You never talked with Boromir about any of this?”

Frodo shook his head, miserable. “It was as if we couldn’t, while he bore the Ring. And after, well, there’s been no time.”

“True. He and I have had little time to talk of what happened on the journey, but he did tell me one thing, of how he felt he walked in an evil dream much of the time. He did not feel as if he was forced to do what he did, but more that he could see no other choice, until the very end, when you spoke to him in the Hall. Was that how you felt, love?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Is that how you feel now?” Faramir tugged Frodo’s hand and he leaned closer, letting the sheet fall away.

“No.”

Releasing Frodo’s hand, Faramir set his palm against Frodo’s face. “Neither is that how I feel. If you wish to leave, I will not stop you. You are not bound to me in any way. I knew little of Isildur’s Bane before Boromir and Mithrandir told me what happened, before you told me what you felt, but even then I knew it must be a thing of great evil. I would not take this thing if I found it lying in the road. I do not believe what I feel for you has anything to do with the Enemy’s Ring.”

Frodo placed his hand on Faramir’s broad chest, feeling warm skin soft under the reddish hair, feeling the steady beat of his heart. Perhaps Faramir was right. Frodo wished to believe he was, hoping beyond all hope, that out of darkness, he had come into this light.

Looking into the blue eyes, Frodo realized that he could leave, could return to his room. But he did not wish to. Leaning forward, he kissed Faramir who slid his arm around Frodo.

Pulling back, Frodo spoke, lips moving against Faramir’s. “While I hope you are right about the Ring, I think you are wrong about one thing.”

“What?”

“If love is a binding, we are bound.”

“Yes,” Faramir said.

Joyful, Frodo bent over Faramir, hands exploring, roving freely over chest and belly, careful not to touch his wounded shoulder. Mouth soon following hands, Frodo trailed kisses down and across his lover’s body, lingering to lick and suck at a hardening nipple, moving down to tease a gasp from Faramir as Frodo gently bit his thigh.

Faramir’s hand stroked up Frodo’s back, tangled in his hair as Frodo leaned, pinning Faramir’s thighs, slid a hand between his legs.

“Ahhh, love, not now—”

Frodo felt the muscles tense beneath him, opened his mouth to suck, gently at first, then harder, exulting as Faramir’s voice halted and he moaned, arching up. Quivering muscles warned Frodo, and he slid a hand around Faramir’s member, stroking, fingers playing across the firm softness, pulling the spasm and cry from him at the same time.

Frodo lay across Faramir’s body, head resting on his chest, smiling. Slowly, the heart beat he could feel against his cheek slowed, and Faramir wrapped an arm around him.

“Frodo, I—”

“Ssh.” Frodo put his hand across Faramir’s mouth, smiled to feel a kiss against his palm. “Rest.”

Voice muffled, Faramir said “But, you. . .”

“I have everything I need,” Frodo said, eyes closing. “Everything.”

Silence grew except for the sound of their breathing.

Frodo heard the firm knocking at the door and opened his eyes.

He was still lying across Faramir, both of their legs tangled in the bedding. Who could be knocking?

Faramir stirred under Frodo.

“Faramir,” Frodo whispered as strongly as he could. “Wake up.”

“Hmm?”

More knocks, and Faramir woke fully. He and Frodo looked at each other until Faramir shrugged, smiling at Frodo. “We need not hide,” he said softly, then louder, called “Enter.”

Frodo relaxed as the door opened to show Gandalf, alone, carrying a tray full of dishes. He entered the room, closing the door behind him, and stood a moment in silence, looking keenly at them. Then he smiled and nodded.

“Good,” he said, crossing the room to set the tray on the table next to the bed. He bent to pick Frodo’s nightrobe up off the floor and hand it to him. “I see you are both recovering. Are you hungry?”

Sliding the robe on, Frodo sat, his mouth watering. He could smell sausage, and butter, and hot bread.

“Oh, yes,” he said.

Gandalf handed him a full plate, and Frodo forgot to worry as he began to eat. Gandalf helped Faramir sit, despite his protest, and served him as well. Then, drawing up a chair, Gandalf sat and watched them eat.

The large meal ended with the hot savoury drink Frodo remembered from the Citadel. He sat, replete and happy, sipping from the large mug. The silence in the room, broken only by the sound of eating, was suddenly torn by a shriek, softened hardly at all by the walls of stone around them.

Frodo trembled, gripping the mug in hands suddenly gone cold, shrinking back against Faramir. “What is it,” he asked, hoping to learn his fear was wrong.

Gandalf sighed. “The Nazgûl, Frodo, the Black Riders. They ride on fell beasts high above the city in the smoke-filled air.”

“I heard them once before but thought I dreamed it,” Frodo said, looking down. For a time in the night he had almost forgotten the peril they were in.

Faramir stirred behind Frodo, “I should return to my duty,” he said. “What has been happening in the city?”

Gandalf sat forward to frown at Faramir. “You are recovering, but you are not well enough to fight,” he said. “I will tell you what news I can so you do not worry yourself into a fever. If you promise not to try to leave until I release you.”

“But—”

“I will have your word, first,” Gandalf said, implacable.

Frodo felt the tension between the two, then felt Faramir relax behind him, drawing a long breath, and releasing it. “Very well. You have my word.”

Gandalf sat back, nodding. “Good. The city is besieged. You knew it would happen when the Rammas was breached. Rohan has not yet come. The enemy is using fire against the city. But the Gate still holds. We will hold, Faramir. Rohan will come. You and Frodo have only one duty at this time, and that is to recover. Rest here, eat, and do not despair.”

Frodo smiled at Gandalf. “Such counsel seems too pleasant to be true,” he said. “I cannot remember the last time you said such a thing.”

Gandalf laughed, the rich sound filling the room. “Perhaps that is true, at least when it comes to eating. But I have always counseled against despair. That is why some think me foolish.” He stood, piling the dishes back on the tray. “But I do not see any wisdom in the rush to declare that all is lost. Take advantage of this time, then, and do not fear. I will not see you again until tomorrow, I think, for I have been asked to help with the defense of the city.”

After Gandalf left, Frodo and Faramir washed and returned to bed. Remembering the darkness of the day before, hearing the shrieks of the Black Riders, neither wished to go outside. Turning their backs on the battle that was denied them, they spent the day talking, telling over the days of their past, sharing the most joyful and the most painful memories.

Their peace was broken once, when a Healer came to clean and dress their wounds. She looked weary, was clad in robes stained with blood and smoke. When Faramir questioned her, she told him that yes, many were injured but the Gate still held. She refused to say more, hurrying out with the promise to send them food.

After that, Faramir ate and spoke little, holding Frodo close until they both slept.

That night, Frodo’s sleep was broken by uneasy dreams, dreams in which strong hands pulled him away from Faramir, dreams in which knives flashed as someone laughed.

Boromir stood on the wall above the broken Gate as the morning passed, Pippin by his side, and felt a small green shoot of hope growing within. The Sun shone bright among fleeing clouds, the first he had seen of it in days, and, beyond all hope, the Rohirrim had come when he had least expected them, horns bravely blowing, at dawn. Fires burned and the Gate lay in shards, but no enemy had entered the City. Their horns and cries still sounded across the land.

A great wind blew from the South, sending rain sheeting off to the north. Boromir drew in long breaths, relishing the cleanness. He had slept little last night, eaten little when he rose before dawn. He had been sure that the City would fall this day, having felt and seen the impact of the despair brought by the Black Riders, having seen the countless hordes of orcs and men on the Field of Pelennor. He had not seen Mithrandir all the night, until seeing him and Snowman, small against the foe they faced, standing firm in the ruin of the Gate.

Now the Rohirrim hunted the foe at will in the northern half of the Pelennor. The siege was not yet overthrown, nor the Gate won. Many still fought on the field, even the evil beasts swooping down had been brought into warfare although one had been defeated earlier, from what Boromir could see. Little news had come from the field, and Boromir fretted at not being able to leave the City. He had donned mail and armed himself in the dark room, but Imrahil had forbidden him to lead the sortie.

‘Your father lies in the Houses of Healing, perhaps near death, and Faramir is wounded, if not as severely. Gondor cannot lose its ruling Stewards. You must not fight.’

But now, the fortune of the day looked to have turned. The Nameless Enemy would not be defeated easily, Boromir thought, closing his eyes, and raising his face to relish the warmth of the Sun. But if Minas Tirith still stood at the end of the day, if Frodo had the chance to continue his quest, then Boromir would count today a rare victory.

“Boromir, look,” Pippin’s voice sounded small against the clamour of the battle but held a disturbing note as he pulled at Boromir’s hand.

Opening his eyes, Boromir looked down to see Pippin, shading his, looking south, not over the Pelennor where many foe still stood unfought but to the River.

“What?” Boromir squinted but could see nothing against the dazzle of light on mail and on water.

Suddenly, the watchmen on the walls above rang their bells. “The Corsairs! Cosairs of Umbar! The black fleet! Back to the walls!”

Hope withered and blackness grew unchecked within as Boromir heard the cry running through the city like wildfire on the plains. All was lost.

Umbar had long been Gondor’s enemy, and if the black fleet had sailed this far north, that meant that all the lands between the Sea and the City had fallen. When the more far-sighted among the watchmen began to call out the numbers of ships, Boromir sighed and turned away. He knew what he had to do. Perhaps he had always known.

“Boromir, where are you going?” Pippin’s voice, high with fear, halted Boromir only a moment. He turned.

“Go back to the Citadel, Pippin. Or find Mithrandir.”

Even the look on Pippin’s face could not keep Boromir now. This betrayal was just one and not the largest of those he had committed. Only saving the City for once and all would redeem him.

He started up the steep and winding streets. The Houses of Healing were on the Sixth Level. He had some way to go through, and the people fleeing through the streets would not make his journey easier.

Frodo and Faramir stood together on the Sixth Wall, marveling at what they saw unfolding before them. They were standing as close to each other as they could, Frodo leaning against Faramir’s right leg and side, Faramir’s arm around Frodo’s shoulders.

Frodo had been jolted awake earlier by a cry unlike any other he had heard since the City had been besieged. The harrowing shriek had been like the earlier cries of the Nazgûl, had pulled him from uneasy sleep and bad dreams. But this cry had dwindled, dying away to a wailing, thin and bodiless, that faded on the wind.

Frodo had felt sudden unexpected joy and had hugged and kissed Faramir until he woke. They had washed, and Faramir had dressed in his green tunic and leggings, ignoring the bloodstain on the shoulder. Then he had walked with Frodo back to his room to find his pack so Frodo could dress. Seeing sunlight outside the door of Frodo’s room had cheered them even more.

The Houses seemed quiet, resting in the wake of the battle, so they ate lembas from Frodo’s pack. Too restless to wait for anyone to come to them with news, they had left the room, finding a door in the courtyard wall led out into a larger courtyard which opened to the street.

Faramir had led Frodo through the courtyard and down the street to climb a narrow stair which took them to the top of the wall. Here, they stood high above the rest of the City, only the Seventh level and the Citadel looming above their heads, looking down to the Field of the Pelennor hundreds of feet below.

The mass of bodies moving over the green grass had confused Frodo, but Faramir had pointed out the various forces, explained the movements. Even Frodo could tell where the Rohirrim were, the hooves of their mounts sounding like thunder in the mountains, sweeping the enemy before them. Yet the giant shapes of the oliphaunts gave the orcs and Easterlings refuge, and the tide of Rohan broke and eddied against the islands of resistance. Fires still burned in the First and Second circle, and Frodo could hear great shouting and ringing of bells in the City.

But the sun was warm against Frodo’s face. He could see that there was rain falling only in the North. And the fumes and smokes of past days had been swept away in the wind from the South. Surely it was only a matter of time.

“Frodo.”

Turning, Frodo smiled to see Boromir standing in the street below, hair glowing in the sun, clad in gleaming mail over dark blue silk embroidered with gold thread. The first thought Frodo had was how glad he was to see Boromir looking well. Then, looking again at Boromir’s face, Frodo saw how white and drawn it was, how his eyes were shadowed.

Frodo tensed, feeling Faramir turning.

“Boromir! What news?”

Boromir nodded to Faramir but did not smile, began to climb the stairs that ran to the top of the wall.

“Boromir?”

Faramir moved suddenly, pushing Frodo behind to stand in front of him, legs braced, to block the narrow way.

“Give me the Ring.”

Frodo gasped, trembling, hand flying to his chest, wrapping around the Ring. Not again.

He backed away.

Boromir reached the top of the stairs but stopped before he reached Faramir.

“You must, Frodo.” Boromir extended his hand. “The black ships on the River, they bring corsairs from Umbar. The Rohirrim are outnumbered. They will take the city. We cannot win without the Ring.”

“No.”

Faramir stepped forward, struck Boromir’s hand down. “Brother, Boromir, you cannot. You must fight this.”

“We have fought,” Boromir said, his voice quiet, reasonable, chilling Frodo. “All that has been done is in vain. Frodo must give me the Ring. If I do not take it, the enemy will.”

“You cannot know what will happen,” Faramir said, unmoving, standing slim and unarmed but fearless in front of Boromir.

Frodo halted, back against cold stone. He realized the walkway stopped at a building that was part of the wall. He could go no further.

“Any fool can see what will come. The Rohirrim are outnumbered, our forces falling back. The enemy has not even been fully engaged, and more will soon come from the ships. If you love Gondor, aid me.”

“No.”

Eyes, narrow, Boromir shifted to learn forward. “You will betray our City. You are as weak as father always said.”

“You are the betrayer, if you take the Ring.”

Boromir swung, open-handed, and struck Faramir who fell back a step. “Coward! You would give in without a fight! Why, brother? Is it for love of the Halfling? Has he seduced you so quickly? What has he offered you? Did he cry when you swyved him, beg you to hurt him? I know what he is, what he can do.”

Boromir gripped Faramir’s injured shoulder, forcing him to his knees, bending over him, drawing his knife. “You have a choice, my brother. Help me, and you can have him in your bed nightly, do whatever you will with him, after this war. You will be my Steward when I am King. Work with me now, as we have before. Or die here.”

Crying out, Faramir seemed to fall forward, crumpling at Boromir’s feet.

Boromir smiled, looking at Frodo.

“No!” Frodo cried, running to help then stopping, shocked, as Faramir’s arm swept out and around behind Boromir’s calves, knocking him off his feet.

Frodo watched, horrified, as the two men tumbled over each other, crashing down the stairs, arms and legs flailing. He could not tell if they were fighting or trying to balance themselves, they seemed to be falling out of control. If it was a fight, neither was winning.

Moving to the top of the stairs, cautious, Frodo looked down to the street below, holding his breath.

Boromir was sprawled on his back, lying under Faramir who lay face-down. Blood trickled down Boromir’s face which was white and still.

Neither moved. Boromir’s knife lay near his hand, gems glittering in the sunlight as if in mockery.

Frodo swayed, feeling the Ring, burning and triumphant, against his hand even through the cloth of his shirt. He released it, hand aching from the pressure, stepped forward. He had to do something. He climbed down the steps, cautious, clinging to the wall next to him, afraid of falling because of the dizziness. Finally reaching the street, Frodo knelt.

No movement.

Brushing back Faramir’s hair, Frodo felt for a pulse, his hand shaking. Faramir’s skin felt warm against Frodo’s hand, and, finally, he gasped in relief feeling the steady beat. More cautiously, he moved closer to Boromir. The high collar, stiff with gold embroidery, covered Boromir’s throat and made it difficult to slide a hand under. Frodo bit his lip. He could feel nothing.

Dully, he heard shouts and clanging from the streets below but he could see nobody in this street that ran beside the Houses of Healing. He did not wish to leave the injured men, but he had to go for help. He stood, moving as quickly as he could over the cold stone, into the shadow of the high buildings, through the street to the gate, into the courtyard.

There, he stopped, panting.

Denethor stood in the doorway of the Houses of Healing, leaning to one side.

His hair was matted and lank, his long black robe wrinkled and half hanging off one shoulder as if he had simply shrugged it on over his nightrobe which showed underneath. When he saw Frodo he smiled, but something seemed off, as if half the muscles in his face were not working. When he spoke, the deep voice was slurred.

“It’s you, is it? I’ve not seen you without one or more of my sons to wait on you. Where are they, Halfling?”

There was no way to pass him, no way to enter the House without touching him, without coming in reach of him. If there were back or side entrances that would allow Frodo to bypass the threat, he did not know of them and could not spare the time to search and perhaps lose himself in the winding streets again.

“They are injured. In the street beyond.” Perhaps Denethor would go for help himself, Frodo thought, if he knew his sons were hurt.

“Take me to them.”

“My lord, they need a Healer. I was—”

“Now, Halfling.” Denethor moved forward, quickly but awkwardly, almost dragging one leg, through the courtyard.

Fearful Frodo backed away, then turned and led the Steward back to where his sons lay. The tall man’s arms were so long and he could move so quickly that Frodo dared not try to pass him and enter the House.

Perhaps when Denethor saw how what had happened, he would let Frodo fetch a Healer.

Taking care to stay far away from the claw-like hands, Frodo led Denethor through the courtyard and around the corner of the wall to the street. From there, Boromir and Faramir could be seen easily, the dark green of Faramir’s clothing dull against the bright mail and rich blue Boromir wore.

Hearing the heavy breathing and the halting steps behind him, Frodo turned and stepped aside to let Denethor pass him and stand by the still forms. Then, instead of returning to the Houses as he had planned, Frodo stood, horrified, as Denethor fell to his knees, pulling roughly at Faramir’s body, turning him over, pulling him up.

“What are you doing?

Ignoring him, Denethor ripped Faramir’s tunic open, snarled a curse, then let Faramir fall to the stone street, turning to Boromir.

Frodo moved closer, frantic, when he heard Faramir moan, saw his eyes open.

Denethor was clawing at the high neck of Boromir’s tunic, fumbling over the metal clasps, finally pulling it open to grope inside. “Nothing!”

Lurching to his feet, Denethor turned to Frodo, reaching for him. “Give me that precious thing, Halfling. You are not fit to bear it. It should be mine.”

“No.”

Frodo stepped sideways, moving back slightly but moving to his right, unwilling to leave Faramir, fearing what Denethor might do in his rage, feeling caught, leashed, helpless.

Denethor turned, the black robe sweeping with the force of his movement over Faramir’s body and face, stepped forward, then halted, face twisting into a snarl.

“Father, stop.”

Faramir’s voice was weak, halting, but Frodo rejoiced to hear it.

“So you live.” Denethor’s voice was cold. “Release me.”

Frodo could see Faramir’s legs move, then saw the robe fall away as Faramir sat, gripping Denethor’s robe, half holding him, half pulling himself up.

“No. I will not let you fall further into evil. Frodo, leave. Now.”

Unwilling to turn his back on Denethor, Frodo stepped back as quickly as he could. Denethor strained against Faramir’s hold, pulling him half-over, then spun around to grip him by the throat.

Choking, Faramir tried to pull his father’s hands away, but could not. Frodo felt his breath stop, tried to run forward but could not move quickly enough, fell, stumbling, crawling forward. He was behind Denethor, could no longer see Faramir.

Pain flashed through his hand and he looked down, saw Boromir’s knife under his palm. Frodo picked it up. The hilt was large, the knife nearly as long as Sting, and he grasped it in both hands.

“Let him go.” He heard his voice thin and wavering, was not surprised when Denethor ignored him.

Rising to his knees, Frodo struck, feeling the blade pierce cloth and flesh, pulled back, and held the knife ready to strike again.

Denethor screamed, flung himself around, arm swinging, to strike his foe. The blow passed well over Frodo’s head, and, thrown off balance by the force, hampered by the long robe twisted around his legs, Denethor fell.

Frodo flung up his arms to ward off the large form that descended upon him, was crushed to the ground, smothering in the musty cloth, soaked by a warm gush. He welcomed the blackness that took him.

His body burned, his head aching in time to his breathing, the pain growing for an eternity.

He moaned, lost in the dark.

Coolness stroked over his forehead providing ease for a moment. He sighed and slept.

Boromir sat in the warm sunlight at Imladris, Rivendell they called it here, looking in wonder at the many brightly clothed and armed figures he had thought walked only in old tales and children’s stories.

Elves, tall and slim, beautiful but deadly, sat at ease across the circle from him. To his right, stocky Dwarves muttered among themselves, heavily bearded, wearing chain mail, armour, and carrying deadly axes as if they were hatchets. They watched the Elves sidelong.

By Mithrandir’s side, a Halfling sat, looking like a child but with beauty no human child could claim.

Shifting on the hard wood, Boromir ordered himself not to look again at the man who sat to his left. A Ranger wearing dark green, brown hair shining, eyes keen. He had refused to speak his name the night before when Boromir felt that he had met a mystery walking in the night beneath the stars of Middle-earth.

Boromir made himself listen as Lord Elrond welcomed everyone, determined to speak as soon as he could.

They had to hear the news he brought from Gondor. They did not understand. It was his duty to make them see how wrong they were about the Ring. “It is a gift. A gift to the foes of Mordor.” He stood. “Why not use this Ring? Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe! Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy. Let us use it against him!”

The strange man spoke, his voice carrying easily over the sound of the wind and water. “You cannot wield it.”

Boromir frowned, turned, and was caught.

Aragorn stood in turn, facing Boromir, and waved his hand contemptuously. Like the colours of a child’s painting left in the rain, the sunlit circle disappeared, colours smearing into greyness and shadow. Elf, Dwarf, Halfling, and Men twisted, rotting, and sank into the earth, crying out in thin piping voices.

Boromir stood in a dark room, naked, chained against a stone wall, his hands stretched above his head and to each side, far enough to force shoulder blades out of alignment, to send pain radiating down his spine. His ankles were chained together, leaving him little chance to balance or shift his weight to relieve the pain.

The only light came from two torches in wall brackets. Aragorn walked toward him, smiling, clad in black, the only colour on his body the Ring glinting on his left hand. He laid the back of that hand against Boromir’s face, the Ring burning like a branding iron.

Clenching his teeth, Boromir endured.

“You were too weak to wield it, Boromir. You could never master the Ring, and so you are mastered by it. And by a mere Ranger.”

Fire burned down Boromir’s body as Aragorn, turning his hand to set his palm against Boromir’s skin, stroked down over throat and chest, moving slowly. Muscles contracting, he pushed back against the damp wall behind him as the hand and burning Ring rested against his belly. There was no escape, and Boromir felt agony pierce him, burning through skin and muscle and gut until he screamed.

The hand lifted, and Boromir sagged in relief, feeling sweat on face and body. A hand slid under his chin, and he flinched, heard a low laugh.

“Look, my friend.”

Boromir opened his eyes, reluctant, and saw that Aragorn was touching him with his right hand, felt only the warmth of skin against skin, the caress against his face.

“What?” He coughed as he spoke, his voice cracking.

“Look here,” the hand released him, dropped to touch him, caressing.

Unbelieving, Boromir craned his neck, looked down, could see no mark on his skin to show what he had felt.

“How—”

“This small thing,” Aragorn said, laughing, and moved forward, placing a hand on either side of Boromir’s head to hold him still. As Aragorn’s body pressed against him and he pressed his mouth against Boromir’s, he tried to pull back, was easily held. The warm tongue pushed between his lips and Boromir felt the hardness pressed against him until enraged, he bit.

Pulling back, Aragorn cursed, wiping his mouth, smearing blood across his face, looked at his hand, then swung.

Smiling, Boromir felt pain explode in his head, escaped into darkness.

He convulsed, gut burning, hot bitter liquid flooding his mouth. He choked, spewed, helpless. Firm hands held his head, wiped his face with a damp cloth. When he finally relaxed, aching, a hand slid under his head to raise it enough to allow him to drink cool liquid. He shivered, suddenly cold, sweat chilling on his skin.

Boromir shivered, cold even in the bright sunlight that shone blindingly on the snows of Caradhras. The wind blew chill in his face, and he looked down at the Ring resting at his feet. Below him, Aragorn helped Frodo stand, dusting snow off him.

Frodo had fallen, rolling down the hill, and had lost the Ring.

The wind shifted, the shrill whistling of air over sharp rock modulating to golden notes, a sweet singing that hovered on the edge of hearing. Slowly, easily, Boromir bent, picking up the Ring which loomed so large when he looked at it yet felt so small when he held it up in the light, dangling from the thin chain clasped in his right hand.

It was so small, he marveled.

“It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing. Such a little thing.”

Boromir reached out with his left hand, longing to hold it, warm, safe.

Aragorn spoke sharply. “Boromir! Give the Ring to Frodo.”

The wind died, the voices fading into silence. Dizzy, Boromir caught himself, feeling as if had nearly slipped and fallen, the snow and rock treacherous under his feet. He walked slowly, stiffly, down the slope to where Frodo stood, Aragorn behind him. “As you wish.” Boromir held out the Ring. “I care not.”

Aragorn wrapped his hand around the small gleaming thing, ripped it from Boromir’s hand, threw his head back and laughed. Frodo, one hand at his throat, swayed and fell at Aragorn’s feet, curling up small in his green cloak.

The white and blue and grey of the mountain pass blew away, snow and ice and rock stinging Boromir’s face and skin. He fell to his knees, blinded.

“You cared nothing for it, and it left you. You cared nothing for Frodo!”

Boromir shook his head, gasping. He was on his knees, arms bound behind his back, naked as before, a heavy chain around his neck. Before him stood Aragorn, Frodo at his feet, wearing only a thin shirt, shivering as he crouched on the floor, face pressed against Aragorn’s boot.

Boromir shouted a wordless denial, lunged forward, trying to stand, fell heavily to his side. His ankles were bound, and as the dazzle before his eyes cleared, he could see the heavy chain went from his neck to the post behind him. He choked in the tightening noose around his neck, then gasped as he was lifted enough to relieve the pressure.

For a few moments he focused on simply breathing, eyes closed, until he realized he was lying on his back, his head cushioned on Aragorn’s thigh. Awkward, Boromir tried to roll away, but Aragorn’s hands on his chest easily controlled him.

Remembering the burning pain, Boromir lay still.

“You did not care enough to take the burden from him.”

Boromir opened his eyes, frowning, looked up into blueness. “I did,” he said, uncertainly. He remembered. Parth Galen. Helping Frodo with the Ring.

Aragorn smiled at him. “Bearing it a short time was no real help,” he said. “One who truly cared would have claimed it, taken it from Frodo, relieved him of the burden for all time. Is that not true, Frodo?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Boromir could barely hear the soft answer, could not see where Frodo was, but he knew beyond all doubt that Frodo dared not speak the truth.

“No.” All he could do was deny what Aragorn said. Boromir flinched as the hand moved down his chest again, felt the puff of breath against his face as Aragorn laughed.

“You are strong, my love, and resist taming. It will take both pain and pleasure.”

Boromir set his teeth, then gasped as the warm hand slid down his belly, wrapping around his member, rubbing, fingers teasing up and down. Boromir could not help arching up, hardening.

“But I think I am the one to take you in hand,” Aragorn said, sliding fingers down between Boromir’s legs, pressing against him, laughing as his hips hitched up.

Then the hand stopped moving, kept holding Boromir firmly.

Holding his breath, Boromir waited for the pain he was sure would come but was shocked when molten pleasure ran under his skin, circling around his member, clenching and releasing, spreading throughout the rest of his body, gold and red pulsing in time to the beat of his heart. No lover, no victory in battle, no moment of happiness in the daily movement of life had ever given him such joy, could ever thrill through skin and bone and blood and heart, lifting him out of self and body, pulling him into endless cascade of light.

Perhaps he slept. Perhaps he died. For some uncounted time, he floated, held only by two warm hands. When they lifted away from him, he kept his eyes closed, did not wish to acknowledge his disappointment.

“Will you accept my kingship, Steward of Gondor?”

Jolted, Boromir tensed, remembering.

“No.”

He waited for the punishment, felt nothing for a moment, then only the light touch at his throat.

He opened his eyes, saw the knife Aragorn held.

“You stand upon the edge of a knife.”

He tossed, restless, at one moment fiery hot, burning, unable to bear any touch of cloth on his skin, the next, shivering, cold, seeking for warmth. The ache had centered in head and back, solid, no relief gained from movement. He was alone.

Boromir sat alone in Lothlorien, staring unseeing into the night. Her keen eyes, like blades gleaming in starlight, had not left him as she spoke to the Company.

“The quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little, and it will fail to the ruin of all.”

Her words played over and over in his mind. He would not be able to sleep. He had not wished to come to this land, would have preferred any road but the one that led into the trap of the Golden Wood.

“Take some rest. These borders are well protected.” Stripped of leathers and weapons, sleeves rolled high on strong arms, Aragorn stood to one side, smiling at him.

Boromir shook his head. “I will find no rest here. I heard her voice inside my head. She spoke of my father and the fall of Gondor. She said to me, ‘Even now there is hope left.’ But I cannot see it. It is long since we had any hope.”

Even as he spoke, Boromir felt the danger in his words, would have called them back if he could.

Aragorn moved to sit beside him, head tilted, listening.

Moved suddenly by an impulse he did not understand, Boromir turned to him. “My father is a noble man, but his rule is failing. And our people lose faith. He looks to me to make things right, and I, I would do it. I would see the glory of Gondor restored. Have you ever seen it, Aragorn? The white tower of Ecthelion glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver, its banners caught high in the morning breeze. Have you ever been called home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets?”

A pause, and Boromir wondered what Aragorn’s expression meant.

“I have seen the White City. Long ago.”

Ignoring the reluctance he heard in Aragorn’s voice, Boromir smiled at him. “One day, our paths will lead us there. And the tower guard shall take up the call: ‘The Lords of Gondor have returned.’”

“The Lords of Gondor never expected the King to return, did they, Steward?”

Boromir blinked, dazed by the blaze of light. His eyes watered.

He was naked, tied over what he slowly came to realize was a heavy wooden bench. He lay on his belly, tilted far enough over so each wrist was attached to a solid leg and his knees did not touch the ground. Ropes looped around each thigh were tied to the legs and then secured his wrists as well. He could do little more than twitch, and breathing was difficult, especially with his head dangling down. His neck and back ached, the pain a solid bar.

The stone floor was within a few inches of his face, and the light let him see the fine graining in the grey rock, the dirt in the cracks between the irregularly shaped flagstones, crumbs of food left untouched by any scavenging rat.

Closing his eyes, he resolved not to answer Aragorn. Boromir did not understand his sense that the only hope lay in refusing anything that was said or offered. But it was all he had. It is long since we had any hope. Boromir regretted his words, began to see dimly the necessity of hope only here and now at the end of all things.

“No, my king. We did not. We were wrong.”

Biting his cheek until it bled, Boromir kept himself from responding to Faramir’s voice. What was he doing here?

Aragorn’s voice was warmly approving when he said, “But you have submitted to me, admitted your fault and accepted your punishment. Your brother, however—”

A pause before Faramir spoke slowly. “He always was proud of our family, proud of his own strength.”

Something smooth rested against Boromir’s back, neither hot nor cold.

“Will you submit to me, my Lord of Gondor?”

Never. Boromir’s denial was absolute.

The touch left his back.

“Ah. Faramir, will you do this small thing for me?”

“Please, my king, do not ask me—” Faramir’s voice broke off in a gasp. Boromir heard the scuffle, the ringing slap of flesh against flesh, the short harsh gasping of breath, nearly moaning.

“If you do not, I will, and I will not use this.”

“Yes, my king.” Faramir’s voice was dull.

“Start here.” A large hand, calloused, stroked down Boromir’s ass, patted him as he tried to jerk away. “As hard as you can until I order you to stop.”

His senses heightened, his skin tingling, Boromir heard the slow scrape of boot leather over stone, felt the currents of air shift, heard the soft despairing whisper that was hardly voiced, Forgive me, before the first crack of leather against his skin came.

He almost laughed. He had expected much more pain, a heavier whip. The blows came slowly at first, showing Boromir the reluctance behind him, until Aragorn ordered more speed. Pain grew and spread until Boromir struggled to control his breathing. He strained uselessly against the heavy ropes, sweat streaking his skin, felt the hard bench cutting into his chest and thighs, spasmed not only against the pain of the whipping but against cramped muscles.

But each blow was echoed by his refusal, as steady as the pounding of his heart.

“Stop.”

In the silence, Boromir could hear Faramir’s panting almost sobbing breaths, but dared not relax.

“So strong, my love,” Aragorn’s voice purred, low and close to Boromir, as cool hands pressed against his burning flesh, stroking him. “So very very strong.” Boromir could feel the leather and velvet pressing against the skin of his thighs, felt the warmth of the body leaning over him.

A slick finger pressed against him, and he tensed, clenching muscles against this obscenity. The only response was a breath of laughter as Aragorn pressed in, steady, patient, moving in slightly, waiting, then pushing again, his other arm pressing down on Boromir’s back.

“So very very tight.” The satisfaction in Aragorn’s voice burned through Boromir who made a huge wrenching effort, resulting only in the bench rocking slightly under their weight.

“And so very reluctant. You will need much more lessoning, I see. I may need to call upon your brother again.”

Boromir refused to hear, refused to think what that threat might be, focused all his will.

A second finger breached him, pushing further in, and Boromir screamed, convulsing, as he felt the burning metal touch him.

“Much better.”

The hand withdrew, and Boromir had barely a chance to breathe before he was split, agony spiking through him as Aragorn positioned himself and thrust in brutally, quickly, sheathing himself deep in Boromir’s shaking body.

A small moan of satisfaction came as Aragorn slid his hands around Boromir’s thighs, wrenching them even further apart, sliding further in, resting.

“Will you beg me, love?”

Teeth clenched, Boromir grunted a half-voiced denial, body tense, resisting.

“Well, perhaps before the end,” Aragorn said, pulling back, thrusting in slowly, deeply, luxuriously. “Which will not be for some time.”

“I will not let you end here, Son of Gondor!”

The strong voice called him, but he nearly turned and fled.

But then the plea came, almost too soft to hear. “Do not leave me, I beg you.”

Boromir drew in a final breath to voice his last warning. “And you will beg for death before the end!”

The Halfling turned and walked away, and red rage washed through Boromir.

He had tried to reason with the stubborn fool, and look what it had gained him.

“You fool! It is not yours save by unhappy chance.” That was true, Boromir realized, striding forward, quickening his pace as the fool began to run. “It could have been mine. It should be mine!” He lunged toward Frodo, “Give it to me! Give me the Ring!”

Aragorn blocked him, sword gleaming in the darkness of the forest, the Ring gleaming on his hand.

Boromir stopped, panting, shuddered as he realized what had happened. “You will take the Ring to Sauron! You will betray us!”

Tense, aching, Boromir tried to close his mind to the hardness moving deep within him, the hands stroking over his body. He would not feel, would not respond.

Finally, jerking against him, groaning, Aragorn spent himself, lying a few moments heavy and lax on Boromir. A deep sigh came as Aragorn pulled free, then tangled his hand in Boromir’s hair, pulling his head up.

“What say you now, my love?”

Throat dry, eyes burning, Boromir spoke the only truth he knew. “You betrayed us. You betrayed all of Middle-earth. No.”

The hand tightened, pulling up and Boromir hoped for death as his breath was halted, light sparking in front of his eyes. But too soon, Aragorn released him and Boromir could not stop himself from gasping for air, sucking in the damp mustiness.

“Faramir!”

“No!”

“Come here.”

Boromir heard soft sounds, scuffles and a bump, behind him, forced himself not to strain uselessly at his bonds.

“Here, stand, yes, here.”

“No, I beg you.”

“You have submitted to me, sworn to do my will in all things, have you not?”

Silence broken only by a choked sob.

“And thus you earned Frodo’s life from me. As a gift. Shall I reclaim that gift?”

“Please. I cannot.”

“What I ask is so small a thing. Would you deny me to see your lover and your brother die?”

“No, my king.”

“Here, then, I will help you.”

Faramir tried to muffle his cry.

“Now.”

Boromir said, “Leave him. Kill me.”

Soft laughter as Aragorn settled on the bench next to Boromir, leg pressing against his side, Aragorn’s hand settling on his back, the Ring cold against him.

“You do not give orders here any longer. I do. Faramir. Now. Or watch them die.”

Trembling hands gripped Boromir’s hips. Faramir was shaking so hard it took him a long agonizing time to position himself. When he finally thrust in, Aragorn’s laughter rang golden through the echoing chamber, rising over Faramir’s plea.

“Brother, Boromir, awake!”

Wetness fell on Boromir’s face and he tried to turn away, cursing. He tried to raise his hand to wipe it dry, but he could not move. He opened his eyes, saw Faramir bending over him on his right, Aragorn on his left, smiling at him. With his last desperate strength, Boromir struck at Aragorn.

Frodo blinked, yawning, and rolled over, rising on one elbow when he heard the door open.

Faramir shut the door quietly and turned, shading the candle he carried with his hand.

“What news of Boromir?” Frodo sat up, wincing as sore muscles protested. He ached from head to foot but was glad he had suffered no worse injury in the fight with Denethor that morning.

“I hoped you were asleep,” Faramir said softly, setting the candle on the table and crossing the room to sit on the bed. “It’s late.”

“I did sleep, I think. For a while. But Boromir?” Frodo rubbed his eyes, looked more closely at Faramir and saw the shadow of bruises on his neck and face. “You’re hurt!”

Ignoring his aches, Frodo scrambled free of the bedding tangled around him, and stood on the bed, moving to Faramir’s side to run his fingers gently over his skin. “What happened?”

Faramir winced, shook his head, clasped Frodo’s hand. “Boromir.”

“What?” Frodo could not believe it. In all the time he had traveled with Boromir, the only time Frodo had seen him harm anyone was in battle, fighting to protect others. He had never raised a hand against anyone in the Fellowship, not even when Frodo had fought him for the Ring.

“He didn’t mean to, Frodo, I know he didn’t. It’s hard.”

Rising from the bed, Faramir went to the table to pour wine.

Frodo sat cross-legged, watching him. The candleflame painted gold streaks in his hair but cast his body in shadow. No matter what had happened, Frodo was suddenly, desperately happy to be here at this moment, alive.

Frodo had awakened earlier in a bed at the Houses of Healing with Gandalf at his side. Sure that Boromir was dead, perhaps Faramir as well, Frodo could hardly believe Gandalf’s news, had insisted on hearing it over again. Faramir had suffered no new injury in the fight although the dart wound had begun to bleed again. Boromir had a serious head injury but was being tended to by the best Healers who had studied such things. Denethor was the only one near death, Boromir’s knife sinking deep into his belly when he had fallen on Frodo.

Gandalf had given Frodo no news other than the battle had been won and that the Fellowship had come through it, with some injuries. Instead he insisted that Frodo eat and rest. Then the wizard had left him to help tend the wounded. Frodo feared what might come but could do nothing. Faramir was with his brother, and Gandalf had refused to allow Frodo go to them for fear of what the Ring might do.

Frodo had spent the afternoon and early evening resting and eating. The boy who had brought him daymeal had told him that Aragorn had come from the Pelennor Field to the Houses of Healing where he had helped many, going last to Boromir.

Faramir drained his goblet, set it down, rested his hands on the table a moment, head down.

“Come to bed then tell me about it,” Frodo moved back to the head of the bed, pulling the bedding straight, and sat against one of the pillows.

Faramir leaned over to blow the candle out. Frodo heard the soft sounds as he undressed, felt the bed tilt as he slid into it. Turning to lie next to Faramir, head on his shoulder, Frodo felt the long sigh as Faramir’s arm went around him, as he relaxed under Frodo. The darkness felt safe and warm, holding the two of them like a cocoon.

“What happened?”

“Aragorn was worried because Boromir was so unresponsive, no injury he had seen had caused such a death-like sleep. I thought him dead a half dozen times. Aragorn had to use a mirror to show me he still breathed. The athelas which had helped others, including your friend Meriadoc, had no effect.”

Frodo nodded. Gandalf had told him briefly of Merry’s deeds. “How could he injure you?”

“After hours, hours during which Aragorn did not rest or sleep for tending Boromir, he asked me to call Boromir’s name. When I did, he woke.”

Faramir stroked his hand along Frodo’s back, silent a moment. Patient, Frodo waited. He could lie here all night if need be.

“I could see his eyes, dark as if the light around us was dim although Aragorn had brought in many candles to work by. I was happy for a moment, then he struck Aragorn.”

“What?” Frodo pushed himself up, ignoring Faramir’s grunt. “That’s impossible,” he said.

Frodo remembered lying on the stony river bank, hearing the two men argue over what was the best road to travel, two men he had watched become closer with every league they had traveled since Rivendell. The one argument had been painful to hear because of that closeness. They had fought side by side in Moria. Frodo remembered lying in Lothlorien, grieving at Gandalf’s fall, but seeing them sitting together, talking, which had comforted him. “Impossible,” he said again.

“I know, but he did. Aragorn was leaning over him, was not on his guard, and fell, then Boromir flung himself off the bed and tried to choke him. When I tried to pull him off, he turned on me.”

Beyond surprise, Frodo lay down again, felt Faramir’s hand on his head. “Then what?”

“We had to tie him down, to save him from injuring himself. He was raving, saying vile things, making such accusations—”

Frodo swallowed, feeling time slow around him. He shivered, wrapped his hand around the Ring, and even through the cloth of his nightrobe, he could feel its power pulsing.

“Vile things?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

Frodo felt Faramir shake his head. “I won’t say, Frodo, don’t ask me. It’s too dishonorable, even knowing that it must be the head injury, what unspeakable things he accused us of, especially Aragorn.”

“Let me go,” Frodo said faintly, sat up as Faramir’s arm dropped away, curled around himself, shivering. It was happening again. He had thought he would never say what had happened, what the Ring had done to Boromir, would never wish to, for the same reason that Faramir gave, that it was vile, unspeakable.

But now it might still be the Ring, and they did not know, could not guard against it, if there was any way to guard against such subtle evil.

“Frodo?” Faramir tried to pull him back down. Frodo pushed him away, shaking.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t say anything. Please. Just—listen.” He shut his eyes, longing for even more protection, sat alone in the darkness until he could speak of his attempt to leave Boromir, of being found by Beregond and taken back to the Citadel.

“I was so ill I could not stand, not sleeping as deeply as you say Boromir was, but then I was not injured. As soon as Boromir touched me, I began to recover. He took me back to his room. He, when we got there, he—the Ring—”

“Frodo, what?” Faramir’s voice was concerned though he did not move closer.

“It was vile, I did not wish to tell you, I know it was the Ring, but—”

“You can tell me anything.”

Frodo felt tears come, wiped his face, and knew he could trust this man. As quickly as possible, Frodo told of Boromir holding him down, the loving way he spoke of rape and torment, what he had done.

“Frodo!”

Hearing the anger in Faramir’s voice Frodo hurried to say, “A messenger came. He had to leave. He left me tied to the bed, nothing else happened.”

“What then, when he came back?”

Frodo relaxed, thinking the worst was over. “He had drunk so much wine he’d even forgotten I was tied—he could barely untie me—and he had brought no food as he’d promised. The next morning, you and Gandalf and Pippin came.”

Faramir laughed. “I think I recognize the tactician my brother is. Frodo, come here. I’m not angry at you. Or him. Though I would cast the Ring into the chasm myself if I could.”

Wrapping his arms around Frodo, Faramir pulled him down, holding Frodo close. He relaxed, slid his arms around Faramir in turn, breathing in the warmth and scent of his skin.

“You think it may be the Ring now, acting on Boromir, as it did before?”

Frodo could feel Faramir’s voice resonate against his cheek when he spoke and smiled to himself. “Perhaps. You said he spoke of vile things—”

“Yes, I see the connection. But it’s different, surely.”

Frodo shuddered. It seemed dreadfully similar to him. “I told you, how real the dreams were. You said Boromir seemed to be more than sleeping. What if he was dreaming? What if be believes the dreams are true? Of what did he speak?”

Feeling Faramir’s body go rigid under him, Frodo waited. He knew how hard it would be to speak of what happened. Slowly, Faramir relaxed, breathing deeply, finally speaking in a low voice. “Torture, rape. He claimed Aragorn had taken the Ring. That I—no, I cannot say it. He was raving, surely, from his injury?”

With cold certainty, Frodo spoke. “Gandalf said those Healers who had studied head injuries were working with Boromir. Did they fail to heal him?”

“Yes.”

“As did Aragorn. It must be the Ring, and perhaps Boromir was more vulnerable than before because of the injury.”

Frodo remembered the flailing bodies rolling down the stairs, the sounds of mail and flesh hitting stone, the way Boromir had lain, limp, under Faramir.

“Which I caused.”

“Which happened because you tried to keep him from taking the Ring,” Frodo said firmly, hugging Faramir. “It is the Ring. You know this. You must let me go to him. Perhaps I can help.”

“No!”

Frodo could hardly breathe for a moment as Faramir’s arms tightened around him, then they loosened.

“It helped me, when I was ill, being close to him.”

Faramir slid his hands under Frodo’s arms and gently set him aside to climb out of bed. “From what you tell me, it nearly got you raped if not killed. I will send a message to Mithrandir, tell him of your warning. Of all of us, he is the wisest and can best unravel this riddle. But you will not go to Boromir, Frodo. I love my brother, but I do not trust him near you. Not now.”

The striking of flint sounded loud in the quiet of the room, and Faramir lit the candle.

Relieved, Frodo lay back and watched him pull on tunic and leggings, then turn to the door. “You stay here, Frodo. I’ll soon be back.” He left the room with the candle.

Frodo lay, his eyes shut, until Faramir returned. When he came back to their bed, Frodo leaned over him for a kiss, long and soft and sweet, then rested against Faramir, feeling the pulse of blood and life through him.

“It’s so different,” he said.

“Different?”

Frodo felt the blood rising in his face, was glad that Faramir could not see him in the dark.

“What is different?”

“Lying here with you.”

“Rather than with Boromir? I’m glad to hear you say so.”

Frodo smiled, but continued. This felt important. “It feels so different. But would anybody else understand that?”

“Ah. I see.” Faramir’s hand moved over his back, and Frodo sighed happily. “From what I have read in the Archives, the Nameless Enemy cannot create, only mock or copy. That was true of his master in ages past as well. They lust after what others create, try to destroy it or steal it and thus twist it to their use. I think the Ring could force a bond on you and Boromir, but it was not love. It was a mockery, a sham, that could be enforced only through the body. Your sickness, what Boromir is suffering now, perhaps is the same thing. But they cannot prevail, Frodo.”

“Even with Boromir?”

“I must believe there is still hope, Frodo.”

Boromir lay, eyes nearly closed, feigning sleep, watching Aragorn. It was some new trick, this play at healing, pretending to heal when he had caused the injury.

The rope tying wrists and ankles to the bedposts was not elven rope, light to the hand and unbreakable, but it was strong enough. Boromir’s skin was chafed raw from his escape attempts, his nightrobe twisted around him, tight and binding on his body.

The room was full of golden light from candles and fire, light Aragorn had claimed he needed to work. Littered on table and floor were basins, pitchers, goblets, plates. A window opened on darkness, but Boromir was glad for the fresh air, glad to be out of the damp staleness of his earlier prison.

A short distance away, Aragorn sat on a stool, drinking from a clay cup, staring into the flames. He had left off the black velvet and leather, was wearing only a ragged red shirt which Boromir remembered from their journey, one he had worn at Parth Galen, and leggings stained with mud, or with dried blood. His feet were bare.

The fire flickered red, bronzing Aragorn’s skin, showing the fine details of his large hands clasped around dull clay. Remembering the pain those hands had caused him, Boromir shifted, uneasy.

Aragorn looked up, smiling, set the mug on the floor next to the stool and rose to come stand by Boromir’s right side, legs against the bed.

Feeling vulnerable, arms and legs spread across the bed, Boromir gave up his pretense of sleep and looked directly at Aragorn, seeking the Ring. He had hidden it, wore only the silver ring with the serpents on it that he had always worn. But Boromir knew it was on him, somewhere.

He could feel it.

“Are you rested? Do you remember what has happened?”

Boromir marveled that Aragorn could sound as he always had, could so well hide what he had become.

“You took the Ring. I will not forget what happened.” Smiling, Boromir saw the bruises he had inflicted on Aragorn, showing dark and mottled against the white skin of his throat and chest where the loose shirt gapped open. “I will not submit.”

He had been surprised when his first blow knocked Aragorn over, surprised to have had such success with one blow, but not surprised enough to slow his attack. Boromir had rolled from the bed to fall on top of Aragorn, trying to choke him. Feeling Aragorn’s body under him, his hands clamped around Boromir’s wrists, seeing him struggle for air, his face darken, Boromir had thought he had this one chance to snatch victory.

Then Faramir had attacked him. From behind.

Boromir remembered a long-ago afternoon in the armoury, sitting and cleaning weapons with his brother, their argument over warfare and lordship. Faramir had been young, a stripling, spending more time in the Archives than in weapons-training. He spoke of the kings of old who were generous and gentle as well as lordly. Boromir had half-listened for a while, confused by a long list of names and dates as he sharpened his sword, then interrupted, counseling him. “Those kings are dead, they lost power, they threw it away when the days of peace passed. We face desperate times, brother, and at such times gentleness and honour may be repaid with death. Fight to win if you must.” Then, Boromir had not thought Faramir listened.

The fight had been brutal but short, the two of them able to wrestle him back onto the bed, face-down, Aragorn with a knee in his back, his hands clamped around Boromir’s arms, holding him while Faramir fetched rope. It took a further struggle to tie him down, Boromir remembered grimly.

Aragorn shook his head. “You were injured trying to take the Ring from Frodo this morning, no, yesterday now.”

Boromir turned his head away as Aragorn reached toward him, felt the gentle touch on the back of his head. “Here.”

Boromir flinched before he could stop himself, shut his eyes, waited for the pain which did not come, felt the hand lift away.

“You do not remember.”

Opening his eyes, Boromir looked back at Aragorn. “Your pretense of sorrow is excellent, but I do remember. And what I remember taught me never to trust you.”

“Let me fetch Faramir then, or Gandalf.”

Laughing, Boromir shook his head, felt pain but ignored it. “I know what hold you have on Faramir, know how he betrayed me. And your wizard? Why would I believe him?” Boromir was sure that Aragorn would never have been able to do what he had done without the help of the wizard who must have been planning from the start. All of his words about destroying the Ring had been false. He had tricked them in Moria, had been plotting against Gondor all along.

Frowning slightly, Aragorn asked, “Whom would you trust, then?”

“Untie me first.”

“Give me your word not to fight, and I will.”

Boromir opened his mouth, hesitating. He should lie, he knew, but he could not easily bring himself to give his word knowing he would break it.

Aragorn shrugged, turned to pull the stool closer to the bed, and sat, legs spread, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. He looked at Boromir but said nothing.

Uneasy under the weight of the silence and the blue gaze, Boromir finally said, grudgingly, “Frodo. I would trust him. If I were untied and left alone with him.”

“No.” Aragorn’s voice hardened. “I will not allow it. You wish only to be in the presence of the Ring—”

Boromir reddened, opened his mouth to shout his denial, but Aragorn’s gesture stopped him.

“You may not know it, may not realize it, but that is what you wish. It would drive you mad. You bore the Ring since Parth Galen. You have twice tried to claim it for your own. I have not seen Frodo yet, but I have heard from Gandalf and Faramir what happened in the Citadel, heard from Faramir what you tried to do on the wall.” The power in Aragorn’s voice pulled at Boromir, willing him to trust what this man told him. But he lied, Boromir knew he lied.

Confused, Boromir felt pain in his head growing. Memory jumbled, pieces splintering, pain jagged. He squinted, eyes watering, the throbbing pain making it hard to think. He swallowed, his throat dry and aching. He did not know what to say.

The taps on the door sounded loud in the quiet of the room. Aragorn frowned and rose from the stool to to go stand by the closed door.

“Who is it?”

“Gandalf.”

Boromir watched as Aragorn opened the door, stood back to let the wizard enter. The white-robed figure nodded to Aragorn and crossed to stand by the bed, leaning on his staff. He looked at Boromir who stared back, defiant. Mithrandir looked tired, his white robes stained with mud and blood, and he smelled of smoke.

“Is that still necessary?”

“You were not here when he awoke. Had you been, you would not need to ask,” Aragorn said, rubbing his neck and joining the wizard by the bed.

“I heard, but thought he may have been in a fever, not knowing what he did. He seems aware now.”

“When he first tried to kill us, I might have agreed. But it’s been hours, and he is aware, and he will try again if he can. He has said so.”

Boromir scowled, looked away. He need not justify his actions to Mithrandir.

“Hmmm. I received a message from Faramir, that Frodo thinks that Boromir has been affected by the Ring, that he wishes to see Boromir although—”

Boromir looked back at the wizard when he spoke Frodo’s name, almost responded before remembering that whatever the wizard said would simply be one more lie.

Aragorn shook his head. “Why would Frodo send such a message at this time of night? Of course he’s been affected. He’s now asking to see Frodo, alone, and untied, after trying to take the Ring again. But I won’t allow it, it’s too dangerous for Frodo.”

“Faramir agrees with you. No, Aragorn, Frodo wasn’t talking about what happened at Parth Galen and after, but something else, something new and deeply disturbing.”

Aragorn stepped back, dropping onto the stool, resting his head in his hands. “What now?”

“We knew the Ring sent visions to deceive Frodo and Boromir before. Frodo thinks that it still may be happening, that may be what caused the attack.”

Shifting, feeling the pains and aches in his body, aching with thirst and also feeling a desperate need to piss, Boromir could not longer keep silent. “Why do you bother with these lies?” he demanded.

Mithrandir looked at him a moment, silent, then smiled slightly. “What lies?”

“I know Aragorn has taken the Ring, why pretend otherwise?”

“Why would we bother lying to you, if Aragorn had the Ring? Why would he bother with you at all, if he had the One Ring?”

Boromir closed his eyes, frustrated. He should not even try to speak to them, should not listen. They were his captors. He was a prisoner. Nothing that was said would change that.

“I’ve heard little of these visions, beyond what Pippin told me that Frodo said.” Aragorn said slowly. “I’ve not had time to speak to Frodo. Perhaps I should, before—”

“Perhaps you should sleep first, as I’m sure Frodo is doing now,” Mithrandir said firmly.

“How can I? What of Boromir?”

“Boromir.”

The command in the wizard’s soft voice could not be denied. Hating, Boromir opened his eyes.

“There seem to be many riddles needing to be solved. You can either be locked away here, at least in part for your own safety, while we try to tease out the answers as well as face the threat of the next attack from Mordor, or you can give us your word to behave honorably and help find the answers.”

“My own safety?” Boromir laughed. “After what Aragorn did to me, you’re worried about my safety?”

Mithrandir leaned forward slightly. “What did Aragorn do to you?”

“Ask him.”

“Aragorn?”

Sighing, Aragorn raised his head. “Boromir claims I tortured him, raped him.”

“As you feared you had raped Frodo?”

“What?” Boromir was stunned.

“Three days ago, in this House, you told me you feared you raped Frodo. Have you forgotten?”

Shaking his head, Boromir said, “No. I never—”

“You may not remember what happened earlier today, but I can bring in half a dozen Healers who helped to carry you as well as Faramir and your father and Frodo back from the street after you fought your brother on the wall. Your father lies near death with a wound from your knife. Faramir and Frodo have told me what happened, but there are rumours flying through the City.”

Agony sheeted through Boromir’s head, wrenching his body and blinding him in a blaze of light. He choked, unable to breathe.

The sunlight mocked him as he moved through the streets. It had all been in vain, all the suffering, the death, all in vain. All that he had done was for naught. How many dead would be alive had he been strong enough to act before, to do what he had known must be done. No longer would he be weak.

Before he reached the Houses of Healing, he saw the two figures on the wall above him. He would recognize Frodo anywhere.

“Frodo!”

The man standing next to Frodo was Faramir. He said something, but it wasn’t important. Boromir began to climb the steps. They had no place to retreat.

“Give me the Ring.”

Boromir watched Frodo back away, hand at his chest, as he climbed the last few steps, moving easily toward the cowering Halfling before being blocked by Faramir. Didn’t they see?

“You must, Frodo. The black ships on the River, they bring corsairs from Umbar. The Rohirrim are outnumbered. They will take the city. We cannot win without the Ring.”

“No.”

Faramir moved closer, striking Boromir’s hand down. “Brother, Boromir, you cannot. You must fight this.”

“We have fought. All that has been done is in vain. Frodo must give me the Ring. If I do not take it, the enemy will.”

Pain split Boromir’s head, and he fell forward onto his knees. Struggling not to fall further, Boromir watched as Aragorn walked by, struck Faramir down with one swift blow, then advanced toward Frodo. Unable to move, Boromir closed his eyes as Aragorn reached out to take the Ring.

A warm hand was laid on his forehead and Boromir could breath easily.

He drew a deep breath, smiling, suddenly back on the beach at Dol Amroth where he had visited years ago, the wind blowing from the west at sunset moist against his face, laden with the scent of seawater mingled with a touch of sweetness that he imagined might be some memory of Valinor.

“Boromir!”

He was lost. He was dreaming. He wept for that lost summer.

“Boromir, awake!”

Reluctant, Boromir opened his eyes. Aragorn was leaning over him, one hand on his head, the other holding a bowl of steaming water close to his face.

“What?” Confused, Boromir tried to sit but could not move. He saw he was bound to a bed. He tugged at his bonds.

“What did you see? What do you remember?” Aragorn’s voice was urgent.

“The black sails, the corsairs,” said Boromir, uncertainly. “I had to save the City.” He was dazed, felt as if had drunk more wine than he ever had before, as if he were seeing double. His head throbbed, almost an ache. But he was not drunk. He would not drink so close to a battle. “The Ring. I, no, you, took it—I don’t know.”

Aragorn straightened, turning to set the bowl down upon a table. “I had hoped the athelas would work this time. But—”

“I think it helped,” Mithrandir said. “Somewhat. Boromir, can you remember what happened today?”

“We were besieged,” Boromir said. “And the Corsairs of Umbar attacked. But then, I don’t know. Did we win? Why am I bound? What happened?”

“Who has the Ring?” The voice commanded him, could not be gainsaid.

Boromir stared into the keen eyes, breathing as if he had been running, caught in an endless moment, images jumbling in his head.

Aragorn, in black velvet and leather, the Ring shining on his left hand.

Frodo in a ragged shirt and stained trousers, hand clutched at his chest, backed against the grey stone wall, defying him.

Boromir, triumphant, the Ring around his neck, leading the forces of Gondor against the Enemy.

“Answer me, Boromir!”

“I don’t know!”

Silence rang through the room, save for the sound of flames and a falling ember.

“Release him.”

Boromir watched, amazed, as Aragorn looked at Mithrandir a long moment, head tilted. He nodded, and Aragorn moved slowly to the foot of the bed, untying the ropes that tied Boromir’s ankles, then came to the head of the bed. He released Boromir’s right wrist, hesitated, then leaned over him to free his left.

The loose red shirt fell across Boromir’s face, and from the soft worn cloth he inhaled the blend of horse, leather, pipeweed and the underlying scent that was Aragorn. Boromir was suddenly back in Moria, sitting next to Aragorn on the steps, feeling the warmth along his side in the cold air of the Mines, waiting for Mithrandir to decide which door to take.

Standing, Aragorn looked down at Boromir, not speaking while he slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position, tugging the twisted robe straight around him, stretching and rubbing his numb arms. The skin of his wrists and ankles was chafed and red.

“I have salve that will help,” Aragorn said.

Boromir nodded. He expected Aragorn to hand him the small pot and did not know what to say when he sat at the foot of the bed, dipping his fingers in, rubbing the salve between his palms to warm it. When Aragorn’s slick hands wrapped around his right ankle, Boromir flinched, expecting pain, then sat, eyes down, as Aragorn smoothed the salve over his skin. Then the other ankle, hands sliding around, moving up and down, cooling and soothing.

Swallowing, Boromir told himself the ache between his legs was only because he had to piss.

He felt Aragorn move up the bed before he spoke. “Give me your hand.”

Boromir held out his right hand, endured the fingers stroking along and around his wrist, then the left.

Pulling his hand free, Boromir made himself look at Aragorn who sat within arm’s reach. The bruises on his throat drew Boromir’s eyes.

“What happened?”

Aragorn shook his head. “When I came into the City, they said you and the others were injured but not in the battle. I do not know why you thought I had taken the Ring. If I had done all that you said, I would hope you, or someone, would kill me. But I did not.”

Boromir gripped his head, rubbing his temples, the herbal scent strong and refreshing. “Is there water?” he asked. Nothing made sense, but his thirst was becoming more than pain, drew all his attention.

Mithrandir nodded, turning away to the table. He leaned his staff against the wall, poured water into a clay cup, and brought it to Boromir. He took it, smooth against his skin, and drank, thirstily. The water was cool, the familiar tang of the city wells pleasant in his mouth. It grounded him. He drained the cup, handed it back to Mithrandir.

“Now what?”

Mithrandir set the cup down and retrieved his staff. “I think, sleep.” He glared at them both, impartially. “How long since you have slept a full night through, Boromir?”

Boromir shrugged. He could not remember. Not since he had come to Minas Tirith certainly.

“Aragorn?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Well, then. Sleep, and we’ll talk in the morning.” In a swirl of robes, Mithrandir was gone.

Aragorn stood and began to blow out the candles.

Watching him, Boromir struggled with conflicting impulses. But one problem overrode the others.

He stood, moved to the door. Aragorn stopped and turned to watch him.

“I have to piss,” Boromir said.

“The room is down the hall, to your left,” Aragorn said calmly.

Boromir moved to the door, set his hand on the latch. He could not believe Aragorn would let him walk out on his own. He opened the door and walked through. No sound from the room behind him.

Wiping the sweat from his face, Boromir walked the short distance necessary and found the bathing room. He latched the door, stood leaning against it, shaking. Perhaps he was going mad. Or perhaps, what Mithrandir said, what Frodo had said it, could be true.

He would have to talk to Frodo. Somehow. Until then, he would wait. He relieved himself, stripped off the nightrobe to wash, and dried himself. Walking back to the room, he found himself hoping he would not dream.

When Boromir returned to the room, he saw Aragorn was already lying on the pallet, eyes closed. Hand on the door, Boromir stood a moment, watching.

The pallet lay to his right, under the open window, but across the room from the narrow bed. The room was small, the distance between bed and pallet not far, but it was as far away as possible. The fireplace was in the wall facing the door, flames burning down to a shimmering bed of coals. The room was quiet, peaceful, the night outside dark. Aragorn was lying on his back, a blanket pulled carelessly over him, his chest rising and falling evenly.

Closing his eyes, Boromir struggled with his memory of being chained, tied, tormented, of Aragorn’s laughter at the pain he caused.

The man who had treated him in such a manner would not now lie as Aragorn was. Unless it was some trick, a decoy meant to bait an attack that would justify punishment. Boromir opened his eyes, stared at Aragorn, then shut the door softly.

When he came to the side of the bed, he was glad to see that the ropes that had bound him had been removed, were no longer in sight. He pulled the bedding back and slid under it, turned on his side, facing the wall.

He had thought he would lie awake, but Gandalf had been right. It had been too long since had had a full night’s sleep. No matter his doubts and fears, his body demanded sleep. Comforted by the soft sounds of the fire crackling and the breathing behind him, Boromir felt himself sliding into sleep as he was trying to recall when he had last slept well and through the night.

Cair Andros.

The night Frodo had tried to take the Ring from him.

The Ring. Cair Andros.

Boromir tossed, caught between sleep and waking. Remembered Frodo trying to take the Ring in Cair Andros, remembered waking the next morning with Frodo wrapped around him and what Boromir feared had happened there.

Boromir slammed against the damp stone wall then fell to his knees, panting. The rough stone had scraped new pain from the welts and bruises on his back. He wiped blood off his face, spitting more out, and looked through the hair, lank and wet, that hung over his face, at the dark figure in front of him.

The fire behind him roared high, light glistening off the whip held in Aragorn’s left hand. Built in a circular firepit in the center of the room, the flames reached higher than a man. Waves of heat, waves of power, blurred Boromir’s vision and he thought for a moment Aragorn had wings of fire, the whip in his left hand glistening.

“Stand up.”

Aragorn stood in front of him, legs wide, the Ring gleaming on his left hand. He’d been alternating blows, using the whip when Boromir was further away, his right hand when he was able to goad Boromir into closing with him.

“Too weak, my Lord of Gondor? We have only begun this dance, and already you tire? The blood of your House runs thin.”

Boromir leaned forward, bracing himself a moment. Perhaps if he could slam into him hard enough, they would both be carried into the fire. A moment of hope gave him the strength to leap up, shouting.

“Boromir!”

Throwing himself to one side, Boromir stumbled from the bed, nearly tripping over the bedding, kicking it savagely aside, to stand with his back against the cool wall. Heart pounding so he could barely breathe, he searched for a weapon, a stool, anything to defend himself.

“Boromir!”

His eyes finally focused. The room was shadowed, the fire to his left burned nearly out, only a few flickers of red among the grey. Aragorn was a darker shadow against the wall, still sitting.

“What?” Boromir heard his voice crack. He was panting, felt sweat on his back and sides stinging the welts on his skin.

“You were dreaming. You shouted. What’s wrong?”

Chilled, Boromir straightened. “It was you. You have the Ring. This was all a trick. I saw the Ring, saw you wearing it.”

A moment of silence, then Aragorn stood easily.

Boromir tensed, wary, but watched while the dark figure moved to the table, picked up something, and then to the fireplace. He bent, lighting a candle, then stood. Gold streaked his touseled hair, touched higlights off cheekbones and the hollow at the base of his throat.

Watching Boromir, Aragorn moved backward and around, slow step by slow step, holding the candle out at arm’s length. He stopped beside the bed, holding the candle out, looking at Boromir.

Boromir did not move until Aragorn said, “Take it.”

Leaning forward, Boromir reached until he could take the candle, then retreated back to the wall, setting his back firmly against it.

Aragorn held out his hands, spreading his fingers, showing he wore only the one silver ring he always had. He pulled it off his right hand and tossed it onto the bed where it shone against the white linen.

Still moving slowly, Aragorn reached behind his head and, gripping the back of his shirt, pulled it off over his head and arms, lay it on the bed next to the ring. He stood in front of Boromir, the candlelight showing pale scars on body and arms, the healing wound on his arm from Parth Galen red in the light.

Finally, Aragorn unlaced the leggings he wore, shoving them down over his hips and legs, kicking them off. Eyes on Boromir, he bent, picked them up, and draped them over the bed. Backing away, not turning, Aragorn moved to stand against the far wall.

“Search them.”

Holding the candle in one hand, unwilling to turn his back on Aragorn long enough to put it down on the table, Boromir took the few steps necessary to stand by the bed. He picked up the ring, weighted it in his hand, looked at it. Silver band, two crowned serpents, the green stone. It was heavy, but it was not the One Ring. He could remember the heft and smoothness of its gold, the feeling of power he felt when he held it, when he wore it around his neck. Boromir tossed the ring up and down, thinking that Faramir wold probably know its history, then tossed it across the room to Aragorn who caught it, slipped it back on his finger, stood quietly.

Awkward, Boromir picked up the shirt, tucked it under one arm while he felt along the seams, then the leggings. The clothes were familiar to him. He had seen Aragorn wear them often on their journey. The Ring was not hidden in shirt or leggings.

For the first time, Boromir realized there was no sword in the room with them, neither his of course nor Aragorn’s Anduril.

He shrugged, draped the clothes back over the bed.

“Nothing,” he admitted.

Aragorn took two steps forward, stood before him, hands open, arms extended slightly from his body. Light from the candleflame flickered over pale skin and dark hair which grew thickly on his chest and down his belly. Muscles cast shadows in patterns across his chest, arms, and thighs.

“I do not have the Ring.”

Aragorn did not have the Ring.

Boromir had taken the Ring.

Wavering, he stepped forward, the candle falling from his hand. Bedding tangled on the floor tripped him, and he fell to his knees, the pain in his head rising to agony.

He was lost in the dark.

Falling.

He did not know what happened, what to do, whom to trust. He could not be trusted. He would hurt those he loved trying to protect them.

Strong arms caught him, held him close. He let himself relax, leaning heavily against the strong body that easily supported his weight, enjoying the way arms wrapped around him. His arms went out in turn, wrapping around Aragorn, pressing closer, pulling him closer, one hand sliding up to grip his shoulder, the other sliding down around the slim waist.

Suddenly hungry for touch, for warmth, for security, feeling no matter what happened he could trust, trust this man, this moment, Boromir rested. He was content to simply be, wrapped in familiar scent, feeling the brush of hair against face, as time slowed, as the space narrowed to hold only them, the only sound their breathing, the beating of their hearts.

After an uncounted time, Aragorn stirred slightly, and Boromir became conscious of more than the comfort, felt the hardness pressed against his belly echoed in his own body, the ache growing, demanding, this hunger that was for more than just touch.

He pulled back, was relieved when Aragorn released him immediately, but was caught in the blue eyes, the gaze that met his openly, the quirk of lips that spoke something new. Naked, Aragorn faced him, refusing to pull away, refusing to hide the passion his body so clearly showed. Boromir felt shame that his first, fearful thought was to turn away, to pretend he had not seen, pretend he was not hard and aching.

But then the plea came, almost too soft to hear. “Do not leave me, I beg you.”

And Boromir knew he could not.

Standing, Boromir reached down to grasp Aragorn’s upper arms, tug him to his feet. He stood easily, letting Boromir turn and guide him to sit, then lie back on the bed, stretching out across it.

“Wait a moment,” Boromir said softly, then stepped back, pulling the nightrobe over his head in one easy movement, kicking the tangled bedding aside. He found the candle he’d dropped, moved to the fire and managed to light it at the last dying coals. He went to the table and lit the others he found, setting them on table and manglepiece. He craved light.

Moving back to the bed, he saw Aragorn was watching him, unmoving, and bent over to lay both hands on his shoulders, smoothing palms down over the warm skin of his chest, hair soft to the touch, feeling the lift of his breathing, the small hardness of his nipples, tracing the elegant arch of his ribs, sliding hands around to hold his hips.

Wanting to learn every part of him, to burn the feel of skin and flesh, scent and taste, into memory, to hold as a shield against the Ring, Boromir slid down to lie over Aragorn, pressing against him. When Aragorn lifted his arms to grip Boromir’s shoulders, he tensed, felt his breath catch. Before he could say anything, the strong hands fell away, Aragorn relaxing even more into Boromir’s grip, head tilting back, eyes closing, body open and vulnerable.

Reassured, Boromir pulled Aragorn closer, rose to lean on his right arm, sliding his palm over Aragorn’s belly, smiling as he felt the tremors start deep within. Sliding his leg over Aragorn’s, Boromir wrapped his left hand around Aragorn’s member, holding him until he thrust up, pleading without words. Sliding his hand up and down gently, slowly, learning the sounds and movement of Aragorn’s pleasure, of his need, Boromir explored each fold of skin, his fingers sensitive to the slightest moment, tracing from root to tip, then halting.

Aragorn opened his eyes, tried to speak, but Boromir kissed him, tasting warmth and richness, plunging his fingers between Aragorn’s legs, pressing up to force a moan which he swallowed, moving again, fingers caressing flesh, until Aragorn’s body convulsed under him, spilling wetness into his grasping hand.

Feeling the trembling within his grip, within the body pressed against his, Boromir waited until Aragorn lay still under him. Raising up, Boromir looked into the blue eyes gleaming between half shut lids, exulting in the smile, raised his hand and licked his palm and fingers clean. Sliding down to rest by Aragorn, Boromir watched him as he began to breathe more normally, damp skin shining in the light.

Looking a question, Aragorn raised his hand slowly, laid it against Boromir’s chest pushing until he tilted over on his back, shutting his eyes as Aragorn’s mouth took his, the kiss long and sweet. Boromir felt movement, wetness tracing down his throat and chest, as Aragorn leaned over him, not touching him, not holding him down. Warmth of lips and tongue slid lower over Boromir’s chest and belly, rose away, then sucked him in.

Boromir arched up as the warm wet mouth engulfed him, feeling each small movement of lips and tongue along his skin, the room, the world narrowing to the sweetness that ran under his skin, up his spine, exploding in a blaze of white light.

Feeling waves of pleasure shiver through him, Boromir lay panting, feeling the weight of Aragorn on his legs. Finally, opening his eyes, Boromir reached down to pull Aragorn up for a last long kiss, tasting himself in Aragorn’s mouth, tasting Aragorn in his mouth, the mingling of flavours a new pleasure.

Silent, they lay, wrapped around each other, until the chill air from the open window along his damp skin made Boromir shiver. He rose from the bed to search for the bedding.

Aragorn turned over, shoulders measuring the width of the bed, nearly. “These beds are hardly made for two,” he said. “Should I move back to the pallet?”

Boromir shook the bedding out and draped it over Aragorn. “No.” Boromir slid in beside him. Aragorn turned on his side, giving Boromir room enough to lie behind him, arms wrapped around him, spooned together. “No, this is perfect.”

Boromir lay, trying to think through all that had happened since Mithrandir had arrived. He suddenly wondered when Aragorn had come to the City. “Aragorn?”

“Yes?” Aragorn’s voice was low, drowsy.

“How, when, did you come to Minas Tirith? Mithrandir said you were in Fangorn Forest.” Boromir had heard whispered tales about the evil that lurked in Fangorn. “What happened since we parted at Parth Galen?”

“It is a long story. We followed the Orcs to Fangorn where we met Gandalf. He took us to aid the Rohirrim. After Isengard fell, I used the palantír—”

“You used one? They are evil, they—my father—” Boromir could not say what he feared, what he knew had happened.

“I know. I had the right, Boromir, and the strength, barely. I was able to wrench the stone to my will and I saw the force from Umbar that would come against you here. I led the force that took the ships. Even then, I feared we would be too late. Until the wind shifted.”

“You were in the black ships?”

A pause, then “Yes. We freed their slaves and used their own boats to bring men out of Lebennin and the Ethir and Lamedon up the River.”

Stunned, Boromir watched the light patterns on the grey wall. He saw how in every way the Ring had manipulated him, how he had been tricked first by believing he was helping Frodo only to bring the Ring into the City to his father, then how he had been tricked into trying to kill his brother and Frodo, believing that only he could save the city against the black ships which, instead of the enemies he feared, were bearing the forces that saved his city.

Burying his face in Aragorn’s hair, he said, “I am a fool.”

Aragorn’s hand pressed against his, pressing his hands against Aragorn’s chest to feel the strong beat of his heart. “You are an honourable man, you fought the Ring. Gandalf has told me. I do not know what will happen next, but I do know one thing.”

“What?”

“I have not slept for too many nights.”

Boromir laughed and relaxed against the strong body. “So sleep, my king.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sam! Merry!”

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

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

Pippin joined the group, an arm around Merry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And look what it got you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sam?” Frodo was bewildered.

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

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

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

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

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

“I can fetch more food!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe he could speak to Gandalf.

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

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

“Frodo.”

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

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

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

“Come back to bed.”

“I was going to dress.”

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faramir worked patiently for some time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Promise me one thing,” he said softly.

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” he said. “Enter.”

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

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

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

“What’s wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And left you here? Unguarded?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Different how?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” Sam turned, frowning at Boromir.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frodo smiled, appearing relieved.

“Is that all, then?” Sam asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boromir nodded, grim. He had.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So I see. Are you all right?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Boromir!”

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

“Yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A warm hand clasped his, gripped hard.

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

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

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

“Of course not.”

“Then why blame yourself?”

“But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shocked, feeling a terrible cold growing within, Boromir took a step or two forward.

Aragorn did not move, sitting, smiling.

“You do not trust me.” Boromir’s voice sounded harsh and too loud in his own ears.

Shifting forward, Aragorn tilted his head, the smile disappearing. “What makes you say that,” he said quietly.

“You do not trust me to travel to Mordor, to fight against the Nameless Enemy.” The cold inside grew.

“I would not trust you to travel with Frodo to Mordor,” Aragorn spoke slowly. “That I wish you to stay in the last fortress of Gondor, to hold it against whatever Sauron may send, that I wish to have you in command at my back shows how much I trust you.”

Halting, Boromir made himself consider Aragorn’s words. They made a sort of sense, but there was a flaw. “Few if any are likely to return. The forces of Mordor are like grains of sand on the beach. You cannot expect to fight them and win.”

Shrugging, Aragorn stood. “I expect nothing,” he said. “We go forth to challenge Sauron. We cannot know what will happen. No matter what comes to us, all who wish to live free on Middle-earth will fight in their own way. And Gondor must stand. A strong commander will be needed here, needed all the more given what has already happened. Many are weary and would rather not act, preferring to retreat behind high walls to try to ignore what is happening.”

“There are lords and commanders, some who cannot ride with you, who could lead the defense here.”

“You are the Steward,” Aragorn said.

Boromir grasped Aragorn’s arms, hard. “I wish to ride with you.” This morning, when he had wakened next to Aragorn, everything had seemed easy. How could it suddenly have changed.

“I too could wish that, but—” Aragorn let Boromir pull him a step or two closer, reached to slide his hands around Boromir’s waist, inside his belt.

“But?” Boromir was distracted by the hard hands pressing against him, the muscles moving under his hands. He gripped harder.

Aragorn sighed. “But what leader has the luxury of always choosing what he wishes instead of considering what is best?”

He tugged Boromir closer, stood chest to chest, braced against him. Boromir closed his eyes, inhaling the familiar scent, one he how felt was now a part of him, imprinted upon his skin.

“Whom would you set in command of the City, if you were me?” Aragorn’s voice was soft, breath warm against Boromir’s face.

Boromir did not wish to answer that question, moved forward blindly, seeking Aragorn’s mouth, lips moving over soft hair and skin to find what they sought. Their kiss was hard, exciting, all the more so because Boromir could not remember if Faramir had shut the door when he had left. One of the Healers had shown them to this small meeting room, one seldom used, and left them to talk. But it opened onto a public corridor.

Anyone could walk in.

Feeling himself hardening at the thought, Boromir rubbed against Aragorn, lips moving down his throat, sucking the warm skin where his neck met his shoulder.

Aragorn’s hands slid down and behind Boromir’s hips, to grip him, fingers probing through the cloth of his tunic and leggings, forcing sound from Boromir’s throat. He bit down, hard enough to bruise. Aragorn responded by forcing a leg between Boromir’s and rocking against him.

Sliding an arm around Aragorn’s back, Boromir forced his other hand between their bodies, straining down, pushing to grasp the hard member that pressed against his belly, rubbing up and down, slow at first then faster, as his mouth took Aragorn’s again.

He spilled, sudden wetness soaking into Boromir’s clothing as well as his own, relaxing against Boromir who guided him down onto the floor. Stretching out under Boromir’s hands, Aragorn lay a moment, gasping, then moved, pulling Boromir down against him, rolling over, knocking one of the chairs down.

Boromir strained against the body which held him down, feeling the hand moving up his thigh, pressing between his legs. Aragorn gripped his hair, pulling his head back, biting and sucking Boromir’s neck, his mouth and hand moving in rhythm until Boromir arched against him, shuddering.

When Boromir could speak again, he opened his eyes. Aragorn was lying across him, Boromir’s arms around him, legs tangled, bodies glued together by sweat and seed. The smell of sex was strong in the room which had no window.

“If I were you,” Boromir said, “I would leave Imrahil to command the City and take my faithful Steward with me, to guard my back.”

He felt the rumble of Aragorn’s laughter before he released Boromir, pulling away, straightening his clothes.

“We will speak again after daymeal,” Aragorn said, pushing his hair back with both hands. “Gandalf is right, Frodo will not be leaving today, and we will have to spend at least a day to gather the forces who will ride to Morannon. So you may spend the night making your case, Steward.”

Frodo sat on the narrow bed, watching as Faramir paced, long strides cramped in the small room, beginning to feel the real agony of the day.

Sam had spent most of the daymeal sitting beside Frodo, not speaking. Just watching. He was sure Sam planned to accompany him to Mordor, no matter what Frodo said. The weight of his best friend’s love and concern had been almost too much to bear.

Faramir had sat opposite them, eating quietly, speaking occasionally to Boromir. He had said nothing to Frodo during the meal, but the moment they had come back to the room, he had asked what Frodo had decided.

The answer had led to their first fight.

Stopping, Faramir breathed deeply, turned and crossed the room to Frodo, kneeling in front of him, to take Frodo’s hands.

“Frodo, please—”

Frodo shook his head. “I must go alone. The Ring—”

“The Ring.” Faramir shook his head, unsmiling. “Did Sam ever, even once, on the long journey, show any desire to take the Ring from you?”

“No, of course not!”

“And I—I have not known you the years he has, but I have had every chance to take the Ring had I wished.” Faramir half-smiled. “You sleep heavily. At times. You can trust us.”

Frodo felt the heat rising in his face, tugged his hands free of Faramir’s grasp. “I know,” he said, “it is not you I fear—”

“Then what?”

“The road is so long and dark, I fear what may happen, fear my own weakness.” Frodo relaxed, seeing the understanding in Faramir’s face.

Their parting would be no less painful, but both he and Sam must understand Frodo did not doubt them.

Faramir nodded slowly but did not speak. Instead, leaning forward, he reached out to tuck Frodo’s hair behind his ear, running his finger softly over the tip and around, stroking the skin behind, trailing down Frodo’s neck, warmth flaming under the soft touch.

He shivered.

Speaking softly, almost whispering, Faramir said, “Sam spoke to me before daymeal. When you were speaking to Aragorn and Mithrandir. He told me you had planned to leave the Shire alone, in secret—”

Frodo opened his mouth to protest, but Faramir pressed fingers against Frodo’s lips.

“That you had planned to leave in secret, and were stopped by your friends. And later, when you met Elves traveling in the woods, their counsel was to take friends you could trust with you on the journey, was it not?”

Nodding, Frodo tried to speak again, but the warm hand pressed against his mouth.

“We could not talk for long, Master Samwise and I, but we did not have to.” As he spoke, Faramir’s hand slipped down Frodo’s throat and chest, tugging one button free, then another. Faramir’s other arm, hard and warm, slid behind Frodo, wrapping around him. “We think alike, he and I.”

Frodo grasped Faramir’s wrist, needing to think, distracted by the hands moving on him. “What do you mean?”

Faramir stopped unbuttoning Frodo’s shirt, clasped Frodo’s hand and pulled it to his lips, warm and soft, to kiss, the hair of his beard prickling along Frodo’s skin. Pulling back to speak, breath cool against dampness, Faramir said, “You may start the journey to Mordor alone, if that is your wish, Frodo Baggins. But Sam and I will be following you.”

“But—”

Faramir kissed him, soft and deep, his hand sliding under Frodo’s open shirt, pushing him back onto the bed, arched over Faramir’s arm, as he moved up and over Frodo, prolonging the kiss until Frodo moaned.

Pulling back just enough to allow Frodo to breathe, Faramir asked, “Should I leave?”

Panting, Frodo looked into the blue eyes so close to his, felt the strength wrapped around him.

“No,” he said, sliding his hands into the redgold hair and pulling Faramir down. “Stay with me.”

Boromir followed Aragorn to his room where he opened the door, standing back while Boromir entered, recognizing one of the several kept for visiting lords, large and richly appointed. This one was done in pale woods and greens.

He heard the latch fall behind him and turned to face Aragorn.

They had eaten daymeal with the others in the Houses of Healing, had spoken at length with Mithrandir about the plan to mislead Mordor’s Eye by sending a force to the Black Gate. Nothing had been said about Boromir’s part in that plan.

Then they had walked through the shadows of night which wrapped the city waiting in the calm before the next storm. Neither of them had spoken as they walked through the streets, through the gate into the Courtyard, then entered into the Citadel.

Aragorn leaned back against the door, the dark tunic he wore stark against the pale wood, and looked at Boromir.

Watching the blue eyes shadowed by dark hair, Boromir thought of all the times, from Rivendell to the Falls of Rauros, that they had disagreed on what path to take, what to do with the Ring. Aragorn had been right in his desire to keep the Ring far from Minas Tirith. Perhaps he was right in his desire to have Boromir stay behind although he had said that none could know what would happen.

Boromir had been able to offer little beyond his desire to ride with Aragorn and could not understand Aragorn’s response in the Houses of Healing.

Moving forward, Boromir braced his hands on either side of Aragorn, trapping him against the door. “I should ride with you.”

Aragorn shrugged. “The lords and commanders will meet in council tomorrow. The Council cannot order, but would you go against its will, if it wishes the Steward to be here?” Aragorn placed his right hand on Boromir’s chest, testing his stance.

Boromir leaned closer, shifting his feet, one hand sliding above Aragorn’s head, the other dropping down to be caught in a firm grip. Aragorn smiled, fingers moving against Boromir’s skin.

Tugging free, Boromir said, “The Council could hear what I have to say and agree with me.”

“They might. You have the right to speak.”

Aragorn pushed Boromir back. He felt a blow to his ankle, stepped back into a second blow to his other ankle, and fell. He grabbed Aragorn’s shoulder, expecting him to twist away and was surprised when he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Boromir as they fell.

Relaxing into the fall, Boromir landed, his head cushioned by Aragorn’s arms. Breathless from the weight landing on him, Boromir opened his mouth to speak, but Aragorn interrupted him as if they were still standing, not lying pressed together, bodies tense.

“But what would the council think, if we disagree?”

Boromir tried to shrug. “A good council expects to hear from all, to weigh different arguments. So they will listen.” He should be grateful, he realized, that his head had not struck the floor, but Aragorn’s concern as healer had left him vulnerable and Boromir could not resist taking advantage of that.

Sliding his hands down Aragorn’s body, Boromir gripped his tunic at the waist, heaving him up and off, rolling over, grabbing then pinning his arms above his head. “And then they will realize I am right.”

Aragorn tested Boromir’s grip, then relaxed under him, smiling. “So you are content to wait until the council tomorrow, Steward.”

“No. I want your agreement now.”

Cautious, Boromir shifted his grip to hold Aragorn’s wrists in one hand and began unlacing his tunic with the other, smiling as he felt the hardness trapped between their bodies. Pulling at the knotted laces, breaking them, Boromir could not resist rocking slightly against the body beneath his, sliding a knee between Aragorn’s legs, pushing them apart.

Licking his lips, Aragorn said nothing further. His head had fallen back, eyes half closed.

Once he had the tunic unlaced, Boromir hesitated. Cautious, he risked loosening his grip on Aragorn’s wrists and, when he did not move, released him, rising to sit over him, then kneel, legs on either side of Aragorn’s body. Able to use both hands now, he could push the tunic up and then pull it over the stretched arms, along with the white shirt. No movement, beyond the rise and fall of the muscular chest.

Boromir fumbled at the laces of his own tunic, grey and too large, borrowed from the Houses of Healings along with leggings, and stripped it off roughly, tossing it after Aragorn’s. Gripping his wrists, Boromir pulled the unresisting arms down and around, closer to Aragorn’s sides for an easier hold, and leaned down to take the half-open mouth.

Lost in the heat of Aragorn’s mouth, Boromir jumped when Aragorn broke his grip only to slide hands up Boromir’s arms in turn, holding him. Ending the kiss, Boromir tried to pull free but could not.

“Were you planning to spend the night on the floor?”

“No.” Boromir had not planned anything. He grinned, not planning to admit it. “We can move to the bed when you say yes.”

“As Steward—”

Shaking his head, Boromir managed to move one arm enough to press a hand over Aragorn’s mouth.

“No. Listen. I may be Steward, but I am the one who brought the Ring to Gondor, the one who attacked his own brother on the walls of the City, the one who—one who might have killed his own father.” Boromir felt Aragorn release his arms, relaxing under him, so lifted his hand away but swallowed and continued to speak, determined to finish. “If you die while assaulting Morannon, I am not the one to lead Gondor. Not after what I have done. It must be up to Faramir, or Imrahil then. Not me.”

Aragorn let his hands rest on Boromir’s legs, a faint frown on his face.

Boromir said nothing. He knew what he said was true although he had understood it only in the speaking.

Silence.

“Yes.”

Sitting back, Boromir stared. Aragorn slid his hands up Boromir’s thighs, squeezing.

“Well?”

Boromir stood easily, backing away but offering Aragorn a hand as he sat, pulling him to his feet. Still not sure of what Aragorn had said, how much of this play might be game and how much serious, Boromir said, “Yes, meaning I will be riding with you?”

Aragorn nodded, half smiling. “You should lead Gondor’s forces. We’ll speak to the council tomorrow.”

Feeling if he had armed and prepared to fight an enemy which turned out to made of straw, Boromir hesitated. He had not expected it would be so easy. Uncertain of what to do or say, he stepped back, confused.

Reaching out to grip Boromir’s arm, Aragorn pulled him over to the large bed, turning him and pushing him down to sit. He bounced slightly. Aragorn balanced on one foot, then the other, pulling off his leather boots and tossing them aside. He looked at Boromir who tilted his head, considering, then extended a foot. Without a smile, Aragorn bent and pulled the boot off, followed by the other. He did toss them further away than he had his own, then straightened to stand in front of Boromir.

Aragorn pushed his hair back and smiled broadly, a smile Boromir did not think he had seen before, one that was echoed in the strong body, a smile that seemed to cast off all care and invite shared laughter. Bruises on his neck and throat from earlier were dark against the fair skin and Boromir felt himself beginning to harden at the sight.

“I would have given you the night to make your case,” Aragorn said, “but now I see that I shall have to think of something. Unless you have more to say?”

Boromir shook his head. He had nothing else to say, so he reached out and gripped Aragorn’s hips, pulling him close. Aragorn moved easily, leaning, hands on Boromir’s shoulders until he Boromir twisted, pivoting and pushing. After a flurry of movement, Aragorn was lying on his back, Boromir bent over him, pinning him with both hands.

Pushing a knee between Aragorn’s legs, rubbing against the hard muscle of his thigh, Boromir wished Aragorn had stripped off his leggings as well as his boots. Aragorn arched against him, thrusting, matching his rhythm, as Boromir first licked, then sucked at the flesh he had marked earlier, moving from neck to chest. Lulled by Aragorn’s responsiveness, Boromir was surprised when their shared movements shattered, Aragorn pulling free to push Boromir over, pinning him in turn.

Close enough for the hair falling around Aragorn’s face to touch Boromir’s, Aragorn spoke softly. “We will do whatever you wish. But I need to know. Does what I am doing now cause you any pain?”

Boromir’s confusion lasted only a moment before he remembered the way he had flinched the night before when Aragorn’s touch had brought back the evil of the Ring’s vision. That felt like a lifetime ago. That evil had been washed from him. Now the grip and the pressure from the strong body over his flashed through him, entering deep into blood and bone, rousing hunger and feeding it only to rouse it again. Thinking that this was one hunger he would not wish satiated, Boromir shook his head.

“No. Nor did what you were doing earlier,” Boromir said, smiling to see the way some earlier tension left Aragorn’s body at the words, his grip loosening just enough for Boromir to pull one arm free. Wrapping his arm around Aragorn’s waist, Boromir thrust against him, face pressed against his chest, saying, “Although that does not mean I will lie under you without a struggle, my king.”

Aragorn’s laugh, more gold than any ring, filled the room. “We will have to see what this night brings, but I would expect nothing else from my steward. “

So Small a Thing Epilogue

Excerpts from the Chronicles of the Fourth Age, recorded by King Elessar’s scribe:

3019 March

On the seventeenth day of March, Lord Faramir, Captain of Ithilien, set forth with the Ringbearer, Frodo of the Shire, accompanied by his faithful servant, Samwise, to begin their journey to the Land of Darkness. There they would suffer much, as has been recorded elsewhere in the ‘Lay of Frodo and the Ring of Doom,’ but in the end would win through to Orodruin and cast the foul weapon of the Enemy into the Fire.

On the eighteenth day of March, the Host of the West, led by Aragorn son of Arathorn and Boromir son of Denethor, began the march from Minas Tirith to the Black Gate of Mordor… Although the hordes of Mordor came against them, the destruction of the Ring cast down all their strength, and the Lords Aragorn and Boromir led the Host back in triumph to the City of Minas Tirith.

FINIS

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