Home » Fiction

So Small a Thing Print

Written by Ithiliana

04 April 2004 | 66841 words

[ all pages ]

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)

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!


Be the first to comment

  Textile help

All fields except 'Web' are required. The 'submit' button will become active after you've clicked 'preview'.
Your email address will NOT be displayed publicly. It will only be sent to the author so she (he) can reply to your comment in private. If you want to keep track of comments on this article, you can subscribe to its comments feed.