The journey was like walking within a dream. The soft cloth tied over their eyes had changed not only their sight but also their way of perceiving the world. For Frodo, this was pure torture. He had escaped the darkness of Moria, but now he was trapped in the darkness of his own mind.
Blindness had sharpened his other senses. He could feel the softness of the earth beneath the Mallorn trees, the dizzying scent in the air, and the near-complete silence of the elves' footsteps.
But most of all, he felt the Ring.
With his eyes closed, the Ring's presence had become even more pronounced. It was no longer just a weight he carried on his chest; it was a part of his consciousness. The Ring hated the air of Lórien. The light here, the purity, was anathema to its nature. It was like acid to it.
And it made Frodo feel this pain. The whisper in Frodo's mind had now taken on a clearer, more insistent voice.
This light is a lie, Bearer, said the voice. They are here to weaken you. Just as they weakened Gandalf. The wizard's light couldn't save him, could it? It was extinguished in that fire. The light of these elves will not save you either.
Frodo stumbled, holding Sam's hand. His head was spinning.
You are afraid, said the Ring, in an almost soothing tone. You fear Boromir. He wants me. You fear the elves. They are judging me. You fear Aragorn. He cannot lead you.
"Be silent," Frodo whispered.
"Did you say something, Mr. Frodo?" said Sam, right beside him.
"No... Nothing, Sam. I'm just... tired."
You are tired, yes, the Ring continued, its voice no longer an echo in his mind, but like a friend's secret. You are tired because of them. Their grief, their doubts, their weaknesses... all of it is on your shoulders. You trust in the light. But the light abandoned you. In Moria, on that bridge. I did not. I am still here. And I can give you power. Power these elves cannot even imagine.
Frodo's fingers, holding the Ring, tightened. It was a promise. And his soul, shattered by the echo of Moria, wanted to cling to that promise.
Days and nights blurred together. Finally, Haldir told them to stop. They could hear the sound of a river.
"Celebrant," said Haldir. "Silverlode. You are now in the heart of Lórien. You may open your eyes."
They lowered the cloths. Their eyes, after the darkness they had grown used to, winced in pain from the dazzle.
They were before them. Caras Galadhon. The City of Trees.
This was not a city of stone. It was a living city. The trunks of giant mallorn trees rose to the sky like towers. And in their branches hung platforms and bridges called 'flets', which seemed woven from light. Everything shimmered in pale gold and silver. In the air, there was a ceaseless music, sorrowful yet strong.
This beauty was so overwhelming, so unearthly, that it felt more like a reproach than a comfort to the wounded hearts of the Fellowship. This was a world to which they did not belong.
Gimli froze before the beauty. His Dwarven stubbornness broke for a moment in the face of this perfect craftsmanship. "Dwarven craft is sturdy," he muttered, "but this... this is made of moonlight."
Haldir led them up shimmering stairways that wound around the trunks of the trees. To the very top, to the largest platform.
Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel were waiting for them.
Celeborn was as old as the bark of a tree, but just as strong. His eyes were as sharp as ice under the winter sun. Galadriel... Galadriel was impossible to describe. She was tall, her hair a cascade of gold and silver that had captured starlight. But her true power was not in her beauty, but in her presence. She was a presence that changed the air in the room.
Celeborn stepped forward. His voice was like the deep waters of the river. "We were expecting you. Nine of you set out. Eight have come."
His eyes locked onto Aragorn. "Gandalf the Grey has fallen into the darkness of Moria. News traveled faster than thought. A great loss."
Aragorn bowed his head. "He was our leader. And our friend."
Celeborn looked at the rest of the Fellowship. "Your quest hangs as if on a leaf. Gandalf's fall is a sign to Sauron. He knew the Ring was beneath the Misty Mountains. Now, he also knows you have passed to the east."
Boromir stepped forward. "Lord Celeborn, then we must not waste time. Give us boats, let us go down the Anduin to Minas Tirith. This thing will be safe in my father's fortress..."
"Silence," said Celeborn, silencing him with a single look. "The strength of Gondor is nothing against the power of this Ring."
Galadriel, who had been silent until that moment, opened her eyes.
And in that moment, every member of the Fellowship felt they were seen to the depths of their souls.
Galadriel's voice echoed in their minds; not a sound, but a thought, a feeling.
Son of Glóin, she said to Gimli, I see the stone in your heart. You mourn for Balin's tomb. But beneath that stone, I also see the admiration you feel for the beauty of Moria. Gimli startled, his hand moving to the hilt of his axe.
Son of Gondor, she said to Boromir, you seek your father's love. You see your city's desperation. And that desperation is pushing you down a dangerous path. Boromir's face turned white as sheet.
Aragorn, Elessar, she said to him, you have walked in the shadows for too long. You carry Elendil's sword, but you fear its burden.
And then... she looked at Frodo.
It was not a look. It was a collision.
Galadriel's mind entered Frodo's consciousness like a flood of light. And there, it met the darkness, guilt, and anger that Frodo had been nurturing since Moria. And at the center of that darkness, she saw the Ring.
Frodo wanted to scream. This was mental torture. Galadriel's light was exposing everything he tried to hide: the guilt he felt for Gandalf's fall, the new hatred for Boromir (budding in Chapter 1), his distrust of the Fellowship.
And the Ring responded.
That voice in Frodo's mind turned from a whisper into a roaring flamethrower.
SHE SEES US! SHE WANTS US! SHE IS A THIEF!
Frodo's vision blurred. For a moment, he saw Galadriel not as the calm, golden-haired Lady, but as something else: A Queen, tall, terrible, and as powerful as a storm. She held the Ring, and that Ring was bending the entire world to her will.
"Give me the Ring, little hobbit!" roared the vision. "Let me show you the light!"
"NO!" Frodo shouted, his voice not sounding like his own. He staggered backward, his hand going to the chain beneath his clothes.
Silence.
The vision vanished. Galadriel was still before him, her face pale and expressionless. But in her eyes, there was something Frodo had never seen before: Fear.
The Lady had reacted not to what she saw in Frodo's mind, but to the vision Frodo had shown her. She had seen how the Ring, using Frodo, had tried to tempt her. And how easily Frodo had fallen for that temptation.
Celeborn had not fully understood what had happened, but he sensed the tension. "Frodo Baggins," he said sternly. "You are before the Lady."
Galadriel raised her hand. "It is alright, my husband. His burden is heavy."
Her eyes locked onto Frodo, who was still breathless. She spoke inside his mind, so that only Frodo could hear:
Ring-bearer, you are in danger. But the danger you fear is not the Orcs outside or Boromir's greed.
Frodo looked at her in horror.
That thing you saw... Galadriel continued, her voice sorrowful. That exists within me as well. That temptation. Light does not always mean purity. Sometimes, the brightest light casts the darkest shadow.
Frodo's heart turned to ice. This was not a comfort. This was a confirmation.
"What... what am I to do?" Frodo whispered, his lips barely moving. "I am in darkness. Gandalf is gone, and the light went with him."
Galadriel saw the cold, hard core that had been growing inside Frodo since Moria. The guilt. His abandonment of light and hope. She understood that she could not give him the false comfort she would give the others. This hobbit's path would be different.
The Lady made a decision in that moment. It was a dangerous decision, one that went against her millennia of wisdom.
She drew near him, her voice now just a whisper, like the sound of the wind.
"Not everything must turn to the light, Ring-bearer."
Frodo looked up. There was shock in his eyes. What did she mean?
Galadriel continued, her eyes focused on the Ring's whisper inside Frodo: "As long as you try to hold onto the light, the Ring will use your hope against you. It will turn Gandalf's sacrifice into a weapon. But if... if you accept the darkness itself as a path... then perhaps, you can surprise the Ring."
This was the most dangerous thing Galadriel had ever said. It was not advice, but a gamble. An almost impossible gamble that Frodo could walk that dark path without using the Ring's power.
But Frodo did not hear it that way.
And the Ring most certainly did not hear it that way.
In Frodo's terrified eyes, a new spark appeared. This was not the spark of hope the rest of the Fellowship had. This was a cold, blue spark, burning in the depths of a furnace.
The Ring's voice spoke in his mind, no longer as a tempter, but as an ally.
You see? Even the Lady knows. The path of light is closed. The only way is our way. The path through the shadow.
Frodo looked at Galadriel, and for the first time, he felt something besides his fear. An understanding.
The Light of Lothlórien had not given Frodo Baggins hope. It had given him the foundation, the terrible permission, he needed to turn towards the darkness.
---
The North. In the southern tongues of Middle-earth, this word meant not just a direction, but an end. The nameless, white hell beyond the Icebay of Forochel, where maps ended: Forodwaith.
Here, even the sun was weak and reluctant. It hung in the sky like a pale scar, neither fully rising nor truly warming. The wind did not howl; it became so sharp passing over thousands of miles of ice and rock that its sound turned into a high-pitched scream, like a giant blade cleaving the air.
This was the remnant of the place where the Helcaraxë—the "Grinding Ice"—once reigned; that cursed bridge of hell that froze all living things to the bone, crossed by the rebellious host of elves in the First Age of the World against the light of Valinor. The bridge had long since broken, but the cold it left behind had never departed.
In the midst of the frozen desert rose the northernmost and wildest extensions of the Iron Mountains (Ered Engrin); mountains not of stone, but of blue-black ice as old as time itself.
And among these mountains, one was different from the others. They called it the Silent Mountain. The last few Lossoth, the Snow-men, who lived on the shores of the Icebay, had feared it for generations. Other mountains cracked with the wind, thundered with avalanches; yet this mountain was as silent as doom. Its surface was too smooth to hold snow, a supernatural cyan color. No living thing dwelt near it. Even wolves changed their path, avoiding entry into its shadow.
Because it was not a mountain; it was a prison, a tomb. And the thing that lay within was not dead. Only sleeping.
When the Scream from the Deeps rose from Moria, it did not just shake the surface. That spiritual and physical shockwave, unleashed by the awakening of the Balrog and the death of the Watcher, had seeped into the veins of Arda—the geological and mystical fault lines of the world. It reached south, making the Eye of Sauron blink in Mordor; It spread west, into the nameless deeps. But the purest, strongest echo traveled north.
It was not a sound wave; it was a resonance. A call. It traveled as a vibration thousands of meters beneath the earth's crust, just above the magma, through the ancient rock. It passed the roots of the Misty Mountains, crossed the Grey Mountains, and reached the frozen foundations of Forodwaith.
It was a scream of fire, cast at the ice.
When the echo reached the Silent Mountain, it did not shake it—it called to it. The echo in Moria had awakened a being within a mountain; the echo in the north would shatter the mountain within a being.
When it struck the supernatural blue ice, the millennia-old silence was broken for the first time. Not a thunderclap, but a cracking sound spread: a thin, high, all-silencing fissure, as if the very fabric of the universe were tearing. A thin, black line appeared on the mountain's surface, from peak to base. A cold vapor began to smoke from it.
The Lossoth heard this sound in their camps at that moment. The scream of the wind ceased; in its place came the sound of a frozen giant's bones breaking. In terror, they looked at that impossible mountain. The Silent Mountain was silent no more. A deep, massive rumble rose from within, like a giant heartbeat. THUMP... THUMP... THUMP...
With each beat, the crack widened, new veins spreading over the mountain like a spider's web. With each vibration, a wave of cold radiated from within the mountain. This was not the winter cold Forodwaith was used to; this was the essence of cold. This was Absolute Zero.
For miles around, the wind stopped. The air solidified. Snowflakes froze in mid-air. A vast, silent storm made of glass was born around the mountain.
Inside, at the center of that icy prison, an eye opened. It had been asleep for thousands of years. It was one of Morgoth's first experiments. The Master had created "Fire" (Balrogs) and "Shadow" (the brood of Ungoliant); but he had also toyed with the "Void," attempting to imprison the cold of the Timeless Void into a living being. The result was a dragon not of Ancalagon's fiery lineage: A Frost Dragon. Scatha.
After the War of Wrath, as the fury of the Valar reshaped the world, most of its fiery cousins were destroyed. Scatha, however, fled north; it survived and grew stronger, as cold itself. In the end, it became a victim of its own power. The anti-life energy it had accumulated froze it at its own center. It remained frozen amidst the remnants of the Helcaraxë, inside that massive mountain, at the point of absolute zero it itself had created. Time had stopped for it. It was like a statue suspended in a vast cathedral, within millions of tons of ancient ice. Its body was covered in blue-white scales, harder than diamond. Not blood, but a liquefied glacier flowed in its veins. Its wings were like a folded storm. And its heart... had not beaten for millennia.
Then, the Scream from the Deeps came. The echo fell upon the dragon's frozen consciousness like a burning coal. And that consciousness awoke in pain. The first thing it felt was hatred. It knew that fire. It was Morgoth's other, noisy child. Its rival. The second feeling was hunger. A hunger thousands of years old. The third was will. In that moment, it remembered: The laughter of fire, the light of the Valar, the eyes of Morgoth. And it hated again. Its heart, that massive crystal organ, beat once more— this was not a beat of life, but a beat of destruction.
With each beat, the liquefied glacier in its veins spread through its body. The dragon took a breath. Its breath was not air, but cold. It inhaled the millennia-old ice surrounding it; and when it exhaled, the structure of the ice unraveled. That ice had been cold enough to imprison it. But the dragon was now colder. Cracks began to form within the ice. The dragon stretched in its crystal tomb. Millions of tons of ice groaned.
Its eye, that massive, ice-blue eye, saw the weak light outside. Its pupil was a vertical slit; a swirling blizzard within. That eye did not see the world, it saw energy. And in the south, far away, it perceived two glowing points: one bright, the other unbearably dark and powerful. The light of Lothlórien and the Ring. Even deeper, to the southwest, another pulse beat in the heart of the earth: Fire. That fire it hated, its rival, was burning again. The Balrog was not dead; it had merely changed.
The Dragon of Helcaraxë found its purpose: It would break free from its prison and extinguish that fire. It roared with all its might. This was not the burning roar of a fiery dragon. It was a frequency—like the sound of glass breaking, but the glass breaking this time was the size of a continent. KRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAKKKKKKK!
The Silent Mountain exploded. This was not a volcanic eruption; it was an implosion, followed by an outward expansion. That wave of absolute zero, radiating with the dragon's roar, shattered the rest of the mountain. The blue ice disintegrated like dust. A giant pillar of white light and vapor took the mountain's place—the dragon's breath. The absolute cold, contacting the "warm" air, instantly birthed a massive storm. The last thing the Lossoth saw was that the mountain was no longer there. There was a swirling storm of snow and ice, hundreds of miles wide, rising into the sky. And at the center of that storm, two shadows appeared. The dragon was opening its wings. The wings pushed aside snow and rock. Each wing was large enough to cover a plain; woven not of leather, but of frozen gales and starlight. The dragon broke free from its ice cathedral and rose above the storm. It ascended into the sky and stopped in front of that pale northern sun. The sun, for a moment... went out.
The Frost Dragon had awakened from its millennia-long sleep. It raised its head and let out a second scream, declaring its victory. This scream became the wind itself. A new wind began, blowing from north to south, to scrape the peaks of the Misty Mountains and freeze the plains of Rohan. Its eyes were locked on the south. It cared not for the light of Lórien or the shadow of Mordor. It felt the fire beneath Moria. An ancient reckoning was about to begin anew in the new age of the world. The dragon beat its massive wings once. A hurricane was born on the plain beneath it. Then, as silent as a shard of ice but as fast as an avalanche, it glided south.
Their departure from Lothlórien was as silent and dreamlike as the night they had arrived. But this time, it was not magic in the air, but melancholy. The lights of Caras Galadhon shimmered like a pale farewell as they boarded the white boats that descended to the cold waters of the River Silverlode (Celebrant). In that grey, uncertain hour just before the dawn, even the sound of the river was like a sad murmur.
Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn stood on the shore and spoke with them one last time. Celeborn's words were practical advice given to warriors setting out; about the river's currents, the dangerous shoals, and the shadow of Amon Hen before them. His voice was clear and sharp, but in his eyes was a sorrow for the approaching winter of Lórien.
But Galadriel's gaze went beyond words. She presented her famous gifts to each member of the Fellowship.
To Legolas, she gave a new bow, hewn from the greatest mallorn tree of Lórien, strung with elf-hair. When Legolas took the bow, he felt that the wood beneath his fingers was not just smooth, but almost alive, holding the power of the forest in its grain.
To Merry and Pippin, she gave silver-buckled belts, worked upon old leaves. And she told them, with that sad smile, "Do not forget that sometimes the smallest hands hold back the greatest shadows." The hobbits bowed in respect, under the weight of these words.
To Samwise, she gave a simple grey box containing the fertile soil of Lórien, and an elven rope. Sam bowed gratefully as he took the soil; when he opened the box, the fresh, rich scent that hit his nose reminded him instantly of the gardens of the Shire. It was a tangible piece of his hope for the Shire.
To Aragorn, she gave a great brooch of silver and gold, fashioned as an eagle, and in its center, a shining green stone. Elessar. The Elfstone. When Aragorn took the stone, he felt the cold of the metal and the hidden warmth within the gem. For a moment, he felt the Ranger's cloak upon him grow heavy, like the mantle of a king.
She turned to Gimli. "And what gift can I give you, Son of Glóin?" she said, her voice like the rippling of water. Gimli, in that moment, set aside all his dwarven stubbornness. His face was filled with the grief for Balin, whom he had lost in Moria. "Nothing, Lady," he said in a choked voice. "Just to have seen your beauty once was a treasure brighter than the darkness of Moria. But if... if you forgive my boldness... I ask not for your gold, nor your silver. Only... one strand of your hair. To remember your light in the dark days beneath my mountain."
There was a silence on the shore. Celeborn held his breath in surprise; this was a request unheard of since the audacity of Fëanor. But Galadriel smiled. It was a smile pure, free of sorrow. She raised her hand, plucked three strands from that cascade of mingled gold and silver, and placed them in Gimli's rough palm. "I give you three," she said. "For your boldness is harder than the purest diamond, yet just as bright." Gimli treasured those strands in his palm like the hoard of a kingdom.
Then the Lady turned to Boromir. Her gaze hardened, her smile faded. She offered him a heavy, golden belt, wrought with silver. "May this protect you, Son of Gondor. But remember, some shields are broken from within." Boromir took the belt, his face an impassive stone mask. His finger traced the carving of the Tower of Gondor upon it. "Thank you, Lady. Gondor's shields have not yet been broken," he said curtly.
And at the very last, Galadriel approached Frodo. The rest of the Fellowship had moved away for a moment, checking the provisions in the boats one last time. The mist on the river left them alone under the Lady's all-seeing gaze.
"Your burden has grown heavy, Ring-bearer," Galadriel whispered. Her voice mingled with the murmur of the wind. "The light of Lórien has not lightened it, Lady," Frodo replied, his voice carrying that cold, numb tone it had held since Moria.
A deep cloud of sorrow passed over Galadriel's eyes. She saw how Frodo had changed since their encounter, how he had worn that dark "permission" like a shell, how he had built a wall around his spirit. She raised her hand. In her palm was a crystal phial. Within it shone the light of Eärendil's star, with a cold, pure potency that even the brightest diamonds could not attain. "I give you the light of Eärendil," she said. "The light of our forefather's star. May it be a light for you in dark places, when all other lights go out."
Frodo reached out his hand to take the phial. But the moment his fingers touched the smooth crystal, he hesitated. The light... hurt. It was not like the burn of a fire. It was not like touching ice-cold water. It was a burning purity; it felt as if it were searing the filth, the darkness, and the stain of the Ring from his fingertips. He snatched his fingers back as if bitten by a serpent.
At the same moment, the Ring, hidden beneath his clothes, flared in anger against the presence of this pure light. It grew hot, like a stoked coal in his chest. The whisper in Frodo's mind turned into an angry hiss. Lies! That light is a lie! It will burn you! It will see us! Frodo winced in pain, his breath catching.
Galadriel saw what had happened. Her eyes widened in horror. She realized in that moment how deeply the Ring's darkness had burrowed into the hobbit's spirit, causing him to perceive even pure light as a threat, an enemy. This was a decay far faster than she had expected.
"Frodo," she said, her voice no longer the command of a Lady, but almost a plea. "Do not reject this light. Please. Do not give in to despair." Frodo forced his will. He fought against the scream in his mind, against the fire in his chest. He reached out his fingers again and grasped the painful, cold crystal. He quickly thrust it into a pouch, pushing it deep into his cloak as if hiding a piece of evidence that stained his hand.
Galadriel bowed her head. It was a moment of defeat. "Then," she said, her voice broken, "this light will show you the place where the road ends, Frodo Baggins. I fear I am not the one who waits at that road's end."
Frodo did not answer. He simply turned and walked with faltering steps to his boat.
They boarded the boats and were caught by the current. Lothlórien vanished into a golden mist, just as a dream scatters upon waking. In that moment, the protective, timeless enchantment that had been over the Fellowship also lifted. The wind blew cold again. The scent of honey in the air was gone, replaced by the smell of decay and marsh. The sky turned once more to a leaden grey. And the weight on Frodo's chest increased tenfold. They felt the Eye of Mordor again; Lórien's shield was gone, and there was only a hostile river, stretching for miles.
---
The journey passed in a tense, silent dread. Days chased nights. The river carried them swiftly south. The silvery trunks of the Mallorn trees gave way first to barren plains, and then to the place where the Emyn Muil, those sharp, razor-like rocks, began.
Boromir was in one of the boats with Merry and Pippin. But he wasn't speaking to them, not hearing the hobbits' anxious whispers. His eyes were locked on the eastern bank of the river, on the shadowed lands stretching toward Mordor. His mind was a battlefield.
My father is there, he thought. Osgiliath is burning. Perhaps I can smell those flames even now. And I am here, having wasted time in the land of elves, with a halfling. What did that witch give me? A belt. To Aragorn, a king's jewel. They see it. They choose him. They disregard me, disregard Gondor.
This bitter voice in his mind merged with the whisper of the Ring. Aragorn will lead you to failure. He will take you to Mordor, to your death. But Gondor needs strength. You need strength. That little thing cannot carry it. He even refused the light. Did you see? The Ring is abandoning him. The Ring is choosing you.
Frodo was in the other boat with Aragorn. He wasn't speaking, just paddling. And watching. He was watching Boromir's every move in the boat behind him. Not just with his eyes, but with his entire being. He could feel the anger in Boromir's shoulders, the tension in the sound of his oar strokes. He felt Boromir's every glance at him like a shiver on his neck, like a hunter watching his prey. Galadriel's warning ("Not everything must turn to the light") echoed in his mind like an oath. The light did not protect me. It did not protect Gandalf. I must protect myself.
On the dawn of the eighth day, they reached the immense structure. The mist cleared, and on both banks of the River Anduin, two colossal stone statues appeared, rising toward the sky. First, they were distant shadows, then they became giants filling the horizon. The Argonath. The Pillars of the Kings. The massive sculptures of Isildur and Anárion, marking the northern border of Gondor.
As the sun's rays struck those giant stone faces, the members of the Fellowship held their breath. For a moment, time stopped as the boats passed beneath the feet of those giants. Even the sound of the river was hushed in respect in the shadow of those stone titans.
Aragorn stood up. His face was filled with the pride and sorrow of a king. "My forefathers," he whispered.
But Boromir saw this sight differently. He saw not the glory, but the loss. He saw how Gondor had shrunk, how this magnificence had faded. These statues looked at him not as a hope, but as an accusation. Why did you abandon us? Why did you grow weak?
And the Ring sensed his anger and his grief. You can take it all back, it whispered in Boromir's mind. The strength of Isildur. The glory of Anárion. You only have to want it. Take it.
In that moment, the last thread of resistance inside Boromir snapped. He had made his decision.
They reached the grassy shore of Parth Galen. The western bank of the lake Nen Hithoel. Before them rose Amon Hen, the "Hill of Sight." When they pulled the boats ashore, the silence in the air was electric, like that before a storm.
Aragorn pulled the boats ashore. "We must decide here," he said, his voice weary. "East, to Mordor? Or south, to Minas Tirith? Or do we scatter, and each go to his own fate?"
Frodo's heart was beating against his chest like a hammer.
"To Gondor!" said Boromir, his voice an explosion. All the rage and despair that had built up inside him overflowed in that moment. "What are we still debating? Minas Tirith is not just a pile of stones, it is the shield of the west! If Gondor falls, what meaning does any journey to Mordor have? Give me the Ring, Frodo. I will take it to my father. We will use it as a weapon!"
"No," said Aragorn sharply. "We cannot use the Ring as a weapon. You know this. It serves only its master."
"Then we will hide it!" Boromir shouted. "We will lock it in the deepest dungeon, until we have gathered our strength! It is better than leaving it in the hands of this... this halfling!"
Frodo flinched at the insult. But inside, he felt not fear, but a cold anger.
"I... I must think," said Frodo, his voice trembling. "Give me an hour. I must be alone."
Aragorn nodded, ready to intervene as he saw Boromir's fury. "One hour. Then we will gather here."
Frodo quickly left the group and began to climb the slope of Amon Hen, toward the ancient Seeing Seat. The trees closed around him like prison bars.
But he was not alone. The voice of the Ring was no longer a whisper in his mind, but a command. Run from them. They will all betray you. Aragorn will throw you into the fire. Boromir will steal you. Go alone. The only one you can trust is me.
And Boromir came after him. He caught Frodo in the woods, away from the eyes of Aragorn and the others.
"Frodo!" he called out, his voice breathless. But it was not from running, it was from desperation. Frodo turned. His face was covered with that cold mask he had worn since Lórien.
"Leave me alone, Boromir."
"Leave you alone?" Boromir laughed bitterly. "Leave you alone while my people are slaughtered? That foolish elf-witch poisoned your mind, didn't she? Or was it Aragorn, that Ranger! He wants the throne, and he wants the Ring!"
"He is nobler than you," Frodo hissed.
That word broke Boromir's last control. "Noble?" he roared. His eyes were shining madly. "I fought for Gondor! I shed blood while he hid in the shadows! I defended cities while you hid in your little Shire! You cannot bear this burden. You are nothing!"
Boromir lunged at Frodo. "Give it to me!"
"No!" Frodo shouted. This was not the cowardly retreat from the original story. This was a clash of two wills. Frodo was filled with Galadriel's dark permission and the Ring's anger. Boromir, with his city's desperation.
"You cannot command me, Son of Gondor!" Frodo yelled, his voice not sounding his own; it was cold, echoing, and commanding.
This unexpected resistance drove Boromir mad. "You cursed little fool!" he shouted. "It has you! Don't you see?" He lunged for the chain around Frodo's neck. Frodo tried to push the strong hand away. They pushed, they grappled. The sound of Boromir's steel mail hitting Frodo's soft linen echoed dully in the forest. Boromir was a warrior; Frodo was a hobbit, but filled with the Ring's supernatural stubbornness.
Boromir, in a rage, shoved Frodo hard. "Give it!"
Frodo lost his balance. He staggered backward. The ancient Seeing Seat atop Amon Hen was made of stone. And Frodo's foot caught on a protrusion at the edge of those stones.
Time froze for that single second. Frodo fell backward. Not onto the soft grass. The back of his head struck the sharp, moss-covered edge of the Seeing Seat with a horrific, wet sound. CRACK.
And then... silence. Even the birdsong stopped. Boromir froze instantly. The madness in his eyes, the fire of greed, was extinguished in an instant. It was replaced by absolute, comprehending horror. Frodo lay at the base of the stone, at an odd angle. His eyes... his eyes were open. But there was no longer anger in them, nor fear. Just a blank, glassy surprise, staring up at the grey sky.
The chain was still around his neck. And the Ring on his chest, as if celebrating this new, sudden silence, grew warm for a moment. A dark red stain began to spread onto the grey stone beneath his head. It was the brightest red he had ever seen.
"Frodo...?" Boromir whispered. His voice came out like a child's. He took a step forward, his hand reaching out, trembling. "Frodo? Get up. This... this is not a game. Get up!" He touched the hobbit's cheek. It was ice cold. The warmth of life had been drawn out so quickly.
In that moment, Boromir's world shattered. "No," he moaned. "No... No, I... I didn't want to. I just... No..." He staggered back, looking at his own hands. A murderer's hands.
"What have I done?" he whispered. "Gods... What have I done?"
Just then, a sound came from the forest. A coarse shout that tore the terrible silence. The sound of heavy boots crushing brush. Orcs! Saruman's Uruk-hai had come.
Boromir's horror gave way to primal panic. He was dead. He had killed him. And now he too would die. And then, he heard the voice. This time, it was not in his mind. The voice came from the hobbit's corpse lying on the ground. From the Ring. It was no longer a whisper, but a clear, commanding voice.
"TAKE ME."
Boromir froze.
"THEY ARE COMING. THEY WILL TEAR YOU APART. THE HOBBIT IS DEAD. HE WAS WEAK. BUT YOU ARE NOT. TAKE ME. IF YOU WANT TO LIVE, TAKE ME!"
The cries of the Uruks were closer. Boromir looked at the corpse on the ground. At Frodo's empty eyes. Then at the sounds from the forest. He was torn apart by despair, grief, and that terrible, new desire for power. With trembling hands, he leaned over Frodo. He grabbed the simple chain. He pulled. The chain clung to the cold flesh, it didn't break. In a rage, in a panic, he tore the chain from the neck.
The gold ring glinted for a moment in Boromir's bloody palm. It was heavy. Far heavier than he had expected. Not a physical weight, but a spiritual one; as if a small black hole had fallen into his palm.
He hesitated for a moment. "NOW!" roared the Ring.
Boromir slipped the Ring onto his finger. And the world vanished. He became invisible. The physical world turned into a grey, hazy realm of shadows. Colors faded, sounds became muffled. The Uruks' shouts were as if they came from underwater. But he felt something else. To the east, thousands of leagues away, a great, fiery Eye suddenly turned toward him. No secret could be hidden under this gaze. The Eye saw him. And the Eye smiled.