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The friction of the boat running ashore set Boromir’s teeth on edge. They had traveled far along the Anduin under cover of darkness, and now it was time to rest while night still hid them from watching eyes.
But Boromir hunkered in his boat while Merry and Pippin clambered out and the waves of the river lapped against sand. He already knew that he would find no rest on these strange shores.
It should have been a relief to leave Lothlorien. To escape the keen gaze of the Lady. To forget the images she had placed in his mind—or were they images she had simply drawn into the light? It should have been a relief to leave.
No—no, that was foolish. Everyone else grieved their departure. Departure meant danger. Departure meant posting watches each night. Departure meant living on rations. Departure meant they were still indeed on the path to Mordor.
It should have been a relief to leave Lothlorien. Leaving Lothlorien brought him one step closer to Gondor.
But it was not. Nothing brought relief, neither staying nor going. It didn’t matter. Nothing they did could possibly matter. Every day, every hour, more men in Gondor died defending their homeland and the ungrateful lands beyond.
Boromir should be at their side. He should never have left them.
Climbing out of the boat, Boromir clenched his jaw. He felt sturdy ground beneath him, but it brought no reassurance. The rest of the Fellowship began unloading from the boats to set up camp.
And now what? He would return with no hope. Aragorn would follow Frodo, and both Isildur’s heir and the One Ring would be lost.
The Ring.
Boromir cursed the Lady for the things she had whispered to him. False promises, that was all it was. Yet he could not shake them from his head, even as he breathed in the scents of damp sand and pine.
It was her fault. He would not be thinking these things but for her. She was a witch, a temptress. It was her fault. She had made him into—into whatever he was now.
Anxious. Why? He was a soldier returning home and he had faced worse perils than the route between Lothlorien and Gondor.
Guilty. Why? He had done no wrong.
Bitter. Well…yes, he had just cause for bitterness; perhaps she was not to blame for that. She was not the one to decide to cast away the Ring, to send it into the Dark Lord’s own land in the hands of a halfling who knew nothing of war.
His eyes strayed to Aragorn’s boat, to the remaining bundle left untouched with just a tuft of dark curls appearing among the Elven cloak that seemed to shift and change before Boromir’s very eyes. The Ringbearer, it seemed, had fallen asleep, and no one had seen fit to move him.
Boromir scoffed under his breath. As if any amount of rest now would make a difference once he entered Mordor.
But really, someone ought to at least get him out of the boat. Sleeping there was probably uncomfortable, even for a halfling. And it was not exactly safe. Boromir glanced around; everyone else was busy. The three other hobbits were clustered together beside Gimli, having a quiet debate about dinner. Legolas was staring off into the forest for no discernible reason. Aragorn was going over the packs, apparently making sure nothing was amiss, but he would occasionally pause and look eastwards with his brow furrowed.
Someone had to get the halfling out of the boat.
So Boromir set down his shield and glanced around once more, as if someone might ask what he was doing. Then he approached the boat.
There he was, tipped over sideways on the seat. Sam, apparently, had left his own cloak behind, bunched up for use as the Ringbearer’s pillow.
With a sigh, Boromir stooped and slid his arms beneath the halfling’s shoulders and under his bent knees. He lifted, and imagined for one wild moment that he could sense, somehow, the weight of the Ring.
But no, it was only the Ringbearer, who weighed no more than a child.
Boromir was struck, suddenly, by the memory of…of an attack on Pelargir by Umbar. This was one of the first attacks. The women and children had not yet been evacuated. Boromir remembered seeing a boy, lost or abandoned, curled beneath a tarp. Hiding, or perhaps resigned to his fate.
Boromir should have pressed his attack on the invaders. Instead, his feet skidded to a halt. He could not leave this child alone. His men continued on while Boromir drew back the tarp. The boy had cowered in fright for only an instant before recognizing the White Tree on Boromir’s armor.
The White Tree. Ever a sign of hope persisting.
At the sight of that tree, the child allowed Boromir to lift him. So small, shaking in terror, fingers scrabbling to grip Boromir’s armor. Boromir had carried him to safety, left him in the care of other soldiers.
After the battle, after the corsairs were held at bay one more time, Boromir returned and could not find the boy, nor the soldiers charged with his protection. Boromir hoped they had found somewhere else safe for the boy. But he never learned any more about what happened to him.
All of that flashed through Boromir’s mind in an instant as he lifted not the boy but Frodo…Frodo, who did not wake, whose head fell against Boromir’s chest, who let out a quiet sigh. He must have greatly needed this sleep.
And small wonder. Look at how small he was, to shoulder such responsibility. And Boromir remembered how he wept after Gandalf fell to that monster of shadow and flame. Gandalf had been dear to him, strange though it seemed that a wizard should spend any of his valuable time in the Shire, of all places.
No wonder, then, that he slept so deeply.
Did the Ring haunt his dreams?
As Boromir turned from the boat, he shifted the halfling in his arms, seeking a glimpse of gold, or even of the silver chain. But the Ring was no doubt hidden beneath his shirt, as it had been during the long journey thus far. He had not allowed any to see it. Boromir had not seen it since the first time in the House of Elrond….
He did not see it tonight. He cleared his throat and glanced up, half-expecting to see the eyes of others on him. But the rest of the Fellowship remained preoccupied with their own tasks.
Boromir scanned the bank. There: a quiet corner of the forest, a bed of springy moss and thick grass, sheltered by the boughs of trees with grey bark. Boromir carried Frodo there, knelt down, and laid him to rest. Now Frodo made a sound, an unpleasant sound, something like a fearful whimper or a whine in the back of his throat.
Well, he had seen enough to cause nightmares, especially coming from such a sheltered land.
Boromir chewed on his lower lip. How could the others not see the folly? No one could doubt Frodo’s valor, but valor would not protect him from the horrors of the Enemy.
Perhaps Frodo himself doubted the wisdom of the Council. After all, he was no fool himself. He was wise enough to know his own weakness.
Perhaps that was why his sleep was uneasy.
It was too heavy a burden to put on him. It would have been a mercy to spare him this…it would be a mercy to spare him this. Boromir glanced over his shoulders. The others were distracted, and the Ringbearer was asleep. Perhaps….
Boromir gritted his teeth and shook his head. What was he thinking? He was a Man of honor. He was no thief.
That witch, Galadriel….
Frodo was no fool, Boromir reminded himself. Now, so close to the Black Land, now he would surely see the truth. He would concede to go to Minas Tirith, at least long enough to recover his strength. He would have such need of rest.
Boromir let out a slow breath. All would be well, though he could not see it from where he stood. But if he only held onto hope for a little longer…all would be well.
Frodo shivered. Rising, Boromir returned to his own pack to draw out a blanket.
Samwise met him there, brown eyes staring up at Boromir. “Thank you,” he said quietly, “for seein’ to my master.”
His tone was difficult to read, and something about that steady stare was discomfiting. Boromir cleared his throat. “I wanted to get him a blanket.”
Sam nodded. “Aye, thank you, sir. These Elven cloaks are a wonder, but it’s still mighty cold. And I think he’ll find the extra weight soothing, in a way. Help him forget he’s so far from his bed back home.”
Boromir smiled tightly. These hobbits were no soldiers, no rangers, no scouts, no spies. “Yes, I imagine so.”
Sam held out a hand. “I’ll see to it, if you like.”
“No, that’s all right.” Boromir stood up to his full height, bundling the blanket to his chest.
For a moment, he thought Sam would insist. Then the young hobbit shrugged. “Suit yourself, Mr. Boromir, sir.”
Boromir gave another tight smile and turned away. But as he walked back to Frodo, a glance over his shoulder showed Sam’s eyes following him.
Uncanny, these halflings.
He returned to where Frodo slept, now twitching fitfully. Maybe his servant was right, and the blanket’s weight would be a comfort. Boromir draped it over him, even lifted him just high enough to tuck the blanket beneath him. He was now wrapped so swell that the restless twitching was subdued.
What was the word?
Swaddled.
Boromir felt his mouth move in another smile, softer this time. Swaddled, yes. He’d never done it to a babe himself, but he had a faint memory from long, long ago, when he was just a child, watching one of the nursemaids swaddle Faramir. Nothing would calm him except being swaddled in one particular way. Annoying, Boromir had thought it then, wondering if that small, crying thing would ever grow big enough to be any fun.
I’ll see you soon, little brother, he promised silently. I bring hope with me.
And not a fool’s hope.