Faramir Fiction Archive

So Small a Thing

Written by Ithiliana

04 April 2004 | 66841 words

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.”

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at https://www.faramirfiction.com/fiction/so-small-a-thing. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!