Living Proof

Chapter Four

Leaves scuttled all around as he dove at the hobbit, but Frodo was too fast, darting out of reach as Boromir leapt. Still, Boromir was determined and dove again, this time pinning the hobbit beneath him. The Ring. All he wanted was the Ring. He needed it.

His fingers tightened on Frodo, who fought with a strength belied by his size. The Ring glinted in the fading sunlight. He was so close to snatching it.

So...

...close

Then, the halfling disappeared.

Fury scorched through Boromir. He couldn't let Frodo get away. Couldn't let the Ring get away.

He gave chase, sweating despite the chill air, leaves and other debris clinging to his hair, his clothes. The sun burned bright through the treetops. Fury made him hotter still. Everything burned inside him. Sweat dripped from him.

Arrows came from all directions. Merry. Pippin. They were on the other side of the clearing, stunned and staring as he emerged over the ridge. He shouted at them. Told the fools to run. And they did.

No, they didn't.

He didn't know who fired the first arrow, but heat of anger, of desperation that flooded him already burned hotter as the arrow found its mark. Searing hot pain sliced through him. Again. And again. He tried deflect the arrows, but the heat raged into an inferno and his arms and legs failed him, refused to do it bidding.

Flames licked his legs, climbed up across his chest, threatened to immolate him where he stood and no one seemed to notice. His blood roared through his temples. Pain wracked his entire body. Death nipped at his heels and he cared not. It would be a relief from the relentless burning, the relentless heat, the relentless fire.

"Oh!" The fireball burst, sweat prickled along his skin and when he jerked awake, it seemed every fiber in his body screeched in protest.

The clearing. The hobbits. The orcs. They all vanished as if swept away by some invisible force, leaving him alone, on his back, staring up at the exposed beams of a strange room, drenched in sweat and breathing as if he'd run from one end of Middle Earth to the other.

But he had no idea where he was or how he'd come to be there.

The pain radiated through him, but not nearly as hot now. It made his stomach clench. Made bile rise in the back of his throat. And while he continued to sweat, a shiver came close on its heels.

He lay there, trying to will away the hot sting that centered on the left side of his torso, his left thigh. Little by little, breathing grew easier and the pain faded to a dull ache, but he still had no idea where he might be or how he came to be there at all.

Silence greeted him as the dull roar of his blood rushing in his ears quieted down and his heartbeat slowed as well. He felt no need to panic, as he lay there on a somewhat lumpy sofa, although he did wonder how he'd come to be very nearly naked beneath the worn quilt drawn over him. A threadbare chair stood on the far side of the table before him and on it were his surcoat and the cloak given to him by the lady Galadriel. He wore his small clothes still, but his tunic and trousers had been removed. His wounds had been treated and dressed as well.

His wounds.

Remnants of his dream still swirled through him. He'd been struck down by orcs. Hot shame swirled through him, and he squeezed his eyes closed as it flooded him like a mighty river. Whoever dragged him away from that clearing should have left him there to rot. It was that simple. He deserved no mercy, no kindness. He certainly deserved nothing but scorn and fury and shame.