Chapter Text
Frodo fell, face first, into the crisping leaves. Boromir had caught him by the leg and he was flipped onto his back, his hands grasping furiously for the Ring hung around his neck.
His left hand was caught, his right pinned. He looked up beyond Boromir and into the sparse canopy, and beyond that, where sunshine broke through the clouds, warm on his face. He felt almost relieved, suddenly, exhaling...
Boromir, he thought, would take the Ring then, and he would be the one tormented instead, he could have the eye scour his mind instead. He, instead, would rise and swiftly fall, would try to wield it, would wield it even, until it would inevitably betray him and the world would burn to ash and ruin ...
And it would be someone else's fault.
He turned his gaze back on the man above, whose eyes were veiled in shadow. He smiled somewhat wickedly as he unclenched his left hand, so that he was palm to palm with the Son of the Steward, the Ring pressed tightly in between.