Chapter 6     A Red Star Low In The South

I stood sleepless at the rail of my balcony that night, tears in my eyes.

“You are a valiant and loyal man . . .”

Had Elrond perceived my thoughts as I spoke to Frodo? Did he know that I sought possession of the Ring? But if he knew, why would he not then regard me as a dangerous malcontent? Why would he speak courteously to me and invite me to be one of the Company?

“ . . . valiant and loyal . . .” I drew a deep breath, ragged with the pent-up force of my tears. I shook my head, cursed at myself for being unmanly, and kicked the broad stone railing in front of me.

He had called me valiant, and loyal. The starlight blurred in front of my eyes as I finally gave in and wept outright. All my life I had been striving to  . . . to be strong, to fight hard, to win . . . to have someone call me valiant and loyal.

Was I, truly? I had ridden unquestioning into battle time after time . . .  I had always, it seemed, been the first to attack, the last to retreat, the one who took up the charge to brace men’s hearts and lead them into danger in order to protect the kingdom. I had been the one who had not given up the fight, or given in to fear, or at least not admitted it to anyone else. Such had been my life, truly. I had been strong, for the sake of my people.

Yes, I was. I was valiant and loyal. I drew another shaking breath, struggling to master myself and blink back my tears. Not perfect, perhaps, but valiant and loyal, yes. I was.

I lifted my head. My quest was not hopeless. My mission might still find success. My fate might yet be to return to Minas Tirith on the wings of the morning, with the magic of the Elves and the might of the Dwarves riding with me, and perhaps even bearing the power of the Ring, to set my City free.  And my father would smile warmly at me, as Bilbo had smiled at Frodo, and say to me, “Well done . . .” 

I could feel tears hot in my eyes again. I looked out at the night, calming myself. A red star glowed low in the southern sky, just over the rim of the hills beyond, and as I gazed at it, my thoughts returned to the Ring. If I had the Ring, I would have power of Command, and I would drive out the hosts of Mordor, and all Men would flock to my banner. Once I was out in the wild with Frodo, many things could happen. Unwell as he was, his strength might fail on a long winter journey. He might ask me to carry the Ring for him, or perhaps he would lend it to me for a time before he finally destroyed it when it was no longer needed.

I leaned thoughtfully on the rail, looking at the red star winking in the chill night air. One way or another, Frodo would fail to complete the mission; of that I had no doubt. It was a very good thing that I would be included with the Company and able to help him bear the burden of it. I felt a touch of self-righteous anger at the leaders of the Council, who allowed the brave little one to even consider taking on such a hopeless task as going into the heart of Mordor.  Frodo had courage, to be sure, but he was so small, and now he was wounded. Today, when Merry and Pippin had jumped up from the table, full of enthusiasm for their round of sword practice, he had risen slowly, and Samwise had put out a hand to steady him. Bilbo had whispered, “Upstairs to bed, my lad,” and Frodo had murmured, “Let’s go to your room instead, Bilbo. It’s closer.”  I had watched them make their way quietly from the Porch, trailed by the vigilant Sam.

So, he was still recovering. I knew firsthand the danger and hardship of long travel in the wild. I would lay odds that Frodo would not survive such a journey, let alone a march through the ash and fumes of Mordor. I wondered how Elrond and Mithrandir, who considered themselves wise, could be so blind to the folly of their own plan. Fate must be guiding my steps, ensuring that the Ring would eventually come to me. As the next Steward of Gondor, I would be a steadfast keeper of its power . . .

In fact, I mused, I could easily take the Ring right now, if I wanted to. It would be simple enough to become better friends with Frodo—the Halflings were so trusting—and invite him for a long ride exploring the hills around Rivendell. I could make for the southernmost point of the valley, kill him, take the Ring, and ride for Gondor before anyone even knew I was gone. I would have to pack my gear and hide it there at the edge of the valley beforehand—

I blinked. What was I thinking?

What was I thinking?

How could I think of killing and stealing so? What was wrong with me? The stars above seemed to start turning in strange courses about me, the red one gleaming brighter at the center of the spinning whorl. How could the next Steward of Gondor, one in whom the high lineage of Númenor yet lived, ever plan the murder of a trusting friend? Even the flagstones beneath my feet felt as if they were slanting and turning. I leaned forward and clutched the railing, suddenly filled with fear. I had come here to save my homeland—but I was turning to evil in order to do so—what spell or wicked force lived here, to change my very nature? What kind of monster would even think such things?

You must do whatever is necessary, even if it means murder . . . the thought came to me unbidden. No, I said to the thought, but it frightened me, just the same. I turned away from the balustrade and walked back into the candlelit room, where I poured a goblet of water and sat in front of the fire. I stayed there for a long time, gazing at my shield and horn, which I had placed in the corner of my room.

In Gondor we battled Evil. We were not evil ourselves. We fought to maintain what was right in Middle Earth, goodness and freedom and truth. I could not battle Evil with evil deeds of my own, or I would become the Evil myself. I worked the logic of my thought, considering it. Was I still Boromir, a valiant and loyal Man, or was I becoming something like a goblin or orc, who would slay an innocent in secret?

In the end, that night, I determined my course. I was not sent here to beg any boon, or allies in battle. I was sent only to seek the meaning of a riddle. Aid might yet come to Minas Tirith as a result of my journey here. Aragorn had told me that he desired to return with me to Minas Tirith, and the sword of Isildur alone would be a help we had not looked for. Fate would determine the outcome of the Ring. Perhaps it truly was altogether evil, and would bring a curse wherever it went, instead of good fortune. It was Isildur’s Bane, and if it had been powerful enough to overcome the great heir of Elendil, it might be my own bane also.

The blood of Númenor was not yet spent, nor all its pride and dignity forgotten. By our heritage, peace and freedom were maintained. I would live by that heritage, and die by it too if I must. But I hoped to live a while longer, and see a turn of good fortune deliver us all.

As I sat before the fading fire that night, I made a vow. When next I saw Faramir, I would clasp him hard in my arms for a long time, and tell him that he was a valiant and loyal man.