For the third time that morning, Frodo attempted to let go of the Ring and hand it to Boromir. Finally, he made a supreme effort and opened his hand... only to find that the Ring was not in it.
“It’s back in your pocket, Frodo,” Sam sighed. “Again.”
Frodo sighed, wiping perspiration from his brow. Sam, Gandalf, and Aragorn sat next to him, lending support, while Boromir sat across from him -- amazed at the hold the Enemy’s ring was exerting on Frodo as it determined to remain in his keeping.
“Gandalf,” Frodo finally asked in frustration, “How did Bilbo give it up? What did you say to him?”
“I reminded him that he could trust you to look after the Ring -- and that he could trust me to look after you.” Gandalf smiled at the memory. “He realized that the Ring had far too strong a hold on him, and wished to be released from its grip. Bilbo is a remarkable hobbit, Frodo, as are you. Remember that you are a Baggins, and trust in Bilbo’s belief in you. Trust my belief in you. And if you trust Boromir’s pledge, then you must believe in him, as well. Frodo...” The wizard gazed steadily into the troubled blue eyes. “You can do it.”
His eyes never leaving Gandalf’s, Frodo nodded. He reached into his pocket and drew out the Ring once again... and -- with a shaking hand -- dropped it into Boromir’s palm.
At Aragorn’s insistence, Merry had been persuaded to go as far from the uncovered palantir as could be managed. He sat with Gimli, some distance down the beach, happily winning his second game of chess from the puzzled Dwarf.
Taking a deep breath, Boromir gazed into the stone, at first seeing nothing but swirling mists. Slowly he felt as if he was lifting up, soaring high, then suddenly plunging deeply into the globe’s depths and toward the tower that Merry had described. A man, white-bearded and ancient of mien, stared at him, drawing him closer.
“Boromir,” Gandalf whispered nearly inaudibly, “don’t give him time to read your thoughts. Let him see it. Remember what you need to do.”
Boromir held up the Ring, allowing exultation to fill him. “It is mine,” he said fiercely. “Mine. We have beaten you, wizard. We leave these shores soon, taking with us the only prize you desire. This prize is... for Gondor. For Gondor!” There was no longer any pretense. Boromir spoke out with a triumphant knowledge that the enraged wizard could not help but perceive. “The Ring is mine!” he repeated.
At that moment, Gandalf cast a cloth over the stone. Boromir sat stunned, enveloped in the memory of Saruman’s piercing gaze.
“Boromir,” Aragorn said, shaking him. “Boromir, return to us.”
“It is mine!” Boromir cried. “It...” He suddenly slumped against Aragorn, drained. “What...”
“You did well,” Gandalf assured him. “I have no doubt that Saruman will now come for the Ring -- and soon.”
“Gandalf...” Frodo whispered from where he sat next to the wizard, “I... I want it back.”
“I know,” Gandalf said gently. “Boromir will return the Ring, Frodo, but not quite yet. Can you bear it a little longer?”
“Frodo,” Boromir said steadily. “I will return it to you. I have sworn it.”
Frodo was breathing heavily, his eyes on the ring in Boromir’s hand. “I know.”
“We may not have much time, and there are still a few preparations to make,” Aragorn said, getting to his feet and looking around. “Legolas and Pippin appear to be nearly finished with their task. Let us assist them.”
~*~
It was early afternoon. Gandalf, Gimli, Sam, and Merry sat under the shelter, talking quietly, while Boromir stood between the fire and the thick jungle, splitting wood with Gimli’s makeshift axe. Frodo, Pippin, Aragorn, and Legolas were nowhere to be seen.
“My son.”
Boromir looked up and gasped in amazement.
“My son,” Denethor repeated, “I have come.” He stepped out of the jungle’s depths and smiled, holding out his arms to Boromir.
Boromir’s eyes widened in amazement. It was Denethor. In looks, voice, manner... this could only be the Steward of Gondor, his father.
“Father, how do you come to be here?” Boromir asked. He took a faltering step backward. “Where are your ships?”
“Boromir,” Denethor said, coming forward, “why do you retreat from me? You will return to Gondor in honor, bearing a weapon mighty enough to strengthen our city beyond hope. Boromir, savior of the West!”
All at once, Boromir’s mind was filled with cheering crowds. Cheering him. Adulation... his city was renewed, with peace assured for a thousand years. It felt sweet.
Out of the corner of his eye, Denethor saw Gandalf suddenly get to his feet and start toward them.
“Show me the Ring,” Denethor whispered forcefully. “Quickly! Show me the mighty gift that my son brings back to his city.”
Boromir slowly pulled the Ring from his pocket and saw his father’s eyes glitter with avarice. Denethor advanced another step, and held out his hand.
“Let me touch it, my son. Let me share this glorious moment with
the Ring-bearer.”
Ring-bearer. The image of Frodo, lying lifeless on the sand
after taking a spear meant for him, suddenly crowded all other
visions from Boromir’s mind. Such selfless courage... Ring-bearer...
Boromir abruptly threw himself to one side and shouted, “Now!”
Thick vines that Legolas had gathered from the quicksand clearing, and hidden under the sand, suddenly grew taut as Aragorn and Legolas -- hidden in the foliage -- pulled with all their strength. The piece of fuselage hidden by sand and brush, which covered the pit in which the boar had been roasted, was pulled away from beneath Denethor’s feet... and he fell with a cry.
From the edge of the deep pit, Boromir looked down at the prisoner. “You are not my father,” he said coldly. “There are no ships, no men... there is no possible way he could be here. You ensnared me once,” he continued. “Never again.”
And Saruman looked up, eyes narrowed with malice and rage.
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