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And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 28: The Doubter

      At the water-side Aragorn remained, watching the bier, while Legolas and Gimli hastened back on foot to Parth Galen. It was a mile or more, and it was some time before they came back, paddling two boats swiftly along the shore.

The Departure of Boromir                                                                         The Two Towers

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn stood on the bank beside the Great River with his head bowed, staring vacantly at the ground between his feet. His usual alert attentiveness to his surroundings had deserted him. He had no need to watch for their enemies now. The danger had passed. The Orcs had already done their foul deeds; done them and gone. As a result, one of their Company lay dead and the four hobbits were missing, most likely captives of the Orcs. The Fellowship was in ruins. Surely now the Ring must be discovered. At this moment though, the full consequences of that utter failure were too unbearable to dwell upon.

   Especially as everything that had gone wrong that day was entirely his fault.

   Gandalf’s trust in him had proved grossly misguided. He had failed everyone who had placed their hopes in him: Elrond, Arwen, Bilbo, the Dúnedain, his companions. It was a long list. But most bitterly of all, he had failed Frodo. Of all the members of the Fellowship, it was he who should have protected the Ringbearer. He knew the strain Frodo was under; he should have helped him decide upon his course, not allow him to wander in the woods alone, struggling to make the choice himself. He might have lifted some of the burden from the hobbit’s small shoulders if he had told him sooner that he was prepared to change his own plans and would not abandon him. He should have made his decision days ago and not left it until the final hour.

   He had been dithering over their course even before they left Lothlórien. What ever had he been thinking of; had it really been that difficult a choice? Surely the only thing that truly mattered was the destruction of the Ring. To his shame, he began to wonder if he had been too eager to press his own advantage by believing it was his fate to bring Andúril to the aid of Minas Tirith. He stared almost accusingly at the exquisite Elven sheath hanging from his belt.

   “The blade that is drawn from this sheath shall not be stained or broken even in defeat,” [1] Galadriel had told him. Well he was defeated now and the lady was right; the blade was unsullied, but then that was not to be wondered when it had remained impotently by his side while others had fought the battle without him. His sword had been badly needed here today, but he had been elsewhere at the time and his companions had paid bitterly for his absence.

   Overwhelmed by grief and guilt, he continued to flay himself relentlessly. He was the leader of the Company after all; Gandalf had handed that mantle to him just before he had been so cruelly taken from them and it was only too obvious to him that he could have averted all the disasters that had befallen them that day if he had only done things differently.

   Why, oh why had he not been paying more attention and noticed earlier that Boromir was missing?  If he had prevented him from seeking out Frodo, the man may not have tried to take the ring, and Frodo need not have fled. If he had stopped the younger hobbits from racing off like they did, they also might still be here instead of in the hands of the Enemy and no doubt facing torment and death. If he had not been so eager to run to the top of Amon Hen and sit in that high seat, wasting precious time, then maybe he would have been at hand to protect the hobbits himself. And if he had fought alongside Boromir, the man may not have met his doom so tragically.

   Aragorn groaned out loud as he recalled over and over in his mind the list of things he had done wrong that day.   This was not how the Quest was meant to end. Not for the first time did he wish with all his heart that Gandalf was still here to guide him. Gandalf would know what to do. His grief for the loss of his dear friend and mentor was still an open wound within him that he doubted would ever heal. But at that moment he felt the rawness of it more keenly than in all the days since Gandalf fell.  He missed his friend. He missed his sharp humour and his subtle wisdom; he missed his steadfast courage and his gentle kindness. But most of all he missed his optimism. Gandalf would have known how to raise him out of this terrible, dark place where all hope flounders; he would have found the right words to lift him and given him some reason to have cheer.

   As he stood deep in miserable thought on the bank of the river, the low winter sun broke free from the clouds and suddenly pierced the jewel pinned to his breast. Its green light blazed brightly over his heart. He immediately pulled his cloak over it, smothering its rays. He did not need further reminding of how wanting he had been at the test or of how much his failure would cost him and every one he loved. He had been so honoured when Galadriel had presented the stone to him. The Elessar, borne away so long ago to the Undying Lands by his distant kin yet brought back to Middle-earth by none other than Gandalf himself with the sole intent that it should pass to him when his time came. Elessar: that was his true name, the name by which he would rule, or so she had told him. Such faith the Wise had in him. Such faith Arwen had to leave it in Lothlórien and know that it would find him eventually. He knew he should be encouraged by their trust and even take new strength from it, but at that moment all he could think of was how deceived they had all been and how bitter would be their disappointment in him.

   Such was Aragorn’s despair, he even began to doubt the wisdom of their entire strategy. Had it really been wise to even attempt to send the Ring deep into the land of the Enemy? Elrond thought so, and Gandalf, but there were others who doubted this course and would have sought a different solution. It had after all only taken one Orc attack for the Fellowship to fall into disarray. What madness had led them to believe they could possibly hope to cross Mordor through the endless leagues of their Enemies and reach Mount Doom without further disasters?

   But as Aragorn’s eyes turned to the byre beside him, where lay his fallen comrade, those doubts evaporated. Boromir had been sorely tried by the temptation of the Ring and the effects of its evil were plain to see. He looked at the sad, tortured body lying at his feet and his heart grieved; Boromir was a good man who had fought valiantly at the end. He could perhaps guess something of the exchange between the mighty warrior and the seemingly weak Halfling and understand some of the torment Boromir had suffered. He decided there and then not reveal the man’s dying words to any lest he be judged unfairly by those who knew not the nature of his trial.

   But it was unlikely he would come to Minas Tirth now. And if he did, it would not be as he had intended. With Boromir at his side, he might have been welcomed as the Heir of Isildur, a mighty warrior, come to deliver Gondor in her hour of need. But how would he be received as the bearer of the news that the Steward’s elder son was dead? Denethor would be heartbroken. He briefly spared a moment’s pity for his former rival. Politics hardly mattered any more, not when hope had died for all of them. Minas Tirith would surely fall soon enough. Once the Dark Lord reclaimed what was his and his power became unbreakable, his forces would swiftly overrun the City along with the rest of Middle-earth.

   Aragorn raised his head and looked out across the wide water. The sun was already well past noon; the day was fast disappearing. He had no desire for food, but he slowly climbed down the bank to the water’s edge and cupping his hand, he drank from the cool, fast flowing river before returning to his vigil.

   He knew in his heart it was no good berating himself and self pity would achieve nothing. The harm was done. He must gather his wits and decide their course. There may be little point in continuing when hope had fled, but never in all his years had he allowed despair to become his master and he would not allow it to now. While he, and those who remained, still had breath in their bodies, they must go on. They had lost a battle here today but not yet the war.

   As soon as Legolas and Gimli returned with the boats, they would send Boromir on his final journey into the swell of the Great River. Then he had to find Frodo. That must surely be his task now. If only Boromir had been able to answer his final question, he might know if the Orcs had captured all four of the hobbits. If, when he searched the area more thoroughly, there were no other signs of Frodo, then he must assume that to be his fate. The remaining three members of the Fellowship must then pursue the Orcs with all speed, although they would now be far ahead of them and there seemed little hope they could be overtaken. It pained him terribly to think of the hobbits, his friends, in the hands of such brutes. He had become very fond of all of them in the two months since them left Rivendell. He would do all he possibly could to rescue them.

   But what if Frodo had not been taken by the Orcs; what if Legolas and Gimli brought different tidings?

   Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of two boats approaching swiftly on the river. His companions were returning. Soon he must decide their course for the next stage of their journey. In spite of his shortcomings, the others would still look to him for leadership. He closed his eyes for a moment and sent a silent plea to Elbereth to guide him now towards the right choice and so might he salvage something from this wreckage of all their hopes.

   He knew he could ill afford to make another mistake.

~oo0oo~

“My heart speaks clearly at last: the fate of the Bearer is in my hands no longer. The Company has played its part. Yet we that remain cannot forsake our companions while we have strength left.”

The Departure of Boromir                                                                         The Two Towers

[1]  Farewell to Lothlórien                                                         The Fellowship of the Ring

A/N  Unfinished Tales provides several different origins of the Elessar, but it is perhaps significant that, when Strider helped Bilbo with his poem about Eärendil, the only contribution he made, was to insist he included mention of a green jewel.