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Now that his hands are untied, he struggles to conceal the trembling that courses down his limbs -- delayed shock, the damp chill of the caves, and a cold, curling fear that even in the fog of Ring-lust, Boromir had spoken the truth.
The only plan that is proposed to us is that a halfling should walk blindly into Mordor and offer the Enemy every chance of recapturing it for himself. Folly!
Frodo clenches his jaw, releasing a bitter sigh. He rubs his sore wrists, looking warily about the cave where Faramir's men busy themselves with orderly tasks.
Men are weak, even those with generous hearts.
Frodo squares his shoulders. He is utterly at the mercy of his captor, this he knows. Sam's harsh breaths echo in his ears.
More men trickle into the cave from battle. Some are wounded, and all are weary. Many glance at Frodo and Sam in open curiosity. They whisper among themselves and nod in wonder and suspicion.
"Sam," Frodo whispers. "Have a care. Do not speak rashly, no matter what he says."
Sam casts him a wary glance, but he says nothing.
Captain Faramir strides into the main section of the cave and sits before the hobbits on a stool. Frodo utters a soft gasp as he gazes into his sober gray eyes. He failed to notice in the woods of Ithilien when his hands were tied behind him with undue force and a blindfold yanked over his eyes, but this young man's grave eyes and the curve of his jaw is nostalgic of Boromir, enough so to spring tears to his eyes. The throbbing, like a rancid wound, breaks through the dull fog he has wrapped around his heart since that fateful day the fellowship had broken. But he cannot allow himself to feel it now, not at this moment. He forces himself to instead focus on the Captain's name, which also bears similarity to Boromir's. Faramir. Mir must be a common ending to Gondorian names. Boromir. He can almost again hear Boromir's rich laughter, and it rips into his heart like the claws of a wild beast.
Faramir has kind eyes, but his words are harsh. "If you are Orc spies, as my men claim, then I should slay you as is law – or at the least send you to Minas Tirith for judgment. What say you to that?"
The weary numb of defeat seeps down Frodo's limbs. There is no escape from this cave full of armed men who know too well the surrounding country. His last hope is to appeal to the kindness buried in this young Captain's eyes. He must plead his case, as silence will only confirm that he is an enemy.
Frodo forces his gaze on the Captain's, speaking slowly to disguise the shaking in his voice. "I am Frodo Baggins of the Shire, and this is Samwise Gamgee. We are Hobbits of the Shire."
Before Faramir can answer, Frodo continues, explaining from whence he and Sam have traveled and with how many companions.
Faramir flinches at the mention of Boromir and takes keen interest. "You were a companion of Boromir's?"
Frodo bows his head. He can no longer quench the throb in his chest.
Boromir pinned Frodo's wrists into the earth, laughing in triumph. Twigs and small, leafy branches that Frodo had gathered lay scattered around him. His curls were mussed, flecked with dry leaves and dirt. "You should not tease so, my halfling."
"I do not tease. And you see," Frodo said, giving him an appraising look. "I have all that I want."
Boromir glanced past Frodo, through the veil of gnarled trees that hid them from the campsite. "They will wonder why always we search for kindling together."
"Let them wonder," Frodo said. His arousal burned against his breeches. He bucked against Boromir, making sure he felt it. "Now hush. We do not have much time."
Boromir released one of Frodo's wrists and set his huge hand upon Frodo's chest, smiling to himself.
"What are you doing?" Frodo asked in impatience.
"Your heart thuds sure and fast, the finest music in Middle-earth."
"Why always do you feel my heart?" Frodo asked with an affectionate smile, shuddering with need and yet – Boromir's generous heart was plain on his face.
"Because I love you," Boromir said, letting his hand slide up to cup Frodo's chin. "And as long as your heart beats in this world, so shall mine with it in gladness."
"Speak."
Frodo flinches at Faramir's harsh voice, and he forces himself to meet his eyes again. "Yes." He swallows, blinking away the image of Boromir dragging him to the ground by his ankle in a different wooded area, at a much later date. That time, his hand groped for Frodo's chest again, but gold malice kept him from paying heed to the panicked stutter of Frodo's heart.
"It would grieve you then to know that Boromir is dead?"
Frodo watches Faramir, lips pale, waiting for him to claim cruel jest, to retract it, or to explain the harsh metaphor he has chosen. When he does not, Frodo's stomach fills with heavy ice. He studies Faramir's eyes, searching for cruelty. There is none. Instead he sees something more ominous – genuine grief.
The cold of Hollin ripped through Frodo's cloak, jacket and shirt with icy spears. He trudged along the best he could, but often his feet grew so numb that he became unduly clumsy. He already had countless scrapes and bruises on his legs.
At last they stopped at break of day to sleep hidden by boulders and holly bushes. Frodo had first watch, and gladly he took it, because he felt far from sleep.
Boromir joined him, and he offered him a wan smile. "You should rest."
"I cannot sleep," Boromir said. He looked at Frodo's chattering teeth and took off his cloak. He set the heavy fur-lined cloak about Frodo's shoulders, wrapping him snugly inside it.
"Thank you." Frodo looked up at him with a grateful smile. "You are kind, but you need not suffer."
"I would gladly do what I can to ease your pain. I see how you suffer. I…Frodo, I feel a kinship with you that you may find curious. You are so alike in nature to my brother, gentle of heart, with a love for music and the knowledge in books. People like you, like my brother, they should not endure the harshness of battle." Boromir flinched, and he gazed into the distance in bitter silence. Neither of them spoke again that watch, but Boromir's hands sought Frodo's and he rubbed them until a warm sleepiness overcame Frodo and he leaned his head against Boromir's sturdy arm. Boromir slid his arm around Frodo's waist and pulled him close, and there in Boromir's embrace did Frodo remain in blissful sleep through the remainder of his watch and Boromir's.
"Dead?" Frodo falters, no longer able to hide his pain from Faramir. Nothing has prepared him for this anguish that rips at his heart like vicious teeth. He did not part from Boromir on friendly terms, but he has clung to the shredded hope that should he be fortunate enough to return from the quest, that they might meet again. Frodo has forgiven. Boromir's anguished cry, the last time Frodo heard his voice, echoes mournfully through his mind: Come back! A madness took me, but it has passed. Come back! Even fully in the Ring's mad grip, Boromir raised neither hand nor sword against Frodo. Boromir need only have thrust his sword just so or wrenched Frodo's neck – and the Ring would have been his. But Boromir's craving for the Ring could not blacken his heart.
The world turns gray and dim, as if a veiled curtain is falling before Frodo's eyes.
Boromir retched again and again. They were due to march again in a matter of hours. Frodo hated this brutal wilderness that stretched endlessly, where unfriendly eyes seemed always on them and where they could have no fire. He could not imagine that Boromir could possibly march while he emptied his stomach and a fever burned. And he was not small, like one of the hobbits, to be toted on the back of the pony or larger companion.
Frodo put a cool cloth on his brow. "How do you feel?" he asked. "I have brought you a piece of ginger root. It should help your stomach."
Boromir started. "Where did you find it?"
"Have you seen how large Sam's pack is?" Frodo said with a grin. "He thinks of everything. And we shall take one day's break. Now, here. Take a bite." He clutched Boromir's chin, forcing his mouth open. Boromir chewed, squeezing shut his eyes against the strong flavor of the root.
"No," Boromir at last said, struggling for strength to lean on one elbow. "No. We must go on. We cannot linger."
Frodo shook his head. "You cannot travel. And I made that very clear to Gandalf – and Aragorn. I said I would not go on without you."
Boromir looked at Frodo in wonder a moment before clasping his hand and planting a hasty kiss on it. "So often it is the gentle-hearted who wield the sharpest swords."
"Mr. Frodo!" Sam cries out in alarm, spinning toward him and catching his shoulders. Faramir's eyes widen, which is the last thing Frodo sees before crumpling forward into larger and stronger hands.
***
Frodo wakes lying on soft blankets in a dark alcove of the cave. Sam cradles his head in his lap.
Frodo does not speak, but he stares forward into the flickering torch light, remembering a time long since passed, of golden light and the song of Nimrodel.
In Lorien hearts entwined and promises were made. The Golden Wood flourished with enchantment, and Frodo and Boromir, naked in the soft grass among the elanor, shielded by the mallorn trees, held each other, their bodies still singing from love, dreaming of their life after the Ring was destroyed and they were free.
END