Falling...
What will become of them?
The thought flashes in his mind in an instant.
He sees their faces as he falls, so stricken,
On each their innermost thoughts written
As on a white page.
Time is frozen for a long moment.
Frodo, foremost, one hand reaching in desperation,
The other hand clutches a mailed arm
That holds him tight,
Lest in his desperation he follow to the edge.
Boromir, holding Frodo back,
Yet wanting to run forward himself to stop the downward tumble,
Wanting to strike out with his sword held ready,
But there is no enemy, only impending tragedy.
Sam, ever close to Frodo,
Ready to jump if Boromir cannot hold him;
Torn in his loyalty to friend and mentor. Who should he aid?
Frustrated and despairing, he knows his aid is too small to be of any
use.
Aragorn, dismayed, hesitating;
He cannot lead them away, though he knows he should,
Not while there is a chance,
Not when disaster might be cheated.
Legolas, ever ready with bow in hand,
Yet powerless to stop the whip and the sharp tug.
If only his keen eye would benefit,
If only he could save him.
Gimli stands staring;
The fire in his eyes from battle is not hot enough
To dry the tears that fall;
He knows what is coming, even now he is mourning.
Merry, so solemn, so unhappy,
Does not understand what is happening.
Not Gandalf, we cannot lose Gandalf!
He cannot stop looking.
Pippin, sobbing, a horrified statue,
Clutching at Merry in disbelief;
On his face sorrow and guilt are written.
He cannot bear it, he looks away.
Falling...
What will become of them?
His teaching incomplete, but each one still capable of so much.
Perhaps all is not lost,
Even as the guide is lost.
Time is frozen for another moment,
Time for one last word, one last instruction.
"Fly, you fools!"
As he falls, one last thought...they are fools
But only because they love him
And cannot leave, not until the bitter end.
Falling...
What will become of them...?
