Chapter 1: 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, too, 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.
Chapter 2: Breath (Aragorn)
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.
Chapter 3: Bend in the Path (Boromir)
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.