The waters of Anduin are deep and icy cold. Already there is snow melt swelling the flood, and we are moving downstream faster than Aragorn had planned............the woods slide by, dark and thick, we cannot see far into the trees. Anything or anyone could be there, could see our boats on the swift water. We are vulnerable out here on the river, yet we must take this path..........
I am glad to be gone from Lothlorien. We are refreshed and newly clad, but I deem we paid too highly for the hospitality of The Lady. Great and gracious she is, but she demands a heavy toll for the passage of the Golden Wood. Aragorn is kin there, and Legolas, they see only that lovely face and hear only that soft voice. Even Gimli Gloin’s son fell under her spell, after all his boasting of the caution of the Dwarves! And the Halflings! Dazzled, like country lads enticed by some traveling conjurer and his doxy........Not many Men have seen what I have seen, have lived those dreaming days and nights under her Elvish moon.......She seeks to see into the hearts of her guests, that Lady. She wants our secrets. That is the price of her soft couches and songs and her honeyed words...... To pore over our minds and turn them this way and that...to twist and tangle our thoughts.......the power to read our deepest desire......as if she could grant, or hinder it......I hope she found it worth her while, to slither into my head, and catch all the threads of my thoughts in her long, white hands............
Yet I, too, must pay homage to her beauty and her wisdom. A Sorceress indeed, and a Shield against the power in the East. Her borders are secure, netted fast with Elvish magic and defended as well with those long bows and the arms that draw them.....she speaks, and the woods fall silent; the archers are like arrows themselves, sped on by her command.......even these boats, sleek and swift and water coloured, made of some Elvish stuff......they are like her, and all her works, slippery, shaped so an honest hand cannot grasp them...........but strong, strong as the wind, that we cannot see, but with the power to blast us and our works to dust.........she wields great power, that Lady. It shines about her, shimmering, she wears it like her silken robes...like a second skin......she draws all to her, like moths to the flame of her beauty......and like moths in a candle, we burn and fall............
That is power, that light that flickers about her womanly form.....that glows about Frodo.....the Ring hidden but for that aura....what she could do, could she wield the Ring! Or Mithrandir....he would have been a worthy Ringbearer.....great powers he had, too, under that kindly old man’s face and those shabby robes......how my father despises him.......Father! I am coming home, and I bring such Warriors with me! An Elf, a King’s son, to stand shoulder to shoulder with us on the ramparts....and a Dwarf, to swing his sharp axe.....And Aragorn son of Arathorn..... Yes.....what of Aragorn? What will Father make of him, or my finicking brother Faramir, with his dreamy eyes? An answer to the riddle, Father, that sent me North......the blade that was broken, reforged, and in the hands of a mighty man, Dunadan, Numenorean of old......I can see it now, Father surrendering the rod of office to Aragorn! The sound of his laughter will echo to the top of the Citadel! Well, Father will not live forever, and to be Steward to such a King is no small thing........to be second in the realm, where my father was always first....but second to Isuldur’s heir, there is no dishonour in that....
Does Frodo sleep, while Aragorn drives that boat so swiftly? Does he sleep, his little hand at his breast, clutching it, covering it.....only once have I seen it....a plain golden ring......not even a jewel to mark it out from some common ring, to mark it as something precious.....even Master Elrond, even he looked at it as if it was a great serpent coiled to strike, venomous and quick.........can it really be so powerful? Or is it some trick, some Elvish trick.........and if it is not a trick? Frodo must come to Minas Tirith, where we can guard him, and keep him safe from the shadow......all this talk about going to the fire, it is just talk......no halfling could walk there to the Enemy’s own keep, and drop that ring into the fire like a child dropping a coin into a wishing well.........Aragorn dreams of taking Frodo, Aragorn dreams of coming to Minas Tirith, of taking up the sceptre...Aragorn dreams of being a hero, he dreams the dreams of a beardless lad, glory and renown.........he dreams of too many things......see how he drives that boat, his mighty arms slicing that paddle into the water, hour upon hour.....
They look to me, Father and Faramir, and our folk. Boromir the Bold, they call me, and I confess, yes, I confess deep down in the corner of my heart that I love it, that I love their praise.....did she laugh at that, the Lady? That I am proud, and a doughty man that loves the sharp sword, the clash of arms, the folk who cheer after me, the maidens whose eyes fall before mine? Why should not I? Where is the wrong in setting myself in the forefront of the battle, in taking the blow meant for a weaker man and turning it aside and striking, striking hard......where is the wrong in wishing to hear them shout my name, after great deeds? Minas Tirith is my city, the folk are my folk, my arms defend them.....I love them all, the people of the White City, I have given them my life, and I would give them my Death.......
Soon we will steer these little boats to the shore. Soon we will stand about and debate, and debate, and time is passing as swiftly as these waters.....the enemy does not sleep, he draws ever nearer to the walls of my city, a rope strangling us, tighter and tighter.....with one move, we could cut that rope, leave him dangling at the end of his own schemes, with one move we could tie a noose in his own rope and hang him....if we had the power......it takes more than men, even such men as Aragorn, and I..........swift, and sure.......a weapon such as no man has ever wielded, to cut through the enemy’s certainty and bare his Eye to the light of a new day........the Ring...where is the wrong, to use it once? One blow! One only, and it is over.......The Ring....Frodo is weak, it is more than his child’s body, it is his will, that Elrond and Galadriel turned, cozening him into thinking he could bear this burden, do this deed.....they were afraid, too squeamish to take up this weapon and strike the blow, as if the hand that wields the sword is dirtied by the blood of an enemy..........Bold, I am called, and I am bold, I have the will....my heart does not quail......Frodo.....it is too heavy for him....see how his shoulders are bowed with the weight of it....he will be glad to be rid of it! I swore no vow against my wish......Elrond in his trickery would have no vow, and now I am glad of it.......once, and once only, and the enemy is crushed never to rise again......and then, into the deeps of the Sea with it, or even into the Fire, if it be that the Fire burns after his fall........yes, I would even take Frodo there, to the Fire, and hold his hand while he flung it into the flames..............Aragorn turns, and waves us to the shore. Ahead is the spray of Rauros! How came we here so quickly?.................
