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Little Things

A Hobbit’s tumble. The chink of chain against unnaturally hardened gold. A warrior’s back, too rigid suddenly for grace. The subtly grasped hilt of a nameless sword.


I am not surprised, although the rising terror I have known this Age swells a little. Pity, yes, as Frodo's face contorts, providing a brief vision of his doom. Looking past Man to Man, I see reflected in my old friend all I need to know of Boromir's quiet struggle. The still, ready hand, the wary set of mouth and veiled plea in grey eyes show me the vision of another's doom.



So soon. We are companions in defense of the Fellowship, yet I have feared this every moment, some less some more, since Rivendell. I grasp my sword, a tiny movement but one that should not escape him. But he has eyes only for the ring and cannot see what caution drives me to.

He knows I would do this. If he would but look at me…


Startled, he gasps and I exhale, so like other shared breaths that almost I ease my grip. But terrible confusion clouds his eyes. I watch for its fading, motionless. Only my heart twists.

Bend in the Path

Purest gold on purest white, how can it be evil? I heard it speak, but Men do not quail as Elves do. So bright, so perfect…


I start. How came it to my hand? Have I dreamt, with the day bright around me?

“Give the ring to Frodo.”

The Hobbit snatches the ring, sullen, accusing. I care not. Shame heats my heart as I see in Aragorn’s eyes command and plea and readiness to strike me down. Cold fear grips me for loss of things I cannot all name. But deepest pain is only that, and we go on.



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