A distant light 14/?

[valandhir]

With many THANKS to the wonderful harrylee94 (fanfiction. Net /u / 2916221 /) for patient betaing, help and input on this chapter. You gave me so much time and inspiration, my friend. Thanks.

Chapter 12: The Price of the Ring

Leaving Lothlórien came as more of a relief than Boromir wished to show. The elves had allowed them to heal, to rest and to enjoy some safety, yet he had never felt save inside their enchanted borders. He knew that their stay inside the golden woods had also allowed them to wait out the worst weather, the Anduin valley was rarely cold long and what little snow there came in winter should be passed by now. Of course there had been discussions on how to continue their journey. It had quickly become clear that the others were set against going to Gondor, favoring a path across the wilds to enter Mordor from a less guarded side. There was little doubt on Boromir’s mind that this was a bad plan, but they had been adamant on that point.

A little contention had arisen when Aragorn mentioned that at least one of them should go with Boromir to Gondor, that no one should travel alone. None of the others had wished to join him and the Gondorian had relieved them of further debate by stating that he’d be well able to do on his own until he met the first border patrols of Rohan. Inwardly Boromir was glad he knew that he’d not be alone once he left the company, which would be upon the falls of Rauros. He had not shared that fact with the others. He could not quite say why but he hoarded the knowledge that a friend was awaiting him downriver like a treasure.

The boats the elves gave them were a most thoughtful aid, sparing the halflings a lot of long weary marches on the cold riverbanks. For several grey days they followed the Anduin, winter had fled the land but spring was reluctant to grace the northern vale of the great river. For the first few nights Boromir’s dreams had been troubled, but the dreams had been short and he had finished them by simply sleeping less. Often he would rise from his nightmares and relieve whoever was at watch to stand guard over his comrades until dawn came. On the sixth evening of their journey he was so exhausted that the others noticed.

Merry and Pippin actually tried to help him drag the boat ashore. “You need to rest, Boromir,” Merry said with a worried expression. “I mean, I love to sleep through the night and not to have stand watch but you need to rest too.” He had already conspired with Pippin and spoken to Strider, who had decided that Boromir should not have a watch hour this night to get some rest.

Exhausted that he was Boromir fell asleep the moment he had lain down on the cold ground. But the sleep brought dreams, creeping from the shadows like monsters.

The Plateau of Gorgoroth was ablaze with fire and battle. Orc legions had poured down from Lithlad in one last attempt to stop men’s advance into the land of shadow. Standing upon a high hill, Boromir watched the battle unfold. His troops were doing well, as well they should. The great Captain did not hold with fools or cowards. This army was the best the world of men had ever mustered and it was slicing the shadow like a ray of light would part the clouds.

What still stood of the Orc center was amassed at the very bridges of Barad-Dûr. Boromir saw how his legions split apart, Veryan for sure leading the center attack, while Beregond and Caradmir respectively took flank command, moving the legions to flank the enemy to encircle them again. The fighting at the center was vicious, Barad-Dûr pouring out its remaining Elite troops. Of the Nazgul, the three remaining where in the field, the others Boromir had ripped apart in Minas Morgul.

He could well see the Nazgul taking command of the center, closing the orc ranks. Their counterattack was terrible, cutting through Veryan's troops, pushing them back from the bridge. The Captain sighed. He could not leave that to Veryan. Or rather, he could, but it would mean the death of the man. Boromir still held some lingering affection for the valiant swan knight, he reveled in the adoration he saw in the other man’s eyes and he relied on his absolute loyalty. Veryan would be the first permitted to swear fealty to the new king, once this was all over.

Boromir drew his sword, the ring aglow like fire on his gauntlet. He did not call for any troops nor personal guard, he did not need these petty trappings of weak kings. Without anyone supporting him he cut through the enemy ranks effortlessly, Orcs and Harad-men fell before him, crushed by his sword. He reached the center of the battle to see Veryan having actually managed to gain a foothold on Barad-Dûr’s very bridge. The Captain smiled, the swan knight rarely failed him and he sometimes managed to surprise. There he was: on the very bridge, fighting a Nazgul, not giving ground with a fierce courage that made Boromir all the more proud. This was the strength of men, the shining beacon of light that would end a darkness neither elves nor valar had cared to destroy.

Seeing that the Swan knight could not hold out much longer Boromir rushed the bridge, effortlessly cleaning away the few orcs still daring to hold out. He slipped past faltering Veryan and with one fierce strike flung the Nazgul blade into the chasm under the bridge. A second strike destroyed the creature entirely, a golden band falling from the ghostly appearance and cluttered on the stone. Boromir picked it up, putting it with the other six rings in the pouch on his belt.

Extending a hand he grabbed Veryan’s arm and helped him up. “That was brave… and could have killed you. I told you not to die on me.”

“I do my best, my Lord.” Veryan might be tired and injured but he stood at once again, ready to fight.

“It’s Captain, I told you to leave those pretentious titles to old men and doddering fools.” Boromir chided him, it was something he had to remind them of a lot, lately. He saw Veryan’s smile, the adoration in the blue eyes and felt a warmth rise inside him. They’d follow him to the very end of the world. In that moment Boromir decided that Veryan would be the one to wear the ring of the witchking once this battle was over.

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In the morning Boromir woke even more exhausted then the evening before. He felt like his whole body had been trashed through a battle, he found no appetite to eat even a bite of the breakfast Sam had prepared and he hardly noticed the glances the others cast him. “Merry, Pippin, come on, we don’t have all day.” He chased up his two Hobbits, sending them to the boat. Neither of them were particularly happy, but they did not talk back. Small favors indeed. He pushed the boat off the shore and out on the river.

While steering the boat downriver Boromir pondered what to do. What could he do? One day and a night he told himself, he had to hold out for that long. They were approaching Rauros Falls, from there they’d go their separate ways. He could hold out that long. Once he had seen them well on their way, he would meet up with Kili and go on, preferring to be remembered as the one who left the quest than becoming a traitor. The very idea of that made Boromir feel sick, even as the whispers continued…

The tower was an appalling maze of spiky stairwells and twisting hallways leading nowhere, an abomination that only a sorcerer could think up in his twisted mind. Followed by Veryan, Beregond and Caradmir, the Captain approached the throne hall of the tower. Here it would end. The night would end.

The doors were guarded by the last Nazgul and the few remaining Orcs. None of Boromir’s men hesitated. “For the Lord of the Morning!” It was Caradmir who had minted that battle-cry, it had quickly taken hold with the Legions and while Boromir often reminded his troops of not calling him Lord, he was secretly pleased with the title. He charged ahead, cutting down the very last Nazgul. They were pathetic. As pathetic as the kings that they once had been. Sauron’s judgment in strength for his ringwearers had been as appalling as everything else in his reign.

The gates opened and Boromir faced the shadow, fire hailing down on him, a fiery whip trashing at him, but he stood, his faithful standing with him. The ring burning in golden light as Boromir’s blade sliced the shadow, destroying what was left of the Dark Lord. The shadow fell with a last shriek of a fell voice that should not be heard again in this age of the world.

Still breathing hard he turned around, to find Veryan, Beregond and Caladmir, who had kept Sauron’s guard at bay but the Easterling guard had now retreated to the walls, shocked by the fall of their master. Veryan bent down and picked something up. When he approached Boromir, the other two followed behind. Two steps from Boromir who stood on the stairs of the Obsidian Throne, Veryan stopped and dropped to one knee, presenting the black crown to his Lord…

Boromir jerked awake by a heavier movement of the boat. He found he held no oar any longer. Merry stood behind him balancing on the boat’s narrow sides and used the oar to steer. “Don’t worry, Boromir,” he said with a grin. “I can steer a boar, I am a Brandybuck you know. I must have done this dozens of times on Brandywine River.”

“No, I should not have fallen asleep,” The Captain took the oar and helped Merry to get back to the middle of the boat. He then brought them up with the other two boars in a few powerful strokes, like he could leave the dreams behind that way. This day and maybe the night, he reminded himself. Maybe he should leave the camp this night already.

“Look!” Pippin pointed forward, where two gigantic stone statues stood high above the waters. Their faces were made in semblance of the Kings of old. It was with great relief Boromir saw those stone kings, not for what they depicted or what they meant in the history of his people, it meant he had nearly done it. A little more and he’d make it without becoming a traitor to anyone.

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They landed the boats on the riverbank, dragging them up to hide. “We’ll cross the lake after nightfall,” Aragorn told the others. “hide the boats and continue on foot.”

”Oh, yes?!” Gimli grumbled sarcastically, “It's just a simple matter of finding our way through Emyn Muil? An impassable labyrinth of razor sharp rocks! And after that, it gets even better! A festering, stinking marshlands, far as the eye can see!”

“That is our road. I suggest you take some rest and recover your strength, Master Dwarf,” The ranger told him, he turned to look for Boromir. If their friend was truly set on leaving them here, he better say it now. But as Aragorn quickly surveyed the camp, he did not spot the Gondorian anywhere, nor his pack and things.

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Frodo had seen Boromir take off right after the boats had been secured. He had taken his pack and weapons and slipped away into the woods. His behavior deeply troubled the Hobbit, who could not imagine Boromir to be someone to slink away like that. Yet he had noticed a certain… aloofness the others sometimes displayed to the Gondorian Captain ever since the incident on the pass. Quickly Frodo set down his pack with the others and slipped away following where he had seen Boromir vanish into the woods. While the young Baggins was in no way a tracker he had the keen eyes and quick senses of his people, thus finding it not so hard to find his way up the hill and deeper into the woods. He could neither see nor hear Boromir move through the forest, but soon discovered a set of overgrown, moss-stained stairs leading towards a ruined overlook.

Frodo raced up the stairs and to his own surprise found himself in a well hidden small camp. Someone must have been camping here for days, if the ash in the fire pit was any indication.

“You should not sneak around where you are not invited. Few people like strangers wandering into their camps.” Boromir’s voice startled Frodo, the Hobbit turned around and saw the Captain had arrived just after him.

“That would be true for you too – we should tell the others that someone his here.” He replied.

“No.” Boromir put down his pack. “It won’t be necessary. By nightfall Aragorn will have you all on the other side of the river. This is nothing that concerns him.”

“So you know who is camping here!” Frodo exclaimed. “You are meeting someone here. Why are you keeping it secret?”

“Secret? You would know about secrets best, wouldn't you Halfling.” Boromir’s anger rose. “You carry something you have no right to. If anyone has a right to it, then it is men, not halflings or elves.”

Remembering the warning Boromir had given him weeks ago Frodo retreated, yet he knew he could never outrun the tall man. All of sudden he felt a hand on his shoulder, someone pushing him aside, standing between him and Boromir.

“You will not harm him.” Kili said firmly.

The rage was still upon Boromir. “Do not interfere, dwarf,” he spat. “You may have resigned yourself to be a king in rags on the road, but I will not see my people fall like yours did.” He tried to push the dwarven warrior out of the way, but Kili managed to grasp both of Boromir’s wrists, his hands strong as the thongs in a forge.

“I will not let you,” he said, his voice firm and stern. “Boromir, it is not you speaking. You hear it call, you feel the curse reach for you. I have seen that before.” Deep dark eyes found Boromir’s gaze, holding it. “Thorin, he fell under the spell of the dragon’s gold. Driven by greed and fear he became a shadow of himself.”

Boromir tried to break free, cursing, but the dwarf was much stronger than he had ever thought. The voice came from afar but it penetrated the red haze.

“I had to stand by and watch him slip away, day by day until only the curse remained and when he broke free all that remained for him was death in battle.” Kili did not let go, no matter how much Boromir tried to break out of his grip. “Death. Death. Death. That was all that remained. He died bravely; atoning for his weakness… he was hacked to pieces by Orcs, his breaking eyes not seeing victory, only darkness. Do you want to end like that?”

“No.” Boromir’s voice was hoarse. “No… I will not end like that, I will not break my word. Never.”

Frodo breathed a sigh of relief. “I knew you were stronger than that.” He said softly, knowing it had been a very close call.

The Captain hardly heard the words of vindication, of forgiveness – his eyes went past his friends to the other side of the ruin. Orcs, unusually tall Orcs marked by the white hand of Saruman had appeared there. “Frodo, run.” Boromir drew his sword. “run and don’t look back.”

With Kili by his side the Captain of Gondor charged into battle. Behind him he knew Frodo was racing towards the river. They needed to buy time.

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Frodo ran downhill towards the water, he heard the sounds of fierce fighting behind him and to either side. When he reached the landing he was only found by Sam. None of their friends was there – they too were fighting in the forest. Orcs were everywhere, their numbers overwhelming. Frodo did not hesitate, behind him he knew that several of his friends were probably laying down their lives to buy him time. He and Sam took one of the boats and pushed off the hidden landing, not daring to listen back.

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The fight was brutal from the very beginning, the Uruk-hai of Isengard were taller and stronger than their mountain-bred brethren, with numbers on their side. Kili and Boromir kept their ground in the middle of the ruin, even though it was a tough battle. Kili was capable to cover a wide area of ground, fighting in an aggressive, almost wild style. Wielding his blade in the right and a blazing torch in his left hand, he was a whirlwind of power as he leapt and whirled and spun, always in swift motion, always in attack, always hacking, stabbing and slashing, piling the corpses of Uruk-hai on the ground. Boromir had his hands full in taking on all those Orcs who would come in his back. And, by the fathers of Gondor, this was necessary. Kili seemed not to care much about his back, or about those opponents who slipped by him. Or perhaps he just trusted Boromir to guard his back closely. When the orcs eventually broke off, the ground around the two fighters was littered with stinking dark carcasses. Trying to catch his breath, Boromir leaned on his blade, startled to hear the strangest sound of all; Kili was laughing, his deep voice echoing past the running Orcs. Boromir turned towards the dwarven warrior who stood as he had fought; his sword in one hand and a torch in the other. His bright eyes blazed like fires as he raised his torch towards Boromir in a gesture of victory. 

The moment of hope was short-lived. More Orcs came, from both sides of the ruin this time. The woods must have been crawling with them. Boromir closed ranks with Kili, ready to fight them. The ring was leaving. It had left scars on Boromir’s soul but now that it was fading. He would stand. Frodo needed him to hold out and thus the Captain of Gondor would stand.