𝕰𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖆

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Breaking Of The Fellowship

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"We cross the lake at nightfall," Aragorn said, his arms laden with supplies extracted from the boats, "Hide the boats and continue on foot." His boots crunched in the dry soil as he walked further up shore, "We approached Mordor from the North."

"Oh yes?" Gimli spoke up, his voice laced with sarcasm, "Just a simple matter of finding our way through Emyn Muil-an impassable labyrinth of razor-sharp rocks. And after that-"

"Enough." I pushed off the boulder against which I had been leaning, and Gimli stopped short at my sharp tone, "The path to Mordor has never been an easy one, Gimli, surely you realized that before partaking in this endeavour?"

"I'm only of the opinion that safer-and faster, mind you-paths are available to us."

"That is our road," Aragorn responded calmly, "I suggest you take some rest and recover your strength, Master Dwarf."

"Recover my-" Gimli shook his head, releasing a deep grunt.

Across from me, Legolas turned in a whirl of white-blonde hair, approaching Aragorn and exchanging words that failed to reach me. I felt a sudden pang of annoyance at his resoluteness in avoiding me at all costs, starving me for information. For attention, even. I scoffed, though whether at him, or myself, I was unsure.

"Recover strength..?" Gimli muttered absently, glaring daggers at Aragorn, before turning his eye on the hobbits, "Pay no heed to that, young hobbit..."

Merry looked up then, and his head surveyed the lot of us. A look of anxiety slowly stole across his face.

"Where's Frodo?"

Sam, as though jolted by a shock of lightening, sat up stiffly, his eyes wide and rounded. Quickly, this look was mirrored in all of us, and I noticed Aragorn's eye catch on something. I followed his gaze, and my stomach dropped. Boromir, too, was missing, in his place, his discarded shield and cloak.

I stood with such speed that a second jolt shot through everyone's shoulders.

"I'll find them," I said, the feeling of dread magnifying as Aragorn nodded his head grimly.

I turned into the forest, disappearing into the emerald-brown leaves and curbing trunks. Fallen leaves crunched beneath my boots as I waded through trees, branches, and bracken. Sunlight escaped in yellow rays through the openings in the leaves overhead. I strained my ears for the sound of voices, footsteps, anything. I climbed over ruined structures, moss filling age-old cracks in the stone.

And suddenly, I heard them. The muffled, distant sounds of voices. Voices steadily growing louder, but not by growing proximity. I had stopped walking. The voice of Boromir rang out sonorous and sharp over the forest floor, the words still muddled by the heavy leaves that smothered them. And then clear as day;

"It should be mine! Give it to me!"

I bolted into a run, straining to hear more, as my blood pumped through my veins, my muscles throbbed, my hair whipped about, my heart was in my throat. Finally, I entered into a clearing, where my eyes settled on the scene I'd been so dreading to see.

Boromir lurched at Frodo, his face contorted into a furious snarl. Before I could make a single move, Frodo slipped the ring over his finger, and vanished.

And the fire visited me once more, this time catching me altogether off guard. My voice caught in my throat as I stumbled forward, my vision interrupted by glaring black spots. The heat of flames that did not exist clawed at my skin, searing me to the bone. A voice, a great deep roar that deeply unsettled every inch of my body, tore through my mind.