He first thought he was seeing things. He was probably just reading too much into the situation. Yet after a few days, even Merry could not deny his eyes. The dear Lady Eowyn, whom he had become very close to, and the Lord Faramir really did seem to be forming some sort of attachment. They saw each other at least once a day, and they talked for hours. Eowyn hadn't wanted to see let alone talk to anyone. This was quite different for her

Merry sure hoped that something was forming between the two of them. He had seen Eowyn fall from being the proud beauty of Rohan to a vacant, desperate woman. It had sadden him to know that Eowyn had thought death in battle was the only path open to her leading to honor. These past few days she seemed to be returning to a symblance of her old self. Merry had even seen Eowyn smile. Her smile! It was a beautiful sight. One he had not seen in awhile.

This Faramir also seemed to be a good chap. Though the reports about his father, the Lord Denethor, had Merry concerned. He had burnt himself alive. That was not something to be taken lightly. Being Boromir's brother did give him some favor.

“Yet if I take those two things away, I have only what I see with my eyes. Now, what do I see?” Merry questioned himself. “He seems to do well by the lady. And he makes her happy. I guess that's all that really matters.”

Merry looked back over to where Eowyn and Faramir stood. He didn't know what they were talking about. He didn't know what would happen while all his friends were off at Mordor. What he did know was that her smile was like the sun shinning in the Houses of Healing. Suddenly the days were not so dark, and this gave Merry hope.

Far over the plain Eówyn saw the glitter of the spears of the Eorlingas, her king and lord amongst them, as she stood still, alone before the doors of the silent house. Far away, in the East, it seemed to her that dark clouds were gathering, a sleepless malice enveloping a people crying out for aide. Her uncle would go to them, and Aragorn as well, for he is a Dúnedain and aspires for greatness.

It is he that she longs to follow. It was he who, she hoped, would lead her to the glories of the battlefield. Thus she would truly be Shieldmaiden, in name and in deed. The brief vision faded before her as the last of the gleaming spears and shields disappeared behind the darkening hills.

She turned on her heel then, withdrawing into the pervading loneliness of the great hall where not a day earlier she had offered the cup to her lord Aragorn in the aftermath of the triumph of Helm’s Deep. As she had taken the goblet from his lips she said: “I would go with you, Aragorn. I would ride with you into battle just as your men do. Not because they seek triumph, but because they love you and would follow you till the end of days.”

He had looked upon her then with a sorrowful brow and eyes that spoke of a deep sympathy. This troubled her greatly, even more so when he spoke in hushed tones as though she were a child: “Your duty is with your people.”

“Too often have I heard of duty!” she had cried. “But am I not a Shieldmaiden? May I not now spend my life as I will?”

Suddenly grave at her response, Aragorn had turned from her with nothing left to say between them. Now he was gone, and she is alone in her cage longing for renown that would at least allow her to capture her Dúnedain’s heart. Eówyn lowered herself into the seat of the king, still feeling distraught at being left behind. Did Aragorn not know of her love for him? Did he not understand that one day she longed to be his queen?

A change came over her at the thought, like a cloud passing over the sun eliminating its warmth and leaving something pale and cold in its place. Eówyn shivered violently, her thoughts growing dim with each passing second. If he would not have her what point was there to the ever-darkening world in which she lived? She would have to die then, she concluded. Never had the Golden Hall felt less warm than in that moment when hope left her heart as swiftly as the men of Rohan had departed Edoras.

Abruptly Eówyn stood, her heart beating wildly in her breast at the thought of what she must do. She steadied herself, using every ounce of her will to walk in the direction of the armoury where she fitted herself with chainmail and helmet, sword and shield. Wielding these newfound burdens she went to the stables, empty now that the men were gone, and led her horse, Windfola, out into the waning light.

Mounting the grey animal, she turned her eyes to the East, toward the White Mountains, and determined that she had not lost too much time. It would be simple to slip in amongst the men camped there waiting the dawn. Pulling down her helmet she spurred Windfola into action, galloping out of the city gates and down through the hillocks of Simbelmynë that heralded her path to Dunharrow. As she rode she steeled herself so that whoever looked upon her would no longer see Eówyn, the White Lady, but rather Dernhelm, a Rider of Rohan.

It all started with a whistle. Yes, my friends a single whistle. Well a tuneless warble would be more precise but we’ll call it a whistle anyway. The day had begun much like any other day. The sun was shining, the skies were blue, the grass was green and little birds were tweet tweeting in the trees. Annoying, but I was in a good mood. I had finished my morning run, had a roll around the grass, checked myself out in the pool by the meadow (very handsome I must say), and I was just about start breakfast, when this… whistle started. I mean, how unfair! I had just spent weeks getting to know the new next door neighbour, complimenting her, bringing her meadow daises, and the very day she had invited me for lunch… there came this whistle. To most, a whistle means nothing, but to me it screams “OI! GET YER HAIRY BACKSIDE OVER HERE NOW!” I was fairly miffed let me tell you. I was grinding my teeth in irritation and I was so angry, did I see the great big hole the rabbits had dug that morning? No I did not. THWUMP! Right on my bottom, and then to top it all off the little dirt thumpers actually came out of their burrows and laughed! I’d get them later, oh yes. So, I was on my way to meet the whistling wiz. Full speed ahead as the “oh, great one” hates being kept waiting. I don’t even know how I got into this deal what with me at his beck and call. I think he spiked my oats, and had me sign a contract but no, he insists it’s all to do with me being so much better than other horses and he’s pretty special as well....I still say it was the oats. So I get to this open field, and I can see him at the other side, tapping his foot and looking at his watch. Weirdo’s in tow, as usual. Some dude who needs a bath, a poncy Elf who overdoses on the hair conditioner, and someone really titchy. So, correction - even more weird, weirdo’s than normal. “Well” I said to myself, “show ‘em what you’ve got”. I backed up a little bit behind some trees, and I leapt forward and sped across the field, rolling my head sideways and tossing my mane wildly. “Yeah, work it baby!” and I galloped straight to the wiz who must have taken my advice and had a bath, because he was all white and sparkly. I always knew there was someone clean under that grey. The look on his chops told me he wasn’t happy, but to put on a show for the weirdo’s, he spoke in a kind voice, did the whole “friend” speech, whilst glaring at me all the time. Whatever. Peace brother. So we started off for some hick town called Rohan. I wouldn’t mind it so much, but the wiz had definitely put on some weight and was packing more than a few pounds. The ride was so long! I’m not used to this labour, I’m not a pack animal. I deserve respect. I... am.. a mearas. Finally we get to bloody Rohan. I’m starving, gasping for a drink. I can see clear pools of water and hay only a few hundred feet away, but no. The weirdo’s, want to have a chat about people being possessed don’t they? Oh, yes. No thought for me at all. And as for those two scruffy sorry excuses for a horse, well they were babbling with excitement at it all. Wars and fighting, that’s what they live for, pah! So we went down to the stables, and I have to hold my hoof up here and say, they were very nice stables. I was (obviously) led to the nicest one there, while the weirdo’s and the wiz left for some kind of excorcism. Phew, I was tired. Still we were there, mission accomplished. The wiz would come staggering in next morning telling me I’m all done and I can go back home. Yeah right! Talk about animal cruelty, you wouldn’t believe what happened next...

There was a time…oh, so long ago. Before that meddling Elessar and his family. A time when I reigned supreme, holding the power of Ar-Pharazon himself. Then everything changed, and I lost my beauty. But not my cunning. Never my cunning. And by it I created what is dear to me, dearer than anything on the whole of Middle Earth. With it I had power again, the power of men and dwarves, all at my command. The scent of power filled my nose, the feel of power coursed through my veins. With everything under my command, I reached out even further. From the mountains to the seas, North and South encroaching upon those gnats who dared to call themselves free. Freedom! As if anything could stop me now. Then those meddlesome fools came, and I lost It.

I fled, not knowing where and not caring. It was lost to me.
Many years passed. I lurked, a nameless wisp of shadow with nothing and no one to fear me. For a time I lived, merely a fear in the south of Mirkwood. But that too passed, for without It I could not do much to collect power as I had done. The years marched on, and only by being still alive did I know that It was still out there. Then, inexplicably, I felt strength returning to me. I slowly grew in power, nursing my wounds and building my army as quietly as I could. One day, the remarkable happened. I was strong enough that I could feel It. Yearning, stretching, I reached out with my mind to call It to me. Far, far off it was, but not far enough. It was time.

Darkness had fallen. For a moment time seemed to stand still. In the sound of silence Aragorn watched in horror, and still in disbelief, the dark pit which was just a few feet away. He became vaguely aware of Boromir’s cry which roused the Ranger from his petrified state. Goblins and orcs already swarmed the opposite side of the Bridge, arrows fell among the Company. Aragorn flew up the stairs, taking the lead, while he cried: “Come, I will lead you now! Follow me!”
He led the Company up the last stairs, through the last arched passages, towards the Dimrill Gate, without looking back. Within the Ranger, emotions were battling for dominance as he was still hardly able to comprehend that the Wizard had fallen and would not return. The blade of Andúril flamed as it crashed on the head of the Captain of an orc patrol, which was guarding the huge doors of the Gate. The rest of the troop fled in terror.
Sunlight overwhelmed him as he passed through the Gate, blinding him momentarily but he kept on running to make sure that the Fellowship would be on a safe distance from the Gate. The sky was as blue a forget-me-nots and the sun shone high in the sky, shedding a golden light over the Dimrill Dale. High above the great doors of the Dimrill Gate, towered the Mountains of Moria; the majestic peak of Carhadras. How peacefully it now seemed in the bright light of the afternoon; its snow glittering in the sunlight, as the mountain looked down on them, mocking them as if it had succeeded in its purpose.
Aragorn took a deep breath of the sweet air and listened to the silent weeping of Sam, Gimli’s angry protests. Slowly grief overwhelmed him, the pain of the loss of his best friend and mentor ached inside him while guilt gnawed at his conscious. He had known Gandalf for a very long time. Their bond strengthened as they gone to peril on their journeys, and not only had the Wizard advised him well when he had been in need of guidance, he had also helped him in finding himself, when he at times had been lost.
“I fear we cannot stay here any longer,” he spoke with pain in his eyes as he turned to the rest of the Company. “By night time this hills will be swarming with orcs..”
Aragorn realised that there was no time to grief now. He had taken up the responsibility of guiding the Company further on its dangerous quest and he could not disobey Gandalf’s last command. The secrecy of their quest and the safety of the Ring was their most important purpose, which they could not forsake now. The woods of Lothlorien was to be their next destination and a long journey was still ahead of them, filled with known and unknown dangers. Deep in his heart the Ranger knew that he would not go to Minas Tirith any longer. Fate had decided that he was to guide the Ringbearer on his desperate quest.
Aragorn sheathed Andúril again after cleaning it, and looked for a last time at the high stone walls of Moria, as a heavy burden pressed on his shoulders. “Farewell Gandalf!” he cried. “ What hope have we without you?”
He turned back to the Company, looking at them as new-found determination flashed in his eyes. “We must do without hope. Let us gird ourselves and weep no more. Come! Follow me..”

“None of us should wander alone, you least of all.” Boromir stated as he picked up another piece of fire wood near the ringbearer, Frodo. His sudden presences seemed to have slightly startled the young hobbit. “So much depends on you. Frodo?” Frodo stared at him for a brief moment before tuning his gaze to the ground. “I know why you seek solitude.” Boromir started, trying to find a way to put Frodo at ease. “You suffer; I see it day by day. You sure you do not suffer needlessly?” He paused briefly trying to find a find a comfort for Frodo as Frodo just stared at him with slight suspicion. “There are other ways, Frodo, other paths that we might take.”

“I know what you would say.” Frodo commented. “And it would seem like wisdom but for the warning in my heart.”

“Warning? Against what?” Boromir questioned genuinely confused but within a matter of a second he could feel a slight twinge of insanity boiling to the surface. This insanity was sudden and was not pulled from his own mind but from somewhere else. “We’re all afraid, Frodo. But to let that fear drive us to destroy what hope we have… don’t you see, that is madness?” The Ring was now once again in his thoughts as it had been for days, whispering to him.

“There is no other way!” Frodo stated as he had walked a few paces away from him. It was easy to see that Frodo was now a little freighted about what might happen.

“I only ask for the strength to defend my people!” Frustration now added itself into Boromir’s mind and he threw down the wood he had gathered. All he wanted was to give his people hope and the Ring’s whispers promised him just that. “If you would but lend me the Ring…”

“No.” Frodo replied as he stepped back from Boromir.

“Why do you recoil? I am no thief.”

“You are not yourself.” Boromir had found himself thinking about killing Frodo to get the Ring. Why not? The little hobbit didn’t stand a chance against him so why not kill him and take it? “Why am I thinking of such things!?” Boromir asked himself before the Ring could fully take over; he was soon trapped inside his own body as the Ring continued to pray on his mind.

“What chance do you think you have?” Boromir asked in his possession, the conscious side of his mind had now been completely lost. The Captain-General of Gondor was now nothing more than a human puppet for the Ring’s will. “They will find you! They will take the Ring and you will beg for death before the end!” Frodo had started to walk away from him. Boromir could feel the call of the Ring more strongly. As it called out, pure anger exploded within him. “You fool!” Boromir exclaimed as he started to chase after the Ring and the hobbit whose neck it was hanging from. “It is not yours, save by unhappy chance. It could have been mine! It should be mine!” By this time the possessed Boromir and tackled Frodo to the ground and was struggling to get the Ring from him. “Give it to me!”

“No!” Frodo exclaimed as he clutched the Ring in his hand. The Ring possessed Boromir made even more of an effort until Frodo suddenly disappeared. The little *beep* had put on the Ring. A kick to the chest brought him down as the scurry of little feet were heard rushing away.

“I see your mind.” Boromir said still possessed by the Ring’s influence. He searched in every direction for sign of Frodo. “You will take the Ring to Sauron! You will betray us! You’ll go to your death and the death of us all! Curse you! Curse you! And all the halflings!” He lost his balance and slid to the forest floor. His mind and body were once again his own. “Frodo?... Frodo?” He called out quietly as he sat up, tears came to his eyes as he realized what happened. “…what have I done?... please… Frodo!”