Chapter Six

Several days did pass as Frodo suspected they would before Boromir woke again. During that time, he remained at the man’s side, took all his meals there and slept there. He spent his days recording more of the War of the Ring and even adding to it, telling more of his time with Faramir in the White City and what else went on there because now he knew there was one who would want to know. Elrond visited twice each day in the morning and the evening to check on his patient’s condition. He found in the younger Baggins a willing and apt healer’s apprentice who eagerly and tenderly carried out any task assigned to him.

It was not lost on Bilbo how similar the scene was to when Frodo was the one who lay close to death and Sam who it was that ran all the errands and kept watch over his master as assiduously as Frodo did now. The ancient hobbit himself was the one person who had not changed his role. He was still there every day to watch over the son of his heart.

However, like in Rivendell, when Bilbo had not been there when Frodo had woke, he was not present when Boromir regained consciousness.

The man swam slowly up to wakefulness. He was still in pain, but it was not as great as before and he felt stronger than he had been. He could tell that he was bandaged in many layers. He still marveled to take a breath and still did not know where he was. The dead had never returned to tell him of their world and beyond that, Frodo had said he was alive. But waking where and when? He became aware of the small hand that was still wrapped around his. He opened his eyes and turned his head to see Frodo smiling at him. A strong wave of mixed emotions swept over him, but that little hand anchored him so he was not swept away. How many times had Faramir held his when they were lads? Gently Boromir felt his head lifted and a cup put to his lips. He sipped slowly and then lay still again. He struggled with all he felt and what to express first. Shame was foremost and sorrow. He licked lips already dry but finally found the strength and ability to speak

“I am...sorry...Frodo,” he rasped out. “I...”

Frodo’s hand tightened around his and his smile widened. “I forgive you. Long ago, I forgave you.”

Boromir could find no more words for what he felt now. Another wave of feeling rocked him and again he had that hand to hold him fast. Tears tracked down his cheeks at the power of the simple words and touch.

“It took me too,” Frodo whispered almost too softly for the warrior to hear. Boromir turned his head again and saw the smile had disappeared and there was a haunted look now. “I didn’t know until then what it must have been like for you or for Smeagol or for Bilbo or Isildur. I had felt its call all the while, but it did not find me truly open to its will until the very end and that is where I failed.”

Boromir now felt the need to be the one to tighten the grasp on that small hand. Frodo looked up at that. The joy that had been so vividly present to the man even in his unconsciousness was veiled now. How could he bring the sun forth again? Boromir found he wanted to comfort Frodo more than anything, but he well knew that his brother’s gentler heart and ways would be better suited to such a task. A stab of longing for Faramir’s presence struck him keenly. His brother would know what to do. Could he send for him? Would he come? But it was many long leagues from Minas Tirith to Rivendell and the roads were perilous. Frodo needed aid now, just as a little lad had long years before while grieving the loss of his mother or frightened by a loud storm and had sought the comfort of his brother. Suddenly Boromir knew who it was that could succor the Ring-bearer.