Frodo was silent during his walk with Boromir the next morning. The man was more aware than ever of the small hand in his and had a keen sense of what a wonderful gift of trust, love, and forgiveness that was. He looked over at his little brother who looked unusually thoughtful. He did not pry for he knew and respected Frodo’s need for privacy and was content to wait for the time, if it came, that Frodo would speak. But the Ring-bearer remained quiet, communicating only by a slight tightening of his hand around Boromir’s until they returned to the sea and parted there for the hobbit to return to his tale.

Frodo looked out at the Sea. The tablet on his knees and the stylus in his hand were forgotten while he stared out, remembering how big the Anduin had been and the camp at Parth Galen. He returned to the seemingly aimless path he had taken after he parted from the Company to wrestle with his decision as to how to continue on the Quest. He knew, as he had known then, there was only one possible Road. The fear of it rose up again within him and blotted out almost any other awareness. He sought the Lady’s light and brought it with him as he recalled the approach of Boromir and their words together. The terrible madness and lust in the man’s eyes was still frightening to behold and Frodo fought the urge to flee from it once more. He felt again within himself the same intense desire but brought them both under the Lady’s light. He traveled then to Amon Hen and was torn once more by the titanic forces that had held him in their grasp then. He gasped for breath as they both reached into him and pulled him this way and that, at once closer to their domination and then further away. His writing tablet and stylus fell to the ground as he grabbed the hand that had held the Ring on its finger. He heard not the gentle swish of the tide but the voices that had warred within him, one demanding that he keep the Ring on and one that commanded him to take it off and he heard his own conflicted responses. He moaned softly as he writhed in the grip of the two forces, far more powerful than he. After an eternity, he came to the eye of the storm and found a moments release from the struggle. The Lady’s light shone here brightly through the clouds. He chose once more to take off the Ring and physically did so, though it was long gone.

After Frodo came back to himself, he found himself prostrate on the sand, the water close enough to lap gently against him. He was exhausted but moved himself further away from the water. He reclaimed his tablet but for a long while did not write. He rubbed the hand that had held the Ring until the ache of loss resided enough to be tolerable. When would he remember the events of his journey less intensely or would they always plague him so? Was what he felt on Amon Hen the same Boromir had felt in the man’s own struggle with the Ring? With such thoughts swirling around him, he took up his stylus and wrote.

It was during tea time that Boromir read this portion of the tale. He was silent afterwards and waited until Bilbo had retired to his bed to speak. He could not face his brother but looked down at the floor. “You fought it where I could not. I knew it was a heavy burden for you yet you resisted its madness. All the time the Ring was in our midst had I heard it call to me. It was always there, calling me by day and night, unceasing. It was almost more than I could bear and then it saw its chance and took me. I’m so sorry, Frodo. I broke all honor in allowing that.”