The Folly of the Wise ~ Part Nine

"No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!"

Frodo’s agonized cry was like a knife in my heart as I forced myself out of my numbed shock and picked him up to follow the rest of the Fellowship out of Moria. He no longer struggled, but even as I turned to run up the stairs he kept his eyes fixed on the broken Bridge and cried out one last time, "No! Gandalf!" I shuddered and pressed him closer to me, seeing Legolas picking up the stunned Merry and Pippin, and Gimli putting one burly arm around Sam’s shoulders and leading him out.

I turned as arrows thudded around me, harmless now, it seemed, and saw that Aragorn still stood there, sword limp in one hand, as though unable to move. "Aragorn!" I shouted at him desperately. The others were already outside.

Aragorn’s shoulders quivered and then he turned, his eyes wide, and followed me wordlessly up the stairs. Frodo had gone deathly still and quiet now, but I could feel his heart racing and his breath coming in swift, shallow gasps. He seemed to be going into a kind of shock and I tightened my arms around him. I bent my head close. "Hold on, Frodo," I whispered into his hair. He began to tremble but otherwise did not respond.

The sunlight outside was blinding after the deep darkness of Khazad-Dûm and I stood still for a moment adjusting. Aragorn slipped noiselessly passed me and walked a small distance away, where he stood silently staring out across the Dimrill Dale and the lands beyond.

Still somehow unable to move, I surveyed the other members of the Fellowship. Legolas stood nearby, a look of confusion and grief in his deep blue eyes that was painful to see. Merry and Pippin had collapsed onto the rocky ground, and Merry was supporting his younger cousin as Pippin sobbed. I tore my eyes quickly away from them, unable to watch. Sam sat closeby on a rock, his head in one hand, his shoulders shaking. Gimli stood beside him, one gloved hand resting on his shoulder, his own head bowed.

At last I came out of my daze and looked down at Frodo. His face was pressed against my tunic, but he raised it then, as though sensing my gaze. I was surprised to find that his eyes were dry, but filled with such deep sorrow and pain that I caught my breath. I tried to speak. "Frodo…" was all I could manage, in a hoarse whisper.

"Please put me down, Boromir," he said softly. "I’m all right."

Slowly and carefully, I did so, but I kept one hand on his shoulder as he swayed momentarily. He stiffened, and lowered his head for a moment, and the dark curls hid his face from my sight. Then he raised his head and with a fleeting, unreadable glance at me, he began to walk away, slowly but steadily.

I watched him for a moment, but did not follow. I knew he must be allowed to grieve alone as he wished. I looked down at the white rocks beneath my feet, feeling suddenly the full enormity of our loss. Gandalf. Mentor, teacher—to my brother, and to all of us in the Fellowship—leader, and even friend. I did not agree with him on many things, but I realized then that he had long ago earned my respect.

Alas, that I did not see this sooner!

My heart was heavy with grief as I made my way slowly forward, and then sank down on a large rock near Gimli and Sam. I found that there were tears in my eyes, and I grieved for Gandalf, for Moria that was lost to the dwarves for ever, for the innocent halflings doomed to follow such a hopeless path, for Frodo bound to a task that could only end with darkness and his own death, and for my own City, slowly crumbling and decaying. I wept, for the first time in many years, for them all.

I do not know how long I sat there, my head in my hands, before I finally seemed to awake once more to my surroundings. I raised my head and my tears dried. I felt spent, but somehow stronger, and taking a deep breath, I got to my feet and looked around. No one seemed to have moved, except Gimli.

The dwarf had left Sam to weep alone, and was standing closer to me, staring at the horizon. He heard me stand up and turned: I was surprised, for some reason, to see tears in his deep brown eyes. He was murmuring something in Dwarvish; a prayer, maybe. "I have seen the halls of Durin, and the city of Dwarrowdelf, and I know now they are lost forever," he said to me, his voice hoarse with sadness. Suddenly a spark of fire appeared in his eyes. "But the great halls should not be marred and stained by the foul orc-kind," he growled, tightening his grip on his axe. "There were archers closeby the door—"

Understanding what he was suggesting, I gasped, "No, Gimli! You saw that Moria is lost forever; it would be foolishness to return for revenge. The orc archers have no doubt been joined by many, now. Would you wish to meet the same fate as Balin and the rest of your kin?"

"Better to fall while avenging them than to turn away and do nothing!" he retorted, suddenly lunging forward.

I caught him, and kneeling down closer to his height, I held him back as he struggled to get away. "Let me go!" he shouted with grief-driven fury. "I must avenge my kin!"

I could think of nothing to say, so instead I only shook my head and continued to keep him there. I had done this many times before, in battle, when one of my soldiers tried to return and avenge a fallen friend.

Once, I had tried to do the same, only to be held back, as well. One of my dearest friends, a man named Eradan, whom I had known and trained with since boyhood, had fallen and we were being forced to retreat. Mad with grief and anger, I had tried to force my way back to him, but Faramir had stopped me, and held me in place while I struggled, his arms gentle but firm. As it had turned out, soon after we had routed the enemy and were able to come back and collect our dead and wounded; and I had found that Eradan was not, in fact, amongst the slain, but was only injured.

Still, had Faramir not held me back, I would have returned and certainly have been killed—and perhaps I would have caused the death of others, for Faramir and probably many of the soldiers would have followed me.

With that memory in my mind, I held Gimli until at last he ceased struggling. Then he sat on the rocky ground, dropping his axe and burying his face in his hands, and wept. I pressed his shoulder briefly before, seeing that he would not again try to run back into the Mines, rising and leaving him to grieve alone.

It was several minutes later when Aragorn, still standing motionless apart from the rest of the Company, suddenly turned, wiping the blood off his blade with a cloth and sheathing it. "I fear we cannot stay here," he announced, his voice clear. "It is a long road to Lórien. Come! Legolas, Boromir, get them up."

Legolas turned slowly, looking dazed, as he took Merry’s hand and halfheartedly gave it a tug or two. Merry was mastering his grief now, and he wiped one dirty sleeve across his equally dirty face but did not rise. "Come on, Pip," he said gently, squeezing the shaking shoulder of his still sobbing younger cousin.

I could not move—the hobbits had not had nearly enough time to grieve! And they were weary, sore, and bruised besides! How could Aragorn be so cold?

"Give them a moment, for pity’s sake!" I pleaded angrily.

"By nightfall these hills will be swarming with orcs!" Aragorn argued firmly, turning to face me. It was only then that I saw the tears shining in his grey eyes and understood that he did not like pulling the hobbits away so soon any more than I did. My anger abruptly died and I bowed my head in acknowledgment of the truth in his words. "We must reach the woods of Lothlórien." I raised my head to see him nod gravely at me, perhaps in response to my acceptance of his leadership. Then he raised his voice to the others once more. "Come, Legolas, Gimli! Get them up."

I aided Legolas in raising Merry and Pippin to their feet, and observing that the youngest hobbit seemed to have exhausted himself with grief and was swaying unsteadily where he stood, I offered to carry him.

Pippin was too weary to resist or do anything but nod, but Merry gave me a grateful look and took Pippin’s pack over his own shoulder. I slung my shield onto my back, bent down and carefully lifted him into my arms. I had forgotten, until that moment, about my bruised and still painful shoulder, and it made its presence known by nearly giving out entirely as I picked up Pippin. I almost dropped him, but fortunately Legolas reached out and steadied me.

The Elf’s eyes were dark still with sorrow, and now concern. "You are injured," he said softly. It was a statement, not a question.

I shook my head. "It is nothing," I lied. Seeing his growing argument I added, "It can wait until we have found someplace save to camp. There is no time for examining injuries here."

To my relief, Legolas nodded, and with a brief touch of my arm and then of Merry’s shoulder, he went to see to Sam, whom Aragorn had just raised to his feet. I shifted Pippin gently in my arms so that he rested close against my side, his small arms wrapped around my neck, just as I had carried Frodo from the Mines.

Frodo…

I looked around but did not see him; I realized that I had not seen him since setting him down earlier. Just as fear began to form in my heart I heard Aragorn’s shout, "Frodo!" and joining his side I spotted the small, slight figure far from the rest of the Company, turning slowly to face us.

"Come back, Frodo," said Aragorn, softening his voice.

Frodo looked at him for a long moment, too far away for me to read his expression. But as he obeyed reluctantly and neared, I could see that tears were sliding down his pale face, slowly, though he was silent. The tears made silver streaks in the dirt smeared across his cheeks and it seemed to me that his grief was deeper, somehow, and sharper than any of ours. Yet he bore it like a soldier, silently and bravely. My respect for him, already great, grew even further in that moment.

At last Frodo stood before Aragorn and I, his slender frame taut and very straight, but steady. I stepped back, respectfully, as Aragorn knelt before him and took Frodo’s small hands in his own. "We can linger here no longer," he said gently. "We must find a safe place to rest and recover before nightfall."

Frodo looked at him steadily for a long moment before nodding. "Very well," he said softly. His voice was as controlled as the rest of him, despite the tears.

Aragorn studied him closely for a moment, then smiled slightly, squeezed Frodo’s hands, and then rose to address the rest of the Fellowship now gathered round him. "Let us move," he said. "Lothlórien is a two days’ journey from here, if our luck holds, but our wounds must be attended to tonight. Come!"

***

We traveled slowly, at first, and then after entering the forest surrounding the Dimrill Dale we began to revive, and quickened our pace. It was later that afternoon, some three hours into our march, when we came upon two streams—one of which was the Silverlode coming down to merge with the Great River—which joined in a small waterfall that fell steeply into a dell surrounded by fir-trees, short and bent. Aragorn declared this a suitable place to rest while our hurts and weariness were tended to.

The hobbits were quick to busy themselves. Frodo helped Aragorn refill the water bottles and get out his medical supplies, while Sam, Merry and Pippin (who had slept for a few hours in my arms and had mostly recovered from his shock now) aided Gimli in gathering brush- and fire-wood to build up a small fire. Though we were only a few miles away from Moria and the danger of being followed was still near, the sun was already westering and a fire was necessary.

While Gimli drew and heated some water, Aragorn insisted that everyone be examined for wounds. The hobbits were to be treated first of all, while I sat down and tended to my battered sword and shield as an excuse to stay closeby, ready to offer assistance if needed. To my surprise, it was Sam the other three pushed forward to have examined first; apparently he had received a cut along his scalp while felling an orc with his small sword—so the frying pan had not been his only weapon!

Poor Sam’s face was bright red as the other hobbits hovered close around him with concern. Though he did not protest Aragorn’s examination, I saw him nervously stretch out one hand behind him, and when Frodo took it reassuringly in both of his, he pressed them so tightly that his master’s fingers turned white and I heard him give a very slight gasp of pain.

Running his fingers gently through Sam’s thick sandy curls, Aragorn’s face was grim as he examined the cut. It was not deep, but it looked ugly, and I was apprehensive until Aragorn smiled, releasing Sam’s head and resting a hand on the his small shoulder. "Good luck, Sam!" he said. "Many have received worse than this in the slaying of their first orc. The cut is not poisoned, as the wounds of orc-blades too often are. It should heal well."

I could not help but smile as Sam released a heartfelt sigh, echoed by the other hobbits. Aragorn patted him on the shoulder, and released him to put together a rather meager, but warm supper, with the promise to bathe his cut as soon as the other examinations were complete. Sam sighed mournfully at the prospect but was all too eager to be free, and soon he was humming softly to himself as he prepared the meal.

Merry and Pippin were next, and I paused in my sword-polishing to watch anxiously, concerned that they might have been injured. But apart from a few bruises, scrapes and scratches, Aragorn announced them as fit as ever. The irrepressible Pippin then declared that their "unfailing good health" was a matter for celebration and promptly dug through his pack to produce his small mahogany pipe and a pouch of pipeweed. This was met with indignant cries from Frodo, Sam and Merry, the latter rushing to get his own pipe and steal some of Pippin’s weed. Evidently the older hobbits had used up the last of theirs, and Pippin had somehow managed to keep his own stash hidden from his cousins and Sam.

A brief argument ensued between the hobbits, but within a few minutes Sam, Merry and Pippin were contentedly puffing their pipes as they busied themselves about the campfire. I saw Legolas smiling from across the campfire and even Aragorn’s grim face brightened a little; I myself was grinning and feeling, yet again, the now-usual mixture of admiration, fondness, and absolute bewilderment towards the hobbits.

Our moods sobered again as the examinations continued. Next to be tended to was Frodo, at his cousins’ insistence. He looked reluctant and protested a bit at first, but at last he sighed heavily and did not resist as Aragorn gently stripped off his cloak, jacket, waistcoat and shirt to see what the orc-spear had done to him. Aragorn paused upon reaching the mithril corslet, which shimmered silver in the fading sunlight. "If it were known that hobbits had such hides, all the hunters of Middle-earth would be riding to the Shire," he said, smiling, as he gently pulled it off. The mail rings clinked together like rain in a pool.

"And all the arrows of all the hunters in the world would be in vain," added Gimli, coming over to take the garment from Aragorn and hold it up reverently. "I have never seen or heard tell of a mithril-coat so fair. Gandalf undervalued it." He set the corslet carefully down and looked at Frodo with a smile. "It was well given!" he said, before returning to the campfire and bringing out his axe to sharpen it.

I was myself now sharpening one of the small knives that I carried always hidden in my boots; or I was pretending to, at least. I watched Aragorn and Frodo more than I worked on my knife.

Aragorn removed the last layer of Frodo’s upper clothing, a shirt of soft leather, and finally we were able to see the full extent of the wound. I caught my breath at the sight. Despite the protective chainmail, there was a dark and blackened bruise on Frodo’s right side and breast; it appeared very likely that one of his ribs, at the very least, was broken, though at least none had pierced the skin.

As Aragorn ran his hands gently up and down over Frodo’s ribs, I saw his face pale and he gasped in pain several times. With visible effort, he kept back a cry when Aragorn touched several spots in particular, and he pressed his eyes tightly shut.

Aragorn finished his examination, his face still grave, and announced that only one of Frodo’s ribs was cracked, and two broken, but the others were badly bruised and would be stiff and sore for some time. I could not help but wince. Small price to pay for remaining alive and in one piece, perhaps, but a very painful one!

Then Aragorn bathed Frodo’s wounds in the water that Gimli and the younger hobbits had heated, putting some sort of dried, herb into it. I am not sure what it was, but it had a strange effect on all of us; as soon as he’d crushed the withered leaves and dropped them into the water, their scent, both sweet and sharp, spread throughout the campsite. Somehow, as I breathed deeply of it, I suddenly felt refreshed and strengthened, and even some hope returned to my heart. I made a mental note to ask Aragorn more about that plant later—such an herb would be great help to the healers of Minas Tirith!

Frodo’s ribs were bound with soft pads of cloth and Aragorn forbade him from moving at all until he had eaten, with Merry to make sure he obeyed. Reluctantly, and not without protest, Frodo acquiesced. Merry, knowing his cousin well, sat watchfully close beside him and gave him a glower of warning, to which Frodo replied with an expressive grimace. I turned a chuckle into a cough at their wordless exchange.

Next Aragorn turned to Gimli but the dwarf gruffly asserted he was perfectly fine, and would only allow Aragorn a brief examination; at the end of which the Ranger could only concede that Gimli was correct and unharmed.

Aragorn looked at Legolas, and the elf shook his head. "I have no injuries that need tending now," he said softly. Aragorn’s dark brows lowered and he made to protest but Legolas gestured with a slender hand in the direction of Lothlórien and continued, "I will find all the healing I need there."

After a long moment, Aragorn capitulated and nodded. Legolas calmly resumed the repairs to his bowstring that he had been working on.

Then Aragorn turned to me, and we looked at each other in silence for a full minute. I slid the knife back into my boot and came over to sit nearby him. "You are injured," said Aragorn slowly. He studied me closely, and I shifted uncomfortably beneath the penetrating steel-grey gaze. "You have been favoring your left arm." It was not a question.

I nodded; there was no purpose in hiding or arguing with him. There was a brief silence, and then I explained, "My shoulder was dislocated when the cave troll threw me into the wall. But it went back into place later, thanks to one of the orcs." I saw the concern in Aragorn’s eyes and added, "It is no cause for alarm; it hurts little now, and I have received worse." While it was true that I had taken more grievous wounds before, I was not being entirely truthful when I told him that it did not hurt; in actual fact, it was still hurting quite a bit. But I would not have Aragorn know that.

Aragorn hesitated a moment, as if unsure how to proceed. Finally, he said, "Let me tend to it, Boromir. It will stiffen and get worse if I do not."

I, in turn, hesitated briefly. "I will let you tend to me only if you give me your word that you will allow your own wounds to be seen to—that gash on your arm looks deep," I said at last.

Aragorn looked at me for a long moment, then to my surprise, he smiled. "A deal, struck!" he said good-naturedly, and I could not help but smiling back at him.

My smile quickly faded as he began his examination. He ordered me to remove my fur-lined cloak, sleeveless leather coat, tunic, gauntlets, and even the short leather undertunic with its chainmail sleeves. I realized, clad with nothing but my trousers and boots, that it was getting chill outside, and forced myself not to shiver.

Aragorn’s face was grave as he examined my shoulder and arm, which I discovered to be vividly marked with bruises. His fingers were gentle, but even so it was all I could do not to wince and I am ashamed to say I very nearly cried out when he began pressing and rotating my shoulder. I managed to reduce it to a sharp hiss of indrawn breath, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead.

At last, Aragorn sat back on his heels. "Your shoulder is sprained," he announced. "But not severely. A day or two in a sling should suffice; once we reach the woods of Lórien they will tend to all of our wounds."

As a soldier of Gondor, and a very stubborn man besides, I did not like the idea of having my arm confined to a sling, and told him so. He was unmoved. "No one will think the less of you for having been wounded in battle," he said. Then, a playful grin spreading over his face, he added, "However, if you behave yourself and do not strain your arm too much, I might be willing to allow you to remove the sling tomorrow evening, if I do not find it to have worsened."

"Agreed!" I said eagerly.

"Very well," said Aragorn. "But remember, you must bear the sling until then, and keep your arm as still as possible. Or you shall have to wear it longer."

I grinned back at him and gave him a small salute, sealing our bargain—although the thought of having my arm immobilized for the next day was not a pleasing one.

As Aragorn rummaged through his pack for material for a sling, I slowly and painfully pulled my clothes back on, Pippin left the others around the campfire to sit at my side, his pipe held at one corner of his mouth. "Stars, Boromir!" he exclaimed. "Your bruises are nearly as bad as Frodo’s! Whatever did you do to yourself?"

I managed a smile for him, if a very small, tight one as I carefully pulled on my red tunic. My shoulder was throbbing from Aragorn’s probing. "That cave troll in Balin’s Tomb didn’t like me very much," I told him. I paused for a minute or two, pulling on my travel-stained coat and fastening the clasps. I remained without my gauntlets or arm-braces. "It caught me with its chain and threw me into a wall," I continued finally. I did not tell him about my shoulder’s dislocation, not wishing to frighten him.

Pippin’s eyes widened and wordlessly, he moved closer to me, resting against my right side. I draped my arm over him and he looked up at me. "Ouch," he said sympathetically. "That must’ve hurt."

I ruffled his unruly curls with my uninjured hand. "Just a little."

Aragorn was silent as he bound the bandages swiftly and surely around my arm, and then looping them around my neck to keep my arm in position against my chest. The bandages were tight but not too much so, and the sling brought some relief as it supported my arm.

Once this was completed, I looked up at Aragorn, and he down at me, and we stared at each other steadily for a long moment. Then I said, "It is your turn. Do not forget your bargain."

Aragorn’s face suddenly brightened with a smile, and I was astonished to see the years and careworn lines disappear entirely in a rare moment of companionable mirth. "I have not," he said, touching my good shoulder briefly. "Although I must confess that I had hoped that perhaps you had."

I smiled back at him. "Small chance of that," I said. "If the son of Gondor’s Steward must suffer the indignity of tending, so must you."

Aragorn sighed resignedly and began to strip off his upper clothing. "Very well," he said. "I will tell you where I have wounds, and save you the trouble of looking." He then pointed out several small cuts and bruises that marked his sides and chest, and the deeper ones on his arms, while Pippin helped me soak a few cloths in the herb-filled water.

Legolas approached us, unnoticed, and suddenly appeared at Aragorn’s side. "It is a long time since I have seen you tended to by anyone save Lord Elrond, my friend," he remarked with a smile. I could scarcely believe my eyes—the Elf Prince was jesting with Aragorn, like an old comrade!

Aragorn returned the teasing without hesitation. "Take a long look," he said, smiling in return, "for you are not likely to see it again soon!"

Legolas only widened his smile playfully as Pippin and I brought over the damp cloths. As he helped us place them on Aragorn’s wounds, I saw a look of gentle concern in his face that told me that they were, in fact, old comrades, and I wondered where they had first met. I added that question to the growing list of things to find out about my companions.

Pippin’s voice brought me out of my musings. "I think that’s done, Boromir," he piped. "Much longer under those wet cloths and he’ll wrinkle up like a prune!"

Legolas and I chuckled, and I saw as we removed the cloths, that already the herb had worked its magic—the signs of pain on Aragorn’s face were all but gone now, and he seemed quite comfortable now, even.

"Should we bind that gash on his arm?" I questioned, gesturing to the deep, jagged cut that scored his arm nearly from elbow to wrist.

Legolas considered it and sat back on his heels—somehow managing to do even that gracefully, I noticed with not a little envy. "Perhaps it would be safest," he said after a moment. "What say you, Aragorn?"

Aragorn opened one eye—he almost appeared to have been dozing—and glanced at his arm. "You’re probably right," he agreed, closing his eye again. "Bind it for now, and I’ll see how it fares tomorrow."

Pippin went to Aragorn’s pack to fetch some bandages and while we waited, Merry and Frodo suddenly appeared at my side. Aragorn heard them and sat up, opening his eyes to look at Frodo with a frown. "I believe we agreed that you would not move until you have eaten."

Frodo smiled sweetly at him and held up an apple. "But I am eating," he said innocently, taking a bite. "Why, look what Merry happened to find me. It seems that apples grow in all seasons here."

Aragorn directed a look of halfhearted reproach at Merry, who merely grinned and took a bite of his own apple, and then sighed. "Very well," he consented. "I must learn not to bargain with you hobbits! I always seem to lose."

Pippin came over with the bandages. He handed them to Legolas and then, with speed no doubt acquired by much practice, he snatched Merry’s apple and took a large bite.

"Oi!" Merry cried indignantly. "That’s mine, you little thief! Give it back."

Pippin grinned with his mouth full and tossed the apple back to Merry, who glared at him as he caught it but resumed eating it. As Pippin began to eye his other cousin’s apple, Frodo shook his head firmly. "Oh no, you don’t, you greedy Took," he said. "Go get your own apple. There’s a tree full of them just beyond those bushes." He gestured behind him.

Pippin gave him a sour look but hopped up and wasted no time in dashing off to find the apple tree. The rest of us chuckled, and Legolas and I turned to binding Aragorn’s arm. When we had finished, he sat up, looking refreshed, and said, "Very well, that’s done. Now I believe Sam has supper ready for us. We must eat quickly; we should try to get closer to Lórien before we camp for the night."

There was no more jesting between us—save for the usual, though somewhat more subdued banter of the hobbits—while we hurriedly ate our small supper, but a new peace seemed to have settled over the Company. Our grief for Gandalf was not less, but it seemed to have drawn us closer, somehow, and I for one was beginning to think of Legolas, Gimli and even Aragorn as my brothers-in-arms. For all their courage and mettle, I could not think of the hobbits as warriors just yet.

After we had eaten, we put out the fire and hid all traces of it, before climbing out of the dell and continued towards Lothlórien. Although we all, feeling eased and greatly refreshed, went at a fair pace, it was not long before the sun sank down behind the westward heights and dusk veiled our feet as mist rose in the hollows. With Legolas leading us, however, his sharp eyes alert for any danger that might be hidden in the darkness, we continued on for some three hours with only one brief stop for the hobbits to rest.

As we went slowly and cautiously along in the dark, waiting only to find a suitable campsite where we could rest for the night, I noticed Frodo quietly dropping back to walk beside Gimli at the rear of the Company, just behind me. Neither of them spoke, and the only sound to be heard was the rustling of leaves in the cool night breeze.

When Gimli finally spoke I was so accustomed to the silence that I confess I jumped in startlement.

"Not a sound but the wind!" he said, echoing my earlier observation. "There are no goblins near," he continued confidently, "or my ears are made of wood. It is to be hoped that the orcs will be content with driving us from Moria. And maybe that was all their purpose, and they had nothing else to do with us—with the Ring. Though orcs will often pursue foes for many leagues into the plain, if they have a fallen captain to avenge."

Frodo did not answer, but I saw him glance down at his sword; I had noticed the way he stiffened almost imperceptibly when Gimli mentioned the Ring, and he was still tense. But there was no warning glow of blue from inside the scabbard, and I could hear nothing out of the ordinary.

Either Frodo’s ears were sharper than mine or the sounds I was listening for (the tread of heavy feet and orcish growls coming up from behind) were different from his. For suddenly he cocked his head slightly to one side, as if listening closely, and then, his eyes widening in alarm, spun around as if to face an enemy, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword.

Instinctively I did the same, half-drawing out my sword, but though I strained my eyes, I saw nothing but empty forest behind us.

No, wait a moment… For the briefest moment I thought I saw a flicker, the faintest glimmer of two pale pinpoints of light, watching us. But they vanished too quickly for me to be sure.

Certainly Frodo had seen or heard something, for I could sense his unease and in the dim glow of moonlight his face looked troubled as he turned back around.

"What is it?" asked Gimli quietly, having also reacted to Frodo’s sudden alarm.

Frodo shook his head wearily. "I don’t know," he said. "I thought I heard feet, and I thought I saw a light—like eyes." The tone of his voice implied that he was not as unsure as he seemed—he did not think, he knew. "I have thought so often, since we first entered Moria."

Gimli halted and stooped to the ground. "I hear nothing," he reported, "but the night-speech of plant and stone." But he sounded unconvinced of his own assurance; he knew as well as I that Frodo would be the last person to exaggerate or imagine things.

"Come," I said, suddenly aware that all three of us had all but stopped completely. "Let us hurry; the others are out of sight."

We quickened our pace and caught up with the rest of the Fellowship, and walked in silence until at last Legolas spied a glade where we could rest the night. A chill had set in, so Gimli made a small fire, and we spread out our bedrolls close around it. Legolas and Merry took the first watch, and mine and Gimli’s would come in a few hours.

My sleep was uneasy, full of dark dreams, and by the time Merry came over to summon me for my watch, I had finally given up all hope of rest and was lying wakeful, listening to the noises of the forest. I sat out the majority of my watch huddled miserably in my cloak, my hand resting on the hilt of my sword. The night was quiet and cold, and I was tormented by thoughts of Gandalf and Moria. Could I have done something to prevent his death? I wondered. Was there anything anyone could have done?

No, I decided at last. None of us could have withstood the Balrog; even together, I doubted that we could have overcome it. No, there was no way for any of us to prevent Gandalf’s death. It was fate.

I was given plenty of time to brood on this and other dark thoughts, as my watch was uneventful. When Gimli and I were relieved by Aragorn and Frodo, I curled up in my bedroll as restless and despondent as I had been before, but somewhat more peaceful about my part in Gandalf’s death, at least.

I lay on my back, staring at the stars glittering between the leaves overhead, for some time, before I was brought out of my reverie by a tentative touch on my arm. I must admit that I jumped, startled, and turned to see that Merry had moved his bedroll next to mine. He looked troubled and slightly embarrassed, and did not speak right away, looking down and fidgeting.

I had never seen Merry look so discomfited before. I propped myself up on one elbow. "Merry?" I said softly, so as not to disturb Frodo and Aragorn. "What is it? Are you well?"

"Yes, Boromir, I am well enough," he assured me in a near-whisper, still looking down. "It’s just that I… well, I—I…"

I touched his shoulder. "Merry," I said gently, "what is troubling you?"

At last he looked up, and his dark blue eyes were filled with… what? Worry? Grief? Pain? I could not tell. "Boromir, you are a warrior," he began quietly. "You have fought the Enemy for many years." He paused, as if unsure of himself, and I nodded for him to continue. "Do you… well, you have doubtless killed many orcs and such creatures, but do you…" He stopped, took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and then went on quickly, "What I mean to say is, have you ever felt a sense of—well, of guilt afterwards?"

His words hung in the air. The question startled me; as he said, I had been battling the forces of Mordor for many years and had ceased to think of such things. But I realized the cause of his question—he came from a race unaccustomed to killing, and in the last few days he had been forced to kill, to defend himself and others. Just as I had learned, long ago.

I thought for a long moment before answering. "Well, Merry," I finally said, slowly, "it was… difficult for me, at first, after the battles. Yes, I did feel guilty. But not for the orcs; they are creatures of the Enemy, wholly corrupt and without mercy. I could feel no guilt for killing them." Merry swallowed hard and nodded, looking down again. "But for others, yes. For those beasts—the horses, even the wargs—that Sauron had forced into his service unwilling. And for the lives sacrificed to keep the darkness at bay." I sighed, looking up at the stars again. "I have often wondered," I was speaking half to myself now, "why there is evil in the world, why good men must be called upon to give there lives in the fighting of it."

Merry was silent, and glancing at him I saw that he, too, was looking at the stars as he considered my words. I touched his shoulder so that he turned to me. "But it is not for me to wonder such things," I told him. "I am a soldier, and when I am called upon to fight the darkness I must obey." I drew a deep breath. "That is my lot."

"But hobbits aren’t soldiers," said Merry softly, and for the first time I saw that tears stood in his eyes, glittering in the starlight. "Our kind are peaceful. We are not made for battles."

I gripped his shoulder. "No," I said. "No, you are not soldiers. But you obeyed the call to fight, did you not?" He nodded silently. "Then I do not think you should dwell on such things. There is no place for guilt now—it will cloud your thoughts and your judgment."

"But how am I to avoid it?" asked Merry, and it tore my heart to hear the misery in his voice. "I know that I may be called upon to fight again, and I know I must respond without hesitation, to protect Frodo, and the Ring." A single tear, shimmering like a star, slid down his cheek. "But I cannot distance or detach myself like a soldier. I am not meant for such things!"

I gently took his chin in my fingers and raised it. "Perhaps not, Merry, but you have the heart of a soldier. All of you Shirefolk possess spirits better suited to tall fighting men." I paused, releasing his chin, trying to choose the words that would best ease his heart. "But no, you cannot detach yourself, none of you can. Nor would I wish it. You must wait until the battle is over to grieve; if you give in to guilt in the middle of one you will hesitate, and that could be fatal. For you, and for others." Merry nodded slowly, and drew his sleeve across his eyes. "If guilt you feel, afterwards," I added, "you must speak of it to someone and ease your mind. Do not hide it or dwell on it, for it will fester like a poisoned wound if untreated. Share your grief with your friends, and we will help you to bear it."

Merry was silent a long moment, while I watched his face closely in the hopes that he would take my words to heart. Then he drew in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Yes, Boromir," he murmured at last. "You are right."

But when he showed no signs of taking my advice and telling me what troubled him, I prodded him gently. "Would you like to tell me about it?" I asked softly. He nodded, drew another deep breath, and then I listened silently as he unburdened his heart. Ever since helping to kill that warg on the night we were attacked, Merry (Frodo as well, he told me) had been plagued with guilt over the deed—even though it had been in defense of themselves and their friends. When I asked, slowly, if they felt the same after our battle with the orcs in Moria, Merry shook his head.

"No," he said, surreptitiously wiping tears from his eyes. "Frodo and I—and Pippin and Sam, too, I suppose—know well enough that orcs are evil creatures. It was either us or them; they would not have shown us mercy."

"Neither would the wargs," I commented mildly.

"I know that," said Merry. He paused, then added a bit more loudly, "But orc-blood is black, and warg-blood was red, just like ours!" He shuddered. "The blood from the warg that got on Frodo’s sleeve could have been his own—there was no difference!"

I understand now. The Shire, from what I have been told, is a land of almost complete peace; certainly no hobbit-blood has been shed deliberately. How, by the Valar, will our four hobbits, brave and willing though they might be, survive this Quest? Blood has already been spilled in battle—red and black alike—and we have barely begun. I could never wish for these gentle-hearted folk to become hardened and indifferent to battle, but neither can I bear to see them suffer each time we fight!

Sighing in frustration, I decide that enough is enough for tonight. Merry has already served his watch; he is near exhaustion already, and further discussion on this subject will only weary him further.

With another sigh, I lay down and place a hand on Merry’s shoulder, gently pushing him down next to me. He does not resist, but echoes my sigh and pulls his blanket over himself once more, moving closer to me. Sensing that he is still in need of comfort, I hesitate a moment, then drape one arm over him as I get settled beneath my own blanket.

"Merry," I whisper after a moment of silence, "I do not know how you and the other hobbits found the courage to venture out of your homeland to join this Quest. All of you have strength and spirit unlike any I have seen before, and I wish it to stay that way. More battling and bloodshed is inevitable, but it will serve no purpose to dwell on it now. Keep your focus on getting through each day as it comes; be prepared for anything, but do not look too far ahead, and do not despair. It causes men to grow old before their time," I think involuntarily of my father, and shudder a little before hastily ending, "and I would not have you hobbits age a day!"

To my relief, Merry laughs a little. "Too late for Sam and Frodo," he says. "They’re already ancient." He pauses for a moment, then adds, "I suppose I am, too. I’m only two years younger than Sam, after all!"

I chuckle and shake my head. "Well, then I shall pass on my advice to Pippin," I reply. "He is my last hope, apparently!"

We both laugh quietly for a moment, and then fall silent. Thinking that Merry has fallen asleep, I get comfortable and close my eyes. I am suddenly very tired, and start to drift off. But then his voice, in a drowsy murmur, reaches my ear.

"Boromir?"

I open one eye and mumble something like "Hmmm?" to let him know I am listening.

"Thank you," he whispers simply, reaching up with his small hand to grip mine that lays across his shoulder.

I smile and squeeze his hand. "You are welcome."

Merry smiles back, and then closes his eyes again and is shortly asleep. Just before I join him, I think I hear Aragorn say softly, "Well spoken, Boromir." But I am too weary to reply, and the next moment I sink comfortably into a dreamless sleep, my arm draped across Merry and his hand still grasped in mine. Despite all our grief and hardship, tonight I am at peace.

To be continued...