Chapter One

It was a great wonder when the small boat bumped up against the shore of the Lonely Isle. It was obviously of Elven make but where it had been those who found it could not tell. It was battered as though it had passed through many storms. They marveled to behold a man within it. He could have been asleep if not for the many wounds his body bore. Celebrian drew in a sharp breath. She knew what weapon had made those terrible tears for her own body had once held similar ones, though not so great in number. The greatest marvel to her and to her companions was the belt the man wore.

“That comes from my mother,” she breathed.

She looked at the man’s fair features. His face was peaceful despite the terrible injuries he had suffered. Who are you? From whence did you come? How is my mother and father? And my daughter and husband, did you see them? She knew she would find no answers. The only clues she had to his identity was from his clothing. Obviously he was a warrior and one of high rank. The Elves knew the Shadow had risen again in Middle-earth. Did this man fight against him? Rumors and news of war had reached even this isle, but none concerning this particular warrior.

Celebrian and the two others with her secured the boat and then her male companions carried the man to a dwelling near by. They learned no more of him until the coming of the Ring-bearers’.

Frodo grimaced. Bilbo took his hand and the younger Ring-bearer clutched it tightly. If such a fierce grip hurt the more ancient Bearer, he gave no word. It was a joy just to hold his heartson’s hand again.

“Of course we will try to help you,” Bilbo said. “You say it is a man who came to you? That is a wonder indeed.”

“Yes. He came by boat and was already dead, slain by many arrows. The Lord Ulmo must have a great purpose in mind to have allowed him such passage. It is a mystery to us.”

Frodo looked up at the Elf sharply at the description of the manner of the man’s death, but said nothing. They entered the small building and came upon the man, still laid out in the clothing he had worn when the hobbits had last seen him. The younger Baggins let go of his uncle’s hand and approached the bier. He stood on the top step and leaned over, marveling to look at features he had last seen lost in madness. Had he looked that way to Sam when taken by the Ring himself? It eased his heart to see Boromir’s fair features at peace now. The Ring-bearer touched the man’s cheek and reverently pressed his head to the warrior’s brow. “How long I wished I could tell you I forgave you,” he breathed. “Thank you for the lives of my cousins.” He kissed the cold forehead before rising again. Tears streaked his pale face.

“You know who this is then?” the Elf asked.

“Yes,” Frodo said. At first his voice was shaky, but it grew in strength after Bilbo took his hand again. “His name is Boromir. He was heir to the Stewardship of Gondor, eldest son of Denethor. He was one of my companions in the Quest to destroy the One Ring. He was slain defending two of my kin.”

The Elf nodded gravely at this news. “Till he came, and then you with more of our kindred, we did not have any faces to put with the reports that came to us.” He bowed deeply to the Ring-bearers. “He was completely unknown to us, but we have held him in reverence for we knew he died well. Eruanna fills him.”

Frodo took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You are right to honor him. Hantanyel.”

The Elf smiled and bowed again which the hobbits returned.

When Bilbo moved to leave, Frodo let his hand go. “I’m going to stay, Uncle.”

The ancient hobbit looked at his heartson with concern.

“I’ll be all right. He never meant to hurt me. That came from the Ring.”

The elder Ring-bearer touched Frodo’s cheek and smiled. “Eruanna lights you from within as well, my boy. Stay with him then.”

Frodo returned the smile as best he could. His heart was still too broken to be entirely successful but Bilbo appreciated the effort.

The younger Baggins returned to the bier as the old left on the arm of their Elven guide. Frodo stroked his erstwhile companions hair gently. “I know it wasn’t your fault. It had terrible power over anyone it held in its grasp.”

The Ring-bearer spent a little more time, then bowed before leaving.

In the days that followed, Frodo came back usually in the evening before the sun set. After dark was still the worst time for him, when his memories were the most vivid and able to hurt him, but for reasons he was not entirely sure why, he found spending time with Boromir fortified him. He thought he may be afraid the first night, fearing the memories of his companion’s attack on him would rear up. He stood hesitant on the step to the building, but once he moved inside, all his trepidation left him and the peace that was there filled him as well. He knew he would be afraid once he left for it would be full dark, but then Bilbo would be there to fetch him. He would not face the night alone. The peace that came from staying at Boromir’s side helped him battle the darkness that lingered within him and his fear of the black without. He set himself the goal of one day becoming strong enough to walk under the stars again as he had always loved to do before he had been so wounded.

Those first days on the Lonely Isle were indeed lonely and there were times Frodo wished he did not know it had been named so and knew only of its much more beautiful Elven name. When the memories and pain of loss were the worst, he spent some hours by the side of his fallen companion. The Elves honored him and Bilbo for their help in bringing about the defeat of the Shadow which still discomfited Frodo greatly. Sometimes he thought he came to this silent place to be alone, to be away, to be with the one person whose forever stilled lips could not praise him. Here was one who had fallen to the lure of the Ring as he had, someone who would understand his torment, perhaps the only one who truly could. Other times he came just to be with another from Middle-earth, a reminder of home, a way he could pretend for a little while that he was not unimaginably far away but close enough to touch someone who had walked some of the same paths he had. Of course, he had Bilbo for that too, but sometimes, the very familiarity of his uncle reminded him more of what he had lost than the joy of their reunion. Boromir did not pierce him sharply with either of those and it was by the man’s side Frodo found a deeper peace than he found anywhere else. Other times it was for the man’s own sake that he came.

When Frodo and Bilbo visited the vast library on the island, the elder Baggins suggested it would be right and proper for his nephew to write out a history of the War of the Ring for this island, just as he had for those in Shire, so they would knew here also the tremendous sacrifices and achievements of those in Middle-earth. The only thing that made the idea bearable of again undertaking such a task, with all its glory and pain, was writing first of such things that he knew Boromir would have liked to have heard. It kept the pain of Frodo’s own failure at bay while he concentrated on the success of others. So each evening, after spending an afternoon in the library, Frodo came to his companion’s side, and read to him what he had written that day. He held Boromir’s cold hand as he spoke long about Faramir and also about Pippin’s oath of service to Denethor in honor of Boromir’s defense. He made sure he included all the praise he had heard from both his cousins and how Gandalf was pleased that the man had escaped. Softly he sang the lament that Aragorn, Legolas and Gimil had sung after their friend’s death. Sometimes Frodo’s voice caught and he had to stop to swallow or wipe away tears when the pain of his own loss threatened to overwhelm him, but he continued on since he considered it important that Boromir know of these things. The hobbit knew it was naught but his imagination but at times he fancied that the hand he held grew warmer or the features more at peace. The sigh he thought he heard had to be a breeze, and the smile he thought he saw faintly a trick of the light, but still he knew he was doing a good work. He talked long about the battle of Pelennor Fields and the siege of Minas Tirith that had been broken. He knew, even if all else was false in what his sense perceived, the peace it brought to his heart to celebrate the triumph of others was no illusion. Each night before he left, he kissed Boromir’s cold brow and then took Bilbo’s waiting hand and strode out into the night. Each time was a little easier to him to withstand the darkness within and without. He knew he had his fallen friend to thank for that.
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A/N: Eruanna is Quenya for grace (of God). Hantanyel is Thank you.