“Boromir was wounded,” Sam said, bringing Legolas to an immediate halt and touching his hand to Gimli’s arm. “I remembered how well he could swim too, I wanted to hope. But I saw….” He gulped, swallowed hard. “Saw the arrow hit him.”

“Oh, no,” Gimli sagged, all his urgent need to action deflated.

“How badly was he hurt?” Aragorn asked. He had an odd sensation, a strange, growing intuition that somehow, his friends were indeed still alive. It was as if the very rocks and earth cried out to him, telling him they still breathed but were in dire need of aid. Or at least, that Boromir breathed. The more he concentrated on it, the stronger the feeling became. He stood on Gondorian soil now, Aragorn knew, and he had seen the light in Boromir’s eyes when he spoke of his homeland and how much it pleased him to at last be within its ancient borders. The land sang to the Man’s heart, and the Anduin sang in his very blood. Blood that Aragorn shared.

“It hit him here.” Sam indicated his upper right arm. “And he didn’t let go. He didn’t let go, Strider. He had his shield arm tight to Frodo’s cloak.”

“There, y’see,” Gimli announced, straightening up again and hefting his darkly bloodied battle axe to his shoulder. “Told you, the lad is a tough one. He’ll save Frodo, I know it. Now come, we’ve wasted enough time sitting around moaning! Let’s move!”

The Dwarf strode off, hurrying awkwardly down the portage track, Legolas immediately out-distancing him, leaping ahead from boulder to boulder. Even knowing Legolas as well as he did, Aragorn was impressed to see that the Elf’s gaze was not on the treacherous footing, but rather was keenly studying the river, searching and hoping.

A small hand slid beneath Aragorn’s fingers and he looked down to meet Pippin’s bright eyes.

“Maybe you should carry the horn?” Pippin said, and Merry added, “Boromir would want you to have it.”

“Just ‘til he’s back,” Pippin said, locking gazes with his cousin who nodded. “And we wouldn’t want it dirty when we give it back to him. You’re taller and can keep it out of the mud.”

“I know he would consider you worthy guardians,” Aragorn said, reluctant to accept it, a symbol of a bond of duty to Gondor, of all he was afraid to be.

“But you’re his older cousin,” Pippin said.

“And it’s your job,” Merry concluded.

Aragorn dutifully took the horn and the two Hobbits fell into step beside him.

“It’s cold in here, Faramir,” Boromir said, studying the gloomy cavern interior. Henneth Annun, Faramir had named it, and indeed it was a glorious window to the west – while the sun was in the western sky. But now it was nightfall, and the creeping chill that filled the cave in daylight was but a mild coolness by comparison.

Faramir laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Garad!” he called. “My brother is cold. Throw an extra log on the fire.”

“I don’t need it!” Boromir snapped, looking over his shoulder in time to see that yes, his good friend Garad was grinning broadly at Faramir and miming an old, feeble Man. Then he realized the two had been baiting him. As usual. And he’d taken the bait. As usual. He shook his head and bit back his own smile, tried to remain grumpy, continue the play that always mysteriously seemed to improve morale among the ‘Never-Weary’ Ithilien Rangers. Boromir cuffed Faramir on the side of the head, and hung on to draw his brother close, indicating the need of a more private comment.

Loudly he said, “Very funny, Garad!” Then, in a whisper for Faramir’s hearing only, he added, “You know what I meant. It’s not right.”

Faramir shrugged. “The more the Steward seems to abandon them, the harder they fight. They know Gondor’s need is the greater with such a one at the helm. Or, supposedly at the helm.”

Boromir sighed heavily, and noted his breath fogged the icy air. “Nonetheless, it is not right that one arm of her defence is given all that can be spared and the other refused. I will see you better supplied.” He met Faramir’s eyes with a proud smile. “I won’t have Garad come charging in one day to tell me he needs help to defrost you from the ice block you’ve become.”

Faramir laughed, and Boromir basked in the happiness of the moment. Then he shivered so hard that his arm hurt him badly. “It’s so damn cold in here, Faramir!”

“Boromir? Boromir! Wake up! You’re falling!”

Frodo’s voice, in a panic.

“What?” Boromir opened his eyes, remembered where he was, and almost wished he hadn’t been awakened. The cold was an ice-knife that twisted and dug into every fibre of his being. He shuddered and staggered, his booted feet slipped and he grabbed urgently to steady Frodo who very nearly toppled from his shoulders. Boromir scrabbled for purchase and the current spun and fought him, sapping his remaining strength. With a grunting cry, he heaved and somehow righted himself, steadied Frodo. Again. He remembered now, this had happened more than once. The cold was beginning to kill him.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m all right now….”

“You’re not all right,” Frodo said. “You can’t go on holding me on your shoulders like this. You need to keep some of your strength for yourself. Maybe I can climb up this rock.”

Boromir felt him twist to look up and study the moss and water streaked smooth surface. He opened his mouth to tell Frodo that to even think of climbing was suicide, then heard the Hobbit say defeatedly, “No, that won’t work. But there must be something I can do.”

“It’s all right,” Boromir repeated. “Won’t be much longer.”

The silence dragged on and he tried not to shiver so much. A little while longer and he began to feel the cold was easing. He could almost imagine what it would be like to be warm again. An over-powering drowsiness washed through him. His head was suddenly too heavy, forcing him to lower his chin to his chest. His eyelids were equally heavy. Why should he struggle to stay awake? Frodo would not be harmed if he just closed his eyes for a moment….

‘Let the Hobbit fall. Let him drown. No one will ever know. No one would expect you to save him. It is hopeless. You know it’s hopeless. Let him go and you can swim to shore, build a fire. Be warm again. You can tell them you tried. It’s the truth. Tell them it was an accident. You tried to hold on. Show them the proof, show them how the chain snapped from about his throat. You’d held it so tightly. See, here’s the Ring. You saved it. It’s yours now. It’s mine! Mine!!!’

“Mine!! It should have been mine! It is only yours by unhappy chance! Give it to me!”

“Boromir, please…!”

A gargling child’s voice. An irritating child’s voice. Calling him in the middle of the night. Always robbing him of peace, stealing away what was his. Faramir calling to him again….

Faramir! His brother needed him. Where was he?

Boromir forced his eyes open, felt the muscles of his cold face contorted with killing rage. He was snarling wordlessly at someone. Who was trying to harm Faramir? He blinked, realising his left hand was clenched about a metal chain.

“Boromir, I can’t breathe!”

‘Snap the chain. Take the Ring. Let the Hobbit drown if you won’t strangle him!’

Desperate, pain-filled, wide blue eyes stared pleadingly up at him. Frodo! Boromir’s fist twisted the chain tightly into the Hobbit’s throat. Somehow Frodo was no longer sitting safely atop his shoulders, instead Boromir held him half in and half out of the water, and the urge to drown him was all consuming. Some sane part of Boromir had surely resisted that command, else Frodo would already be dead, his neck snapped. Certainly if he had had two good hands to snatch at the Ring –’

“No!” he roared.

The memory returned with abrupt, vivid force. His father holding Faramir in the river, teaching him how to swim. But not patiently, kindly, the way he’d taught Boromir. Faramir complained that the water was cold, and it had been. Erupting into impatient violence, Denethor grabbed the five-year-old roughly, shaking him hard and calling him a weakling. Then he shoved him face first under the water, holding him down to reinforce the command, “Swim, or drown! It’s your choice!”

Boromir had arrived in time to jump into the icy river and pull his terrified small brother to safety. He’d hated his father then. But Denethor had later come to his senses, claimed to be overcome by grief for the recently dead Finduilas. Boromir knew how insidious such excuses could become. They would eventually become truth, become the justification for unspeakable cruelties.

“Boromir?” Frodo no longer struggled. Boromir had released his hold, and now Frodo clung to him to avoid being swept away by the ferocious tide. “Are you all right? Can you hear me now?” There was a cruel red mark at his throat where the chain had dug deep.

Boromir’s heart constricted with horror and pity. Shame swept through him, filled him with burning dread. How had he come to this? He was worse than his father. He gasped a sobbing breath, fighting against the urge to break down and weep uncontrollably. Tears stung his eyes and he blinked them angrily away. He drew Frodo up out of the water and held him close, ludicrously hoping to warm him.

“I am so sorry, Frodo! So sorry! I cannot ask forgiveness….”

“There’s nothing to forgive! Boromir,” Frodo shook Boromir’s left arm with all the force he could muster, his voice rising to command. “Listen to me! To me! Not to it! It will destroy you with shame if you let it. You’ve made it very angry. Fight, Boromir! Never give up, you taught me that!”

Boromir shook his head. Maybe some of that was true…. No, don’t make excuses. There could be no excuses, for excuses meant only a lack of strength, a lack of honour...

Frodo wrapped his arms about Boromir’s neck, heaved himself up, and touched warm lips to Boromir’s frozen cheek. Boromir blinked at him, so surprised that for the moment guilt fled.

“You’re my friend, Boromir! My friend!” Frodo’s fierce declaration was part sob. “You’ve helped me so many times! You will always be my friend! Don’t listen to it!”

Boromir drew a huge lungful of shockingly cold air. He nodded, bent his head lower over the Hobbit’s dripping curls, and whispered, “Thank you, Frodo. Thank you.”

“It’s all right,” Frodo said, sniffing loudly. “It’s all right. We’ll be out of the river soon. I know we will. Just hang on. You can do it.”

Boromir felt the irony of being given the morale-boosting speech rather than the other way round. That reminded him of Faramir. How much, how badly, he wanted to return to his brother, to his city, his people. But it could not be, not at the cost of an innocent life. Boromir knew he could not hold, not this time. Already the deadly drowsiness was reaching for him again. As soon as he drifted, the moment he relaxed, the cursed Ring would have him. It would force him to kill Frodo. There was only one way to stop it.

“Climb back onto my shoulders, Frodo,” he said calmly. “You’re right. All will be well. Aragorn and the others will soon be here.”

If only he could believe that. But night was not far off, the sun was very low in the west, and if help had not come by now, it surely must come too late.

“I’ll be higher, I’ll have a better chance of spotting them coming,” Frodo agreed as he clambered back to his perch, drenching Boromir’s face with dripping river water.

Frodo would soon die, exposed and wet in the chill night air. Boromir was responsible for that, after fighting so long to keep him clear of the river, he had near drowned him. That knowledge sent a welcome, burning flare of rage through him. The Ring would not deceive him again. As soon as Frodo was secure as he could be, Boromir lifted his heavy, aching left arm and closed his fist about the arrow shaft embedded deep in the muscle of his right arm. Pain surged through the wound and flared high into his shoulder at the touch and he gasped involuntarily.

“What are you doing?” Frodo cried. “Don’t touch that!”

“I’m not touching it – ” Boromir said, gritting his teeth. Then, crying out with the agony of it, he wrenched the arrow barb from his flesh.

“– I’m pulling it out,” he finished. The pain made his head swim. He hadn’t thought of that, that he might pass out too soon….

‘Idiot.’ He could almost hear Faramir’s affectionate rebuke….

‘No, don’t wander, concentrate. Hold onto the arrow! Remember, you need to use it now.’ He felt Frodo shift and lean down.

“What are you doing?” Boromir asked blearily.

“Getting my scarf to stop you bleeding to death, you great idiot.”

“No need,” he gasped. “Stay still or you’ll slip.”

Frodo indeed almost overbalanced as he struggled to untangle his scarf from beneath the hooded cloak and Boromir shoved him firmly back into place.

“Don’t, Frodo! Keep still! The bleeding will stop. There’s no need of bandaging.”

“What do you mean, no need!” Frodo snapped. “The Ring’s getting to you again, Boromir. Only now it’s trying to kill you instead of me! Let me go! I must help you!”

Somehow Boromir managed to hold the struggling, wet Hobbit in place.

“It’s not the Ring, Frodo. I assure you. It needs me alive, otherwise it’s going back to the bottom of the river.” He drew a breath, panting a little as the pain crested with his efforts. “And…. I think it finds that fate – boring.”

“Then –” Frodo said hopefully, “You’re not trying to kill yourself?”

Boromir managed something that sounded a little like a chuckle. “Why would I want to do that?”

“To stop the Ring using you to hurt me.”

“No chance. I know its tricks now.”

“Good,” Frodo said. Then after a moment, “So why did you pull the arrow out?”

“To help Aragorn rescue us. You’ll see. I need you to hang on tight, I have to move about a bit. Ready?”

“Ready,” Frodo said. His hands were painfully tight at Boromir’s throat, which was ironic, the Man thought, all things considered.

The flashing image of his fists trying to strangle the child-sized Frodo returned to Boromir, and he was glad, for it gave him the strength to move. He tugged his leather tunic away from his side until he had enough slack to work with, then held it experimentally against the join between log and rock beneath the surface of the swirling water. If he could drive the arrow through the leather and into the wood, angling it to wedge the shaft hard and secure between log and rock, it should hold, even after he lost consciousness. Even after he died...

The makeshift brace would ensure he remained upright, and thus keep Frodo out of the river until help could reach him. Frodo had shown incredible endurance to survive the Witch King’s wounding, and the cave troll’s attack, he might survive a night out here if help did not come until morning. Boromir knew he himself had no hope unless help arrived almost immediately. Even then, he had no idea how Aragorn and the others could possibly manage to get his unconscious body to shore. But he did know how they could find and reach Frodo.

“There,” he announced, after his work was complete. “That will hold. Have no fear.”

“Hold what?” Frodo wouldn’t have been able to see the details of the brace from atop his perch.

“Help hold me in place.”

Frodo sighed heavily. “If you were weakening, you shouldn’t have pulled the arrow out.”

“Frodo.” Boromir spoke with quiet command even as his voice wavered and his vision faded. He must hurry to ensure his friend knew what to do. “This is our only chance.”

“Your arm is bleeding badly. I can see it from here.”

Boromir said more or less truthfully, “The cold will soon slow it. The water makes it look more. I need to tell you what to have Aragorn do to get you – us – out of here, just in case I’m, umm, too cold to help.”

“You mean unconscious.”

Boromir thought it wise to ignore that. “The shield kept us afloat before, it will do it again. But first you must use it to signal Aragorn.” Boromir paused to regain his breath.

“Oh! Yes! If I move it up and down with the strap, I can flash the metal part to catch the sunlight, like a mirror,” Frodo said, pleasing Boromir with his ability to follow despite his exhaustion and fear.

“Good,” Boromir nodded. “Then, they’ll need Sam’s rope….”

“There!” Legolas shouted.

But they had all seen it at the same moment, could not fail to see it. Something flashing brightly and repeatedly, shining gold amid the white water and the long shadows cast by the gorge. That was no natural light. Someone was signaling them!

“I told you!” Gimli was all but doing a jig, his happiness irrepressible. Merry, Pippin and Sam had come together in a group hug. Aragorn knew they were praying that Frodo too was alive. It could only be Boromir who was signaling so strongly. He must be using his shield, Aragorn realized, impressed as ever by the Man’s resourcefulness.

Legolas came panting back to the group, and Aragorn’s smile faded as he noted the Elf’s worried frown.

“Frodo’s not with him, is he?” Sam asked tearfully.

“It is Frodo who signals us,” Legolas corrected. Sam broke into a delighted grin that immediately disappeared with Pippin’s “What about Boromir?”

“I do not know. Frodo is sitting atop his shoulders, but – ”

“Frodo is atop his shoulders?” Gimli said happily. “Then the lad must be all right!”

“He’s not moving,” Legolas explained. “Come, we must hurry.”

Gimli grunted and scowled a little at the Elf’s back. “I’m sure he’s all right. He’s the one in the water, so it makes sense that Frodo would be signalling us from the higher position.”

“That’s true!” Merry turned happily to Pippin. “At any rate, they’re alive, Pip, Sam, they’re alive!”

The mood was more subdued when they at last drew level to the place where their friends were stranded. It was far out in the centre of the river, and white water raged about them. Not far behind the clump of rocks and logs against which Boromir had braced himself Aragorn could plainly see the hungry swirl of a whirlpool. One slip and the thing would swallow them. How Boromir was still on his feet at all, Aragorn had no idea. It had been a long time, far too long for him to remain immersed in such icy water, wounded and fighting so powerful a current while taking Frodo’s weight….

“He’s seen us,” Legolas reported, one hand shading his eyes as he peered into the lowering sun and the mist coming up from the rapids. “Frodo has seen us.” He paused, sounding puzzled as he added, “He’s changing his signal.”

“He’s reflecting the sunlight down onto the water,” Aragorn noted. “What?”

“He’s trying to tell us something,” Merry frowned. “I don’t know what he means.”

“It looks the way the moon does when it’s full and it makes a path all the way across the water,” Pippin said. “Like a snake.”

“Or a rope!” Sam exclaimed, “He needs the Elven rope, he knows it’s special! It can save them, it’s the only thing we have that might be long enough to reach.”

“Of course, Sam!” Aragorn watched as he sat and pulled it from his pack. This was a plan that held real hope. Then he frowned as something occurred to him. They could secure their end to a tree, but –

“How will they tie it off over there?” Gimli had also seen the problem.

“Boromir will have thought of that, too,” Legolas said. “Get the line to them and we’ll soon see.”

Aragorn nodded, and could only hope that would prove true. Whatever Boromir’s plan, it would surely have depended on him being able to assist, yet he still hadn’t moved. Which meant he could not move….

Sam handed the rope to him and Aragorn was very glad that he had insisted Sam and Frodo must stay with him rather than rest at the place to which they had delivered the first boat. The danger of them being attacked while alone had been too great despite the shelter there, and now it meant they need lose no time in going for the desperately needed Elven rope.

The refuge Boromir had found for them at the end of the portage track might well make the difference between life and death for him at least. The Man remained completely still, slumped limply forward while Frodo continued to signal. Legolas tied off the rope to an arrow and began searching for the best place from which to fire it. He spotted a clump of boulders higher up the embankment back the way they had come. That would make the best perch from which to cast the rope far out into the river and hope it would be carried downstream against the same snag that had saved Boromir and Frodo.

Legolas’ aim was as perfect as always, and everyone waited, tense and silent, watching the drift of their end of the rope, unable to see its full length with its shifting Elven colours against the churning water. Legolas however, could see.

“It’s going to reach them,” he reported with relief. “There’s plenty of slack.”

Frodo had stopped signaling, it seemed that had indeed been what he was trying to tell them. They could just see him, moving, leaning forward a little, arm outstretched. He had seen the rope coming toward him.

“No,” Sam moaned. “Be careful! The Ring, remember the Ring! It will pull you down!”

Aragorn hadn’t thought of that. He glanced anxiously from Sam back to the drama in the river.

“He’s slipping!” Legolas said breathlessly. Sam threw his hands up to cover his face. Merry and Pippin who couldn’t see well enough to spot Frodo watched Legolas instead. The Elf drew a great breath of relief and reported, “He’s safe. He’s righted himself again, atop Boromir’s shoulders. But –” Legolas turned to meet Aragorn’s grim regard.

“He can’t reach the rope.” Gimli finished.

“I’m going out to them,” Aragorn said and sat to pull off his boots. The Hobbits swiveled as one to stare at him, their expressions a mix of horror and desperate hope.

“No one can out-swim that current,” Legolas said flatly.

Aragorn left off tugging at his boots and looked up at his friend. “You’re right.” He tilted his chin to his right, upstream. “But if I go a fair distance back along the bank before I enter the river, I’ll have more time to angle across the current.”

“You’ll have more time to drown!” Gimli said, brutally honest. “There’s no use in it, Laddie.”

Aragorn let loose a foul oath that startled the Hobbits. They had never heard him curse so savagely. “I will not leave them to drown!”

“Something’s happening out there,” Legolas interrupted.

SCENE BREAK

“Boromir! Boromir!”

Desperate, trembling violently with cold, Frodo tried to rouse the unconscious Man. No amount of shaking helped. He began to fear Boromir dead. He leaned forward as far as he dared, enough to place his ear to the Man’s mouth. A whisper of warm air was his reward. His friend still breathed. Frodo cast another quick, hungry glance at the Elven rope he could see so near yet so far. It bobbed on the water at Boromir’s waist, the trailing end long enough that it passed by the rock and on down stream, unable to go further as it was anchored on shore. If only he could reach and secure it! He might just be able to – if the Ring did not again conspire to drown him.

Now that he no longer needed to signal, he had let go of the long shield baldric strap. It bobbed on the current, still tethering the shield to Boromir’s belt, awaiting the next stage of the rescue. ‘A Hobbit-sized coracle’, Boromir had called it. Frodo’s stiff face curved into a smile of painful affection. He was so terribly weary, he almost did not care for his own life. But Boromir – the Man had been all too willing to give his life for Frodo, and too, seemed unable to forgive himself for temporarily falling prey to the Ring, even though he’d won that battle so many times already. Frodo plainly recalled the many instances of kindness shown by the big Gondorian to them all, but especially to Merry and Pippin who otherwise could so easily have been made to feel like excess baggage.

New determination flared through Frodo’s veins, he would not allow Boromir to die! Especially not while believing himself to have failed. It was too cruel a fate. Gathering his courage, Frodo set himself to do the thing he’d dreaded trying – to use pain to wake the Man. Gritting his teeth over a surge of nausea, he leaned down far enough to see the blood still running freely from the wound in Boromir’s upper arm. His stomach heaved, but he lifted his leg and drove his foot into the wound with as much force as he dared.

Boromir shuddered like a gaffed fish and gasped a huge breath of shocked pain. Frodo reinforced that shock with a second kick into the river that sent cold water splashing the Man’s face.

“Boromir!” he shouted with all his strength. “They’re here! They’ve sent the rope! The rope, Boromir! You must get the rope! I can’t reach it!”

“Frodo?” It was a raw hoarse cough barely recognizable as Boromir’s voice. “They’re here?”

Frodo wrapped both arms tight about Boromir in a hugely relieved hug, then kissed the top of his head.

“They saw the signal. They sent the rope. Look down. It’s right there. Can you reach it?”

Boromir nodded and Frodo understood he was saving breath for this last pitiful effort, had no strength at all for talk. At first, watching the Man’s struggles, Frodo thought it hopeless. Boromir had obviously lost all feeling in his hands. He could only swing his left arm in an arc through the water and try to hook his clawed fingers on to the trailing rope. The rope touched his gloved hand, but he could not close the fingers about it. Again and again, he tried, and Frodo could feel his great heart labouring beneath ribs that strained for breath with each effort. Worse, he could feel the Man’s legs trembling, feel his booted feet slip and scrabble for purchase. They would certainly both have lost the battle with the river if not for Boromir’s ingenious method of pinning himself to their rocky refuge.

Then, suddenly, it seemed to Frodo that both the river and the rope conspired to aid the Man, working in unison. A surge of dark water came racing toward them and the rope leaped to its crest, leaped higher still to ride a foaming wave that formed itself into thousands of white blossoms atop watery branches stirred by a spring breeze. The Elven rope gleamed, leaped again and snagged on the clasps of Boromir’s surcoat. And there it remained. Boromir shivered and shuddered, barely aware of what had happened. It took a moment for him to realise there was no longer need for him to swing his deadened hand through the water. Frodo could sense him blinking dazedly at the rope, too frozen to remember what he should do now. Even if he could recall their plan, Frodo knew the Man’s strength was spent. He had nothing left to give, was near dead on his feet.

“I can do it now, Boromir,” Frodo said with much more confidence than he felt. “Rest. I have it.”

His fingers closed about the rope and he pulled it gratefully to himself, wrapped the long trailing loop about his waist. His own fingers were so frozen that he doubted he could tie a knot. But it seemed there was no need. The rope seemed to have a life of its own, coiling twice tightly about Frodo’s waist.

“You’ve g-got it?” Boromir stuttered.

“Yes. It’s secure about my waist.”

Frodo felt the Man relax and let out a long sigh. “Go. Use the shield. It will….”

The words faded out completely. Boromir slumped, was again unconscious.

“I won’t leave you to die, Boromir. It was never going to be that way.” Frodo kept talking in an effort to push back the fear that may otherwise have immobilized him more surely than the icy water. Boromir had intended that Frodo now fix the line to the shield, climb in and have Aragorn and the others safely haul him to shore. When Frodo had asked, “What about you?” the Man had said they could resend the line and the floating shield and he, being an excellent swimmer, would have no trouble saving himself. Frodo had snorted disbelief. Near fainting even as he had spoken, Boromir and Frodo both knew that was a lie.

Now, rather than abandoning his good friend to certain death, Frodo would disobey him. He would secure the line on this end, and wait for help to come to them both along its taut length. With the rope secured about him and hopefully ready to prevent him being swept away, Frodo dared climb lower over Boromir’s broad chest until he could hook the fingers of his left hand into the Man’s belt.

The icy water seemed even colder now, Frodo could not imagine how Boromir had endured so long. Shuddering, wracking shivers annoyed Frodo as he tried to steady his right hand and unravel the rope from about his waist. He felt naked without it, and somehow reassured all at once, as if it was telling him it would snare him again should he slip. He reached with the trailing end beneath water, feeling for the arrow-brace firmly wedged between rock and wood. It was the only place to which the rope could be tied off and anchored for the rescue.

Boromir was no longer shivering, though at one stage, the spasms had been so violent that Frodo had had to hold tight for fear of falling. Frodo knew the lack of shivering now was a very bad sign. The cold-sickness had reached its most deadly phase. Boromir must reach warmth within minutes or surely he would perish. Then he felt it, the rope again moving of its own accord, knotting itself without his assistance about the arrow shaft, secure between it and the rock.

SCENE BREAK

“He’s done it!” Legolas cried joyfully, slapping Gimli hard enough on the back to make even the solid dwarf stagger back a little. “He’s secured his end of the rope.”

“To what?” Gimli asked, rubbing his shoulder and trying to scowl at the Elf amid an emerging smile.

“It doesn’t matter,” Aragorn said with both impatience and relief. “If Boromir told him where to tie it off, it will hold. They planned this while they waited. I’m sure Boromir means us to float Frodo back on his shield. Now –” He stood barefooted, had pulled off his tunic leaving only his lightweight breeches. “It’s my turn to help.”

“Our turn,” Legolas corrected, coiling leather lines about his shoulder.

“We can get a fire started,” Merry said, “Come on, Pip. They’re going to need it.”

“I have the leather ties from the boats. We may need them.” Legolas sounded confident, but his blue eyes were dark with worry. “If Boromir remains unconscious, you’ll need help securing him.”

“The rope won’t break,” Sam said, testing it nonetheless where they had tied off their end to a small tree. “The Lady was sure of that. And she said its knots won’t come loose until you want them to.”

Aragorn drew a breath, took hold of the rope that was now strung taut and high, clear a foot or more above the river all the way out to the rocky island. He met the Hobbit’s eyes with a smile. “We can trust she is not wrong.” He slid into the icy current, Legolas following.

It was much harder going than Aragorn had anticipated trying to overhand himself along the rope. The river heaved and tossed with unpredictable direction and force, and he swallowed water when one huge wave swamped him. He could not imagine how Boromir, wounded, had managed to keep himself afloat, let alone Frodo as well. He moved as quickly as he dared along the taut length of Elven rope, until finally through the growing gloom he could at last meet Frodo’s desperate eyes. The Hobbit was soaked through and shivering uncontrollably, his face beneath the hooded cloak stark white pinched with blue. Perched so high, his breath was clearly visible, fogging about him with each exhalation. But Boromir…. There was too much mist from the foaming water to see clearly.

Dreading what he might find, Aragorn dared take a closer look. Fear rippled through him – surely the Man was dead? He was slumped as far forward as the something pinioning him upright would allow, his face a terrible drawn grey mask, his eyes closed, bruised and shadowed. There was an ugly tear in the mail and cloth of his upper right sleeve, the material soaked with dark staining blood. Aragorn hastily grabbed hold of the Man’s belt as the current pulled him away.

Thus secured, he was able to rest his ear close against Boromir’s slack mouth. He felt the warmth of a faint exhalation and let out his own breath in a great sigh of relief.

Legolas arrived to begin tying a leather line from Frodo to the Elven anchor line. Taking in Boromir’s appearance, the Elf’s eyes widened in fear. He exchanged a grave look with Aragorn who assured him, “He lives. But we must hurry.”

Aragorn returned his attention upward to the shivering Hobbit and gently squeezed Frodo’s arm. “You did well to secure the line,” he congratulated.

“B-Boromir’s idea,” Frodo stuttered.

At Aragorn’s prompting, he carefully moved one stiff leg from where it had been tightly tucked under Boromir’s left armpit. Aragorn saw then that Boromir’s left arm in turn was firmly wedged behind the log, jammed between it and the rock. He had indeed thought of every possible means of keeping Frodo out of the river, even after he himself lost consciousness. Yet that one arm-lock would not be enough to hold him with his back square to the rock, away from any danger that the river could drag him free. Whatever else the Man had used to secure himself, it was not visible. Aragorn left that puzzle for the moment, to tend to Frodo.

Boromir’s shield was, as Aragorn had expected, ready and bobbing on the tide like a small coracle at its mooring. Boromir had used the shield’s long baldric as the mooring-line, looping the broad leather first through his own belt. Aragorn could guess that, after securing the Elven rope Frodo had orders to climb on, and allow his friends on shore to tow him to safety.

“I’m –n-not g-going,” Frodo said as firmly as chattering teeth would allow. Aragorn and Legolas glanced at him in surprise and he finished, “W-without him.”

“Nor will we leave him,” Aragorn nodded. “Legolas will help you and I will aid Boromir. We will go back along the line together.”

“We have brought more lines with us,” Legolas told him encouragingly. “Here,” he held up a second dripping length of leather. “Aragorn will use this to tie Boromir to himself. I have secured you to myself. Now, we will move you onto the shield. You need not enter the water. I swear you will be safe. As will Boromir.”

Frodo peered into the shadows and saw Legolas was as good as his word, the leather wound tight about him was tied off about Legolas’ waist. Even should he slip, he would not go far. Frodo’s expression brightened a little as he saw Aragorn readying another line to secure Boromir in like fashion. “He’ll be all right now?”

“So I hope.” Despite the intense cold that fogged their breathing, Boromir was still bleeding heavily from the wound in his upper arm. With the Ring close at hand, Sauron’s ill-will had greater power to harm the Man. Boromir had not a moment to spare, the rescue must go exactly as planned. Aragorn hooked one leg about Boromir’s knee, holding himself close and freeing his own hands to tie the safety line and was reassured again when he felt the soft, warm exhalations of Boromir’s breathing against his cold ear. He had some trouble getting the safety rope threaded about Boromir’s waist, so tightly was the Man pressed against the rock by both his own as yet undetermined method and the burgeoning, constant push of the river.

Aragorn worked as quickly as cold hands would permit to secure another safety line between the coracle and Legolas, preferring not to risk any chance of losing it to the flood even though Legolas would probably be able to keep Frodo safely afloat unaided. The coracle would keep Frodo out of the water and that was by far the better option. Legolas unclasped the shield baldric from Boromir’s belt and fixed it to the Elven shore rope, the strong broad leather making a good loop that would slide readily along the rope’s taut length, making it easier to tow as he swam. With all ready at last, Aragorn and Legolas reached for the Hobbit, taking one arm each.

Slowly sliding down from atop his human refuge into Legolas’ reaching arms Frodo’s expression was a grimness bordering on outright panic, his gaze fixed in terror on the wide stretch of surging white water between he and shore. The makeshift coracle must appear a death trap, especially to one who had lost both parents to drowning in much less dangerous circumstance.

“Come, you will be safe,” Aragorn said as he urged the shivering Hobbit down, “Hold to your courage and a warm fire and hot tea will soon be yours.”

Frodo’s face somehow managed to grow more pale, a ghastly white tinged with the green of nausea. But he nodded, his eyes watching Boromir’s still face, and Aragorn knew the Hobbit would do what he must more for the Man’s sake than his own. He closed his eyes and slid slowly down, then at Legolas’ softly repeated, “Let go, now, Frodo. We have you,” the Hobbit settled awkwardly atop the shield. His small hands, bereft of the hold they’d maintained for so long, snatched desperately at the edges of the shield instead. Still, Frodo kept his eyes screwed shut.

Aragorn let out a breath, glad that stage was over. Boromir’s boat-shield bobbed sharply up and down on the violent swell and would be much more unstable as they entered the open river. Aragorn was very glad that Frodo had not been present to hear Boromir’s report of the deadly whirlpool and did not know it was so close at their backs. One false move –

Boromir’s arm suddenly slipped free from behind the log and Aragorn made a wild grab as the Man’s body began to pivot about the remaining, unseen anchor. Aragorn’s fingers dug like talons into Boromir’s wounded arm and he cared not even had the other Man been able to feel it. His heart raced and his mouth went bone dry despite the water all about. He exchanged one quick glance with Legolas who had also grabbed hold. The leather safety line would have ensured Boromir was not swept away from them, but unconscious, it would not save him from drowning where he was tethered. Only his right side remained pinioned. Freeing him would be the most dangerous part of the rescue.

Aragorn drew his knife then took a deep breath, needing to steady himself as much as to cut Boromir free. He gave Legolas a nervous now-or-never smile and The Elf said calmly, “I have him.”

With his own line holding him against the current, his blade in his right hand and his left feeling along Boromir’s right side for the unseen pinion, Aragorn hunted blindly in the water for the place where the Man’s surcoat was drawn out and tight. Boromir could only have somehow hooked the strong leather to some protrusion of the rock, surely. Then, the bare tips of Aragorn’s otherwise gloved fingers met something odd. It took him a moment to realize it was the fletching of an arrow. His jaw dropped a little in surprise. Boromir had pulled the arrow from his arm and used it as an anchor?

“Only you, Boromir, my friend. Only you.”

He squeezed the other Man�s drifting left arm in a gesture of fierce pride and deep affection. Boromir would have known how much more at risk such a move would place him, yet it had been the only way to keep Frodo safe should he himself, inevitably, lose consciousness. Or die.

All through their long days of journeying together Aragorn had noted Boromir�s genius for improvisation, his resourcefulness and hard-won experience repeatedly coming to their aid. Ever he had put himself last to ensure others� survival.

�You cannot die, my brother!� Aragorn thought fiercely, hacking and slicing at the leather tunic as violently as he dared while not wanting to inadvertently wound the Man further. �You will not die!� The leather tore free as much as was sliced and Aragorn sheathed his blade.

�What was it?� Legolas asked.

�The arrow. He hooked it through his surcoat and wedged it into the log-jam.�

�The arrow? From his arm?� Legolas said, astonished into stating the obvious.

�From his arm,� Aragorn said, smiling a little as he moved to take Boromir from Legolas� careful grip.

�I wish that surprised me,� the Elf said sadly. �Let us hurry!�

Legolas turned so that he could swim alongside the shield-coracle and drag it along the anchor line that would keep them safe as could be from the tossing river. His left hand rested on the makeshift boat that could not be trusted to stay upright amid the violent turmoil of the rapids and with his right he pulled overhand along the line

Aragorn did not need to be told that Legolas� superior senses had noted a further decline in Boromir�s strength. Aragorn intended to haul Boromir up against his own chest, one arm under his chin to keep Boromir�s mouth and nose clear of the water, but something snagged Boromir and brought him up short.

Legolas felt the tug on the line and looked back. And, at that moment, the anchor line suddenly whipped free, caught by the ferocious rapids. The arrow shaft had snapped. Boromir was pulled savagely down and away, yanked about by the unseen snare. Aragorn recovered in time to grab at the safety line that tied them together, but he only succeeded in causing Boromir to pivot more sharply and the Man�s head hit the rock hard and he slipped beneath water.Whatever had pulled him back now also dragged Aragorn under. Ducking down he fought desperately to see what it was, and following the taut line of Boromir�s body, soon found it � a booted foot caught tight in the crevice between rock and wood.

Feeding slack from the line, Aragorn dove deeper, aware Boromir was drowning, aware Legolas could not turn back to aid them without risking losing Frodo to the river. The evil will working against them had timed its strike with deadly accuracy. Frantically, Aragorn gripped Boromir�s boot and heaved. His own body�s buoyancy worked against him, constantly dragging him back and up. He could not apply enough force. He wanted to curse and weep in frustration.

In a flash of silver light something knifed toward him. It was the trailing end of the Elven rope, somehow defying the current. No, Aragorn saw, the river was working with the rope, eddying downward to carry it to him. He could feel Gondor�s call to Boromir in his very veins, beating with the rushing tide of his blood and flowing in the mighty river that linked them to their home. The rope reached down, coiled about Boromir�s lower leg and heaved. Boromir floated free, Aragorn surfacing to wrap an arm under the Man�s jaw. It might be a futile effort, for Boromir could surely no longer be breathing, had swallowed too much water.

From somewhere just ahead, he could hear Frodo�s wailing cry of �No!� Legolas had somehow managed to keep the coracle afloat and Frodo safely atop it despite the incident. Aragorn struggled, kicking out and trying to find strength to drive himself and Boromir forward through the icy water, There was little point in signalling Gimli to haul when the now free end would slip through the looped tether. And, though the river seemed to suddenly be much calmer, Aragorn�s strength was spent, it took all he had simply to keep them both afloat. Something bumped him on the shoulder and he turned to find a length of driftwood, wrapped about by the trailing end of the Elven rope. Apparently not satisfied with finding that aid for them, the rope moved again, looping itself until it was securely wrapped about both men, tying them to the floating wood.

The rope would hold, and the river would not let them sink. Aragorn tugged sharply on the line once, twice, three times, giving the signal to haul in. It barely seemed to need Gimli�s assistance, already pulling he and Boromir and Legolas and Frodo, swiftly toward shore.

�He�s not breathing!� Aragorn gasped as moments later his bare feet touched bottom. Legolas had already turned back, and Gimli strode a few steps into the powerful current before remembering he could not swim.

Legolas heaved the unconscious Man across his shoulders and bodily carried him out of the water, up and over the rocky bank. Gimli aided Aragorn who staggered after on unsteady legs. Legolas rolled Boromir onto his side and pulled his arms back sharply. Muddy river water poured from Boromir�s mouth and nose. Legolas listened, then pumped the Man�s arms and chest urgently once more. A little more water spilled from his blue-white lips.

�He�s still not breathing!� Frodo cried, crawling on his hands and knees closer to Boromir. �Aragorn,� he looked up pleadingly at the Man. �You must save him! You must!�

The other Hobbits stood stricken, staring silent and tearful at their unmoving friend.

Aragorn did what he could, bending to place his mouth to Boromir�s and try to force air into the Man�s lungs. Boromir�s chest did not move, the air was not reaching him. Aragorn dug his fingers deep into the Man�s throat, but found no obstruction.

�Live, Boromir, live!� He pounded a fist into Boromir�s chest. �Gondor calls to you, I can feel it. Live, my brother, and together we will save our people!� Gathering himself to at last breach an inner wall of fear and self-doubt, he added fiercely, �Your King commands it!�

Boromir shuddered, Aragorn could sense the Man�s spirit fighting mightily to return, fighting but blocked.

�It�s the Ring,� Frodo said, his tone so murderous and chill that at first Aragorn was uncertain who had spoken. �The Ring wants him dead.�

Lurching to his feet, Frodo stumbled to the edge of the embankment despite Sam and Gimli�s uncertain attempts at supporting and stopping him.

�You will not have him!� Frodo snarled, tugging the Ring and its chain up and over his head. He held it out over the swirling river water. White froth blew on the climbing breeze, appearing to Aragorn�s weary eyes like hundreds of tiny white flowers. They rose up about Frodo�s head and The Ring suddenly dimmed before their beauty.

�Let him go, or I will give you back to the river!� Frodo�s threat was a steady, icy certainty though tears streamed down his pale cheeks. �I don�t care what happens to you! You will not have Boromir! Rot in the river for another thousand years!� He drew his arm back for the throw.

Boromir gave a gargling gasping inhalation that broke to a series of wracking, choking coughs. Frodo turned about and stared at the Man, then his legs gave way and he crumpled, sobbing, the Ring clasped tight in his fist. Sam came and sat beside him and wrapped his arms about him. Merry and Pippin�s eyes were twin wells of bottomless pain, barely able to imagine the load that crippled their friend and that now had tried to kill Boromir.

�Quickly, now!� Gimli urged, shaking them all from shock. �Before the cold finishes what the enemy started. Inside, in to the fire!�

Legolas heaved Boromir up once more, Gimli carried Frodo, Sam hovering at his side. Pippin and Merry braced themselves one on each side to aid Aragorn who found his legs would barely keep him upright let alone moving. It seemed an unnaturally long way up the slope through the scrub and into the hollow that hid the entrance.

Aragorn ducked under the lintel, remembering his surprise and pleasure of bare hours earlier. Could it have been so little time since Boromir had stood here, trying to hide an amused grin as Merry and Pippin bounced about him, pleased with what they termed �a cheery surprise for you, Aragorn!�

It certainly had been, for this was no cave, but rather the foundations of the old portage way station and boat house. It was overgrown with moss and a few vines wandered here and there through chinks in the walls about the open entryway. But the floor remained, solid and dry, there was a fire pit which had been constructed in more recent times, a water cistern, and most amazing, a formerly hidden supply barrel. It was a much warmer, drier shelter than any cavern bolt-hole could have provided.

Aragorn had stood speechless and probably slack-jawed for so long that Boromir finally snorted a laugh and slapped him on the back, saying, �A welcome home present for you from my brother and his rangers.�

Aragorn had shaken his head and smiled as he met green eyes sparkling mischief and pride. �You knew this was here?�

�Not exactly. I�d heard of it, vague references, no more. Apparently, the rangers have hunted out and supplied several places like this where they might find themselves stranded, perhaps with wounded men.�

Aragorn�s eyebrows had risen and he gave an approving nod. �Good thinking.� He had turned to find that Merry and Pippin had already scampered outside again, calling to Sam and Frodo to come see. �Tonight we break our journey in comfort. Maybe Sam can find us another Coney stew!�

�And regale us � again -- about how much better it would be if only he had --�

� � Taters!� Both men had said, laughing together.

Aragorn vividly remembered that laugh, the radiance of Boromir�s happiness lending strength for the portage task ahead.

Legolas very carefully lay an unconscious Boromir down on one of the leather boat hides that had been placed very near the fire. There was a much softer mound of blankets at its side, but should he be placed there now, his dripping clothing would soon negate their usefulness.

�Come on, Strider,� Merry and Pippin tugged at his arms, �Don�t stop now or you�ll fall down.� They always reverted to calling him Strider when they were worried or distracted.

Aragorn nodded and staggered closer, then sat back on his heels, basking in the warmth that washed over him. Never had he found the heat of a roaring fire more welcoming. The Hobbits had been busy as he and Legolas fought the river. All that could be prepared had been. Water boiled over the flames. Branches had been propped to hold wet clothing to dry. Blankets were spread, and all the dry clothing they possessed between them was stacked in readiness to add more warmth or be used as towels. Legolas, who was not affected by cold, nevertheless dried himself quickly before bending to tend Boromir. Aragorn was grateful and envious of the Elf�s immunity to the chill.

�Water off a duck�s butt,� Gimli commented, shaking his head and giving Legolas a mock scowl. As ever the Dwarf had found a means of easing the worry and tension. Merry and Pippin went to their knees to struggle with the clasps on Boromir�s sodden leather surcoat. Aragorn moved closer, began trying to remove Boromir�s sodden boots, but his cold fingers were too clumsy.

�You�re dripping water all over him,� Gimli said. �And I�d say he�s had enough of that. Get into some dry clothes, Laddie. Here.� The Dwarf handed him some cloth to use as a towel and lay a dry tunic and socks at his side.

Aragorn nodded, unable to take his eyes from the scarlet wash of blood and a swelling purple bruise on Boromir�s forehead, a stark, fearful contrast to an otherwise impossibly white, still face. More vivid red blood ran in a thin rivulet from the ugly torn edges of the arrow wound gouged in his upper right arm. Unconscious, badly injured, it was a painful comparison to the laughing Man of that morning.

�He almost drowned. I should have been able to hold on to him.� Aragorn�s throat closed over, the raw emotion swamping him a partner to overwhelming fatigue. There had been such strength in Boromir�s shoulders as he�d heaved the boat along the portage track.

�He�ll be all right,� Gimli said in answer to one of the Hobbit�s worried comments. �He�s as strong as an ox and twice as stubborn.�

�Is that tea ready, Merry?� Legolas asked.

�The water�s boiled, but I�m not sure�. Aragorn, is this enough?� He displayed a small hand, the palm open and covered with dried athelas.

Aragorn blinked at him a moment, his mind only slowly coming back to clarity. �No. Add twice that.�

Merry nodded and obeyed, taking another handful and dropping the leaves into the steaming water. Immediately, the clean fresh scent washed away all Aragorn�s weariness. Aragorn pulled a blessedly warm dry tunic over his head, then sat and pulled on the even more comforting dry woolen socks. Arwen had made those for him. And there had been others made for Boromir whose feet were much bigger than Aragorn�s � or so Arwen and her friends had repeatedly informed him, amid much giggling.

�Get this into you, Laddie.� Gimli held a tin mug of athelas tea for him.

Aragorn shook his head. �Save it for � �

�There�s more in the stores here,� Pippin said as he struggled to aid Legolas in removing Boromir�s sodden tunic. �Merry and I found it when we were looking for second breakfast this morning.�

�Even if not,� Gimli grunted, �you will drink it. You�re no use to him half frozen like this.� Aragorn took the tea and swallowed, closing his eyes in sheer bliss as the warmth flooded his veins, restoring his strength and clearing his head.

Gimli cursed sharply, burning himself a little as he juggled heated rocks from the fire and wrapped them in one of his old leather shirts. He carried the package to Sam who packed it about Frodo�s feet. For the first time since the rescue, Frodo�s expression eased into sighing relief. Gimli set to the difficult job of wrestling the leather boots from Boromir�s swollen feet. That done, he claimed more heated stones and waited impatiently as Legolas finished thoroughly drying the Man while Merry and Pippin muttered and cursed, working in unison to finally pull socks onto his blue-tinged feet. Sam, Aragorn noted, was already feeding the herbal infusion to Frodo who, stripped and completely swathed in blankets, sat as close as possible to the pallet prepared for Boromir, his back to the fire.

Frodo ignored Sam�s repeated efforts to have him rest atop the second, smaller pallet on the other side of the fire. It seemed Frodo was determined not to rest until certain Boromir was out of danger. Legolas pulled a dry tunic over Boromir�s head and swathed him in a double layer of blankets then rolled him gently onto the ready made bedding. Not satisfied with that as the Man�s body convulsed with great wracking bouts of shivering mixed with groaning coughs, Legolas sat at Boromir�s back and drew him up against his own bare, warm chest. He wrapped his arms about him and Boromir relaxed a little, his head lolling limp against the Elf�s shoulder. Gimli collected both Boromir and Legolas� Elven cloaks and tented them about the pair, Legolas smiling his thanks.

Then, they all looked expectantly to Aragorn, the healer.

�Well done,� Aragorn told them, managing to muster a smile. �Pippin, Merry, do you know where I put my �?

Pippin scurried over to hand him the leather wrapped parcel that contained the medical supplies before he could finish asking for it. �Did you find anything other than athelas this morning?�

�There are other herbs here,� Merry told him. �And a bottle of some kind of smelly stuff, and bandages. A lot of bandages.�

�Smelly stuff?�

�This.� Pippin displayed a small stone bottle and pulled the stopper.

Aragorn sniffed. �Alcohol.�

�Makes a good antiseptic,� Pippin said, remembering wayside lessons.

�Indeed.� Aragorn took a tin mug of hot athelas tea, sat close by Boromir, and held it to the Man�s lips. It was no use forcing it down his throat, he did not need a repeat bout of coughing and choking. His lungs had already suffered enough abuse. �Drink, Boromir. Come, hear me. Drink.�

The steam vapours wafted upward, leaving droplets on the Man�s pale flesh, beading the damp hair at his brow and the lightly bearded jaw. His shadowed eyelids flickered and he moaned softly.

�Yes, that�s it, Laddie,� Gimli threw in his own plea. �Come back to us.�

�Please,� Pippin sniffed. �Please, Boromir, you must drink it.�

�You know Aragorn�s magic tea always works miracles,� Merry put in, leaning closer.

The slack lines faded from about Boromir�s mouth, and some colour returned, taking his pallor from the pure white of snow to the dirty grey of an overcast sky. His eyes opened a crack and he immediately flinched away from the bright leap and flare of firelight.

�Drink,� Aragorn urged and gently pushed the rim of the mug against the Man�s lips. Boromir swallowed, once, twice, then sighed with the same sound of relief as had Frodo. He squinted blearily toward the faces gathered about him. Aragorn could plainly see the marked difference in the size of the pupils of the Man�s eyes. It was a fairly serious concussion, especially when combined with the cold sickness. Boromir had a long night ahead, and they must guard and watch over him to make sure he did not slip deeply into a sleep from which he would never wake.

Again, Boromir flinched away from the bright firelight, trying to turn his head this time, and grunting with the pain of movement.

�Faramir?� he said hoarsely, �Snuff out those cursed candles. Oh, my head�! How much ale did I drink?�

Gimli snorted relieved amusement. Frodo sat straighter, listening keenly, his expression puzzled and worried as he shared a frown with Sam. Merry and Pippin sagged then shook each other�s shoulders in celebration. Aragorn and Legolas were less sanguine. It was a dangerous sign of disorientation.

�Is it the Ring?� Aragorn turned a little to ask Frodo. �Do you think it still seeks to harm him?�

Frodo shook his head, his wide blue eyes dark beneath the shadows of his pale, blanket-hooded face fixed on Boromir�s expression of bleary-eyed confusion. �No. It�s gone quiet.� The Hobbit�s voice took on a sharp satisfaction Aragorn had never heard from him before. �Boromir won. It�s not used to people winning. It�s sulking.�

�Faramir?� Boromir muttered again. �It�s still too bright�.�

Gimli, practical as ever, immediately stood to block the shifting light from Boromir�s eyes.

�Ahh, better�.� The Man seemed not to have heard, or at least been able to follow, the exchange regarding the Ring.

�The light hurts his eyes?� Pippin asked anxiously.

�It will pass,� Aragorn assured him.

�Why is his head bleeding?� Merry asked.

�I was wondering the same thing,� Gimli said.

Aragorn looked down at the mug of tea he still cradled in his hands. �I lost my grip in the water. He slipped and hit his head on the rock.�

�Oh.� Merry and Pippin chorused and what they didn�t say spoke volumes.

Legolas shook his head. �Aragorn did well to save him when the anchor broke, then something snared Boromir�s foot and he had to dive to free it.�

�Oh!� There was an entirely different inflection this time.

�It was the Ring,� Frodo repeated. �It was working against us from the first moment in the water.�

�That must have been � difficult,� Gimli said with typical understatement. �You need to rest, Frodo. Come, Sam, let�s kept him to bed.�

Frodo�s protests were half hearted and he groaned relief as at last he was able to lie prone on a soft warm bed. Boromir muttered something and Frodo looked to Aragorn to ask, �He will be all right?�

�Yes. We�ll watch him. You must rest.�

Sam nodded. �Strider�s right. Mister Boromir won�t be happy when he fully wakes tomorrow only to find you�ve gone and made yourself ill despite all his hard work.�

Frodo smiled at his friend. �True, Sam. But you must promise to wake me if he gets worse.� Sam didn�t look happy but he agreed. Frodo closed his eyes and was asleep almost immediately.

Aragorn dug into his medical pack, found some swabs and tried to wipe the blood from Boromir�s face. The Man swore and pulled away from him, despite Legolas� attempt to keep him still.

�Leave it, Faramir! Let go, Garad! I swear you two are worse than mother hens! It�s just a bloody hangover�.�

�It�s Aragorn and Legolas,� Merry corrected.

�And you don�t have a hang over, Boromir,� Pippin added. �You�re �. Umm�.� He looked to Aragorn.

�Concussed.�

�Oh.� Boromir stilled and allowed Aragorn to clean up the cut and apply salve that stopped the bleeding. �Did I drink Karan�s new brew, then?

Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas snorted amusement. Puzzled, Pippin asked, �Who?�

�Karan,� Boromir muttered, suddenly drowsy. �Best and most dangerous brewer in all Gondor.�

�Hmmm,� Gimli rumbled. �I must meet this Man. Compare techniques.� He winked. �Try his ale.�

Aragorn held more tea to Boromir�s lips, needing him better restored before sleeping. �No more of your foul teas, brother! I�ll throw up.� He squinted blindly toward Aragorn. �Did I fall down again?�

�In a way,� Aragorn replied.

�Oh. That must be why � � He yawned hugely. �Think I did something to my arm.�

�Are you sure it�s all right for him to be so � out of it?� Merry asked. �He still thinks you�re Faramir.�

�It�s not unusual.� Aragorn sighed. �It should wear off by morning. Almost drowning didn�t help. If only I�d held tighter to him ��

�Not your fault, Faramir,� Boromir suddenly tried to sit up and grab at Aragorn�s arm. He missed and flapped a hand in the general direction, instead. �Listen to me, brother.�

There was real urgency in his tone, and an underlying heart-wrenching sympathy. �I know you�re upset about the men who drowned, but there was nothing you could do. Nothing I could do. Don�t let father make it otherwise. I swear if he says a word, I�ll�.�

Breathless, dizzy, Boromir fell back against Legolas� chest and was silent.

Aragorn could have wished to hear the end of that sentence. He flicked an intent glance to Legolas and knew they were thinking the same thing � two boys, bereft after their mother�s death, constantly struggling to deal with their father�s erratic moods. And it seemed Faramir was most often on the end of that injustice. Boromir had sometimes hinted at it, but never more, in all the tales he�d told of his beloved younger brother�s adventures.

�My father is a noble Man, but his rule is failing�.�

Guilt grabbed at Aragorn, making him wonder if indeed Gondor would have been the worse should Thorongil have announced his identity and stayed, rather than leaving Denethor and his infant sons to deal with an increasingly dire front line battle.

�And the Tower Guard will take up the call, for the Lords of Gondor have returned�.�

Boromir had all but given him a gold-plated invitation to claim the throne. Did he dare accept? Had he already accepted it�? He had summoned Boromir from the realm of death, called him back as his King. Could it have been as much that command as Frodo�s threat that had silenced the Ring?

Aragorn shook himself away from such as yet pointless meandering. He leaned close and began examining the arm wound, peering into the shadows cast by Gimli�s fire-guard. �I need more light, Gimli. He will have to bear it a moment while I tend this.�

Gimli grunted assent and stepped aside. Aragorn dabbed at the deep gouge, and Boromir gasped pain, assaulted on two fronts. He blinked, shook his head a little, immediately regretted it, and looked as direct as he could manage into Aragorn�s eyes

�Aragorn?� he recognized with mild surprise. But Aragorn�s relief in that apparent improvement was short-lived as Boromir turned sharply, wincing as he called, �Faramir, look who�s here.�

When there was no response and no other Man anywhere in sight, he said uncertainly, �Faramir?�

Gimli stepped closer and patted Boromir�s shoulder. �Call of nature,� he said. �Your brother drank at least as much ale as you did.�

Boromir�s lips curved in that slow, impish smile that so radically altered him, taking the stern soldiering years from his face and revealing his youth.

�Gimli, my friend,� he said, daring the light to squint toward the Dwarf, �I tell you, he can never out-drink me!�

�Nor me, I�ll wager!� Gimli winked.

Aragorn continued his painful work, probing to clean the wound thoroughly and Boromir bit down, then cursed fluently.

�Arrows! Why is it always bloody arrows?!� he griped, making Aragorn laugh aloud.

�I�m glad you find it funny, my king,� Boromir said casually and Aragorn gasped surprise and pleasure. Yes, Boromir was anything other than coherent right now, but still �

�Damnit,� Boromir continued, �How long does he need to take a piss?� He sighed impatience, then his green eyes tried unsuccessfully to lock with Aragorn�s gaze. He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper, and said, �I wanted to tell him that I found his King for him. I used to promise him I would, when he was a boy, y�know.�

�You did?� Aragorn was both touched and a little embarrassed, wondering how much more Boromir might reveal that he would have preferred to keep private had he all his senses about him. Merry and Pippin, he noted, were hanging on every word, intrigued by these freer insights, but also no doubt planning much teasing later.