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Chapter Text

"Boromir. Boromir!" The familiar voice came from very near, an urgent whisper in the darkness. He turned his head to find it, as it hissed again, "Boromir!"

"Aragorn?" His entire face hurt, so that he could barely move his lips and could not open his jaw at all. He was surprised when the man beside him understood the muttered word well enough to answer,

"Don't use that name. Call me Strider."

"What happened? Where are we?"

"The orcs took us."

Boromir tried to sit up, but he found that he could not move. The left side of his body felt as if it had been trampled by iron-shod hooves, and a terrible lassitude filled him.

"Lie still," Aragorn said. "They cut the arrows out and bound the wounds, but you shed much blood first."

"Arrows..."

Boromir collapsed back against the harsh stones and tried to think. To remember. The last memory he had, before waking up in this cold, pain-filled darkness, was fighting for his life among a hoard of foul orcs, slashing and hacking and howling his defiance in the face of their overwhelming numbers. The halflings were behind him, retreating slowly into the trees, reluctant to leave him yet terrified of a foe too great for their small swords.

And then... then the first arrow had hit him, and he had shouted at Merry to run... run while he could... and take Pippin with him! Merry was the sensible one of the pair. He could be trusted to understand the need for flight, and he would protect Pippin.

Another arrow. He remembered another arrow hitting home with shattering force, driving him to his knees, and the look of horror on the halflings' faces as he fell. But he was sure they had run, in the end... if that image was not merely his desperate hope betraying him. He could swear that he remembered seeing them turn their backs and vanish into the trees. Then he had braced himself for the final blow, the death blow.

Why had they not killed him? What was he forgetting? He remembered a voice, deep and harsh, shouting, "Take the Man!" And then? Then a huge figure looming over him, its sword raised to strike, and a slashing blow that fell, not against his neck, but...

Boromir shuddered and turned to find Aragorn beside him. He did not remember Aragorn being in the battle, but he did remember blowing his great horn. Perhaps the sound had brought the Ranger to his aid... and thus delivered him into the clutches of the orcs.

"I'm sorry, Strider," he murmured, hesitating over the strange and disrespectful name.

"Nay, Boromir, it is I who am sorry. I came too late to save either one of us."

Aragorn said nothing of his shock and horror, when he had run into the glade at Parth Galen in time to see the orc chieftain bring the flat of his monstrous sword down across Boromir's face, crushing bone and flesh together, sending blood and gore spurting from beneath the blade, even as the valiant warrior crumpled, lifeless, to the ground. Aragorn had fought his last, desperate battle in the certainty that Boromir was dead. And now, as he lay among the barren stones of the Emyn Muil, holding a whispered conversation with that same man, he could not stifle the tiny, betraying thought that Boromir would have done better to die under that ravening blade.

Boromir lay very still, absorbing his words, then whispered in a fearful tone, "The halflings?"

"They were not taken. I... I do not know for certain what happened to them, but they are not here."

"Please... let them be safely away!"

"You did your best for them, Boromir. It is out of our hands, now."

Before the other man could answer, a huge figure loomed over them and a harsh voice growled, gleefully, "Having a nice chat, lads?"

Aragorn looked up into the flat, scaled, hideous face of Uglúk, the captain of Saruman's forces, and groaned inwardly. "Leave him be, Uglúk," he said.

"Can't do that, can I? Bring the Men alive, that's my orders. And if I leave soldier-boy be, he might die on me." Uglúk fastened a fist in Boromir's collar and hauled him effortlessly away from the ground. Boromir gave an involuntary gasp, as pain ignited in his body and head, and Uglúk shoved the neck of a bottle between his teeth. "Drink up, like a good little soldier."

Boromir had no choice. He had either to swallow or choke on the burning liquid poured into his mouth. He swallowed, then cried out in agony, as Uglúk opened his fist and dropped his limp, battered body to the rocky ground. He was too stunned and sickened by Uglúk's rough treatment to notice, when the orc began peeling up the bandages that covered the arrow wounds in his shoulder and side. Uglúk seemed pleased with what he found, because he jerked the bandages back into place and gave Boromir a pat on the cheek that would have felled a cave troll.

"Splendid. You know, if you hadn't hacked up so many of my lads, I think I'd get to like you, little soldier. Too bad you're only a Man, and headed for the dungeons of Isengard, at that." One wicked claw plucked at the thick bandage on Boromir's face. "Too bad. But Lurtz didn't leave much, anyway."

Uglúk turned abruptly on Aragorn and lashed out at him with one, horny foot. The blow took Aragorn in the midriff, forcing a grunt of pain from him, then a second kick struck him in the face. "Then you went and lopped off his head, curse you!"

Aragorn spat out a mouthful of blood and turned aloof, emotionless eyes on Uglúk. "I'll do the same for you, Uglúk."

"That's gratitude for you, after I save your miserable life and lug you through these cursed hills. Time to leg it, boys!" Turning to one of his band, he waved in Aragorn's direction and growled, "Lugdush, you haul this piece of carrion the first shift. You," he grabbed the front of Boromir's cloak and dragged him nearly to his feet, "can walk."

Boromir staggered and dropped to his knees, earning himself another vicious kick from the orc. This time, the hand fastened on his left arm, and when the orc hauled him upright, he gave a tearing cry of pain that made Uglúk laugh.

"You think it hurts now, wait 'til you've legged it all the way to Orthanc."

A moment later, Boromir felt a loop of rope tighten around his neck, then a tug on the other end of the rope nearly pulled him off his feet again. "Strider?" he called, as the orc holding his leash started dragging him away.

"I'm right here."

The voice came from very nearby, but something about it bothered Boromir. It sounded muffled and was coming from the wrong height. It took him a moment to realize that Aragorn was being carried over an orc's shoulder.

"What did they do to you?" Boromir demanded. "Why can't you wa..." The noose cut off his air and stifled his words, as the orc jerked viciously on the end of the rope.

"'Tis nothing. A sword cut to the leg."

Boromir regained his balance and had the presence of mind to fasten his right fist around the rope, easing the tension on the noose and protecting his throat from his jailer's excess of enthusiasm. "Strider," he called again, "have you any idea where we are?"

"Near the western edge of Emyn Muil, I think."

"Quiet, you," an orc growled from very close by.

"How long has it been?" Boromir asked, ignoring the orc.

"Since the b... No!" Aragorn broke off to shout, real panic in his voice. "Not in the face!"

"I said, quiet!"

Then a sudden, howling agony exploded in Boromir's head, and he crumpled to the ground. For some uncountable time, Boromir knew nothing but terrible pain and a gibbering, shrieking fear that this was death, and he would have to endure an eternity of it. Very slowly, he became aware of his own hands clutching his face, of fresh blood running between his fingers, and of someone or something whimpering nearby. It sounded like a wounded animal - a creature too mortally hurt to make any real sound but too desperate in its pain to keep silent. He wanted to help the creature, to cut its throat and put it out of its agony, but he could not move to find it. His entire body was rigid and trembling, his muscles locked in place, his mind paralyzed. And then he knew. He knew that the dreadful sound came from his own throat, fighting its way up from lungs that would not breathe, past a jaw clamped tight against the rising tide of panic.

Iron-clawed hands gripped his shoulders, forcing him onto his back and pinning him to the stones. Then more claws tore at his wrists, pulling his hands away from his face.

A familiar voice snarled, from somewhere just above him, "Fool! They're to be delivered alive!"

The bottle neck was forced between his teeth again, and Boromir choked on a second draught of the foul orc liquor.

"If you've killed this one, I'll skin you myself, Snaga, and feed you to the lads for supper!"

"You said they weren't to talk," Snaga whined.

"If he talks, you tickle him with your whip! Teach him some manners! You don't kill him, you cursed ape! Now, you get to lug him as far as the stair."

"Gah. These whiteskins are heavy. Too heavy to pack all the way to Isengard."

"That'll teach you to be more careful. Get him up, and get moving, or you'll be tasting my whip fast enough!"

Boromir felt strong arms lift him, then he was flung over a broad, scaled, brutally hard shoulder. His torso hung down the orc's back, both arms dangling over his head and every movement sending a fresh stab of pain through the wounds in his left side. But he was grateful not to have to stand and walk on his own, grateful for the solid strength of the orc supporting him, and grateful to still be alive. He let his head rest against the orc's back and tried to ignore the blood running freely over his face, dripping to the stones below.

The whole troop of orcs set off again at a fast trot that jarred Boromir's aching bones. He bit back a cry of pain and told himself that he could endure this. He could endure anything, if it meant his friends in the Fellowship had escaped the clutches of the orcs.

Uglúk called a halt when the orc band reached the western cliff of Emyn Muil. They had traveled through the night and well into the morning, much to the distress of some of the smaller orcs, and they now faced the threat of the open fields of Rohan. Uglúk wanted to make straight for Isengard, but with the added burden of the two prisoners and the Rohirrim patrolling the plains, he doubted his lads could make it that far. While the orcs rested and debated their road, waiting for the sun to set, their prisoners lay together on the harsh stones and tried to recruit their strength for the next leg of the journey.

For Boromir, the halt was no respite. He no longer felt the jolting of the orc's strides in his wounded body, and he was grateful for this small comfort, but still his only companions were darkness, illness and pain. His thoughts offered no solace, either, for they drifted ever backward, to the glades of Amon Hen, to his moment of weakness and betrayal.

He had destroyed so much, in that one moment, so much that could never be mended. Bitter self-hatred welled up in him, as he saw again the sick horror in Frodo's eyes, heard the fear in his voice, watched the halfling scramble desperately away from his clutching hands. That memory, alone, was enough to make him burn with shame. He needed not the added knowledge that he had broken his vow, befouled his honor and his good name, fallen prey to the whispered lies of the Enemy, and led his king into captivity, perhaps even into death, at the hands of Saruman to spur his conscience. All of that was but salt in the cruelest of wounds.

Beside him, Aragorn stirred, his body grating against loose stones and gravel. A soft grunt of pain escaped the other man, and Boromir wondered, yet again, what wounds he had suffered that he would not admit. It seemed impossible that any mob of orcs could take the Ranger alive, much less hold him captive, yet Aragorn had made no move to escape. So either he had injuries too dire to allow for flight, or he had his own reasons for staying. Boromir did not like to consider what those reasons might be. Such thoughts only added to his burden of guilt.

Aragorn shifted again, until his shoulder pressed against Boromir's arm, and his head lay so close that Boromir could feel the heat of his breath when he whispered, "How fare you?"

"Well enough," Boromir answered, his voice so low that it barely carried past his own lips. "And you?"

"Ill enough." He paused, then added, "The next lap of the journey will be hard. You should take some rest."

"I cannot."

"Nor can I."

A silence fell between them, as each man lay listening to the sounds of the orc camp and dwelling in his own thoughts. After a time, Boromir stirred and spoke of what sat heaviest on his mind.

"They have gone on to the Black Land without us. Into the very heart of the Shadow."

"That was always the path they meant to take, whether we tread it with them, or not."

"It is too dark a road for the little ones. They will come to grief. They will be lost to the Shadow. And I... I who should have warded them against all evil..." He broke off, unable to voice his own failure.

"You fought for them, even unto death," Aragorn murmured. "No man could have done more."

Boromir felt the bitterness rise in him at Aragorn's words. He heard the understanding, the desire to heal and forgive in the other man's voice, and he devoutly wished that he was deserving of such generosity. But he was not, and the offer of it galled him. He tried to find the words to tell Aragorn of his treachery, but none seemed foul enough to convey the truth, and he was still floundering in silence when Aragorn spoke again.

"I knew what enemy you faced, and I left you to fight alone. When you called me, I came too late. I am sorry, Boromir. Sorry I failed you."

"You did not. You had orcs enough of your own to fight."

"I do not speak of orcs." He paused, giving Boromir a moment to absorb his meaning, then he repeated, softly, "I am sorry, my friend."

"Nay." Boromir turned his head away in denial, his voice roughening with emotion. "Do not call me friend. You do not know what I've done."

"I do. I spoke to Frodo."

Boromir swallowed to ease the tightness in his throat, struggling to conceal the depth of his emotion from the other man. "I would have hurt him, Strider. I would have done anything, only to hold it for a moment."

"I know."

The real pain and sympathy in the Ranger's voice only intensified Boromir's distress. "I betrayed the Fellowship. I attacked the ringbearer. I shamed myself and my people. All of this," he gestured vaguely with his hand, "is only what I deserve."

"Do not say such things! There is no shame in being human," Aragorn murmured, his voice heavy with tears. "I, of all men, should know that. And what blame may have fallen on you has been lifted by your willingness to fight and die for your companions. If there is any blame here, it is mine. I was the leader of the Fellowship, responsible for the welfare of every one of its members, including yours. I was the one summoned to battle, who came too late. And I am the one the orcs sought, the one for whom you have been made to pay such a price."

"And I am the one who drew you into their trap." Turning again to face the Ranger, Boromir asked, "Why does Saruman want you, Aragorn?"

"Because I am Aragorn, and Isildur's Heir. He must believe I carry the Ring, or else he hopes to learn its whereabouts from me."

"Then he knows who you are."

"Aye."

"Your face, or your name only? Will he know which of us is his true prize?"

"He will know."

"The orcs do not." Boromir did not phrase it as a question. Common sense dictated that Saruman would tell his minions no more than he must, and the fact that they wanted both men alive proved that they did not know which of them the wizard valued. "Strider, you must not go to Isengard."

Aragorn gave a humorless chuckle. "It seems I have little choice in the matter."

"You must not. Saruman will not keep you long. Sauron will come for you, and you will end your life in torment, in the black pits of Barad-dûr."

"I know what fate awaits me, Boromir."

"You must escape, before we reach Isengard. Perhaps I can convince the orcs that I am Saruman's prize, and they will guard you less carefully..."

"Nay. I will not escape, if it means leaving you to Saruman's mercies."

"You must. I will find a way!"

Aragorn did not answer for a moment, and Boromir got the impression that the Ranger was taken aback by his vehemence. Finally, into the tense silence, Aragorn murmured, "Find one that gets both of us out alive."

Boromir said nothing. He would not argue the point with Aragorn, but he had little hope of escape and even less desire for it. His life, as he had known it, was over - dishonored and debased by his attack on the ringbearer, crushed by the falling sword of an orc - so what did it matter if he breathed his last in the dungeons of Orthanc? So long as Aragorn lived, free, to lead the armies of the West against Sauron, Boromir could count his life well spent.

He lay still and quiet, pretending to sleep, while he turned over plans for Aragorn's rescue in his mind, using this urgent task to shut out all memory. The task gave him something solid on which to lean, a new confidence and purpose, familiar ground under his feet. Plots and strategies, life and death choices, the harsh necessities of war, these were the meat that sustained a commander in the field, and they sustained Boromir now.

At sunset, Uglúk roused his troops and kicked the prisoners into wakefulness. They were fed a hasty meal that neither man could easily stomach. Then Aragorn was tossed over the shoulder of a large orc, while Boromir, now strong enough to stand on his own feet, was tethered to his jailer with a rope about his neck and told to mind his manners. At a shout from Ulgúk and the whistling crack of a whip, the band set off down a steep, rocky cleft in the hills, headed for the sweet plains of Rohan.

Chapter Text

Merry started up, awakened suddenly from a troubled sleep. As he stared about him in confusion, he thought he heard the wild music of a horn, but it was only the dying echoes of a dream in his ears. Slowly, he lay back down in the grass and pulled his cloak more tightly about him.

It was the very blackest hour of the morning, long after the moon had set, when the first promise of dawn had not yet touched the eastern sky. Low clouds muffled the stars, and the fields of Rohan lay in heavy darkness. Merry curled up in the meager warmth of his elven cloak and stared at the sky that he knew hung somewhere above his head, even if he could not see it.

For a tantalizing and painful moment, the cold breeze seemed to carry the haunting echo of the horn again. He strained to catch it, but it turned to the rustle of tall grasses. Nothing more.

The figure beside him stirred, and Pippin's voice came to him in a low whisper. "You awake then, Merry?" When Merry did not answer, he rolled over and propped himself up on one elbow to gaze at his friend. "Can't sleep?"

"I can sleep all right," Merry muttered, "but I'd rather not."

"I heard you call out in your dream." Again, he got no answer. "I had the same one."

Merry shivered and closed his eyes, but that proved to be a mistake. When he traded the black of night for the privacy of his own mind, he saw the images that had haunted him for nearly two days, that had sparked the vivid horror of his dream, playing out behind his eyelids. He saw orcs everywhere, swarming through the trees, boiling up from the very rocks, teeth bared, eyes blazing, swords hacking at anything that moved. He saw Boromir standing straight and tall, a living shield between the hobbits and the seething mass of the enemy, his sword claiming another orc with every mighty stroke. But still they came, and came, until even such a sword, in the hand of such a warrior, could not stem the tide. And Boromir lifted his horn to summon help, blowing it until the sound echoed back from the peak of Amon Hen and made the orcs quail before him.

Merry saw again how the orcs faltered, giving the three defenders time to retreat into the trees, Boromir keeping the hobbits behind him and sheltered by his fearsome presence. But no help came, and the attackers found new courage. Boromir slew them as they came, ceaselessly, tirelessly, until the moment the first arrow struck him and Merry saw the impossible happen. He saw Boromir falter. The man kept his feet, but his sword dropped and he staggered, as his blood ran bright and hot from the wound. Merry gripped his sword, ready to throw himself into the fray, but a look from Boromir stopped him.

He remembered it now with such clarity that it struck like an arrow in his own breast. The look of defeat in the face of a soldier. Boromir's eyes met his for that dreadful moment, and then he called, in a voice as powerful and compelling as the horn's,

"Run! Run while you can!"

Merry shook his head, refusing to obey, but Boromir was no longer watching and did not see it. He had flung himself back into the battle, his sword flying once again, and as he fought he shouted, "Take Pippin and run!"

So he ran. He grabbed Pip by the arm, dragging him bodily from the glade, and ran as if all The Nine were at his heels. As he turned his back on the clearing, he heard the vicious whine of another arrow, heard the sickening thud of it striking home, heard the orc chieftain's snarl of triumph, but he dared not turn around to look. If he turned, he would lose the will to run, and Boromir had told him to run. So he ran.

"We shouldn't have run," Pippin whispered, softly, as if he had watched Merry's memories with him.

"What else could we do?"

"Stay and fight. It's not like we've never fought orcs. Why did you make me run, Merry?"

Merry shivered again, with fear and horror at what he had done. Pippin was right. They should have stayed, even if it meant capture or death. That was the knowledge that had tormented Merry since the moment he had returned to the clearing, with Legolas and Gimli, to find Boromir gone. Perhaps he would have died. But perhaps he could have pierced just one foot to slow a charge, knocked just one arm aside to prevent a blow, killed just one orc to thin their ranks, and allowed Boromir to stand until Aragorn came. For Merry was utterly sure that the two men together could have held off any army.

Instead, he had run away and taken Pippin with him, and Boromir had fallen. When Aragorn came, he too had to face the enemy alone. Now both men were gone, and in the depths of his sorrow, Meriadoc Brandybuck blamed himself for their loss.

"I'm sorry, Pip," he whispered, tears thick in his voice. "I'm sorry."

Pippin said nothing for a moment, and Merry felt the tears begin to slide down his cheeks. Then Pip chirped, in his drollest tone, "Ah, we'd only have gotten ourselves skewered, anyway. Likely we still will, if we ever catch those fellows."

Merry couldn't help laughing. Pip made it impossible not to laugh, no matter how miserable Merry thought he was. "No fear of that," he retorted. "We'll never catch them, with you slowing us down."

Pippin gave a derisive snort. "I may not have great, long legs like an elf, but I'm still faster than you."

"Faster to the table, maybe."

Merry had little stomach for such jokes, and the banter sounded forced to his ears, but he welcomed it as a sign that all was right between them. Secure in this knowledge, Merry settled back on the grass to wait out the night. He would not risk sleep again, for he could not bear another dream, but he would rest and watch the east for some hint of coming day.

In spite of himself, he dropped off to sleep, and it seemed only moments later that Legolas shook him awake.

"Dawn approaches," the elf said, in his firm, quiet way, "and we must resume the hunt. Come, Merry."

Pippin sat up and yawned, knuckling his eyes. "What's for breakfast?"

"The same thing you had for supper," Legolas answered.

Pippin groaned. "Lembas, water, and sore feet."

"Aye." Legolas offered him a hand up, then turned to Gimli and added, more seriously, "My heart misgives me. The orcs have not rested and may, even now, be drawing near to Fangorn."

"Then we're too late," the dwarf growled, a challenge in his eyes, "but still we must try."

"We must." Legolas turned to gaze at the two small, cold, miserable hobbits, his brow creased in a slight frown. "There is little chance we can outrun them, so we must find the means to out-maneuver them."

"What do you propose? That we storm the very walls of Isengard?"

"Only if we have no choice. I know little of Saruman, and without Mithrandir to advise us, I am loath to grasp that serpent by the tail. But this I do know. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, must not fall into the hands of the Enemy. If he comes to Orthanc, we must find the means to free him, even if it means we storm the walls."

Merry watched this exchange in glum silence, until he heard Legolas's final words. Then the hobbit could not contain himself, and he piped in, "What of Boromir?"

Legolas glanced at him, surprised by the edge in his voice. "What of him? He, too, is in the hands of the orcs. We will find him when we find Aragorn."

"You talk as though Saruman is a danger to Aragorn..."

"Aye, that he is," Gimli assured the hobbit.

"But what will he do to Boromir?"

Legolas gazed down at Merry with such understanding in his face that Merry felt sure the elf could see straight through to the shame and sorrow in his heart. "I know not. It were best we rescue them both, before we find out."

Pippin tossed away an empty mallorn leaf and dusted the last crumbs of lembas from his fingers. "What are we waiting for?" he demanded, with his usual impertinence.

Legolas smiled, as he turned to lead them back to the orc trail. "Only for the halflings to finish their breakfast. Come."

And so the four companions set out again on their hunt.

*** *** ***

Aragorn felt a surge of relief, when he heard Uglúk call for the band to halt. The sun was near its zenith, and they had traveled, almost without pause, since dusk the night before. His entire body hurt from the jolting strides of the orc who carried him, the wound in his thigh burned fiercely, and his cracked ribs sent pain stabbing through him with every breath. But worst of all was the aching cold in his arms. It crept up from his bound wrists to fill his shoulders with needle-sharp pains, and down into his hands to turn his fingers chill and dead. Uglúk had not allowed his hands to be untied, except for the few short minutes it took him to choke down a meal, since his capture. In that time, the blood had ceased to flow through his cramped, tortured limbs, and they had become a cold weight of useless flesh against his back.

Lugdush staggered to a halt and heaved Aragorn down from his shoulder, with no thought to how he landed. The man's weight came down on his wounded leg, and with a gasp of pain, he crumpled to the trampled, blackened grass. He made no attempt to sit up, but simply lay where he fell, savoring the feel of the unmoving ground beneath him and banishing from his mind all thought of bodily distress.

He opened his eyes, when he heard the heavy footsteps of another orc approaching. This one held the end of a rope tether in one fist, with Boromir walking at the end of it. As the orc reached Aragorn, he turned and gathered up the slack in the rope, forcing Boromir to stop when his fist closed on the loop about the man's throat. The orc gave the rope a vicious twist, held it tight for a moment, then flung Boromir back a step or two with a muttered curse.

"Sit down, soldier boy," the orc spat. "Better rest while you can, because I won't carry your filthy carcass any farther today!"

Boromir, who had not shown any reaction to the orc's rough treatment, allowed his legs to collapse and dropped down to sit in the grass near Aragorn's head. He did not move or speak, even when the orc vented a bit more of his spleen by giving him a solid kick to the ribs, just sat with his head down and his elbows resting on his knees. Aragorn could not tell whether he was waiting for something, shielding his face and thoughts from the eyes of the guards, or merely too exhausted to move. He seemed completely still and withdrawn, into some place where neither his captors nor his fellow prisoner could reach him.

Aragorn had watched his friend through the long, grueling march from Emyn Muil. Boromir had covered most of the distance on his own legs, though the orcs had been forced to carry him through short stretches, when his strength failed and Uglúk would not halt. Oddly enough, Uglúk had not seen fit to bind his hands. Aragorn had been quick to realize that the orcs thought of their prisoner as helpless, and that Boromir, as he regained some of his strength through Uglúk's rough and ready medicines, did his utmost to encourage that view.

Aragorn had no doubt that some of his visible weakness was real enough. He had suffered terrible wounds, only recently stanched and bandaged, and he had taken a massive blow to the head that had knocked him senseless for many long hours. The sight of his face, once so proud and fair, made Aragorn flinch, and the knowledge of what that wicked blade had done to him made the Ranger want to weep.

Boromir had not spoken of it. He had not, by so much as a word or gesture, made reference to the mess of crushed bone and flesh that had once been his right cheekbone and eye, to the deep bruise that blackened the entire right side of his face to the jaw line, or to the strip of bloodied cloth that covered both his eyes. Aragorn did not know exactly what that bandage concealed, but he had seen the backhanded slash that had felled the warrior, and he knew that nothing short of a miracle could salvage anything from the wreckage left by Lurtz's blade.

Aragorn might look upon the damage done to his friend with sorrow and pity. He might wonder what thoughts passed through Boromir's mind as he sat, so quietly, upon the plains of Rohan. He might question how deep the pain of those injuries went and how greatly Boromir suffered because of them. But so long as those thoughts and that pain stayed shut up behind the other man's impassive face, Aragorn knew that he dared not approach them. He could only watch and wait, and hope that Boromir, who had shown him much of what was in his heart of late, would trust him that little bit farther.

The Ranger was still trying to decide just how beaten and cowed his friend really was, and how much of it was a ruse to keep his freedom, when his thoughts were interrupted by the return of Lugdush at the head of a troop of noisy orcs.

"I'm telling you, lads!" Lugdush shouted, gleefully, to his cronies, "the longshanks will move fast enough, if we give him good reason!"

The guards posted to watch the prisoners eyed Lugdush doubtfully, but he was the trusted lieutenant of Uglúk, and they dared not interfere with his fun. He snatched a spear from the nearest guard and leered at Aragorn.

"On your feet!"

Aragorn eyed the wicked point of the weapon and wondered how far Uglúk would let this go, before he intervened. Slowly, his body protesting every movement, the Ranger twisted onto his right side to get his uninjured leg beneath him, and tried to sit up. Lugdush laughed aloud, then fastened a hand in his hair and dragged him upright. Aragorn sat unsteadily on his folded right leg, his left leg stretched awkwardly before him on the grass, fighting the sudden vertigo that gripped him.

The orcs jeered and clapped, stomping their iron-shod feet in delight. Lugdush, encouraged by their raucous shouts, began lunging and feinting with the spear, bringing it ever closer to the bound and defenseless Ranger.

"I said, on your feet, whiteskin!"

Aragorn tensed himself for the first touch of the blade and managed not to cry out, as it pierced clothing and flesh to send blood trickling down his side. Lugdush leered at him, feinted with the spear again, then thrust it viciously forward. Aragorn could not help himself. He flinched away from the sharp point and earned himself a gash along his ribs, as the spear slid between his bound arms and his back. His recoil and the fresh blood that painted his skin, visible through the rents in his clothing, brought more howls of laughter from the watching orcs.

With the spear pinned against his back, jutting out to either side of him, Aragorn swayed and started to fall. The point of the spear stuck in the earth, halting his sideways movement and pitching him face down onto the grass. Lugdush and Snaga rushed forward, to a chorus of shouts from their fellows, and grabbed either end of the spear. Bearing his weight on the wooden shaft, the orcs dragged Aragorn to his feet.

Pain lanced up his arms, from wrists to shoulders. He lurched forward, trying to relieve the pressure on tortured limbs, only to bring all his weight down on his injured leg. Pain blossomed into howling agony, his muscles turned to water, and he crumpled with a tearing cry.

For a sickening moment, Aragorn's mind swam into blackness, and he teetered on the brink of unconsciousness. But then a new sound reached him, rising above the frenzied howls of the orcs, a sound that dragged him back to awareness, in spite of his longing for oblivion, and forced his eyes to open. It was Boromir, shouting in rage and defiance. Lifting his head, Aragorn blinked away the encroaching mists in time to see Boromir lunge at Lugdush, striking the orc in the chest with his shoulder.

"Stop!" Aragorn shouted. "Boromir, stop!"

No one heeded him - neither man nor orc - and the cheers of the spectators drowned his protests. Lugdush roared his fury and made to grab the smaller man in his enormous arms, but Boromir did not give him time to close his grip. With a soldier's reflexes, he ducked beneath one flailing arm and spun away, having found and snatched Lugdush's wicked dagger from his belt.

Boromir stopped only a few paces from the orc, holding the knife expertly in his right hand, poised and ready. In spite of the ragged, filthy state of his clothes, the caked and blackened blood on his face, and the livid bandage bound across his eyes, he looked exactly what he was - a warrior, as fierce and proud and fell as any hero out of legend.

"If you lay hands on him again, you'll die," Boromir snarled.

The orc cursed and spat. "I'll snap your legs like twigs and drag you by the heels to Isengard, soldier-boy!"

The words were barely out of his mouth when he leapt at Boromir. His speed was astonishing, and Aragorn did not have time to cry a warning, before the orc crashed into the man and bore them both to the ground in a struggling, flailing heap. A cheer went up from the watching hoard, but it choked off in disbelief, when Lugdush abruptly rolled away from Boromir, a knife hilt protruding from his chest. The orcs let out a collective howl of rage, and they rushed in on Boromir in a stamping, snarling mob that completely hid him from Aragorn's sight.

The Ranger struggled to pull himself upright, but with his leg a deadweight beneath him, his arms numbed to uselessness, and the spear impeding his movements, he could do no more than crane his neck to peer through the thicket of orc legs.

Another, louder roar announced the arrival of Uglúk. He came charging into the fray, swinging his whip and cursing anyone who stepped into range. The lesser orcs quickly fell back, giving him room, until he stood glaring down at a squirming tangle of bodies at his feet. Aragorn could now see that two orcs had Boromir pinned to the ground and were trying to restrain him, while the man, with a strength born of rage, threatened to break free at any moment.

Uglúk strode up to them, kicking aside the errant thrashing leg, and brought his whip whistling down across all three bodies indiscriminately. The vicious crack brought silence and stillness.

"Let him up!" Uglúk growled.

The orcs scrambled quickly away, as wary of their captain's whip as of the prisoner. Boromir promptly rolled onto his side to push himself upright with his good arm, but Uglúk struck out again with his whip. The lash cut across Boromir's shoulders, and while his layers of clothing and mail protected him, the force of the blow knocked him flat. He lay face down on the churned earth and bruised grass, breathing heavily, content now to wait.

The orc captain stomped one enormous, booted foot down on Boromir's wounded shoulder, effectively pinning him to the ground, and leaned over to hiss, "You're not too bright, are you, little soldier? I let you keep your hands free, out of the goodness of my heart, so you won't run face-first into every rock and tree, and how do you pay me back? By sticking one of my lads."

Stepping back to give himself room, Uglúk swung the whip again. The lash flicked over Boromir's face and laid his cheek open to the bone. A gasp of pain escaped the man's lips, and he clapped a hand over the wicked, dripping cut. Uglúk gave a sour laugh.

"That's just a taste of what I've got waiting for you. Bring them alive, he says, but nothing about keeping them in one piece. Oh, no. And I'll make a good little soldier out of you, if I have to leave pieces of you from here to Isengard!" Bending even lower and dropping his voice to an evil hiss, he added, "Sooner or later, the White Hand will be done with you, and then you're mine. Understand? Of course you don't, you weak, foolish whiteskin, but you'll learn. You'll learn the price of killing an Uruk-hai."

Turning to the nearest orc, Uglúk bellowed, "Tie him! And make it hurt!"

The orc obeyed, dragging Boromir's arms behind his back and binding his wrists, being none too gentle about it, while another made short work of tying his ankles. By the time they had finished, the man had gone limp and still. Uglúk eyed him suspiciously, then grabbed a fistful of his cloak and dragged him over to where Aragorn lay. Tossing Boromir down with a contemptuous gesture, he fixed his flat, cruel gaze on the Ranger.

He bent to slide the spear shaft from beneath Aragorn's arms, then he reversed it to bring the point close to the man's blazing eyes. "Am I going to have trouble from you, too?" he demanded.

When Aragorn refused to answer, merely gazing up at Uglúk in silence, the orc used the spearhead to lift his chin, then pressed the blade against his throat. Blood trickled from beneath the edge, but still Aragorn betrayed no emotion.

"I'll be watching you two. And I'll be waiting for a chance to pay you out. Don't think a few lashes makes up for Lugdush, and don't think I believe it was all the soldier's idea." Uglúk's eyes narrowed shrewdly. "You're trouble. I can smell it. That one may do your killing, but you're trouble, right enough."

He gave Aragorn another moment to answer, then flashed his yellowed tusks in a horrific smile and growled, "Too smart, by half. And eyes like a cursed elf." He spat eloquently into the dirt, then stumped away, shouting to the guards, "No food for them! Keep them tied until their hands fall off! And if they twitch, stomp 'em!"

Aragorn maintained his impassive silence, until Uglúk had vanished into the milling crowd of orcs and only the guards remained to watch him. Then he cautiously rolled over to face Boromir's motionless form and whispered, urgently,

"Have you taken leave of your senses?" Boromir did not move, but Aragorn sensed that he was listening. "You might have been killed, for one act of foolish bravery."

When Boromir answered, his voice was low and hard with suppressed anger. "You should have run, when you had the chance."

"You did not kill that orc to allow me to escape." It was not a question, but a statement of blank disbelief.

"Perhaps. In part." Boromir hesitated, his face grim beneath its mask of blood and bruises, then repeated, "You should have run."

"I cannot run. I cannot even walk. And I will not leave you here."

Boromir said nothing, but his bitterness hung palpably in the air between them.

"There will be another time," Aragorn urged, softly, "and if there is not, then we will face death as we did life, with honor."

"I have no honor."

"You are wrong. Your crime is long since forgiven, Boromir. How can I make you see that?"

"I do not ask forgiveness, only the chance to mend some small part of what I have broken."

"Must you die to do it?"

"I have no wish to die. This is not about death, or even honor. It is..." He broke off, and Aragorn could see him struggling to find the words that would make plain his heart. When he finally spoke, his voice was but a rough whisper that Aragorn had to strain to catch. "All my life, I have watched my father rule Gondor from the Steward's chair, while the throne stands empty behind him. All my life, I have longed for nothing more than to serve my land, my city, my people in whatever way is given to me. But always... always the throne stands empty, as a reminder that I and my father and my brother are not enough. We struggle, fight and die so that other lands may live in innocence of the great Shadow, and still, we are not worthy to rule as kings.

"I know that my birth is not high enough to raise me to that throne. I know it. But it is my blood only, not my heart, that falls short. If love for a people makes a king, then Gondor has a king."

"She has a great champion, whether or not he wears a crown," Aragorn murmured.

"No more. I am finished. But even now, I can strike a blow for my people. I can send them the champion they need, send them a king! By blood, by right, and by worth, you are Gondor's King, Aragorn."

Aragorn gazed at him in wonder, moved by the utter conviction in his voice. "I did not think to hear you say those words."

"You are Gondor's King, and you belong at the head of her armies, not screaming your life out in the dungeons of Isengard."

Aragorn lay in silence, absorbing Boromir's words and pondering the gift he had been given. It was not the offer of a life to buy his freedom that touched him, for honor and the orcs would not allow such a bargain, but the greater gift of respect and acceptance. Not until Boromir spoke, calling him King, did Aragorn realize how he had longed for the other man's esteem. Now he had it, but the despair that hung on Boromir's words made the triumph bitter.

"We will ride to the White City together," Aragorn said, firmly, "and together, we will lead our armies against the Enemy."

"They are your armies, now."

"If I am to rule in Gondor, I will need my Steward beside me."

"Denethor is Steward of Gondor, and Faramir after him. I will never sit in my father's chair."

"Then I will have no Steward."

Boromir turned toward Aragorn, an arrested look on his face, and opened his mouth to speak, but Aragorn forestalled him.

"A king must have those he trusts to support him, and I will trust no one else to sit at my right hand or head my councils. I swear to you, Boromir, by the blood of Isildur and Elendil that flows in my veins, by the love I bear my people, there will be only one Steward in Gondor, so long as I am King. I will have you as my Steward, or I will have none."

Now it was Boromir's turn to fall into stunned silence. He lay with his face turned up to the sky, so that Aragorn could not read the expression on his bloodied features, and only his rapid breathing betrayed how greatly Aragorn's words had moved him. Finally, in a harsh voice that could not conceal his true emotions from the Ranger, he muttered,

"You may regret this day's work."

"Aye. I regret that I didn't run, when I had the chance."

Boromir smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but a sudden ruckus among the orcs distracted them both and caused Aragorn to twist around, hunting for the source of the disturbance. Several orcs were running for the southern edge of the camp, while others scrambled to their feet and snatched up their weapons. A shout arose from the outlying sentries, and Aragorn picked out the words, "Whiteskins! The horse-boys have spotted us!"

Uglúk's great voice rose above the rest, bellowing, "Steady now, there's only two of them, lads! Wait 'til they taste the arrows of the fighting Uruk-hai!"

A hail of arrows flew at the approaching horsemen. One toppled from the saddle, bringing a raucous cheer from the orcs, but the other wheeled his mount and galloped swiftly away to the south. The orcs shot a mass of useless arrows after him, until Uglúk stayed them with another stentorian bellow.

"Hold your fire, curse you! He's gotten away! We're for it now, if we can't reach the forest before the horsebreeders catch us! On your feet!" He waded among the milling, howling throng, kicking any who still sat on the grass and striking about him with his whip. "Up, you sluggards, if you value your skins!"

For all the chaos and shouting, the orcs moved with frantic speed. They scrambled to their feet, slung weapons, shouldered packs, and followed the first scouts away from the camp at a dead run. Iron hands grabbed the two prisoners and hoisted them unceremoniously over the nearest orc shoulder. Then the entire mass of orcs was away and running in a ragged line toward the distant, looming shadow of the forest. They kept their heads down and their mighty legs pumping in an endless, tireless, brutal rhythm that ate up the leagues beneath their feet. Uglúk came last, his whip biting the heels of the hindmost and his voice carrying to the front of the pack.

"Move it, you rabble! Run! Run, or die!"

Chapter Text

Boromir squirmed in his bonds but only succeeded in worsening his discomfort. The ropes that lashed him to the wide trunk chafed his wounds, while the gnarled bark of the tree dug into his aching shoulders, arms and wrists. Aragorn sat beside him, bound to another curve of the great trunk, but the clamor of orc voices and ring of axes against ancient wood made speech difficult, and the two men felt isolated in spite of their nearness to each other.

With a despairing sigh, Boromir tilted his head back against the tree and wished he could close his eyes to sleep. Since the fall of this accursed darkness, tired as he was, he had found it oddly hard to sleep. He knew that it had much to do with the fear lurking in the back of his mind - the fear that he would not awaken, or worse, that in the unchanging darkness, he would not know whether he was awake or asleep, alive or dead. It was a childish fear, when the waking world greeted him with so much pain and ugliness, but still it haunted him. And still, perversely, he longed for the simple and restful act of closing his eyes to shut out reality.

He sighed again, squirmed again, and winced as the ropes cut into the arrow wound in his side.

As if summoned by the man's inaudible whisper of pain, Uglúk came striding past the tree and stopped briefly to taunt his prisoners. "Don't get too comfortable, boys!" he chortled. "As soon as it's dark, and Mauhúr's lads arrive, we'll be off."

Boromir grimaced at the orc, the closest he could come to a challenging glare with his eyes bandaged, and said, "Not if the Riders find you, first. They'll spit you on their lances and roast you over your own campfires, Uglúk."

Uglúk thought that supremely funny. "Let them come! I'm ready for the horse-breeders and their bright lances. Let them come, I say!"

He stomped off into the din, still laughing, leaving Boromir to wonder, yet again, what the orcs had planned for the Rohirrim. It chilled Boromir to think that the fair Sons of Eorl might die beneath the blades of these vile creatures, and it galled him to know that he must sit idly by while it happened. He ground his teeth in frustration at his own uselessness. Boromir of Gondor detested feeling useless. It made him angry, which made him restless, which only increased his desire to be up and doing.

Unable to sit in impotent silence any longer, he pitched his voice to carry over the roar of activity and called, "Strider?"

"Aye."

"What are they building?"

"A barricade. It is nearly the height of a man, already, and curves back into the trees to guard their flanks."

It took Boromir no more than a few seconds to grasp Uglúk's strategy. The orc captain would place his archers behind the high, wooden barricade and pick off the mounted soldiers at will, covering the rest of the band as they retreated into the forest. It was a simple and efficient plan, but something about it unsettled the man. Then it came to him.

"When did orcs learn to build?" he asked Aragorn. "I thought they knew nothing but how to kill and destroy."

"Is that not what they are doing? Felling trees, so they can shoot Riders?"

"Aye... but don't you find it strange? An orc planning strategy? I would expect Uglúk to simply flee into the forest, trusting that the Riders would not dare to follow. Yet he halts here to build his barricade, cover his retreat, harry the enemy..."

"He fights like a man," Aragorn said. "Like a soldier."

Neither of them spoke for a moment, then Aragorn added, darkly, "Another of Saruman's treacheries. Gandalf warned that Saruman bred these creatures for strength and endurance. It seems he gave them more than even Gandalf knew."

"And so the Rohirrim ride to their death, unawares. They hunt a rabble. They will meet an army."

On that bitter note, both men fell silent. They had nothing else to say, no comfort to offer each other, as they faced the death of their hopes, along with that of the Riders. Neither had spoken of it aloud, but each had privately hoped that the coming of the Rohirrim meant rescue. Now they feared that it meant only more suffering and loss to add to Saruman's account. More blood on the wizard's hands.

The orcs labored on, felling tree after tree to raise their barricade high. Uglúk strode among them, shouting orders and laying on the lash of his whip where the work did not move fast enough to suit him. Ever, the eyes of the orcs turned to the downs that marched away from the edge of the forest, hunting for the first galloping figures upon their grassy slopes. And every now and again, another one would grumble,

"What's Uglúk's game, I'd like to know? We should be deep in the cool, dark forest by now, where the cursed horse-boys can't find us, not waiting for a spear through the gullet! What's he playing at?"

Then Uglúk's would snarl, "Playing, am I? I'll show you how the Uruk-hai play, you ape! And when the horse-boys are all dead, you'll be thanking old Uglúk that you aren't legging it all the way home with them snapping at your heels! Now move your lazy carcass, before I flay it for you! Move!"

The orcs moved, the trees fell, and the barricade slowly rose about them. As the sun slipped down behind the mountains to the west, another group of orcs came marching into the hasty camp from the forest behind. They arrived in a babel of shouts, laughter and clashing swords, and they were welcomed with enthusiasm by Uglúk's band.

"Mauhúr!" Uglúk bellowed. "Where have you maggots been hiding? There's killing to be done!"

Mauhúr, a much smaller orc than Uglúk, with eyes that blinked rapidly and shied away from the dying light, met this sally with an ugly laugh. "Maggots, is it? Well, you'll be glad enough of us maggots, when you reach the mountains. Waited for sunset, we did. You'll not catch my lads cooking their heads under the nasty, bright sun, when there's a lovely forest handy to shade them."

With a growl of disgust for such weakness, Uglúk sent the mountain orcs off to help his Uruk-hai with the barricade, while he drew Mauhúr aside for a private chat.

The activity built to a fever pitch, fueled by the energy of the new arrivals and by the orcs' relief from the suns painful rays. But suddenly, in the midst of all the noise and bustle, an unnatural quiet gripped the host. No orc shouted, no axe bit, no leaf rustled. Fangorn, itself, seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.

In the eerie stillness, Boromir felt a deep drumming in the ground beneath him. Hooves.

"They come," Aragorn murmured, and as if his words had freed their voices, every orc began to howl at once.

"Ai!! The horse-boys! The whiteskins are upon us!"

"Archers to the barricade!" Uglúk bellowed, his voice rising powerfully above the din. "Snaga, you're on the right flank, Dúrbhak on the left! Look sharp now, lads!"

The orcs obeyed, dropping whatever they carried to snatch up their weapons and rush to the barricade. For all their noise, they seemed to understand what was expected of them, and Uglúk's orders came at them in a steady stream, calming panic, quieting their shouts, and filling them with fierce, determined rage.

"Keep your heads down, and hold your fire! Wait for it, boys, wait for it! Wait 'til they've cleared the downs, then give it to 'em! Steady, now..."

On the open plains, the Riders came in a swift-moving column, riding three abreast. They carried their lances upright, the hafts resting on their booted feet and the burnished points lifted to the sky. A handful of archers, riding along the column's flank, had their bows strung and ready, but no arrow at the string, for they were following the trail of a fleeing rabble and expected no attack. In the dying sunlight, with their mail flashing silver and their pale hair streaming from beneath their helms, they looked both fair and deadly.

As they drew near the northern edge of the downs and saw the looming shadow of Fangorn before them, their leader rose up in his stirrups to gaze along the orc trail. It curved through the sweet grass of Rohan, angling to meet the muddy shallows of the Entwash, where the river flowed down from the forest. Then it followed the eastern bank of the river under the eaves of the forest. The Rider settled back into his saddle and turned his head, proud beneath its shining, crested helm, to speak a single word to his second. At that word, seemingly without effort, the entire column swung to its right and followed the blackened swathe of grass toward the forest.

The sun had dropped behind the towering peaks to their left, and the first night shadows fell across the forest at mountains' feet. The sky above still glowed with evening light, but the fields were dim and the forest a threatening darkness ahead. Still the Riders galloped on, unconcerned so long as they had a clear trail to follow.

Éomer, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, had hunted orcs since he could sit a horse. He knew that they would not turn and fight mounted soldiers, unless they outnumbered the Riders three to one, or unless cornered and forced into battle. These orcs had no such numbers, and if they had reached the eaves of Fangorn, they had all its shadowed dales in which to hide. They would not fight. They would flee, and Éomer's duty would end when he had assured himself that their foul feet no longer trod the grasses of the Mark.

The éored swept up the eastern bank of the river, toward the first outlying trees. Éomer again rose in his stirrups to survey their trail, but he could see naught beneath the forest's branches. The orc trail stayed close beside the Entwash, plunging with it between the trees and into a kind of clinging darkness. The Rider frowned, as he resumed his seat. He did not fear the forest, though he treated it with due respect, but as he gazed at that impenetrable shadow, placed exactly where his Riders must go to find passage for their horses among the trees, he remembered the tales told him as a child and felt an unaccustomed chill upon his flesh.

Shaking off his unease, Éomer signaled the éored forward and guided his own mount into the thickening trees. As he passed beneath the first branches, the shadow loomed up before him. He was still riding straight toward it, when he realized, with a shock, that it was solid. A great wall of rough-hewn logs, flung across their path. With a cry of warning, he lifted his hand to halt the Riders, but his voice was drowned by an earsplitting storm of shrieks and howls from atop the wall. Arrows rained down among the horsemen, striking helmet, mail, flesh and beast. Horses screamed in pain, and men shouted in anger.

Éomer brought his own mount to a standstill, so quickly that it sat back on its hocks, then wheeled it to the right and spurred it into a full gallop. He rode along the face of a long barricade that blocked the trail beside the Entwash. The wall curved from the river on the left, to a thick stand of trees on the right, and it rose nearly as high as his head, mounted as he was upon a tall horse. Along its top, orcs crowded, firing their black arrows into the mass of horsemen.

Éomer swung around the milling column and turned his horse toward the open plains, calling to his men as he rode, "To me, Riders of Rohan! To me!" Beside him, Éothain blew his horn to signal the retreat.

Another barrage of arrows whistled and sang among them. Another man cried out in pain and pitched from his saddle. Another horse staggered, an arrow through its neck. But still, the disciplined Riders formed on their captain and swept past the deadly barricade in his wake. More fell, as mighty arrows, fired at close range, punched through their armor or found the openings in their helmets. An archer near the rear of the column fired an answering shot at the barricade, and an orc toppled back from his perch with an arrow through his eye, as the éored sped back toward the open downs, leaving their dead and dying behind them.

Boromir heard the screams of dying men and horses, and he bowed his head in grief. He could not block out the familiar sounds of battle, though he tried, and he waited in painful anticipation for the next attack. The Riders would attack again, he knew, for honor would force them to avenge the fall of their comrades, and duty would require them to destroy the invaders upon their borders. He had fought beside the Riders of Rohan too many times to doubt that they revered both honor and duty as greatly as any soldier of Gondor.

Twice the horsemen flung themselves at the barricade, and once attempted to surprise the orcs upon their right flank. The orcs repelled them easily, and their howls of joy as they hacked at the fallen Riders with their swords sent a thrill of horror through the listening Boromir. Finally, as night fell in earnest, the horsemen withdrew just out of range of Uglúk's archers and lit watch fires in a tight semi-circle before the barricade.

The orcs amused themselves by hurling a collection of crude missiles at the silent, waiting Riders, accompanied by taunts and insults. But this pastime grew stale when the Riders did not show themselves beyond the ring of flickering light, and the orcs lost interest in their foe. They had nearly abandoned their posts at the barricade and were beginning to grumble about Uglúk's leadership again, forgetting the slaughter and plunder he had just given them, when an outcry from one alert sentry sent them scrambling for their weapons again.

A moment later, Boromir heard the distinctive, vicious whine of arrows and another sound he could not identify - a kind of spitting and crackling that did not belong to archery.

"Someone among the Riders is thinking," Aragorn said. "They've kindled their arrows. They plan to fire the barricade."

"Will such green wood burn?"

"The bark will, at least."

As if to prove his point, a stray arrow flew over the barricade and buried its point in the tree where the two men sat. Boromir heard it strike and instinctively looked up. A piece of burning cloth drifted down onto his upturned face, and he shook it away with a curse. The smell of smoke filled the air, along with the rising shrieks of the furious orcs, but the two men paid no more attention to the battle. They were far too concerned about the flames that now licked the lower branches of their tree, eating swiftly up the old, curled, flaking bark toward the winter-dry leaves above.

"And here we were worried about Saruman," Aragorn remarked, wryly.

Boromir gave a hard laugh and flinched away from another falling cinder. "I thought that I was ready to die for my King, but it seems I was wrong. If it please Your Majesty, your Steward humbly requests that you get us out of this before we are roasted like a couple of prize pigs!"

"We offer our deepest regrets to our most worthy Steward, but We are afraid that our hands are tied..."

Boromir cursed again, as yet more fragments of flaming bark fell onto his leg and started his breeches smoldering. Aragorn gave a hiss of pain and began thrashing in his bonds, telling Boromir that he, too, was suffering from the burning rain. The fire, eating so hungrily up the length of the tree, now began to creep downward as well, moving closer to the seated men. Sweat and soot painted their faces, the air felt too thick to breathe, and the wood behind their backs grew increasingly warm.

Boromir was mustering his courage to speak, to face his coming death and lay his final oath of fealty before his King, when the sudden grating of Uglúk's laughter interrupted his thoughts.

"That's it, boys, time to go!"

Boromir smiled in relief, as the great orc strode up to the tree and severed his bonds with a single stroke of his knife. The orc caught his smile and chuckled again. "Didn't think I'd let Saruman's prize get cooked by a rabble of whiteskins, did you? We've had our fun with the horse-boys, and now it's Mauhúr's turn. He'll keep them off our backs, right enough, so it's back to work for the Uruk-hai. Move it, lads!" he hollered to a nearby group of orcs. "We'll be in the caves by this time tomorrow, then it's home! Home to Isengard!"

Rough hands grabbed Boromir, and he found himself tossed over yet another shoulder. Then, with a shout and cheer, the Uruk-hai loped off into the forest.

Chapter Text

A long spiral of smoke rose into the pale sky, marking the place where the dead lay. To the small, weary band of hunters, it seemed an ill omen, and it burdened their hearts even before they knew what it portended. Now, as they picked their way through the ghastly refuse of the battlefield, they were filled with cold despair.

The Riders had already sorted the dead and were laboring to raise a mound of stones, dirt and green turf over their fallen comrades. Behind the smoldering remains of the barricade, a pile of orcs lay, awaiting the flames that would consume them. The slain horses, too, would be burned, but out on the downs, where their smoke would not mingle with the foul reek of the orcs, and where they could be given due honors.

Merry trailed dutifully after Legolas and Gimli, but his eyes strayed ever toward the tall, fair, hard-eyed Men intent upon their grievous task. They reminded him of Boromir and Aragorn, with their long limbs and stern faces, and he found that he could not look away from them for long. He wanted to hear their leader speak again, to savor the accent of the South in his deep voice, to catch the echoes of his friends in the man's words and gestures. It was the only connection he had to the captives and, slender as it was, it gave him comfort among the horrors of this place.

Legolas bounded lightly onto the barricade and paused atop a steeply canted log. Merry hesitated for a moment, then scrambled up beside the elf. His eyes swept the killing ground on the other side, where the Riders had finally trapped the last remnants of the orc band and slaughtered them, and he shuddered at the sight.

The clearing was a fresh wound upon the forest, gouged by the axes of the orcs as they built their barricade. Only one tree of any size still remained in the rough circle, but it had been burned to a twisted, blackened husk that still smoked fitfully. Of the orcs themselves, all that remained was a gruesome heap of bodies and battered weaponry.

Merry glanced up at Legolas, wondering what thoughts revolved behind his smooth, impassive face. The elf gazed steadily at the piled orcs, with no outward sign of emotion, then he turned and called down to Gimli,

"We must search among the dead, you and I. 'Tis no job for the halflings."

"Aye," the dwarf growled.

He strode off toward the end of the barricade, not having the height or the balance to climb it, but Pippin opted to scramble over it with Merry. The two hobbits climbed down into the clearing together and wandered aimlessly about, picking up bits and pieces of junk dropped by the orcs. They watched the dwarf and elf with sad eyes, wishing they had the strength or the stomach to help them in their gruesome task, and saying little. This did not seem the place for idle conversation, with so much death in the air.

The soft thud of hooves announced the arrival of a Rider. Merry turned to see Éomer canter around the end of the barricade and into the clearing. His horse came to a stop beside the burned-out tree, and he swung gracefully from the saddle. Legolas and Gimli straightened up and turned to meet him, as he strode over to them.

"Have you found ought of your captives?"

Legolas shook his head. "Nay, only orcs."

"That is all you will find. We would not throw Men in with this carrion, even strangers or enemies. I tell you, there are no Men here."

"They were here," Legolas insisted, "of that we are sure. But some of the orcs must have escaped into the forest with them."

"'Tis likely. They had many hours of darkness in which to flee, and we found only these few still holding the barricade, when we took it."

Gimli nudged the nearest corpse with his toe and said, "These are not the same orcs we fought at Amon Hen. They are more like to the orcs of Moria."

"Aye. The mountains are infested with such as these." Éomer gestured vaguely toward the west. "The Misty Mountains end there, in Nan Curunír, where lies Isengard. And the great spurs of rock that flank the valley are riddled with the burrows of mountain orcs. Some say the wizard who dwells there guards our borders, holding back the hoard. Others say the orcs come at his bidding." Éomer's face hardened, and his grey eyes burned with anger. "Whatever the truth of it, their numbers grow daily, and their fear wanes. Now they come, even unto the plains of Rohan, bringing war and death."

"Make no mistake," Gimli growled, "'tis Saruman who bids them come. The orcs who took our companions were bred in the pits of Isengard and marched at the wizard's command. Saruman is not your ally, Éomer of the Mark."

"I know it." The words were simple, but they carried a wealth of bitterness and rage within them.

Legolas turned back to the pile of dead and the question of his friends' fate. "If only these remained to fight, then the larger orcs must have fled to the west, with Aragorn and Boromir."

Éomer's head came up sharply, and he fixed keen eyes on Legolas's face. "Boromir? What Boromir is this you seek?"

"Boromir of Gondor, the son of Denethor. Is he known to you?"

"Alas!" The man looked stricken, and his eyes turned toward the darkness of the forest in despair. "Alas, Master Elf, you bring evil tidings! Had we known the son of Denethor was a prisoner, we would have died to the last man to free him!"

Merry moved up closer to the tall, fair stranger, eyeing him with new interest. "Are you a friend of his?"

"I am not so fortunate as to call him friend, but I do know him. And I have fought beside him."

Merry squared his shoulders, proudly. "So have I."

Éomer turned to face him fully, curiosity gleaming in his eyes as he looked down at the halfling. "You fought beside the Captain of Gondor? You must be deemed a great warrior, among your kind."

"Well... I don't know that you could call any of my kind warriors... but I have killed an orc or two with my small sword. And Boromir taught me how to use it."

"And do you count him a friend?"

"Yes." Merry felt tears pricking his eyes, but he ordered them away and met Éomer's gaze straightly. "Yes, I do, and I will follow him even into the dungeons of Isengard. I owe him my life, you see."

Éomer went down on one knee to bring his eyes on a level with Merry's. His face, so proud and stern, was full of kindness, and his smile was warm, if more than a little sad. "I wish you a swift journey and good fortune in your quest, small warrior."

"We could use another sword, when we storm the walls," Pippin remarked sagely.

Éomer accepted his words in all seriousness. "I would that I could lend you my sword and those of all my éored, but men such as I are bound by duty before all else, and my duty calls me to my King. He must be told of what has transpired here and warned of Saruman's treachery."

"Perhaps your king will help us?"

The Man said nothing, and the tightening of his face warned the hobbits that they had strayed into dangerous territory. Pippin hesitated, then swiftly turned the subject.

"I don't much like the look of these woods. I wager there are worse things in there than orcs."

"Older things, certainly," Legolas murmured, as he gazed at the surrounding forest with wondering eyes.

Éomer rose to his feet again and turned toward his horse. "If you heed my counsel, you will not venture into Fangorn. It has an evil name."

"But not an evil feel," Legolas answered. "And it matters not, for where the orcs have gone, there we must go as well. You know not the urgency of our errand, Man of Rohan."

The man shrugged as if to say that he had expected nothing else from his new acquaintances. He swung himself into the saddle again. "They will make for the west and the slopes of the Misty Mountains, but that knowledge will not help you, if you lose yourselves in the trackless shadows of Fangorn. Should you think better of your folly and return alive from the forest, then come you to Meduseld and the hall of Théoden King. I charge you, on your honor, to present yourselves before the Lord of the Mark and ask his leave to travel his lands."

"You have our word, upon our honor."

"Farewell, then." He wheeled his great horse and paused to look again at Merry, a smile lingering on his face. "Good hunting." Then he sprang away and left the four travelers alone with the dead.

Midday found the four hunters deep in the forest. They followed the Entwash, keeping to the eastern bank, where Legolas's sharp eyes could spot the prints of orc boots in the mud. The hunters moved in a dim, grey twilight. All about them was a growing sense of watchfulness, almost of anger, that breathed upon their necks as they went.

Legolas kept them moving as quickly as the smothering warmth and strangely thin air of the forest would allow. The urgency of the hunt was upon them again, and every hour that passed only increased their resolve, while it drained their strength. The hobbits were staggering with weariness, and the dwarf had fallen into a grim silence, when Legolas suddenly called out,

"Look! The sun has found her way down to greet us!"

The others lifted their heads and stared at a bright shaft of sunlight that pierced the forest canopy, ahead and to the west of their trail. Merry felt his spirits lift at the sight.

"Let's go that way," he urged. "I'd like to feel the sun on my face again!"

"And I would like to breathe freely, without all these trees watching me," Pippin said.

The elf and dwarf made no argument, and the company left the river to plunge into the deep twilight of the forest. It took them some time to reach their goal, but finally, they stepped from the shadows and into the warm, clear sunlight of early afternoon. They found themselves at the foot of a steep hill that thrust up into the open air. The trees crowded thickly about its base, as if jostling for elbow room and a chance to reach their stiff branches into the light, but the slopes of the hill were bare and stony, clad only in a few hardy weeds and grasses.

A rough stair climbed the sheer rock wall before them, leading to a ledge that offered a wide view above the forest canopy and a shaded place to rest weary feet. The travelers paid no mind to the shabby loneliness of the hill, or the straggling thistles that clung to its sides. They saw only the open sky and the promise of a respite from their hunt. With smiles on their lined and shadowed faces, they climbed the uneven steps to the ledge. There, they flung down their packs and cast themselves to the ground, staring up at the sky as though they had never seen it before.

Merry had eaten a sparse meal of lembas and water, and was dropping off to sleep in a patch of sunlight, when Legolas gave a hiss of warning that jerked him roughly awake. He scrambled to his feet and ran to the edge of the shelf where Legolas stood, peering into the shadows beneath the trees. He had an arrow already fitted to his bowstring.

"What is it, Master Elf?" Gimli asked.

Legolas nodded toward the trees at the very foot of the hill. "There, moving toward us. Do you see?"

At that moment, a figure stepped out of the trees and halted at the bottom of the stair. It was a man, bent with age, clothed in grey rags and leaning heavily upon a staff, his face hidden beneath a deep hood and the brim of his hat. When he lifted his head to gaze up at them, Merry saw only the end of his nose and his long, grey beard. No one moved or spoke, as though the ragged stranger held them under some kind of spell, and Legolas's bow hung limp at his side.

"Well met, my friends," the man said, in a voice both soft and strong. "I wish to speak to you. Will you come down, or shall I come up?" Without waiting for an answer, he began to climb.

Gimli made a great effort to shake off the spell as the man moved, and he strode forward to the stair's top, his axe in his hand. "Halt, stranger! Come no closer, or feel the stroke of my blade!"

"Is this how you greet an old man, who seeks only conversation?" The man paused, gazing up at the dwarf with eyes that gleamed from the shadow of his hood. "Put up your weapon, my good Dwarf. You will not need it."

Gimli stumbled back from the stair, his face a mask of surprise and confusion. His axe slipped from his hand to clatter on the stone at his feet. The four hunters stared, aghast, as the old man suddenly leapt up the last few steps and sprang onto the ledge, his arms open wide in a gesture of welcome. With a shrug, he threw off his shabby cloak and stood before them, garbed all in shining white, his head bare and his face revealed in the clear light that seemed to pour from him. His eyes laughed at them from beneath familiar, jutting brows.

"I say again, well met!"

"Aiee!" Legolas gave a great shout and shot an arrow high into the air. It vanished in a flash of flame. " Mithrandir! Mithrandir!"

Merry heard the name and understood, but he could not move. His feet were rooted to the ground and his limbs were numb with shock. He gazed at the blazing, laughing creature that had risen from the dead before his very eyes, and tears of joy began to slide down his cheeks, but still he could not move. Then the keen eyes turned to him, and a smile crinkled their corners.

"My dear Merry."

Those words freed him. His body was his own again, and without stopping to think what he was about, Merry dropped his sword, flung himself at the wizard, and wrapped his arms around his waist. "Gandalf!" he cried, "Gandalf, Gandalf! You've come back to us!"

 *** *** ***

Gandalf sat with his head bowed, listening to Gimli tell of their hunt across the fields of Rohan, his face shadowed by the wide brim of his hat. As the dwarf finished his tale, the wizard lifted his eyes to gaze at this small remnant of the Fellowship, and his face was drawn with grief. He did not speak for some moments after Gimli fell silent, but the others only waited, trusting that he would have some wisdom for them. Some guidance.

Finally, Gandalf sighed and said, "Alas that this evil should befall us. Isildur's Heir is a weapon we can ill afford to lose, and it pains my heart to think of such valiant Men in the hands of the Enemy."

Gimli gripped the haft of his axe and growled, "They are not yet lost to us! We have vowed to free them, and free them we will, though we hunt the length and breadth of Middle-earth to do it!"

"Your hunt is over, my good dwarf. Even now, the orcs draw near to the mountains and the safety of their caves. They will reach Isengard. You cannot prevent it."

"But we cannot abandon our friends, either!" Merry protested.

"To be sure. But if you would help them, you must find another way - a way that holds out some hope of success."

Legolas stirred restlessly, his eyes searching the drab canopy of the forest as if hoping to spy the movement of orcs beneath it. "What way do you see, that we do not, Gandalf?" He turned his eyes to Gandalf's face, and they were dark with despair, their elvish light dimmed. "For even without hope, we must go on."

The wizard pursed his lips thoughtfully, while his eyes twinkled from beneath his jutting brows. "We will go on, Legolas, to the very walls of Isengard! But not alone! Not alone."

"Who will go with us?" Pippin asked. "The Riders?"

"If we can persuade Théoden King of his peril, yes. But the Rohirrim are only a small part of Saruman's problem. He has forgotten another neighbor - a much older, wiser and more powerful neighbor than any race of Men - and if I read the whispers of the trees aright, he will soon find himself beset upon all sides."

"You speak in riddles," Legolas chided, smiling.

Gandalf laughed. "The answer to those riddles is all around you, Master Elf. Saruman has awakened the ancient power that slumbered upon his doorstep. He has stirred the wrath of Fangorn himself."

"The forest?" Pippin asked.

"The name of Fangorn belongs to more than what you see around you, Pippin. Fangorn is the shepherd of the trees and the guardian of this forest. He the oldest of the Ents."

Legolas stared at him in amazement. "Ents! The Onodrim yet live in Middle-earth? This is a day of wonders, indeed!"

"In more ways than you know. Fangorn is slow to anger and slower still to act, but Saruman's latest treachery has started that anger simmering. Soon, it will boil over and run like a tide about the feet of Orthanc. Then woe to Saruman, master of orc, axe and fire!"

Bounding to his feet, all semblance of age or weariness gone, Gandalf threw his arms wide to embrace them all and cried, "Our time is now, my friends! The Enemy is reaching out his hand to claim Saruman's prize, even as we speak, and we cannot wait upon wise counsels. We must stir the wrath of Ents and Men, gird them for war, and storm the walls of Isengard together!"

Gimli brandished his axe, shaking it at the heavens and roared, "To Isengard!"

The others leapt up and echoed his cry, "To Isengard!"

"But first, to the Ents," Gandalf said, his eyes twinkling. "Come."

Sheathing their weapons, the last remnant of the Fellowship pulled their elven cloaks about them and followed Gandalf down into the shadows of Fangorn.

 *** *** ***

Aragorn stood with his back to a roughhewn wall of stone, facing the chamber's only door. To either side of the door, torches burned in iron brackets, their oily smoke billowing up to the ceiling where it clung like a living shadow, roiling with every movement that stirred the thick air. The Ranger wore nothing but a piece of coarse cloth wrapped about his loins, but in the smothering heat of the caverns, sweat ran freely down his naked body. The wound in his left thigh throbbed and burned with an insistent pain, protesting the pressure of his weight on the damaged leg, and dark blood oozed from beneath fresh scabs. The pain of it was terrible, but it gave Aragorn a focus in this eerie, airless, fire-lit nightmare. It kept his head clear and reminded him just how real, and how deadly, his plight was.

Since coming out of the dark caves at the feet of the Misty Mountains into the vale of Isengard, Aragorn had lost all sense of reality. The vale, once so green and gracious, was now a barren wasteland, riddled with pits and fires, dominated by the cruel spike of Orthanc at its center. Smoke, steam and flights of black birds writhed together to stain the sky, while the harsh cries of orcs mingled with the shriek of tortured metal and the croaking of the birds. No fair thing now lived within the ring of Isengard, and Aragorn wept inwardly at the sight of its desecration.

Into the bowels of the earth the orcs had brought their captives, through caverns that seemed to pulse with flame and heat, along tunnels hacked from the rock and lined with guttering torches, past foundries, armories, furnaces, refuse pits and dank holes that breathed corruption. Aragorn saw creatures and contraptions beyond his imagination - slave gangs whipped by orc overseers to speed their labors, machines that groaned and shrieked and belched a foul reek into the thick air of the caverns - and everywhere was the smell of burning.

When they came at last to this chamber, to his cell, he felt a moment of relief that the heavy wooden door would close between him and the horrors of Saruman's realm. Then they had taken Boromir away, and for the first time since their capture, Aragorn found himself alone.

For all his years as a Ranger and wanderer, Aragorn had never felt such a terrible sense of isolation. He was a brave enough man to admit his fear, and he was a wise enough man to see that his growing friendship with the soldier of Gondor had laid him open to that fear. He was not afraid for himself, though he knew that suffering such as he had never known before awaited him. He was afraid for his friend, and for the pressure Saruman would bring to bear on the newly-minted bond of affection between them. Standing there in his cell, chained to the wall at wrist and ankle, fettered and helpless, he knew loneliness and a gnawing dread that tortured him as no physical pain could.

There was nothing for him to do but wait. He leaned his aching body against the wall, eased the weight off his wounded leg, and let his head droop between his shoulders. To the casual observer, he would appear beaten, cowed, broken in spirit. But in truth, he was gathering his strength, seeking deep within himself for the will to defy both Saruman and his dark master. All the misery he had endured on the march, all the insults, abuse and privation, were only the precursor to this, and he must be ready.

The orcs finally came, their heavy boots crunching on the raw stone of the tunnel, their torches throwing heat and shadow across his prison walls. Aragorn did not lift his head to acknowledge them. He simply waited, unmoving, for some sign of what they intended. A large bundle hit the floor with a muffled thud. It spilled open to reveal his clothing and gear, every piece torn, stripped and slashed in the thoroughness of their search. Aragorn glanced at the mess, reading Saruman's frustration and fury in each knife cut.

"Aragorn, son of Arathorn."

The voice seemed to fill the chamber with its deep, soft, melodious tones, and it brought Aragorn's head up with a jerk. He found himself staring into eyes as dark and bottomless as the voice - eyes that pierced him with their brilliance, spread the balm of compassion upon his wounds, and awed him with their wisdom.

"Long have I looked for your coming, Heir of Gondor. Long have I waited for the King to take counsel of Saruman the Wise."

The shining figure in the doorway took a step toward the prisoner, away from the orc guards that flanked him, and as he moved, the ruddy torchlight slid over his garments, making them shimmer into a myriad colors. He held a staff in one hand, its finial a replica of the four spires of Orthanc, and on one finger of that hand, he wore a ring. Aragorn stared at that pale, slender hand, remembering Gandalf's tale to the Council of Elrond - how Saruman had forged a ring of power for himself, in imitation of the Elven smiths of old. The memory of Gandalf, his friend and guide, dispelled the magic of the wizard's voice and cleared his thoughts. He again met the compelling gaze, but with no trace of wavering in his own.

"I am not yet King, Saruman, and you are not my counselor."

"Such is the folly of Men." When Aragorn made no answer, Saruman smiled coldly. "And through such folly has the Dark Lord risen again, to threaten all Middle-earth with his Shadow."

Aragorn could not argue with him, deep as were his own feelings of guilt and failure over the choices of his kind. He might inherit Isildur's throne, but he also must inherit the consequences of his folly, and until he had atoned for the one, he could not claim the other. This was the conflict that defined his life, summed up in a single statement by the traitor Saruman.

"I offer you now the chance to undo the evils of your forebears and claim what is yours, free from taint or doubt," Saruman urged, his voice soft as velvet and thrumming with power. "I offer you an end to wandering, exile, war and shadow. Look into your heart, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and admit that I offer you your deepest desire."

Aragorn did not need to look into his heart. He knew that Saruman spoke the truth, but he also knew that the truth concealed a lie. "What is the price of my desire?"

"Alliance." Again, Aragorn said nothing, and his silence seemed to inspire the wizard with new eloquence. "Join with me. Carry your banner at the head of my armies, that all the peoples of the West may know their King is come, and I will lead you to victory over the Shadow. I can do it, Aragorn. I can set you upon the throne of Gondor, and I can drive Sauron from the shores of Middle-earth forever!"

"If I give you the Ring."

Saruman's eyes blazed. "The Ring. The weapon of the Enemy. What better way to defeat him, than with his own weapon used against him?"

The sound of those familiar words and the fierce passion in the wizard's eyes sent a shiver down Aragorn's spine. He felt as though he looked into Boromir's face at the moment that he tried to take the Ring from Frodo, and this glimpse into the torment of lust the Ring could inflict appalled him. Still, he kept his horror to himself and spoke calmly.

"I do not have the Ring."

"You know where it can be found - where Gandalf has hidden it."

"To reveal that would be to betray a friend."

"For the greater good of all Middle-earth!"

Aragorn stirred uncomfortably in his chains, sickened by Saruman's words, yet fascinated in spite of himself. "So now you would betray Sauron, as you betrayed the White Council before him."

"If evil perishes, what matter the means used? Would you have me surrender the Ring to him, out of loyalty?"

"You do not have the Ring to surrender or keep."

"I have you, and Sauron prizes you only slightly less than the Ring of Power. He knows that my servants have taken you. Soon, very soon, the Nâzgul will come for you. Then Gondor will be deprived of her King, of the symbol of her ancient glory, and she will fall into despair."

"What, then, are your promises worth? Of what use to me is an alliance with Saruman, when I am fated to die in Sauron's dungeons?"

Saruman smiled, as though pitying the Man's lack of faith in him. "The Nâzgul come for an Heir, and I will give them one. Let them take their Heir and be gone, while we hasten to find the Ring. By the time Sauron realizes that he has a Steward instead of a King, we will hold victory in our grasp!"

His words echoed into silence. Aragorn gazed steadily at him, reading the lust, greed and dawning triumph in his face, only thinly veiled behind his veneer of reasoned calm. Saruman clearly thought that his prisoner was weighing his offer, tempted by it, and Aragorn let him smile, let him revel in his success.

Finally, the Ranger spoke, his voice soft and dangerous in the quiet. "So you would have me betray two friends."

"The son of Denethor is no friend to you. He is an arrogant, proud, ambitious man, who will never bend his knee in allegiance to any king."

Hanging there in his fetters, naked and filthy, listening to the voice of Saruman seduce him with its honeyed tones, Aragorn smiled. In his mind, he heard again his friend's words, spoken in a murmur from the darkness, calling him King and swearing to send him home to Gondor, to his throne and his people, as a final gift from their fallen Captain. He saw again the sorrow and regret in Boromir's face, the soul-deep pain that his own weakness had wrought in him, when he broke his vow and betrayed the Fellowship. And Aragorn knew that Saruman had misjudged them both.

"I will not give you the Ring, Saruman, and I will not break faith with my friends. There will be no alliance."

Chapter Text

Pain raged in Aragorn, a pain such as he had never known before. It came not from lash or blade or fire, but from deep within him, as if the very fabric of his body were being torn asunder by the light, caressing touch of the wizard's hand. He could not withstand it, could not rise above it, could barely breathe with the terrible, inexorable progress of it through every nerve and sinew.

He told himself not to cry out, not to expose his weakness before Saruman, and for a time he managed to swallow the sound of his agony. His limbs thrashed uselessly in their chains. His back arched, his neck strained, and his head pressed hard into the rough stone wall, until blood ran down his scalp. Still, he stifled his cries, and still, the pain grew.

Saruman's voice came from close beside him, a low, venomous murmur in his ear. "Do not think to deny me so easily. Do not mistake me for that Grey Fool you followed so blindly into death and defeat."

Aragorn wanted to answer him, but he dared not. If he loosened the clamp upon his throat to speak, his words would be lost in a scream of agony that might never end, and still Saruman would taunt him. He opened his eyes and turned his head toward the voice, to find Saruman's face less than a hand's breadth from his, the great, liquid eyes aflame with rage and madness.

Saruman smiled, a terrible, soulless grimace. "You think, because you trailed like a dog behind Gandalf, eating his scraps and licking his hand, that you know wizards. But I tell you, Aragorn, I have power the likes of which Gandalf never dreamed. You enjoy the merest taste of it now, but were I to will it, you would die in agony, pleading for an end. Such is the power of the White Hand."

As he spoke, Saruman lifted his hand from Aragorn's side and held it up before his eyes. Instantly, the pain in the Ranger's body ebbed, and he sagged in his chains, shaking with relief. His eyes, blurred with exhaustion, gazed at the wizard's pale hand. It seemed to flicker and gleam as it moved, and Aragorn slowly realized that he was seeing the ring's gem catch the torchlight and break it into dancing shards.

"Defy me, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Deny me. Spout your promises of honor and fidelity. In the end, it will avail you naught. I will have what I want from you. Never doubt it."

"Do what you will," Aragorn whispered, his voice ragged with pain. "I have given you my answer."

Agony flared afresh in Aragorn, without warning, and tore a long, dreadful cry from him that pierced the thick air of the chamber. Saruman bared his teeth and pressed his palm more tightly to Aragorn's breast, letting his power flow into the man's shuddering body. Aragorn flung himself against the chains, fighting to escape the cruel touch, while his cries tore at his straining throat. He was trapped and helpless, once more in the grip of the terrible agony that Saruman wielded. He could not breathe without screaming, and he could not scream loudly enough to drown the sound of Saruman's laughter.

As suddenly as it had begun, the pain stopped. Saruman stepped away from Aragorn, his face contorted with disgust, and he sneered when the Ranger sagged in his chains.

"I have your answer," the wizard hissed, "but you have only begun to taste the power of the White Hand. Before I am done, you will be grateful that I do not accept that answer."

Whirling around, Saruman stalked from the chamber, leaving Aragorn to wait in gathering dread. The Ranger had no idea what Saruman planned for him next - he would not allow his imagination to dwell upon the possibilities too long - but somewhere deep inside him, in the place where fear was born, he knew that his torment had only begun. Saruman had tried the insidious power of his voice and failed. He had tried pain and failed. Only one weapon remained to him, the only weapon Aragorn truly feared, and with time running short, the wizard would not hesitate to use it.

By the time he heard the stamp of orc boots in the passageway, Aragorn had passed from dread to sweating panic. His imagination, in defiance of his will, wreaked havoc on his peace of mind by playing scene after scene of mayhem, madness and torture before him, until he twisted against his chains and ground his teeth in helpless fury. In another part of this labyrinthine hell, along another dark passage, in another foul cell, Saruman was breaking the body and will of a man already pushed to the brink of despair. Aragorn could do nothing to stop it, and all his affection, all his earnest desire to see his friend and Steward returned to health and hope, meant nothing in the face of Saruman's evil cunning.

Then the door swung open, and Saruman strode regally into the chamber. Behind him came two orcs with torches and two more, escorting a prisoner between them. Aragorn knew that he should be doubly afraid, but in that moment of recognition, he felt only an overwhelming relief, for Boromir was with him again, and neither of them would have to face the coming horror alone.

"Boromir!" he called, gladness and welcome plain in his voice.

Boromir's head came up sharply, his face brightening, and a lopsided smile touched his lips.

"How fare you?" Aragorn asked.

The smile widened. "Well enough. And you?"

"Ill enough." The Ranger almost laughed aloud, so great was his relief. He knew, from this brief exchange, that Boromir was as yet unharmed, undaunted by their plight, and in full possession of his wits. He was clad much as Aragorn was himself, with the bandage still bound across his eyes and his hands tied behind him. Aragorn could see no sign of fresh injury upon him and no hint of fear in his bearing. Aragorn felt a surge of gratitude for the stubborn courage of this soldier of Gondor.

"You see, I can be generous," Saruman commented, with deceptive mildness. Both men turned toward him, their faces going cold and haughty. The wizard chuckled. "The King and his loyal servant, reunited, as a gesture of my good will. Aragorn speaks highly of you, son of Denethor. He claims that you are ready to bend your knee before him and swear fealty. This is something I would see. The proud Captain-General upon his knees before a ragged wanderer? It defies belief."

Boromir lifted his chin arrogantly and retorted, "'Tis none of your concern, wizard."

"And yet, I would see it." Saruman's voice was silky, dangerous, laden with formless threat. "Kneel before your king."

Boromir turned his head away.

"Kneel!" the wizard commanded, and he snapped his fingers at one of the guards.

Before the orc could move, Aragorn called, sharply, "Boromir!"

The Man turned his bandaged gaze on his liege lord for a brief moment, startled by his vehemence, then nodded once and dropped to his knees on the stone floor.

Saruman chuckled softly. "The ties of friendship are strong, to bring such a man to his knees at a word."

Boromir said nothing. His face, blank and calm beneath the savage bruises, betrayed no emotion. Saruman paced slowly up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You have proven your good faith," the wizard said, "and now it is time for your liege lord to prove his. He swore that he would not betray his friend. Do you believe him?"

"Aye."

"Let us hope that your trust is well placed, Boromir of Gondor." Lifting his eyes to Aragorn's face, he went on in his measured tone, "I ask you again, Aragorn, will you ally yourself with me to save all Middle-earth?"

"You know I will not."

"And what of your loyal servant?"

"His life is forfeit to your ambition, as is mine."

"Perhaps you need a further demonstration... of my good faith." Saruman turned back to Boromir, and his hands came up to clasp the Man's head gently.

"Nay!" Aragorn blurted out before he could stop himself, remembering the exquisite pain of that touch. "Do not!"

"Watch and be silent." Saruman's long fingers cradled Boromir's head, looking even more white and ghostly against the black bruises on his face. His palms pressed lightly against slashed and shattered cheekbones, his thumbs rested on bandaged eyes. Boromir knelt quietly between his guards, passive under the wizard's hands, showing no sign of distress.

Nothing moved in the cell. Nothing changed. It seemed to Aragorn as though the guards had turned to stone themselves, becoming part of the floor. He dared not stir in his chains and break the utter stillness, so intent was he upon the tableau in the middle of the floor.

As he watched, Saruman's form seemed to waver and blur. Power slid, like a living thing, over his shimmering robe and gleaming hair. It danced along his fingers, where they clasped Boromir's head, setting his ring alight and playing over the man's savaged features. The wizard's breath came faster, and his hands began to tremble. Caught between those hands, Boromir did not even appear to breathe.

And then the wizard gave a deep sigh. The power faded, the tension eased, and Saruman dropped his hands to rest on Boromir's shoulders again. With that gesture, the chamber came to life - the orcs shuffling their feet, the torches snapping - and Boromir sank slowly back on his heels.

"Boromir?" Aragorn called.

Boromir turned to face him, and Aragorn felt his mouth fall open in shock - a shock mirrored in Boromir's own expression. For against all hope and reason, Boromir's face was whole again. The bones, crushed so brutally by Lurtz's blade, were sound and clean, the whip cut that had laid his cheek open was nothing but a fading scar, and beneath the yellowing bruises was the proud, fair, familiar face of Gondor's Captain as Aragorn remembered it.

"The pain is gone," Boromir murmured in wonder.

Aragorn swallowed to ease the sudden tightness in his throat. "Your eyes?"

Boromir hesitated for a moment, then shook his head.

"Not yet, Aragorn," Saruman said. "Not until you pay the price."

Aragorn felt his stomach clench with the sheer, inescapable horror of it, and the question he did not want to ask fell from his numb lips. "What price?"

"The Ring."

Neither man spoke. Both had expected exactly this answer, but certainty did not soften the blow. Aragorn could find no words to fill the aching silence, in which he saw Boromir's shoulders bow ever so slightly and his head drop forward. Saruman caught Boromir's chin and lifted it again, allowing the torchlight to shine full in his face.

"The choice is yours, Aragorn. The choice is simple." Saruman's hand lingered on Boromir's cheek as he spoke, a silent reminder of the power he wielded. "Give me what I ask. Give me the Ring and your solemn vow to stand beside me in the coming war, as my General, and I will give you all you desire. Your throne, your crown, the freedom of your people... and the life of your friend."

Boromir made a visible effort to straighten himself, his shoulders squaring proudly. "I am ready to die for my king."

Saruman laughed, coldly, turning Boromir's words of brave defiance into bluster and foolishness. "You will not die. Not by my hand. But I will crush you, until you weep and plead for death, then I will surrender you to Sauron in your master's place. What he does with you is not my concern. That is your choice, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Gain all or lose all."

Aragorn stared down at his friend, where he knelt on the floor with Saruman's pale hand against his face. The sight of that dark blood, staining the bandage like gory tears, would haunt Aragorn for the rest of his days. He knew this, but he also knew that his choice was clear. Whatever Saruman did to Boromir, he did to Aragorn as well, but such was the burden of a king. He made choices that sent men into agony and death for him, and a little of him died with each fallen soldier. He was ready to accept this burden, though it tore his heart, and he knew that he had the strength in himself to face the consequences. His only fear was that Boromir would not understand.

He spoke clearly, evenly, with no tremor in his voice to betray his pain. "I will not join you. I will not lead you to the Ring. I will not accept my crown at your hands, stained as they are with innocent blood. And Boromir," his words dropped to an agonized murmur, "I am sorry."

Saruman's face contorted with rage, and his eyes flashed. Power seemed to leap out of him, blazing in the thick air of the cell, and at the same instant, Boromir gave a dreadful, tearing cry. His back arched, his body stiffened, and he flung himself away from the wizard's touch upon his face, but the orcs held him. He could not escape. He fought them - fought for breath, for freedom, for a surcease from pain - but still they held him on his knees before the wizard, trapped under the caress of that merciless hand. Saruman's fingers curved around his skull, burying themselves in his long hair, in a gesture that might have been mistaken for one of tenderness, were it not for the look of savage pleasure on the wizard's face or the agonized cries that echoed through the chamber.

With a final burst of strength, Boromir managed to tear himself free of the orcs' clutches, and he fell heavily to the floor, breaking Saruman's contact with him.

"Hold him," the wizard snapped. An orc planted one knee in Boromir's side to pin him down, while the other knelt at his head and clasped it hard between huge, clawed hands.

"Aragorn!"

The Ranger flinched at the raw pain in Boromir's voice, and in a moment of cowardice, he shut his eyes. Then Boromir began to scream, the sound tearing at his throat and at Aragorn's ears. Aragorn's eyes snapped open again. He saw Saruman stooping over his prisoner, one hand gripping his staff, the milky globe that crowned it glowing with an eerie light, and the other hand resting over Boromir's heart. The fierce joy in Saruman's face, the sheer delight in inflicting pain, was almost as terrible to see as the suffering of the man he tortured, and Aragorn felt the sickness of horror rise in him.

"Aragorn!!"

Saruman laughed, and Aragorn gave a small, involuntary moan.

"Your king is listening," Saruman taunted. "Beg for his favor. Perhaps he will be merciful."

Boromir drew breath to speak, but his words broke into a ragged cry of pain. His body shuddered and writhed against the stone floor, but not now with any conscious desire to escape his captors. He did not have enough will, enough awareness of anything beyond the pain, to resist them. He could only suffer, and in the intensity of that suffering, thrash and scream and call out to the one human being who could hear him.

Suddenly, Saruman lifted his hand and rose to his feet. The room seemed to plunge suddenly into shadow again, as the wizard's power waned, and the body at his feet went limp. Saruman gave Boromir a swift nudge with the staff and said, "Have you nothing to say to your liege lord?"

Very slowly, Boromir stirred, turning his face toward Aragorn. The Ranger saw agony in the set of his features and fresh blood on his lips. Before Boromir could speak, Aragorn called, urgently, "Forgive me! There is no other choice left to me, Boromir! I would stop this, if I could!"

Boromir's answer was slurred with pain and blood, but it carried clearly enough to his friend. "There is no choice. I am ready... to die for my king."

"It will not be that easy, I promise you!" Saruman hissed, as he dropped to one knee and spread his hand flat on Boromir's midriff.

The breath rushed out of Boromir's lungs in a long, wordless moan. He doubled up in agony, seeming to close his body protectively around the source of his pain. The orcs made no attempt to hold him, shying away from the wizard, the prisoner, and the white-hot power that enclosed them. Saruman leaned down to murmur something that Aragorn could not hear above the ghastly, unendurable sound of Boromir's suffering, but Boromir heard him.

The man's head snapped up and he cried, furiously, in a voice torn raw by his own screams, "There is no choice! There is n... Aragorn!"

"Stop!" Aragorn howled, in futile protest, throwing himself against his chains until blood started at his wrists. "Enough!"

Abruptly, Saruman snatched his hand away, and Boromir collapsed in a nerveless heap. The blaze of power faded. Saruman stared at the still, huddled form of the man with eyes empty of all emotion, and he rested a hand on Boromir's head. For the moment, there was no agony in the touch, and Boromir did not stir.

After a long stretch of silence, the wizard demanded, harshly, "Is it enough? Are you prepared to give me what I ask?

"Is he dead?" Aragorn whispered, ignoring the wizard's question.

Saruman's gaze shifted to Aragorn's face, and he rose slowly, majestically to his feet. "No."

He stalked over to the chained man, his eyes burning madly in his pale face. "Take heed, Aragorn, son of Arathorn! I will not be thwarted. I will not be cheated of victory by an exiled vagabond and the bloodied wreck of a soldier. You will give me what I want, and I will not give him the comfort of death until you do! Do you understand me, King of Gondor?" He spat out the title with such venom that Aragorn recoiled in his bonds.

But it was Boromir who answered him, muttering softly, "There is no choice..."

"Silence!" Saruman lashed out with his staff, striking Boromir in the back of the head and lighting the room with the sudden discharge of power. Boromir stiffened once in reaction, then collapsed.

Saruman whirled on the two orcs, snarling, "Take that back to its cell. One of you, stand guard. If the carrion moves or speaks, send me word."

The orcs obediently lifted Boromir between them and carried his lifeless body out of the chamber. Saruman motioned for the other guards to leave the room, and he closed the door behind them, so that he and Aragorn were alone in the flickering torchlight. As he paced over to the wall where Aragorn stood, the Ranger noted that the madness seemed to have drained from his face in an instant, and his great, dark eyes were full of genuine sorrow.

"Such is the horror of these times, that Man must turn against Man, friend against friend."

"No friend has turned against friend, for all your efforts, Saruman."

The wizard smiled gently. "So you may tell yourself, if it gives you comfort, but remember this, Heir of Isildur. But for you, your friend could have walked from this chamber, whole and strong, to taste the sweet air of Gondor and see again the white walls of Minas Tirith shining upon the slopes of Mindolluin. But for you." Saruman turned to leave but halted with his hand upon the door to say, thoughtfully, "You were right about the son of Denethor, and I was wrong, I admit. He proved himself your friend. He did not break faith with you." Saruman pushed the door wide. A wistful smile touched his lips. "'Tis a pity you cannot say the same."

With a swish of iridescent fabric, the wizard was gone, and Aragorn was alone.

 *** *** ***

Boromir lay huddled on the floor of his cell, shivering in spite of the sweat that streaked his skin. He shivered from pain, from shock, and from fear. But most of all, he shivered beneath the sheer, overwhelming weight of grief that lay upon him. He had withstood the wizard's torture - he had not begged Aragorn for mercy nor Saruman for death - but it had cost him the last of his strength and will to do it. Now he lay here, alone, the victor for a time, shaken by pain and a desperate sorrow.

Gondor... Gondor... His mind wept the name, though he dared not speak it aloud. He dared not admit the depths of his longing to walk the rich fields of his home again and ride beneath the leaves of fair Anórien. To climb the slopes of Mount Mindolluin at sunrise, and to see his beloved city glimmering like a jewel in the new light. To stand upon the walls of the citadel, his brother at his side, the banners of the Tower of Guard snapping above their heads as they gazed together over the land they protected, fought for, bled for, would gladly die for...

To die for Gondor. He had said it often enough, even wanted it at times. Now he faced the cruel reality of it, and he knew in his heart that he did not wish to die. Not even for Gondor. But die he must, or scream out his life in a hell worse than any death, because honor and duty demanded it. For Gondor, for Aragorn, for his friend who was also his king, for Frodo and Sam and Merry and Pippin and any hope they had left of destroying the Ring. For all of them and all that he held dear in his life, he must die.

He knew this. He accepted it. He would face it with all the courage he could muster, but still he wept for the lying promises of the traitor Saruman and that brief, terrible moment of joy when he thought he saw the walls of Minas Tirith shining, white and beautiful, before his eyes again.

Lost as he was in despair and pain, Boromir did not hear the crunch of orc boots on the floor of his cell. He knew nothing of his visitors, until a cold hand rested on his hair and a familiar voice slid over him like the brush of velvet.

"You see now what the faith of a king is worth. You see to what he has reduced you."

Boromir stirred and tried to lift his head. He did not have the strength to bear its weight, but Saruman's hand slid beneath it, cradling it with a palm against his cheek. Boromir flinched at the touch, though it was oddly gentle.

"Your allegiance is repaid with suffering," the wizard continued, softly, "and your life is forfeit to his stubborn pride. You, who have served Gondor with honor all your days, must now be sacrificed so the vagabond heir can claim his throne."

"Served with honor..." Boromir mumbled through the blood in his mouth. "Die with honor... like a soldier."

"There is no honor in such a death - for a man who would sell you into torment."

"He would not."

"He has. You heard him, Boromir, as clearly as I. He will let you go to Sauron in his stead, rather than join with me against the Enemy."

Boromir took a ragged breath and whispered, "You are the enemy."

Saruman's free hand touched his cheek in a gesture of compassion. "Foolish Man." The taunt was soft, almost affectionate. "Do you think you have felt pain at my hands? Wait until you feel the touch of the Lidless Eye. Then you will know true pain, and you will long for the comfort of the White Hand."

Boromir shuddered. He could not help himself, though he despised the weakness in him that betrayed his fear to Saruman. The light caress of voice and hand soothed him, while the wizard's words filled him with dread. He wanted to growl his defiance, but all that came to his lips was a quiet sob and a muttered,

"Aragorn..."

"Do not look to him for mercy, Boromir. He has made his choice and left you to your fate."

The stubborn phrase came to him again, like a beacon in the darkness. "There is no choice."

"For him, perhaps not. But for you? For you, there is another way." Saruman's hands clasped his head firmly now, and his voice came from so close that his breath was hot on Boromir's face. "I can spare you the horrors of Barad-dûr. I can send you home."

"Gondor."

"Yes, home to Gondor, home to the father who looks for you in vain and the brother who mourns your loss, uncertain of your fate. You can end their suffering with your own."

"How?" He did not want to ask, did not want to admit the longing that filled him afresh at Saruman's words, but the voice seemed to wring the truth from him whether he willed it or no.

"It is simple. To save Gondor, I need the Ring."

"I do not have it." He felt no surprise at the demand, only the aching sadness that always came with thoughts of the Ring. The Enemy's Ring, not his. Never his. He must remember this and remember the look of horror on Frodo's face at the moment that he tried to claim it as his own. Frodo, who had looked to him for protection and been betrayed. Frodo, who was once his friend and now lost to him... as was the Ring. "I do not have it," he muttered again.

"You know who carries it. You know where it has gone." An edge crept into Saruman's velvet voice, and the clasp on Boromir's head tightened. "Where is the Ring?"

"The Ring... the Ring has passed..." He broke off with a gasp, as the first whispers of pain touched him.

Saruman sent yet more power coursing through his hands, into the mind and body of his captive. "Speak! Speak the name! To whom has it passed?"

"...passed from peril into peril..." Boromir whispered, then he moaned softly and tried to twist away from the wizard's grasp.

Saruman tightened his hold yet again, letting more pain seep through his cruel hands, and demanded, "What does that mean? Where has it gone?!"

"It is beyond our reach."

"Save yourself, Boromir. Save Gondor! Tell me where to find the Ring, and I will save all that you love!"

"And betray... betray my King..." He took a ragged breath and cried out, despairingly, "Aragorn is Gondor!"

"Then I will give you Aragorn, if that is what you want! Give me the Ring, I will give you your king!"

Boromir uttered another wrenching cry, and his voice rose with the crescendo of pain inside him. "I was wrong! I was wrong! It is not for me!"

"It is for me, you fool! Give me what is mine! Give it to me, and I will end the torment!"

"I am sorry! I am sorry!" he sobbed, not hearing Saruman's hissing promises through the blaze of agony and remorse that filled his mind. "I was wrong! The Ring... cannot save us! I have failed... Gondor will fall..."

"Who carries it?!" Saruman snarled, his grip on the man tightening until his knuckles showed white and his arms trembled with the strain. "Where has it gone?! Tell me and live! Tell me and die!"

"We are lost!" Agony shuddered through Boromir's body, tore from his throat, and screamed a single name in the thick, foul air. "Aragorn!"

With a muttered curse, the wizard pulled his hands away. The man crumpled into an insensible heap, awareness fleeing from him with the pain. As Saruman rose to his feet, he wiped his hands against his robe, his face rigid with disdain.

"Die with honor?" he mocked, his voice soft and venomous. "You will die like an animal, all reason gone, all humanity. And when you scream, none but beasts will hear you. Where then is your honor, my brave Captain?"

Casting a final, withering glance at his uncaring captive, Saruman turned and stalked from the room, the orcs shuffling out on his heels.

Chapter Text

War had come to Nan Curunír. In the blackest hour of a moonless, starless night, the Riders of Rohan had crossed the Fords of Isen and fallen upon the great gates of Isengard. It was an act of desperation. No force of Men could hope to break the gates. Yet the Rohirrim had come, and they threw themselves against the sheer rampart of the walls with a grim determination that scorned defeat.

From his high window in the tower of Orthanc, Saruman watched them come and laughed. They looked pitiful from this height, their lances waving like blades of grass in a high wind, their crested helms bobbing as they rode. In the ruddy light from the fire pits, the silver helms appeared stained with blood - sweet promise of victory to come for the White Hand.

As he watched, smiling, a troop of horsemen galloped out of the trees and into range of the archers on the walls. A storm of arrows met their sally. The Riders, fearless even under such an assault, stood in their saddles and calmly picked off orc after orc with their own arrows, while the defenders behind the rampart scrambled to fill the gaps left by the dead. Then a raucous howl sounded from the gateway tunnel, and the Uruk-hai flooded out to join the fray.

Mounted as they were, the Rohirrim still could not stand against the superior numbers and ferocity of the orcs. They fell back slowly, drawing the orc warriors after them, fighting as they retreated. The orcs, intent only on slaughter and plunder, followed their prey beneath the shadowing bows of the trees.

Trees? Saruman abruptly leaned out of the window embrasure to stare at the battle below. A frown deepened the lines in his face. Trees? There were no trees close to the southern wall. He had felled them long ago and lined the road with graceful iron pillars, in their stead. Only scrub and brambles and the stubborn refugee greenery of the plains grew before the gates of Isengard. So how could the Riders be attacking from the trees?

Saruman heard screams of fury and panic drifting up from the distant wood. He cursed softly, as he saw a lone pair of orcs come stumbling from the wood, their weapons lost, their mouths open in a long howl of terror. They gained the tunnel, and a few moments later, Saruman saw them pelting along the wide causeway that led from the gate to the door of Orthanc. Behind them, the screams continued, as the Riders approached the walls again. This time, the trees came with them, and even as he turned away from the window to pace his high chamber, Saruman heard the rumbling crash of stone falling.

Saruman cursed again and pounded his staff against the floor to vent his frustration, as he paced. A small, chill, unacknowledged breath of fear touched his neck. How could he have forgotten? And yet, how could he have predicted that the sleeping Fangorn would awaken? What sorcery could have stirred the sleepy, pulp-brained shepherd of the trees to such vengeful rage, and who had forged this impossible alliance between the ancient Onodrim and the upstart Men of Rohan?

Axes and fire. Saruman ceased his restless prowling and turned again to gaze from the window, his eyes alight with cunning. The ancient scourge of trees would prove the bane of Fangorn and his Onodrim, and the White Hand would have its victory, still. He must reorganize the defenses and send the order out to all captains - axes and fire. Then he would have a word with that miserable spawn of Númenor in the dungeons - that would-be king - and find out what he knew of this strange attack.

*** *** ***

In the brooding, flickering light of Isengard's blasted plain, two small figures flitted from shadow to shadow. They moved cautiously, down the tumbled slope from the eastern wall toward the nearest entrance to the caverns, shrouded in cloaks of muted grey that hid them from all but the sharpest eyes. Behind them, the looming wall was pocked with windows and doorways by the hundreds. Along its top, orcs patrolled ceaselessly. And always before them was the sharp spire of Orthanc, dark and terrible.

They were alone in a hostile land, surrounded by foes, intent on a desperate and foolhardy mission. And they were afraid. With every step he took, Merry grew more and more afraid, but he forced his legs to bear him up and carry him farther into that choked, barren vale, closer to the gaping maw that waited to swallow them.

He was sweating with fear beneath his elven cloak, and as they ducked into the lee of an iron pillar to avoid a passing orc band, he heard Pippin's teeth chattering. The younger hobbit shot him a wide-eyed glance, his face strained and pale in the ghastly light of the fire pits. Merry could not muster the courage for a smile, but he nodded to show that he was ready, gripped his sword tightly beneath his cloak, and slipped from their hiding place.

As great as was his fear, it never occurred to Merry to turn back. He and Pippin had convinced Gandalf that two hobbits could do what the combined forces of Men, Ents and the Fellowship could not - sneak into Saruman's dungeons and find their captive friends, before Saruman perceived his danger and fled, taking his prisoners with him. Not until Treebeard himself, chief of the Ents, added his voice to theirs did Gandalf relent.

Now that he saw what lay inside the ring of Isengard, Merry felt even more sure that he and Pippin were the captives' best hope of rescue. A band of warriors would have to fight for every inch of ground, always knowing that they might never find the right dungeon in that endless, orc-infested hive. The two hobbits, silent on their bare feet, cloaked in elven shadows, small and easily overlooked, might slip through countless caves and tunnels unseen and find the captives, while the main rescue party came more slowly behind them, following the path they marked.

His heart was hammering against his ribs, as Merry scurried the last few steps to edge of the cavern's yawning mouth. To his right, a long ramp led up out of the depths, supported by iron chains set into pilings at the lip of the hole. The pilings cast deep shadows, hiding the two hobbits from the eyes of the countless orcs that poured up the ramp.

Merry listened to their raucous shouts, laughter and clashing weapons. They marched in expectation of an easy victory, headed for the battle at the gate, and Merry was oddly reassured by their confidence. He knew that, so long as Saruman and his armies believed the battle won, they had time. Saruman would stay safely in his citadel, and Treebeard would hold back the waters of the Isen behind their dams. When the tide of battle turned and Saruman knew himself doomed, then the real attack would come. The orcs would panic and fly into the mass of Huorns that waited outside the walls, Treebeard would let loose his flood to block Saruman's escape, and anyone caught in the caverns would die. Anyone.

The last of the orcs were marching away, their torches flickering along the road to the south. Nothing moved on the ramp. Merry leaned cautiously forward, into the red glow from the pit, and peered over the edge. Heat struck him a blow in the face, making his eyes water, and the stench of burning clogged his nostrils. He pulled his head back and turned streaming eyes on Pippin.

"We've gone and put our foot in it now, haven't we, Pip?" he whispered.

Pippin nodded grimly. "Good and proper."

"Come on, then."

The hobbits drew their swords, pulled their hoods more closely about their faces, and rose to their feet. The only way down was the ramp. It hung above a vast, reeking hell of pulsing flame, scorched rock and black tunnel mouths. Chains, ropes and pulleys dangled over noisome pits. Ominous clanking and shrieking issued from dark holes they could not see, along with the harsh voices of orcs. As they crept down the ramp, trying to hide themselves from hostile eyes while looking as though they belonged in this nightmare, Merry felt as if the very rock of the caverns was breathing malice upon his neck.

They reached the bottom of the ramp and slipped into the dark opening of a tunnel. Pausing only long enough for Pippin to scratch an arrow on the wall with his sword, down low where only a hobbit would think to look for it, they started off along the rough passageway.

The tunnel pointed west, toward the tower of Orthanc, and sloped gently downward. Guttering torches lined the walls, but their uneven light did as much to conceal the intruders as expose them. The hobbits stayed close to the walls, in heavy shadow, where even the sharp eyes of orcs could not find them, and they passed like wisps of smoke in the heavy air.

 * * *

Merry pressed back against the wall, his eyes clenched tightly shut, breathing hard in panic. Beside him, he could hear Pippin sobbing. His hand fumbled for Pip's, and the two hobbits clung fiercely to each other.

Voices reached them, too low to hear the words spoken, but loud enough for them to discern Saruman's smooth tones and Strider's rough, mumbled response. There was a moment of silence, then a tearing cry that brought a whimper up in Merry's throat. He felt Pippin step away from the wall and tug on his hand, then they were running, stumbling back up the passage to escape the dreadful sounds.

They ran until they reached the last side-turning in the tunnel, where Pippin had scratched a neat arrow on the wall to mark their route. There they halted, unwilling to go on but afraid to go back, and stood staring at each other helplessly.

"We'll never get him out," Pippin said, in a haunted whisper, "with all those orcs and... What was Saruman doing to him?"

Merry shook his head, seeing again the tortured agony in Strider's face when the wizard touched him. He had caught only a glimpse of the room - of the Man chained naked to the wall, his body marked with blood and dirt, of the orcs standing guard with their enormous swords and the tall figure robed in shimmering white - but the horror of it was burned forever into his memory.

"How do we get him out?" Pippin demanded.

"We don't. We bring Gandalf and let him deal with Saruman."

Pippin started down the eastbound branch of the tunnel, his body taut with urgency. "They must be close by now. If we go back to the stair and..."

"Wait!" Merry caught Pippin's arm to stop him from bolting. "We have to find Boromir!"

Pip shot him a wild, panicked look, and Merry saw that his face was streaked bright with tears. "But Strider..."

"The others are following, as fast as they can. We can't help them by going back now, and we can't..." He swallowed the tears in his throat and snapped, more sharply than he had intended, "We can't run off and leave our job half done."

"You're right." Pippin dashed the tears from his eyes with his forearm and gave a defiant nod. "We said we'd find them both, and we will. Boromir must be close by, in one of these other cells..."

Shrugging off Merry's hand, Pippin drew his sword and knelt in front of the mark he had made on the wall. He worked at the stone for a moment, with the point of his sword. When he stood up again, Merry saw that he had scratched a rune next to the arrow.

"Gandalf will see that and know we found Aragorn."

"Good thinking, Pip." He nodded toward the only unexplored branch of the tunnel and said, "Let's try this one."

"After you, Cousin Brandybuck."

Merry squeezed his arm in mute gratitude, then led the way into the new tunnel. They did not have to go far. Five minutes and two right turns later, Merry poked his head around a corner to find the hulking form of an orc blocking their way. The monstrous creature had his back to a wooden door, his eyes fixed dully on the opposite wall, and a long, saw-edged sword hanging at his belt. He looked groggy with boredom, but not so far gone that he wouldn't notice two hobbits strolling down the passage.

Merry whisked himself out of sight as silently as he had come and drew Pippin out of earshot of the orc.

"That has to be Boromir's cell," he whispered. "It's the only guard we've seen."

"Lovely. Let's clear out of here, then, and find Gandalf."

Merry shook his head, his jaw set stubbornly. "I'm going in there."

"Right," Pippin hissed, caustically, "you'll just walk up and ask the orc, nice as you please, to open the door for you." When Merry said nothing, only glared at him, Pippin's mouth dropped open in shock and he demanded, "What are you going to do!?"

"Kill the orc." He flashed Pippin a humorless grin and whispered, "You said it yourself, Pip. It's not like we've never fought orcs, before."

"You don't think someone will notice a dead orc in the hallway?"

"Who?"

"Saruman, for one!"

Merry felt his face harden with determination. He knew that Pippin was right, and they ought to leave at once to fetch the rescue party, but he could not bring himself to walk away without seeing what lay behind that door. As much as he loved Strider, and as desperately as he wanted to free him, the truth was that Merry had come to this foul place for only one reason - to find Boromir. He owed the soldier of Gondor his life, owed him a debt of friendship and gratitude that could never be fully paid, and through the long hunt across the plains of Rohan, he had sworn to himself that he would never again leave Boromir to fight alone.

"I'm going in there, Pip, and you can help me, or not. Make up your mind."

"I didn't say I wasn't going to help," Pippin muttered.

"Right. Here's what we'll do."

A few minutes later, the guard was startled out his sullen boredom by the patter of running feet. He jerked upright and looked around guiltily, as though afraid to be caught napping, but the feet did not belong to his commander. They belonged to a small creature in bare feet and a dark cloak, who came running full tilt around the corner and bolted past him. He frowned at it in confusion, dimly aware that the creature did not belong here, but as it made no threatening move toward him and no attempt to disturb the prisoner he guarded, he was unsure what to do with it.

Stepping away from the wall, he called after it, "You there! Halt!"

The creature glanced over its shoulder at him, stumbled as it ran, and uttered a high-pitched squeal of fear. The orc grinned and drew his sword, advancing on his terrified prey. Suddenly, pain lanced through his leg, and he halted in surprise and outrage.

Merry slid his blade into the exposed back of the orc's knee, driving it in until it hit bone. The orc screamed and cursed, twisting around to find its attacker, but Merry was already dancing away, his sword free and smoking with dark, foul blood. The orc staggered as it turned, the wounded leg folding beneath it. As it dropped to its knees, Merry gathered himself and leapt onto its broad back. At the same moment, Pippin bounded to his feet and charged into the fray. He threw all of his weight behind his sword and drove the point up under the orc's chin, even as Merry's blade bit into the side of its throat.

The orc gave one gurgle of protest, then pitched to the floor with a tremendous clatter of armor and weaponry. The hobbits picked themselves up off the bloody floor, staring in disbelief at what they had done, their faces pale and their mouths hanging open in shock. The orc did not even twitch.

Merry was the first to recover his wits. Wiping his blade and his hands on the orc's tunic, he climbed over the creature's sprawled legs to reach the door it had guarded. A great iron bar secured the door. Merry heaved on it, struggling to lift it free of its brackets, but he could not budge it until Pippin joined him. Just as they had killed the orc together, they now hefted the bar together, tilting one end slowly upward until its own weight dragged it free of the brackets and sent it to the floor with a resounding crash that vibrated in the stone beneath their feet.

Merry exchanged a nervous glance with Pippin, and both pricked their ears for any sound of approaching trouble, but the dungeon was once more eerily quiet. Pausing to settle his sword more securely in his hand, Merry grasped the door handle, pulled it open, and peered cautiously inside.

The cell was small and bare, lit by a single torch that threw creeping shadows across the walls. A set of empty chains hung opposite the door, and in a far corner was a pile of fabric, leather and mail. But Merry paid no mind to these details, for lying huddled in the middle of the floor was a Man.

With a wordless cry, Merry flung the door wide and ran into the chamber. He dropped to his knees beside the motionless figure and, casting away his sword, bent over to peer at the man's shadowed face. Another cry rose in the hobbit's throat - a cry of recognition, agony and grief.

"Boromir?" His hand shook, as he brushed the hair back from the man's face. "It's Merry. We've come to get you out of here. Can you hear me? Please..." his hands closed into helpless fists, and his voice trembled, "please..."

The man stirred, and Merry felt hope leap high in his breast. Boromir turned his head slightly, and in the torchlight that touched his face, Merry saw his lips moving in soundless speech. The hobbit's throat closed up tight and his eyes stung with tears. He put out a hand to support Boromir's head, as the man stirred again and muttered a single word, then pulled it quickly back, afraid that he might hurt him.

"What have they done?" Merry whispered, horrified, as he watched blood spill from Boromir's lips to paint his face with crimson and darken the stones beneath his head. The man gave him no answer. His brief moment of awareness draining away with the blood from his mouth, he fell still.

Pippin's soft voice came from just behind Merry's shoulder. "We must find Gandalf. He'll know what to do."

Merry twisted around to gaze up at him, his eyes half blinded by tears. "Yes. Hurry, Pip! Go!"

"What?" Pippin backed away from his pleading gaze, alarm plain in his face. "No! Me?!"

"You can find him. I know you can. Go back the way we came, toward the big cavern, and..."

"You're coming with me!" Pippin hissed in burgeoning panic.

"I can't." Merry's face contorted with pain, and fresh tears spilled from his eyes. "I promised."

"Promised who? What are you on about? Merry, this is madness!"

"No. You were right the first time, when you said we shouldn't have run. We should have stayed with him and fought, no matter what, and it's my fault we didn't." He swallowed audibly and whispered, "I ran away once. I won't do it again. I can't."

"This isn't the same. We're going to find help..."

"That's what we did by the river, and look what happened."

Pippin stared helplessly at the still, broken body of the man who had protected them so ferociously, saved them so selflessly, and Merry saw the beginnings of acceptance in his eyes. But being Pippin, he had to offer one more protest. "What if I don't find the others in time? What if the flood comes? Or Saruman?"

Merry shrugged uncomfortably. He did not want to think about the likelihood that his small, stubborn act of loyalty would cost him his life, but he found it even more unbearable to think of Boromir dying alone in this wretched cell. After all that he had endured, to die alone and abandoned was one indignity, one hurt too many. And it was one hurt that Merry could spare him.

Squaring his small shoulders, Merry said, firmly, "I promised that I'd never again leave him to fight alone, and I won't. Whatever comes, I'll be here to... to guard his back."

Pippin nodded solemnly, and Merry felt a wave of gratitude for his cousin's understanding. Trust Pippin to pelt him with arguments and distractions, knowing full well that he would do just as Merry asked, in his own good time.

"Please hurry, Pip."

"I'll try, Merry, but..."

"I know."

Both hobbits were thinking of the hours they had spent wandering through the caverns, looking for this very room, while the battle raged above. Time might be running short. Even now, the mighty walls of Isengard might be crumbling beneath the hands of the Ents. Even now, Treebeard might be pouring the hoarded waters of the Isen into the vale to trap Saruman the tree-killer in his lofty tower. They had no way of knowing how much time, if any, remained to get their friends and themselves safely out of the caverns.

A sudden fear gripped Merry that he would never see Pippin again, and he scrambled to his feet to embrace his young cousin. Pippin clung to him for a moment, then pushed away and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. In the wavering light, he looked pale and frightened, too young and too fragile for the burden of hope he carried.

"When Boromir wakes up, you tell him how we killed the orc. He'll get a laugh out of that."

"I will."

Pippin moved to the door but paused in the opening, reluctant to leave. "And don't forget the part where I pretended to trip, then stuck my sword through its neck."

"I won't," Merry answered, solemnly.

"I'll bet Boromir couldn't have done it any neater, himself."

"Probably not."

Pippin hesitated for another moment, then lifting his hand in farewell, ducked his head and slipped out the door. It creaked slowly closed behind him, leaving Merry alone in the miserable little cell with the unknowing Boromir. Merry knelt beside him once more and gazed sadly down at his friend.

For a long time, he did not move or speak. He did not know what to say in the face of so much suffering, and he felt useless. Then, perversely, he thought of Pippin's parting words, and a smile touched his lips. How Boromir would have laughed to see the two hobbits tackle that hideous great orc! No, Merry amended to himself, he would not have laughed. He would have thrust them out of the way and slain the orc himself. Then he would have called them a cursed nuisance and glared at them, thinking they couldn't see through the scowl to the affection and worry beneath it.

"You really should have seen us kill that orc," Merry murmured to the unconscious man. His gaze fell on the livid bandage that covered Boromir's eyes, and his own filled with fresh tears. "You would have been proud of us."

Retrieving his sword from where he'd dropped it, he began sawing at the ropes that bound Boromir's wrists. Tears flowed steadily down his cheeks and splashed on his sleeves as he worked, but he ignored them. Words came unbidden to his lips, words that would mean nothing to Boromir but that unburdened Merry's heart in his loneliness and made him feel as though he were doing some small thing for his friend by reminding him that he was not alone.

He talked as he worked to make the injured man more comfortable, talked in a low, steady tone that belied the tearstains on his face and the tremor in his hands. He told Boromir about the hunt across the fields of Rohan, about Treebeard and the Entmoot, and about the alliance of Men and Ents that had marched to war against Saruman. He described the way Quickbeam had torn a hole in the eastern wall, as easily as a hobbit might tear a loaf of bread, to let the remnants of the Fellowship into Isengard, and how the Riders at the gates had willingly drawn the wrath of the wizard and the arrows of the orcs down upon their heads to open a way for the rescue.

While he talked, he cut Boromir's bonds and chafed his hands to bring life back into his cold fingers. He sorted through the pile of rent and slashed clothing in the corner to find Boromir's elven cloak and the remains of his brocade tunic. The tunic he slid beneath the man's head, and the cloak he used to cover his shivering body. Then he knelt once more beside his friend and, using a piece of Boromir's shirt as a rag and water from the skin at his own belt to dampen it, began to clean away the blood and filth that masked his face.

Through all his clumsy, but gentle ministrations, Boromir remained unmoving, uncaring, and seemingly unaware of the hobbit's efforts on his behalf. For Merry, the attempt at comfort was enough, whether his friend knew of it or not. It hurt his loyal heart to see Boromir treated with such disdain - stripped and bound and cast, broken, upon the floor - and he strove to return to him some dignity, even if he could not ease his pain.

In the back of Merry's mind was an old memory of Brandy Hall, and the nurse who had seen him through every illness and injury of childhood. She was one of his father's multitude of relatives - a distant aunt or aging cousin - and her voice was like the grate of sand on metal, but Merry had listened for it, treasured it, and still remembered it when so much of that time had been forgotten. The voice of comfort. And now, in the murky hell of Saruman's dungeon, Merry heard the voice again and caught himself sliding into the same soothing cadences as he talked.

The time crept by, uncounted and unmarked, except by Merry's idle conversation. Only once did Boromir give any sign of waking. The hobbit was sponging the blood stains from his face and trying to decide whether or not he had the courage to remove the bandage and clean beneath it, when Boromir suddenly twisted away from Merry's touch, muttering something under his breath. Merry's hand stilled. He leaned eagerly forward.

"Boromir? Are you awake?" He laid the cloth against the man's forehead, just above the bandage and asked, pleadingly, "Can you feel that?"

Boromir gave a soft choke of pain, and dark blood spilled from his mouth.

"Hush," Merry urged. "Be still."

"Aragorn..."

"Aragorn isn't here. But don't worry about him." He carefully wiped the blood from Boromir's mouth, ignoring the tears that once more streamed down his own cheeks. "Pippin knows where to find him, and he'll take Gandalf there. We'll free him, too, I promise." The words stuck in his throat, but he could think of nothing else that might calm his friend, so he forced them out and tried not to think about how difficult that promise might be to keep.

Boromir stirred again, restless with pain or distress - Merry could not tell which - and his lips moved, forming the Ranger's name. More blood ran down his chin, looking black in the torchlight. Merry wiped it away, in a gesture as kind-hearted as it was fruitless.

"Don't worry about him," Merry repeated. "Don't worry about anything." But he was speaking to himself again.

Boromir slid quietly back into his twilight world, once more beyond the reach of voice or touch, and Merry went back to waiting. He no longer had the will to speak. Sorrow closed his throat, and tears flooded his eyes. The terrible waiting was draining his courage, weighing him down, filling him with despair. He had promised to stay, and stay he would, but he could do no more than that. His presence here was as useless to the soldier of Gondor as was his sword in a fight. He had failed to help Boromir at Parth Galen, only to follow him here, through peril, battle and fire, and fail again. If only Pippin would come! If only Gandalf would save them!

A murmur of voices sounded in the hallway, jerking Merry out of his gloom and sending him to his feet. For a wild moment, hope flared in his breast, and he took a hasty step toward the door. Then he heard, unmistakably, the harsh, growling voice of an orc and the tramp of heavy feet on stone. Hope turned to cold fear, and Merry halted in the middle of the floor, too terrified to move or think.

"Gah! Someone has been here before us!" the growling voice said. "Weapons at the ready, lads!"

There was a loud scraping of metal on metal, as the "lads" drew their swords and daggers. In answer, Merry drew his own weapon and placed himself between Boromir and the door, his feet planted wide and both hands gripping the sword hilt. The door was flung open, and three orcs came charging into the room.

They were enormous creatures, more than twice Merry's height, big enough to dwarf even Boromir or Strider. The leader carried a sword that was easily as big as Merry, and he held it with a casual ease that was terrifying in itself. He leapt through the doorway, landing well inside the room in a fighting stance, then he paused and scanned the shadows for a lurking enemy. His eyes came to rest on Merry, and he grinned to show his yellowing tusks.

"See here, Snaga! I've found a rat with a pin! Did you use that pin to stick the maggot out there, little rat?"

Merry pulled himself up to his full height, which still barely reached the orc's belt, and tried to match the creature's fierce snarl. "I did. And I'll do the same for you, if you don't leave at once!"

The orc laughed. "It's a brave little rat, anyway. Stop your squeaking and step aside, before I..."

Merry did not give the orc a chance to finish his threat. Gathering his courage for a final, desperate attack, he lunged at the creature with his pitifully small sword, aiming for his belly. The orc looked startled, but even taken by surprise, he moved with blinding speed. His huge blade struck Merry's aside, causing him to stumble, then he snatched the hobbit up by the scruff of the neck and shook him painfully.

"Drop the sticker, or I'll wring your neck."

Merry obediently dropped his sword. He could barely breathe and certainly could not resist the orc's massive strength.

"That's a good little rat. Now behave yourself, and you may get out of Isengard alive. Give me trouble, and I'll give you a gullet full of iron. Or leave you to drown." Turning to one of his lieutenants, the orc said, "Hang onto this one, Dúrbhak. He may come in handy, when we meet the horse-boys." He tossed Merry effortlessly to the other orc and added, with a warning snarl, "But if he squeaks, throttle him."

The third orc was bending over Boromir's still form, and he twisted around to call to his captain, "This isn't the one we want, Uglúk!"

The captain strolled over to where the Man lay and nudged him with one foot. "That's the one. Get him up, Snaga."

"You said it was the other one that mattered. The longshanks."

"To Saruman, maybe, but all we need is a hostage to get us past the horsebreeders, and this one will do as well as the other. Besides," Uglúk grinned wolfishly, "I have a score to settle with Soldier-boy."

Snaga looked churlish, but Uglúk seemed highly pleased with himself. He sent Snaga into the corridor with orders to get the lads formed up, then he scooped Boromir up and tossed him over his shoulder. The weight of a full-grown Man seemed to mean nothing to the orc. He was still grinning and swinging his massive sword, as he turned to head out the door with his burden. Dúrbhak followed with Merry clutched tightly to his chest.

In the tunnel, Merry saw more than a dozen orcs waiting, all of them of the same great stature and strength as Uglúk. They stood in a double file, like trained soldiers, waiting for the command to march. Uglúk stood at the head of the line and spoke to them in a voice that rang with authority.

"This is it, lads! We head straight for the north end of the vale and take the big tunnel under the walls. Make for the mountains. Stick with me, and you'll be fine. Wander off, lag behind, and you'll be floating back to barracks. The lower caverns are flooded, and it's coming up fast, so we have to leg it quick. When we get outside the walls, leave the talking to me." He patted Boromir with evident satisfaction. "I've got our safe passage right here. Now, move out!" 

Orcs could run at a terrifying pace. Jolting along in Dúrbhak's arms, Merry could only marvel at the speed with which they moved, for such huge and seemingly clumsy creatures. He understood now, as he had not before, how they had so easily outstripped the four light-footed hunters in their race across the plains. And in this desperate flight through the caverns, they needed every bit of that ferocious speed.

The flood was close behind them. Treebeard had opened the dam and let the Isen into Nan Curunír, and the waters rose inexorably. In places where the path dipped low, the orcs were wading through filthy, murky water that gurgled above their knees, and Merry often felt its foul touch on his bare toes. He made no attempt to break free of Dúrbhak's hold or to give an alarm. He knew that his only prayer of getting out before the flood took him was to let the orcs carry him. And he saw no creature whose company he would prefer to Uglúk's.

They threaded their way through the caverns to the north, rising steadily above the level of the flood. Hundreds of orcs were running in the same direction, but Uglúk cleared the path before them with ease. No denizen of Isengard would stand before the anger or the sword of Saruman's most feared captain.

Finally, they charged into the mouth of a tunnel that climbed steeply upward. The orcs, sensing escape, picked up even more speed, and they were panting for breath as they burst out from beneath the walls, into a woodland glade. Uglúk came to a sudden halt. His eyes raked the clearing, and Merry heard him growl a warning to Snaga. The other orcs crowded up behind him, muttering in confusion and discontent. The mountains were before them, rising into the cold night, and the safety of the orc burrows beneath their peaks beckoned. Why would Uglúk not let them run?

Merry knew. He knew even better than Uglúk, for he knew what lay behind the thick, ominous mists that cloaked the wood. Uglúk sensed it, though he did not have a name for it, and he knew that no wood should stand on this steep, rocky hillside. He continued to peer suspiciously about him, trying to pierce the mist with his keen eyes.

For the first time since Uglúk had plucked him from his feet, Merry spoke. "Don't go into the trees," he squeaked, fear sharpening his voice. "They will not let you pass!"

"Shut it, little rat."

"Do you see the mists? It means deadly peril!"

"I fear no tree," the orc snarled, and he fingered his sword blade.

"They aren't trees!" Panic was rising in Merry at the realization that Uglúk would carry his captives into the forest of Huorns. The Huorns would not know Man or Hobbit from orc, and they would all be lost in the terrible mists. "They hate orcs, and they care nothing for hostages!"

"I said, shut it!" Turning to his soldiers, Uglúk barked, "These trees shouldn't be here, lads, but that's no matter to us! The mountains are that way, and that's where we're going! Anyone who's got an axe, get it ready. The rest of you, look lively and keep your wits about you!"

"No!" Merry began to squirm and fight in earnest, shouting at the top of his lungs, "No! Please!! Don't take us in there!" And then, in desperation, he screamed, "Help!! Help!! We're over here! Help!!"

Hoom, hah. Hoorah hoom. The trumpet call came from far off in the trees, and though the trumpeter was hidden by mists and darkness, Merry recognized the great, deep voice, and he felt a sudden, wild joy flood him.

"Treebeard!" he screamed, then he bit down on Dúrbhak's hand when the orc tried to silence him. The orc tasted foul and had skin like badly cured leather. "Over here! We're here!!"

"Muzzle that little rat, or kill it!" Uglúk hissed in fury. But none of the orcs had attention to spare for the thrashing, screaming hobbit. All eyes were fixed on the mists and the direction from which the ringing voice shook the very stones. Uglúk uttered a low curse and dropped his sword. With a heave of his massive shoulder, he tossed Boromir's body to the ground, then he stooped and lifted the man to lean brokenly against his chest, supported by one of the orc's huge arms. With his free hand, he drew his dagger and used the blade to lift Boromir's chin, forcing the man's head back into the hollow of his shoulder.

The Ent strode into the clearing, seeming to take shape from the very mists of the sinister wood, and the orcs drew away from him in fear. Only Uglúk stood his ground, and as Treebeard's great, deep, green-glowing eyes studied him, he pressed the tip of his dagger to Boromir's throat and broke into a fearsome smile.

"I am Uglúk, captain of the Fighting Uruk-hai. Stay back, tree demon, or I slay the Man."

"Hoom hom, what have we here? Orcs, is it?" Treebeard made a deep burárum of disgust, and turned to gaze thoughtfully at Merry. "I thought I heard your voice, Merry."

"They found us in the dungeons and took us as hostages. Please, Treebeard, don't let them take us into the forest! The Huorns will..."

"Peace." Treebeard cut him off with a single, rumbling word. When Merry fell silent, he turned to the orc and said, "You cannot leave this glade alive, orc. Surrender the Man and the Hobbit, and return to your master in Isengard. Perhaps he will deal gently with you. I will not."

Uglúk stared pointedly around the clearing. "I have a dozen stout lads, with axes and swords. Where is your army, that you dare to threaten me?"

"All around you. Look upon the trees you have maimed and slaughtered, and look upon my army. The hobbit speaks the truth. You will not pass through these woods alive."

Uglúk stirred uneasily and gazed at the shrouded wall of trees that surrounded him. He had sensed something wrong about the wood since stepping into it, and now he could not find it in him to doubt Treebeard's words. He felt death breathing on his neck.

"They are trees," he insisted. "I have felled countless such."

"I doubt it not. That is why you will die among them tonight."

The orc licked his lips nervously. "They look to you? If you... if you gave us leave to pass, we could do so unscathed?"

"If I gave you leave, but I will not."

"Not even for the life of this little rat, here, that you seem so fond of?" He nodded toward Merry.

"Hm hoom." Treebeard eyed the orc for a moment, obviously considering his words. "The life of the hobbit for safe passage to the mountains."

"No!" Merry blurted out. "I'm going with Boromir! If they take him, they take me, too!"

Treebeard turned his bottomless eyes on Merry, and the hobbit thought he saw laughter in their flickering depths. "It seems I have no voice in the matter. The hobbit chooses for us all."

"And if..." Uglúk hesitated, reluctant to say the words but knowing he must. "...if I give you the Man, as well?"

"Hoom, now. That is another matter. Another matter, all together." Now it was the Ent's turn to ponder his options and face an unpalatable choice. His gaze moved from orc, to man, to hobbit, and he rumbled with discontent. Finally, he lifted his solemn eyes to Uglúk's face again and said, "It is agreed. Surrender your captives and your axes, and no Ent or Huorn will harm you this night."

"How can an Uruk-hai trust the word of a tree demon?"

Treebeard gave a dangerous Hoom hom and seemed to loom suddenly taller in the darkness. "I, Fangorn, chief of the Ents, Shepherd of the trees, oldest of all living things who walk the face of Middle-earth will not bandy insults with a... burárum... a foul orc. I give my word, I keep my word, and woe to any creature who breaks faith with me."

Uglúk stared at him, fear plain in every line of his body, but he would not admit that fear. With a curt nod, he snapped an order at his troops to throw down their axes. The heavy weapons clattered to the ground at Treebeard's feet. Then he ordered Dúrbhak to release Merry.

The orc dropped him as though he were a live coal, and Merry scurried across the clearing to the protection of Treebeard's branch-like arms. He pressed himself close to the Ent's body and turned to stare, his throat tight with fear, at the orcs.

"Now the Man," Treebeard said.

"When I see a clear path before me."

In answer, Treebeard lifted his hands to his mouth and trumpeted an echoing call into the trees. Merry did not see the Huorns move. They were too thickly cloaked in mists and night shadows. But he heard them rustle as if in a high wind, and he saw the mists swirl and billow with their passing. Slowly, very slowly, a dim path became visible. It ran north, a narrow avenue between the trees, aimed straight for the root of the mountain and safety for the orcs.

Uglúk stared and stared, hunting for the trap he feared, but he saw only the dark path, the flanking trees, and the cold, wreathing mists. With a curt nod of acceptance, he lowered his dagger to hang at his side.

"Safe passage."

"For this night, only. If you or your ilk set foot again in the wizard's vale, you will meet the fate you have been spared this night."

Uglúk nodded again. His clasp on Boromir loosened, and the man slumped to the grass at his feet. Then, to Merry's surprise, the orc gave Treebeard a crisp salute, before he led his column of soldiers into the trees. The darkness swirled in behind them, and Uglúk was gone.

*** *** ***

Merry sat beside the huddled figure on the ground, much as he had sat in the dungeon of Isengard, still, watchful and silently weeping. He did not move, except to hold the stained rag to the injured man's lips when blood spilled from his mouth. And he ignored the tears that streamed down his filthy cheeks.

Through the dark hours in Saruman's stronghold, Merry had foolishly thought that the rescue of his friends would end the pain of waiting. He had prayed for Gandalf and the others to come, to bear the prisoners away to safety, and to put an end to the horror. It had not occurred to him, in his innocence of war, that the horror had only begun, and the rescue was merely the first step on a long and agonizing road. He was learning his mistake.

Treebeard had set them down in this lonely place, well back from the ongoing battle, then vanished once more into the chaos of Ents, Men, horses and orcs that tossed and screamed about the walls of Orthanc. How many minutes or hours had passed since, Merry could not tell. Time crawled, when he had nothing to mark its passage but his own labored heartbeat and the broken, pain-edged mutterings of his companion.

Boromir stirred again, coughed slightly, and whispered a familiar name through a mouthful of blood. "Aragorn..."

It was the only word he had uttered all night that Merry recognized, and he repeated it often in his dark dream. The hobbit devoutly wished the Ranger were here to calm Boromir, but he did not know where Aragorn was, and he had only Treebeard's bluff assurance that he had come alive from the dungeons. Merry could not produce Aragorn, nor could he ease the pain that visibly gripped the injured man or treat his dreadful wounds. The only thing he could do was to offer a small bit of comfort in the lonely night.

As he had countless times already, Merry bent close to Boromir and said, "Aragorn is safe." He wiped away another runnel of blood, murmuring, "Don't worry, he's here. He's safe, I promise."

So intent was he on his task, Merry did not see the small figure come hurtling toward him. He was bending over Boromir, talking to him in a soft voice, when something plowed into him and knocked him sideways. The next moment, he found himself sprawled on the grass, staring up into Pippin's grinning face.

"Merry! Merry, old thing! I've been looking everywhere for you!"

"Pippin!" Merry struggled up to cast himself into his cousin's embrace, both of them weeping unashamedly. "It's true, then! You made it!"

"We all did, though I don't mind telling you, I had my doubts. If Éomer hadn't carried me the last bit, I'd have had to swim for it!" The light drained from his face, and he added, more soberly, "When we found the cell empty, I thought..."

"So did I." Merry grinned ruefully. "But let's not talk about that, now."

"Here." Pippin reached under his cloak and pulled out a familiar object, which he thrust into Merry's hands. "I found it on the floor and I thought you might need it again. I hoped, anyway."

"Thank you, Pip." Merry clutched the bright sword to his breast with both hands, gratitude and relief welling up in him. He had not realized how much a part of him the sword had become, until he thought it lost forever. "Thank you."

At that moment, Gandalf came striding over to them in Pippin's wake and dropped to one knee beside Boromir. He cast Merry a glance from beneath his brows and a swift smile.

"Well met, Master Brandybuck. And very well done."

Merry felt himself blushing and was grateful that the darkness hid it. "How is Strider?" he asked, softly.

"He'll recover, in time. His injuries were more of the mind than the body, I'm afraid, which means that he'll be long in healing. But his body will mend."

"And... and Boromir?"

Gandalf turned hooded, weary eyes on the man in front of him. "Help me, now, Master Brandybuck, and we shall see."

At Gandalf's instructions, Merry lifted Boromir's shoulders and forced him to turn onto his back. The hobbit tried to ignore the visible tremors of pain ripping through his friend's body and the soft, agonized sounds that rose in his throat with the blood, but the tears were painting his face again, by the time the wizard murmured to him to be still. Merry crouched beside Boromir, supporting his head, while Gandalf laid one hand on the injured man's forehead and the other on his breast. A waiting quiet filled the night, and Merry dared not look at Gandalf's face to read the truth of what he feared.

Finally, the wizard breathed a long sigh and lifted eyes dimmed by exhaustion and sorrow to meet Merry's gaze. "Saruman has grown great in evil, greater even than I knew."

"Please, Gandalf..."

"To use valiant men so for his own twisted ends. To shatter one for the torment of the other. To inflict suffering for the sheer joy of seeing pain in another creature's face. It is the very foulest corruption of spirit."

"There must be something you can do," Merry pleaded.

"There is always something I can do," he answered, with his usual acerbity. "Do not be afraid, Merry. I see no mortal wound. A bit of Treebeard's healing draught, a cloak to keep him warm..."

"But..."

"Hold his head. We'll get some of this into him. The ents swear it will cause a trunk, hacked nearly through by orc axes, to grow anew."

As he spoke, Gandalf uncorked a small, wooden flask and poured clear liquid from it into Boromir's mouth. The man choked on it, sending most of the liquid down his chin, but he swallowed enough of it to satisfy the wizard. Then, with surprisingly deft and gentle hands, Gandalf settled his head back on the litter and brushed light fingertips over the livid bandage that covered his eyes.

"Rest, now, son of Gondor. Think no more of swords or battles or dungeons. Rest and heal."

Merry bowed his head to conceal his fresh tears from the wizard.

To his surprise, Gandalf made no move to leave, now that his immediate task was done. He crouched in front of Merry, with Boromir lying between them, and put a gentle hand on the hobbit's shoulder.

"What is it, Merry?"

"I was thinking."

"About what?"

"About Boromir and Strider and... and what they did to Boromir." He swallowed to clear the tightness from his throat, then rasped out, "They wanted Strider. Did you know that? I heard the orcs talking about it. Saruman wanted Strider, so he took them both and tortured Boromir while Strider watched. And the others - Legolas and Gimli - they wept for Strider as we ran. They searched the forest for him, fought the orcs for him, brought the Riders and the Ents, all of it, for Strider.

"But when the orcs came, it was Boromir who fought for us. When the bridge in Moria collapsed, he picked us up and jumped across the gap. When the avalanche buried us..."

"Merry, none of us doubts Boromir's bravery. We all value him, and we all wish we could undo what has been done."

"Maybe. But to all of you, he's simply Aragorn's steward, Denethor's son, Gondor's soldier - always second to someone or something." Merry lifted streaming, furious eyes to Gandalf's face. "Not to me, Gandalf. He may not be a king, but he's the greatest man I know, and my friend, and he's not second to anyone."

"I know you feel that way, and I honor you for it." Merry did not answer, but lowered his eyes again to mask his pain. Gandalf clasped his shoulder, warmly. "You have the heart of a hero, Master Brandybuck."

"I'm not a hero," he muttered, wiping his nose on his sleeve, "I'm just a hobbit. And we hobbits stick by our friends."

"Just a hobbit." Gandalf chuckled softly. "Just a hobbit. Bless you, my dear Merry. I wish the same could be said for all of us."

Giving the hobbit's shoulder a final squeeze, he rose to his feet and shrugged off his long cloak. Then he spread it over Boromir. "There is a battle to win this night, and a cornered serpent who needs his fangs drawn. I must go. But the Rohirrim are gathering their wounded to be taken back to Edoras, and you must go with them. Stay with Boromir and Strider, see them well cared for, and if all goes well, we will meet again in the Golden Hall of Théoden King."

Merry rose stiffly to his feet and embraced Pippin again, bidding him farewell. Then he watched the tall wizard and the small hobbit stride away together. Back to war. With a soul-deep sigh of weariness, Merry sank down on the grass and pulled himself into a protective huddle against the cold. His eyes strayed to the east and the high ridge of that marked the end of the Misty Mountains. The sky above it was pale, brightening visibly as he watched, and Merry felt his heart lighten at the sight.

Morning had come, at last, to Isengard.

Chapter Text

"Come, my Lord, drink."

Boromir twisted away from the touch of cold metal on his lips. He did not want to drink. He was annoyed with the voice for disturbing his rest, annoyed with the hands that supported his head and offered him the cup for confining his movements. Sleep sheltered him from frustration and pain, and he would gladly have stayed asleep forever, but the voice would not allow that. And now, awake against his will, he was ordered about like a sick child, his words and his wishes ignored, his sense of helplessness building with each moment.

"Drink, and then you can rest."

He lifted a hand to brush away the cup and muttered, his mouth thick with thirst and the foul taste of stale blood, "Aragorn."

"Do not worry about Aragorn," the voice insisted.

The cup was pressed to his lips, in spite of his best efforts to avoid it, and water poured into his mouth. He swallowed because he had no choice, only half noticing that the liquid eased his parched throat and washed the vile taste from his mouth. When he could speak again, he insisted, "Find him... I must find Aragorn."

"Aragorn is safe. You do not need to find him, now. You need to rest." The voice spoke in a low, soothing tone, as if repeating something it had said countless times, to someone who could neither hear nor understand the words. It's very calmness only irritated Boromir the more.

Anger lent him a new strength, and when the cup touched his lips again, he knocked aside the hand that held it, snarling, "Leave off!"

Silence answered him, and he got the distinct impression that he had startled the owner of the voice. The supporting hand slid from behind his head. The cup was set down with a loud clunk of metal on wood.

Acting on his momentary advantage, Boromir pushed himself up on one elbow and demanded, "Where is he? Where is Aragorn? And... where am I?"

"Boromir?" The voice no longer sounded calm or controlled. It squeaked with something akin to panic, and Boromir had the sudden, unsettling feeling that he ought to recognize it. "Boromir? Are you really awake this time?"

"Aye." He tried to sit up, but his arm felt strangely weak, nearly collapsing beneath him, and his head swam alarmingly. Small hands clasped his shoulders and pulled him upright, then shifted down to grip his arms and hold him steady. He frowned, struggling to make sense of his surroundings and attach a name to the hauntingly familiar voice.

"I'm awake. Unless... This isn't a dream? I'm really lying in a..." he looked around, as though expecting to see through the bandage that covered his eyes, and scowled in confusion, "...in a bed?"

"It's not a dream, and you're really in a bed." The voice gave a slight, breathless laugh, but Boromir distinctly heard tears thickening it. "You're in Edoras, in the house of Théoden King."

Boromir fingered the fine cloth of his shirt, then he lifted his hand to brush his fingertips over the bandage. It was clean and soft, no longer stiff with dried blood.

"This is not Orthanc," the voice murmured, "I promise you. You're safe in Edoras, and so is Strider."

That name struck a chord in his mind, bringing the first whispers of recognition. Unconsciously, he reached to cover the speaker's hand with his own, while amazement and disbelief warred in his face. "Merry?" His fingers closed around the small, sturdy hand that clasped his arm, and at the feel of it, he knew that he could not be mistaken. "Merry! You're alive!"

Merry uttered a low sob and, catching Boromir's hand in both of his own, pressed a kiss to the back of it.

"Nay, Merry, do not!" Boromir protested.

In answer, Merry only held his hand more tightly, clutching it to his breast. Boromir could feel the sobs shaking the halfling's small frame and tears falling on his hand. Surprise gave way to compassion, and he asked, gently, "Why do you weep?"

"I'm so glad to hear you say my name again that it's like a blade through my heart. I did not know joy could hurt so dreadfully."

Boromir opened his mouth to answer, but no words came to him. Amazement and embarrassment held him speechless, while a deep, unaccustomed gratitude welled up in him. Hesitantly, he placed his free hand on Merry's bent head. He felt thick curls beneath his fingers and had a momentary vision of that bright, tousled head bobbing up a green hill in front of him, as they climbed together toward a jagged peak.

"It is I who am glad to hear your voice, little one," he murmured. "I thought you lost on Amon Hen. How is it that you are here?"

Merry lifted his head and gave a prosaic sniff. "We followed you. We chased the orcs all across Rohan, then right into Isengard. I couldn't... I couldn't let you die, thinking that we had simply run away and left you. The way I reckon it, Pippin and I owed you at least one rescue."

Boromir smiled at his last, offhand remark. "Then Pippin is here, too?"

"He was. He's gone to Minas Tirith with Gandalf."

Once again, surprise robbed Boromir of speech. He must have looked remarkably foolish, gaping at the halfling with his mouth half open, because Merry chuckled at him and said, at his most insouciant, "Did I forget to mention that Gandalf is alive?"

Boromir shut his mouth with a snap and gently, but firmly, removed his hand from Merry's clasp. "Don't toy with me, halfling. I am in no fit state for your games."

"It's no game," Merry assured him, seriously, "and I would never joke about such a thing. It's only that you looked so... so..."

"Ridiculous?"

"Taken aback."

Boromir smiled, feeling again the warmth and merriment that the halflings always brought him. Even now, after all that had occurred, he could not listen to Merry's droll remarks or picture the gleam of mischief in his eyes, without wanting to laugh.

"I do not understand any of this," he said, "and I begin to suspect that my wits have wandered. But I am grateful to have you here, Merry. More grateful than I can say!"

"Where else would I be?" Merry asked, with a hint of fresh tears in his voice.

"On the road to Mordor, with Frodo. Or is he here, as well?" Even as he voiced the question, Boromir felt a treacherous thrill at the mere thought that the Ring might be close to him, still. And on the heels of that excitement came the old, bitter shame.

"Frodo is gone to Mordor."

"Without his friends?"

"Sam went with him."

"Alone. Two halflings gone into the Black Land alone."

"That's how Frodo wanted it."

Boromir shook his head slowly, wishing he could deny what he had heard, wishing he could go back to that fateful day beside the Great River and undo the terrible thing he had done. He felt remorse for his act of betrayal - an act that had driven Frodo to abandon the Fellowship and strike out on his own, without guide or protector - shame for the lingering desire that still poisoned his heart, and despair for the ruin to come, when the Enemy reclaimed his own.

"That is not what he wanted," Boromir said, grimly.

"I saw him leave, Boromir. He chose to go."

Summoning his courage to face the halfling's scorn, he lifted his chin proudly and spoke the truth without evasion. "It was a choice I forced on him. I tried to take the Ring."

Merry said nothing for a long moment, and Boromir felt the fear gnawing at his innards. Even a fortnight ago, he would not have believed that he could feel such dread at the thought of losing Merry's trust and affection, but at this time, in this place, with only the halfling's small hands and familiar voice between him and a vast darkness, he found it almost unbearable. And yet, he would not have the words unsaid, for he would not add the name of liar or coward to his list of failings.

When Merry finally spoke, he sounded plaintive, rather than angry. "You didn't hurt him, did you?"

"Nay, I did not. But if I had caught him..."

"You didn't. And I know you could not have hurt him."

"Merry, I attacked your friend, I betrayed the Fellowship, and I tried to take the Ring by force. You cannot know what else I might have done."

A hand closed around his forearm, cutting off his protest, and Merry's voice came to him, low and edged with pain, yet full of certainty. "I do not pretend to understand the power of the Ring, Boromir, but I am sure of this much. You have protected, guarded and cared for us since the day we met. I have lost count of the times you have stood between me and death. I don't believe that you would ever willingly betray us or harm us in any way."

"But I did, and I cannot lay the blame for it wholly on the Ring. Mine was the heart moved to violence and treachery. Mine is the burden of guilt."

Merry paused for a moment, then said, quietly, "And mine is the choice to forgive a friend's mistake."

Boromir bowed his head to hide his reaction from Merry's eyes. He did not understand how his companions could forgive him - first Aragorn, and now Merry - but through his recent trials, he had come to recognize how greatly he valued their forgiveness and how much he relied on their friendship. And in this moment of untainted happiness, he felt almost whole and clean and worthy again, thanks to the simple affection of a hobbit.

"You look as though you're about to faint," Merry said.

Boromir shook his head.

"You'd best lie down. I should not have kept you sitting up and talking for so long."

"Merry, I..."

"No. We have both said enough." He squeezed Boromir's arm in silent apology, then went on, cheerfully, "If you don't behave, I'll get blamed for tiring you out and they'll banish me from your room. Then who will put up with your bad temper, pray tell?"

"Have I been that bad?" Boromir asked, meekly, as he lay back against the bolster in obedience to Merry's prompting.

"A cursed nuisance."

Boromir broke out in a wry smile. "Poor Merry. If I promise to behave, will you sit and talk with me?"

"Haven't you had enough of talking for one day?"

"Nay, I want to know everything that has happened since the orcs took us. I have obviously missed a great deal."

"You are tired and..."

"I am not," he lied, "and I'll not rest 'til I have the tale."

Merry gave a resigned sigh and sat down on the mattress. "All right, then, if it will keep you quiet."

The tale was long in the telling. Merry sat cross-legged on the bed, with Boromir's hand resting lightly on his knee in a trusting gesture that made the hobbit's eyes prick with tears, and talked until his voice grew ragged. Boromir lay quietly through the worst of it, and Merry drew strength from his outward calm. The horror, pain and fear he had felt were still fresh in his mind, but a glance at Boromir's face reminded him why he had suffered through it all and what he had accomplished in the end.

He found that the telling eased some of his lingering distress, but he also found that much of it he could not share. He said nothing of the guilt that had lashed him through the long, fruitless hunt across Rohan, and he shrugged off the horror of his lonely vigil in Boromir's cell, softening it with wry humor and laughing off Boromir's thanks. It did not seem necessary to speak of these things, now that Boromir was found and brought alive from Isengard. The only thing that remained, the only thing that mattered, was the promise he had made himself and his friend. When he felt the time was right, he would tell Boromir of that promise, but not until the soldier, still reeling from his wounds, could accept it as a gesture of love and respect, not of pity.

Of Pippin and the palantír he also said nothing. That was Pip's tale to tell, or to leave untold, as he saw fit. And he was grateful, as he skipped lightly over that part of the story, that Boromir did not ask why Pippin had gone with Gandalf to Minas Tirith rather than stay with his companions.

Oddly enough, after all the perils and agonies they had endured, it was of Théoden that Merry found it hardest to speak. When he tried to tell Boromir of his friendship with the aged king and the vow of fealty he had taken, the words stuck painfully in his throat. He thought of Théoden's kindly smile, his generosity toward a lonely and frightened hobbit, and he felt a stab of remorse. For try as he might, Merry could not deny that he regretted his vow.

He had made it in the depths of his loneliness and despair, when he feared that all his efforts were for nothing, when Pippin was gone and Boromir was lost in a dark dream that it seemed would hold him prisoner forever. When Merry had sat, disconsolate, at the king's table and listened to soldiers talk of a war that he could never join, when he had shivered at the thought of Pippin gone into the heart of the coming darkness and Aragorn soon to follow him, Théoden had clasped his shoulder, smiled at him, and asked him for tales of the Shire to lighten their hearts. And Merry had wept at the unexpected kindness.

They had sat together by the hour - the hobbit and the king - and talked of many things. The Shire, pipeweed, gardens and hobbit lore. Merry had forgotten, for a time, the woes that burdened him. And when Théoden placed a hand upon his head and smiled, Merry had thought that he could do no finer thing than to offer his sword and his heart to the king.

Now, he sat with another great Lord of Men, whose friendship he treasured, and he blushed at his own temerity in supposing that these warriors could want or need a sword such as his. He was naught but very small hobbit, with a very small sword and no skill at war, and yet he had dared to pledge himself as swordthain to a king. Worse yet, he now wished that he could unsay that pledge and give it to another, who had as little use for it as the first.

He was stumbling over his words, lost in a meandering attempt to explain his reasons for what he had done, when Boromir interrupted him.

"You think highly of the Lord of the Mark," he said.

"He... he spoke kindly to me. He offered me a seat beside him at table and listened to my tales of the Shire. I have never met a king, before..."

"Except Aragorn."

"Théoden King is different. He is like an aged but kindly father." Merry hesitated, then added, "I am his liege man. I have sworn fealty to him, and to the Mark."

Boromir answered, gravely, "Théoden is a good and valiant man, a wise ruler, and a loyal friend. You could not choose a better lord to serve."

Merry's face flushed, and he bowed his head, muttering, "I'm proud to wear the white horse of Rohan, but I had rather it was the White Tree of Gondor. If I'd thought... if I'd known..." He swallowed painfully and murmured, "I'd rather be your esquire, than the king's."

Boromir fell silent for a moment, digesting the hobbit's words, then spoke very quietly. "I would be honored, Merry, but as it is, I have no need of liege men."

"When you return to Minas Tirith, will you not be Steward?"

"Someday. Perhaps. If I ever do see Minas Tirith again."

"Aragorn will send for you, when the city is safe. I heard him tell Théoden as much."

"He will what?" There was a bite to Boromir's voice that startled Merry.

"He is leaving you here, in the care of Rohan, until he has taken his army to Minas Tirith and cleared the enemy from Gondor's lands. Then you are to come and help him plan the war properly. Théoden felt you should stay here 'til the war is won, but Aragorn pointed out that... well, it most likely isn't going to be won, and he needs all the help he can get, especially from Gondor's Captain-General, if we're to stand against Mordor for long... Boromir, what are you doing?"

Boromir sat up and pushed back his blankets. "What army does Aragorn lead? And when do they ride for Minas Tirith?"

"I'm not sure. They've talked a lot of nonsense about old verses and broken vows and... and something called the Paths of the Dead. He's got his Rangers with him, and Elrond's sons. They all seem to think he must go on these paths or he'll arrive at Minas Tirith too late for the battle." He watched Boromir fling his blankets away and swing his feet to the floor, and cried, "You're not going to find Aragorn!"

"I am."

"You're to stay in bed and rest. Gandalf was very clear about that."

"Gandalf is not here, and I am not subject to his orders. Are you going to take me to Aragorn, or must I wander around Meduseld alone, 'til I stumble over him?"

Merry heaved a sigh and slid off the bed. He devoutly wished he had guarded his tongue more carefully, but it was too late for discretion, now. "At least let me find you some clothing," he said, miserably. "You can't go demand to get yourself killed, dressed in a nightshirt."

*** *** ***

Aragorn sat in bed, leaning against a heap of cushions and bolsters, carefully flexing his wounded leg. It ached abominably, and the weakness of the damaged muscles worried him, as he knew he would have to sit a horse in another day or two, regardless of the pain. But it was neither pain nor worry that brought the brooding frown to his face.

"You will be ready, Aragorn, fear not. Your time is come, at last. Isildur's Heir will ride forth, with the Dúnedain at his back, to claim his birthright."

Aragorn gazed thoughtfully at the tall, grey-clad man who spoke. "Aye, Halbarad. I will ride." He did not voice the rest of that thought - that he must ride, whether or not his time had truly come, for the currents of war would not wait upon his wounds, or his doubts.

His eyes moved to the furled banner propped against the wall, then to the small, shrouded object and sheathed sword that lay on the table beside it. The King's standard, the palantír and the sword of Elendil. They were the symbols of his birthright, the weapons that would carry him to his throne, and their presence here, with the host of the Dúnedain, made it clear to Aragorn that his fate was pressing close upon him. After countless years of wandering and exile, of waiting and watching, of fighting the Shadow from within shadows of his own, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, would ride to Gondor.

A pang smote him, and he looked again at the face of his beloved kinsman. Halbarad was his brother-in-arms, a man he trusted as he trusted the strength of his own sword. They had fought through the grey years together, and there was none he would rather have at his side, in this fateful hour. Or so he had once thought.

As if summoned by his unvoiced wish, a light tap sounded on his door and two figures strode into the room, both clad in the simple green and white of Théoden's household, and both blessedly familiar in spite of their strange garments. They halted just inside the doorway, their progress barred by Halbarad. Aragorn looked up, amazement written plain on his face, and in the startled silence, Boromir said,

"I would speak with you, Aragorn. Alone."

The grim tone of his voice told Aragorn that this was no time for introductions and idle chatter. Shooting a swift, warning glance at Halbarad, he nodded towards the doorway. The Ranger bowed his head in understanding and vanished through the open door, his feet making no sound on the stone flags as he went.

"We are alone."

"Thank you."

"I am glad to see you, Boromir." Aragorn privately reflected that this was a gross understatement, but as neither man was given to colorful speeches, it would suffice. "I wish Merry had told me you were awake."

"I didn't give him a chance."

"That's true," Merry piped in, "he didn't."

Aragorn smiled at the hobbit, then turned his gaze back to the man who stood at Merry's side, one hand resting lightly on his head. Aragorn grinned in unfeigned delight.

"How fare you?" he asked, a glimmer of mischief in his voice.

"Well enough. And you?"

He gave a low chuckle and held out his hand toward the other man. "You know the answer to that. Come and sit with me, Boromir, I beg you."

Boromir stayed where he stood by the door, his face tense and withdrawn, until Merry quietly started toward the bed. Boromir followed him, perforce. When his leg bumped the mattress, Boromir halted and let his hand fall from Merry's head.

The hobbit gave Aragorn a wistful smile. "I have an errand in the kitchens, and you don't need me hanging about, do you?"

"Time for Elevensies, is it, Master Brandybuck?"

"It is." Shooting a look up at Boromir, he added, "I'll be within bellowing distance, if you need me... for anything."

Boromir nodded toward the door and said, "Go on, Merry. You sound hungry."

"I'm always hungry!" The hobbit scurried out the door, pausing to shut it softly behind him.

Aragorn gazed up at his friend, reading the lingering illness and distress in his face, and he knew that this was not going to be a pleasant meeting. Slapping a hand on the mattress beside him, he said "Sit down." Boromir obediently sat on the edge of the bed, and Aragorn went on, in a conversational tone, "You are not here to ask after my health, are you?"

Boromir shook his head, his lips pressed tightly into a frown.

"What, then?"

Still, Boromir did not speak. Propping his elbows on his knees, he laced his fingers together and rested his chin on his hands, his shrouded gaze seeming fixed on the far wall and his face hard with pain.

"Come, Boromir. After all that we have survived together, can we not speak plainly to each other?"

"Aye," Boromir answered, softly.

"Then tell me what troubles you."

"You are leaving Edoras."

Aragorn stirred uncomfortably. "Aye. Tomorrow."

"For Minas Tirith."

"Not by the direct road, and it is by no means certain that we will reach the White City."

Boromir bowed his head for a moment, his forehead resting on his clasped hands. Then he looked up and turned to face Aragorn squarely. "It matters not to me what road you take. You ride to Minas Tirith and to war."

"Aye."

"Did you hope to leave without telling me?"

"Hope? Nay, not hope. I feared that I must, for you were ill beyond my power to help and I cannot not delay."

"You need not. I am a ready to ride from Edoras with you, today, down any road of your choosing. So tell me now, to my face, that you will go to Minas Tirith without me."

"I must."

Boromir's face twisted in a grimace of pain, then he turned away from Aragorn's gaze. "Through all our dark journey together, I thought myself a dead man. Then I awoke in this place and discovered that life had been given back to me, and in a moment of vain folly, I thought, perhaps, I had earned a second chance. A chance to stand beside my king when he placed the crown of Gondor upon his brow."

"There is no other I would have beside me," Aragorn said.

"Yet you would go to Minas Tirith without me." Aragorn did not answer, and Boromir's shoulders drooped visibly under the weight of his distress. "You swore an oath to me, Aragorn, and I took you at your word. I believed you, when you said that I was to be your Steward."

Aragorn gave a soft hiss of pain. "Do you doubt me, now?"

"I do not want to. I know you are a man of honor, a man worthy to be my king and king of all Gondor, but..."

When he hesitated, Aragorn urged, "Speak your mind."

"You ride to Minas Tirith, to war, but you leave me behind. You say you will have me as your Steward, but you do not trust me to stand at your side. How can I be Steward, how can I serve my king and my people, if I am not worthy to fight for them in their greatest need?"

Aragorn breathed a long, weary sigh and leaned his head back against the supporting cushions. He studied Boromir's face from beneath lowered lids, and felt a hard knot of pain gather in his stomach. He had known that he must hurt his friend, that he must wound the soldier's pride as deeply as any blade could wound his body, but knowing did not make it any easier. For all his certainty that he had no choice, Aragorn felt as though he were betraying a trust.

Summoning both certainty and resolve, Aragorn said, "It is because I would have you live to serve both me and our people that I will not take you with me into unknown peril."

Boromir said nothing, merely gazing blankly at the floor between his feet.

"This is not what I want, Boromir, but what I must do. If I were free to follow my heart, I would ride out of Edoras with you beside me, to death or renown or whatever awaits us. But you know that I do not have that freedom. In the dungeons of Isengard, you understood the choices a king must make. Can you not understand them, now?"

Once again, Boromir bowed his head to rest on his clasped hands. He fell still, leaving Aragorn to watch and wonder if he had found the right words to ease this terrible blow for his friend. Boromir must believe him, or all the trust between them would be lost, and the son of Gondor would fall again into despair. Aragorn could not hope to rescue him a second time.

It was long before Boromir spoke again. When he did, he neither lifted his head nor changed his posture, but his voice had turned soft and thoughtful, the edge of anger gone from it.

"I feel as though I'm dreaming, still," he murmured. "Or mad. How is it possible that we've come from Isengard to Edoras? That we're alive and free? It does not seem real."

"It does not seem real to me, either, and I was awake through it all."

"I can still hear Saruman's voice, like poison in my ears. Every time I reach out my hand, I'm afraid I'll touch him. He haunts me."

"You have only just shaken off that poison. It will take time to heal."

He shook his head slightly. "I will not heal. Not this time. Do you... do you understand what he offered me, Aragorn?"

"Aye."

"It was as if I held the Ring in my hand again and heard its whispered promises." Boromir shuddered and buried his face in his hands. "I can hear them still."

Compassion darkened Aragorn's gaze and brought an ache to his breast. "I am sorry, Boromir. I would that I could silence them for you."

"Nothing can." Boromir lifted his head and dropped his hands, allowing Aragorn to see the infinite weariness in his face. "I must live with the whispers, as I must live with... the rest. A foolish part of me longs to know if he could have done it. If he could have given what he promised, or if it was merely another of his foul lies."

"I do not know."

"Perhaps I shall knock on the doors of Orthanc and ask him."

Aragorn smiled sadly. "Do nothing foolhardy, while I am gone."

Boromir's face hardened, and he looked away again.

"Please, Boromir. I ask you, not as your lord, but as your friend. Stay here, in the care of Théoden King, rest and heal, keep yourself well against my need of you."

"I will do nothing foolhardy, and when my king has need of me, I will be ready."

Aragorn frowned at that, painfully aware of all that Boromir had left unsaid, but he knew that he would get no clearer promise. "Thank you."

Boromir nodded and pushed himself wearily to his feet. He swayed unnervingly, and Aragorn caught his arm to steady him.

"You must take some rest."

"Aye." Boromir took a step toward the door, but Aragorn halted him, refusing to let go his arm.

"Boromir?" The other man turned to face him, and Aragorn asked, "Can you live with this? The whispers and the rest?"

"What choice do I have?" Aragorn said nothing, and in his silence, understanding came to Boromir. His face softened into a smile. "Nay, do not fear that. Go to Minas Tirith, Aragorn, and win your crown. When you look for me, I will be there."

With that, he turned and strode quickly from the room, leaving Aragorn alone to ponder the hard choices of a king.

 *** *** ***

The Grey Company were mounted and ready to ride from Edoras. They had said their farewells to the king and his household, drawn their horses up to the foot of the green hill upon which Meduseld stood, and now waited only upon their chief. Aragorn, too, had said all that was meet to Théoden and Éomer, had drunk a parting cup with the Lady Éowyn, and was ready to depart. But still he stood apart, with the remnants of the Fellowship gathered about him, loath to give the order that would finally part them.

He went down on one knee before Merry to embrace him and said, "Farewell, Merry, bravest and most faithful of hobbits! Wise was Elrond, when he agreed to your coming, though little did he know how valiant would be your deeds and how great our need of you. We'll not forget you, though we wander through all the lands of Middle-earth before we meet again."

"Goodbye, Strider." Merry made no attempt to hide his tears, as he gazed into the face of the man who had been his guide and guard through so many perils, the man who would someday be his king, if they ever found their way out from under the Shadow. "I wish you would take me with you!"

"Nay, I need you here." He cast a swift glance up at Boromir, then smiled into the hobbit's doleful eyes. "I trust you with that which I would trust to no other."

Merry swallowed his tears and lifted his chin, determinedly. "You don't have to worry about us. I made a promise, and I intend to keep it."

"You lighten my heart, Master Brandybuck." Aragorn kissed him lightly on the forehead, then rose to his feet and confronted Boromir.

The two men faced each other in silence, Boromir grim and withdrawn, Aragorn full of sorrow but resolute. The other members of the Fellowship drew apart, not wanting to intrude on such a private leave taking. Finally, when the silence had stretched to the point of pain, Boromir stirred and held out his hand toward Aragorn.

"Farewell, my king."

Aragorn ignored the offered hand and embraced him, instead. After a moment's hesitation, Boromir returned the embrace.

"I have given you my word," Aragorn said, "and I will prove my good faith."

"There is no need."

They stepped away from each other, though Aragorn kept his hands on Boromir's shoulders and still spoke in a voice too low for any other to hear.

"I will see you soon, in Minas Tirith. Together, we will challenge the power of Mordor. Together, we will see Gondor restored."

"If you come unscathed to Gondor, then she is restored." Boromir paused, then added in a voice rough with strain, "I give all that I love into your hands, Aragorn. Do not betray my trust. Do not let Gondor fall."

Aragorn embraced him again and whispered, "I will not."

As he turned away to join his Company, Aragorn felt a tear slide down his cheek. He resolutely did not wipe it away, but lifted his head to let the sun strike his face. The Fellowship followed him to the side of his mount, and Legolas helped him climb into the saddle without injuring his leg further. He bent to speak a final word to Merry, to clasp Boromir's hand a last time, then he wheeled his horse about and galloped away, the Dúnedain riding silently after him.

Merry and Boromir stood a long time at the foot of the stair. The King and Éomer left them without a word, sensing that they wanted neither comfort nor company, and it was not until all the King's household had left the terrace above, returning to the hall, that Boromir finally turned to climb the stair. Merry went quietly at his side, saying nothing, even when Boromir chose to pace the stone parapet that edged the terrace, rather than return to the hall.

They moved away from the guards at the head of the stair, along the wall that overlooked Edoras and the burial downs beyond its gates. When they were far from both hall and stair, alone on the windswept hilltop, Boromir sat down on the wall. He swung his long legs over it, so that he faced outward, toward the spreading downs, then he fell into a brooding silence that made Merry feel both overlooked and unwanted.

Leaning, apparently forgotten, against the wall, Merry gazed up at the dour expression Boromir wore. It reminded him, painfully, of the time after the Fellowship had left Rivendell, when Boromir strode so silently at the back of the group, avoiding conversation and the eyes of his companions. Merry had sensed, even then, that something gnawed at the man, and now he knew his friend well enough to be sure of it.

"Strider will bring them safely through," he said, certain that he understood what troubled Boromir.

Boromir only grunted a wordless response, his face turned toward the road and the riders that had vanished down it.

"You still want to go with him?"

"Aye."

"To war?"

"To the end of his road, wherever it may lead."

Merry's next question sounded plaintive, even to his own ears. "Have you not seen enough war to content you, Boromir?"

Boromir finally turned toward him, and his face softened into affection. "I have, my friend."

"I'm glad," Merry said, simply, and a wan smile touched his face.

"But that does not alter who I am or what duty I owe to my king and my people." Boromir turned back to the vista of the plains before him. "My place is with Aragorn, yet he rides away to the rescue of Minas Tirith, and I sit here. Shuffled off with the old men and children."

"And hobbits," Merry added, glumly. "You're not the only one whose king is leaving him behind."

"Théoden rides without you? But you're his swordthain, pledged to his service!"

"It seems he doesn't need my sword. You and I are both being packed off to Dunharrow, with the rest of the baggage." Merry crossed his arms on the top of the wall and rested his chin on his forearms to stare, morosely, at the road. In another day's time, he would be headed down that road, but not toward Gondor and his liege lord. His only consolation was that Boromir would come with him to Dunharrow. They were to be packed off together. "That's all I seem to be on this trip. Baggage."

Boromir's sullen expression matched Merry's perfectly. "I am not accustomed to being treated like baggage. I don't take kindly to it."

"At least you're tall enough that they have to pay attention to you. They just look right over my head and pretend I'm not there."

Boromir made a disgusted sound in his throat and said, bitterly, "I think I'd rather that they ignore me. If one more person calls me "my lord" in that fawning, pitying tone and offers to open a door for me, I'll... I'll spit him on my sword!"

Merry, remembering how he had hurried to open the door for Boromir as they left the hall, blushed furiously and muttered an apology.

"Nay, I did not mean you, little one!" Now it was the man's turn to break off in embarrassment. "I beg your pardon. That is not a fit name for a warrior."

"I like it," Merry said. Then he smiled sheepishly and added, "Now that I've gotten to know you better. It used to upset me, but that was when I was frightened of you."

"That is a bare-faced lie, Merry. You were never frightened of me."

"I was. You growled all the time, you see..."

Boromir obligingly gave him one of his best, intimidating growls, which only set Merry off laughing.

"You can't carry us halfway across Hollin, rescue us from the snows of Caradhras, give us your cloak for a tent and half your supper when Pippin whines that he's hungry, then expect us to believe that you don't like us."

"I was simply trying to keep you out of trouble," Boromir snapped.

"If you say so, my Lord," Merry answered, meekly.

Boromir made a sour face at him. "Don't call me that. I am not your lord." He hesitated for a moment, then said, with quiet sincerity, "I have no need of liege men or servants, Merry, only of friends."

"I am that, always."

"Then tell me truthfully, my friend, why do you wish to follow Théoden? Do you hope to prove yourself in battle?"

Merry sighed and let his chin sink back onto his forearms. "I don't know. I have seen battle, and I don't like it. I don't think I'm a soldier at heart. But neither am I a coward, and I should be ashamed to stay behind." He glanced up at the face of the veteran soldier beside him and murmured, "I am only one, small hobbit, and I fear I can do little in such a great war, but for love of Théoden and Strider and Gandalf and all of them, I would try. Is that a foolish reason to go to war?"

"It is the only reason." Boromir's hand tightened on his shoulder, and Merry sensed the passion behind his words. Abruptly, the man swung his legs over the wall and sprang upright. He seemed full of a fierce energy all at once, and his face was hard with determination. "Come, Merry! We have no time to dally!"

Merry scrambled over to him and looked up curiously, as Boromir's hand rested on his head. "What are we going to do?"

"Our duty, Master Swordthain, in spite of our lords."

Merry grinned, finding his mood infectious. "Lead on, my Lord!"

"Nay, you lead on. Take me to Éomer, and we shall see what power the name of Boromir of Gondor wields in Rohan."

Chapter Text

The Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor, stared hungrily into the small orb that lay between his hands. It's flickering light struck eerie shadows across his face, deepening the lines of age and despair that marked it and darkening his eyes to midnight black. That same light struck the glazing on the tall windows of his tower room and sent an intermittent glow into the night, telling all who chanced to look at the Citadel that their Steward was wrestling with the Enemy once again.

Sweat dampened the silvered hair at Denethor's temples and trickled down his face. His hands were slick with it, his robe stained in great patches. And still Denethor's eyes bored into the glittering surface of the palantír, searching, ever searching, while exhaustion wracked his body and grief consumed his heart.

Boromir! Boromir! he cried, within his tortured mind, while he struggled fruitlessly to summon a single image of his lost son - an image to comfort or destroy him, he cared not, so long as it ended the uncertainty. My son, he wept, silently, show yourself to me! Spare you father this torture, this last and greatest burden. Let me see your beloved face again, even in death, I beg you!

Still, no image came. Only the thick, foul darkness of the Enemy to shroud his sight. Denethor shuddered in the grasp of his consuming need. He had never known the palantír to resist his will so strongly, and the knowledge that it would not surrender up this one, vital secret made him afraid. What power controlled the stone, that denied him this one request? And if it could blind him to the fate of his son, what other limits did it place on his sight? These questions flickered briefly through his mind, then vanished in the more immediate desperation of his search.

For many pain-filled days, since hearing the wild music of the Horn of Gondor upon the wind, Denethor had poured his will and his strength into the palantír, looking for his son's face among the stone's myriad images. And he had seen Boromir. He had seen him fall beneath an orc's blade, seen him dragged across the fields of Rohan, seen him tortured by the foul traitor, Saruman. The very last image he had seen was of Boromir lying, alone and broken, in a stone cell. This vision haunted him. It harried his dreams, flayed his heart and drove him ever back to this room, to this chair, to sit hunched over the palantír in misery and anger, hunting for another glimpse of his son.

Mithrandir claimed that he had seen Boromir brought alive from Isengard, and the perian said the same. Denethor had no trust in the word of the Grey Pilgrim - he knew that Mithrandir would use the truth for his own ends, twisting it to suit him - but he saw no guile or deceit in the halfling. Perhaps they spoke the truth, and Boromir had been alive when last they saw him. But that was many days ago, and even the subtle Mithrandir admitted that Boromir had been gravely ill at the time.

Denethor did not want to believe his son dead. He loved Boromir as he loved no other, and the fear of his loss was a gnawing torment within him. But the palantír had never lied to him, unlike the tongues of Men and wizards, and it had shown him his son shattered, abandoned and dying in a dark hell of stone. Since then, he had seen only the thickening shadows, and Denethor had become increasingly certain that those shadows portended death for his beloved heir.

He hated Saruman for his treachery. He hated the members of this so-called Fellowship, who had used Boromir's strong arm to defend them through their quest, then left him to suffer his life out in Saruman's dungeon. He hated Mithrandir for taunting him with baseless hope, to bend Gondor's Steward to his will. He hated and despised the ragged wanderer from the North, the upstart who dared to call himself Isildur's Heir, the liar who had seduced his son's heart into folly and hoped to take his birthright from him. And beneath it all, like an acid in his blood, he hated the one who should have died in Boromir's place.

If only he could see! If only he knew! The murky shadows swirled before his eyes, clouding the bright surface of the palantír. Death lay in those shadows, loss and pain, an emptiness too terrible to bear. His Boromir was lost, forever lost... Even should he ride back through the gates of Minas Tirith, he would not be the son Denethor loved beyond all else. He would be the creature of wizards and wanderers. He would be no better than his brother.

And yet, Denothor could not rest until he knew. His eyes aching from the strain, his body trembling with eagerness and exhaustion, he bent over the palantír and willed it to show him his son. The light flickered across his face again and lit the tall windows. In the Court of the Fountain at the feet of the tower, the Citadel guards looked up and saw that their lord was, once again, locked in a battle with the Enemy.

*** *** ***

Merry sat on the low, crumbling, stone wall and watched the Riders gather. Thousands upon thousands of them, all the might of Rohan mustered here to ride to the aid of Gondor. Horses stamped and snorted, chewing their bits, as they sensed their riders' eagerness. Helms gleamed dully in the dim light, lances rose in thickets toward the lowering clouds, shields clanked against mailed shoulders, and horns called men to their places in the mounted ranks.

They prepared to ride in a brown twilight, though it was already an hour past dawn. The sunrise had not come this day, and looking to the East, to the source of the murky shadows that blotted the sky, Merry wondered if any of them would live to see another true sunrise. It seemed to him an ill omen that so many proud and valiant warriors should ride to their doom under the Enemy's sky. At this moment, Merry was not so sure that he wanted to share that doom.

Beside him, Boromir shifted restlessly and asked, "Are those carts ready to move, yet?"

Merry twisted around to check on the activity in the field behind them. They had chosen this wall as their vantage point, because it divided the two fields where the Riders and the fugitives of Rohan gathered. On one side, the army paraded for its weapons take. On the other, the last train of carts and pack horses prepared to set out for Dunharrow. The hobbit and the wounded soldier were expected to leave with the baggage train, so their presence in the field occasioned no comment.

"They are still loading barrels of some kind. And the people are standing about, looking unhappy."

"Then we have time."

"Has Éomer forgotten us?"

"If he has, then we will find another way. But I think not."

Merry gave the grim, sorrowful crowd loitering in the field behind him another glance, then turned resolutely away. He was not destined to take his place among them today. Boromir had promised him that they would ride to Minas Tirith with Théoden's army, and Merry trusted him to make good on that promise. The fear in his heart would pass, when he was astride a war horse with his sword at his side and Gondor's greatest soldier at his back.

For the moment, both Merry and Boromir were dressed in the simple tunic and breeches of Théoden King's household, with no weapons or mail about them. In this garb, they blended with much of the crowd on both sides of the wall, and once they donned the gear lying hidden in the grass at their feet, they would look like any other soldier among the throng. Or Boromir would, at any rate.

Not that Boromir needed a sword or shield to make him look like a soldier, Merry reflected. It was plain in the way he stood and moved, in the way he lifted his head at the clash of arms or the music of a horn, and in the stern gladness in his face at the promise of battle. The only thing that marred the picture was the strip of black fabric bound across his eyes, a harsh reminder of why they were forced into lies and subterfuge to gain their place with the army.

Merry had wondered why Boromir wanted black cloth to replace the clean, white bandage he had worn since his rescue, and he had needled the man about this little piece of vanity. But when Boromir had tied the black fabric in place and put his borrowed helm on his head, Merry had understood. The helms of Rohan had long nose guards and came well down over the face, leaving only the mouth and chin exposed and casting the eyes into deep shadow. With the black bandage in place, and his helm concealing most of his face, Boromir's eyes were nearly invisible. Merry had to stand directly in front of him and gaze straight through the openings in the helm to see the bandage.

For the present, Boromir was not trying to conceal himself among the gathered Riders nor hide his injuries from curious eyes. He sat with his head bare, his bandaged gaze turned toward the marshal clamor of the mustering army, and his posture stiff with the wounded dignity of a man who is not used to being shunted aside and does not accept it easily. Merry watched him and said nothing, but it hurt him to see so much pride and strength and courage cast off as useless. He could forgive these great lords of Men for overlooking an insignificant hobbit, but Boromir should be riding at Théoden's side, not kicking his heels on a crumbling wall, waiting on the favors of others. And if Éomer did not fulfill his promise, who then would rescue the son of Gondor this time?

He was distracted from his melancholy thoughts by the appearance of an unknown Rider. The figure picked its way toward them, following the wall to avoid the worst of the chaos, leading two horses. As he drew near, Merry saw that the man was really little more than a boy, with a slender body that had not yet reached manhood and a round, beardless chin. Yet he moved like a warrior, and he controlled the two fresh horses effortlessly.

The Rider stopped a few paces from where they sat, and his eyes gleamed from within his concealing helm. "Lord Boromir?"

Boromir turned swiftly toward the voice and got to his feet. "Aye."

The Rider drew himself up to his full height, as slim and straight as a lance, and gave a formal half-bow. "Éomer, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, sends his compliments and duty to his brother of Gondor," he called, in a voice as stiff and formal as his posture. "He prays that you will accept the gift of this noble steed from your friend and ally, may it carry you safely to Dunharrow and on any road thereafter that you choose."

Boromir nodded gravely in answer to this little speech, then he held out his hand for the reins. The Rider laid them across his palm and watched, narrowly, as Boromir drew on the lead and guided the horse close to him.

"Will you carry my thanks to Éomer?" Boromir asked, one hand absently stroking the animal's nose.

Merry could have sworn that the Rider looked nervous at this request. He lost his stiffness and became, instead of a proud emissary, a very young man uncomfortable with putting himself forward. "'Twas not the lord Éomer who charged me bring you the horse," he said, "but his lady sister. She is gone ahead to Dunharrow, to do her duty by her king and her people, else she would have come herself with her brother's gift. She it was who ordered provisions for your journey."

Merry eyed the full saddlebags and bedrolls in growing suspicion. The ride to Dunharrow was less than a day, yet the horse carried enough for a week's journey. "Does she think we'll get lost?"

"Be still, Merry," Boromir chided. "Then my thanks to you and the lady Éowyn. Do you ride with the king?"

"Aye." The Rider hesitated for a moment, then added, softly, "And you, my lord?"

Boromir smiled slightly. "Who charged you ask me this?"

"No one. I have done my duty and said all I was commanded to say. Now I ask, as one forgotten soldier to another, do you ride with us, Boromir of Gondor?"

"Aye."

The Rider nodded his satisfaction and gave Merry a wintry smile. "I would be honored if you would accept my company. You may call me Dernhelm. Ready yourselves, and I will take you to the place where my éored gathers."

Boromir and Merry wasted no time with further questions. Climbing over the wall to retrieve their weapons and gear, they hurried to arm themselves. As he belted on his own sword, in between helping Boromir with his various buckles and clasps, Merry asked,

"Does Éomer know where we really mean to take this horse?"

"He is no fool, Merry. He would not go tamely into hiding, were he in my place, and he will not expect me to do so. But what he knows or does not know, he keeps to himself."

"Then who is this Dernhelm, and how did he guess our plans?"

Boromir shook his head, smiling. "I know not."

"Yes, you do!" Merry protested, suddenly filled with the certainty that Boromir was keeping secrets from him. "Have you fought with him before? Is he in some kind of trouble, in disgrace with the king, that he talks of being forgotten and offers to ride with us?"

"We must hurry. The Rohirrim will not wait on our pleasure, Master Halfling."

Merry sighed in resignation and hitched his shield onto his shoulder. "I'm ready."

He ran a critical eye over Boromir and saw his friend transformed into a Rider of the Mark. Boromir now wore a hauberk of light mail beneath his tunic, a long cloak hanging from his green-clad shoulders, a sword at his side, and the helm that concealed both his injury and his identity from the eyes of the army. No one would take him for a soldier of Gondor, much less for Boromir, son of Denethor.

"Will I pass muster?" Boromir asked.

"Your own father wouldn't know you."

Boromir looked unaccountably grim at his mild jest. "I expect you're right," he growled. Turning abruptly away, he grasped the top of the wall and vaulted neatly over it. Then he offered Merry a hand over. "Come, little one, it is time. We ride to death or renown."

"As long as we ride together," Merry retorted, placing his hand in Boromir's.

The Rohirrim rode swiftly into the gathering storm, beneath the standard of Théoden King. Among them went three fugitives - the dour and mysterious Rider, the blind soldier, and the hobbit - and in the great mass of men, these three were swept along, unmarked, toward Minas Tirith and war. They spoke little to each other and not at all to the other Riders of the éored. It seemed, through much of the ride, as though they were an army unto themselves - silent and invisible within the larger host.

For Merry, the journey was a time of boredom, weariness and unwelcome reflection. He had little to do except think, and most often, his thoughts turned to the friends he had lost along the road from Rivendell. He was overwhelmed and frightened, depressed by the thickening gloom that shrouded the sky, and missing Pippin's cheerful laughter. Only Boromir's presence kept him from despair.

He sat before Boromir on their princely steed, his small hands resting over the man's much larger ones as they held the reins. Merry could not control such a beast himself, and Boromir could not navigate without the hobbit's eyes, so they rode - as they ate and slept and talked and remembered - together. And with every hour that passed, Merry felt himself settle more completely and trustingly into his role as friend and guide to the soldier of Gondor. He still missed Pippin dreadfully, and he feared for the welfare of all his companions, but he could not feel truly alone so long as Boromir was with him.

Dernhelm was not such a comfort, though he did take a keen interest in Merry. He seemed deeply impressed by the hobbit's pledge of fealty to Théoden and by his act of defiant bravery in following the king to war. In a rare, talkative mood, he said as much to a surprised Merry.

"You do well, Master Holbytla. There can be no greater honor than to bear arms in the service of your lord, and there is no lord more worthy of your sword and your love than Théoden King."

Merry blushed at his praise and fidgeted uncomfortably with the reins. He could not tell this earnest young man of his divided heart or the anguish he suffered over his oath to the lord of the Mark. For he did love Théoden, and he did long to show his love in some way more useful than the telling of tales or sharing of a pipe. It was the fear that his oath to Théoden would conflict with the promise he had made to himself that gave him pause. If serving the king meant leaving Boromir, how would he choose?

"I hope I may do him honor," Merry finally said, his voice soft and uncertain.

"I doubt not that you will," the Rider answered, giving Merry a grave, respectful nod of the head. "You have already, in choosing to follow him into certain peril."

Merry gave an uncomfortable shrug, and his blush deepened perceptibly.

From behind him, Boromir seemed to sense his discomfort, and he suddenly spoke to the Rider, distracting him from his solemn praise of Merry. "What of you, Dernhelm? Why do you ride to war, in defiance of your king?"

Dernhelm stiffened. His voice, when he spoke, was cold and reserved, but Merry distinctly heard the pain beneath its chill tone. "You, of all men, should understand my reasons, lord."

Boromir turned a questioning look in his direction. "What do I know of your reasons?"

"They are your own." When Boromir said nothing, Dernhelm went on, bitterly, "Your lord and king has discarded you. The love and fealty you lay before him he counts as naught. He judges you unfit and turns to others for support in his hour of triumph, leaving you to take the coward's road into hiding and darkness. And so, out of love and because you will not bear the name of coward, you find your own path to meet him, in battle, in victory, in death..."

Boromir rode in silence for some moments, letting Dernhelm's anguished words hang in the air between them. Then, in a voice full of sorrow, he asked, "Is it for your king or mine that you do this?"

"For both, and for neither. One owns my duty, the other my heart, and for either, I would have fought all the armies of the Dark Lord. But both have judged me unworthy and set me aside, so I will fight for an unacknowledged duty, an unwanted love, and my own release."

"For what release do you hope?" The tone of Boromir's voice betrayed that he knew the answer to this question and dreaded hearing it.

"To die with my sword in my hand, to the music of horns and the clash of battle. To bring honor to the Mark and to my house. To leave a name of courage and renown behind me. That is all my desire."

Merry opened his mouth to speak, but Boromir's hand on his shoulder silenced him. Obedient to the pressure of Boromir's fingers, he closed his mouth and let the conversation drop. Dernhelm turned resolutely away from the pair beside him, kicking his horse into a faster pace to leave them trotting behind, and any chance Merry might have had to comment on his dire pronouncements was lost.

Dernhelm rode ahead of them for the remainder of the day, and Boromir fell into a taciturn mood that did not invite speech from Merry. None of them spoke again, until the host broke their journey for the night. After a silent meal, Dernhelm took himself off to sleep in the shadows beyond the fire, while Merry and Boromir rolled up in their blankets and propped their heads against either side of Fedranth's saddle to rest.

Merry had discovered that, at this point each night, Boromir became suddenly talkative. No matter how gruff and reserved he was through the rest of the day, once they lay down to sleep, he wanted to talk. Merry obliged him, though his body ached with weariness and he longed to tumble into blessed sleep, because he guessed that Boromir's unusual need for conversation stemmed from fear.

Fear of the darkness, the quiet, the time alone with his thoughts - it hung around the man in a palpable fog, and Merry felt it brush cold against his skin. He knew that Boromir would not sleep, would lie quietly through the long hours of the night, seething with a silent and fiercely controlled tension, unwilling to betray his fear and unable to deny it. The only way he could find rest was to talk himself into exhaustion and oblivion, and Merry gladly put aside his own exhaustion to listen.

On this particular night, the fourth of their journey, Merry did not wait for Boromir to speak, but started talking himself the moment his head touched the warm leather of the saddle. In the low, private tone they always used for these nighttime chats, he asked,

"Why does Dernhelm seek death? You know something of him, Boromir, some secret. You understand why he wants to die."

"Aye, that much I understand." Boromir hesitated for a moment, as though weighing his words, then he said, "He is in despair, and despair can drive a man to folly. Or to death."

"Is it not folly to seek death, in the prime of his youth, for no better reason than that his king left him behind?"

"Have you ever tasted despair, Merry?"

Merry thought about that, remembering the deep, gnawing pain of those days spent chasing the orcs across Rohan, the torment of those hours in the dungeons of Orthanc, and the helpless misery of watching a friend suffer when he could do nothing to aid him. Then he thought of the bleak, empty desolation in Dernhelm's eyes, and Merry realized that he had never felt that kind of hopelessness. No matter how black his own road had seemed, the hobbit had always seen his way clear to the end of it - a mad and perilous way, perhaps, but yet a way.

"No," he finally answered, "not like that. Not so that I gave up hope."

"I have. And I have longed for death, as a release from the endless pain of it."

Merry propped himself up on an elbow and twisted around to stare at his friend. "Do you, still?"

"Nay. I cannot say that I have thrown off despair, for it haunts me at every turn, but I have chosen not to surrender myself to it. I have found hope enough to keep me alive."

"Is that all you have found?"

"Hope is no small thing, to a dying man. Give me time, Merry. I will find my way, eventually. And so will Dernhelm, I trust, if he lives through this battle."

Merry lay down again, but he felt no urge to sleep. His eyes were wide open, his mind busy with the implications of all Boromir had said or not said, and his heart aching with a now-familiar sorrow. Boromir had closed the subject, with his last, firm statement, but he could not stop Merry from wishing that he could take the pain from his friend's voice or hurting, himself, because he could not.

"You still haven't told me Dernhelm's secret," he grumbled, covering his real feelings with irritation.

"'Tis not mine to tell."

"Well, at least you don't deny that there is one."

Boromir gave a wordless grunt that, once again, declared the subject closed. They both lay in silence for some minutes, while Boromir's tension slowly mounted. He held very still, but Merry could almost hear his teeth grinding and his fists clenching with the effort it cost him not to spring to his feet and start pacing madly.

Into this charged silence, Boromir asked, abruptly, "Are there stars tonight?"

"No." Merry looked up at the murky sky and reflected that he was not at all sure it was night. For all he knew, the sun was riding high above the canopy of fumes and shadows.

"I always enjoyed sleeping under the stars. When I was a child, my brother and I used to sneak out of the city and spend the night on the slopes of Mindolluin, under the stars. When we were older, we would venture farther afield, into the forests of Anórien, and tramp endlessly through the trees until we lay down and slept where we halted, heedless of danger. Faramir knew many tales of Elves and woods and stars. I remember how his eyes shone in the darkness, as he told them."

"You weren't afraid of orcs or brigands?"

"We were soldiers of Gondor, afraid of only one thing in all Middle-earth."

"What was that?"

"Our father." Merry chuckled, and Boromir retorted, "You laugh, because you have never met the Lord Denethor."

"Was he an unkind father?"

"Nay, not to me. He was stern and demanding, preoccupied with the affairs of the city and little given to indulging his sons. But to me, he was always fair and, in his way, loving." Boromir paused then added, bitterly, "Not so to Faramir."

"He... he did not love Faramir as he did you?"

"I was always the favored son, though I know not why. We are not akin except, perhaps, in our pride. I have little of my father's subtlety and none of his love of statecraft. When I see men decked out in robes and jewels, my strongest desire is to chase them from the room with a drawn sword, rather than exchange honeyed words with them. My father despaired of me, and yet he loved me." Boromir fell quiet for a moment, then mused, softly, "I wonder what he will make of me, now?"

"Will he not welcome back his favored son?"

Boromir gave a humorless chuckle. "We shall see."

"Your father does not sound like a very kind man."

"He is a great man. It is hard to be both great and kind."

"Strider is both."

"Aye, but even Strider must sometimes make cruel choices."

"Like when he left you behind?"

Boromir paused, then answered, "Like that."

Silence fell again, until Merry said, hesitantly, "Boromir?"

"Aye."

"I'm sorry, if I said anything I shouldn't have - about your father or Strider or..."

"You did not."

"You're very quiet."

"I am thinking of home."

"Will you tell me about Minas Tirith?"

"Not tonight, little one. Take some rest while you can."

"What about you?"

"Don't worry about me, Merry. Go to sleep."

The morning brought strange tidings to the Riders of Rohan. In the mysterious way of armies, news of what lay ahead and what their leaders planned filtered down through the ranks of horsemen, until all knew that the road through Anórien was blocked by orcs and minions of the Enemy. Help had come in a guise both strange and unlovely. Wild Men of the Druadan Forest had offered themselves as guides, to lead the Men of Rohan safely around the ambush that awaited them.

Their march was delayed, while Théoden King parlayed with the chief of the Wild Men, and delayed again as more of the odd, gnarled little men crept out of the darkling forest to take up their places with each of the mounted companies. At last, they set out, wending their way into the brown gloom beneath the trees.

The first leg of their march had to be done on foot, leading their mounts over the thickly wooded ridge that separated the main road from the secret valley through which the woodmen planned to lead them. Merry scrambled up the steep, narrow path carefully, guiding Boromir, whose footing was not so sure as the hobbit's. Boromir led the horse, Fedranth, and behind him came Dernhelm with Windfola. It was hot and tiring work, and Merry was grateful when they topped the ridge and saw the long, winding, overgrown valley beneath him.

Through the rest of that day - if it was truly day - they rode down the valley. And along the ranks of horsemen, rumors ran apace. Minas Tirith was burning. The Pelennor was choked with the armies of Morder, massed with orcs and cruel Haradrim, a place of foul slaughter. Even as the Rohirrim picked their slow way through the hills, the White City was dying in flame and horror.

Boromir listened to these rumors, and his face grew hard and pale. Merry wished that he had comfort to offer, but the stories appalled him nearly as much as they must Boromir, and he could think of nothing to say that would soften the blow. Pippin and Gandalf were in that dying city, among the flames, and Merry saw little hope of rescuing them or the city with what now seemed a pitiful handful of Riders. By the time they halted again, for the final rest before plunging into battle, Merry had sunk into a black depression that could not, he thought, be any more consuming than it was. He was wrong.

Boromir made no attempt to prepare their camp, though Marshal Elfhelm, who led their éored, said they had many hours before they rode again. He merely pulled Fedranth's saddle to the ground, sat down on it, and began gnawing on one gloved knuckle in morose thought. Dernhelm offered to light the fire, but Boromir ignored him. Merry, who had no stomach for food or talk, sat down at his feet and assumed a matching dejected posture.

"One would think, from your manner, that we were riding away from battle and not toward it," Dernhelm remarked.

"It is not battle that I seek," Boromir snapped.

Both Dernhelm and Merry turned to look at him in surprise.

"Isn't that why we're here?" Merry demanded.

"I am here to help my city."

"Aye, by destroying her enemies," Dernhelm said.

Boromir turned his bandaged gaze on the Rider and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "What use am I in a battle? What aid can I bring to Minas Tirith by dying on the fields before her gates?"

"What greater honor is there, than to die for your city? For you people?"

A sour grimace contorted Boromir's lips, and he growled, "I am no use to my people dead. Of course, I will fight if I must, but I had hoped to ride with Théoden to Minas Tirith, and there join in the defense of the city. Now I find all the armies of Mordor between me and the gate."

Merry shrugged and asked, in all innocence, "Is the gate the only way in?"

Dernhelm gave a disgusted snort, as if to dismiss such cowardice, but Boromir straightened up with a look of dawning hope on his face.

"Nay, 'tis not." He turned to Merry, smiling strangely, and said, "Where are we camped?"

"I don't know," the hobbit said. "Shall I ask Elfhelm?"

"We shall both ask him."

Together, they searched out the marshal and approached him where he sat at his campfire. Elfhelm looked mightily surprised to see two of his stowaways walking so openly toward him, and he quickly ordered his companions to leave the him. When Merry and Boromir reached the fire, Elfhelm was alone. He eyed the hobbit askance but gave Boromir a courteous nod.

"What would you with me, lord? Do you seek news of Mundberg and the battle?"

"Nay, I have heard all the soldiers' tales. I would know where our forces are camped and when we mean to march again."

"We are camped in the Stonewain valley, seven leagues distant from the Rammas Echor. With nightfall - or when our guides deem it has come in this devil's murk - we will ride for Mundberg. Théoden King hopes to join battle ere the sun rises." Elfhelm studied Boromir's face in the dim light, and Merry thought he saw both pity and respect in the Rider's eyes. "The morrow will show us whether the Tower of Guard lives or dies."

"She lives," Boromir assured him, "and I would stand once more upon her ramparts while I, too, yet live."

"If any force of arms can win through to the gates of Mundberg, the Riders of Rohan will do it."

"I do not doubt your valor, Elfhelm, but I cannot wait upon victory. My place is with the people of Minas Tirith, not with the Rohirrim, and with your leave, I will go to join them."

Elfhelm smiled. "You did not ask my leave to ride with us and need not ask it to depart. Go where your duty leads you, Captain of Gondor."

"Will you help me?"

The marshal's face turned wary. "What help can I give?"

"Find one of the Wild Men who speaks the common tongue, who will guide me through the forest, and bring him to me."

Elfhelm considered this request for a moment, then nodded. "That I will do. Await me at your own camp, lest Éomer find you here, and I will bring you your guide."

Some time later, Elfhelm strode up to the cheerful fire that Boromir had lit, one of the Wild Men at his side. He nodded to Boromir and waved the Wild Man forward. "He gives no name, but he speaks the common tongue well enough, and he claims to know every rock and crevice of these mountains."

Boromir started to thank Elfhelm, but the marshal vanished as quickly as he had come, obviously unwilling to be seen with his fugitive Riders. The Wild Man hunkered down next to the fire and turned his bright, nut-brown eyes on the man who sat across from him. After a moment's intent perusal, he grinned to show a mouth full of blunt, stained teeth.

"You go to Stone-city."

"Aye. I must get to the stone city, by the forest paths that lead into the mountains. Do you know these paths?"

"Know every path."

"Where the White Mountains end, there is a spur of rock. It leaps from the forested slopes of the mountains to the side of Mount Mindolluin, on which sits the stone city. This bridge is the only way to get from the forests of Anórien to Mindolluin, without crossing the plains."

The Wild Man bobbed his head. "Stone path. We know stone path. We cross."

"Will you take me to the stone path?"

The Wild Man lifted a finger, like twisted, polished wood, to touch the bandage over Boromir's left eye. "Man with no eyes need Wild Man."

"Aye. I know the paths of the Druadan Forest. I walked them as a boy. But now, I cannot find my way alone, and none among these Riders know it. If you will take me to the postern gate at the end of the stone path, the small door in the wall of Stone-city, by the houses of the dead, I will give you anything in my power as a reward."

The grotesque smile appeared again. "Man with no eyes can kill gorgûn?"

"Gorgûn?"

The Wild Man spat in the dirt. "Orcs."

"Aye, I can kill orcs, when the need arises."

"Good. Kill gorgûn, and I take you to city."

"You have my word. I will kill as many orcs as come my way, and gladly."

The Wild Man hopped to his feet. "Horsemen go in darkness. I find you. I take you."

"Thank you."

Merry waited only until the small, scuttling figure had disappeared into the shadows, then he rounded on Boromir and half-shouted, "You cannot leave the Riders! What if this woodman leads you wrong? What if you are lost in the forest?"

"I'll be safer there than on the battlefield. Merry, I must go."

"Then, I must go with you."

"You cannot. You are sworn to the service of Théoden King."

"What does that matter?" the hobbit cried, desperation in his voice and tears starting in his eyes.

"It means your first duty is to him."

"I don't care about my duty," he insisted, though the pain in his voice belied his words. "I promised..." He bit off his words abruptly and flushed a dark red.

"What did you promise?"

Hanging his head in embarrassment at his own temerity, he muttered, "I promised I'd never let you fight alone, again."

A long, thoughtful silence met his words. Then Boromir held out his hand and waited for Merry to take it in his. "You do me more honor than I deserve."

"I mean it. I won't let you go alone."

"I am not going to fight, Merry, but to avoid a fight. It is you who are riding to war, and if honor allowed it, I would gladly take you with me to protect you from harm."

"Would it be such a bad thing to go with you, instead of with Théoden?"

A low, grim voice came to them from outside the light of the fire, saying, "You would be foresworn." Dernhelm stepped into view, stooping to hold his hands over the dancing flames. The eyes he turned on Merry were full of understanding but implacable and cold. "You pledged yourself to the Lord of the Mark, and you owe him your allegiance, even your life."

"I owe Boromir my life, too."

"Nay, little one," Boromir murmured, "you have repaid my feeble efforts a hundred-fold. And you can rest assured that you are breaking no promises by letting me take my own road to Minas Tirith."

Merry gave a doleful sniff. "What am I missing, here? What do I not understand that both of you see so clearly and that makes you so certain of what I must do?"

"It is a question of honor, Merry. Your honor is bound forever to Théoden King, and if you abandon him now, you will lose it. You will become what I am." Boromir held up a hand to forestall Merry's inevitable protest. "Think about it. Think about walking the battlefield, when the killing is done, and seeing the Riders of the Mark strewn about you, cut down by the enemy, knowing that you were not among them to fight for your king."

"Would you have me die in battle?" Merry asked, in a very small voice.

"Nay!" Much to Merry's surprise, Boromir pulled on his hand and drew him into a quick, fierce embrace. "Nay, never that. But I know what it is to lose your honor, to have all you value in yourself destroyed by your own evil choices, and that is a pain worse than any wound. I only ask you to think about it, Merry."

Merry did think about it. He neither slept nor ate, but sat beside the fire and thought of all the choices he had made through the long journey from the Shire to Anórien. He thought of allowing Boromir to ride away without him, and he wept. Then he thought of the looming battle, and fear gripped his innards. But always and anon, his thoughts returned to the moment when he had knelt before Théoden, his small sword held out across his palms, and bowed his head beneath the king's gentle hand in his curls. His own words to Boromir came back to him, declaring that he would be ashamed to stay behind, when his friends went to war. He knew that riding to Minas Tirith with Boromir was not taking the coward's way out, but it was not the same as fulfilling his oath and striking his own, small blow for the Fellowship and the Shire in this great, terrible war of the Ring.

He came to no decision and found no peace, through that long day. Many tears painted his cheeks. Many angry words rose to his lips, to be swallowed before they disturbed his companions. He watched Boromir pretend to sleep, and he wished for the hundredth time that the man would agree to ride with the Rohirrim and take this burden of choice from him. But Boromir would not change his mind, and Merry could find no argument that might persuade him.

When the horns sounded to call the Riders to their ranks, Merry went numbly through the motions of saddling the horse and sorting their gear. Boromir worked with him in silence. Just as they were finishing, the Wild Man appeared from the surrounding trees and came to stand at Fedranth's stirrup.

"We go," he said, without preamble or greeting.

Boromir nodded and turned to find Merry. The hobbit stood numbly in front of him, head down, scuffing one bare foot in the dirt.

"What have you decided, little one?"

"If you... if you believe I must go with Théoden, then I suppose I must."

Another horn call brought Dernhelm over to them, leading his mount. "Ride with me, Master Holbytla."

He swung himself into the saddle, then held out a hand to lift Merry up, but Merry ignored the offer. His eyes remained fixed on Boromir's face, looking for the grief that he knew must be there. With his eyes shrouded, only the tightening of his jaw and thinning of his lips betrayed the warrior's distress. He tossed Merry easily into Dernhelm's high saddle, then he moved to mount his own horse. His gestures were sharp, almost angry, and Merry realized that he was trying to shield himself from the hobbit's eyes while he mastered his emotions.

Once in the saddle, Boromir fidgeted with his stirrups, girths and weaponry, until finally, he lifted his head and turned an outwardly calm face toward the hobbit. Dernhelm guided his mount close to Boromir's, and Merry leaned over to clasp the warrior's arm.

"Let me go with you," Merry pleaded one last time.

"Nay, Master Esquire. Your duty is to your king, your liege lord. You must stay and fight at his side."

"He doesn't want me."

Boromir smiled in understanding. "And Aragorn does not want me, but they need us still."

"I would fight at your side, Boromir. I missed my chance at Parth Galen, and all that has happened since is my fault."

To Merry's surprise, Boromir laughed. It was the first laugh he had heard from the man in longer than he could remember. "None of this is your fault, Merry. Nor is it Pippin's, nor even mine, though it has cost me much pain and doubt to accept that. I do not like being the pawn of kings and wizards. I am a man used to deciding my own fate. But in this, I am only one of many pawns, one of many weapons, passed from hand to hand in an endless battle. All that I can do is strike where I may, where the blow will mean the most. And you must do the same."

Merry held tight to his forearm and blinked back unwelcome, unsoldierly tears. "Will I see you again?"

"I trust so, Merry. When the battle is done, and our armies meet upon the field, look for me."

"I will. I... I do not know how to say..."

"Peace, little one. Ride to glory with your king, and slay a foe or two for me."

Merry smiled through his tears. "Only two?"

"I have learned humility. Two will suffice me." His hand returned the pressure of the hobbit's, and his voice dropped to a low murmur. "Ride well, fight bravely, and remember what I taught you. My thoughts and hopes go with you, Warrior of the Shire."

"And mine with you, Captain of Gondor. Farewell."

"Farewell." Boromir gave Merry's arm a quick squeeze, then released it, and turned to his diminutive guide. "Let us go."

The Wild Man put a hand on the horse's bridle and clucked wordlessly to it. The beast moved obediently after him, while Boromir left the reins slack upon its neck. Merry watched him ride away, and he felt as though his last friend in all Middle-earth had just deserted him. Now he was truly alone, riding to war with an army that did not want him, a small piece of baggage strapped to Dernhelm's saddle.

As Boromir's horse moved among the trees, bearing the man out of sight and reach, Merry lifted his hand and called, shrilly, "Give Pippin my love, when you find him!"

Boromir checked his horse, turned, and nodded, a smile flickering over his face. Then he rode into the dense shadows of the forest and was gone. Merry slumped wearily, pulling his hood over his face to hide his tears from the slim, young Rider behind him. A hand dropped to his shoulder, and Dernhelm's voice sounded close in his ear.

"Take heart, small warrior. We go to war, where many private hurts may be healed in the fury of battle."

"I thought sword and lance were meant for causing hurts, not healing them."

"Forgotten, then. Or ended, as life ends, with the cut of a blade."

Merry said nothing. He knew that the words were meant to comfort him, but Dernhelm's solace was not his.

Chapter Text

His guide was swift and his horse sure-footed. Boromir had nothing to do but stay astride his mount and listen to the sounds of the forest as they went. He could feel their path climbing steeply, and often a bough or bush would try to sweep him from the saddle, as the trees closed in more tightly around them. They were deep in the lush forests of Anórien, climbing the slopes of the White Mountains, winding their way toward Mount Mindolluin and home.

The Wild Man walked in silence, leaving Boromir to the doubtful company of his own thoughts. The time lay heavily upon him, for he could find no safe subject for his musings. Just as all paths led to Minas Tirith and war, so all thoughts led to regret, worry and fear. Boromir distracted himself by trying to judge their direction or the passage of the hours. This was so hopeless a task that it kept him busy - if highly frustrated - for much of their journey.

For all his efforts, Boromir found his thoughts turning often to the armies of the Rohirrim and the small halfling who rode with them. He tried to thrust away his wish that Merry had come with him, instead of going into battle. It was unworthy and ignoble of him to put his own fears, his own cowardly dependence on the halfling, ahead of Merry's duty and honor, but he found that he could not help himself. He missed Merry, and he looked ahead to the possibility that he might die upon the battlefield with a cold dread that gnawed at his innards as he rode.

How would he face the long darkness of the years without Merry there to give him light and make him laugh? If Merry fell beneath sword or axe this day, how would he ever sleep again? With a growl of disgust, he threw off these grim thoughts and turned his mind back to counting the thuds of his horse's hooves or the number of branches that slapped at his face and body. But ever, inexorably, he came back to the same, tormenting question. What if Merry died? What if their handclasp on parting was the last time he would ever feel the halfling's small hand in his? What if Merry's tearful pleas to ride with him were the last words he ever heard? What if he and Dernhelm, in their absolute devotion to duty, had sent the gentle halfling to his death?

He had no answers to these questions, but still he asked them, over and over again. The leagues crept by beneath Fedranth's patient strides, the Wild Man paced steadily at the horse's head, the night waned, and Boromir's mood grew ever bleaker.

At last, their path turned downward. It was still heavily shrouded by overhanging trees, still narrow and twisted in its course, but the steady downhill trend told Boromir that they were nearing the end of their journey. They had reached the eastern tip of the White Mountains and the last bastion of stone rising from the wide, southern plains.

As they came out of a deep fold in the mountain, with nothing now between them and Mt. Mindolluin, Boromir heard the clear, distant call of horns upon the wind. He snatched at the reins and pulled Fedranth to a stop, his head up and his ears straining to catch the sound again.

"Horsemen," his guide stated, tersely.

"Aye," Boromir muttered, and in his mind's eye, he saw Merry galloping wildly into battle, perched on Dernhelm's saddle. His face paled and his mouth grew hard with anxiety, but he remained calm and still in the saddle. "The Rohirrim have come to Minas Tirith."

Letting the reins fall slack again, he nudged the horse with his booted heels. The Wild Man went forward, and they wended their way down the forest track. Boromir could feel a change in the wind, though he did not know what it portended. It carried more sounds to him, none of them reassuring, and presently, he caught the smell of burning. If his guide noticed, he said nothing, and Boromir kept his mounting worry to himself. He could not make the way shorter by fretting, though he fairly itched to tear the bridle from the Wild Man's hands, kick Fedranth into a full gallop, and go careering off down the mountain on his own. Folly, he told himself. Madness and folly. And he clenched his fists to keep his hands from the reins.

The winged shadow came upon them with a rush of cold and fear. Boromir was listening to the distant sounds of battle and trying not to let his mind dwell on the fate of one, small halfling in all that destruction, when he felt the chill sweep over him. Fedranth came to an abrupt halt, his warm flesh turning to marble between Boromir's knees. The Wild Man muttered an imprecation in his own tongue and scuttled away. Boromir was left sitting on the terrified horse, hunched over as though he could shield himself from the shadow, his body taut and shaking.

Nazgûl! The Nazgûl had issued forth from Minas Morgul to cast their vile shadow across the sweet fields of Gondor, and through some sorcery of the Enemy, they had wings! Boromir had felt such cold and dismay once before in his life, when he strayed too near the evil Imlad Morgul and felt the eyes of the tower upon him. But only since his travels with Aragorn and his sojourn in Saruman's dungeon did he have a name for it. Nazgûl. The Ringwraiths. The name alone was enough to strike terror into the hearts of Men, and now the things themselves had come to Gondor.

The shadow passed swiftly, circling back toward Mindolluin and the battle on the plains. With its passing, horse and Man recovered their wits and breathed normally again, but a new urgency gripped Boromir. Like the touch of the Black Breath, the realization had come to him that this was the final stand against the Enemy. Sauron had unleashed the greatest of his weapons to crush Minas Tirith and her brave defenders at last, and Boromir, son of Denethor, would be among them when the blow came, if he had to fly to the city on the wings of the Nazgûl themselves!

He heard the Wild Man's footsteps padding up beside him again, and a hand took Fedranth's bridle.

"Evil in the air," the Wild Man muttered.

"Aye. We must make haste." Reckless in his urgency, Boromir kicked Fedranth into a canter, not waiting for his guide to lead the way. The Wild Man scrambled to catch them, and together, they hurried down the winding track.

*** *** ***

Denethor sat in his darkened tower room, his shoulders bowed with age and sorrow, his face lined with pain. The palantír lay in his lap, cradled between strangely thin and still hands, but his eyes did not turn to the glittering surface of the orb. They dwelt only upon the face of his son, and they were filled with longing.

Faramir tossed and muttered on his palette, consumed by fever, unaware of his father's vigil beside him. Denethor strained to catch his broken words, to no avail. In the depths of his remorse, he silently prayed that his son would find one moment of awareness, one word of love or forgiveness for his father, but he knew that his prayers were vain.

A harsh doom had fallen upon the West, and while all Men suffered, none suffered so greatly as the lord of Minas Tirith. His sons were already taken from him. His city would soon follow. Then nothing would stand between Mordor and Middle-earth but a scattered rabble of frightened Men, led by a half-mad wizard and a homeless, vagabond king.

Denethor knew precisely what doom awaited him, for he had seen it in the palantír and could not doubt the evidence of his own eyes. But even in defeat, he did not have to bow to the will of the Enemy. He did not have to go tamely into exile, imprisonment or death at the Enemy's hands. He was Denethor, son of Echthelion, of the blood of Númenor, and he bowed to the will of no creature, not even the Dark Lord himself.

Tearing his gaze reluctantly from his son's face, Denethor turned his eyes to the darkling orb that rested upon his knees. Mists swirled beneath its surface, then parted to show him scenes of the battle raging about his walls. Hosts of orcs, armies of fierce Men, mûmakil with towers and siege engines upon their backs - all the power of the Black Land brought to bear against this one embattled city. They must and would o'erwhelm the pitiful forces of Gondor and her allies, who looked to his eyes as tiny sparks of light in a seething darkness. And then, as if to put a seal on the fate of Minas Tirith and her lord, there appeared upon the waters of Anduin a great armada of ships, all with black sails and hulls.

A strange smile played about the Steward's lips, as he put aside the palantír and rose to his feet. Old and bent with care he seemed, calm, but with a fey gleam in his eyes. Turning to the halfling, who waited in glum silence by the door, he said, "Summon my servants and then go, Peregrine, son of Paladin. I release you from my service. Go, and die as seems best to you."

*** *** ***

The great ship rode at anchor beside the quay of the Harlond. Down its gangplank came a line of proud warriors, clad in mail and armed for war, leading horses as fierce and deadly as their riders. First to set foot upon the quay, first to touch the soil of Gondor, was Aragorn. He felt the shock of that contact through his entire body, as if the very land cried out in welcome. His head lifted and his eyes sought out the pale gleam of the city walls, rising gracefully above the smoke and flame of battle.

Halbarad stepped up beside him, with the sons of Elrond following. The Ranger carried the banner of King Elessar - the banner that had been wrought by the hands of Arwen Evenstar, that had stood furled by Aragorn's bed when he lay in Edoras, and that had lifted upon the wind for the first time, as it flew from the mast of the black ship. Now, it rippled proudly at the top of a tall staff, and the gems fixed upon it caught the fitful sunlight.

Aragorn swung himself into the saddle. All about him, the warriors who had braved the Paths of the Dead at his side now prepared themselves for a test of a different kind. He cast one glance up at the banner above him, then he turned his eyes to the enemy before him and the killing that must be done.

Drawing Andúril, he pointed the blade toward the walls of Minas Tirith but a mile distant and called, in a voice both strong and calm, "There lies our way!"

"And your throne, King Elessar," Halbarad said. "Long have I waited to see you pass through the gates of the White City in triumph."

"We are not yet there, kinsman."

Aragorn found Halbarad's certainty unsettling, though he did not show it. Looking again at the device of the White Tree upon his banner, he allowed himself a small moment of regret that it was Halbarad, and not another, who would enter Minas Tirith at his side on this day. Then he thrust aside the thought, thrust aside all doubts and distractions, to fix his mind and heart wholly on the task that lay before him.

"To Minas Tirith!" he cried, and swept his army behind him into the fray.

*** *** ***

The smell of burning had grown steadily stronger, until it caught at the back of Boromir's throat and soured his tongue. Ash powdered his cloak and hair, making him sneeze. They rode out of the shelter of the trees, and for the first time in many days, Boromir felt sun upon his face. The clouds were thinning and the day was upon them, but before them, all was smoke.

The Wild Man halted Fedranth with a hand upon his bridle. "The Stone-city burns," he said.

"The hosts of Mordor have besieged the city and fired her streets."

"Fire there, at end of stone path. I see flame and smoke. Tall flame. Man with no eyes will find fire on other side of door."

Boromir frowned down at him in confusion. The postern gate at the end of the stone bridge opened into Rath Dínen, the Silent Street. None ever came to the mansions of the dead, except to tend the tombs or lay a lord of the city to rest in their pillared halls. How could fire have come to this most hallowed place, unless the city had already fallen and the orcs set about to plunder and desecrate her? He still heard the distant roar of fighting on the plains, which told him that the battle was not yet lost, but closer still and ominous in its portent, he heard the snap and sizzle of flames.

"Come. Let us hurry," he said.

"Go carefully. Stone path is bad place for horse, bad place for Man. You step wrong, you fall far."

Boromir did not doubt this for a moment, and he felt a moment's gratitude that he could not see the fearful drop on either hand, as they started across the narrow ridge of stone that lead to Mount Mindolluin and his home. They moved slowly and steadily, Fedranth showing no nervousness with the Wild Man's hand upon his bridle. They were halfway across, when the shadow fell on them again.

It came faster this time, and much lower, sweeping over the path in a wash of deathly cold and the foul stench of corruption. Fedranth uttered a scream of terror and reared up, his hooves pawing the air. Boromir, caught all unprepared, tumbled from the saddle to hit the ground with stunning force. He heard hooves striking stone, another scream from the horse, and he rolled instinctively away from the panicked beast.

In the next second, the rock fell away beneath him, and he was sliding over the edge of the precipice. He grabbed at the surface of the path, digging his fingers uselessly into loose earth and gravel, while his feet scrabbled for purchase on the vertical face of the rock, but his weight and momentum dragged him inexorably to his doom.

Suddenly, his left hand found a crevice in the broken rock of the cliff's edge. He snatched at it, pushing his fingers into the narrow space, and took all his weight on that one arm and hand. The old arrow wounds in his left shoulder and side flared with fresh agony, and he gave a tearing cry of mingled fury and pain.

*** *** ***

Merry thrust his sword upward with all his strength and fear behind the blow. The blade pierced cloth and mail to drive deep into the flesh of the creature beneath, and the Black Rider stumbled forward with a dreadful cry. Merry collapsed to his knees, his arm going numb, his sword falling from his nerveless hand.

"Éowyn! Éowyn!" he cried.

The white lady of Rohan, with the last of her failing strength drew herself up against the great shadow and drove her sword beneath its gleaming crown. Cloak, mail, crown and shattered sword all tumbled to the ground, together, and Éowyn sank lifeless upon them. Merry, crouching in terror among the dead, heard the shuddering, wailing cry of the Nazgûl's passing.

*** *** ***

The shivering cry filled Boromir with despair and dread. Clinging to the sheer wall of rock, his body afire with pain and his mind seething with panic, he could only press his forehead to the cold stone and pray that his death would come swiftly. The killing cold of the Nazgûl flowed over him, and the cry seemed to rend the very air. He cried out in answer, screaming his defiance. It seemed, in his extremity, as though the wraith's cry mocked him.

As suddenly as it had come, the chill vanished. Warmth flowed in Boromir's veins again, and new pain with it, but the despair was gone with the shadow of the wraith. With every breath a sob of anger and pain, he struggled to find some purchase for his feet, struggled to haul himself back onto the path. His right toe encountered a small outcropping, and when he let some of his weight rest on it, the relief to his tortured shoulder made him sob afresh.

He was mustering his strength for another, desperate attempt, when a voice sounded from just above him. "Hold fast."

Boromir looked up at the voice, but he did not have the breath to answer. A moment later, familiar horned hands clasped his left forearm, and he felt rope tighten about his wrist.

"Horse will pull you up," the Wild Man informed him.

Boromir had just enough time to clamp his right hand around the taut rope and reflect that this would likely hurt. A lot. Then hooves pawed at the stony ground, the rope bit fiercely into his flesh, and pain exploded within him.

Slowly - too slowly for his abused body - the combined strength of horse and Wild Man dragged Boromir back onto the level ground of the path. When he lay, at last, on the path, he could do no more than take shuddering breaths and hold his numbed left arm to his shaking body. The Wild Man squatted beside him, muttering to himself, while Fedranth nuzzled him curiously, but Boromir ignored both of them. He was alive. He was exhausted and sick with the pain from his wounds, but he was alive.

That thought spurred him to move again. Pushing himself carefully away from the comfortingly solid ground, he used the Wild Man's arm and Fedranth's reins to haul himself to his feet. The horse was calm and patient, now that the winged terror had passed, and he allowed Boromir to clamber awkwardly into the saddle without so much as twitching. Seated on his mount again, Boromir willed away his pain and weakness and forced his back to straighten.

They were within sight of the walls of Minas Tirith. They were on the very doorstep. Only one more small effort, and he would be home. Setting his jaw and lifting his chin, he gave the horse a gentle nudge and started along the path once again.

They reached the end of the stone bridge without incident. In the shadow of the tall, silent wall, Boromir swung down from the saddle and handed the reins to his guide. Two steps took him to the postern gate. He halted with his hand resting lightly on the rough wood of the gate itself and filled his lungs to shout, "Ho, sentry! Open the gate!"

No answering shout came. No scrape of bars or latches opening. Boromir listened intently for a moment, then drew his sword and pounded the hilt upon the door. The wood shuddered beneath the weight of his blows. "Open in the name of the Lord Denethor!"

Still no answer came, and Boromir frowned at the unresponsive door in growing frustration. This postern gate was always guarded. Day and night, at peace or at war, soldiers of the Citadel Guard stood sentry at the gate. It was the only way for an enemy to penetrate the city walls without first crossing the the Pelennor fields, and was therefore the most vulnerable point in the city's defenses. It was never left unguarded.

And yet, at this time of crisis for the city and all Gondor, the gate had been abandoned. The longer he pounded and shouted, the more alarmed Boromir became. He could smell smoke and hear the spitting of flames on the other side of the wall, and a kind of frenzy gripped him. Rath Dínen was burning. The houses of the dead were under attack by some unknown foe, and the very heart of his city was burning.

He gave the door a final blow with his sword, then stepped back, panting. "I must get inside," he growled.

The Wild Man stood patiently beside him, holding Fedranth's reins. "I bring Man with no eyes to Stone-city. I go, before black shadow comes."

"Wait! Stay a little. Please."

"Door is closed," the Wild Man insisted.

"Then we must find another way."

"No other way. Stone walls are hard and high. Cannot climb."

"I did, when I was a boy. My brother and I found a way. When we did not want to bribe the sentries or risk our father's wrath, we would climb the wall, where it lay in shadow behind the guards' shelter. I wonder..."

Stepping up to the gate, Boromir spread his hand flat against the wood and lifted his ruined eyes to gaze at the top of the high wall. "It was to the right," he mused, softly, as he began walking slowly to his right, "behind a tree."

Very slowly, he made his way along he base of the wall to the south. He remembered this path vividly - a narrow strip of bare rock and loose earth that clung to the wall's foot, with a sheer drop of hundreds of fathoms only a single unwary step away. What had seemed a narrow path to a half-grown child proved to be no path at all for a man of Boromir's height and size. By the time he felt the first stiff twigs catch at his sleeve, he was creeping along with his body pressed tight the wall and his heels hanging over nothing.

He grabbed at the sturdy branches of the tree gratefully and pulled himself close to its gnarled trunk. Circling the trunk with his arms, he ducked around it and found safe purchase for his feet on a wider patch of dirt protected by its roots. There, he paused to catch his breath and consider the task he had set himself. And his courage failed him.

He could not scale this wall. The crevices and outcroppings that had served as a ladder for an agile boy would never hold his weight. He doubted he could find them at all, and he knew, with a sick feeling of shame and frustration, that he did not have the nerve to try.

He was leaning against the wall, struggling to summon his courage and begin the climb, when he heard the Wild Man grunting and shuffling along the treacherous path toward him. Boromir drew in as close to the tree as he could to give the man room to stand, but the man chose instead to pull himself into the lower branches of the tree, where he could perch in comfort.

"Man with no eyes cannot climb wall," he opined, sagely.

Boromir gave a sour grunt and turned to run his hands over the rough surface.

"Man will fall. Die on rocks. Become food for crows."

"Must you sound so pleased about it?"

"Wild Men try to climb walls, once..."

Boromir detected the sly note in his guide's voice, and he looked up at him with new interest. "Aye? And did you?"

"Wild Men can climb tallest peak, steepest cliff. Wild Men never fall."

"Then Wild Man can climb wall of Stone-city and open the cursed gate!" Boromir growled ferociously.

"Tall Men kill me with bright swords. Wild Men not go in."

"There is no one inside to kill you," Boromir snapped. "If there were Tall Men inside with bright swords, they would have opened the gate." He hesitated, then went on, in a voice taut with urgency, "I must get inside. My city is besieged, my people are dying, and I am stuck out here, helpless to aid them! I must get inside!"

Silence answered him, while the Wild Man considered his words. Finally, Boromir heard a rustling in the tree above him, and leaves drifted down onto his upturned face. The Wild Man's voice, when it came again, was moving higher in the tree.

"Man with no eyes go back to door. Wait."

Boromir waited. He waited until he heard the Wild Man's horned hands scrabbling at the stones of the wall, then he made his way back to the safety of the rock spur and the barred gate. There, he called to Fedranth and was met with the slow clop of hooves and the horse's warm breath on his neck. He rubbed the offered nose, as much to keep his hands busy as to reassure the nervous beast, leaned against the solid wood of the door, and waited.

At last, when it seemed his over-stretched nerves would snap with the strain, he heard the grate of metal against metal and felt the wood vibrate at his back. He grabbed Fedranth's bridle and turned, just as the portal swung open. Boromir hesitated, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of heat, smoke and sound that poured through the archway to smother him. Then the Wild Man's hand closed on his arm, and he was pulled unceremoniously through the gate.

"Bargain is done," his guide said, firmly. He slapped Fedranth's rump to hurry the reluctant horse through the gate, then he turned to confront Boromir. "Man is inside Stone-city. I climb wall, I open gate, I do as Man asks. Bargain is done."

"Aye, the bargain is done. I thank you."

"No thanks. Kill gorgûn." A gnarled hand touched Boromir's sword, then reached up to brush the cloth over his left eye. "Man with no eyes keep bargain and kill many gorgûn. Make evil darkness go away. Bring sun back to mountains. Bring peace."

"I give you my word as a soldier of Gondor, I will do everything in my power to drive back the enemy and bring peace to your forests again."

The Wild Man said something in his guttural language, then he took Boromir's hand in both of his and touched it to his forehead.

"Farewell," Boromir said.

The Wild Man's footsteps padded back through the archway, and the heavy gate swung shut behind him, leaving Boromir alone among the houses of the dead. His face grim and pale, Boromir fitted his toe into a stirrup and swung himself astride his horse. Fedranth sidled nervously, his skin shuddering when hot ash blew against it, but Boromir held him steady.

"There is only one way out, my friend," he said. "I am trusting you to find it."

He rode the length of the Silent Street in dread, with the roar of flames and the slither of falling stone in his ears. The horse balked, as they drew near the source of the noise and heat, and Boromir had to curb him sharply to prevent him from bolting back down the way they had come. After several false starts, the beast finally obeyed the hands upon his reins and continued up the street, but he shied violently, when a stone wall on their left crashed to the ground in a boiling cloud of dust and sparks.

Boromir cursed and dug in his heels. Fedranth needed no urging. He lunged forward, fleeing the terror of the fire, and Boromir let him have his head. Rath Dínen had but one street. The horse could not go astray, lest he try to climb the steps of the mansions of the dead themselves, and Boromir had no fear of that.

The way lay clear before them, edged with carven images of long-dead kings and graceful marble pillars. It wound up the steep side of Mindolluin, beneath the shadow of the city walls, leading man and horse out of the choking air of Rath Dínen and into the fresh wind that swept the sky clean above them. Fedranth slowed his headlong pace, as they climbed free of the smoke, but he plodded obediently up the steep way.

Suddenly, the horse gave a snort of alarm and danced backward, forcing Boromir to grab his mane for balance. The man lifted his head, testing the wind for clues as to what had upset his mount. He could hear the distant clamor of horns and trumpets, the clash and ring of weapons, and the screams of men and beasts, but all such noise came from the plains far below. The city seemed oddly silent, as though holding its breath in suspense. And he could hear nothing nearby.

"Ho! Porter!" he called. He knew they must be near the door that led into the city's sixth circle. A porter kept the gate and guarded the road into the houses of the dead. He lived in a small house beside the way. "Porter!" he bellowed again, as loudly as he could.

No one answered him. His lips thinned in anger and disquiet, he once again urged his horse into motion, against the beast's better judgement. Fedranth took a few reluctant steps, and Boromir felt his helm crack sharply into stone. He rocked back in the saddle but kept his seat, and when Fedranth moved forward again, he ducked low over the horse's neck.

Cobblestones rang beneath the horse's hooves, and a grim smile touched Boromir's lips. He knew exactly where he was now, for he had just passed through Fen Hollen, the Closed Door, set in the rear wall of the sixth circle of the city. He was in Minas Tirith. He was home.

But it did not feel like home. The strange, breathless tension was thick about him. The streets, if not empty, held only the very quiet and the very frightened. Even the running of feet or the cry of voices sounded furtive. The wind tasted fresh, but it carried the stench of burning and death from the battlefield below and, he guessed, from the lower circles of the city. Minas Tirith was under siege, and greatly must she have suffered in her extremity. Now, with the battle raging about her walls, she had crawled into hiding to nurse her wounds and await her doom.

Boromir gave Fedranth a slight nudge to get him moving, but he let the reins hang slack on the horse's neck. They could go only one way, toward the Citadel gate that led into the seventh circle and the Court of the Fountain. It was ever manned by a sentry of the Tower Guard, and Boromir waited for the sentry's challenge.

None came. They plodded slowly along the curving road until Boromir was sure they had reached the gate, but no voice hailed them. No challenge stopped their progress. This, like the missing guard at the postern gate, the silent porter and the fire burning unchecked in Rath Dínen, filled Boromir with foreboding. Something was terribly amiss in the city. Not the threat of the battle, for Minas Tirith was no stranger to battle. Of a certainty, her people would be frightened and angry, perhaps hiding, perhaps cursing the armies that had failed to drive the enemy from the gates. But the soldiery, the Guards, the officers who led them and the lords of the city should not be shaken by such a familiar thing as war.

Where, then, were the sentries? Where were the soldiers drawn up to guard the Citadel? Why did the city feel panicked and leaderless? Where was his father?

Boromir drew Fedranth to a halt and listened intently. He needed to reach the Citadel and find his father. Surely the Lord Denethor could explain what madness had gripped the city. Surely he had the defenses in hand, the troops deployed, the gates protected... Surely this panic came from Boromir himself, and not from the air about him. But without the sentry to mark the gate for him, he was lost.

Boromir swung himself out of the saddle and stepped in close to the horse's side. He felt oddly vulnerable and unsure of himself, for a man who had just returned to a beloved home after long months of wandering. The city seemed larger than he remembered, and he could not summon a clear picture of the streets in his head. The clamor of battle on the plains below, the stench of burning and of death, the frantic edge in the voices that rang in the streets all served to unsettle and disorient him. He wished, not for the first time, that he had brought Merry with him after all.

Fedranth snorted and tossed his head, catching his rider's mood. Quick footsteps sounded on the cobbles behind them, and the horse sidled nervously away, forcing Boromir to follow. He took a hasty step, felt heavy fabric slap against his leg and stumbled. In the next instant, he fell hard against the running figure. Something large and stiff was crushed against his chest with a sound of snapping straw, then a woman's voice uttered a cry of alarm, and both Boromir and the unknown woman were stumbling backward, away from each other.

Boromir recovered his balance and stepped forward again, his free hand outstretched and an apology on his lips. His foot came down on something that crunched and slithered beneath his boot. The woman's hands pushed sharply against his shoulder, causing him to stumble again and fall against his longsuffering horse, and she cried out, angrily,

"Ah, you great, clumsy oaf! Only look what you've done!"

"I beg your pardon," he said, glad that his helm concealed his flush of chagrin. Then he added, in all honesty, "I did not see you."

"You've gone and crushed my herbs, with the healers waiting and all. I'll have to pick them fresh." Her voice came from down by his knees now, as she scrabbled around on the cobblestones at his feet. "Soldiers everywhere," she grumbled, "clanking about and making a din... No wonder the Houses are full of sick and injured souls, with all you soldiers about."

Boromir edged warily away from her, his innate chivalry at war with his common sense. "Is there aught I can do to help you?"

"Aye. You can get yourself and that animal away from my herbs, before you trample any more of them."

Boromir backed away another few steps, taking the horse with him. He felt both helpless and humiliated, his stomach roiling with embarrassment. He did not want to anger the woman further, but he could not wander through the city without direction, and if he left this circle, he might never find the Citadel gate. She could guide him, were she willing. That thought held him there, in spite of her scornful words.

Finally, he heard the rustle of her basket and her clothing, as she rose to her feet. Her footsteps padded quickly past him, headed away on her errand.

"Wait!" he called, holding out a hand to stop her, but not daring to step into her path again.

She paused. "I am late and will be later, still, thanks to your blundering. What do you want of me?"

Boromir knew a momentary urge to pull off his helm and show her his bandaged eyes, as much to excuse his clumsiness as to gain her help, but he balked at the thought of thus exposing himself. Scorn he could abide. Not pity.

Drawing himself up stiffly to conceal his discomfort, he said, "I, too, am in haste. I must needs reach the Tower, but I do not know the city and have lost myself in the streets. Where is the Citadel gate?"

"To the west, in the center of the wall," she answered, curtly. "You rode right past it." Clicking her tongue in disgust, she turned and strode rapidly away from him, muttering just loudly enough for him to hear, "Clumsy and blind... shouldn't be allowed to carry a sword, that one..."

With a sigh of frustration, Boromir leaned back against the horse's shoulder and doffed his helm to let the stiffening breeze cool his face. He should have known better than to ask such a termagant for help. He should have clapped her in irons for insulting the heir to the Stewardship. Or better yet, wrung her neck. How was he supposed to tell which direction was west? And how was he supposed to find the gate, short of falling through it?

He ruffled his damp hair with one hand, gazing around him as if he could solve the many riddles that plagued him, simply by glaring hard enough at the unresponsive street. He struggled to make sense of the barrage of familiar, yet confused sounds that reached him, struggled for the sense of balance and certainty that had slipped away from him with his entrance into Minas Tirith.

Yet more voices filtered through the din of battle - the voices of men, accompanied by the tread of heavy boots. Boromir straightened up and stepped away from his horse, keeping a firm hand on the reins so as not to lose himself in a rash moment. The voices came nearer, and he turned to face them.

Suddenly, out of the general noise he heard, as clear as a horn call in the morning, the voice of a hobbit crying, "Boromir!"

Boromir dropped the horse's rein and took an unwary step toward the call. "Pippin?"

Bare feet pattered against stone, and Pippin's shrill voice rang out in unfeigned delight, "Boromir! It is you!"

Boromir had only enough time to drop to a crouch, before a small body flew at him, running full tilt and shrieking, "I knew you'd come! I knew it!"

He caught Pippin, as the halfling hurled himself into the man's arms. Pippin flung his arms around his neck in a stranglehold that made it difficult for Boromir to speak, but he managed to croak out a laughing greeting.

Easing his death-grip on Boromir a bit, Pippin twisted around to shout, joyously, "Gandalf! Only look who's here! I knew he would turn up when we needed him!"

"Indeed," the wizard's dry voice sounded from just above them, "and in excellent time. Well met, Boromir."

Boromir gently detached himself from Pippin and rose to his feet. Almost unconsciously, his hand dropped to the curly head of the halfling, and Pippin accepted the touch with barely a flicker of surprise.

"I am glad to find you here, Gandalf." A smile of genuine pleasure lightened his face, and he added, "I am glad to find you alive."

"Likewise, my friend."

For some reason, the epithet did not sound odd on the wizard's lips, and Boromir abruptly realized that he did consider Gandalf a friend. His father might never forgive him for it, but it was true all the same.

"I am all the more delighted," Gandalf went on, "because, as Pippin so aptly pointed out, we have need of you. Your coming could not be more opportune."

"What need?"

"Orcs gather at the gates, and there is none to lead the city's guard against them. I scattered them once, and I can help to drive them back again, if need arises, but I am needed elsewhere."

Boromir gaped at him in amazement. "None to lead them? Where then are the lords of the city? Where is Denethor, my father? Where is Faramir?"

"He is unable to shoulder this burden. It is yours, Boromir, as it has ever been."

"Faramir?" Boromir felt the panic rise in him again. "Where is he? What harm has befallen my brother?!"

"I will explain everything, when time allows, but not now, Boromir. Not now! You need only know that the armies of Minas Tirith fight beneath the banner of Dol Amroth, and the Prince is with them upon the field. None but the Guard remain within the city, and they are leaderless. One who knows them, one who owns their trust and loyalty must lead them against the force that gathers, even now, to storm the shattered gates, or the city will fall. Listen, Boromir!"

All in the group fell quiet, and suddenly Boromir could hear the cries and shouts of orcs carried loud on the breeze. A harsh trumpet rallied them, and wild cheers answered it.

Boromir turned his bandaged gaze on the old wizard, and his face was grim. "I cannot lead soldiers to battle."

"You are their captain. There is no one else."

"They will not follow me."

A stir behind Gandalf drew Boromir's attention, and a new voice spoke to him. "They will, lord, if you will lead them."

Boromir frowned in concentration, knowing that he should recognize the voice but unable to place it.

"I am Beregond, lord, of the Third Company of the Guard. I speak for my company and all who fight beneath the white banner of the Steward. We will follow our Captain-General into battle. We will drive the enemy from our gates."

Boromir's frown deepened, as he pondered what Gandalf and Beregond asked of him. He heard the urgency, bordering on desperation in their voices, and he knew where his duty lay. But he could not shake the fear that his name and rank alone would not be enough to inspire the trust of his men. Once, they would have followed him into the shadow of the Black Gates themselves, but now?

Beside him, Pippin bounced eagerly on his toes and chirped, "I will ride with you!"

Jolted out of his dark reverie, Boromir turned a questioning look on the halfling. "You, Pippin?"

"I am a soldier of Gondor now, sworn to the service of Denethor! It is my duty!"

Boromir smiled down into the halfling's upturned face, his doubts melting in the warmth of Pippin's enthusiasm. "Let us ride, then."

Boromir did not see the relief that swept Gandalf's face, but he heard a new note of energy in his voice, as he called, "Beregond, sound your horn and summon the guard! To the second gate, and quickly, or we will come too late!"

Footsteps ran up the street toward the Citadel, and Boromir heard a clear trumpet call. Gandalf caught him by one arm, Pippin by the other hand, and suddenly everything was chaos and shouting and the stamp of feet all about him. With breathless speed, the wizard sped them down through the besieged city to the second circle, where already the men of the guard gathered. In the shadow of the gate, the wizard stopped to issue low-voiced commands, while others of the Guard swarmed about them.

"Go only as far as the first line of trenches. Beregond will signal the recall, when you have reached them. You must not allow the company to be cut off from the city, Boromir, or Minas Tirith will be left defenseless."

"You need not school me in war, Gandalf the Grey." His words were brusque, but his tone was mild, even amused. "I know my business."

"Yes, but I know the shape of this battle, where you do not. Heed me, Boromir, and do not let pride lead you astray."

Such words, calculated as they were to deflate the captain's conceit, should have angered Boromir, but the knowledge of just how far his pride had led him astray in the past, and the new-found humility that had come with that failure, left no room in him for anger. He merely nodded and said, "I will not."

"Good." Gandalf gripped his arm in a gesture of approval. "You give me hope, son of Denethor. Hurry, now. You must hurry!"

As the wizard and the captain spoke together, and as the companies of the Guard mustered in the street behind them, Beregond quietly busied himself garbing his commander in a manner more suited to a Captain of Gondor than a Rider of Rohan. He tied a white sash - the Steward's color - from his right shoulder to his left hip, nearly covering the rampant horse emblazoned on his tunic. Then he unclasped Boromir's green cloak and hung in its place his own, a great war cloak of deepest black edged in silver.

As Boromir moved to place his helm upon his head, Gandalf halted him. "Leave your head bare. Show your face to the men, that they will know who leads them."

Boromir hesitated for a moment, once again assailed by doubt, then he shrugged and pushed the helm into Gandalf's hands. He reached for his stirrup and swung himself onto Fedranth's back. Stretching a hand down toward Pippin, he said, "Come, soldier of Gondor."

Pippin gave a small squeak of excitement, as he placed his hand in Boromir's and was lifted easily into the saddle.

Trumpets sounded, voices cried orders to the ranks. The drumming of hooves announced the arrival of those few officers who could find horses in the city, and Beregond quietly claimed a position at Boromir's right hand, astride a borrowed mount. Sidling his horse up close to Fedranth, he said, "I have your standard, Captain, the banner of the Steward of Gondor. I beg your leave to carry it at your side."

Boromir thought for a brief moment, then held out his hand. "I will carry it. You will take it after me, should I fall."

Beregond placed a tall, heavy staff in his hand, and Boromir propped its silver-shod tip on his booted toe. He heard the stiff silk move in the breeze, and he pictured the blaze of white shining above his head. How many times had he seen this banner flying above the Citadel of Minas Tirith? How many times had he looked at it with mingled pride and bitterness, wishing it was the King's standard that flew there and not the Steward's? No more. He was done with bitterness and fruitless ambition. He had bought the right to carry this device with blood and pain, and he would carry it proudly for what time was left to him.

His heart told him that he rode to his death this day, for he could not hope to brave the horror of that embattled plain and live, but Boromir felt no pain at the thought. For this was not a wasted or foolish death. This was a chance to save his city, and if it cost him his life, he would die in the certainty that he had, at last, redeemed his honor. He stood in the light once again, in the place where he belonged, and no shadow of black wings or evil storms could daunt him.

Rising in his stirrups, Boromir pitched his voice to carry above the din and called, so that his words echoed back from the walls about them, "Men of Gondor! I am Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain-General of Minas Tirith, come home through flame and darkness and slaughter to fight with you again!" A shout went up from the listening men. "The enemy is at the gates! Our doom is at hand! Will you go now to meet it with me?"

A hundred voices cried out their assent, and a hundred swords clashed bravely against a hundred shields in salute.

Boromir settled back into the saddle and wrapped the reins about his left hand. Leaning close to Pippin, he murmured, "Take the reins, little one. I will hold the beast, but you must guide him."

"How shall I hold the reins and my sword all at once," Pippin asked, nervously.

"Do not draw your sword until I tell you. Trust me, Pippin."

"I do."

Boromir touched his heels to Fedranth's sides, and the horse leapt away, through the gate and into the shattered streets of the first circle. The other mounted soldiers followed at his heels, with the men on foot running after them. Boromir could taste ash on the wind and smell the foul stench of death and corruption. The sounds of battle were deafening, but they could not drown out the triumphant shrieks of the onrushing orcs.

Suddenly, as they plunged down the wide street toward the gates, Pippin reared back and cried, "The gates are broken! The way is blocked!"

From beside them, Beregond shouted, "Jump the barricade! Jump!"

Boromir dug in his heels, urging the horse on faster. Pippin gave a wild, wordless shriek of mingled excitement and terror, and he hauled back on the reins with all his strength. Boromir instinctively ducked his head, as Fedranth sailed over the shattered remnants of the gate, through the stone archway, to hit the beaten surface of the roadway at a full gallop. Boromir heard the ring of a sword being drawn, and Pippin shouted, his high voice piercing the din of battle, "Gondor!"

The cry went up around them, "Gondor! Gondor!" and the soldiers of the Tower of Guard poured through the gates to fall upon the orcs of Sauron like a storm.

Chapter Text

"Dead? What madness is this?" Boromir shouted, his distress and exhaustion fraying his nerves into misplaced anger. "I have heard no whisper in the city of the Steward's death! How can it be that my father is dead?"

Gandalf, as weary and worn as the man confronting him, yet managed to rein in his temper and answer calmly, "By his own hand, Boromir. He commanded a funeral pyre built for him in Rath Dínen, in the House of the Stewards, and burned himself upon it. "

"Nay, this is not possible. It is madness or lies..."

"It is neither. I watched him climb onto the pyre and light it, and I carried Faramir from the tomb myself."

"Faramir!" That brought Boromir up short. His face paled, and his hands clenched into helpless fists. "You told me that my brother lay in the Houses of Healing, guarded and cared for against Aragorn's coming."

"He does now. But your father deemed him beyond help and took him into the houses of the dead, thinking to burn his child with himself. Had it not been for the quick thinking of Pippin and the valor of Beregond, your brother would now lie in the smoking ruins of Denethor's tomb."

Boromir gave a strangled gasp and staggered under the weight of this blow. Aragorn's hand closed on his arm, steadying him, and the Ranger guided him a few steps to a stone bench, where he collapsed and buried his face in his hands.

It was late evening and the stars were out, gleaming fitfully through the last shreds of unnatural cloud that clung to the mountain's peak. Torches and watch fires glowed yellow from the plain below, turning the scene of the day's vicious battle into a twinkling carpet of grounded stars to rival the canopy above. Fires still burned in the city, a dull red in the darkness, and the streets were gripped with an exhausted stillness, but the fear was gone for this night, at least.

The beauty of the night was lost on the three companions gathered in the garden to talk of flame and death. All three had known great elation, great triumph, and great loss this day. All three had fought to the limits of their endurance and lived, only to face the long, cold, filthy and heart-wrenching business of cleaning up after battle.

Boromir had not rested since his last brief halt with the Riders, in the stonewain valley, a full day and night past, and he had not slept even then. After his ride from the gates, he had spent many hours laboring to organize the city's defenses, remove the refuse and the dead from her streets, and reassure her frightened people. Then he had sat at his brother's bedside, listening to Faramir mutter and cry out in his fever, until he was beyond the reach of beauty or comfort. Only pain still seemed able to reach him. The heat and urgency of battle had cooled to bloody ashes, and his triumph at the gates was forgotten in the grim aftermath.

Now, he sat in the calm, lovely gardens that surrounded the Houses of Healing, listening to Gandalf tell him of his father's cruel fate and wondering why he had struggled so hard to come home... to this. His city on the brink of ruin, his father dead, his brother dying, and all his efforts to regain his honor and his place reduced to hollow mockery. Aragorn sat beside him in wordless support, but Aragorn was as disbelieving as Boromir at the news of Denethor's madness and did not know how to react.

"When you met us in the street," Gandalf went on, remorselessly, "we had only just come from bringing Faramir to the Healers."

"I rode into the city through Rath Dínen." Boromir clutched at his head, as though the pressure of his fingers could force the unbearable words from his mind and memory. "I choked on the ashes... my father's ashes, and I wondered what treachery had brought flame and destruction to the very hallows of Minas Tirith."

"It was treachery, indeed. Sauron's arm has grown long, but even he could not reach into the hallowed places of this city, without the Steward's treachery to open the way for him."

"You dare to call my father traitor?!" Boromir growled, bristling with renewed hostility.

"What other name would you give a man who opens his heart to the whispers of the Enemy, is blinded to hope, driven to despair, and finally delivers himself to the death plotted by his foe?"

Boromir fixed his bandaged gaze on the wizard. He felt the truth of Gandalf's words, like the ache of an old wound in his heart, but that truth gave him no comfort.

Gandalf, responding to his unspoken question, said, "Your father had one of the ancient Seeing Stones, the palantíri, which he used to keep watch over ally and enemy alike. He cast his gaze too far and took no heed of danger. The Eye and will of Sauron snared him, and the palantír became enslaved to the Enemy, but Denethor would not believe that his great weapon had been turned against him. He was too proud to consider that a will greater than his own might control the palantír, or that the weapon itself was not meant for such as he to use. He believed what he saw in the stone and would listen to nothing said that contradicted his visions."

Gandalf hesitated for a moment, then added, softly, "He believed in your death. He saw, by the Enemy's design, your fall and imprisonment but not your escape. Pippin and I both told him that you lived, but he would not hear us. We were mere creatures of flesh and blood - deceptive, treacherous, plotting against Gondor and her lord with our tales of rescue and hope - while the palantír never lied."

"He thought me dead," Boromir murmured, distractedly. A deep pain welled up in him - the pain of loss, but worse, of recognition. For try as he might to deny the truth of Gandalf's words, he knew that the wizard had seen clearly into his father's proud, disdainful heart and read him aright. "Another betrayal to add to my account."

Gandalf smiled wearily. "You cannot carry the blame for this one, Boromir. Yes, your death was a terrible blow to Denethor, but it was not, in itself, enough to drive him to madness."

Boromir's answering smile was wry and humorless. "You comfort me."

"I mean to. You have learned much since you rode from Minas Tirith in search of Imladris. Do not fall back into the old habits of arrogance and obstinacy."

"Is it arrogance to accept the blame for my father's death?"

"Yes, if the blame is undeserved and the guilt is naught but a means to magnify your own suffering."

Boromir pondered his words for a moment, then gave a shrug of acceptance and said, "You are merciless, Gandalf the Grey. And as usual, you are right. I will mourn my father, but I will not carry the guilt for his death."

"Very wise, my Lord Steward. Faramir will soon find that he is not the only clear-eyed member of the family." Boromir winced at his choice of words, but the wizard gave no sign of noticing. "I wonder how great a shock it will be to him?"

At the mention of Faramir, Aragorn stirred and rose to his feet. "I must see to the sick and injured. Ioreth will have found the herbs I require, and I must not tarry. Boromir, I grieve with you, and with all the city, for your father's death."

Boromir nodded, wordlessly.

"Will you go in? I would have you there, when Faramir wakes."

Boromir rose to his feet, though he made no move to follow the Ranger inside. "I will come, but first, I would speak a word with Gandalf alone."

Aragorn squeezed his arm in understanding and strode quickly into the House. Boromir waited until he heard boots on stone flags and the sound of a door closing, then he turned back to the wizard, who waited patiently for him to speak. Now that he was alone with Gandalf, he felt suddenly awkward and found it difficult to choose his words.

The wizard relented and asked, with unusual mildness, "What troubles you?"

"Faramir."

"Then you would do better to question Aragorn. It is he who will save Faramir, if any can."

"This is not about his illness. I would know if you spoke to him, before he was stricken."

"I did, briefly. He was not long in the city."

"How did he seem to you?"

"Weary and full of grief." Gandalf paused, then his voice took on a keen edge. "You do not want to hear about your brother's battles with Denethor, nor are you interested in the state of the garrison in Ithilien. What is it you want to know, Boromir?"

"Did he speak of me? Of our parting?"

"Of your parting, no, not directly. He questioned me about your capture and Saruman. He did not believe the rumors of your death, for he, unlike Denethor, accepted my word that they were false, but he wanted to know all that had befallen you since leaving Rivendell."

"And did you tell him?"

"Only what I felt was mine to tell. Much of it, I had no part in and would not discuss if I had."

Boromir heard the strain in his own voice, as he asked, "What of the Ring?"

"What of it?"

"Do not toy with me, Gandalf! Did you tell my brother of my attempt to steal the Ring?"

"I did not, but he knew of it, already."

"What?! How could that be?"

"He met Frodo in Ithilien."

"Frodo..." Boromir whirled away, needing activity to vent his growing anguish, but he was adrift in an unfamiliar space and dared not move. His knee pressed against the cold stone of the bench, and he sat down heavily on it, muttering, "Frodo told him." A curse was wrenched out of him, as his hands clenched into fists upon his knees. "Frodo told him!"

"Do not condemn Frodo for indiscretion. I suspect Faramir guessed far more than Frodo said."

Boromir gave a harsh laugh. "I condemn Frodo? I would not presume so much."

"You would rather your brother did not know of the trial you faced?"

"The trial I failed, you mean." Boromir forced his fists to unclench and spread his fingers open to grasp his knees, willing himself to calm, to acceptance. But the knot of fear, shame and sorrow in his innards did not ease. "Nay, Faramir must know, for my betrayal cannot be hidden. Yet I would rather it had been left to me to tell him. And I wish..."

He broke off to swallow the choking pain in his throat, and he fancied he could feel the wizard's keen eyes upon him, kind but piercing, reading his heart whether he allowed it or no.

"I wish this, my greatest folly, did not lie between us at our first meeting."

"Do you think it will make a difference to your brother? To his affection for you or his gladness at your return?"

"We parted badly," Boromir murmured, as much to himself as to the wizard. "He wanted to pursue the quest himself, and I forced my father to let me go in his stead. He was angry, but worse, he was hurt as I've never seen him. I fear that he cannot forgive that hurt, after I usurped his place and betrayed the quest that should have been his."

"Faramir is not a man given to bitterness. I think you will find the wounds deep but not beyond your power to mend."

"I hope you are right, Gandalf. I would find one thing, in all this ghastly ruin, that can still be mended."

"'Tis not all ruin," the wizard said, his voice gruff but strangely soft in the darkness, "and much that was broken has already begun to heal."

Boromir tilted his head up to feel the night wind on his face, and he took deep, sighing breath. "And much never will."

"We are no longer speaking of your father or brother," Gandalf said, shrewdly. Boromir shook his head. "Of what, then?"

"It is foolish of me to ask, for the road to Isengard is closed to me, Saruman's offers refused, and my chance lost. But ask I must." He took another deep breath and ground out, his voice harsh with strain, "Tell me, Gandalf, lest I drive myself mad with wondering, could Saruman have healed my injury, as he promised? Does he have that power?"

A long silence answered him, and Boromir felt hope and embarrassment warring within him, as he waited. At last, Gandalf sighed and said, "I do not know."

"You are of his order. You overpowered him at the doors of Orthanc and broke his staff. If you do not know, who does?"

"No one but Saruman, himself, and you would not get a straight answer from him. Yes, I was once of his order and worked closely beside him, but then his power did not lie in the making of rings or the healing of wounds. He was a lore master, strong, wise and subtle. Then his eyes turned east, to the Black Land, and the wisdom of Saruman was consumed by the evil of Sauron."

"You tell me nothing I do not know, already."

"In his desire to rival Sauron himself, Saruman has turned his great abilities to the mastery of arts not his own. He has usurped powers that do not belong to the wizards, mayhap not to any race yet living in Middle-earth. I do not know where he learned to forge rings of power or breed new strains of orcs, but he has. And I do not know how far those powers go. I have seen his ring and his Uruk-hai. I see your face, now whole and sound, though Aragorn vows it was crushed to bloody ruin by an orc's blade. These things I know Saruman can do, but I know no more."

Boromir ground his teeth in frustration and blurted out, "But what do you think, Gandalf? What do you believe?"

The wizard sighed again, and Boromir heard the rustle of his cloak as he sat down upon the bench beside him. "What I believe will not help you find answers, Boromir."

"It may give me peace."

"Very well. I do not believe that Saruman has the power to restore your sight."

"Yet he did heal my face."

"He healed what was broken, but that is not the same as restoring what is lost. Do you know the full extent of your injury?"

Boromir looked away, turning his face from the wizard's gaze to mask his emotions. "Aye."

"Then you know that there is nothing left for Saruman to heal. I am sorry, Boromir, but I do not believe he has power enough to recreate something that has been thus destroyed.

"No force of evil can truly create - shape, influence, perhaps hasten the effects of time and nature, but not create. That is why the dark powers of the First Age could make orcs only by misshaping elves. And that is why Saruman, a far lesser power than those whom he imitates, can do no more than refine the existing race of orcs to make his Uruk-hai. They are terrifying in their strength and intelligence, but they are only orcs, when all is said and done. To give you back your sight would require a power far more profound than any Saruman has shown."

"Then it was merely another lie," Boromir said.

"So I believe, but if you choose not to believe the same, there is none will blame you."

"Nay. I trust your wisdom in this." Boromir hesitated, marshaling his courage to ask the final question in which lay his last hope. He could feel Gandalf's presence beside him, and he sensed that the wizard was waiting for the question, expecting it. "But what of you, Gandalf? You are the most powerful wizard of this Age. Can you do it?"

The answer was soft and sorrowful, but emphatic. "No, I cannot. If I had that power, I would have done it outside the walls of Isengard and spared you this time of doubt and darkness." Boromir nodded slightly, his face tightening with the effort of holding his pain in check. "I do not believe that such power exists in Middle-earth."

Boromir nodded again, more firmly, and said, in a clipped and strained voice, "I thank you for your candor."

"I am truly sorry. I would that I could give you hope, instead of more darkness."

"It is, in some measure, a relief. I can, at last, turn my back on Isengard and Saruman's lies."

"That is good." The wizard rose to his feet, leaning heavily on his staff. "Very good. I begin to have real faith in you, Boromir of Gondor."

Boromir ignored the rather sideways compliment and asked, "Do you go to find Aragorn?"

"Yes."

The man stood up and started to lift his hand toward the wizard, then thought better of it and let his arm fall to his side. He drew himself up stiffly and said, "I must be with my brother when he awakens."

"That would be best." Neither of them spoke for an awkward moment, then Gandalf said, a laugh in his voice, "Come with me."

As he caught Boromir's arm in a firm clasp and started along the path to the door, the wizard added, "The next lesson you must learn, my stubborn friend, is to ask for help when you need it. Otherwise, you will spend far too much time standing about, looking dignified, and getting nowhere."

Boromir gave a wordless grunt of disgust and followed Gandalf into the House.

They stepped into a cool, stone-flagged hallway that was redolent of fresh herbs and soap. There was not room for two men to walk comfortably abreast, so Boromir fell into step behind Gandalf, using the wall and the tapping of the wizard's staff for guidance. He was relieved to be free of Gandalf's clasp. It was one thing to accept a guiding hand from Merry or Pippin and another thing, entirely, to place that kind of trust in someone he had only just learned to accept as a friend.

He followed Gandalf around a corner and heard voices just ahead. Aragorn spoke in a low, insistent tone, and another man answered him. At the sound of that second voice, Boromir felt a surge of elation fill him and, forgetting caution, he stepped eagerly forward. Before he had taken two strides, he was stumbling backward, the sound of shrieked protests in his ears while fabric tumbled around him and tangled his feet.

He caught the wall for balance and righted himself, then he tried to kick the fabric away from him.

"My linens!" a vaguely familiar voice cried out. "You're trampling them!"

"I beg your pardon," he muttered, half in embarrassment and half in annoyance. He could hear his brother's voice, speaking softly to Aragorn, and he was anxious to reach him, but a treacherous morass of spilled linens and scolding females barred his way.

A startled gasp made him frown at the woman in confusion. "My lord!" she said in a strangled way.

"Do I know you?" Boromir asked.

"Nay! That is... we... we met in the street, near the Citadel gate."

Recognition dawned, and Boromir felt a painful flush rise in his face. He stood in stiff silence, not sure whether to vent his anger and humiliation on her, or to stalk coldly away and leave her with her ruined sheets. Then the humor of the moment struck him, and he gave a rueful chuckle.

"I beg pardon for my rudeness, lord," she said, her voice wooden. "I did not know you for our own Steward's son in your foreign garments."

Boromir could not resist asking, "Are you only gracious to Denethor's sons? Or is it only to soldiers of Minas Tirith?"

"I was in a hurry, lord, and that frightened by all the noise. And you did spill my herbs," she added, a touch of the old acerbity in her voice.

"Aye, so I did, and now I've spilled your linens, as well. I am sorry."

She had resumed her wooden, humble manner, when she said, "'Tis no matter, my lord. Pray do not trouble yourself."

Boromir was in the process of crouching down to help her gather her scattered burdens, when Gandalf strode over to him, trampling the cloth beneath his booted feet.

"Come, Boromir, you are needed."

The woman held her tongue, even when Boromir rose to his feet again and walked over her linens in Gandalf's wake. The wizard tossed a gruff apology to the woman as he led Boromir swiftly away. He obviously had something of much more moment than dirty sheets to occupy his mind, and Boromir caught the edge of excitement in him.

They reached the doorway to Faramir's room, and Gandalf halted abruptly. Boromir stopped, with one hand on the wizard's shoulder, and waited for some sign from the men inside the room. He heard Faramir speaking in a low, weak, yet strangely elated voice to Aragorn, calling him king. A smile spread over Boromir's face, as a cold fear he had not dared to examine was lifted from him. Faramir lived. He lived, and he knew his king!

"You must rest now," Aragorn said to the injured man. "Rest, heal, and walk no more in shadow. Here is someone you did not think to see again, who will help you forget your evil dreams."

As Aragorn spoke, Gandalf stepped aside, and the Ranger caught Boromir's arm to draw him up to the bed. Boromir halted when his leg bumped the mattress, and he gazed down at the place from which his brother's voice had come with a slight, awkward smile on his face.

"Boromir?" The younger man's voice sounded incredulous, but whether he felt joy or regret beneath the surprise, Boromir could not tell. The mattress rustled, as Faramir pushed himself away from the bed to sit up, and feverish hands took Boromir's in a firm clasp. When he spoke again, there was no mistaking the joy. "Boromir! I knew Gandalf spoke the truth! I knew you would come!"

"Aye, Brother." Boromir did not know what more to say. He was lost in a flood of mingled relief, sorrow and gratitude that left no room in him for words.

With a tug on his hand, Faramir pulled him down to sit on the bed, then he caught Boromir in an embrace as heartfelt as any he had ever given him as a child. Boromir returned the embrace, holding his brother's body, still warm with fever, and remembering all the years of affection, conflict, peril and adventure they had shared. How could he have doubted that Faramir would welcome him home? How could he have feared that the one man in all the world who knew and loved him for who he truly was would fail to forgive him?

"Our father told the Council you were dead," Faramir said, his voice thick with unshed tears, "but I did not believe it. We heard your horn blowing from the west, and I was afraid, but I could not give you up for dead without some sign..."

"You are ill and weak," Boromir chided, slipping easily into his role as protective older brother, "and Aragorn has commanded you to rest. Lie back and be still."

Faramir obediently lay back against his pillows, but he held Boromir's hand tightly in both of his own, as though afraid that he would vanish if let go. Aragorn, who had stood quietly to one side while the brothers greeted each other, now moved up to stand over Faramir again.

"I must see to others in this House, so I will leave him in your care, Boromir. He must rest. Do not let him rise, and do not tire him with much talk. You may stay with him 'til I return."

"My lord King," Faramir said the words reverently, yet simply, as if he had been saying them all his life, "did you bring my brother home to Minas Tirith?"

"I played only a small part. 'Tis a long tale, Faramir, and one that will have to wait. But if you want to thank someone, start with the halflings, Meriadoc and Peregrin."

"I will."

Aragorn dropped a hand to Boromir's shoulder and murmured, "Tell him what you deem wise, but do not burden him over much."

Boromir nodded understanding. "What of Merry and Éowyn?"

"I go to them now. I'll bring you word."

Aragorn left, taking Gandalf and the healers with him and leaving Boromir alone with his brother.

In the sudden quiet that descended on them, Faramir tightened his hold on his brother's hand and murmured, "It heals my heart to see you again, Brother."

Boromir smiled sadly, remembering the bitter words exchanged at their parting and his own absurd fears. "I thought of you often, wishing I had your wisdom to guide me on my journey."

Faramir laughed, and the tears in his voice only made the sound that much sweeter. "You would not have heeded me. You never did. Ah, Boromir, I have missed you!"

"And I, you."

The two men fell silent, overwhelmed by the rush of emotions, by the myriad questions that must be asked, the tales that must be told, and the many subjects that must be skirted at this first, uncertain meeting. Neither of them knew where to begin, nor could they master their voices to speak with the dignity they demanded of themselves. Finally, Faramir shifted his grip to clasp Boromir's forearm in a soldier's greeting - a gesture of respect between equals - and Boromir returned the salute.

Faramir's voice was still thick with unacknowledged tears, but he had mastered himself enough to speak evenly. "I knew you were alive, and I never lost hope that I would see you within the walls of Minas Tirith again."

"You must have known that no power in Middle-earth could keep me away from my city in such an hour, if I still lived to wield a sword."

"Our father despaired of you."

"He was betrayed into despair by the Enemy."

"And yet, he saw your fate clearly enough. He spoke of your capture and torture..."

"I do not know what he saw, or thought he saw," Boromir growled, cutting him off, "but it matters little now. I am neither dead, nor lost in the pits of Isengard, but here in the White City where I belong."

"Matters little?!" Faramir spluttered.

Boromir heard the outrage in his brother's voice and felt his own face harden. "I do not wish to speak of wizards or orcs or dungeons," he said, stifling Faramir's threatened outburst. "They are of no import, now that we are free of them and Aragorn is come to Gondor. I have brought you your king out of legend, Brother. Content yourself with that and leave the rest."

"You brought the king?"

"I did my part, as he did his in bringing me home." Boromir paused, feeling a twinge of disappointment that his brother seemed so doubtful, so disbelieving of his role in bringing the king to his throne. He went on, in a voice softened by sorrow, "I hoped that his coming would help to heal the rift between us, Faramir. I hoped that it would give you back your faith in me."

"I never lost faith in you."

"Even when Frodo told you about the Ring?" Silence answered him, and Faramir's clasp on his arm slackened. "Aye, Gandalf told me about your meeting with the ringbearer. I do not blame you for withdrawing from me. I would do the same, were it any other man, and for a time I did give myself up for lost. But Aragorn saw me through that despair. He persuaded me to hope, and he offered me a way to redeem my honor. I vowed to send Isildur's Heir to Gondor, to his throne, to save her from the Shadow in the East and to save me from a traitor's death. I have kept that vow, Faramir, for you, for myself, and for all Gondor."

Faramir did not speak for a few moments, and when he did, his words came slowly, almost reluctantly. "I understand why you want it. It would give you all you have ever desired."

"The Ring?"

"Aye."

"It would give me - has given me - nothing but grief and pain. It is an entirely evil thing, and I am grateful that fate and the halfling have carried it far beyond my reach."

"Yet you want it still."

Boromir's mouth tightened into a hard line. As ever, his brother's piercing insight and ready tongue annoyed him, but he swallowed his usual angry retort and forced himself to answer with equal candor. "I want it still, but I am on my guard, now. I will never again believe its vile whispers." Giving Faramir a twisted, humorless smile, he added, "You do not hear the whispers, do you, Brother?"

"Nay, it does not speak to me. The Ring holds no temptation for me, only fear and dread."

"Then you are both wiser and stronger than I."

"You lack neither wisdom nor strength, Boromir, but you are much like our father," Faramir murmured.

"Aye, so I fear."

That caught Faramir's attention. His voice sharpened abruptly. "Fear? What mean you by that?"

Boromir sighed and rubbed his face, trying to banish his weariness and his grief to find a gentle way of telling his brother that their father had burned himself to death in his madness. His tongue had betrayed him, leading him into a conversation he did not want to have and setting doubts in Faramir's mind that he would have spared the sick, weakened man. It was enough that Denethor was dead and the Steward's chair held by a blind man in this time of terrible crisis. Faramir did not need to know how near he had come to sharing Denethor's fate, nor how closely Boromir's own journey of betrayal and despair mirrored his mad father's.

"You are troubled by more than memories," Faramir said, shrewdly. "What grave news do you keep from me, Brother?"

With another sigh, Boromir straightened his shoulders and turned a determined look on his brother. He knew that his features had hardened and his voice grown harsh, but he needed such armor against the pain of his own words and Faramir's reaction.

"Our father is dead, Faramir."

"Denethor? Dead?" Faramir shifted an elbow beneath him, pushed himself away from the mattress, and reached to clutch at Boromir's arm with his free hand. "How can this be?!"

"I told you that he was betrayed by the Enemy..."

"Treachery within our city?! Who would dare harm the Steward of Gondor?"

"Only the Steward himself, hounded to it by the lies of Sauron. He died by his own hand."

"Nay..." Faramir collapsed back against his pillows, and his hand went slack on Boromir's arm. "Nay, 'tis not possible... Denethor, son of Ecthelion, take his own life? At the very moment of our doom? 'Tis madness."

"Aye."

"Were you there? Did you speak to him ere he died?"

Boromir shook his head. "I came too late to curb his madness or to bid him farewell. I did not know until Gandalf told me, just before you awoke, what had befallen him."

"How... how did he die?"

"The full tale can wait. It is enough for you to know that Denethor is dead and I am, for the moment, Steward of Gondor."

Faramir, as was his wont, pounced on the unexpected phrase and would not let it pass unnoticed. "For the moment?"

"Isildur's Heir has come. Gondor has a king, and all has changed."

"Aye..." Faramir's voice trailed off into thoughtful silence, then he mused, very softly, "Our father is dead, and the Stewardship is ended with him."

"Aragorn will need a Steward to support his reign."

"But not to rule Minas Tirith and Gondor in his stead, as you were trained to do. Or to rule as king, as you have long hoped to do."

"All has changed," Boromir repeated, firmly. He did not like the doubtful note in his brother's voice or the unspoken, but painfully clear reminders of the long disagreement between them about the future of Gondor's throne and Gondor's favorite son. Only time would convince Faramir of his sincere loyalty to the king, and until Faramir believed, he would not put aside his doubts or his lingering hurt. As always, Gandalf had seen the truth of the situation.

"The king will make his choice," Boromir went on, his tone of voice brooking no argument, "and we will abide by it. I trust in his judgment."

"As do I," Faramir murmured.

"Then we have only to wait and safeguard the city against his coming."

Faramir hesitated, then said, "I will rest easier, knowing you have our city in your keeping. I and all Gondor have missed you sorely, Boromir. "

"You missed my sword, at any rate." Boromir forced wry amusement into his voice in a bid to dispel the gloom that hung about his brother. "I come home to find the city in chaos, the enemy pounding at the gates, and you taking your ease in bed. Clearly, you cannot manage without me. I should have listened to you and stayed home."

Faramir chuckled softly. "You should always listen to me."

"Aye. Between you, Aragorn and Gandalf, I am beset with great minds. I feel at a grave disadvantage." Boromir scratched his chin thoughtfully, then added, "I think I will take up farming and leave the affairs of Men to wiser heads and clearer eyes than mine."

Faramir laughed again, but Boromir heard the note of doubt in his laughter, as though he were not sure his brother was joking.

"I have talked enough of my own adventures and mistakes. Tell me something of yourself, Faramir. What has befallen you in the months since we parted?"

"They have been hard months - for me and for our people."

"I do not doubt it. Tell me."

Faramir heard the note of longing in his voice, recognized the hunger in him for some news of the land and people he loved so single-mindedly, and promptly launched into the tale of all that had passed since his departure. He spoke of the long, grim war, the abandonment of the garrison in Ithilien, the loss of the last bridge at Osgiliath, and the coming of the winged shadow. He said little of their father, but Boromir was wise enough in the ways of his family to recognize his father's hand in much of what his brother had done. And he knew that every careful gap in Faramir's tale could be filled by another strained and bitter scene with Denethor.

Boromir listened with a growing sense of guilt for having left Faramir so long, without his older brother's shielding presence. He had to remind himself that Faramir was a grown man with years of experience in dealing with a cold, critical father. And he took a perverse comfort in the fact that Denethor had chosen to take Faramir into death with him - a last, desperate, ill-timed gesture of love. When Faramir was stronger and ready to hear the full tale of his father's death, perhaps he, too, would take some comfort in the certainty that Denethor had loved him.

In the middle of Faramir's narrative, Aragorn walked into the room. He brought the Warden of the Houses of Healing in his wake, and the old woman, Ioreth. When Faramir's gaze touched his king, he broke off his story and fell into a waiting, respectful silence. Boromir turned to meet the new arrivals, a frown gathering on his face, until he heard Aragorn's voice.

"'Tis time and past time that your brother was asleep, Boromir."

Boromir rose obediently to leave, but he stooped over the bed to clasp Faramir's hand again in farewell. His brother clung to him with surprising strength.

"Must you go?" Faramir asked, and for that brief moment, his voice was that of the young child Boromir had loved and taught and indulged and protected with such fierce devotion. It was long, long ago, but that pleading voice seemed to wipe the years away and throw him back into his youth, with his small brother clinging eagerly to his hand.

"I must, but I'll not go far." He rested his free hand on Faramir's rumpled hair, resisting the urge to bend down and plant a kiss on his fevered forehead.

"Thank you," Faramir whispered.

"For what?"

"Coming home."

Boromir smiled, gripped his hand for a moment, then turned away and let Aragorn pilot him out the door.

"He'll mend?" Boromir asked, as he stepped close to the Ranger.

"Aye, and all the more quickly for having you near. For now, go to Merry. He is awake and asking for you."

"Merry?" Boromir perked up visibly at that and started down the hallway. He got only a few paces from Faramir's door when he realized that he had no idea where to find the halfling. He stopped abruptly and turned to ask Aragorn, but the other man had returned to Faramir's bedside, and Boromir could hear him talking with his brother in a low voice.

Nonplussed, he stood in the middle of the hallway and wondered how long he would have to wait for Aragorn and how foolish he looked in the meantime. Soft footsteps approached him, and a man's low, measured voice spoke to him.

"Can I be of help, my lord Steward?"

Boromir hid his awkwardness beneath a slight scowl and demanded, "Who are you?"

"The Warden of these Houses. I came to see to your brother's comfort, but he is in the best of hands and needs nothing from me. What of you, lord?"

"I am looking for the halfling, Meriadoc."

"Ah, the perian. I do not know which room is his, but I will find someone to show you." The man turned away, his clothing rustling like dried leaves, then he called out, "Gil! Come here, girl!"

Yet another set of footsteps approached. "Sir?"

"You know where the perian is lodged, do you not? Take the lord Boromir to his room."

"Your pardon, sir, but Ioreth told me to finish with the washing." Boromir detected something close to panic in the woman's voice, and he sympathized with her. His guide was none other than the drudge he had bumped into twice, with such uncomfortable results.

"Nonsense, girl. Your errand can wait," the Warden insisted. "Show Lord Boromir where to find his companion, and I will explain to Ioreth what has delayed you."

"Aye." Her voice had gone wooden and dull again. "If you will come with me, lord?"

Her hand slipped through Boromir's elbow, and he thought he could feel her fingers trembling. As she started down the hallway, drawing him away from the Warden, he took pity on her and said, "You needn't be afraid of me." Then his sense of the ridiculous got the better of him, and he added, "I don't have my sword with me tonight, so I'm quite harmless."

"By your mercy, my lord, forget I ever spoke such words to you."

"As you wish... Gil? Is that right?" He frowned at the odd name.

"Gilthaethil." Even using her wooden voice, she managed to invest the name with a wealth of distaste. "Ioreth named me. She took it from some ratty old legend. I know not which one."

"Ioreth? The old woman who never stops talking?"

"Aye."

"She is your mother?"

"All the mother I have." Again, beneath the flatness of her tone was a clear message that the subject was closed and she had no intention of discussing it further.

Boromir gave an inward shrug and fell silent. His guide was an oddity - sharp-tongued and shrewish one moment, humble and apologetic the next, with an abrupt way of speaking that made her sound angry, no matter what came out of her mouth. Boromir felt a mild curiosity about her, wondering what she looked like and how she had come to work in the Houses of Healing, but it was a fleeting interest. The sound of high-pitched, familiar voices floating down the hallway toward him drove all other considerations from his mind.

His head came up, and a smile spread over his face, as he heard Merry say, "What I'd really like is a bite and a nice pipe. And where is Boromir, I wonder?"

Gil pulled her hand from his arm and said, curtly, "It's straight ahead, lord. Best hurry. You're waited for."

Boromir nodded his thanks and strode quickly into the room, his smile widening into a grin as he was met with a delighted chorus of welcome and voluble demands for supper.

*** *** ***

Chapter Text

The next morning dawned clear and fair. Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, strode through the city toward the shattered gates, summoned to a council of war by his new king. Except that Aragorn was not yet his king, having withdrawn his presence and his men from the city to camp upon the battlefield, like some lesser knight awaiting an audience with the lord of the city. Imrahil frowned slightly at the thought. He saw the wisdom of Aragorn's decision not to throw Minas Tirith into turmoil by claiming his birthright at such a time, but he thought, privately, that the future king was unleashing turmoil of a whole other kind by his hesitation. Imrahil had heard rumblings through the night - discontented, troublesome rumblings from soldiers and leaders he respected - that he could not entirely ignore.

As he walked through the city, the Prince could not but marvel at the diligence of her people and the progress already made to restore her scarred beauty. All traces of the dead and injured were gone from the streets, along with the foul missiles fired by the orcs over the walls. A few fires still burned, but they were no more than glowing embers now. Even the gates had been cleared, the shattered wood hauled out upon the plain for use in the funeral pyres. The Prince, in his fairness, gave credit for the work to the man he knew held command in the city, and his troubled mind was eased somewhat by this evidence of the Steward's skill.

Imrahil walked through the open archway and onto the bloody fields of the Pelennor, toward the tents of the Dúnedain. Aragorn's tent was unadorned by device or standard. Only the sentries at the opening, grey-clad warriors with fell faces, set it apart from those about it. Imrahil accepted the guards' salute and ducked inside the tent.

He found Aragorn and Mithrandir awaiting him, with the sons of Elrond, Éomer, Boromir and Aragorn's lieutenant, Halbarad. Chairs were set close about a camp table, on which were piled maps and lists scribbled hastily upon scraps of parchment, and all those present, save Halbarad, were seated. The Ranger chose to stand in silence at Aragorn's back, like a protective grey shadow, apart from the council but ever watchful.

Imrahil took a seat between one of the Elven lords - he could not tell which - and the King of the Mark. Aragorn gave him a weary smile, then pushed a map into the center of the table, where all could see it.

"We are met here to choose the manner of our deaths, my lords."

The council that followed both stirred and daunted the Prince of Dol Amroth. He heard death in the king's words, despair in the wizard's prophecies, and he saw the fate that awaited Middle-earth with a new and dreadful clarity. And yet, he could not abandon hope, when Isildur's Heir sat before him and the Sword that was Broken shone before his eyes, reforged and tempered in the blood of Gondor's foes. Aragorn and Mithrandir did not counsel despair, for which Imrahil was grateful. Instead, they warmed his blood with talk of challenging the Enemy, and they spoke of victory. Of the Ring of Power. Of a desperate quest upon which hung all their hopes.

When Aragorn stated his intention of marching on the Black Gates, Imrahil felt his blood fired with pride and a grim excitement. He would march with his lord to the very walls of Mordor, and he would die in this last, desperate bid for freedom from the Shadow. The knights of Dol Amroth would be remembered in song and legend, should any Man live to write them.

Finally, after all the troop dispositions had been made, all the strategies decided, and the date set for their valiant, lunatic offensive, Aragorn sat back in his chair and turned to the man at his right.

"I am sorry, Boromir, but you cannot ride with us. And this time, I'm making it a command."

To Imrahil's surprise, Boromir only smiled wryly and said, "I had not planned on it."

"I count on you to hold Minas Tirith for me. If I do not return, the city and the last defense of Gondor belong to you."

Behind Aragorn, Halbarad stirred restlessly, and Imrahil caught the glint of his eyes in the dim light, as his gaze touched the Prince. Neither Prince nor Ranger spoke, and the sons of Elrond seemed unmoved by Aragorn's words. Only Éomer responded, leaning over to clasp Boromir's arm and say, "I, for one, will ride with a lighter heart, knowing you are guarding the road behind us."

Boromir said, "See that you march back down it, my friend."

"Then we are in agreement," Aragorn said, as he pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. "In two days' time, we march with our combined armies. Elfhelm and the main force of the Rohirrim will ride against our enemies in Anórien. Boromir will command the garrison left in Minas Tirith, including the Tower Guard, and will rule as Steward until my return."

Halbarad spoke for the first time, his voice soft and grave. "And if you do not return?"

"Then all will be as it was before we rode from the black ships and unfurled the banner of King Elessar above the smoke of battle. It will be as if the King had never come." Aragorn stepped to the doorway and lifted the tent flap. Framed in its opening, they could all see the soaring walls of Minas Tirith and, if they tilted their heads well back, bright upon the highest tower, they could see a white banner snapping in the stiff breeze. Aragorn did not need to speak. No one in the tent missed the significance of that simple, white banner floating above the Tower of Guard, as it had done for more years than any mortal among them could count.

The princes, kings and lords filed out of the tent in thoughtful silence. Imrahil stepped into the fresh sunlight and moved slightly away from the guards, his eyes dwelling on the walls that rose before him. Éomer and Boromir strode past him, making for the shattered gates. Imrahil made no move to greet or delay his kinsman, but let them go ahead of him. He was gazing after them, unmoving, when another figure came up beside him and a soft voice murmured in his ear,

"In two days time, we ride against Sauron."

Imrahil turned to look at Halbarad, wondering why the Ranger had chosen to speak to him. He could see nothing in the other man's face but calm and remove, the grey eyes fixed unwaveringly on the two figures now approaching the gate, but when Imrahil glanced down, he saw that Halbarad's left hand was clenching and unclenching upon the pommel of his sword.

Cautiously, Imrahil responded, "To death, it would seem, and yet I cannot despair of life when I ride with such as are gathered here. I do not see death in the lord Aragorn's face."

"You are wise. It is not those who ride with the Dúnedain who should fear but, mayhap, those who wait behind."

Imrahil turned to face him directly, his manner wary, and demanded, "Speak your mind plainly, I beg you."

"Very well. In plain speech, I am loath to ride away to war, leaving Minas Tirith in the hands of Denethor's son. I do not trust him to hold it in the king's name, nor do I trust his motives in seeking the favor of his liege lord."

"You speak of one who is close kin to me, one whom I hold in the deepest affection."

"Aye, but does your affection for Boromir blind you to his faults?"

"What do you know of his faults?" Imrahil retorted.

"I knew his father well - too well for my own comfort - and I know how like the father is the son. Denethor was ever hostile toward the exiles of Númenor. Think you he taught his son any more respect than he felt himself? Think you the proud Boromir will set aside his own ambitions and his father's teachings to walk a pace behind Aragorn throughout his life?"

"I saw no pride or ambition in Boromir today, only loyalty and a willingness to serve his king."

"Perhaps." Halbarad gazed steadily at the Prince, as though turning over his words carefully, giving them due consideration. "Perhaps he has put aside his own ambitions in deference to the king. But why?"

"Because Aragorn is a Man who commands such deference. Have we not all done the same?"

"We are not all Boromir of Gondor." Halbarad paused, letting that statement lie between them for a long moment, then he said, softly, persuasively, "If Boromir has accepted second place to Aragorn, it can only be because he knows himself unfit to rule."

"You will never convince Aragorn of that, or the people of Minas Tirith, who love him dearly."

"Aragorn is bound by a vow he made under extreme duress. He is a man both generous and noble, and he would not see another creature in needless pain. He made a promise to Boromir, when he believed them both destined for the most terrible suffering and death, and he must now live with that promise, however recklessly given. But if the nobles and allies of Gondor gave him an honorable way out, if we could persuade Boromir himself to release Aragorn from that vow, then he would choose a more suitable partner for his rule."

Imrahil said nothing, and Halbarad took his silence for agreement. Throwing all his urgency and conviction into his voice, he said, "Whether Boromir is merely biding his time to claim the crown for himself, or whether he is truly as broken in spirit as he is in body and no longer able to rule well, he does not belong at Aragorn's side. You know this to be true, for you spoke of it yourself on the battlefield. And if we two know it, how many more of the princes and captains Aragorn trusts will step forward to help prevent this evil?"

"Evil? You call my kinsman evil?"

"Denethor himself fell into evil, ere he died. Is Boromir of sterner mettle than his sire? I dare not hope it. And I tell you, in confidence, that the son of Denethor did great evil upon the road from Imladris. I know not what deed he did, for Aragorn does not speak openly of it, but its shadow weighs upon the heart of the king and all the Fellowship. Having fallen once into evil, how will Boromir withstand it at such an hour? When faced with such an Enemy? We all ride to our doom, yet methinks Boromir has already met his."

Imrahil eyed him narrowly, his face carefully neutral. "If I were to do as you suggest and persuade Boromir to refuse the Steward's chair, who then would take his place?"

"Denethor has two sons."

"Aye, but the greatest fault you lay at Boromir's door is that of being Denethor's son. Is not Faramir his son, also? Does he not deserve the same distrust as his brother?"

"You know them both well, Prince. What say you?"

Slowly, reluctantly, Imrahil answered, "I say that Faramir, more than Boromir, is like to Denethor in ability, but he has none of his sire's pride or haughtiness. He is... the noblest of a noble race, wise, just and honorable. There is none I would sooner trust to lead my people, save the King himself."

"Then why do you hesitate?"

"Because Faramir's worth does not make Boromir's any less. I value both my kinsmen, and I distrust your reasons for pressuring me thus. Tell me, Halbarad of the Dúnedain, why do you concern yourself with Gondor's Steward and Gondor's affairs?"

"They are my affairs, too. Think you I am some nameless wanderer of the North, recruited to fill the army's numbers? Nay, Prince Imrahil. I am Aragorn's kinsman, his trusted friend, his chief lieutenant and councilor. Through all the long years of his exile, I have fought at his side, because the same blood of Númenor flows in my veins, and the same longing to come home again. To Gondor. To Minas Tirith. To kingship, our birthright, and the return of our lost glory. I have earned the right to stand at his side, when he places the crown of Eärnur upon his brow, and to stay at his side through all the years to come. So speak not to me of Gondor's affairs!"

The prince smiled and gave a small bow. "I beg your pardon. And I begin to see."

"See what?" Halbarad demanded, his calm ruffled at last by his own impassioned outburst and by Imrahil's amused tone.

"Your true motives. Nay, Ranger," he held up a hand to silence Halbarad's protest, "I mean no offence. And in truth, I am more inclined to aid you, knowing why you ask it of me. But do not think you fool me with your lofty claims of protecting Gondor and her people from an unfit ruler."

He stared straight into Halbarad's blazing eyes and said, flatly, "You are jealous of your lord's affection for another. You would remove Boromir from the halls of power, so that none might challenge your place at Aragorn's side."

"If you believe these are my motives, why even consider siding with me?"

Imrahil's smile died, and his face grew grim. "Whatever your motives, your reasoning is sound. And my motives will remain my own."

Halbarad was momentarily taken aback by his hard tone, but he recovered his poise and asked, smoothly, "You will speak to Boromir?"

"Nay, he will not heed me! There is only one man yet living who might sway him."

"What man?"

"His brother, Faramir."

"Boromir would step aside, at his brother's urging? Giving that brother his birthright and place of power?"

"If Faramir asked it of him, I believe he would."

"And what will convince the Lord Faramir to ask such a thing of his beloved brother?"

"His own judgment that it is right and necessary."

"We must wait, then, upon Faramir's judgment?"

Imrahil bridled afresh at the Ranger's mocking tone. "I will speak to Faramir, sound him out on this matter. But be careful what you ask for, Halbarad. Faramir is no less formidable than his brother, and you will find him no easier to control or brush aside, should he sit in the Steward's chair."

Halbarad drew himself up, stiffly. "You choose to see me as a jealous hound, guarding a bone, but you do me an injustice, Prince Imrahil. In all good faith, I look for no more than the glory of Gondor and the welfare of her king. I do not like the Lord Boromir, I admit it. That dislike is born of years of bad blood and distrust between our lords and lands. Yet, I am willing to accept your word that his brother is not of like kind to him and may serve my liege lord in all honor and faith. I am willing to help another son of Denethor to the Stewardship, if you deem him worthy, as I would defend the current Steward, regardless of my dislike, if I believed him fit for that title."

Imrahil smiled, but it did not touch his eyes. "Save your speeches for the King's council chamber. I have said that I will speak to Faramir, and I will, but I make no promises beyond that. It will be no easy task to persuade Faramir that he should put his brother aside, and it will be an even harder task to persuade Boromir after him. Then there is Aragorn. I leave you to judge how ready our king will be to break his vow."

"He will."

Imrahil smiled again, faintly, at the certainty in the other man's voice. "I bid you good day, then, Ranger." He turned, before Halbarad could speak again, and strode toward the city, headed for the Houses of Healing and a meeting he wished that his conscience would allow him to avoid.

Imrahil found Faramir in his room in the Houses of Healing. He lay quietly in bed, his gaze turned to the window that opened on the gardens and the city ramparts, and his face sad. At the sound of booted feet on the flagstones, he turned his eyes to the doorway. A smile of welcome lightened his shadowed face. He held out a hand toward the Prince.

"Imrahil!"

As the prince crossed swiftly to the bed, he noted Faramir's pallor and the heaviness of grief in his eyes. He looked like a man suffering from wounds of body and spirit alike. Clasping the offered hand warmly, Imrahil said, "I am glad to see you awake and mending, Faramir."

"We have the king to thank for that."

Imrahil smiled at the warmth and wonder in the other man's voice. "Aye, for that and for many things. He won a great victory, yesterday."

Faramir's face grew even more drawn, and his eyes went back to the window, to the black shadow that still loomed to the east like a portent of doom. "But what has it gained us?"

"Time. A brief, uneasy peace, in which to marshal our strength and prepare for the final battle."

Troubled grey eyes fixed on Imrahil's face, and Faramir said, quietly, "You have come from the king's war council."

"Aye."

"What say Aragorn and Mithrandir? When will the final blow fall upon us, and what will they do?"

"Go swiftly to meet it." Imrahil sat down on the edge of the bed and let his gaze stray to the window. His face, though he knew it not, was as drawn and grim as that of the sick man lying before him. "In two days' time, the armies of the West will march to Mordor."

When Faramir made no comment, Imrahil turned curious eyes on him and said, shrewdly, "This does not surprise you?"

"Nay. It is the only path left to us."

"We cannot hope to breach its walls or shatter its gates. Sauron's armies will o'erwhelm us."

"There are other ways to win a war than with armies."

A slow smile appeared on Imrahil's face. "You know something of Mithrandir's secret hope. Have you, then, your father's long sight?"

Faramir's mouth tightened in pain, and he turned his head away from his kinsman's gaze.

"I am sorry, Faramir. I forgot, for a moment..."

Faramir spoke in a whisper so soft that Imrahil had to strain to catch his words. "Alas for my father. Alas for Denethor, son of Ecthelion."

"Alas for us all," Imrahil added, bitterly.

"Why do you speak thus?"

Imrahil now had Faramir's undivided attention, and he found it unsettling. The grey eyes seemed to pierce his flesh to plumb his very heart. "Does not all Gondor grieve for the death of the Steward?"

Faramir's gaze became even more piercing. "I know you well, Imrahil, and I know that you felt little love for the Lord Denethor. Respect, aye, and the bonds of kinship. Vows of fealty that you have never broken. But love? Nay. I do not need my father's long sight to perceive some other meaning in your words. I beg you, do me the courtesy to speak plainly."

Meeting that direct gaze, Imrahil silently cursed Halbarad's insinuations and cunning half-truths. The Prince of Dol Amroth would not stoop to such tricks, nor would the son of Denethor fall prey to them. If he, Imrahil, was right about the fate of Gondor and her new Steward, then Faramir would see it, too, and act to protect his people. If he was wrong, then Faramir was the man to tell him so. That left him only one course - to tell Faramir honestly what was in his heart.

Dropping his smooth and courtly manner, the Prince said, abruptly, "I do not weep for Denethor. I weep for his city and for his sons, whom he has left in desperate straits through his own arrogance and folly."

"'Tis not my father's fault that Sauron rises again."

"'Tis your father's fault that Minas Tirith and all Gondor are unprepared to meet his coming. And 'tis your father's madness that has bereft us of a leader when most we need one."

"The king leads us."

"Aye, but he will not accept his crown until the war is done. And in two days' time, he rides again to battle, taking all the nobility of Gondor and her allies with him, with no hope of victory. Even if this other, hidden weapon they have sent against the Enemy should succeed, what certainty have we that Aragorn - or any of us - will ride back again, alive, to Minas Tirith?"

"None. That is war."

"That is war, and we are soldiers. But what of those who are left behind? If Aragorn falls before the Black Gates, who will rule Gondor in his stead?"

"My brother."

Imrahil hesitated for a long, tense moment, then he asked, "Have you spoken to Boromir?"

"Aye. He was here when I awoke last night."

"How seems he to you?"

Now it was Faramir's turn to fall silent, as he searched his memory and weighed his words. When he finally spoke, his voice was both thoughtful and sad. "He is grieving for our father. He has ridden from battle into battle, from sorrow into sorrow. He is weary and troubled, beset by worries, and scarred by deep wounds that still pain him. I have never seen him so burdened by care."

"So I think. And I deem it our duty to relieve him of his burdens before they break him."

A frown darkened Faramir's face. "What are you saying?"

"That Boromir is no longer fit to rule Gondor - either as Steward to Aragorn's King, or as sole ruler after the king's death. You bid me speak plain, Faramir, and that is the plain truth as I see it."

"By what right do you make such a judgment?"

"By right of kinship and affection. As one who has known both you and Boromir since childhood, loved you well and watched you grow into the men you are. And as one who knows that you will not turn from the truth, no matter how painful it might be."

Faramir lay very still, absorbing his words, and Imrahil felt a deep regret that it had fallen to him to force a brother's hand in this way. Faramir alone, among all the people of Gondor, saw clearly who Boromir was, and yet loved him all the more dearly for it. He forgave his brother's faults, even as he acknowledged and condemned them. And he would not refuse to see them, now.

The look Faramir gave his kinsman was grave and calm, but colder than was his wont. "You believe my brother cannot rule, because he cannot see."

Imrahil opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it and held his tongue. He had offered Faramir the truth, and so it behooved him to give it, no matter how unflattering to himself.

"I had thought better of you," Faramir said, quietly, and Imrahil flinched under his soft reproof.

"It is true that I find your brother's blindness troubling, but not for the reasons you presume."

"I presume nothing."

Imrahil had the sudden, uncanny feeling that he was facing a younger and more soft-spoken version of Denethor, with all the old Steward's needle wit and utter implacability. He caught himself licking his lips with nervousness, as he had done as a boy when confronted by the terrifying lord and required to admit some childish prank.

"Of a certainty, Boromir can no longer lead armies," Imrahil said. "Even if the soldiery will follow him, it is madness to send a blind captain into battle."

"As I'm sure both Aragorn and Boromir are aware."

"Yet he did just that, yesterday."

"He what?" Faramir's calm abruptly shattered, and he pushed himself up on his elbows to demand, "Do you mean that my brother fought in the battle?"

"Aye. He led the Guard against a company of orcs and drove them from the gates. He saved the city."

Faramir gaped at him, astounded. "Aragorn allowed this?"

"Aragorn knew nothing of it, until Boromir rode up to us on the field. In fact, it seems that the king had commanded Boromir to stay in Rohan until sent for - a command he chose to ignore."

Faramir collapsed back against his pillows, a rueful smile on his lips. "Aye, he would." The smile became a chuckle. "How like my brother."

"Exactly."

Faramir sobered at the harshness in Imrahil's voice. "Boromir has fought all his life to safeguard Minas Tirith and her people. Would you have him stop now, when the survival of all Middle-earth hangs in the balance?"

Imrahil shook his head. "I, too, would expect nothing else from the Captain-General of Gondor, but therein lies the problem. Think carefully, Faramir. Think beyond your love and admiration for your brother to the man that he is. A man who cannot live but by the sword, who cannot bear to come second to any, who cannot accept anything less than greatness in himself. Is that the man you know?"

"Aye."

"Now think... what will that man do, when all that he has known, all that he has looked upon as his birthright, is taken from him? The crown of Gondor goes to Aragorn, her armies to you, and what is left for Boromir?"

"The Stewardship, for which he was groomed since birth."

"Not like this. Not without the true power to rule or command of his armies. I see only two paths before him. Either he defies all reason, defies the king himself, to keep his place with the army..."

"Which would mean his death," Faramir murmured.

"Or he hangs his sword and shield upon the wall to gather dust, and he becomes everything he despises. Powerless, useless, weak. A discarded soldier with no strength left in him."

Faramir said nothing, and Imrahil leaned forward to clasp his arm, throwing all his sincerity into his next words, willing the other man to understand and believe him. "I am afraid for him, Faramir. When I look at him, I see only defeat, despair and the slow wasting of a valiant man."

"There is a third path."

"What?"

"My brother accepts his fate, learns a new duty and serves his king in the ways left to him."

"It is not in his nature to accept such a fate."

"You do him small justice, kinsman. Boromir is a strong man."

"Do you not mean proud?" Again Faramir fell silent, and again Imrahil pressed him. "He has the pride your father taught him, and the arrogance to confuse that pride with strength. But what will become of his strength, when his pride is laid in the dust and his life is confined to trailing after his king in darkness?" Faramir winced, and Imrahil paused to let his harsh words sink in. Then he went on, with quiet intensity, "Tell me honestly, Faramir, do you believe your brother has that kind of strength? Or do you merely wish it?"

It took Faramir some minutes to answer. He lay staring out the window, his face a mask of pain, while Imrahil waited patiently for his decision. When he finally spoke, his voice had gone flat and hopeless.

"I do not know. The brother I remember would not endure such a life as you describe. He would..." Faramir broke off to swallow the tightness in his throat.

"He would end as his father ended," Imrahil supplied.

"Aye."

"Pride and despair are a deadly brew."

"But the man I spoke with last night is not the brother I remember. He is changed."

"The poison is already in him. He fights it; he covers it with bravado and wild acts of valor, like his ride from the gates, but the desperation is there, consuming him."

Faramir shook his head. "I do not know. Perhaps you are right, but even so, I cannot think that denying him his place as Steward will help him. Will it not trample his pride all the more completely?"

"Aye, and that pains me. But you and I, for all that we love Boromir, must think first of Minas Tirith. If I am right and Boromir is destined to follow his father into despair, even into madness or death, there is naught that we can do to save him. We can only hope to keep his fall from inflicting yet another wound upon a battered and bleeding land."

"So you would have me take my brother's place at Aragorn's side and lock him in a dark closet, where his gibbering will not disturb the dinner guests?"

It was Imrahil's turn to flinch, but he did not back down, for all the brutality of this crudely-painted picture. "I would have you persuade Boromir that it is his duty to Gondor, her king and himself to step aside and let you assume the mantle of Stewardship. He would do it, for you."

"Aye," Faramir's voice had gone dangerously soft, "perhaps he would. This is why you came to me, instead of going to the lord Aragorn with your concerns."

"Lord Aragorn has made a vow that he will have Boromir for his Steward, or he will have none. He will not break that vow, unless Boromir himself asks it of him."

Faramir gazed steadily at the prince, his face unreadable. "Ah. I begin to see. I am persuaded to approach Boromir, he is persuaded to step aside, and Aragorn is thus persuaded to foreswear himself. 'Tis a twisted road you travel, kinsman."

Imrahil looked away, unable to meet Faramir's eyes. "'Tis a hard and ugly road, but I must see it to the end. I cannot shirk my duty."

"Who set you upon it? You are not alone in this, nor did you choose such a plan of attack."

"'Tis true, I am not alone. The lord Halbarad, of the Dúnedain, asked that I sound you out, but there are others. Many others."

"There would be. My brother has never lacked for rivals or enemies."

"Some of them are old rivals, I admit. And I would warn you that Halbarad is not to be trusted. He speaks of Gondor's weal, but he is driven by envy and dislike of your brother, no higher motive."

"And yet, you come to me at his bidding."

"I come to you, because I do have Gondor's welfare at heart. Sometimes, we cannot choose our allies."

Faramir got an arrested look on his face, and his eyes went distant, as though he were remembering some far-off scene. Whatever the memory, it was not a pleasant one, and the lines in Faramir's face deepened visibly. Imrahil did not dare to interrupt him, nor to press him for an answer. He could only wait, until the other man gave a weary sigh and turned his clear, grey eyes back to the prince's face.

"I know something of the trials my brother faced upon his journey. I will not speak of them, for that would betray secrets that are not mine, but I will tell you this. Boromir has met a much harsher enemy than Saruman, and he has struggled against a greater darkness than mere blindness. That he lives and smiles and enjoys the favor of the king is no small victory for him, and it gives me great hope. But I am also afraid, for I do not know what hidden wounds he carries that may yet poison him.

"I will not promise to side with you in this, Imrahil, but neither will I dismiss your fears. I will promise only to watch my brother and think on what you have said."

"There is not much time. The army marches soon..."

"And Boromir will keep our city safe against your return. Of that you can be sure. Be content, Imrahil."

"He is well enough, for the present, I suppose."

"He is. And should our last hope fail, should our army die in the jaws of the Enemy and the Shadow spread throughout Middle-earth, what matters it then if a blind madman leads us?"

"You will consider what I have said?"

"I will consider it."

"Then I am content." Imrahil got to his feet and clasped Faramir's hand in farewell. "I will come again, if time allows."

"Or I will come to you. I shall be up and about in time to see the army off."

"I am glad." Imrahil gripped his arm and smiled with real happiness. "I am most glad. Farewell, kinsman."

"Farewell."

As Imrahil disappeared into the dim hallway, Faramir heard a murmur of voices from another part of the House. He recognized his brother's curt tone and the high-pitched voice of a halfling. They sounded as if they were drawing closer, but suddenly, they were interrupted by a loud crash and a cry of protest.

After a stunned moment, he heard Boromir say, "Gil?"

"Aye, my lord," a woman answered. "I beg your pardon, my lord. 'Twas my fault."

"Of course it wasn't. What was in the bucket, Gil?" Boromir sounded both resigned and foreboding, even muffled as his voice was by distance.

"Naught but the wash water, my lord." Was the drudge laughing? Faramir thought he heard a tremor of amusement in her voice, and he found the possibility of her laughing at his brother infuriating.

"Shall I help you mop it up?"

"Nay, my lord! 'Tis but a moment's... 'Ware the puddle!"

There was another crash and a curse, then Boromir's chagrined voice, saying, "I beg your pardon. I should not speak so in front of a lady."

"I am not a lady, and you did not offend my ears. But please, lord, go away... outside... somewhere dry, before you break your neck!"

The halfling piped up, saying, "There are no puddles down this way, and Merry's room is just around the corner. Let's see if he's awake. I say, Boromir, your cloak is dripping wet. And you squelch when you walk!"

"Aye, thank you, Pippin," Boromir growled. "I'd not have noticed, else."

"What a dreadful mess you're making. Only look at those tracks..."

"On your way, Master Perian," the drudge snapped, "and let me mind the floors."

"That's a fine way to address a soldier of Gondor," Pippin remarked, his voice trailing off as he moved deeper into the sprawling House. "Just as if I were a child, instead of a battle-hardened veteran."

Faramir lay in silence, listening for the sound of booted feet approaching his door, both hoping and fearing that his brother would seek him out. He heard nothing but the muted sounds of the drudge mopping up her spilled water, the bucket scraping on the stone flags as she moved it. When even that noise had died away, and Boromir still had not come, Faramir relaxed. Letting his weary head sink into the pillows, he closed his eyes and covered them with one unsteady hand.

Too much had happened. Too much had been laid on his shoulders, too hard on the heels of his own brush with death. But at least he had been spared this one ordeal - confronting his brother with Imrahil's dire warnings still fresh in his ears. He had been given a brief respite in which to think and gird himself for the next, more painful skirmish in the endless war that was the life of Denethor's son.

Chapter Text

The night before the Armies of the West were due to march, Aragorn summoned his old companions to his tent. The Fellowship would separate again on the morrow, but for this last night, they could sit in comfort and talk of the long, dark road they had traveled together. Their talk rarely turned to Frodo and Sam, but the ringbearer, his faithful servant, and the desperate hope they carried with them were a palpable presence among their gathered friends.

A brazier burned in the tent, and the taller members of the Company pulled chairs around it, while the hobbits opted for a patch of earth with a rug to sit on. They shared skins of the best wines the city's cellars had to offer. The drink warmed their tired limbs and loosened their tongues, and even the crusty Gandalf relaxed into the mood of camaraderie. Only Merry, still drained from his illness, and Boromir, who had always held himself somewhat aloof from the Company, remained quiet. Their friends set it down to discontent that they would not ride with the armies on the morrow and did not press them.

By the time they had drained the last wineskin, it was deep night, and their voices had fallen to wistful murmurs. Aragorn stood and stretched, a fond smile lingering on his face as he gazed around the circle of familiar faces.

"Duty calls, my friends. We must be up and moving before dawn."

Gimli have a bark of laughter. "Men must sleep before they march. Dwarves only need a full stomach and a clear road beneath their feet."

"And while they are filling their stomachs, the Elves have already reached the end of the road," Legolas retorted.

Pippin yawned hugely. "Hobbits need sleep and full stomachs. I've been dreaming of my bed this hour past."

"Then get you to it, Master Peregrin," Aragorn said, with a chuckle.

Gandalf rose to his feet and picked up his staff. "We must all to our beds. The morrow will be upon us before we know it, and we must be prepared to face it with stout hearts, as well as strong limbs. Merry, Boromir, I bid you farewell and the best of luck. I hope that we may yet meet again in Middle-earth. I trust we may. But if we do not, take the love and friendship of Gandalf the White with you into whatever doom awaits you."

Turning to Boromir, he clasped his arm and murmured, privately, "Remember what you have learned, Steward of Gondor, and have faith in the Man you have become. I look to see you place the crown of Ëarnur upon the King's brow, ere this is done. Farewell." Then he stooped to embrace Merry and offer him a handkerchief to blot his tears.

Slowly, the members of the Fellowship bid goodbye to the comrades they must leave behind. Merry drew himself closer and closer to Boromir, as if he could dull the pain of this parting by distancing himself from the others. He wept bitterly, when Legolas went down on one knee to salute him, gravely, and when Gimli solemnly pledged his axe to Merry's service, should the halfling ever need it. The four hunters, who had raced the length of Rohan to save their friends, would hunt together no more.

Gandalf departed, and behind him went Legolas and Gimli, who spoke of taking the air and seeing how Men of the South girded themselves for war. That left only Merry, Pippin, Aragorn and Boromir in the tent. Pippin looked around at the others and gave a doleful sniff.

"I don't think I'm ready to say goodbye. Come, Merry, let's walk about a little. Have you seen the great tents of Lossarnach? I'll show them to you."

"Do not go far, Pippin," Aragorn cautioned. "The camps are safe enough, but they are vast, and you may lose yourself in the darkness. One fire is much like the next."

Boromir said, "We must return to the city soon."

"Yes, I know." Merry wiped his eyes on his sleeve, momentarily forgetting about Gandalf's handkerchief. "I promise I won't be long. It's just... well, somehow, this was easier when Gandalf swooped down and snatched Pippin, without giving me time to think about it."

Aragorn smiled in understanding. "Take a stroll and have a proper chat. But be back soon."

"We will."

The hobbits trudged out of the tent, leaving Aragorn and Boromir alone. They both sat down and leaned close to the brazier, letting the silence lengthen between them, while they thought of the parting to come and what this last meeting could mean to them. It was Aragorn who spoke first, his voice soft and a bit sorrowful.

"You know what we face, how slender are our hopes."

"Aye."

"And when we fail, the war will come to you."

"We will be ready."

Aragorn sighed. "I wish, with all my heart, that we could fight this last battle together. That is how we fight best, you and I. Together."

"As Captain and King."

"As friends."

"Always that." Boromir bowed his head for a moment, and when he lifted it again, he looked to Aragorn as though he were weeping, though no tears could fall from his ruined eyes. "I am ready to die for my king. If you ask it of me, I will ride with you tomorrow."

"Nay, Boromir. You may yet die for Gondor, but not at my side. I need you here."

He nodded heavily. "My duty lies here, as it always has, but I will miss you, my friend."

"And I, you."

Boromir took a shaking breath and spoke in a voice rough with strain. "Tomorrow, you ride to your death. How do I bid you farewell, knowing this?"

"Do not. And do not despair. We may yet meet again."

"And if we do not?"

Aragorn swallowed to clear the tightness from his throat. "I leave Gondor in your hands. It is the best hope I can give her."

"You are her best hope. You are Gondor."

Tears started in Aragorn's eyes at his words. "Then you will fight for me, as you have fought for Gondor all your life, with your whole strength and whole heart."

"You know I will."

"I know it," he reached over to clasp Boromir's arm, fiercely, "and I thank you."

"You will return, Aragorn. I must believe it. We will ride together through the gates of Minas Tirith and hear the trumpets calling us home."

"The Lords of Gondor have returned..."

"Aye."

"Aye."

"I will hold Minas Tirith for you. I will safeguard your people. And I will await your coming, my king."

*** *** ***

Aragorn paced the tent in thought, his mind bent on the morrow and the hopeless battle his armies faced. He tried to relax and put aside his worries, to invite sleep, but he could not. There was a whisper of warning that breathed upon his neck, chill and inescapable, and kept him from rest. Something was amiss in Gondor this night.

The tramp of booted feet and low voices reached him. The sentries called a challenge, which was answered in a low murmur. Aragorn turned swiftly, expecting to see Halbarad ducking through the tent opening, but it was Legolas who entered, followed closely by Gimli.

"There is strange talk in the camp tonight, Aragorn," Legolas said by way of greeting. "The soldiery is restless and afraid. They fill the darkness with their muttering."

Aragorn gave a humorless smile. "They do not want to follow their lords into certain death, and who could blame them?"

"Nay, they will follow the banner of King Elessar to their doom and gladly. 'Tis not against the march that they mutter, but against that which they leave behind."

"Folly!" Gimli growled, before Aragorn could ask for a clearer explanation. "Superstitious nonsense! Pah! Men!" He invested the name with such contempt that Aragorn stared at him in open amazement. The dwarf caught his eye and gave an awkward grunt that might have been an apology.

"What is this superstitious nonsense that has you so outraged, Master Dwarf?"

"'Tis treason, is what it is."

"Nay, Gimli, not treason," Legolas temporized, "merely ignorance and fear. All men grow fearful at such times."

"I ask again," Aragorn said, with exaggerated calm, "what talk is this?"

Legolas silenced his irate friend with a stern look, then turned to Aragorn. "There is much talk that your choice of Steward has doomed the city."

"I did not choose the Steward," Aragorn protested. "The Stewardship is Boromir's by right of blood and birth!"

"Be that as it may, the common soldiers fear that his blindness is an ill omen, a curse that condemns the city to darkness under the great Shadow in the East. They say that the King plans to abandon Minas Tirith, desert her in her hour of need and withdraw the armies that might protect her. He will let her fall into darkness with her Steward."

Aragorn resumed his pacing, his head down and his hands clasped behind him as he walked. "An ill omen, you call it."

"Aye. We heard it repeated many times - a blind man among the troops is an omen of defeat. I saw soldiers bartering for talismans and tokens to ward off evil. Do you know aught of this superstition? Some ancient foreboding of Men, perhaps?"

Aragorn shook his head impatiently. "I have never heard it. Where has it sprung from, I wonder?"

"From treacherous tongues," Gimli snapped. "'Tis willful mischief, no more, to spread disquiet through the armies and breed strife among the people. Do not believe in this ancient foreboding, Aragorn."

"Of course I do not. The point is that the soldiers believe it."

Legolas nodded. "Many of them."

Aragorn abruptly halted his pacing and turned piercing eyes upon the elf. "Which of them, exactly?"

"The Men of Gondor, of Dol Amroth and of Lossarnach did not join in the whispering. They appeared calm and sure. Those from farther afield, and those of simpler birth were most troubled. I do not know all the banners, and the names of their captains were strange to me, but I recognized the tribesmen of Lamedon and the fisherfolk from Anduin's mouths. Some there were who blamed Boromir's presence on the Pelennor for the deaths of their lords."

"But the Men of Gondor remain unmoved."

"Aye."

"They would," Gimli asserted. "They know him, don't they? He has led them into battle often enough. What man among them would believe such errant nonsense?"

"You comfort me, Gimli." Aragorn visibly relaxed, and a rueful smile touched his face. "What man, indeed, who has fought at Boromir's side will doubt him? And it is such men who stay behind to hold the city for him. The Tower Guard. His own troops."

"Not the Guard, alone," Legolas cautioned.

"They are the main part of the garrison, and they protect the Citadel. We must put our trust in them and in Boromir. He can take care of himself."

*** *** ***

Boromir and Merry walked slowly up the winding street through the city. It was deep night, and few people other than the Guard, whose duty required it, were out and about. Yet, Minas Tirith did not sleep. She lay in a tense, expectant silence, watching the stars wheel above her white towers and listening to the whispered voices of her beloved sons, her soldiers, as they prepared to march away to war.

Merry felt the watchfulness of the city crawl over his skin, and it made him shiver, but it did not make him afraid. Instead, it saddened him, as he knew that the hearts and minds of Minas Tirith were girding themselves for mourning and death. The city was wakeful as a tribute to the men she would lose on the morrow.

Merry himself was deadly tired. His arm ached with cold, and his body felt leaden. He wanted to ask Boromir to carry him up the endless street to his warm, safe, welcoming bed, where he could crawl beneath the coverlet and block out the grief in the very air about him. The city felt huge, and he felt unbearably small within it. But Boromir could not navigate the streets on his own, and Merry knew that the man was as weary, as saddened and worn down by the thought of what lay ahead, as was the hobbit. Merry would not ask him to carry two such heavy hearts this night.

And so, with dogged steps, they climbed the long way from the Pelennor to the sixth circle of Minas Tirith and the Houses of Healing. Merry hesitated at the Citadel gate, prepared to escort Boromir inside to his chambers in the lofty tower. The sentry at the gate called a crisp challenge that Boromir answered. Then the Steward turned away from the gate and the guard, telling Merry quite clearly that he did not want to enter the Citadel. Merry obediently continued on his way to the Houses of Healing. They passed another pair of guardsmen as they went, patrolling the circle, but the small, white, wooden gate that let into the gardens was unattended. Merry was unaccountably cheered by this sign that war had not come to this peaceful spot - not yet, at any rate.

They went through the gate and down a gravel path to the outer wall. Here, a stone bench was set into a small enclave in the wall. A man of Boromir's height could sit on the bench, rest his shoulders against the parapet, and gaze out over the lower circles of the city and the Pelennor, past the distant, silver curve of Anduin, to the looming shadow in the East. A hobbit had to climb on the bench and hoist himself up on the parapet to see over it, but that did not trouble Merry. He had no desire to gaze out at their threatened doom tonight.

When they reached the bench, Boromir shifted his hand from Merry's head to his shoulder, and he gave it a grateful squeeze. He propped one knee on the bench and leaned back against stone.

"You are yawning fit to crack your jaw, little one. Get you to bed."

As if to prove his point, Merry gave an tremendous yawn. "A snack first, then bed. Are you hungry?" Boromir shook his head. "You want to stay here?"

Boromir answered his question with another. "Are there stars tonight?"

Merry craned his neck to look upward, and he blinked in amazement at the glorious array of stars, strewn like gems across the black velvet sky above him. He had not noticed, in his preoccupation, that every star ever born had come out to dance tonight. Had they come to bid farewell to the armies of Men? Had they come for one, final look at Middle-earth, before the Shadow blotted it from their sight forever? Or was it simply that the beauty of this world went on, unknowing, regardless of the suffering of its mortal creatures, and even on such a night as this, the stars danced?

"Yes," the hobbit murmured, in wonderment, "more stars than I've ever seen before."

Boromir tilted his head up, perhaps savoring the cold, clean touch of the wind on his face, perhaps listening for the music the stars made. "Good. I'll stay here. Rest well, Merry, and thank you."

"Don't thank me." Merry yawned again and bent his steps toward the House that slept behind them in the darkness. "Just don't wake me in the morning. Good night."

The patter of bare feet faded down the path, and Boromir knew he was alone. With an inward sigh, he leaned back against the curve of the embrasure and turned his face toward the East. Toward the road his king and his friends would take, come the dawn.

He was tired, so unutterably tired that his very bones ached with it, but he was not yet ready to brave the struggle for sleep. The night was lonely and cold, full of sadness, thick with the tears of Gondor's children, but even such a night as this was preferable to the chill confinement of stone walls, wooden doors and smoking torches. Shut doors, the muffled tread of feet on flagstones, still air tainted with the scent of burning... They belonged to any house, to any citadel, but in Boromir's mind they recalled only one place, and he would not willingly go back there even in his imagination. Better a lonely, wakeful night on the battlements of Minas Tirith than a princely bed with the cold breath of prison walls upon his body.

Slowly, wearily, he sank down upon the bench and tilted his head back to turn his bandaged gaze on the stars. He tried to picture them as he had seen them so many times over the years, when he lay sprawled upon his back in a pile of leaves and bracken, staring up through black branches, listening to his brother's voice murmuring beside him. Faramir had told him countless tales of elves and stars, had sung songs in languages Boromir did not know and laughed when he asked to hear them in his own tongue.

"There is nothing common about the songs of the elves," Faramir had taunted. "They cannot be rendered in common speech."

"Then what use are they to me?" he had snapped back, nettled by his younger brother's air of superiority.

"They teach of greater things than Gondor and Minas Tirith and the fate of Men."

"If they do not concern the fate of Men, they do not concern me!"

Such arguments always ended the same way - with mock battles and laughter and Faramir shouting defiance as his larger brother pinned him to the ground and demanded his surrender. Elven songs were forgotten, and the stars were once again nothing more than distant lights.

Boromir wanted to hear the songs and tales again. He wanted to listen to his brother's voice in the darkness, weaving images of ancient power and beauty and sorrow, and to feel the eyes of the Eldar upon them. Most of all, he wanted to show Faramir that he believed, as he never had before, in those legends. But Faramir lay sleeping in the Houses of Healing, Boromir stood alone on the city walls, and between them lay a gulf of pain, regret, guilt and wounds that could not be shared. Boromir did not have the strength to reach across that gulf tonight - he was too tired and too leery of yet more disappointment - but he had the night and the stars and a memory of the tales Faramir loved so much.

Willing himself to relax and concentrate, Boromir tried to conjure up the sound of his brother's voice, the cadence of his words as he wove his tale. Cold and loneliness retreated from his awareness. He no longer listened to the telltale sounds of the city at night, but only to the fragments of remembered legends in his head.

With his mind closed to the world around him, Boromir did not hear the gate creak open. He paid no attention to the new arrivals, totally unaware of them, until they were nearly upon him. Suddenly, the harsh rasp of breath and the crunch of booted feet on gravel reached him, and he snapped out of his reverie. Instinctively, he turned to face the approaching sounds and made as if to stand. That movement saved his life.

The sword point, aimed to slide up between his ribs, tore clothing and flesh and grazed across bone but did not bite deep, as his body twisted beneath its edge. Boromir's momentum carried him to his feet, while his turn brought his right arm down and across his attacker's sword arm, deflecting the main force of the blow. Rage flooded him, with the familiar pain of a blade in his flesh, and his soldier's reflexes rose to his defense.

Without thinking, he lashed out with his right fist, not caring what he struck, only wanting to keep his attacker off balance. He hit bare flesh that recoiled from his blow, but the swordsman held his ground. Then his own feet were under him, and Boromir kicked hard with his right foot. His boot landed solidly, hammering into muscle and bone, and the man grunted in surprise, staggering back, his sword swinging wide.

Boromir snatched his own sword free of its scabbard, even as his ears registered the rapid breathing and shuffling steps of a second attacker to his left. He leapt onto the bench and swept his sword in front of him defensively. The two men hesitated, perhaps caught off guard by his resistance or perhaps simply afraid of the bright blade that threatened them. Boromir knew he had only seconds before they pressed their attack again, and he could not hope to fend them off alone.

"Do you know who I am?" he demanded, to buy himself time and make them reveal their positions. "Would you die a traitor's death for a night's thievery?"

The first man, the one poised to his right, spat and growled, "How we die matters naught! It's how you die that matters, Steward!"

"Just do it," the other man hissed, fear plain in his voice. "Push him over the wall. Let them find his body broken on the street."

His partner gave a grunt of laughter. "They'll think he fell. Fate took a hand to save the army, eh?" He laughed again.

Boromir kept his sword moving in an erratic manner, giving the two men no chance to predict where its point would be at any moment, while he coolly tried to find a way out of this trap. The gash in his right side sent blood down his skin in a hot stream, and the pain of it burned through him, but he pushed these distractions aside to focus on the demands of the moment. He had a wall and a long, killing drop behind him, assassins' blades to either side, and an empty garden before him. His only hope was to alert the Guard patrolling the streets, but the moment he opened his mouth, fear would overcome caution in his attackers and they would be on him.

"You're both fools and traitors!" Boromir snarled.

The one on the right answered him, bitterly. "We do what we must to bring victory - and to avenge our young lords."

As he spoke, the man lunged forward with his blade. By sheer, dumb luck, Boromir was sweeping his own weapon to the right and his blade engaged the other as it came. Metal slithered on metal, then the attacker's sword broke through his clumsy guard to tear up his forearm and sink into the muscle just above his elbow. At the same instant, Boromir heard the man on his left move forward to attack, and he knew he was caught.

Abandoning all attempt at defense, defying all rules of combat, Boromir ignored the blade in his arm and the men converging on him. Intent only on escape, he gathered himself and leapt forward with all his strength, into what he hoped was a space between his assassins. The blade ripped free of his arm, even as he felt a second blade catch at his tunic. Then he was past them, falling, landing hard on the damp grass, fighting for balance, and shouting at the top of his lungs,

"Guard! Guard, to me!"

Something heavy struck his legs. His knees buckled, tumbling him to the grass, and Boromir knew that they had out-guessed him. His attackers were upon him, cursing and spitting, pinning him to the ground, grappling for his sword. He managed one more frantic call of "Guard, to me!" Then a hand drove his head downward, pushing his face into the grass to muffle his voice, and a booted foot slammed down on his wounded forearm. His sword slipped from numbed fingers.

Merry sat in his bed against heaped pillows, a wooden tray across his lap, contemplating the bedtime snack Gil had provided for him. The woman must be part hobbit, he reflected. How else could she know that fresh bread, ripe yellow cheese and a foaming tankard of ale were the perfect way to end a day? A smile lightening the tired shadows in his face, Merry bit into the cheese with his knife.

He had a generous helping of bread and cheese halfway to his mouth, when he heard the distinctive ring of metal on metal. His eyes flew to the window and the garden beyond, even as his mind identified the sound as the clash of swords. He had grown all too familiar with that sound, of late, and he knew he could not be mistaken.

Pushing back tray and blankets together, he scrambled from his bed and ran to the window. Outside, all was darkness, but he could see movement at the foot of the garden, by the wall, where he had left Boromir. Indecision gripped him for a moment. Then he saw a flash of silvered light - starlight on a polished blade - and heard Boromir's voice cry out, furiously, "Guard! Guard, to me!"

With an answering cry, Merry threw off all hesitation and all caution. He had no sword, since his had melted on the battlefield, but that would not deter him. The cheese knife still lay on the bed, and Merry snatched it up. Then he ran for the window and climbed into its deep embrasure.

A moment later, he was leaping to the grass below his window, running full tilt down the gentle slope toward the struggling, shadowy figures by the wall.

"Boromir!" he shouted, his shrill voice piercing the night. "Boromir, I'm coming!!"

One of the shadow figures detached itself from the struggle and moved toward him. Merry caught an impression of a large, stocky man in dark leathers and chain mail, then his eyes fell on the sword and the blood darkening its blade. Fury filled him, and he raced to meet the swordsman, brandishing his ridiculous knife as if he held Andúril itself.

The man checked his stride when he saw what manner of creature assailed him, but Merry would not let him withdraw. Charging up to the man, he cried, "Stand and fight me, you coward!"

The man almost laughed, but a lunge with the cheese knife wiped the smile from his face. "All right, then, come on and die with your master."

Merry shot a horrified look at the body sprawled on the grass, a second leather-clad assassin kneeling on his back, and his eyes burned with sudden tears. Gathering himself to leap on the man, he cried out, in defiance, "Gondor!"

But his act of suicidal bravery was rudely interrupted by a shout from the gate. Hobbit and assassin both turned to see two soldiers, in the livery of the Citadel guard, with their swords drawn, come running into the garden. The assassin cursed foully under his breath. Turning contemptuously away from Merry and his pitiful weapon, the man grabbed his partner by the cloak and hauled him to his feet. Then both men were running, slipping into the deep night, away from the bright blades and flickering torches of the approaching guard.

Merry ran a few paces toward the soldiers and pointed frantically after the fleeing men. "They went that way! Down the garden to the west!"

"Who went that way?" one of the guard demanded, his voice suspicious.

"Two men... assassins! They've killed the Steward!"

"Nay, they have not."

Merry spun around to see Boromir pushing himself stiffly away from the ground. With a relieved cry, the hobbit flung himself at the seated man and threw his arms around his neck in a crushing embrace. Boromir caught him with his uninjured arm, and Merry burrowed his face into Boromir's shoulder to mask his tears from the watching guards.

"I thought you were dead," Merry mumbled into the fabric of Boromir's tunic.

Boromir only tightened his hold on the hobbit's small frame, his attention fixed on the guards. "Search the garden and sixth circle. Two men attacked me and fled to the west, when you came. They cannot have gone far."

More guards had joined the first pair, one of them an officer. He now sent some of his men off to hunt the assassins with a curt gesture. Then he stepped forward to address his commander. "Did you see their f..." The officer broke off and cleared his throat, awkwardly. "Did you recognize anything about them, Captain? How will we know them?"

"They're soldiers, but not of Minas Tirith. Their accents were southern."

"They wore brown leather, with no devices, and chain mail," Merry added. "And they wore caps."

"What kind of caps, Master Perian?" the officer asked.

"Close-fitting, made of leather, I think, with a flap of leather hanging down to their shoulders."

Boromir gave a grunt of recognition. "Morthond. Look for soldiers of Morthond. None were posted to the garrison, so none should be in the city tonight."

"That will make our search the easier. Are you injured, Captain?" the officer asked.

"Naught but a few scratches. I'll have the healers tend to them, while you find the men responsible."

"With all due respect, Captain, you must not go unguarded about the city."

"Merry is all the guard I need. He'll keep his sword and his wits about him."

Merry let go of Boromir and sat back on his heels, tucking the cheese knife out of sight behind his back. He blushed furiously. "I haven't got a sword." All eyes turned on the hobbit.

"No sword?" Boromir said. "What, then, did you use to drive off my attackers?"

His flush deepened. "A knife. A... cheese knife."

The Guard officer laughed, as did a few of his men, but Boromir only regarded the hobbit thoughtfully. "You charged two armed soldiers with a cheese knife?"

"Well, it was all I could find in the... the heat of the moment."

Boromir grinned at him. "Bless you, Merry. You are worth a dozen armed guards."

"But I'm not. I don't have a sword, so I can't really protect you if the assassins come back. It was more the element of surprise than the cheese knife that did the trick, this time."

"I see your point." Levering himself painfully to his feet, Boromir turned to the officer, his manner brisk and commanding. "Post sentries at the gate and the door to this House. Send a troop to the main gate and let no one leave the city without being searched and identified. Any soldiers without written orders are to be held inside the walls, 'til their commanding officers are found and their business in the city confirmed. Look especially for men of Morthond. If you find the assassins, bring them to me, here." He broke off his instructions and looked around helplessly. "I have dropped my sword."

One of the soldiers retrieved the sword from where it lay on the grass. As he held it up, Merry saw that the tip was black with blood.

"Here it is, lord," the soldier said.

"Did you wound one of them?" Merry asked.

"I do not know." Boromir held out his hand for the sword, then ran his finger up the flat of the blade until he felt the metal grow sticky. Smiling slightly at the officer, he said, "Look for a man who is bleeding."

With a curt nod of his head, Boromir sent the Guard about their tasks. Merry waited patiently, while Boromir cleaned his sword on an unbloodied corner of his own tunic and sheathed the blade. Then the hobbit stepped quietly up beside him and smiled as the man's hand came to rest on his head.

"Into the House?"

"Aye, as quietly as possible."

Merry started up the hill toward the House, matching his pace to Boromir's. He sensed that the man beside him was both tired and in pain, and while Boromir walked steadily enough, with his back straight and his head up, his step did not have its usual swift energy.

"Are you badly hurt?" the hobbit asked.

"'Tis only a scratch." At Merry's skeptical silence, Boromir grinned and added, ruefully, "Several scratches, and rather large. Don't fret, little one. Give me some hot water and a few clean bandages, and I'll set it to rights in no time."

"You mean, the healers will set it to rights."

Boromir made a disgusted sound in his throat and growled, "Healers! I need no healer's help to bind a sword wound! I've been doing it since I learned to wield a blade. And mind you, Merry, you're not to tell anyone of what happened tonight! I don't want word of the attack to get out until we've caught those men, nor do I want a lot of people fussing around, being helpful and getting in the way. Understand?"

"I understand, but..." Merry broke off and swallowed nervously.

"But what?" Boromir demanded.

"I think it's too late to avoid the fussing part."

Merry had never laid eyes on the Lord Faramir, but there could be no mistaking the man who stood in the open door of the House, his nightshirt hanging loose over a pair of hastily-donned breeches, his long hair tousled with sleep and his grey eyes wide with alarm. He held a candle in one hand and a naked sword in the other, and his resemblance to his brother was striking.

As the man and the hobbit drew near, Faramir called, sharply, "Boromir?!"

Merry glanced up to see Boromir's mouth tighten in annoyance. He quickened his pace, forcing the hobbit to scamper on his short legs, and he reached the doorway in time to forestall a second shout.

"Do not wake the House, Brother."

"What happened? Are you hurt? I heard shouting and..."

Boromir cut him off with a sharp gesture and a low, urgent, "I beg you, Faramir, not here."

Faramir instantly fell silent and stepped back, giving Merry and Boromir room to pass through the door. As they entered the hallway, Merry saw that Faramir was not alone. Gil, the drudge, waited just behind him, holding another candle.

"Where can we go that will not disturb the House?" Boromir asked, his voice harsh with a weariness and strain he could no longer conceal.

"The kitchen," Gil answered, promptly.

Boromir turned toward the new voice, a frown creasing his brow. "Gil?"

"Aye, my lord."

"Don't you ever sleep?"

"Not when soldiers are yelling and fighting outside my window. Will you come to the kitchen, my lord? Or will you stand and bleed on my clean floor?"

"The kitchen it is. Lead on, Merry."

They reached the kitchen without waking anyone. Gil led Boromir to a chair near the stove and sat him firmly in it, while Merry shut the door and made as if to bolt it. Before he could actually throw the bolt, a knock sounded loudly on the door, and a low voice called,

"My Lord! My Lord, is aught amiss?"

Merry flung the door wide and stared, amazed, at the woman on the other side. In the soft light of the candles, clad only in her night shift and a loose robe of white wool, with her hair streaming loose down her back and her sword arm resting in a sling, the Lady Éowyn's beauty was startling - exquisite and cold.

She lowered the hand she had raised to knock again and gazed down at Merry, unsmiling. "Well met, Master Swordthain."

"Well met, lady."

"I am come to see the Steward."

"Éowyn?" Boromir sounded grumpy - as well he might, Merry reflected, with Gil picking at the fabric that covered a slash on his arm and drawing fresh blood from the torn flesh. "Leave us, lady, I beg you. This is not your battle."

Instead, Éowyn strode into the room, her eyes fixed on the sword cut Gil had exposed. "You are wounded."

Boromir gave a longsuffering sigh. "Merry, bolt that door. Brother, as you love me, kill the next person who comes in here. Gil... must you do that?"

"Nay, my lord. 'Tis for a healer to do." Gil got to her feet and headed purposefully toward the door. "I'll fetch one to you."

"You will not!" Boromir half rose from his chair, his face full of outrage. "Faramir, kill the next person who leaves this room!"

Faramir shot him a disapproving look and laid his sword firmly on the table, making certain that Boromir heard the metal strike wood.

"This is beyond my simple skills, lord." Gil insisted. "I am a drudge, not a nurse or a battlefield surgeon."

"Then give me the bandages, and I will bind up my own cuts."

Gil's face went blank and her voice wooden, as she turned her back on Boromir and put her hand on the door latch. "'Tis my duty. I'll not fail in my duty to the healers, or to the Steward." With that, she slipped the bolt and vanished into the dark hallway.

Boromir dropped back into the chair, cursing softly. Merry read the weariness and frustration in the slump of Boromir's shoulders. He could not ease the burden of his friend's duties or worries on such a night, but he thought he might set his mind at rest on one score. Keeping his voice mild, he said, "Gil is sensible. She won't make a fuss. And it will be better if the healers see to your wounds."

"The holbytla speaks wisely," Éowyn said, as she moved up to the table that filled the middle of the floor. Setting her candle down on the scarred wooden surface, she steadied herself against the table with her free hand. In the flickering light of the candle, it seemed to Merry as though all color had drained from her face. Her flesh was as white and chill as marble, her eyes deadened by pain and despair. Yet even in her illness of spirit, she found strength enough to stand straight and proud, and to look upon Boromir's wounds with concern. "Tell me, lord, how were you injured thus?"

"Do not trouble yourself. I am not much hurt, and there is no danger to anyone in this House."

Éowyn drew herself up haughtily. "I fear no danger. I came only to see if I might aid my sometime brother-in-arms."

Before Boromir could answer her, Faramir interjected, "Your heart does you credit, lady, but 'tis you who are ill, or grievously hurt." His eyes, dark with sorrow and anxiety, took in her bandaged arm, the unnatural pallor of her face and the slight tremor in the hand that rested on the table. "Let me escort you back to your room, for I deem you are a patient in this House, as am I, and not fit to be up and about."

Éowyn regarded him gravely for a moment, then shook her head. "Waste not your care on me, lord."

"I regret I cannot do as you ask." With a bow and a wistful smile, he said, "I am Faramir, son of Denethor, brother to the Steward."

"I am Éowyn, sister-daughter to Théoden King."

"And Dernhelm, Rider of Rohan," Boromir added. "It was Dernhelm who brought us from Edoras, when Théoden and Éomer would have sent us into hiding."

"Then I have to thank you, lady," Faramir said, with another bow. "You have done me and all Gondor great service."

"A service some other has tried to undo," Éowyn said. Turning her remote, yet troubled gaze on Boromir, she asked, "Who would dare attack the Steward of Gondor, within his own walls?"

Boromir told them of the night's events in a few clipped, concise phrases. He said nothing of Merry's attempt to fight a fully-armed soldier with a kitchen knife, for which the hobbit was grateful, ending only with the simple statement that Merry had interrupted the attack and saved his life.

Faramir's face was pale and drawn. "The Guard are searching for these... these assassins?"

"Aye."

"And you are certain they were not simply thieves, hoping for a rich purse?"

"They called me Steward."

Faramir let the air out of his lungs in something akin to a groan. "Who would bring murder to Minas Tirith, and at such a time?"

"Traitors," Éowyn said, her voice hard with anger, "and cowards, to attack from behind in darkness..."

"But why?" Merry could see in Faramir's eyes that this question, more than any other, tormented him. "Why seek to slay their liege lord?"

"Does it matter? It was an act without honor, an act of betrayal, at a time when all the free peoples of Middle-earth prepare for war beneath the banner of Gondor. Whatever reason they might give, the truth is clear. They are traitors and tools of the Enemy."

"As was I, once," Boromir murmured, so low that only Merry, who stood close to his chair, heard him.

"It always matters why men are led to evil," Faramir answered, softly. "How else can we guard against it in ourselves?"

"And yet, it is still evil that they do. These men are traitors and without honor."

"Aye."

At that moment, the door swung open, and the Warden strode into the room. Behind him came Ioreth and Gil, and with their coming, the large kitchen felt suddenly very cramped and over-full. The Warden paused in the doorway to sweep the room with clear, calm eyes, then he stepped toward Boromir's chair and offered the Steward a respectful bow.

"My Lord. I am told you are in need of my skills."

"'Tis naught," Boromir said, with gruff courtesy. "There was no need to disturb your rest."

"There was every need. I hear rumors of violence and murder in my gardens, of patients leaving their beds to walk the halls with drawn swords, of the lords of the city secreted in my kitchen to talk of treason... It is not often these Houses see such stirring events. Would you have me sleep through them?"

Boromir grinned ruefully up at the Warden, the tension visibly draining from his body. Then Ioreth spoke, and he instantly stiffened again.

"Ah, such goings on! 'Tis a disgrace and an outrage! Our own lord not safe on the grounds, while the king camps before the gates, like any common vagabond. And you, my Lord Faramir, you ought not to be out of your bed at such an hour... if you'll pardon me saying so, my lord."

Ioreth paused to take a breath, then she launched into a new series of protests, observations and asides, while she swept purposefully about the room. As quickly as her words came, so too came all the paraphernalia of the healer's craft - bandages, salves, needles, knives and pots to heat water. The other people in the room watched her in bemusement, but none dared to interrupt her constant flow of speech and activity.

While Ioreth went about her business noisily, the Warden went about his in relative quiet. He drew Gil over to where Boromir sat, and the two of them quickly divested the man of his various layers of outer clothing. By the time Ioreth slapped the last pot of salve on the table, Boromir was clad only in his breeches and bloodstained shirt.

The old woman came to an abrupt standstill, planted her hands on her hips, and turned bright, knowing eyes on Éowyn. "Get you to bed, my lady, while you can yet walk so far."

Without looking up from his work, the Warden said, "Quite right, Lady Éowyn. You must take some rest, if you are to heal. The Lord Aragorn was most clear on that point."

Before Éowyn could protest, Faramir stepped forward and said, "Allow me to escort you to your chamber, lady."

"I need no escort," she protested.

Faramir, with the grace and aplomb that was second nature to him, answered, "For this night only, lady, let me do you this service. There may be more ruffians about, and your sword arm is injured." As he spoke, he lifted his sword from the table and saluted her with it, gravely.

Éowyn, outnumbered and sped on her way by a firm, courteous farewell from Boromir, allowed Faramir to bow her out of the room. As the door shut behind them, Ioreth bustled over to Boromir and began to hand the Warden his tools, while keeping up a steady stream of chatter.

The Warden let her ramble for a few minutes, until he noticed the rigid frown on Boromir's face and the way he flinched at the sound of Ioreth's voice. Then, in his mild, authoritative way, he cut off her flow of noise and said, "Many of our patients were stirring, as we came in. I think it best that we calm and reassure them, before they think to seek us here and disturb the Steward's counsels. Go you, Ioreth, and see them settled. Tell them what tale you will, but do not let them leave their rooms."

"And say nothing of swords or assassins!" Boromir added, sharply.

"Swords and assassins!" Ioreth threw a hand up in shocked protest. "Frighten our sick and injured with tales of swords and assassins? I shudder to think of it, my lord!"

"Good," Boromir grunted.

The Warden smothered a smile and waved Ioreth out of the room to do his bidding. When the door had once more closed, leaving the kitchen in blessed quiet, Boromir sank back in his chair with an audible groan.

"For pity's sake, Gil, why did you bring that woman?"

"I brought her," the Warden answered. "She is an able nurse and a remarkably wise woman, beneath all her dithering."

"Very, very far beneath," Boromir muttered.

Having vented some of his spleen, Boromir fell quiet and let the healer work, uninterrupted. In the middle of the process, Faramir slipped back into the room, his sword still in his hand. Boromir greeted him with a nod but seemed unwilling to break the silence. Faramir laid his weapon on the table, drew up a stool, and sat down with a weary sigh.

Chapter Text

"All is quiet." That earned him another nod and a wordless grunt. "I spoke with the sentries. They have heard nothing." When Boromir still did not speak, Faramir fixed him with a severe gaze and said, "'Tis time you told me what you know of this attack, Brother. Who was it tried to kill you? And why?"

Boromir frowned, nettled by his brother's calm assumption of authority, but answered readily enough, "Soldiers of Morthond, from Blackroot Vale, by their dress and speech. I cannot tell you why."

"The men of Blackroot Vale are archers, not swordsmen."

"Aye. That would explain why I am not now dead, with a sword through my throat. They had courage enough to make the attempt but not skill enough to do it right. They hesitated when they should have pressed the attack. And one of them had the chance to skewer me where I lay, yet he held his hand."

Faramir made a thoughtful noise in his throat, his eyes fixed sightlessly on the table top while his mind raced. "Soldiers, driven by some fierce compulsion, working with unfamiliar weapons and against the promptings of honor. But what compulsion could force them to such a desperate act?"

Merry, who had sat quietly through all of this, on a low stool, munching an apple, could not contain himself any longer. "Nothing could force them to murder their liege lord! They chose to do it."

"True enough, Merry," Boromir said, heavily, "but sometimes, we make ill choices with the best of intentions."

Merry bit off his next words, remembering the moment when he had learned of Boromir's betrayal of the Fellowship, and his own willingness to forgive. He felt no such willingness where the assassins were concerned, but he could understand how Boromir might hesitate to condemn them out of hand. Merry was privately glad that he had the luxury of hating those two men, regardless of their motives, and did not have to deal with them fairly. Kings and stewards did not have that luxury.

"We can rest easy on one score," Boromir went on. "Duinhir of Morthond marches tomorrow, taking his men and our problem with him."

Faramir's head came up with a start, a frown darkening his features, then he jumped to his feet. "We must make haste. The king will want to question Duinhir and find the source of this unrest..."

"Aragorn shall know nothing of it."

Faramir gazed at his brother in astonishment. "You'll not send a messenger to him, telling him of the attack?"

"I will not."

"He must be told!"

"I'll not have Aragorn troubled by what he cannot help. There is time enough for that, when he returns."

To Merry's surprise, Faramir did not seem to hear the finality in his brother's tone. He went on doggedly, in the teeth of Boromir's growing anger, "Surely the king will want to know that murder has been tried within his city."

Boromir's temper snapped. Half rising from his chair, pulling himself free of the healer's hands, he bellowed, "This is not Aragorn's city! He does not yet rule in Minas Tirith, nor do you, Brother! Am I not Steward here?"

Angry color stained Faramir's cheeks, but his control held and his voice remained calm. "Aye."

"Then give me leave to rule, as I see fit!"

"Of course, my lord." Faramir executed a stiff bow. Merry studied the younger man's face for some hint of irony, but Faramir looked to be in grave earnest. "I beg your pardon."

Sinking back into his chair, Boromir rubbed his face tiredly. "Plague take you, Faramir, why must you always push me so far? Do you enjoy watching me play the tyrant?"

"Nay, I do not."

Merry heard sorrow and reproach in Faramir's voice, and he wondered what had upset him so deeply. Did he not know his own brother well enough to see the exhaustion that gripped him? The anxiety and bitter frustration that goaded him to lash out in such a way? Boromir spoke not from arrogance, but from weariness, a lack of patience, and the desperate need to spare his battered city yet another wound, to spare his king yet another burden. It seemed painfully clear to Merry. Why not, then, to his brother?

In the heavy silence that fell between the brothers, they heard the tramp of booted feet in the hallway. The Warden cocked his head to listen, then deftly fastened the last pin in the bandage about Boromir's ribs and crossed to the door. He refused to hurry, even when a fist hammered on the door and made the wood shudder. As he opened the door, he stood squarely in the path of the men on the other side.

Merry caught a glimpse of silver helms and black fabric, then a vaguely familiar voice said, "I seek the Lord Boromir. Is he within?"

"Aye, but he is injured and in need of rest."

"We come on his orders, Warden. We have caught one of the assassins."

"Let them in," Boromir called. With Gil's help, he had managed to don his tattered shirt again and now straightened up in his chair, pulling his authority about him like a war cloak.

Four guardsmen, led by the lieutenant they had met in the garden, clanked and stomped into the kitchen, once more causing the room to shrink alarmingly. Two of them walked with drawn swords, dragging a third man between them. The prisoner's hands were bound behind him, his head bare, and his face smeared with congealed blood from a cut high on his cheek. He was clad in brown leathers, with light chain mail showing at his throat and wrists. His boots were caked with mud. His scabbard hung empty at his side. He had no ornament, no device, no badge upon him, save the clasp on his belt, which was cast in the shape of a deer's head, but loose threads at the shoulders and breast of his tabard showed where some device had been clumsily removed.

The lieutenant strode over to Boromir and saluted, crisply. Then he did the same to Faramir. "We caught this man hiding in a carter's shed, lord, in the second circle. He will give no account of himself, but he wears the garments of Morthond's archers and bears a fresh sword cut upon his face." Taking a naked sword and a leather cap from one of his men, the lieutenant laid them on the table before Faramir. "He surrendered this weapon. It is unbloodied."

Merry studied the face of the prisoner, hunting for something that he could recognize, something that would brand this man as an assassin, but he saw nothing. The man held himself stiffly, proudly, showing no weakness before the sons of Denethor, and only the rapid shifting of his eyes from one brother to the other betrayed his fear.

Boromir turned a cold, harsh face toward the prisoner. "Who are you?"

"Hirluin of Morthond." No one in the room missed the hostility in his voice, or the pointed refusal to acknowledge Boromir's rank.

"Do you know who I am, Hirluin of Morthond?"

"Boromir, son of Denethor, who sits in the Steward's chair."

"And did you know who I was when you tried to kill me?"

Hirluin hesitated, licking his lips in nervousness. "I am a soldier. I kill only at my liege lord's command."

"You wanted to throw me off the wall, so that my body would be found, broken, on the streets. Was that at your lord's command?" The man held his tongue, and Boromir continued, icily, "I may not see your face, Hirluin, but I am not yet deaf or in my dotage. I know you by your voice. You are a traitor and an assassin."

Panic flared in the prisoner's eyes, and behind his back, he made a sign to ward off evil. "I claim the protection of my liege lord! I am not subject to the whims of Gondor!"

"You were summoned to fight beneath the banner of Gondor, and it is to Gondor that you will answer for your treachery."

Hirluin's eyes jumped from face to face, finding no pity, no softening in any. He licked his lips again and tried to hold his proud posture, but the weight of anger in the room overbore him and made him sag in his captors' hands.

"I did what I had to do. I did my duty," he muttered.

Faramir leaned toward him, his grey eyes fierce and compelling. "Do you mean to tell us that you were under orders? Do you accuse the Lord Duinhir, or any of his captains, of this foul deed?"

"Nay, they know nothing! But 'twas our duty, as loyal sons of Morthond, as allies to Gondor's crown..." His eyes rolled wildly in panic, looking everywhere but at Boromir, his words coming ever faster. "The armies will fail! The darkness will come! And where will we flee but to Minas Tirith? Without her, there is no road back from Mordor for any of us! Without her, we are doomed to die beneath the Shadow!"

"Speak sense, man," Faramir urged. "We all know what doom faces us, and we all must fight it as we can. Minas Tirith will stand, so long as there are swords enough to defend her, and she will give refuge to any foe of Sauron who reaches her gates."

"Nay, nay, she cannot, so long as the Shadow stalks her streets!" He pointed a shaking finger at Boromir, and his voice scaled up in alarm. "He brings darkness to all Gondor! He is an omen of defeat, a weapon of the Enemy at our throats! So long as he commands the armies of Minas Tirith, they are doomed to fall! They say his own father dreamt of his coming and went mad with grief!"

The lieutenant reacted swiftly, striking Hirluin across the face with his mailed fist. The prisoner staggered backward but could not fall, with guardsmen holding his arms. "Watch your foul tongue, traitor, or I'll cut it out! You'll not poison the air with your lies!"

"Enough," Faramir said, wearily. "Get him out of here."

"Wait." All eyes turned on Boromir, and the prisoner stiffened in alarm. "You speak of Gondor's doom with such certainty, Hirluin. How do you know what fate awaits us?"

"The signs are clear," Hirluin insisted.

"They are not clear to me. You call me an omen of defeat, yet I have fought all my life for Gondor. How is it that I am now the weapon at her throat?"

Something about the directness of the question and the earnest way in which Boromir asked it drained the righteous anger from Hirluin. For the first time since coming before the Steward, he seemed uncertain, even ashamed.

"I know not," he muttered. "I know only what all the armies know - that you walk in darkness and bring that darkness to us all."

"So you would kill me for the superstitious whispers of soldiers?"

Hirluin shifted uncomfortably, his gaze sliding away from Boromir's face, and clamped his jaw shut.

Boromir leaned tiredly back in his chair. To the lieutenant, he said, "Take him to the Citadel."

The officer saluted smartly and waved the prisoner's escort toward the door. Hirluin, pulling the shreds of his soldierly pride around him again, walked out between his guards with his head high. As the door shut behind them, the lieutenant asked, "Have you any further orders, Captain?"

"Find out where his partner is, if you can, and who planted these fool idea in his head."

"We'll find the other, Captain. The Guard will not fail you!"

Boromir smiled in acknowledgement of his fervent vow, but his face remained grim and strained. "Keep the prisoner under close guard. Tell no one outside your company what has transpired and let no one speak to him without my leave. I want no rumors of murder and treason flying about the city." He gave a small sigh and added, quietly, "Our people have enough to fear in the coming days."

It took an age to get them all out of the room. Boromir did his best to remain calm and courteous, though his body ached and his head swam with exhaustion, but when the lieutenant, at Faramir's urging, tried to saddle him with a pair of guards, he finally erupted in rage and ordered them all away. The Warden left, as efficiently and gracefully as he had come, taking Faramir with him. The guardsmen tramped off to resume their duties. Merry was the last to go and the most difficult to dislodge from his side, but Boromir would not hear his protests. The halfling was staggering with weariness and still weak from his injury. Boromir could hear it in his voice. When he finally threatened to summon Ioreth and have Merry carried to bed, the halfling relented and bid him a subdued good night.

At last, he was alone. Or nearly so. One person still moved purposefully about the room, her skirts swishing against the flagstones, and Boromir found her presence oddly soothing. He could listen to the quiet sounds she made as she worked and shut out the worries that crowded so closely upon him. Slowly, he relaxed, sinking back in the chair and stretching his legs out before him, and a pleasant lethargy settled over him.

A rich, tantalizing scent drifted around him, making his mouth water, and he straightened up in his chair. "What are you cooking?" he asked.

Gil answered, in her abrupt way, "Spiced wine." She crossed the room to him and set something down on the table with a thump of metal against wood. "It takes the sting out of sword cuts."

Boromir waited until she had turned back to her hearth, then he found the tankard she had set before him and curled his hands around it, gratefully. The smell alone seemed to ease the pain in his wounds. He took a sip, and a wide smile lit his face.

"I wonder why I never tasted such medicine, before?"

"You never came to me with your wounds, my lord."

Boromir chuckled. "Come, Gil, join me. You must have some aches this medicine will cure."

"I beg your pardon, lord, but it won't do."

"What won't do?"

"Me having a drink with the Steward. 'Tis unseemly."

Gil sounded prim, but she had not adopted her wooden voice, so Boromir decided that she was not truly offended. Using the mock growl he normally reserved for Merry and Pippin, he retorted, "What is unseemly is to argue with your Steward. Now, get yourself a cup and sit."

"Aye, my lord. If you insist, my lord."

Controlling the urge to laugh, Boromir waited for her to pour herself a tankard of mulled wine and pull a stool up to the table. He found her humility amusing, when coupled with her shrewish tongue and acid temper, but he was by no means sure how she would react to his amusement. He really knew almost nothing about her, and considering the awkwardness of their first meeting, he would do well to tread softly now.

When he heard her take a sip of wine and give a small sigh of contentment, he lowered his own cup and said, mildly, "I thank you for your help, tonight."

"I did naught but my duty, lord."

"You did it with a clear head and little fuss, for which I am grateful."

She gave a short, humorless laugh. "Fussing cleans no wounds and mops no floors."

"You are a very practical woman, Gil."

"I have no time to be anything else."

"Don't you ever wonder what else you could be?"

"Wondering is for the rich and the idle. I am neither. You are in a fanciful mood tonight, my lord."

"I was thinking of the stars and trying to remember the tales my brother used to tell. Elvish tales. Mayhap one of them was of Gilthaethil." He smiled lazily at her, feeling the effects of the wine in his veins, warming his sleep-starved limbs, lightening his mood and loosening his tongue. "Gilthaethil, the Elven Princess. What did she do to earn her place in the legends, I wonder? Did she slay dragons? Defeat armies? Rescue her mortal love from the black pits of Angband?"

"I think I know that one," Gil mused.

"Very likely. I can never keep my elvish heroes straight. But I'll wager she didn't mop floors."

"Those Princesses never do."

The dry note in her voice made him laugh. "Did Ioreth never tell you the story of Gilthaethil?"

"If she did, I've forgotten it."

"My brother would know it. He knows them all. Shall I ask him?"

"Do not trouble him with this foolishness, I pray you."

Boromir smiled again and sipped his wine, letting the subject drop. After a moment of comfortable quiet, he asked, "How did you come to be here, Gil?"

"You woke me with your shouting."

"Nay, not in the kitchen, in this House. How came you to live in the Houses of Healing?"

"I have always been here. It is all the home I know, all the life I know."

"You were born here?"

"Nay, I was left as a newborn babe, on a patch of wasteground, tied in an old sack." Her matter-of-fact tone did not allow for pity. "Ioreth found me, brought me here, and made me what I am."

"And you know nothing of your family? Your people?"

"Nothing."

"Then you might be an Elven Princess, after all."

Gil responded to his gentle teasing with a snort of disgust. "That only happens in the tales your brother tells."

"Ah, but they are all true! Ask Faramir. Ask Legolas. Ask Aragorn, King Elessar, who is himself a legend come to life! So might you be."

"Princesses do not mop floors, and I do not believe in pretty tales."

"I beg your pardon." Boromir settled back in his chair, his legs stretched out before him and his cup held cradled between his hands, balanced on the clasp of his sword belt. "Of course, you are right." He paused, then added, "But why did Ioreth give you such a name?"

"She is more fanciful, even, than you."

Boromir chuckled, intrigued by her view of him. He had never been called fanciful in his life, and he wondered what kind of dour, passionless nature would view his as fanciful. Gil did not seem passionless, yet she rigidly denied any kind of emotion, any hint of dreaming or imagination or thought of life beyond the stone walls of this House. In his current state - giddy with exhaustion and warmed by the potent wine - he toyed with the idea of cracking the shell Gil wore and letting out the creature who lived inside it. He could do it, he knew, and he had an ambition to find out just what kind of woman she truly was.

Then her voice came to him, tart, matter-of-fact, recalling him to a sense of propriety. "She thinks I have Elvish blood. Warden says it's possible. He says I have the look of the southern peoples, from the lands where Elvish blood still mixes with human."

"Dol Amroth. 'Tis a noble lineage."

"To claim a lineage, you need family. I have none."

"I could envy you that," Boromir mused, thinking of his own tormented family. Much as he loved his father and brother, there were times when he wished that he had no family, no name, no burden of love or guilt or hope to carry for them. "When I feel the weight of all those generations upon me, the long line of Steward's at my back, all watching and judging..."

Gil set her cup down with a snap, cutting off his murmured words. "You're drunk."

"I am not." Boromir pushed himself straighter in his chair, with some difficulty due to the tenderness of his wounds, and frowned at her. "I am tired. Too tired, perhaps, to guard my tongue. I am not drunk."

"Then get you to bed and rest."

Boromir thought briefly of his private chambers, high in the Citadel tower, and the wide, soft bed that awaited him there. He shuddered slightly and pushed himself to his feet. "A walk in the gardens will clear my head."

Gil started to her feet at the same moment, moving forward with a hand out to halt him. Boromir took an unwary step, and they collided, dashing the contents of the tankards they held down their fronts. Boromir staggered hastily backward, caught his heel on the leg of his chair, and lost his balance. Gil's hand on his forearm stopped him from a bruising, undignified fall, but her strong grip crushed the bandage into his fresh wound and started the blood flowing again.

Boromir gave a hiss of pain, and Gil snatched her hand away.

"I beg your pardon, my lord!"

This was the first time Boromir had ever heard Gil sound anxious - not angry or caustic, but truly distressed - and it made his embarrassment all the more acute. He smiled awkwardly, feeling his face heat. "Nay, as ever, 'tis I who must beg your pardon."

Gil cleared her throat and shook out her skirts. In her usual dry tone, she said, "I am growing used to it. But if you walk about the gardens in this state, you will pitch headlong over the wall and do that traitor's work for him. Why will you not sleep, lord?"

Boromir's features tightened in pain, and he turned away from Gil's sharp gaze. His impulse was to lash out at her, push her away before she saw the despised weakness and uncertainty festering within him, but the thought of what had passed between them this night gave him pause. Gil had, in her own gruff way, let see something of her. She had dropped her guard, forgotten to call him 'my lord' with every breath, allowed him to treat her as a friend, even allowed him to laugh at her. He could not repay that precarious trust with coldness. He could, and he would, tell her the truth.

"I do not sleep well, anymore, especially inside stone walls." He sat down on the edge of the table and let his shoulders droop under the weight of his exhaustion. He unconsciously clenched and unclenched his right fist, pulling against the wounded muscles in his arm, as he spoke. "I cannot relax, if I cannot taste clean air and feel the wind against my face. And when I am alone, my thoughts keep me restless... wakeful. I'll not go into the Tower at night, when all is cold stone and empty halls. I can hear the torches snapping. I hate the sound of torches. And the smell."

Gil said nothing for a long, long moment. Boromir could hear her steady breathing and the soft crackle of the fire on the cooking hearth, but nothing more. What she made of his confession, he could not tell. A woman who had lived all her life in these Houses would know nothing of dungeons or wizards or the terrible stench of burning in closed and airless space. But perhaps she could catch an echo of that horror and understand what drove him to haunt the gardens at night.

"Is there any room in this House where you would sleep?" she finally asked.

Boromir immediately thought of Merry - dear, loyal, longsuffering Merry, who had talked him through the long nights on their ride from Edoras. Merry was in this House. "Merry, the halfling. Does his room have a window?"

"Aye."

Relief lightened his face, and he held out his hand to Gil. "Good. I can sleep there."

Without a word, Gil took his hand, and they walked out of the room together.

Chapter Text

Elenard crouched in the deep shadow behind the tent, a bucket of water between his knees. He was stripped to his trews, barefoot, his body filthy from long hours huddled in the burned wreckage of a building and his mouth full of ash. Scooping up a handful of water, he rinsed his mouth and spat onto the ground. Then he sluiced the remaining contents of the bucket over his head and torso.

All about him, the camp was beginning to stir. Dawn had not yet touched the sky to the east, cloaked as it was in brown fumes and shadow, but the stars had gone out and the canopy where they had hung was now a dull grey. Elenard shook the water from his hair and rose to his feet, keeping his body hunched low enough that the tent hid him from curious eyes. Moving with the stealth of an experienced woodsman, he carried the empty bucket back to the pile of gear beside the camp fire, then ducked into the tent.

He shared this tent with three other men, archers from his homeland, who all still snored upon their pallets. A candle stood upon a wooden crate beside the center pole, but Elenard ignored it. He stepped carefully over the bodies in his path, laid his clothing and gear down beside his pallet as silently as possible, then crawled beneath the blanket. There, in the near-darkness, he lay in tense expectation of the first trumpet call that would rouse the army from its rest.

Elenard allowed himself to relax, very slightly, as he realized that he had reached safety. His fellow soldiers would not betray him. He need fear nothing from those who had, if only by their silence, supported his attempt on the Steward's life. It was true that Hirluin had stayed behind in the city, too frightened of capture to risk the guards at the gate, and by now the poor fool was likely in chains. But it would take time to break him, fool though he was, and the Shadow Steward did not have time.

Elenard had no fear of war or death by the sword. He was glad to march with his lord, beneath the King's banner. He feared only the darkness and enslavement of the Enemy, a fate that threatened all, with defeat looming before them and the Shadow growing behind. Elenard could only pray that he would fall in battle, cleanly, and be spared the horror that would inevitably follow. Had he succeeded this night, he might have opened a way for all of them to escape. But he had failed. Failed utterly.

He lay staring at the tent above him, remembering the strange, almost ludicrous struggle in the garden and grimacing at the memory. It should have been so easy to surprise and slay one blind man, caught alone and unawares in the deep night. What sorcery had protected the son of Denethor? What evil genius had guided his hand? Could the Enemy reach so far to aid his chosen one, even into the heart of Minas Tirith?

Elenard shuddered and made a furtive sign against evil. He was lucky to have escaped with his life. The Tower Guard had acted swiftly, closing the gate and searching the city with ruthless thoroughness. Elenard had only saved himself by crawling into the ruins of a fire-gutted building in the first circle, dressed in the stolen garments of a laborer, and coating his face with ash to darken it. There he had waited, until the coming dawn roused the peasantry and the traffic at the gate was heavy enough to offer some concealment.

He had taken a small hand cart from the shed where he had parted from Hirluin. By filling the cart with drag harnesses, hooks, picks, rope and chains - all the paraphernalia needed by the crews still laboring to clear the plains of broken siege engines and breastworks - he had managed to conceal his own garments and weaponry within it. Once the first stragglers began filing through the gate with the imminent dawn, he had simply walked out of the city. A few questions, a cursory inspection of his cart, a measuring glance at his filthy jerkin and patched breeches, and the guards had let him pass unchallenged.

Elenard's only real fear was that he would not get back to the camp before the trumpets called the army to muster. He could not hurry. No man sent to labor on the plains among smoking funeral pyres, open pits of orcish filth and the great corpses of slaughtered mûmakil would hurry to his task. So he moved slowly and reluctantly, head down and shoulders bowed. Once out of sight of the guards, he had abandoned the cart in a siege trench and retrieved his gear. The peasant clothing he had tossed into an unattended camp fire. The coating of ash and dirt had served him well again and helped him to slip past the sentries that patrolled the camp, unseen. At last, he had reached his tent and this brief spell of rest, while he waited for the call to arms.

It came just as the first light of day showed at the tent opening. A clear, piercing call that seemed to wake every other trumpeter in the combined armies. The horns rang out from all parts of the field, and each man listened for the one he knew as his own, then he flung off sleep to answer it.

Elenard greeted the summons with relief. He feigned weariness, stretching and yawning and moving no faster than his companions, but his heart raced with eagerness. Soon they would fall into their ranks and march away, turning their backs on the White City and the traitor's death that awaited him there.

*** *** ***

Merry awoke to the distant music of horns. He opened his eyes to find the room still dim with night shadows, though a smoky orange sunrise was visible through the open window. The hobbit had grown used to the days beginning with such reluctance. Though the sky above Mount Mindolluin was clean and bright, the pall of fumes yet loomed to the east, smothering the new light of the sun and warning of the terrible struggle to come.

He yawned and rubbed his eyes, then he frowned in confusion. Boromir was sleeping in his window embrasure. Merry could not see his features, silhouetted as he was against the growing light, but he knew that he could not be mistaken. No one else would pull a chair up to his window and fall asleep with his head on the stone sill. He did not remember the man being here when he went to sleep. In fact, he distinctly remembered being thrust out of the kitchen and ordered to bed, leaving Boromir very much awake.

He was about to shove back his blankets and leave the warmth of his bed to investigate, when another figure appeared in the doorway. Gil bustled in, carrying a large wooden tray that smelled enticingly of breakfast.

Merry smiled a heartfelt welcome. "How did you know I was hungry?" he asked, in a half-whisper.

"When you are awake, you are hungry," Gil answered. Her voice was dry and colorless, but she had a twinkle in her eyes that betrayed her amusement.

Merry chuckled. "How did you know I was awake?"

She nodded toward the window. "That noise would raise the dead." Then her eyes fell on Boromir, and her brows rose. "But not our Steward, it seems."

"How did he end up here?"

"I brought him."

Merry sat up in bed and regarded Gil thoughtfully, as she carried her tray around the bed to reach the small table that stood to his right. She was a small woman, slight of build, her form well hidden beneath the plain, serviceable garments worn by all the women of this House. She wore an apron of spotless white pinned over the front of her grey robe. A kerchief of the same crisp white covered her hair and framed her face. She might be pretty or shapely, beneath her drab clothing and stolid manner, but Merry could not tell. She kept her head down, her face stubbornly blank, and everything about her so unremarkable that he would be hard put to it to remember what she looked like, five minutes after she left the room.

Gil moved around the foot of the bed and toward its head, the weight of the tray seeming nothing in her slender hands. Boromir sat with his legs stretched out across her path, and she stepped carefully over them. Between the large tray and her long skirts, she misjudged her step and kicked him.

The man came instantly awake. He pulled his feet under him and sprang upright, looking around in bewilderment. His sudden move caught Gil unawares. She tripped over his feet, stumbled, lurched forward to catch her balance, and crashed into the table.

Merry cried out in distress, Gil's voice echoing his an instant later, as crockery, cutlery, tray and breakfast cascaded to the flagstones in a swimming, steaming mess. Scalding tea poured down Gil's front to stain her apron a sodden brown. The teapot smashed into a hundred pieces and sent its shards skittering across the floor. Boromir whirled around to face the sound, his hand reaching for his sword, just as Merry lurched forward in bed and shouted,

"Don't! It's only Gil!"

Boromir froze, and in the tense silence that followed, Merry could see the changing expression on his face as he finally, completely, woke up and started thinking. Boromir's hand fell to his side. "Gil? What is it? What was that noise?"

Gil could not answer. She was breathing in ragged gasps, her hands plucking helplessly at her soaked clothing, her eyes watering with pain.

"My breakfast," Merry said, hoping he had managed to keep the reproach from his voice. This was certainly not Gil's fault, nor Boromir's, but the sight of all his lovely sausages, eggs, and toast lying in a puddle of cooling tea was enough to make him cry.

Boromir started to move toward the sound of Merry's voice, but both Merry and Gil called out, together, "Stop!"

He stopped, scowling. "One of you had best tell me what's going on."

"I dropped the tray," Gil said. "There is food everywhere, my lord, and broken crockery."

"And she spilled hot tea all down her front," Merry added.

Boromir's scowl darkened. "Do you need a healer?"

"'Tis nothing. I must clean this up." She crouched to retrieve the tray.

Boromir opened his mouth to retort, shut it again with a snap, and stepped purposefully toward her. His boots crunched on fragments of crockery and ground sausages against the flagstones. Then his hand found Gil's shoulder. He slid his fingers around her upper arm, pulled her easily to her feet, and scooped her up in his arms.

"My lord!"

He laughed at the outrage in her voice, as he crunched and slithered his way out of the mess beside the bed.

"I insist that you put me down!"

"You are not in a position to insist on anything. And if you are too stubborn to admit that my boots are better for walking on broken teapots than your soft shoes, the more fool you. Merry?"

"Yes?"

"I need a patch of clean floor."

Chuckling to himself, Merry scrambled to the edge of the bed and caught Boromir's arm to guide him out of the disaster that was their breakfast. Boromir, obedient to Merry's direction, moved around the foot of the bed and halted. He set Gil on her feet, as gently as her squirming would allow, and prudently backed away from her.

She straightened her kerchief and shook her skirts into place with sharp, angry gestures that betrayed how close she was to losing her temper. Merry caught a glimpse of her face and was surprised by the utter mortification that filled it. "If you'll pardon me, lord, I'll bring a fresh tray," she said, in a tight, angry voice.

"You will not." Merry opened his mouth to protest, but Boromir went on, ruthlessly, "Get you to Ioreth and have her tend your burns."

"I am not burned, only scalded a bit."

"Go." He pointed in the general direction of the door, his face unyielding. "Someone else can clean up the mess. You are not the only drudge in the House."

Gil threw him a furious look, gave her skirt a final twitch, and marched out of the room. As she moved out of earshot, Merry thought he heard her mutter something crass about soldiers, but he wasn't entirely sure.

"That was a bit high-handed, wasn't it?" the hobbit remarked.

Boromir followed the sound of his voice over to the bed and sat down upon the edge of the mattress. "It was necessary. Gil is too stubborn by half. She would stand there, bleeding, with her clothing on fire, and demand that we let her mop the floor."

Merry politely refrained from pointing out that this was something she had very much in common with Boromir. "What about our breakfast?"

"She will send someone with a tray. And a mop."

The hobbit considered this for a moment and decided that Boromir was right. Gil would not forget them. "Why did you speak to her that way?" he asked.

"I did not want her in the room."

Merry frowned. "I thought you liked Gil."

"I do, but I could not risk losing a second breakfast." A wry grin spread over his face, as he added, "I know I spilled the tray. It happens every time I get close to Gil - I spill or break or trample something - so I must be to blame for this."

"Well..."

"Do not spare my feelings, Master Halfling. I can suffer the truth. I ruined your breakfast, and you are only just able to forgive me, for the sake of our great friendship. But even the greatest of friendships can be strained too far, and ours would not survive the loss of two breakfasts in one morning! So I think it best that some other drudge bring your food, this time."

Merry chuckled and settled back against his bolster. He felt warm and happy, in spite of his empty stomach and the shadow lurking outside his window. If he had to wait to be fed, at least he had the best of company to distract him. The best of company, and the best of friends.

Then, in the comfortable quiet, he heard the trumpets ring out again. His eyes moved to Boromir's face, and he saw his own distress reflected there. Their moment of forgetfulness was past, the warmth fled the room, and the silence between them turned suddenly melancholy.

Merry abruptly sat up and put his hand on Boromir's arm. He could not speak for the lump in his throat, but Boromir seemed to understand him without words. The man covered his small hand with his own and smiled down at him. They unconsciously drew closer to each other, and they sat together in stillness, listening to the music of war upon the wind.

Two hours past sunrise, on a crisp, bright morning swept clean by a strong breeze, the armies of the West marched. The people of Minas Tirith poured out through the shattered gates to bid them farewell, while those who chose not to brave the bloodied fields of the Pelennor watched from the city walls. They did not sing or cheer or toss flowers to the soldiers. They were silent and grave, moved by the fell beauty of shield, lance, helm and banner, awed by the strength arrayed before them, and saddened by the certainty of defeat to come. Trumpets rang out, and company by company, the vast host turned away from the Tower of Guard and bent their steps toward the looming darkness in the east.

High on the city walls, two figures stood, watching the army march away. Merry had to climb on a stone bench to see over the parapet, leaning his elbows on the rough stone and straining up on his toes to peer down at the plains. Beside him, Boromir was very still, drawn with tension, seeming to loom over the diminutive hobbit as he rested his hands on top of the wall and listened to the distant call of trumpets. The sound depressed Merry, reminding him that people he knew and loved were marching to their deaths. He could not tell what effect they had on Boromir, for the man's face was unreadable.

As the leading companies, riding beneath Aragorn's black and silver banner, wheeled eastward and started down the road toward the gleaming Anduin, Merry sighed.

Boromir turned his black-bandaged gaze on the hobbit and asked, "Do you wish you were marching with them?"

"No. Except, maybe, to look after Pippin."

Boromir quirked a half smile at him. "Pippin can look after himself."

"He needs someone to keep him out of trouble."

"He has Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli for that. If the four of them can't manage it..."

Merry laughed, but his heart was heavy. So many friends marching to war. So many people he loved whom he might never see again. Part of him was grateful to be here, safe on this wall, with Boromir beside him and all the swords of Minas Tirith between him and the Enemy, but another part of him longed to be with his companions, to share their fate rather than face the coming darkness without them.

He sighed and let his eyes stray from the brave panoply below to the grim shadow awaiting them. "The war is coming here, isn't it?"

"Aye."

"And we shall have to fight again."

"Aye."

"I'm afraid."

"So am I, little one."

Merry eyed him narrowly. "You don't look it."

"I am a soldier, with a lifetime of practice at hiding my fear." Boromir paused, then smiled swiftly and added, "But you are right, Merry. At this moment, I am not afraid, only restless. I can taste the coming battle on the wind, and I long to be a part of it."

"You won't go after them!" Merry blurted out, in sudden alarm.

"Nay, I will not."

"Promise me, Boromir! Give me your solemn word, as Steward of Gondor, that you won't go without me!"

Boromir's startled expression dissolved into laughter. "Without you? I will go nowhere without you, Master Halfling. You are my guard and my guide. I would sooner go to war without my sword."

Merry subsided, calmed by his assurances, but he couldn't resist muttering, "You went without me the last time."

"Out of necessity, not out of choice, and I had Pippin along for the ride. Don't sulk, Merry. You won more renown in that battle than all the Men of Gondor together."

"I'm not sulking. I'm tired, and my arm is hurting."

"You should rest."

Merry turned away from the scene on the plains and sat on the bench, his back to the wall. "I will, when they are gone." After a moment's silence, he mused, "I suppose I'll need a sword."

"We'll find you one in the city armory, if it comes to that."

The hobbit's eyes brightened and his head lifted. "If it comes to that? Then you do believe there's a chance we won't have to fight? A chance for victory?"

"There is always a chance, so long as Aragorn and Gandalf stand with us."

In spite of his fear, in spite of everything, Merry laughed in open delight. Boromir looked taken aback at his reaction, which only made Merry grin the wider. "You find hope at the oddest times."

Boromir smiled down at him, his face softening in understanding and affection. "You and Pippin and Aragorn are my teachers. I find it hard to wallow in despair with such friends about me."

Merry shook his head in disbelief. He would not challenge the wisdom of Gondor's Steward on such a matter, and indeed, his optimistic heart warmed to these words of hope, however cautious they might be. But he could not rid himself of the feeling that Boromir was somehow thinking at cross-purposes with the rest of the city. At a time when every soldier of the West looked for defeat, Boromir spoke of victory. At a moment when the darkness in the East threatened to envelop all he loved in the world, Boromir thrust away the darkness that had troubled his own heart for so long to look with hope toward the future. How could he let go of despair at this most desperate time? Did he really believe that Strider and Gandalf could defeat the armies of Mordor with what now seemed a mere handful of soldiers?

A wide yawn suddenly split Merry's face and interrupted his musing. He stretched as he yawned, then he settled back on the bench, feeling unaccountably relaxed. It occurred to him that it didn't matter how strongly Boromir believed his own words or how deep his faith in Strider ran. Merry wanted to believe. Boromir had given him permission to do so. Now he could rest in the certainty that Men of courage and strength, like Strider and Boromir and Prince Imrahil, were fighting to protect Minas Tirith - and the small, tired, frightened hobbit within her walls.

He yawned again, drawing Boromir's attention.

"Get you to bed, little one."

"No, not to bed. I am sick of looking at the same walls. But I will rest, if..." He looked up at his friend in concern, not sure if he should leave the man here alone.

Boromir read his thoughts easily enough. "I have nowhere else to be and would as soon stay here. And you needn't worry about assassins. I am standing in full view of the city, in broad daylight."

"All right, then." Merry rose to his feet and stretched his tired limbs. He saw a carved stone bench standing beside the door of the House, shaded by its walls, surrounded by a carefully-tended bed of flowers. It looked cool and inviting. "I'll go have a nap. Call if you need me for anything."

"I'll not need to disturb you."

Merry did not bother to argue with him. Boromir was clearly in a stubborn and independent mood, sending Merry about his business rather than admitting any desire for his company. He would get over it, given time, and Merry could do with the rest.

With a murmured farewell, the hobbit climbed the path through the garden toward the Houses of Healing. He approached the door that opened on the garden at the same moment that Gil stepped through it. She carried a large basin of water in her hands, which she poured into the flowerbed. Merry walked up to her, smiling, and she turned sober eyes upon him.

"Good morning, Gil." She nodded respectfully to him, without speaking. "What did Ioreth say about your burns?"

"I was not burned. As you see, I am well."

"I'm glad." As he looked up at the guarded face above him, an idea came to Merry. "It's a good thing you weren't hurt, because that means you won't be angry with Boromir."

Her face managed to harden a bit more. "It is not my place to be angry with the Steward."

Ignoring her veiled sarcasm, he smiled even more brightly. "Good. Then you can go look after him, while I take a nap."

"Look after him? What mean you, Master Perian?"

Merry waved a hand toward the wall and the man standing beside it. "I cannot keep my eyes open another minute, and my Lord Boromir won't be sensible and come inside. He ordered me off, and now he's stuck down there by himself. I wouldn't worry about it, except that it was only last night that someone tried to kill him on that very spot. It makes me unaccountably nervous."

Gil set her basin down on the bench, with an angry snap, and planted her hands on her hips. "The Steward is very well able to take care of himself, and he won't thank you for sending me to bother him."

"No, he won't. But Strider - Lord Aragorn, I mean - told me to get plenty of rest, and I won't be able to rest properly if I'm worrying about Boromir." Merry yawned widely, as if to impress upon her the depth of his exhaustion.

"You are shameless, Master Perian."

"No, just tired and determined to earn myself a very long, uninterrupted nap. Besides," he added, in a burst of candor, "I want you to be friends again. Boromir needs all the sensible friends he can get."

Gil responded with a snort of disgust, but Merry could see that he had thrown her off balance. It took him a few minutes more to convince her that her duty lay in keeping an eye on the Steward, rather than in mucking out chamber pots. But eventually, he overbore her protests and sent her marching down the path to where Boromir stood.

Merry sat down on the bench and leaned his head back against the wall of the building, watching through half-closed eyes as Gil approached Boromir. She was all stiff dignity, aloof and humble at the same time, refusing to unbend. But Boromir flatly ignored her ill humor, smiled at her in welcome, and tucked her hand familiarly through his arm. She was fairly caught between her offended sense of propriety and the obedience she owed her lord, and her rigid code of behavior would not allow her to do other than take his arm and walk at his side.

Merry could not hear their conversation, but he had no doubt that each was being as stubborn and perverse as always. Gil was playing the cowed servant, Boromir was teasing her into flashes of temper, and neither was really paying any mind to what a strange picture they made together - the Lord of Gondor and the nameless drudge. The hobbit smiled in satisfaction and closed his eyes. All was well with his friend, and he was free to enjoy his rest.

"You do him no service."

Merry started awake and turned in alarm to find Faramir standing in the doorway to his right. He had not heard the man approach, and his sudden appearance unnerved the sleepy hobbit.

"My Lord Faramir." He made a move to rise, to show Faramir the courtesy that was his due as Boromir's brother and a lord of Gondor, but Faramir stilled him with a quick gesture. The man's eyes strayed back to the figures by the wall, and his face was even more somber and brooding than Merry remembered it from the previous night.

Faramir nodded toward his brother and Gil. "You do him no service to encourage this affection in him."

"They are friends."

"The Steward of Gondor cannot afford such friends."

As sleep and surprise fled, Merry felt his temper rise. "It seems to me that Boromir needs what friends he can find, even in the kitchens of Minas Tirith. He certainly isn't finding them where he ought, among his own rank."

The edge in his voice drew Faramir's full attention, and for the first time since their meeting, Merry felt the power of that keen, grey gaze fixed upon him. A smile touched Faramir's lips, though it did not lighten his eyes. "He has found one in you, Master Perian."

"He has." Merry did not quail beneath the look that seemed to strip away his flesh and bone to expose his most secret thoughts. He had nothing to hide from this man, and everything to gain by winning Faramir's respect.

Faramir searched his face for a moment, then he smiled again, more warmly. "My brother is fortunate in your love."

"A lot of people love him," Merry said, firmly, "and they will not stand by, doing nothing, while those who do not try to take what belongs to him - through treachery or through guile."

Faramir did not miss the warning in his words, but he seemed pleased, rather than offended. "You school me well, small master. I had begun to doubt that my brother still had the power of winning hearts." Then his eyes turned again to the figures by the wall, and his smile faded. "Mayhap he wins them too easily."

"She is his friend," Merry repeated. "Why does that bother you?"

"For many reasons which you will not approve. In your loyalty to him, you do not see the folly... the damage he does, both to himself and to Gondor, when he behaves so much outside his nature."

Merry bit his tongue to control his angry words. He could have read off a long list of reasons why Boromir turned to Gil for friendship - Faramir's own distrust of him being at the top of that list - but he didn't think his reasons would move Faramir, any more than Faramir's reasons would move him. Faramir was focused on the affairs of state and the dignity of his house. Merry was focused only on the welfare of his friend.

Forcing himself to speak politely, Merry said, "We must hold very different views of his nature, my lord."

"Aye, so I think. And this is the heart of the matter. You look at him and see nothing strange in his ways. I look at him, and I see naught but a stranger. He is not the brother I know. He avoids the company of his peers to consort with drudges. He stays within the grounds of these Houses, though he is neither sick nor hurt, and refuses to enter the Citadel where waits his seat of power. His private chambers stand empty, unused, while he haunts the city at night and sleeps no one knows where."

Merry flushed angrily at this proof that Faramir had been spying on his brother. He said nothing, but Faramir read his thoughts as easily as if he had shouted them.

"The Chamberlain came to me, out of concern for his lord. He has had Boromir's chambers prepared for him every night since his return, but my brother has not set foot in them except to change his garments. He neither sleeps in his bed, nor takes his meals within the Tower."

"He likes to sleep under the stars," Merry blurted out. "You should know that! He did it often enough with you, or so he told me!"

"A boy's games. Childish pranks that have no place in these dangerous times. Last night's attack should be proof enough of that, even for one as stubborn as my brother. Boromir is the Steward of Gondor, not a headstrong youth, rebelling against the strictures of his father's court. He cannot go on this way and hope to hold sway over the lords and captains of the West! They will lose all faith in him!"

Merry pressed his lips together and shook his head. He heard as much pain as disapproval in Faramir's voice, and he sensed that the man wanted to be talked out of his fears. But everything Merry said only seemed to heighten them. When Faramir turned to watch Boromir again, his face grew steadily more drawn and sad, his frown more pronounced. A heavy silence fell between them, and Faramir seemed no longer aware of the hobbit's presence.

Merry gazed thoughtfully up at the man beside him. He found himself drawn to Faramir, both by his resemblance to his brother and by his own air of grave nobility, and he could not find it in his heart to condemn Faramir for his doubts. Faramir had not walked the long road from Rivendell at Boromir's side. He had not pursued the orcs across Rohan, braved the flaming pits of Isengard, or listened to his brother's quiet voice through the starless nights in Anórien. He could not be expected to recognize the person Boromir had become or to accept the changes in him, as those did who had made the dark journey with him.

Merry was unwavering in his loyalty to Boromir. He would not listen to anyone, no matter how near in blood, speak ill of the lord he loved and hold his tongue. But he could be fair, as he believed Boromir would be, and give Faramir time to understand all that had happened in the months since he and his brother parted.

Faramir sensed the hobbit's eyes upon him and shifted his gaze from the figures in the garden to Merry's face. He said nothing, but his steady, thoughtful gaze seemed to invite Merry to speak.

"If you'll pardon me saying so, my lord, I don't think you know your brother very well."

A look of surprise swept over Faramir's face. "Do I not?"

"Well, no. You couldn't, or you wouldn't be worrying about... about trivial things."

"You do not think the Steward's welfare is a matter of some import?"

"Of course it is, but you're not talking about Boromir's welfare. You're talking about gossip you've heard from the Chamberlain and the Tower Guard. What does it matter to you where he sleeps? Why do you care who his friends are? He has taken good care of Minas Tirith since he came back. No one can deny that!"

"Aye. He has taken great care of our city, better even than our father would have done."

"Then what is the problem?"

"That is precisely what I want to know, Master Perian. What shadows, what demons torment my brother that, though he rules Gondor with such care, he is so little himself?"

"He is himself. You do not see it, because you choose to see only the outward signs of change. His blindness..."

"Even so loyal a friend as you cannot pretend that my brother's blindness is merely an outward change."

"Of course not, but it has made him no less a man than he was, and no less a soldier or captain or steward... or friend."

"I would never think less of him, because he cannot see."

"But you think less of him, because he befriends kitchen drudges and sleeps in a chair in my room, instead of in his rich chambers."

"I deem these signs of greater changes, greater ills that plague him. He bears wounds far more terrible than the one he now conceals beneath a strip of cloth. Wounds of the spirit. Shadows upon his heart. I see how he suffers, though he thinks to hide it from me, and I fear the lingering poison of those wounds."

Merry looked at him for a moment, weighing his options, then he decided that, with this man as with no other, the truth would be his strongest ally. "You rode beneath the wings of the Nazgûl and felt the Black Breath. Only the King's voice called you back from its shadow. But you don't doubt your own sanity or your own fitness to lead your people." His eyes gazed straight into Faramir's, daring him to protest. "Is Boromir so much weaker than you, that his mind and heart can't be healed the way yours were?"

Faramir looked taken aback, but he did not back down from the challenge in the hobbit's eyes. His gaze remained as frank, thoughtful and constant as ever. "You believe that my brother is healed."

"He's working on it."

"Ah."

Merry felt his temper rise again at the skepticism in Faramir's voice. "Would you be able to forget such horrors, all at once?"

"I know not, for I know not what horrors my brother has faced. How can I judge his fitness...?"

"What gives you the right to judge him, at all?!" Merry demanded, cutting off Faramir's measured words.

Faramir regarded him gravely, and Merry flushed. He would not unsay the words, but the sorrow and regret in Faramir's face made him ashamed of his heated tone. "It is more than my right. It is my duty. I love my brother, Master Halfling, as I believe you do, but I am more than the brother of Boromir. I am the son of Denethor, Captain of Gondor, next in line to the Stewardship, sworn to protect my people to the limit of my strength. No brother can come before Gondor in my care, though he may come before all in my heart."

"You do not need to protect Gondor from Boromir."

"How am I to know that?"

"Talk to him! You'll see!"

Faramir smiled sadly. "He will not talk to me - not about the things that matter."

"When was the last time you tried? You know how Boromir is..."

"Do I?" The slight edge to Faramir's voice told Merry that he had hit a nerve with his earlier remark.

"Well, you certainly should. I can't imagine that he's changed that much."

"I know that he is loath to talk of what touches him most nearly."

"He's as stubborn as a cave troll. But even I know - and I only met you a few hours ago - that you'd be the one person in all Middle-earth who could get him to talk... if you really tried." He eyed Faramir with a mixture of exasperation and sympathy. "I can't tell you the things you need to hear, to put your doubts to rest. Only Boromir can do that. But I can tell you that he wants you to believe in him again."

"I have always believed in him."

Merry waved that away, impatiently. "That's between you and Boromir. You don't want to know what I think. Just go and work it out with him, before one of you makes a stupid mistake that you'll be too proud and too stubborn to take back!"

To be continued...

Chapter Text

Aragorn had paused for a moment's rest amid the chaos of battle, his captains Éomer, Imrahil, Halbarad, Legolas and Gimli about him, when he saw the troop of soldiers approaching. They marched beneath the white banner of the Steward, and they wore the distinctive black and silver livery of the Tower of Guard, helms gleaming proudly in the new sunlight, lances tipped with fire and blood. It was a brave sight, and one that swelled Aragorn's heart with pride. Then he saw the captain who rode at their head.

The man wore no helm and carried no shield. His tunic and hauberk were those of the Rohirrim, but diagonally across his breast, covering the leaping horse of Rohan, was tied a white sash, and over his shoulders hung a black cloak edged with silver. A strip of black fabric was bound across his eyes. In his right hand, he bore the white standard. In his left, he held the reins of his mount. And before him on his saddle was perched a small, ebullient figure in the full livery of the Guard, waving a sword that dripped with blood.

The horseman rode directly up to where Aragorn sat his own mount, waiting in disbelieving silence. Of all those who watched, only Imrahil, was not frozen in surprise. The Prince caught one glimpse of the captain's face and spurred his horse forward with a cry of welcome.

"My Lord Boromir! Kinsman!"

As the two horses drew together, the Guard fell back. As closely as they had ringed their commander on this battlefield, they knew that they need fear no harm to him in the company of Prince Imrahil. Boromir recognized the voice and shoved the standard into the hands of his nearest companion, so he could return his princely kinsman's embrace.

"Well met!" Imrahil laughed. "Well met, indeed! We thought you lost!"

"But surely my father told you..." Boromir drew away from Imrahil and frowned. "Gandalf has been here before me. He must have told Denethor that I was coming."

At that moment, Aragorn decided it was time to interrupt this meeting and assert his authority. "No one knew you were coming, Boromir." His voice was hard, though his eyes brimmed with laughter. "In truth, as I recall, you were ordered not to come."

Boromir grinned at him, without a trace of chagrin in his face. Drawing his sword, he executed a smart salute that would have taken Pippin's head off, if performed by a less adept hand. "Being ordered not to come and being left behind like a piece of forgotten baggage are two different things, my king. And since this particular piece of baggage has its own legs and its own mind, it decided to follow where it was needed."

Aragorn stared at Boromir in amazement, baffled by his manner and his impudent speech. It was then, as he stared at the wide smile his friend wore and the energy that blazed from him like sunlight on gold, that Aragorn realized he was finally seeing Boromir, Captain of Gondor, as he truly was. Through all the long months of their journeys together, Aragorn had known only the reserved, brooding, troubled or tormented Boromir. Poisoned by the Ring, wracked with guilt, staggering beneath the weight of pain and despair. That was the man Aragorn knew. But this - this man of swift smiles and swifter courage, of fierce determination, effortless command, warlike mien and joyous strength - this was the man Gondor knew. Beloved by soldiers, doted upon by his cold father, revered by allies, feared by foes, and capable of spurring men to war at a word, even now.

A slow, answering smile lightened the Ranger's dour face, and he leaned forward in his saddle to grasp Boromir's arm in welcome. "You are come in good time, friend Baggage."

"And a good thing, too," Pippin interjected. "If we hadn't cleared those orcs from the gate, you wouldn't have a city to rule. I killed half a dozen of them, at least!"

"Then you have my thanks, along with my welcome."

"'Twas nothing," Boromir said, smugly.

"For you, perhaps," Pippin retorted, "because you had a hobbit along to do all the dirty work!"

The lords collected behind Aragorn looked askance at the pert halfling, but Legolas and Gimli smiled, while both Aragorn and Boromir laughed outright. Boromir dropped his free hand to Pippin's shoulder and squeezed it in gratitude.

"True enough, Pippin. My sword is not even bloodied." Then Boromir's face fell, ludicrously. "Not one orc to my credit! How will I face Merry?"

"Let's go find some more," Pip suggested. "I'll leave one for you."

"Halt!" Aragorn bellowed. Boromir obediently reined in his horse, halting his move to gallop back into the fray. "You will not go find more orcs, Master Peregrine. You will accompany Boromir back to the city. And on your honor as a soldier of Gondor I charge you, do not let your lord suffer so much as a scratch. Not one scratch!"

Now it was Pippin's turn to look woebegone. "And miss the war?"

"The war is far from over, Pippin. But for this day, you are done with fighting."

To Aragorn's surprise and immense relief, Boromir made no objection to his orders. He merely smiled and saluted the gathered captains, then he held out his hand for the banner, lifted it proudly above his head, and cantered back toward the city with his men in close formation around him. Aragorn watched them go, a smile playing about his lips.

"So the Lord Boromir is not dead, as rumor would have it." Prince Imrahil had drawn his horse up close to Aragorn's and spoke in a private tone.

"How came such a rumor to be? Did not Gandalf ride to Minas Tirith with the news that Boromir lived?"

"He was not believed."

Aragorn shot Imrahil a piercing look. "Who would gainsay Gandalf?"

"Denethor has never trusted the Grey Pilgrim. And... I know not how, but the Lord Denethor swore that he saw his son fall beneath an orc blade."

"So he did. So too did I. But here we are, as you see, alive and well."

"Well?" Imrahil's voice was carefully neutral, unchallenging, yet cool with disbelief. He pointed a mailed finger toward the group of horsemen, now far in the distance. "Call you that well?"

"I do," Aragorn answered, very softly. He knew what troubled Imrahil. He had expected as much from the nobility of Gondor, but his own determination was unshaken.

"He is alive, certainly," Imrahil went on, "and hale enough. Do not misunderstand me, Aragorn. I am overjoyed to see him again, but..." Imrahil broke off, and Aragorn gave him a long, level stare.

"You doubt his fitness to serve Gondor as he once did?"

"He is blind."

"Aye."

"How can Gondor's armies follow a blind captain into battle?"

Aragorn forbore to mention that he had no intention of allowing Boromir to lead anyone into battle, ever again. He would not so diminish his friend and Steward in the eyes of his peers. Instead, he nodded after the retreating horsemen. "As they did today."

"They did not follow him," Imrahil retorted, "but guard him. How many men died, think you, to protect their princely standard-bearer?"

Twisting around to address the warriors behind him, Aragorn called, "Tell me, my captains, what did you see in the faces of those Men? Fear?"

Gimli gave a bark of laughter. "Pride!"

"The joy of victory," Legolas said.

"Loyalty and love," Éomer said, "enough to carry them to the Black Gates, if he asked it of them."

Aragorn smiled at the King of the Mark. "Would you follow him?"

"Even to the Black Gates, if he asked it of me."

Aragorn's eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. "Did you give him that horse?"

Éomer grinned. "Aye."

"Then you and I shall have words, later."

"No thanks are necessary, lord," the Rider averred.

Aragorn broke into a wide smile and laughed with sheer delight in battle and friendship and victory. "Enough! Let us to battle, before the hobbits win it for us!"

*** *** ***

Merry staggered as he walked, unable to hold his body upright or see where he planted his feet. He felt no pain, only a deep, numbing cold that deadened his right arm and spread, inexorably, through the rest of his body. Dark mists clouded his sight, and when he lifted his head, he could no longer make out the figures of the litter-bearers or the torches they carried. He meant to follow them. He meant to keep his place at his king's side, even now. But the long legs of Men outpaced him, and the shadows swallowed them up, leaving him alone on the plain of the dead.

He clambered over piled bodies - orcs, men and horses lying heaped together - to reach the gates, and in his befogged state, he did not flinch from the touch of their dead flesh on his feet and hands. Beneath the shadow of the walls, he climbed the broken remains of the city gates, scaling the barricade of twisted wood and metal as uncaringly as he had the piles of dead.

Once inside the walls, he paused to look about him. He knew nothing of the city and had no idea where to go, but he caught a glimpse of torches wending their way up a broad, paved street. So, putting his head down, he set his heavy legs to climbing... climbing... while the cold sank ever more deeply into his bones and the darkness closed in about him.

"Merry!"

Merry looked up at the sound of that familiar voice, and the mist cleared from his eyes a little, as they fell on Pippin, running full-tilt toward him, crying, "Merry! Thank goodness we have found you!"

He saw that he walked in a narrow lane, empty but for himself, his cousin, and a tall figure, cloaked in black, standing at the turning of the roadway above. Merry halted and stared, confused, at his surroundings.

Pippin ran up to him and caught both his hands in a warm clasp, though Merry could not feel the pressure of the other hobbit's fingers upon his right hand. "Poor old Merry!" he said. "We have been searching the city for you, afraid that you were lost out on that bloody plain somewhere!"

"Where is the King?" Merry asked, dazedly. "Where is Éowyn?"

"They have been taken to the Citadel."

"I must follow..."

He tried to move his legs, to resume his endless climb, but he had no strength left in his limbs. Pippin slipped an arm around his waist and pulled him gently up the hill. Merry stumbled along at his side.

"I'm cold, Pip. So terribly cold."

"Just a few more steps, Merry."

"It was awful! My sword... it melted right away! And my arm has gone dead. Help me, Pippin!"

"Yes, yes, we will. Don't think about the battle anymore, or the cold."

"Merry?"

At the sound of the new voice, Merry halted, swaying with exhaustion, and looked up at the tall figure before him. For a dreadful moment, the black cloak fooled him, and he thought he saw the Lord of the Nazgûl looming over him again. But the voice was wrong, and there was no fearful chill of evil in the air. The chill he felt came from within him, not from without.

The figure took a step nearer to him and knelt to bring his head on a level with the hobbit's. "Are you hurt, Merry?"

Merry blinked the mists away and found himself gazing into Boromir's worried face. He tried to smile, but his muscles refused to obey him. "Boromir. You're here."

Boromir clasped his shoulders briefly, then shifted his hands to the sides of Merry's head. Merry was vaguely aware of an unaccustomed gentleness in his voice and touch. "Aye, where else would I be? Pippin, is he injured?"

"I don't think so," Pippin answered.

"I'm just cold," Merry assured him, "and I can't see properly. Everything has gone dark..." He broke off, and a sob rose in his throat. "I'm sorry, Boromir. Please don't growl at me. I tried to fight as you taught me, but I couldn't... I couldn't save Théoden King, and when I tried to help Éowyn, I only melted my sword."

"Hush." The huge, black cloak settled around Merry's shoulders, and the man's arms lifted him easily. "You did a hero's service, little one."

Merry continued to mumble, in a confused way, "You knew it was her all along, didn't you? She killed the wraith. She drove her sword through its head, and it flew away with the most dreadful cry. I wanted to help her. I tried. I wanted to make you proud of me," he murmured, as he burrowed his head into Boromir's convenient shoulder and closed his eyes.

"You did. Never doubt that. Take us to the Houses of Healing, Pippin. Quickly!"

Merry heard no more. Secure in the knowledge that no winged nightmares could reach him, with Boromir and Pippin there, he let go of consciousness and slipped gratefully into darkness.

Chapter Text

Faramir spent much of the morning pondering Merry's words, bitter as they were to him, and slowly coming to acknowledge their justice. The halfling had the right of it. He would not find the answers he needed by skulking about, watching his brother from afar, and listening to the gossip of household servants - or even of close kin. He must talk to Boromir himself and learn the truth of what had happened to him during his months away from Minas Tirith. Only then, perhaps, would he learn to know his brother again.

It hurt Faramir deeply to admit that he no longer knew Boromir. The halfling, a chance acquaintance met upon the road, saw far more clearly into Boromir's heart than his own brother did, and this was a source of great pain for him. The longer he dwelt on the enormity of his loss, the deeper grew his regret, his sorrow, and his longing to find his brother again.

It was this longing, more than his sense of duty or justice, that finally drove him from the House in search of Boromir. To his surprise, he found that his brother had quitted the grounds and, refusing to take a guard with him, gone off in the company of the halfling. The two soldiers posted at the garden gate told him that their captain had ordered them to remain, stating that he only meant to go as far as the Citadel and would need no escort there.

Faramir frowned at this news, worried that Boromir would venture into the city without his guard, but he could not fault the soldiers for following orders nor insist that they dog their Steward's steps against his wishes. If, in fact, Boromir had gone to the Citadel, he would be safe enough. Feeling a mixture of irritation at his brother's careless behavior and curiosity as to what had drawn him to the Tower, Faramir bent his steps toward the seventh circle.

The Tower Guard, resplendent in their black and silver livery, saluted him as he came through the upper gate. Faramir stepped into the Court of the Fountain and hesitated. It was empty, but from the tall, ornate windows of the council chamber at the back of the court, he heard voices. One he recognized as Lord Taleris, his father's chief advisor. Another had all the clipped, formal manner of a soldier addressing his superiors. Then a third and infinitely familiar voice interrupted them, growling,

"Enough! The man has escaped. That much is clear."

Faramir turned immediately to the great doors of the Tower. The thick stone walls muffled his brother's voice, so he did not hear his next words, but Boromir was still speaking when Faramir strode into the council chamber.

"There is only one place a soldier can hide for any stretch of time. If he escaped the city before dawn, he has fled with the army."

"We must warn the King," Taleris insisted.

"Aye." Boromir bowed his head in thought and left the others to wait in guarded silence upon his decision.

Faramir hung back in the doorway, unwilling to force himself into the Steward's business without invitation, and watched the others closely. The great chamber was dim and cool, for no torch or candle was lit, and the afternoon sun had moved behind the tall peak of Mindolluin to cast the windows into shadow. Boromir sat on the deep sill of one of those windows, overlooking the court and the mournful fountain dripping from the branches of the dead tree. Lord Taleris and the Guard lieutenant he had met last night stood close to Boromir, while the halfling sat in one of the carved, polished chairs at the council table, munching an apple and trying not to appear too absorbed in the affairs his lord. He looked absurdly small in such surroundings, swinging his feet a handspan above the floor, dwarfed by chair, Men, and the wide, lofty chamber.

Faramir smiled privately at the picture Merry presented, then he turned his keen gaze on the two men who waited upon the Steward. Taleris and the lieutenant kept a prudent distance between them and shared no glances or whispers, making it clear to Faramir's eyes that soldier and nobleman did not trust each other. The Guard supported Boromir without question. Faramir had seen for himself how loyal was this soldier, in particular. Which could only mean that Taleris had been less than wholehearted in his support of his new Steward and had not been canny enough to keep his doubts to himself.

"A single rider can reach the army before they march tomorrow," Boromir said.

Taleris grunted assent, though he still looked none too happy.

"They have passed Osgiliath by now and will be drawing toward their camp. I will prepare a dispatch for Aragorn, warning him of a possible conspiracy against him among the southern armies."

"I would be honored to compose such a letter, my lord."

"I'll do it."

Taleris bridled at his harsh tone but did not dare to venture a protest. Shifting his ground, he said, "Had the lords of the city been forewarned of this threat, we might have taken counsel with the King ere he marched, mayhap even have delayed that march until the assassin was caught and punished."

"Which is precisely why I did not tell you," Boromir snapped. "The King's business is with Mordor. Mine is with Minas Tirith. No concern of ours can delay him. I am loath even to distract him with unformed doubts at such a time, when it seems unlikely that this assassin is any threat to him."

"You cannot know that!"

Faramir deemed it time to interrupt, before Taleris goaded his brother beyond endurance. As he stepped forward, he caught the halfling's eye and nodded a greeting. Merry immediately got to his feet, rounded the end of the table, and approached him with all the dignified courtesy of a trained squire. The halfling's bow was as precise and practiced as the rest of his bearing, but as he straightened up, a smile lit his face.

Faramir could not resist the creature's charm, however impudent it might be, and he smiled in answer. "You see I have taken your advice, Master Perian," he shot a speaking glance at Boromir and the petulant Taleris, "though I might have chosen my time better."

"I think your timing is perfect. Come, shall I announce you like a proper door warden?"

Faramir's twinkling eyes took in the half-eaten apple and hastily abandoned chair. "Is that your office today?"

Merry shrugged. "Whatever Boromir needs. Hurry, before he gets too angry to listen to anyone."

With a soft chuckle, Faramir followed the halfling up to the row of tall windows. At the sound of their approach, Taleris broke off his latest complaint and all eyes turned toward them. Taleris' face softened with relief when he recognized Faramir, but the young lord moved past him with no more than a cold glance. He had great respect for Lord Taleris' skill and knowledge, but he had never liked the old lord, and he would not now give Taleris any encouragement to count him an ally.

"Your brother is here, my lord," Merry piped up, forgetting his offer of a proper introduction.

Boromir's bandaged gaze fixed unerringly on Faramir, and he got hastily to his feet. "Faramir? I thought you still hostage to the healers."

"I bought my freedom with a promise to return." His keen eyes flicked from the lieutenant's face to the nobleman's, then lighted again on his brother. "This was not my true errand, but I am glad I came when I did and heard of your fears for the King's safety. I have news that bears on this."

"What news? What know you of the assassin?"

Now that it came down to it, Faramir found himself loath to speak in front of the others. This touched his family too nearly, involving as it did a kinsman. Another moment of reflection served to remind him that such treason, if treason it was, could not be concealed, and he said, "Nothing of the assassin himself, but I may know something of those who set him on to murder."

A murmur of surprise escaped Taleris, and the lieutenant's sword hand twitched reflexively.

"I was approached by one near to us in blood," Faramir went on, "and told of a... a conspiracy, for I can call it naught else, to remove the rightful Steward and put me in his place."

This time, the lieutenant's hand closed about the pommel of his sword. "Name the traitor, my Captain! Name him, that we may lay hands on him!"

Boromir silenced the man with a gesture and said, "Who approached you?"

"Prince Imrahil."

A disbelieving silence met his words, in which Faramir could almost hear Taleris sweating. Only Merry dared move, slipping between the tall men to reach Boromir's side. He stepped in close to his lord, and Boromir's hand dropped instinctively to the halfling's curly head.

After a brief, fierce struggle with himself for some semblance of calm, Boromir asked, "While he was tempting you to treason, did our kinsman mention a murder in the offing?"

"He did not. He spoke only of using my influence with both you an the Lord Aragorn to persuade you to step down."

Boromir ground his teeth together audibly, and Faramir could well imagine the host of angry questions forming in his mind, foremost among them being the demand to know what answer his brother had given Imrahil. Training and caution won out over temper, however, and he held his tongue.

"You called it a conspiracy," Taleris ventured. "Were others named?"

Faramir hesitated, looking for a middle road between his loyalty to his brother and his own sense of justice. There was no way to satisfy both in this unhappy event, but he knew what choice he must make. When he finally spoke, reluctance made his voice hard and his words heavy. "I'll not place another man's life at risk with rumors or suspicions. It was to Imrahil and Imrahil alone that I spoke."

"But the Prince named his confederates," Taleris persisted.

"You have my answer, Lord Taleris."

Boromir spoke again. "Imrahil is gone with Aragorn to Mordor. What of these others? Are they gone, as well?"

"I know of only one, and he, too, is gone with the King."

"Which brings us back to the question of what threat they pose to Aragorn. Will Imrahil and his allies harm him?"

"They will not."

"You sound very certain."

"I am. I cannot be as certain that the assassins were set on by these men, but it seems likely, given the timing and the tenor of the lies that drove them. And if so, the conspirators will do their utmost to protect the King. They want only to end your stewardship, not to threaten the King's reign. Aragorn is safe."

"My Lord Steward, with all due respect, we cannot know what plots and betrayals may threaten the King, distanced as he is from all aid!" Taleris interjected, his face purpling with the strength of his passion. "We must send him more than a hasty dispatch in the hands of an unknowing messenger. I will go to the army. I can reach Osgiliath as quickly as any rider and bring a full report of all that has happened to our lord!"

Boromir ignored Taleris' outburst. Stepping toward Faramir, he held out a hand and said, curtly, "I would speak with my brother alone."

Faramir moved obediently into reach of his open hand and was startled when Boromir took his arm in a firm clasp. When Boromir started walking, Faramir went with him perforce and soon found himself piloting them both through the large, cluttered chamber toward the door. The nobleman and the soldier watched them in baffled silence, while the halfling quietly resumed his seat at the table.

They had nearly reached the privacy of the outer chamber, when Taleris mustered his courage to call out in protest, "My Lord!"

"I am in need of fresh air," Boromir snapped. Then he stepped through the doorway and into the cool, silent grandeur of the Citadel's main antechamber. "Outside," he muttered, tersely, and Faramir turned his steps toward the open doors that let onto the court.

As they crossed the antechamber, their footsteps ringing on the flagstones and echoing into the vaulted ceiling, Boromir spoke in a low, urgent tone, "Taleris is a treacherous cur and likely up to his neck in Imrahil's conspiracy, but he has a point. My King... my friend marches to war with traitors and assassins in his wake, with the Shadow before him and the Enemy at work all around, and I have naught save your word that he is safe to reassure me. It is only the love and trust I place in you, Brother, that keeps me from riding after the army myself to warn him."

"The other is Halbarad." The words were out of Faramir's mouth before he was aware of having spoken.

Boromir came to an abrupt halt and turned to face his brother squarely, gripping his arm with iron fingers. "Halbarad? The Ranger?"

"Aragorn's second in command."

Boromir could only gape at him, at a loss for words.

"You see why I did not speak before Taleris or the guardsman. We cannot spread suspicions of one so near the King without absolute proof, and to cast doubts upon Halbarad would be to cast doubts upon Aragorn himself."

"At a time when all Gondor looks to him for hope. Aye. This is for Aragorn's ears alone."

"You can also see why I have no fears for the King."

Boromir nodded and turned again toward the doors. Faramir fell into step beside him, more readily this time. "Halbarad will not harm Aragorn, whatever his plans for me."

They walked in pensive silence through the great doors and across the court. Faramir led them instinctively toward the western corner of the circle, where the curving outer wall met the shoulder of Mindolluin and where stood the doors to the great library of Minas Tirith. Here, none would disturb them. The sentries were at the far side of the court, the men inside the council chamber well out of earshot, and only the library close at hand.

It was this building that gave the spot its charm for Faramir. He had spent countless hours here, leaning against the stone parapet, staring ever westward and northward, dreaming of what lay beyond the reach of sight. When weary of the burdens he carried and of the sight of Gondor's troubled lands, he could turn his eyes inward and rest them on the cool, white walls of the library he loved, on the carven doors set deep in their pointed arch of stone. It gave him strength and a kind of peace that he knew nowhere else in his father's city.

It was his brother's city, now. Boromir's city. As he leaned his shoulder against the parapet and fixed his eyes on his brother's face, Faramir wondered yet again how he felt about the myriad changes that had been forced upon them, not the least of which was Boromir's homecoming.

The man who occupied his thoughts so completely was lost in his own musings for the moment. Boromir stood with his hands resting on the wall, his black-shrouded gaze turned outward and his face upturned slightly to catch the fitful breeze. He looked weary and sad to Faramir's eyes, as though the burdens of his stewardship were no joy to him. Even in this, his brother had changed.

"So Imrahil is a traitor." There was no anger in Boromir's voice, only sorrow.

Faramir answered in the same quiet way. "For what comfort it gives you, he said nothing of treachery or murder, nothing of using force to gain his ends. He spoke only of persuading you to step aside. He is our kinsman, Boromir, as close in affection as he is in blood. I cannot believe he wishes you harm."

"Yet he traffics with traitors and seeks to draw my own brother into his conspiracies." Boromir turned his bandaged gaze on Faramir, and the younger man had the uneasy feeling that he could see through the dark fabric to read the conflict in his face. "Did he succeed?"

Faramir had been expecting this question, but he still could not force an answer from his lips with Boromir's lined, troubled face before him. Boromir regarded him for a moment, then turned away again with a sigh.

"I am sorry, Brother. For us both."

"I am no traitor, to Gondor or to her lawful Steward," Faramir blurted out.

"Nor is Imrahil, by your reckoning. Tell me, Faramir, what answer did you give?"

"I promised only to wait, to watch, and to consider his words."

Boromir seemed to brace himself against the grief that welled up within him. His shoulders stiffened and his head lifted more proudly, but there was defeat written plain in his face. "I know you well enough to understand such an answer."

"Do you, in truth?"

"You will not choose until you are sure, and you cannot be sure of me." He paused, then murmured, "You never were entirely sure of me, were you?"

Faramir could only stare at him in dumb sorrow, taken completely off guard by his brother's sudden candor.

"I do not blame you," Boromir went on. "You know too well my weakness, my folly, my guilt... You alone, among all those who would condemn me, know the true depths to which I have sunk. You alone have the right to stand in judgement."

"I do not want to stand in judgement on my brother."

"You have no choice. It is not in your nature to turn away from the truth, or to flinch from the burden laid upon you. Imrahil knew that when he came to you and planted the seeds of doubt in your mind. He chose his judge wisely."

"He chose me because I, like him, want no more than to safeguard our King and our people."

"And I do not?"

"I believe you do, Brother, but I am not certain that you can."

Boromir turned to face his brother squarely for the first time, shifting his stance so that his attention was fixed all on Faramir. "My rule hangs in the balance, it would seem. My brother stands before me, poised to let fall his weight upon either side, offering me my stewardship unchallenged if I... what? What must I do to keep my birthright?"

"Nay, Boromir. I am not here to lay down conditions! Nor do I hold your stewardship in my keeping!"

"Prudent Faramir. Ever modest and humble. Do not waste your humility on me, Brother, for we both know the power you wield. Only tell me what I must do."

Faramir studied his harshly drawn features for a long moment, trying to read his intentions and failing. "Would you know, in truth, what I desire?" he finally asked.

"I would."

"To hear what befell you on your road home."

Boromir's mouth twisted into a grimace of pain. "Will such a tale of horrors help you sleep at night? Or do you seek the means to soothe your conscience, when you condemn me before my King?"

"I seek only to lay my doubts to rest, to still the whispers that torment me."

The grimace turned yet more sour, and Boromir said, "So do I, but not in the memory of my dishonor and downfall."

"I am afraid, Brother," Faramir urged, willing Boromir to hear and understand. "I cannot rest, cannot think beyond the fear that grows daily within me."

"What fear?"

"That I will lose you, as I lost my father, to darkness and despair."

"That is your fear? That I will end as Denethor did?"

"Aye. Imrahil mouths lofty phrases about Gondor's weal, but I will not stretch the truth so far. I am not afraid for Gondor. I am afraid for myself, for you, and for the cruel fate that awaits you, should you share Denethor's weakness as you do his pride."

Boromir seemed to regard him steadily through the dark bandage, then the Steward bowed his head. "You are not alone in this. I have wondered, myself, how much Denethor's son I am, and I have toyed with the idea of ending my trials as he did."

The doubt within Faramir congealed into dread at these words, but he said nothing, allowing his brother to reveal himself in his own time.

"How much I am my father's son you know better than any, but there is one great difference between us. And one great flaw in all your reasoning. I have already visited the darkness, already tasted the despair that ended my father's life. I have slept and eaten and dreamed them. I have wept for the weight of them upon me and prayed for death to free me. There is nothing of darkness or despair that you or any Man can teach me, Faramir, for they are my constant companions."

"Even as they were for Denethor," Faramir said.

"Nay, do but consider. I had the chance to die - many chances - yet I live. I may live in darkness, but I live, and the darkness holds no sway over me. Do you not see? I made my choice, as our father made his, and I chose to come home."

Faramir felt tears prick at his eyes, and he made no attempt to hold them back. "Aye, you are home, but at what price?"

"Is any price too dear for the chance to stand upon the walls of Minas Tirith again and hear the music of her trumpets upon the wind?"

"That is said like the brother I know!"

"I am your brother, Faramir, in spite of the scars I carry. I thought that your eyes - the keenest in all Gondor - would see past this bandage to the Man beneath."

"'Tis not the bandage that gives me pause."

"Is it not? I felt you shrink away, when I took your arm."

Faramir forced himself to look straight into his brother's face, into the black-shrouded gaze and the pain that festered so terribly beneath his proud mien. "I did not shrink from you out of revulsion or contempt, but only from surprise and, mayhap, from pity. I need time to accustom myself to your blindness."

"So do I."

The sour humor in Boromir's voice made Faramir's throat ache with unshed tears. He longed ever more desperately to find some connection with his brother, some way to banish the image of the scarred and bandaged stranger in the garden and feel, in his heart, that it was Boromir who stood before him.

"I am grateful that you chose to return to me, Brother" he said, his voice far more calm than he had expected. "I see how you rule our city in the King's absence, and my heart swells with pride. I think of all that you have suffered to find your way home, and I grieve for you. When you speak to me with Boromir's voice, chide me in his caustic way, brush aside my counsel with his arrogant assurance, I rejoice to have him beside me once again. But then you turn away - turn back to your strange haunts, your unfit companions, your lonely brooding - and my brother vanishes. I am left with a man I do not recognize."

A small, bitter smile touched Boromir's lips. "My arrogance reassures you? Here is a strange turnabout. You would chastise me for too little pride, in the company I keep and the places I frequent, when you have so often heaped reproofs upon my head for an excess of that same pride. You, who have urged me to change times beyond count, now draw away from me because I have done exactly that. Change."

"Boromir..." His own voice sounded plaintive in Faramir's ears, but he could not bear the lash of his brother's tongue in silence. Boromir neither shouted nor raged. He spoke in the same low, thoughtful tone that he had used throughout their conversation, but his words burned the very air between them.

"Either I am too proud or not proud enough, too guarded or too exposed. You ask me to tell you of the darkest moments of my life, yet when I turn to you for guidance, you flinch at my touch."

"I am sorry for that!"

"I have said I do not blame you for your doubts, and I do not. I understand that you need time to accustom yourself to me, and I will not press you. But if we are ever to stand together as brothers again, you must learn to accept the man I have become."

"This is all that I ask!" Faramir cried. "I want to know you again. I want to look at you and see Boromir, not a distant stranger with bandaged eyes!"

"I cannot make the bandage go away, even for you."

"But you can let me know the man who wears it, as I once knew my brother."

"How?"

"Tell me about Orthanc."

Boromir's face tightened, and without moving, he seemed to withdraw from his brother. "Why are you so eager to hear this tale?"

"Those dark moments - the darkest of your life, you called them - lie between us. They cast a shadow upon you that is an agony for me to see. All our lives, we have fought together as brothers, inseparable and unconquerable, but when you fought your greatest battle, I was not beside you. Now the shadow is upon you, and I am left alone."

"You are not alone. I am still Boromir, though I bear scars from battles we did not share."

"I know you are he. But I am lonely and afraid, and I want the closeness that we once had - the utter certainty in each other that upheld me through so many trials. I want my brother."

"How can I return him to you?"

"Trust me."

"You mean, bare my wounds to you."

"Trust me, Boromir. I'll not betray that trust."

A long, grim silence met his words. Finally, Boromir lifted his shrouded gaze to Faramir's face and asked, harshly, "Did our father tell you what he saw in the palantír?"

"Some small part, only. He... told me of your capture and your imprisonment. Of your torture at Saruman's hands."

"The stone did not lie. Aragorn and I were taken by Saruman's orcs to the dungeons of Orthanc, where we were tortured for his amusement and to further his treacherous plots. He wanted the Ring." Boromir laughed without mirth, his face hard with strain. "He thought Aragorn would give it to him."

Boromir abruptly turned away from his brother's stark, pitying gaze and rested his hands on the parapet again. His face tilted up to catch the breeze. His voice dropped to a distant murmur, edged with pain. "I remember little of my time there, beyond the horror of Saruman's voice and the agony in his hands. But the dungeon is etched into my memory.

"It is a terrible place, Faramir. The air is hot and thick, so that it seems to crawl over your flesh. Everything is stone and iron and stifling heat. And always, the torches are burning. Burning." Boromir braced his hands on the wall, his fingers digging into the unforgiving stone, and bowed his head. "I cannot abide them."

"Torches?"

"Or stone walls or the sound of approaching footsteps... The boots of orcs make a distinct sound against stone floors. Saruman walks silently, but he is never without his orcs, and I can hear them as they come down the passage..."

Faramir shivered, as if a sudden chill had touched his flesh. He fancied, for a dreadful moment, that he could hear the tramp of orc boots in the distance, and with that imagined sound came understanding. "That is why you shun the Tower," he said, shooting Boromir a piercing glance.

Boromir nodded. "I thought that I would die in that noisome pit, hemmed in by stone, choked by fumes and lies. I longed for but one taste of clean air to ease my going."

"Did Saruman promise you freedom, if you betrayed the Ring?"

Another mirthless laugh was forced from him. "What did he not promise me? But it was lies... all lies. Lies so beautiful and vile that they burn like poison in my blood, even now. First the Ring, then Saruman, pouring that poison into my ears, into my heart, until I did not know myself."

"But you did not lose yourself, did not succumb to the lies. How did you withstand them?"

"Aragorn. Aragorn gave me the will to stand firm. I'll not say the strength, for there was no strength left in me, only the certainty that I saw my duty clear and the resolve not to falter in it. I had betrayed my king and my quest once. I could not do it again and live. Nor could I add to Aragorn's torment by letting him see me shaken.

"At the last... at the last, I may have cried out to him. Begged for his mercy. I am not certain. But he was not there to hear it, and I think he would not have blamed me for my weakness. I did not betray him or the Ring, even when Saruman offered me my sight in exchange for that betrayal..."

"He what?!" Faramir hissed.

"He offered to heal my wounds and restore my sight, if I told him where to find the Ring."

A murmur of pain was forced from Faramir's lips. "'Tis no wonder such a lie haunts you! Beautiful and vile, indeed! Does Aragorn know what sacrifice you made?"

"Aye. He made the same choice, before it fell to me. He is a king, Faramir, a true king, and he could do no less. Would you have him betray his people for me?"

Faramir shook his head in wonder. "Nay."

"I'll not pretend it was easy. Sometimes, I deem, hope is the most exquisite torture of them all. Even when it is a lie." Boromir lifted his head again, letting the sun fall upon his face. It seemed to Faramir as though he were weeping, though no tears wet his cheeks. "I will never be free of the memory, though I run all the length of Middle-earth to escape it. The bite of harsh stone in my flesh, the stench of torches, the foul caress of the wizard's voice, and the vision... the vision of white walls soaring above me, gleaming in the sunlight, beckoning me home." He swallowed convulsively and whispered, "It is an agony I will carry within me all my days."

"Are you so certain it was a lie?" Faramir ventured.

"Gandalf is."

"And you trust his judgement?" Boromir nodded wordlessly. "Then so must I, though it grieves me to stand by so helplessly."

"There is naught to be done, Faramir, but to learn to bear it as best I may. If you love me, you will do the same."

"I will try."

Something approaching a smile touched Boromir's lips then faded as quickly as it had come.

Chapter Text

Something approaching a smile touched Boromir's lips then faded as quickly as it had come. Faramir immediately sensed that he had exhausted his reserves of strength and courage on this matter, and needed to move on to less charged subjects. Shifting the conversation abruptly, Faramir said, "Mithrandir has told me of the destruction of Isengard, but not of your rescue. How did you escape the dungeons?"

A real smile flickered over Boromir's face. "Better to ask Merry for that tale. He relishes the telling of it, especially Uglúk's part."

"Uglúk?"

Boromir shook his head, brushing away the hopeful question. "Uglúk must keep for another time. Of our escape, I remember nothing save a voice - Merry's, I believe - telling me that Aragorn was safe and well. The rest is darkness... for which I am grateful."

Boromir fell quiet, and Faramir did not press him. He knew that his brother had only touched upon the trials of his journey, but Faramir was content. With this glimpse into the fire pits of Isengard, horrible as it was, he had also glimpsed his brother again. More than glimpsed. He had found Boromir waiting for him beneath the shadows and pain and layers of protection. He had all that he had come for, and he would try his brother's patience no further.

On an impulse, Faramir stretched out his hand to clasp Boromir's arm. The other man turned toward him, a question in his face, and Faramir smiled. "Thank you, Brother."

"For what?" Boromir asked.

"Coming home."

"You have already thanked me for that."

"But this time, you are here to stay."

Boromir smiled. His hand covered Faramir's and gripped it strongly. He opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to change his mind as a new thought occurred to him. A quizzical look came over his face. "I meant to ask you, but forgot in all the furor. Do you know the story of Gilthaethil?"

"Gilthaethil?" Faramir asked, dubiously. "Why?"

"'Tis some Elvish legend, is it not? Full of valiant deeds and melancholy?"

"Gilthaethil was an elven princess of the Second Age." Faramir pointedly drew his hand away from Boromir's clasp and planted both fists on his hips. He frowned suspiciously at his brother. "Why do you ask?"

"I was trying to remember if I had ever heard the tale, but they all run together in my mind." He gave a slight, taunting smile. "One elven princess is much like another."

Faramir snorted in disgust, and Boromir chuckled.

"Humor me, Brother. Sit with me of an evening, when the war does not press too closely upon us, and tell me the tale of Gilthaethil."

"I will tell it now, if you like."

"Nay. Elvish stories need Elvish stars overhead. And this is not the time for such indulgence."

"Under the stars, then. But pray, Boromir, why this sudden interest in what you have so often termed 'ancient rubbish'?"

"I have met some of your legends, walking under the sky of Middle-earth, and I have learned a thing or two about them. They are as far above my disdain as are the stars above my head."

"And why Gilthaethil, in particular?"

"Ah, that is for Gil."

Faramir's brows rose in surprise. "Gil? Do you mean the drudge?"

"Aye. Her proper name is Gilthaethil."

Disapproval and reluctant curiosity warred in Faramir, bringing a heavy scowl to his face that made him look astonishingly like his brother. "Do you cherish some vain hope that she is a wandering elf? Or the lost scion of a noble house?"

Boromir laughed. "Nay, I simply want to know the legend."

Faramir glowered at him for a moment, then demanded, "What do you mean to do with the drudge?"

"Do with her?" Boromir's surprise turned to sardonic humor. "Why, set her up as Queen of Gondor, of course. Once I have usurped Aragorn's throne, I will need a suitable partner for my reign."

"I do not find that funny."

"Do not trouble yourself, Brother. I do not mean to do anything with Gil. I like her. That is all."

"Why do you like her? What has a low-born, illiterate, nameless servant in her to earn your liking?"

Boromir pondered his question carefully, his brow knit in thought. Finally, he answered, "She is honest and blunt and practical, with no cunning in her. And not a shred of pity."

Faramir accepted this in perplexed silence. He could not approve Boromir's growing attachment to such a one as Gil, but he had been forcibly shown, more than once today, that he must not judge his brother by outward appearance. Perhaps she was merely a side-effect of his current isolation from his peers and his struggle to regain his place among them. Perhaps she would drop back into obscurity, when he established himself as Steward. Or perhaps their friendship was deeper than reason could explain, and Faramir would simply have to suffer with it. Whatever the truth, he would have to wait and see. He did not have the strength to broach another tender subject, on this day of revelations.

Boromir seemed to hear his thoughts. He reached out a hand towards his brother and, when Faramir clasped it, said, "Get you back to the Tower and our waiting lords. Deal with them as you will. I am not yet ready to brave that thick air again, so soon."

"Boromir, I..."

"Peace, Brother. We have both said enough for this day."

"When Aragorn returns..."

"You will have to choose upon which side to throw your weight. Until then, do as you promised. Wait, watch, and consider. I ask nothing more."

Faramir gave his hand a squeezed and turned to leave.

"Send Merry to me!" Boromir called.

He nodded, then remembered that such a gesture was wasted on his brother. "I will." With that, he walked silently away.

*** *** ***

Elenard watched as the rider spurred his lathered horse through camp. The pounding of hooves and the sharp challenge of the pickets had roused him from an uneasy sleep and jerked him upright to search the night with wide, troubled eyes. Dawn had not yet touched the sky, and in the dying light of the campfires, Elenard could not make out the device on the rider's surcote, but he could not doubt from whence the man had ridden in such haste. The great, swift horse between his knees and the leather tube, with its pendant seals, slung across his back marked him clearly as an errand-rider of Gondor.

An errand-rider, pursuing the army through the night 'til his horse nearly foundered, carrying dispatches to the Lord Elfstone. To Elenard's overwrought mind, it could mean only one thing. Hirluin had betrayed him. He had not escaped, after all.

He stared after the retreating figure until it was lost to sight in the darkness, then he lay back on his pallet and fixed his blank gaze on the featureless sky above him. His ears strained to catch any untoward sound from the camp - angry voice, tramping feet, anything that might herald the approach of grey-clad men with stern faces and implacable eyes.

It did not occur to him to run. The Shadow Steward might call him traitor, but he was no coward and no deserter. When the Rangers came for him, they would find him with his comrades in arms, preparing for war, as befit a soldier of Morthond.

Aragorn paced the floor of his tent in a restless circle, his eyes downcast, his hands clasped behind his back. He could feel the others watching him, waiting, their concern washing over him in palpable waves. Imrahil and Éomer, his most valiant generals. Legolas and Gimli, his most loyal companions. And Halbarad, his faithful, grey shadow. They had all come to learn the news from Minas Tirith and offer their lord what support and counsel they might.

Aragorn continued to pace, while Legolas read the dispatch, holding the parchment where Gimli could see it. The dwarf gave a grunt of anger and his hand tightened on the haft of his axe, as his eyes scanned the neatly-penned lines.

Imrahil cast him a frowning glance. "What news, my lord?"

Halting his steps, Aragorn turned stormy eyes on the Prince. "Boromir warns me of a possible threat to my life."

Only Legolas and Gimli, who were privy to the full contents of Boromir's letter, did not react to this. Imrahil and Éomer exclaimed in protest, while Halbarad scowled furiously and crossed to the tent opening. He twitched the canvas open, peering out, as if to reassure himself that no assassin lurked outside.

"Two men tried to assassinate the Steward last night. It seems one of them escaped to the army and marches with us."

Imrahil's face was pale and strained in the candlelight. "The Steward? Who would dare raise a hand against Gondor's Steward?"

Aragorn's lips tightened in anger. "Soldiers of Morthond."

The Prince cursed softly. "And Boromir? How fares my kinsman?"

Legolas answered, "He writes that he is well and took no serious hurt." A smile lightened the elf's eyes for a moment, as he added, "Merry came to his rescue, and they captured one of his attackers."

Gimli twitched the paper from Legolas' hands to study it more closely. "By his account, the villain spouts much of the same nonsense we heard in the camp ere we marched. Superstition and fear, twisted into treasonous lies!"

"Aye," Aragorn said, "It seems I should have paid more heed to those night whispers."

Éomer stepped quickly forward, his face clouded with anger and concern. "My lord, what shall we do? We cannot take this traitor with us into battle, nor can we leave Boromir unaided..."

"We can, and we must. Boromir puts me on my guard, so that no plot will take me unawares, but he neither asks nor expects that I turn back! Do but consider, Éomer. All of this," he flicked his fingers at the parchment in Gimli's hands, "comes to naught, if Sauron defeats us. We must march against him and draw him from his Black Gates, though only a handful of staunch warriors go with us."

"'Tis not a widespread treason," Halbarad asserted. "The Dúnedain would have heard the rumblings among the soldiery."

"I heard rumblings enough," Legolas said, with deceptive mildness.

"Against our King? And you did not bring word to me?"

"I brought word to the King."

"The loose talk in the camp was all against Boromir, not against me," Aragorn said. "I deemed him capable of handling any problem that arose, and clearly, he has done just that. He assures me that the city is secure, the people unaware of the threat to their Steward, and the threat itself of no account."

"But what of you?" Éomer cried. "The assassin is now concealed in your army!"

Aragorn thought for a moment, then shrugged. "There is little likelihood that he will move against me. If he does, we will be ready for him."

"If it is the Men of Morthond who harbor this traitor, I say we place the burden of finding him upon Duinhir! Let him lance the boil on his own backs..."

"Peace, Éomer." Aragorn turned to Imrahil and said, "You know Duinhir well, do you not?"

"Aye, lord. Think you Duinhir is party to this vile act? I cannot credit it."

"I know not, but I agree with Éomer. The Lord of Morthond has much to answer for. Bring him to me when we make camp this night, and I will get to the truth of it. And now, my lords, we must prepare to march. Get you to your tents."

Both Imrahil and Éomer turned to leave, but Halbarad hung back.

"By your leave, Aragorn, I will send my Rangers through the army and glean what news I may. They can pass silent and unseen, and the men will say in their presence what they will never reveal to their own officers."

Aragorn nodded.

"And I will double your escort on the march."

"As you will, Halbarad. I leave it in your hands."

The Ranger ducked out of the tent, leaving Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli together. No one moved or spoke until the voices of the sentries had died to silence and Halbarad's footsteps had faded into the camp. Then Legolas stirred. Taking the parchment from Gimli, he rolled it neatly and slipped it into its leather tube.

"You will not tell them the rest?" he asked.

"I will not."

"I find myself loath to believe that any of those present tonight would act against you."

Gimli growled, "Those closest to you, Boromir said. Who, besides ourselves, is closer to the King than those three Men?"

Aragorn began pacing again. "I wish that Boromir had been more plain."

"And risk having that dispatch read by every pair of eyes in this tent?" Legolas' brows rose in surprise. "He is too wise a general for that. He told you all he could, I warrant, and as he says, he has no proof of treason, only rumor and supposition. You would not condemn a man for that."

"Nay. I understand why he gives me no more than a veiled warning, but still I wish for more. I would have just one person - just one traitor - that I could lay my hands on!" He held out his hands, fingers curled to grab and crush, and snarled, "I vow that someone will pay for this!"

Legolas shot a wintry smile at Gimli and murmured, "Our King needs a sword in his hand an a battle to fight."

"Aye," the dwarf said, "we'll find one, soon enough."

Aragorn dropped his hands. The rage in his eyes cooled to his usual grave thoughtfulness. "Until we find our enemy, we must be cautious. We three alone know of Boromir's suspicions, and so it must stay."

"And if Imrahil or Halbarad is plotting against the Steward?"

Aragorn smiled at Gimli. "I notice you did not include Éomer in that list."

Gimli gave a snort of laughter. "Éomer would no sooner harm Boromir than you or I would. Methinks, when you do find your traitor, you will be hard put to it to keep the King of the Mark from hacking him to bits!"

The Ranger's smile widened. "I may let him do it. Come, 'tis time to rouse the hobbit and arm ourselves for the march."

"You did not answer Gimli's question," Legolas pointed out.

"What would you have me say? I need all my allies beside me now, so long as they have courage enough to raise their swords against the Enemy. When the fighting is done, then will the poisons hatch out and the treasons be revealed. Then, if I still live to breathe the sweet air of Middle-earth, will I punish those who dare to harm my friend."

The trumpets tumbled Elenard from his bed and brought him to his feet. Dawn paled the sky, and all about him, the camp stirred. Obedient to the familiar horn calls, he hurried to break camp and pack his gear, but all the while, his eyes scanned the mass of soldiers around him.

He saw nothing to alarm him - no guardsmen in black and silver livery, no grey-clad Rangers with drawn swords. His own officers moved casually among the men, spurring them to greater speed and calling their orders above the din. Elenard saw only one stranger in their midst. A single figure strolled between the camfires, seeming bent on his own business yet in no hurry. He drew near to Elenard's fire, and the archer got a good look at him. For a startled moment, Elenard thought he recognized the stranger, but the other man's eyes passed indifferently over his face, and he continued on his way without pause.

A long breath of relief escaped Elenard, as he turned his head away and bent to his task. It seemed, against all hope, that fate smiled upon him still. He was not found out. He was not bound for the dungeons of Minas Tirith, but for war. He would be granted the chance to die a soldier's death, after all.

Shouldering his pack and slinging his weapons, Elenard fell into place in the long column of men. The trumpets sang out a familiar summons, and, with his head lifted proudly and a smile lingering upon his lips, he began to march.

*** *** ***

"You are thoughtful, my lord, and more silent than is your wont."

The soft voice drew Faramir out of his reverie and turned his gaze to the face of the woman seated beside him. She sat in a blaze of fresh sunshine that turned her hair to liquid light and added a flush of color to her pale cheeks. Against the verdure of the garden, she shone like a polished blade, beautiful and fell. Each time he looked upon the Lady Éowyn, Faramir was struck afresh by her beauty and her sadness.

"Forgive me, lady." He lifted her hand and brushed his lips against it. "In your company, I should be ever merry."

"What weighs upon you?" she asked.

He felt the sorrow that her beloved voice had banished fall upon him again, and he answered, abruptly, "My brother."

Éowyn regarded him gravely, neither sympathy nor condemnation in her gaze. "You shared something of your doubts with me, enough that I know you fear for him and for your people."

"Aye, but I was not thinking of Gondor, just now." He turned his eyes away from her chill beauty, unable to bear it with a heart so full of anguish. "Only of Boromir. I grieve for him."

A heavy silence followed his words, broken when Éowyn said, in a quiet, firm voice, "It is not my place to instruct you in your duty to brother or land, my lord, but I must speak."

"Instruct me as you will, lady. I would hear aught you have to say to me."

"It is merely this. The Lord Boromir is a man of honor. You will not hear me speak ill of him or admit any doubt of his fitness to rule Gondor in the King's stead."

Faramir eyed her in wonder, moved by her words but more by the eager light in her eyes, which he had never seen there before. "You can speak thus of my brother? As little as you know him?"

"I do not know your brother's mind, but I know his mettle. He is all honor, all duty, and all greatness of heart. I watched him rise from a sickbed that nearly claimed his life, to follow his king into the very storms of Mordor. I rode into that storm at his side, together with the holbytla, and I watched him forfeit the solace of Merry's company, rather than allow the young one to break his sworn oath to Théoden King. Neither wished to part from the other, and it meant greater peril for both, but honor and duty demanded it. The holbytla, not versed in our ways, would have cast aside his vow for love of his lord, but Boromir would not hear of it. Because of Boromir, Merry stood with me upon the Pelennor fields, and together, we slew the Witch King."

"Boromir rode away from the battle, leaving a maiden and a halfling to fight alone? That is not like my brother."

"He forfeited his chance for renown upon the field, to bring his sword and his wisdom home to Mundberg and those who most needed them. His ways are not mine. I could not ride away from battle as he did, and yet I know that what he did was meet and wise and wholly honorable. And I esteem him greatly for it."

Faramir sat in silence, weighing her words. Éowyn did not intrude upon his thoughts, but left him alone with them.

At last, he lifted his head and turned his eyes again upon her. "I thank you for your candor, lady. You give me much to consider."

"If you would hear more of Lord Boromir, more that touches upon his heart, speak to the holbytla. They have trodden all the paths from Imladris together, and the love between them is steadfast."

"I have done so. Merry is as eloquent in defense of my brother as you are in his praise."

Again, Faramir fell into private thought. In remembering all that had been said to him since Boromir's return, he now realized that no member of the Fellowship, no person of worth or valor who had journeyed with Boromir would speak against him - not the loyal halfling, not Elf, Dwarf or Wizard, not Éowyn, and not Aragorn himself. Aragorn had passed through the flame and agony of Orthanc at Boromir's side, and now he placed his birthright in Boromir's hands without hesitation.

"Aragorn has chosen him," Faramir mused.

"Aye, and who will gainsay the King?"

"I was prepared to do so. But now..."

He hesitated, and Éowyn prompted, gently, "Now, my lord?"

"Now I know something of what befell them, and I begin to understand. I begin to see through my brother's eyes, a little."

Éowyn almost smiled, the closest he had ever seen her come to it. "An odd choice of words, lord."

"But apt. His is not a pleasant view of the world, nor without pain, and I cannot say that I am comfortable with it."

"Do any of us look upon the world without pain, in this hour of doom?"

Faramir shook his head and, unconsciously, let his eyes stray to the east.

"When the King returns, all will be healed," Éowyn murmured, echoing his silent hope.

Faramir looked at her and felt the her beauty pierce him afresh. "There was something Merry said to me," he murmured, "about Aragorn bringing me back from the Shadow. 'Twas the King's voice called me back, but it was you, lady, who brought true healing to my heart."

Éowyn bowed her head and turned her face away from his intent gaze. "His voice called me back, as well, but I have not yet found true healing."

"That will come with time and with hope, I trust." He fell quiet again, thinking, then murmured, "True healing cannot be rushed. It needs time."

A sudden, brilliant smile lit his face, and he clasped Éowyn's hand, lifting it to his lips in a fervent salute. "I thank you, lady! You have instructed me better than you know!"

Éowyn made no move to withdraw her hand from his. "I will be satisfied to have lightened your heart, my lord."

"You have." He kissed her hand again and smiled into her solemn eyes. "Even in this darkest hour, you have given me hope."

*** *** ***

The seventh day after the Armies of the West had marched from Minas Tirith dawned, cold and drear. All eyes in the city turned to the east, wondering into what peril her lords, her captains and her valiant soldiers had marched, and all hearts were darkened. Some eyed the shadow knowingly, measured the leagues that separated the Tower of Guard from her ancient foe, and cried, "Surely they have reached the Black Gates by now! Surely word will come today!" Others, measuring that same distance, shook their heads sagely and said, "Surely they cannot have marched so far so soon. There is time, yet. All is not lost."

The sun slowly climbed the sky. A feeling of anticipation and dread grew in the people of Minas Tirith, and though they told each other that this was a day like all that had gone before, the fear began to weigh upon them, until all traffic in the city came to a halt. People stood about the streets or on the walls, gazing eastward, straining to catch some glint of light on helms and lances, though they knew the army had passed far beyond their sight. Their doom hung heavily upon them.

Even as the sun reached its zenith, the wind abruptly died and the very air seemed poised in readiness. A taut, expectant silence fell upon the land. Every eye was fixed upon the Mountains of Shadow in the distance, and every voiced was stilled.

Into the dread stillness came a low, ominous rumbling. A vast mountain of black smoke rose into the sky, spreading from the east to blot out the sun, its dark mass shot through with lightning and tongues of flame. And as every heart in Gondor quailed, every throat stopped its breath, it seemed as though the city shuddered upon her lofty seat. The walls trembled. The Tower shook. Then with a sigh, Minas Tirith breathed again.

Throughout the city, men and women gazed up in wonder. For out of the terrible darkness, a cold wind blew, and upon the breast of the wind came a wingéd shape, flying straight from the heart of the Shadow. It was a great Eagle, its wings as vast and powerful as the mountains that bred it. As it circled above the city, it cried out in a voice of gladness,

Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor,
for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,
and the Dark Tower is thrown down.

Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard,
for your watch hath not been in vain,
and the Black Gate is broken,
and your King hath passed through,
and he is victorious.

Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,
for your King shall come again,
and he shall dwell among you
all the days of your life.

And the Tree that was withered shall be renewed,
and he shall plant it in the high places,
and the City shall be blessed.

Sing all ye people!*

Elenard heard the Eagle's voice, as it flew westward above the battlefield. He stood among the fallen, his reddened sword hanging limp at his side, and stared up at the messenger of victory. A wild triumph filled him, and he lifted the weapon, shaking it and crying out his joy. But even as the sound left his lips, he knew a sudden, cold horror. He had gambled all on the certainty that he would die honorably, fighting the great Enemy, and thus atone for the necessary evil he had done. But The Armies of the West had victory, the King would march back to Minas Tirith and his Shadow Steward, and Elenard must march with him. To death of a different kind. Dropping to his knees upon the field, Elenard bowed his head and wept for shame.

Hirluin heard its voice in his dark cell beneath the Tower of Guard. He huddled at the locked door, listening to the distant, piercing music, and smiled through his tears. It made no difference to his fate that Lord Elfstone had defeated the Enemy. He was doomed, regardless. But when he thought of the cool forests and sweet meadows of his home, and of his own children running free beneath an untainted sky, safe from the slavery and blight of Mordor, he wept for joy.

Faramir heard its voice where he stood with Éowyn upon the walls of the city. His heart swelled with a gladness too deep for words. Tears wet his cheeks. His eyes shone with the light of Nimloth the Fair at the world's first dawn. And beside him stood the White Lady of Rohan, her hand in his, her pale hair mingled with his upon the wind. As the Eagle swept above them, its shadow falling across their faces, Faramir turned to Éowyn and, in full view of the rejoicing city, kissed her brow.

Merry heard its voice and drew close to Boromir's side. They stood in the Court of the Fountain, where they had waited all the morning, and listened to the song of victory in silence. When the Eagle had done, Merry let out his breath in a sigh and turned tear-bright eyes upon his friend. Boromir neither moved nor spoke, but Merry saw that his entire frame trembled with the force of the emotion that filled him.

The hobbit slipped his hand into the man's and turned his eyes to the east again, to the roiling darkness that marked the end of Sauron's power.

"He did it," Merry said. "He destroyed the Ring."

"Frodo..."

"The quest did not fail."

With a swiftness that startled the hobbit, Boromir dropped to a crouch beside him and pulled Merry into a fierce embrace. Merry clung to him, tears starting in his eyes, and felt a sudden, enormous happiness that, of all the creatures in Middle-earth, it was this man who was with him at the moment of victory.

"The Ring is gone," Boromir murmured.

Merry laughed for sheer delight. "And the King is coming home!"

To be continued...

* From The Return of the King, p. 298

Chapter Text

A golden Summer lay upon the fields of Gondor, as the Steward rode from the city gates to answer the summons of his King. Merry, swordthain of Éomer King, rode with him, as did a company of men at arms and a train of carts, laden with goods for the army camped about Cair Andros. Fedranth, grey stallion of Rohan, carried both Man and Halfling to this celebration of victory, as he had carried them both to war, and Merry rejoiced to be mounted on his back again in the company of his friend.

Aragorn's letter had removed the last of their cares, for he had assured them that all whom they loved had come through the battle alive, and those who had suffered some hurt were mending in the King's care. Only one shadow still darkened Merry's joy - the unanswered question of Faramir's choice.

This was none of Merry's business, and he had not spoken of it to either brother since his talk with Faramir in the Houses of Healing. But now Boromir rode out of Minas Tirith, leaving his Stewardship to his brother's care, and Merry, who allowed no consideration to come before Boromir's welfare in his mind, could not be easy with this decision. Merry had watched Boromir lay the white rod of office in his brother's hands and had held his tongue. Now, as they rode away from the gates, he turned in the saddle to gaze at the tall, princely figure standing just outside the walls - so like his brother and so unlike - with all the nobility of Gondor gathered at his back, and the hobbit felt a twinge of worry.

Turning away from the troubling sight, Merry asked Boromir, in a low voice, "Was it wise to hand your birthright to your brother that way?"

"It was Aragorn's command," Boromir answered, calmly, "and my wish."

"He has not made a public choice to support you against Imrahil and..."

"Peace, Merry."

The hobbit glanced around to be sure none of their escort had overheard him, then he shrugged. "Surely the Guard all know of... of your kinsman's part in the conspiracy."

"Mayhap they do, but I'll thank you not to blazon it about, all the same." His hand clasped Merry's shoulder in understanding, and his voice lost its sharp edge. "Be easy, little one. Faramir will not usurp my office. Whatever his final choice, he will serve as Steward in all honor and give me back what is mine when I return. You need have no fears on that head."

Merry gave this due consideration and finally decided that Boromir was right. Faramir was not a man to steal his brother's place through subterfuge and treachery. If he decided to claim the Stewardship for himself, he would do it openly, before King and council, and only because he felt it was right.

With his mind relieved of cares, if only for a time, Merry's spirits soared. They had not yet ridden beyond sight of the city, when the hobbit's high, clear voice was lifted in song, mingling with the deeper notes of the Men who rode and sang about them. There was a festival mood about the company, though they went as soldiers, armed for war, and their laughter rang out as brightly as any trumpet call.

Only Boromir rode in silence, his face stern and unsmiling. Merry wondered at this, but he did not intrude on Boromir's thoughts to demand an explanation. The Man had been strangely moody and unpredictable since the messenger had come from Ithilien, bidding them to join the King. Some new trouble had fallen upon him that made him one moment alive with gladness and the next brooding and silent. Merry had thought him unwilling to leave Minas Tirith in Faramir's keeping, but clearly, that was not the problem. Whatever it was, it grew heavier upon him the closer they drew to Ithilien and Aragorn.

They came at midday to Osgiliath, where a ship waited at the quay, among the sad ruins of that once-great city. Merry looked about him in wonder at the shattered bridges and broken, empty streets. He could see the ghost of the city as it once had been, and he grieved for the desolation that it now was. They boarded the ship and weighed anchor, riding swiftly away from Osgiliath upon the breast of Anduin the Great.

Oar and sail brought them ere nightfall to Cair Andros. On the north bank of the River, directly across from the island, lay a wide, green field, glowing richly in the dying light, with tents and banners and men in shining mail all about it. As they sailed round the shoulder of Cair Andros and into sight from the far shore, a trumpet call rang out, and a great stirring was seen among the host. The ship turned for the northern shore and slid up to the quay to be met by a guard of honor - soldiers of Minas Tirith clad in black and silver, with winged helms upon their heads and the White Tree of Gondor upon their breasts.

Merry stepped from the ship into a world of color and pageantry such as he had never seen before. Everywhere were the trappings of an army, but not the army at war that Merry had known. Here all was gladness, glittering ceremony, lances wound about with garlands of flowers and the scarred faces of veterans alight with merriment. Heralds cried out upon their coming, and their escort marched them to the field above where waited the Armies of the West.

The magnificence of the scene overwhelmed Merry. He had not known that Men could look so warlike, so terrible, and so joyous all at once. He drew in closer to Boromir's side, into the shelter of his presence, and eyed the array of great men before him in awe.

Merry recognized the standards of Dol Amroth and Rohan among the blaze of color that fluttered above the field, along with dozens of others that had fought on the Pelennor before the gates of Minas Tirith. At the center of the field, lifting bravely upon the sweet-scented wind, was the great standard of King Elessar. And beneath it, his head bare, his gleaming mail shrouded in a sable and silver cloak, stood the King himself, smiling a welcome.

Their honor guard fell back as they approached Aragorn, and Merry led Boromir across the open space alone, his knees shaking at his own temerity. Then his gaze met Aragorn's and the fear left him. This might be the King of Gondor, but it was also Strider, Ranger of the North, his friend and guide. Aragorn's lordly mien softened with affection as he looked upon the hobbit, and he stepped forward to meet the new arrivals.

"My Lord Steward and Master Swordthain, I bid you welcome."

To Merry's utter astonishment, Boromir dropped to one knee before Aragorn and bent his head. "My King."

"Nay, do not." Aragorn clasped his arms and drew him to his feet again. "I do not wear the crown of Gondor yet."

Aragorn's grip on Boromir's arms tightened, and a smile of such warmth lit his eyes that it startled Merry even more than Boromir's obeisance. Of a sudden, acting on the same impulse, the two men moved together and embraced.

"How fare you, Boromir?" Aragorn asked, his voice trembling with laughter.

Boromir hesitated for the space of a breath, then answered, dryly, "Well enough! And you?"

The laughter burst merrily from Aragorn's lips. He stepped away from Boromir but still gripped his arms strongly, as though loath to break the contact between them. "The Shadow is fallen and our Fellowship is made whole again! How can I be aught but well?"

Boromir's smile faltered. "Frodo and Sam?"

"They sleep and heal. You need have no fears for them."

"Then all is indeed well."

Aragorn at last released his friend, and as if it were a signal of sorts, the crowd about them erupted in noise and activity. Friends and noblemen surged forward. Aragorn dropped to one knee to embrace Merry, and before he had time to gain his feet again, Pippin was upon them in a flurry of black velvet, silver mail and bubbling enthusiasm. Hard on Pippin's heels came Legolas, Gimli and an oddly mellow Gandalf. All was gladness and welcome. In this green and smiling place, with his companions about him and the music of laughter in the air, Merry felt the long months of darkness slipping away from him, like the memory of a bad dream.

From his camp upon the wooded hillside, Elenard watched the arrival of the Steward on the field below. The Armies of the West were spread along the River, some of them camped on Cair Andros or the southern bank, some of them farther back from the water in the woods of Ithilien. When the archers of Morthond were placed so close to the main camp, within sight of the generals' pavilions upon the field, they had accepted this as a tribute to their bravery in battle and a sign that the new King valued Morthond as he should. Only Elenard, with his festering suspicions and guilt, doubted that the Lord Elfstone was offering them a compliment by keeping them so close.

The grey-clad Dúnedain haunted the camp. They spoke pleasantly to the soldiers, sitting round their fires of an evening and reminiscing about the long years of war that had plagued Gondor, but it seemed to Elenard that they listened more than they talked. These Rangers had an uncomfortable way of looking at one, with eyes that saw more than they should, and they asked seeming-innocent questions that loosened men's tongues. Elenard did not like them, and he did not trust their sudden interest in the Men of Morthond. They were Lord Elfstone's eyes and ears about the campfires and another warning sign to Elenard that the King knew from whence the threat to his Steward had come.

Now the Shadow Steward himself was among the armies, bringing with him the one creature in Middle-earth, besides the unfortunate Hirluin, who could label Elenard an assassin. The halfling. The halfling had seen his face, even crossed swords with him. The halfling could bear witness against him and condemn him to a traitor's death.

Elenard's eyes dwelt intently on the tiny figure who walked at the Steward's side, and his fists clenched in helpless fury. He knew a moment's impulse to draw his bow and put an arrow through the creature's throat, thus avenging himself in some measure and giving him a brief time of safety in which to breathe easy. But the impulse passed as quickly as it had come and his anger faded.

The halfling had thwarted his attempt on the Steward's life, but he had done it in all innocence, out of love for his lord. Elenard could not blame him for that. Nor could he wantonly slay a guiltless creature to protect his own skin. Assassin and traitor he might be, but he was not devoid of honor. He had turned his sword against the son of Denethor in the firm belief that he did what was right and necessary, and because, in his grieved heart, he believed that the blind man's presence on the battlefield had caused the deaths of the Lord Duinhir's sons.

Now victory over the Nameless One had robbed him of any chance to retrieve his honor. No one would believe that Boromir of Gondor was a curse visited upon his own people. No one would hold him accountable for the slaughter of valiant men on the Pelennor Fields or the spread of fear and darkness through Minas Tirith. No one would believe that Elenard had acted on his conscience and his duty, when he tried to kill the Shadow Steward.

Crouching by his fire and staring morosely down at the distant figures of King and Steward, Elenard pondered his fate at the hands of those two men. They would execute him as a traitor, and that was a bitter end for an old soldier. If he had less pride, less loyalty to his liege lord and the crown of Gondor, he would feel the shame of it less. But then, he would not be here, waiting for the sword to fall upon his neck. He would run, vanish into the lush forests of Ithilien and from thence into the trackless Wilderland, where a man of courage and resource could live without King or Lord, city or stone walls. He would barter his honor for his life.

Elenard's face was drawn and grim, as he finally rose to his feet and stretched the stiffness from his limbs. His gaze dwelt on the ranks of officers and soldiers upon the field, their lances, mail and helms bravely catching the last rays of the setting sun, and there was a longing in his eyes, a sorrow that only made his features look harsher in contrast. He bent to lift his weapons from the grass, slung his bow over one shoulder, and turned his back on the panoply below. With heavy steps, he began climbing the hill.

*** *** ***

"What say you now, my friend?" Aragorn leaned forward to reach the wineskin that lay near Gimli's feet and shot a look full of humor and some sympathy at Boromir. "We have dwelt at great length upon the battle, the valor of the armies, Pippin's encounter with the troll and the natural beauties of Ithilien. Have we left out anything of importance?"

Boromir smiled slightly at his bantering tone but said nothing. He sat on a camp stool, near to the fire, his elbows resting on his knees and an empty flagon in his hands. All the rest of the Fellowship, save Frodo and Sam who still slept in Aragorn's tent, were grouped around the fire with the two Men. They sat on stools or on the grass, sipping wine, smoking pipes, and gazing up at the bejeweled sky as they talked.

The warmth and camaraderie of this time together was very different than what they had shared the night before the armies marched. There was no melancholy in it, no imminent parting to darken their hearts, no Shadow looming ahead of them. They knew a peace and a contentment that was strange to the warriors among them. But not all their battles were won, and Aragorn was not ready to hang up his sword just yet.

"I have allowed you to draw us out and distract us with your questions, but my patience has its limits," Aragorn said. "It is my turn to ask and yours to answer."

Still Boromir said nothing.

"Boromir." The other man responded to the note of command in Aragorn's voice and turned to look at him. Aragorn reached over to fill Boromir's cup and said, more quietly, "I have not forgotten the warnings you gave in your dispatch. Nor did I miss the coldness with which you greeted Imrahil. What can you tell me of this conspiracy? What threat do we face upon our return to Minas Tirith?"

"You face none."

Aragorn gave soft snort of disgust. "What threatens my Steward threatens me. Do you think I will stand aside and allow the nobility of Gondor to order my Kingship as they please?"

"What if they are right, Aragorn?"

"I will decide. I will choose the partners of my rule, and I will stand behind those I choose." Aragorn eyed Boromir thoughtfully, wondering what had spawned this doubt in him. There was more to this than political maneuvering among his rivals. Keeping his voice level and mild, Aragorn said, "Now tell me what it is you are trying so steadfastly to avoid."

Boromir sighed. He rolled the cup distractedly between his palms, his shrouded gaze fixed on it and his face drawn with weariness. "I wanted to discuss this with you alone. It is ugly talk for a gathering of friends."

"Where better to speak of treachery than among those you trust?"

"There is no proof of treachery. It is all rumors and whispers."

Gimli brought his fist down on his knee with a thump and said, angrily, "'Twas rumors and whispers that nearly cost you your life, Boromir!"

"Aye, and would you have me do the same to another guiltless man?"

Gandalf pulled his pipe from his mouth and said, his voice gruff but kind, "We will not judge any man on whispers. We know the difference between suspicion and knowledge, between rumor and fact. You can speak to us without fear."

An expectant silence met these words, as all eyes fixed on Boromir, waiting. The man hesitated, still uncertain, then he turned in Aragorn's direction and said, harshly, "If the whispers speak true, those we love best would betray us."

Aragorn felt a chill dread gather in his innards. "Go on."

"Imrahil has approached my brother and asked him to take my place as Steward of Gondor."

Pippin gave an audible gasp. "No! The Lord Faramir would not do such a thing!"

"Yes, he would," Merry murmured.

Aragorn shot the halfling a piercing glance, then turned his gaze back to Boromir. "What says Faramir?"

"He has not yet made his choice."

"It is not his choice to make. Does he forget that Gondor has a King?"

Boromir shook his head. "I do not believe that my brother will ever act against the King's commands. Imrahil and his allies do not seek to remove me by violence, but to persuade me that I must step aside in Faramir's favor, and Faramir is to be their mouthpiece. If I am persuaded, they are certain that you, too, will be persuaded."

"Ah. I begin to see." Aragorn frowned at him in deepening concern. If Faramir were pressing him to renounce his Stewardship, then Aragorn could well understand the new doubt that plagued him. Of all the Men in Middle-earth, only Aragorn himself would be more difficult for Boromir to withstand than his beloved brother. "How fortunate that I am not so easily swayed."

"Do not underestimate them, Aragorn. You may yet meet with an argument you cannot dismiss. Or a messenger."

Legolas sat forward, his eyes gleaming with intelligence in the firelight. "Of what messenger do you speak, Boromir? Who is to betray Aragorn?"

Boromir hesitated, and the dread within Aragorn congealed into certainty. He knew what name he would hear before it rose to Boromir's lips, but still it struck him a vicious blow. "Halbarad."

The elf's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Halbarad..." he hissed.

"How do you know this?" Aragorn asked, and his voice sounded alien in his own ears - harsh and full of cold rage.

Boromir answered, "I do not know it. I have only my brother's word that Halbarad is involved."

"Then it may be a mistake. Or Halbarad's part may be as innocent as Faramir's."

"They may all be innocent, Aragorn. You cannot call a man traitor, because he disagrees with the King's policy."

"You can call him traitor when he incites others to murder!" Gimli retorted. "Only consider. Who in all this vast army would be better able to spread fear and discord than a Ranger? They move at will throughout the camps, welcomed as the companions of Lord Elfstone, and what they say is believed by the common soldiery."

"No man would dare spread slanders against my Steward in my name!" Aragorn snapped.

"He need not use your name. He need not even let them know him for a Ranger. How difficult would Halbarad find it to change his cloak, shroud his face, and slip unchallenged through the ranks of weary, frightened soldiers with deadly lies upon his lips?"

Boromir opened his mouth to protest, but Gandalf forestalled him. "Will you condemn a man on whispers, Gimli, son of Glóin?"

It was Legolas who answered him. "I will pass judgement on no Man, and I am as loath as Aragorn to think ill of one of his kindred - a man so close in blood and love to our King. But I will tell you this much, and you may make of it what you will. I have not been easy in Halbarad's company since we marched from Minas Tirith. There is something in him that unsettles me, and I mislike the way he speaks of Aragorn - as if the King of Gondor belongs to him, and we loyal companions who have fought at Aragorn's side even before the Black Gate have no part in his victory, no claim on his affection and no right to call him friend. There is a shadow upon him, Aragorn. It grows darker when all else around us grows light. I do not trust him."

"It is always best to heed the warnings of an elf," Gimli interjected, sagely.

"Thank you for that wisdom, Master Dwarf," Gandalf said, his tone infinitely dry. His gaze swept the troubled, angry faces of his friends and came last to Aragorn, where it lingered. "It is best to heed an elf's warnings, when you have one handy to advise you. But even our long-eyed Legolas cannot tell you if Halbarad has betrayed you. That you must judge for yourself, and not on the strength of rumors."

Aragorn held the wizard's eyes for a long moment, trying in vain to read Gandalf's thoughts and glean some hint as to how best to proceed in this crisis. But the old, bearded face was as inscrutable as always and the keen eyes full of nothing but sympathy. With a sigh, Aragorn turned his gaze to the fire.

Anger, hurt, resentment - these emotions and more warred in his breast. Boromir's news came as no surprise to him, but anticipation did not soften the blow or help him accept it more readily. Like Legolas, Aragorn had sensed something amiss in his lieutenant. But unlike Legolas, Aragorn had been aware of it almost since the arrival of the Dúnedain in Edoras. Since he had told Halbarad of his trials in the dungeons of Isengard. Since Aragorn himself had planted the seeds of it with his warm words of praise for a man whom Halbarad had always despised for his parentage and now feared as a rival.

Aragorn felt a familiar pain gather about his heart, as he pondered yet again the heavy burdens of a king. Once again, his quest to free Middle-earth and claim his birthright had brought those he loved into deadly peril. He could not abandon that quest or relinquish his birthright, but neither could he deny that Halbarad, like Boromir before him, was suffering for his devotion to Isildur's Heir. Had he remained Strider, Ranger of the North, and left Gondor to her Steward's able care, how much might he have spared these men?

Shaking his head to banish such fruitless imaginings, Aragorn looked up to find Pippin's eyes fixed on him. Under that pleading gaze, he realized that Pippin was looking to him, to his friend Strider, to sort out this mess so that no one he cared about was hurt in the process. Pippin still believed in him, and the hobbit's simple faith must not be broken.

Aragorn came to an abrupt decision. "We will learn the truth of this from Imrahil. He it was who approached Faramir, so he must know something more of those involved. Pippin, get you down to my tent and..."

He broke off in surprise, as a grey-clad figure suddenly appeared at the edge of the firelight. None save Legolas had heard the Ranger's tread on the soft turf, so his coming had the effect of a wizard's trick, and even Aragorn was startled by it.

The Ranger nodded an informal salute to his captain and said, "Duinhir of Morthond would speak with you, lord. I told him you were resting this night and did not wish to be disturbed, but he is adamant."

"Let him come," Aragorn answered promptly, "and send word to Prince Imrahil that I have need of him."

The man nodded again and vanished into the night as soundlessly as he had come. Aragorn rose and moved around the fire to greet the Lord of Morthond with due courtesy. Unlike the silent Ranger, Duinhir heralded his approach by the jingle of mail and the creak of leather, and Aragorn was not surprised to see half a dozen men with him. The old lord strode into the circle of firelight, tall and proud, with his hand on the pommel of his sword and the leaping hart of Morthond blazoned on his breast, but with something akin to fear in his eyes. He halted well back from Aragorn and bowed stiffly.

"My Lord. I beg your pardon for intruding, but this will not keep 'til morning."

"You do not intrude, my Lord Duinhir." Aragorn's eyes moved to the escort at his back, and the smooth words of greeting on the tip of his tongue died. "How can I serve you?" he asked, simply.

"'Tis I who wish to serve my King, and I hope, in so doing, to wipe clean the name of Morthond." Gesturing sharply at the men behind him, he said, "You laid a task upon me, lord. It is done."

The escort parted, and out of their ranks stepped two men - an officer and a prisoner. The prisoner came forward willingly, obedient to the officer's hand on his arm, though his own hands were bound behind him and his face was set in harsh, resolute lines. He wore the brown leather and light mail of Morthond's archers, with the leaping hart badge on his shoulder, and he carried his large frame with the easy assurance of a veteran soldier. The officer thrust his prisoner to his knees before Aragorn.

"This man is your escaped assassin, Lord Elfstone," Duinhir ground out savagely. He motioned to another man who handed him a naked sword. Holding the sword out to Aragorn across his palms, he said, "I surrender him to your justice and ask only that you look upon Morthond as your loyal ally in this, and in all things."

Aragorn accepted the sword, his eyes fixed on the kneeling man. "How did you find him?" he asked Duinhir.

"He came forward and admitted his guilt." A murmur of surprise ran around the listening Fellowship at this. "There can be no doubt that it is he who planned and carried out the assault on the Steward's person. Details of place, time and action he gave me, all in accordance with your knowledge of it."

"I will hear it from him," Aragorn said.

A movement behind him drew his attention, and he turned in time to see Legolas placing his stool within reach. He nodded his thanks and sat down upon it, unconsciously falling into his most regal and awe-inspiring pose with the prisoner's sword across his knees. The rest of the Fellowship ranged themselves behind and to either side of him, creating the instant impression of a formal audience. Boromir stood to his right, with Merry close beside him, and Aragorn could not resist a quick, searching look at his face to read his reaction. His Steward looked as impassive as he hoped he looked himself.

Turning cold eyes on the kneeling man, Aragorn asked, "Who are you?"

"Elenard of Morthond, my lord."

"Elenard of Morthond, did you seek to murder the Steward of Gondor?"

"Aye." Elenard's gaze shifted to Boromir, and he seemed to divine that the blind man wanted to hear more of his voice. Obligingly, he went on, "The night before we marched, I and my companion found the Steward in a garden, somewhere in the upper part of the city. He was alone - unguarded, we thought - and ripe for the killing. We attempted it and failed. That little creature, there," he nodded in Merry's direction, "tripped us up."

Before any of the great men present could speak, Merry leapt forward from his place at Boromir's side, his face suffused with anger and his eyes blazing. "You coward! I know you! You're the villain who wouldn't fight me! Well, I've got a proper sword now, and I'll teach you to murder my friends! Only let him loose, Aragorn, and give him his weapon..."

"Peace, Merry." Aragorn's low command stilled the hobbit's outburst and sent him back to his place, but the fire of vengeance still burned hot in Merry's eyes. "Boromir? Is it he?"

"Aye."

"Then there can be no doubt. You are a foul traitor, Elenard, and you disgrace the proud name of your homeland."

Elenard bowed his head and waited in silence.

"Your life is forfeit. There can be no pardon for your crime, and I will make no empty promise of mercy. But if you would die with some semblance of honor or make amends for the evil you have done, I will give you that chance."

"I do not expect mercy," Elenard growled, and for the first time, Aragorn heard a note of defiance in his voice, "but even you cannot strip my honor from me. I am loyal to my liege lord and to the crown of Gondor! I am no traitor!"

"Who rules Gondor in the absence of her King?" Aragorn demanded, his own anger rising dangerously. "To whom do you owe your allegiance, if not to that man? You cannot raise your sword against Gondor's Steward and call yourself loyal to Gondor's crown! For what you have done, I would gladly slay you with my own hands, and were I not a king with a duty to my people that demands sober justice, even for the likes of you, you would not leave this place alive!"

His impassioned words rang into silence, and none about him dared to break it, so heavily did his rage hang in the air. Elenard kept his eyes downcast and his shoulders bent, all defiance gone from his bearing. Duinhir's men shifted uncomfortably, their eyes seeking the safety of the night beyond the fire, shying away from the unmoved, unforgiving faces of those ranged behind the King.

Aragorn stared down at the traitor's bent head and reminded himself that this man was but a tool, a dupe of the Enemy. He had surrendered himself to his liege lord, knowing that it would cost him his life, rather than flee in ignominy, and it was Aragorn's duty to treat him fairly. Justice before vengeance. Duty before all things.

"Who acted with you in this?" he asked, coldly in control once more.

Elenard hesitated for only a moment. "Hirluin, also of Blackroot Vale."

"That is the man we hold in Minas Tirith," Boromir said.

Aragorn acknowledge this with a nod but did not take his eyes from Elenard. "Were there others?"

"Nay, my lord."

"None who helped you plan your treachery or conceal it upon your return?"

"Nay."

"Very well, I will accept that answer for the present. Now Elenard, I give you one chance to justify what you have done."

"What would you have me say?" the soldier asked.

"Tell me why you sought to murder my friend."

The soft menace in Aragorn's voice made Elenard flinch, but his composure held, and he answered stoutly enough, "I did what I deemed right, to drive the Enemy from the city and give our armies some hope of victory." He hesitated, then added, gruffly, "And to avenge my young lords."

"Your lords?" Aragorn looked to Duinhir and saw shocked grief in his face. The old lord turned quickly away to conceal his emotion.

"The sons of Duinhir perished before the gates of Minas Tirith, when the Shadow Steward rode among us," Elenard growled.

"Did Boromir slay your lords?"

"'Twas the orcs of Mordor who slew them, but 'twas his presence upon the field that sealed their doom! They would not have died, had he stayed within the city walls, his sword sheathed and his ill-omened face hidden, as befits the broken and useless remains of a soldier!" A low murmur of anger went up from those listening, but Elenard ignored them. For the first time, he spoke directly to Boromir, and it seemed to Aragorn as though the two men were alone, locked in a contest of wills that had nothing to do with the rest of them. "How could you, a veteran of many wars, bring such a curse upon us? How could you cast your darkness over us at such a time?"

"What would you have done in my place?" Boromir demanded. "Would you have kept your sword sheathed and your face hidden, while the orc host poured through the city gates? I fear no curse, Elenard. I bear no blame for your lords' death. But if I had let the White City fall to the Enemy and had lifted no hand to protect her, then would I indeed be a curse upon my people!"

"Aye. You drove the orcs back from the gates. But what of the omens? What of the signs?"

"What of them? Sauron is fallen, Minas Tirith is free, and I live. What sign do you read in this?"

"The King defeated the Nameless One. The Lord Elfstone, come out of legend to save us from the Shadow. Not you, son of Denethor."

Boromir shrugged. "True. But neither did I plunge Gondor into darkness nor defeat the Armies of the West by walking among them. As curses go, I seem to be rather pitiful."

Elenard's answer was lost in the stir of Imrahil's arrival. The Prince strode up to the fire, followed closely by his escort, a single Ranger who moved soundlessly in his wake. As the two men stepped into the light, Aragorn saw that the Ranger was Halbarad. The King eyed him warily, not sure whether to be glad or annoyed that his lieutenant had taken it upon himself to join the informal council in progress, but he made no comment.

Imrahil halted abruptly some paces away from Aragorn and the kneeling prisoner, and his eyes darted about the group in surprise. "You sent for me, my lord?"

"Aye. Thank you for joining us so promptly."

Imrahil nodded, a frown contracting his brow as he looked at the bound man. "Who is this?"

"Our missing assassin." Imrahil's frown turned thunderous, and he started forward, his mouth open to speak, but Aragorn halted him with a raised hand. "I cry you patience, Imrahil. When I have dealt with this man, I will tell you why I have summoned you here."

Imrahil subsided, falling back to stand with Halbarad. Aragorn privately noted the way the two men drew together in the tense atmosphere. Turning to Elenard, he said, "It is clear that you have been an unwitting tool of other, more subtle minds in this, and I can even find it in me to pity you."

"All the armies know that the coming of the Shadow Steward portends defeat and darkness! Ask any soldier around any campfire, and you will hear the same!"

"I know I will, for you have all paid heed to the same whispers. Now pay heed to me, Elenard of Morthond. Am I not the Lord Elfstone, come out of legend to save you from the Shadow?"

"Aye..."

"Then give ear to me and believe what I say. There is no such omen, no such old soldier's tale. This false portent was spread among you to feed upon your fears and overmaster your reason. It is a lie, Elenard. No more. Because you believed it, you have forfeited your honor, befouled your good name, and condemned yourself to a traitor's end."

Elenard licked his lips nervously and shot a furtive glance at Boromir. "Mayhap... mayhap I have doubted... since our victory before the Black Gates."

"Is that why you surrendered yourself to Lord Duinhir?"

The man hesitated, then gave a twitch of his head that passed for a nod.

Aragorn leaned forward on his stool. "Look at me." Elenard reluctantly lifted his gaze to meet the King's, and Aragorn stared deeply into his eyes, searching for some hint of falsehood or concealment. "Who fed you this lie?" he asked, softly.

Elenard shook his head. "No one. I know not!"

"Do not hope to deceive me, Elenard. Tell me who whispered this poison in your ears."

"I heard it all through the camp. From the night after the battle, when the story went round about the young lords' deaths and the Steward's ride from the gates... It was on every soldier's lips!"

Aragorn held his eyes for another moment, then sat back with a sigh. He gazed thoughtfully at the prisoner, then he glanced up at the crowd of pale, strained faces regarding him. Duinhir and his men looked particularly shaken. "One question more. Did you see any stranger in your camp that night, or at any time before we marched from Minas Tirith?"

"Aye." Elenard frowned at him in confusion. "Many. We were among an army of comrades-in-arms. Men of Anfalas, Ethir, Lamedon... all moved freely among the tents and stopped to talk with friends."

"Any who wore devices unknown to you? Or whose presence you questioned?"

"Not that I remember, my lord."

"Very well." Rising from his stool, Aragorn handed Elenard's sword to Pippin and stepped around the fire. He approached Duinhir with his hand outstretched. The Lord of Morthond returned his handclasp gratefully. "You have done me great service, Duinhir, and I thank you, but I have one more task to lay upon your shoulders."

"I will gladly serve you in any way open to me."

"Talk to your men. Find out who first brought the tale of the Shadow Steward to them and trace it to its source. Ask also the lords of neighboring lands, whose borders march with yours and whose men walk freely through your camp. I do not believe that you and yours have spawned this foul treachery, but it was among your archers that it came to light, and so we must begin our search with them."

"I will do aught I can to unearth your traitors, my lord."

"I know you will. And now, return to your tents with my thanks and leave this wretch to me."

Duinhir bowed and turned to leave, his men falling in behind him. As their footsteps faded into the night, the scene around the fire visibly relaxed. Legolas and Gimli moved to flank the prisoner, their hands resting casually on their weapons and a certain calm alertness in their manner. Pippin carefully laid Elenard's sword upon the grass, then he found his wine cup and an empty stool and sat down to watch the others in comfort. Gandalf, too, took a seat, but he did not so far forget the serious business still ahead of them as to rekindle his pipe.

Boromir would have withdrawn from the fire and found himself a shadowed place in which to wait, but Imrahil forestalled him by laying a hand on his arm and asking, "Is it true, Boromir? Is the assassin caught and the treachery unmasked?"

"Aye."

"The traitor's weapon is unmasked, if not the traitor himself," Aragorn said, more sharply than he had intended.

Imrahil turned swiftly from Boromir to Aragorn. "What mean you, my lord?"

Aragorn ignored his question. Coming back around the fire, he approached the prisoner, and for the first time, there was no anger in him as he looked upon the bound man.

Gesturing toward Imrahil, he asked, mildly, "Do you know who this man is, Elenard?"

"'Tis the Prince of Dol Amroth, my lord. Many's the time we've fought alongside the standard of the Swan Ship." The archer bobbed his head in a small bow to Imrahil. "My Lord Prince."

Imrahil frowned down at him without acknowledging the courtesy.

"Have you ever had speech with the Prince?"

"Nay, lord."

"Have you ever seen him in Morthond's camp, talking to any of your comrades?"

"Nay, lord. Until tonight, I'd never seen him but on the battlefield, and that from half a league off."

"What folly is this?" the Prince demanded.

"Patience, Imrahil. I am nearly done." He shifted his gaze from the Prince to the silent Ranger, who stayed well back at the edge of the firelight. "Come closer, Halbarad."

Halbarad moved like a shadow upon the grass, drawing into the light and up to Aragorn's side. His face was smooth and untroubled, his eyes full of naught but curiosity as he gazed at Elenard.

"Do you know this man?" Aragorn asked the prisoner.

"Aye, 'tis one of your Rangers, my lord."

"Have you ever seen him in your camp?"

"Many a time."

"Indeed? When?"

"Throughout the march on the Black Land. The Rangers haunted our camp - looking for me, so I thought - and he was one who came often."

"And before we left Minas Tirith?"

Elenard regarded the still face thoughtfully, then shrugged. "Mayhap. I do not remember."

Halbarad showed no reaction, but Imrahil was growing angry. Color stained his cheeks, and his eyes snapped, as he said, "Are we now to stand examination by a traitor? I ask you again, my King, what means this?!"

"It is well you remember who I am!" Aragorn retorted, letting some of his own anger flare up. "Be careful what names you throw about, Prince Imrahil, lest they come home to roost! Elenard, you will go with this Elf and this Dwarf, who will deliver you to your jailers. You will remain under close guard until we reach Minas Tirith, where I will decide your fate. You will speak to no one without leave, and you will make no attempt to escape, or you will be slain out of hand. Do you understand me?"

"Aye, my lord."

"Good. Legolas, Gimli, take him to Éomer. I deem he will be safe and well guarded among the Men of Rohan."

Gimli gave a snort of laughter. "Not if Éomer gets wind of who he is!"

"You will tell Éomer, from me, that I trust he will deliver my prisoner to me in the Tower of Guard, unscathed. And tell him that it is because I trust him so implicitly that I place this burden upon him. Get him up, Legolas."

Legolas grasped Elenard by the arm and hoisted him easily to his feet. The archer bowed to Aragorn and, after a moment's hesitation, to Boromir and Imrahil. Elf and Dwarf caught his arms and marched him away from the fire, Gimli tossing a last, threatening glare at Halbarad over his shoulder as he went.

Aragorn tore his eyes away from the retreating figures to find Boromir standing close beside him. The King's gaze dwelt on his Steward's face for a moment, reading the strain and weariness there, and Aragorn felt a sudden desire to spare the other man any more conflict, at least for this one night. He had not realized, until he saw the pain etched into those familiar features, just how deeply it wounded Boromir to be the cause of such upheaval and the object of such disdain.

"You need not stay for this, Boromir," Aragorn said. "You and Merry have traveled far today and should take some rest."

Boromir smiled mirthlessly, making his features look even more drawn. "I'd like to hear what my kinsman has to say." He held out one hand toward Merry, who was never more than a pace or two from his side, and the halfling stepped quickly up to him. "Are you tired, Merry? Mayhap you and Pippin would like some time to yourselves."

"No." Merry slipped his small hand into Boromir's large one. "I want to hear this, too."

"So do we all," Gandalf interjected, gruffly. "You have much to explain, Dol Amroth."

Imrahil looked from face to face, seeing only implacable eyes and hardened features, with little sympathy visible anywhere. His own cheeks were unnaturally pale, for understanding had done away with his outrage. "You have spoken to Faramir," he said at last, his voice full of sorrow.

Boromir answered, "He has told me of your conspiracy."

Imrahil's head reared back proudly, and his posture stiffened. "Conspiracy? That is a foul word for a lawful alliance of men in a just cause."

"Call it what you will, the end is the same. You seek to wrest my birthright from me and bestow it upon my brother, against the rights of blood and the wishes of your King."

"I will do nothing against the wishes of my King, but it is my right and my duty, as his loyal vassal, to air my concerns to him in such a matter. If my words bear no weight with him, then so be it. I will bow to him in this, as in all things. But I will not stand idly by and make no move to influence his choice in something that touches so nearly the welfare of all Gondor!"

Aragorn fixed the Prince with a steady, neutral gaze that he knew well could be as unnerving as open rage. "That is a fine speech, Imrahil, but it does not answer the question of treason."

"What treason?" Aragorn could see the bewilderment under his affronted pride. "What have I done, except speak with a trusted kinsman about his brother's welfare?"

"I know not. What else have you done?"

Imrahil shifted his stance uncomfortably, but he held Aragorn's gaze without flinching. "If you spoke to Faramir, then you know all my part in this."

"I will ask you directly, Prince Imrahil, and I require a direct answer. Did you spread rumors among the armies of the south to incite the men to violence against Boromir?"

Imrahil's eyes widened in dismay. "I did not."

"Did you have speech with any man who suggested such an action or boasted of having done it?"

"I did not! Ye gods, Aragorn, what do you take me for?! Boromir is my kinsman! Think you I would raise a hand to harm him, or allow another to do so?"

"You would deprive him of his birthright."

"To protect him! To spare him the horrors his father suffered!" Turning to Boromir, he stretched out a hand and half pleaded, "You know that I would never do such a thing, Boromir! You cannot believe it!"

"I do not wish to believe it," Boromir answered, his voice low and rough with emotion, "but nothing has been as I would wish it since my return. I came home to lay my sword and my life before Gondor, as her devoted son, to find that she does not know me."

Imrahil's face paled and his mouth tightened. He dropped his hand to hang limply at his side. "I swear to you both, on my honor, that I did not do this vile thing."

Aragorn held his eyes for a moment, reading the sincerity in them, then nodded shortly. "I will hear your concerns about my Steward, when I hold council in Minas Tirith. Until then, I look to you to support him in all duty and honor. Remember, my Lord Prince, that I do not yet wear the crown of Eärnur. I am not yet your King. It is to Boromir, Steward of Gondor, that you owe your fealty."

"I have not forgotten."

"That is well."

"Make I take my leave now, Lord Aragorn?"

"Tell me one thing more. Who is in this... alliance with you?" Aragorn saw Imrahil hesitate and read the suspicion in his face. "I hold you guiltless of treason, Imrahil, as do I all who stand with you and act in good faith. But violence has been done against one I value as I do myself. I cannot let it go unpunished."

"You have your assassin."

"You know as well as I that Elenard was merely the tool of other, more clever men. It may be that I will find those others among your confederates. It may be that I will not. But I must begin looking somewhere."

Imrahil considered his words for another moment, then he finally nodded acceptance. He gave Aragorn several names, representing many of Gondor's noble houses and a fair number of her more distant allies, including Lord Taleris and Faramir. When he had done, he cast a burning look at Halbarad and said, "'Twas your own kinsman who first approached me and urged me to seek out Faramir."

"Halbarad?"

"Aye."

Aragorn did not look at his second in command as he spoke, for he was unsure of his own strength at such a moment and would not lose control in front of Imrahil. Keeping his eyes firmly on the Prince, he said, "I thank you for your help."

Imrahil gave him a stiff bow. "I sincerely hope that you find the man responsible for this outrage." Turning to Boromir, he added, "And I hope that you understand my reasons for what I do, Boromir. Like you, I want only to protect my homeland."

"We'll not debate it now," Boromir answered, quietly.

"Nay, we will not. I bid you all a good night." With another stilted bow that encompassed all the remaining members of the Fellowship, he spun on his heel and strode proudly into the darkness beyond the fire.

Almost before the Prince had moved beyond hearing, Gandalf was on his feet. He smiled own at Pippin, his eyes twinkling with their usual wry humor, and said, "Come, Master Took. Let us find a grassy bank on which to prop our tired backs and smoke a pipe together."

Pippin climbed off his stool and slapped at his pockets. "I've left my pouch in the tent."

"Then we shall stop and get it, if you have any Longbottom Leaf to share with an old friend." The wizard shepherded the hobbit toward the edge of their firelit clearing, casting Aragorn a sober, understanding look as he went. "Merry? Boromir? Will you join us?"

Boromir ruffled Merry's hair in an unconscious gesture of affection and said, "I'll to Rohan's camp. Éomer will have a patch of ground for me to sleep on, and I've a mind to pass the night with the Rohirrim. What of you, Merry?"

"I'll go with you," said Merry. "The King offered me a place at his table and a warm bed in his tent, if I want them."

"Come then, Master Swordthain."

With murmured farewells to Aragorn, the four companions quickly departed. Aragorn was both grateful and perturbed to see them go. He did not want any of them to witness what was to come, but he felt the lack of their support and restraint. He kept his gaze fixed on the night shadows that had swallowed them, while he struggled to make sense of his own conflicting emotions and find the words to address his kinsman.

Behind him, Halbarad stirred and spoke, his voice utterly calm. "I must see to the changing of the sentries."

"Nay, do not go!" Aragorn turned abruptly and saw that Halbarad had not moved. His eyes met Aragorn's straightly, gravely, and though his hand rested upon his sword hilt, there was no threat in the gesture. It was the poised and ready stance he always used when awaiting his captain's orders. Aragorn stared back at him, making no attempt to hide his distress.

This was Halbarad who stood so composedly before him. This was a man he knew almost as well as he knew himself - a man who had fought and suffered beside him through countless years of exile, who had supported him through the darkest moments of his life and never wavered in his loyalty. They were kin. They shared a common destiny and an uncommon love. When a shadow fell upon one, the other felt it. And now, when most they should rejoice in that bond of affection, they were unaccountably wounded by it.

That his beloved kinsman might have betrayed him was a torture to Aragorn. And that Halbarad's love for his king might have been the motivation for that betrayal made it all the more bitter for Aragorn to swallow. It was true that the Ranger had done nothing yet to warrant the name of traitor, so far as Aragorn knew, but his part in this league against Boromir proved him capable of a pettiness and jealousy that Aragorn found appalling. Even if Halbarad proved innocent of any wrongdoing, Aragorn would never again be able to look upon him with the same trust and unreserved love.

Halbarad must have read the conflict in his eyes, and certainly, he knew how to anticipate Aragorn's thoughts by now. A small, wry smile disturbed the perfect dignity of his face, without touching his wintry eyes. "You would question me, as well? Where was I at such a time? With whom did I speak?"

"I must." Aragorn's voice sounded strangely flat in his own ears. "I must know where you stand, Halbarad."

"I stand with you, as I always have. If you can doubt that, then you are not the man I have followed across the length and breadth of Middle-earth."

"One of us has changed. That much is clear." Of a sudden, the bitterness and pain welled up in Aragorn, shattering his control and forcing a tormented question from him. "How could you betray me thus, Halbarad? Why?"

Halbarad's face hardened into a furious mask, and his eyes blazed. "Have you forgotten whose son he is? Have you forgotten the insults, the disdain, the contempt you suffered at his father's hands?"

"Boromir is not his father!"

"He was raised by him! Petted and doted upon and encouraged in his vile ambitions by him! How can you look in his face and not see the pride of Denethor writ large there? Remember Thorongil and do not trust the son of Denethor!"

"I remember, Halbarad. More than all the rest, I remember the bitterness you felt, when Denethor's hostility made it meet for Thorongil to leave Gondor. But I told you then, as I tell you now, the time was not ripe for my coming. It was better that I leave Minas Tirith to her rightful lord and wait until I could win my crown openly, upon the field of battle, defeating our common enemy. I followed Gandalf's counsel and have never regretted it."

"Aye." Halbarad's hand tightened around his sword hilt, as he battled his seething anger. "You value Gandalf's counsel above all others."

"Will you tell me now that you do not trust Gandalf?"

"I will remind you that it was Gandalf himself who first cautioned you against Boromir."

"You are mistaken."

"He told you that Boromir was too much his father's son to be swayed by the teachings of the Wise. Has not Gandalf always looked to Faramir for the weal of Gondor? By his own reckoning, Faramir is a man of wisdom, compassion and sound judgement, where Boromir is a man of pride, ambition and selfish disdain!"

"Gandalf has since changed his mind. But you... you know nothing of Boromir! Nothing of what he has suffered and overcome to earn his place at my side."

"I know that you have allowed pity to cloud your judgement."

An anger as great and heedless as any Halbarad felt rose to choke Aragorn. Bitterness, hurt, sorrow - all were burnt away in the heat of that anger. But unlike Halbarad, he did not rage and storm. He became very still, his face as hard as adamant and his voice low and dangerous. Only his eyes still lived in his cold face. They glittered fiercely in the firelight, and for a terrible moment, Aragorn wished that he could flay the other man with his gaze alone, peeling away flesh and fabric to bare his soul and read his guilt.

"You forget yourself, Halbarad."

The Ranger flinched slightly, recognizing the peril in that soft voice, but he held his ground. "I will never forget what I owe the Heir of Isildur. I will serve you until my dying breath, whether you accept my service or no, and I will fight with the last ounce of my strength to protect you!"

"If you have roused loyal vassals of Gondor to violence against their Steward, you are a traitor, but you will not meet a traitor's end."

Doubt flickered in Halbarad's eyes. "What mean you?"

Aragorn took a step closer to him, bringing with him the silent menace of his anger. "You will not die with Elenard and Hirluin. You will not make it to the execution ground. If I find that you tried to murder Boromir, I will kill you with my own hands."

Halbarad swallowed, and so thick was the tension in the air that the sound seemed painfully loud. "And if I did not?"

"Then you are no traitor." He did not elaborate, for he did not know what more he could offer his kinsman. The words between them were too raw, too bitter, and the possibility of betrayal too real for any warmer gesture.

"Will you believe anything I say to you? Or has your love for Denethor's son poisoned you irrevocably against me?"

Aragorn felt his face tighten, and he saw the new fear in Halbarad's eyes. "Speak the truth, and I will know it."

"I did not set Elenard on to murder," the Ranger said, a belligerent note in his voice that he could not control. "I spoke no word to any man with that intent, nor did I wish the lawful ruler of Gondor dead. All that I have done and will do is for your weal. I want nothing more than to bring you safely to your crown and to see Gondor rest easy in your hands."

Aragorn watched his face intently as he spoke, and he knew that Halbarad was telling the truth. He did not fail to notice the careful wording of his statement, nor could he help wondering what other, less palatable truths lay behind those precise phrases, but he held his tongue. He had no proof that Halbarad was hiding something from him and no reason to suspect him beyond his own doubts. For tonight, his bald truths, however unsatisfactory, would have to stand.

"What say you, Aragorn?" his kinsman asked. "Have I given you the truth?"

"You have." Aragorn turned away from him, suddenly too weary to bear the touch of his gaze any longer. The next words stuck in his throat, but he forced them out. "I thank you."

Halbarad said nothing for a long moment, and Aragorn could feel his good sense warring with his injured pride, pulling him first one way then another. At last, sense triumphed, and the Ranger spoke in a level tone that betrayed none of his emotion. "I will see to the sentries. And since you deem that the archer is not your true enemy, that some traitor yet walks free among us, I will strengthen the guard upon your tent."

"There is no need. I am safe enough."

"No harm must befall our King." He executed a slight, stilted bow that Aragorn acknowledged with a nod, then he turned on his heel and strode crisply away.

Aragorn sank down on the nearest stool and buried his face in his hands. He remained thus, unmoving, for and endless, silent time, while he marshaled his strength and strove to master himself. Finally, he lifted his head. The flickering light revealed a face at rest, calm and untroubled, with only the heaviness of his eyes to betray what this peace had cost him. He got easily to his feet, brushed the cloak back from his shoulders, and walked into the night.

Chapter Text

Frodo sat at the great table, with Sam on his right, Gandalf on his left, and a feast fit for a king spread before him. The King himself presided over the joyous gathering, though his chair was no loftier and his garments no richer than those of others in the throng. To look upon Aragorn's face was to look upon the very greatest of Men. More than once, Frodo caught himself staring at the lordly figure in black and silver, with the circlet upon his brow and the green elf stone gleaming at his throat, wondering where his old friend Strider had gone.

All that long and wondrous day, Frodo had felt as though he were caught in someone else's dream. Familiar faces crowded about him, but they were full of a strange light and lined with a new wisdom, and they gazed at him as though he were some princeling out of legend, not Frodo Baggins of the Shire. Songs filled the air, praising the deeds of warriors, heroes, and kings. His own name fell from the minstrel's lips more often than any other, but still Frodo could not listen to the music and think of his own dark journey. He enjoyed the songs as he would the lays of the Elves - for their stirring beauty and far-off tales of valor - without any feeling that he was part of them.

Beside him, Sam drank it all in with wide, awestruck eyes and a rather embarrassed smile on his face. Dear Sam. The one piece of reality in all this bright, fantastic dream. When he looked at Sam, Frodo felt solid and whole again. When he looked away for long, the eerie lightness came upon him again, as if he were Galadriel's phial, drained of flesh and blood and filled to the brim with clear starlight.

He did not mind the sensation. It was made of gladness, of the blessed absence of pain, and of relief from a terrible burden that he had borne so long he no longer remembered a time when he did not suffer beneath it. Now, at last, it was gone. And with its passing came this lightness, this emptiness that could only be filled with light. Or with pain, if pain should come to him again.

Here, on this green field, surrounded by an outpouring of joy, Frodo could not dwell on the possibility of yet more pain. But the knowledge that it could return to him was never far from his thoughts. The space left in him by the Ring's destruction was born of pain, fashioned for it, a haven for it that would, inevitably, be filled again.

Frodo applauded the singer, accepted another helping of food and tossed a laughing remark at Pippin, who was standing at Aragorn's elbow with a flagon of wine. It all felt very easy and delightful. And Frodo allowed himself to accept it as it came, for the time being at least, without fear or questions. He was among friends, with no shadows to darken his heart.

His eyes moved around the near end of the table, taking in all the Fellowship who sat close about him. Only one face among the group wore no smile, and Frodo could not help turning to gaze at that familiar, yet altered face more often than any other. Boromir sat at Aragorn's right hand, but he did not seem comfortable there. He neither smiled nor laughed, he ate and drank almost nothing, and when no one engaged him in conversation, he seemed to draw in on himself, as though he wished he could disappear.

At first, Boromir's presence had made Frodo very uncomfortable. He could not forget how they had parted on Amon Hen. Frodo knew - none better - how the Ring could warp the minds and wills of those who stayed too long in its presence or listened too closely to its whispers, and he did not blame Boromir for his actions. But he could not be easy in the Man's company, especially when he did not know how the loss of the Ring and the war that followed had affected him.

But as the day wore on and he had more time to watch Boromir, Frodo's nervousness passed. For one thing, Boromir stayed scrupulously away from him. He stood behind Aragorn through the formal ceremonies of the day, just as he sat beside him now, but whenever possible he kept in the background, leaving Frodo in peace to enjoy himself without worrying about Boromir's state of mind, and giving the hobbit ample time to observe him.

The more he observed, the more convinced he became that Boromir was not the same man who had attacked him on Amon Hen. It was not just the black fabric bound across his eyes - horrifying to Frodo at first, now a source of sadness - but his whole demeanor that had altered. Had Frodo looked upon him with less discernment, he might have feared that the Shadow still held sway over Boromir, so dark and withdrawn did he seem, but Frodo was not deceived. He knew pain when he saw it. And he suspected that he knew the source of that pain.

He was sitting at the table, gazing thoughtfully at Boromir, when Sam stirred restlessly beside him and made a disgruntled noise in his throat. Frodo turned to him, his eyebrows raised in question.

"Is something the matter, Sam?"

Sam cast a darkling look toward the head of the table. "Like a great, black crow he is. Sitting there scowling. He puts me off my dinner."

"Who does?"

"Master Boromir. The Steward, I should say. I don't like the look of him, Mr. Frodo, and so I shall tell Strider if he asks me. Which he won't."

Frodo smiled slightly. "No, he won't, and I don't think you should tell him anything of the kind. There's nothing wrong with Boromir, Sam, any more than with me or with you. We've all walked a bit too far on dark roads, and some of us have forgotten how the sunlight feels. But we'll remember." His eyes lingered on Boromir's face, and he repeated, softly, "We'll remember."

Sam grunted again. "All I can say is he'd better not come next or nigh you, or he'll have me to deal with."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, because I'm going to talk to him, if I get the chance."

"Now Mr. Frodo, don't you go stirring things up! Master Boromir is behaving himself nicely, for all he looks like he'd rather be off killing orcs. So just you let him be!"

Frodo couldn't help chuckling at that. "Is it me you're trying to protect or him?"

"I haven't forgotten what he did, even if you have."

"I haven't forgotten." Frodo sipped his wine and cast another glance at the silent Man. "But I understand it better, now."

Sam let that pass with no more than a snort and went back to his meal. Frodo turned his attention to Gandalf and the story he was telling Pippin, and he thought no more of Boromir while it lasted. He was not surprised when the Steward got up to leave the table early. The feast was still in progress, the minstrels still wandering the tables and pavilions, singing their songs of valor and renown, when Boromir pushed back his chair and got to his feet. Merry appeared instantly at his side, and together, they left the pavilion.

Frodo said nothing, though he watched them until the silk of the tent hid them from his view. When Merry returned alone, he was tempted to ask him where Boromir had gone, but he doubted Merry would tell him. There was a bond of affection between the hobbit and the man that Frodo had seen with some surprise and still did not fully understand. It came before Merry's duty to his sworn liege lord, Éomer, whom he left with no more than a word when Boromir needed him. And it meant that Merry would do nothing against Boromir's wishes. Boromir clearly did not want to have private speech with Frodo, and Merry clearly would not tell Frodo where to find him. So, Frodo would have to go looking on his own, when the time was right.

Slowly, the revelers drifted from their tables beneath the pavilions to seats upon the grass, under the open sky of Ithilien. Wineskins and flagons were passed about. The minstrels were plied with drink and urged to start their songs anew. Talk flowed as merrily as the wine, and many was the voice lifted to join the more practiced music of the minstrels.

Frodo let Sam lead him to where the rest of the Fellowship had gathered. He sat with the other hobbits, listening to Gandalf, who was unusually expansive today, telling of the glory days of Moria when the Dwarrowdelf shone with the light of many torches and rang with the music of many hammers. Gimli did not seem to think that the old wizard did his forebears justice and frequently interrupted him with some more eloquent description, which earned gentle laughter from Legolas and an acid retort from Gandalf that he, who had walked the halls of Moria at their height, was better suited to tell the tale than Gimli, son of Glóin.

Only when the others were deeply engrossed in their talk and paying little heed to him did Frodo slip away. He did not want to worry them, and he did not want Sam to follow out of a misguided desire to protect him. But at last, Sam was nodding over his cup, a happy smile on his face, and Frodo could make good his escape.

He did not have to go far to find his quarry. The King's pavilion was pitched near the northern verge of the field, where the smooth turf rose to meet the boles of the first trees. Among those trees, seated against a wide trunk, his body still and his face more peaceful than Frodo had yet seen it, was Boromir.

Frodo approached the Man where he sat alone on the grass and halted a few paces from him. He waited for a brief moment, to see if Boromir was aware of him, then cleared his throat politely. Boromir's head came around with a start, his face suddenly wary.

"May I join you?" Frodo asked.

Boromir stiffened, and he seemed to withdraw from the hobbit's quiet presence as if from an open flame. "Frodo!"

"I want to talk to you."

The man looked around for help that was not forthcoming, then he shrugged and tried to smile. It came out badly awry. "They are singing about you. Would you not rather sit with the others and listen?"

"No." Frodo sat down, cross-legged, beside him, without waiting for his leave. For a long moment neither spoke, while the strains of the minstrel's song washed over them. Then Frodo said, very softly, "You have been avoiding me."

"Surely that was for the best." The man hesitated, then added, with an attempt at humor, "Did not your faithful Sam warn you against me?"

"Of course he did. But Sam... Sam does not really understand."

Boromir cast him a swift, keen look that made Frodo forget, just for a moment, about the cloth bound across his eyes and the months of darkness that had passed since their last meeting. "Understand what?"

"That it is too late to protect me." A wistful smile touched Frodo's lips and sounded in his soft voice. "The damage is already done."

The fierce intelligence left Boromir's face, and he seemed to draw in on himself. He was once again the brooding figure that Frodo had watched throughout the day, wrapped in sorrow and regret, bowed beneath the weight of his pain. "Aye, the damage is done and cannot be undone. That is why I have tried to avoid you." He turned his head away from Frodo's steady gaze. "This is your time, Frodo. Your triumph. You should enjoy it, without ugly reminders of the past to darken it."

"You are not an ugly reminder of anything to me, Boromir. You are - or you once were - my friend. Is that gone, now that the Ring is gone?" He saw Boromir flinch at his mention of the Ring, and his eyes grew sad. He understood what lay between them, or thought he did, and was afraid that no power on Middle-earth could tear down that barrier, but he had to try. "I had to destroy it."

Boromir looked surprised at his words. "I know you did. You saved us from the Enemy. You did something... something no Man could have done."

"But its passing is like a wound that never heals, a hole that cannot be filled." Frodo bowed his head, as tears pricked his eyes. "I'll feel the pain of it forever."

Boromir lifted a hand to touch him, wanting to comfort the hobbit, but changed his mind and dropped his hand again. Frodo looked up at him with sympathy and understanding in his eyes.

"I know that the Ring touched you, too, and if you can't forgive me for destroying it..."

"Forgive you? Frodo, I am the one who needs forgiveness, not you."

"No. That wasn't you. You were not to blame for what the Ring did."

"I was, and I am. I drove you away from the Fellowship, and I forced you and Sam to go alone into peril. I betrayed you, broke my vow, destroyed the Company, and nearly brought ruin on us all."

Frodo laughed. He knew it sounded strange, in light of Boromir's tortured confession, but he could not help it. Relief welled up in him, filling him with laughter that simply could not be contained. "Ruin? It was the saving of us all!"

Boromir only looked the more grim. "Aye, through the strength and courage of others."

"Had I stayed with the Fellowship, we would not be having this conversation, for there would be no victory to celebrate and no leisure to decide guilt or innocence. And had you not forced me to go, I would never have found the courage."

"It matters not how things worked out, Frodo. I still must bear the blame for what happened at Amon Hen."

Frodo gazed at the proud, handsome face, now drawn with sorrow and scarred beyond repair. He had wondered often, during the long trek into shadow, what had become of this man. He had never thought to see any of his companions again, so he had resigned himself to never knowing their fates, but his thoughts had returned ever more frequently, as the Ring's presence grew in his mind, to the one who had gone that way before him. Now he knew that Boromir had survived both the war and the poison of the Ring. The only wound yet unhealed was the guilt of his betrayal, and only Frodo could heal it.

Propping his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, Frodo let his voice fall to a soft murmur, meant only for Boromir's ears. "Can I tell you something that no one else knows? No one but Sam?"

"If you wish it."

"Yes, I do. They're all singing songs about what I did, but they don't know that... I didn't do it. I didn't destroy the Ring, Boromir. I couldn't. When the time came to cast it into the fire, I put it on my finger instead and tried to claim it as my own. The Ring took me, and if it hadn't been for Gollum, Sauron would have it now. So you see, you're not the only one who couldn't resist it. You said I did what no Man could, but you're wrong. It was Gollum - Gollum and blind chance that destroyed the Ring, not me. If you're to blame, then so am I. If you betrayed the Fellowship, then so did I. Me, Nine-fingered Frodo! The one they're singing songs about!

"I'll tell you what I truly believe, what I always believed, even on Amon Hen when I ran away from you. I believe that none of us was strong enough to withstand the Ring. The ones who escaped it were lucky enough to get away before it took them. That's all. You and I were not so lucky, and now we have to carry the burden of what it made us do, as well as the wound of losing it, for the rest of our days. And I'll tell you something else, Boromir." The hobbit laid a hand on Boromir's arm, making him start in surprise and turn his bandaged gaze on Frodo. "That wound is punishment enough for any crime."

Boromir struggled with himself for a moment, his face hard with strain, then he murmured, "I listen for its whispers in my mind. They are gone, and I rejoice to be free of them, but still I listen. And I... miss them."

"Yes. It is a dreadful kind of loneliness, to miss something that gave so much pain when you had it near you."

"Frodo..." Again, he seemed to force the words out past some barrier in himself. "Can you really forgive me so easily?"

"There is nothing easy about it, for either of us, but yes. I forgive you."

"Because you think it was the Ring, and not I, who wronged you?"

"Because I know exactly how you felt, when you realized what you had done and knew you could not stop yourself. And because I know exactly how you feel this very minute, sitting here, listening to me tell you it wasn't your fault when your own conscience is torturing you. I don't think you need my forgiveness, Boromir, but I know why you're asking me for it. So I'll make a bargain with you. I'll forgive you for trying to steal the Ring, if you'll forgive me for throwing it in the Cracks of Doom and leaving us both to suffer for it."

"But you had no choice..."

Frodo grinned up at the perplexed warrior, seeing the slow dawning of understanding and relief in his face. "Do we have a bargain?"

Boromir gave him a rueful smile. "Aye."

"I'm glad." Frodo felt the last, lingering bit of tension drain from his body. He stretched his tired limbs and chuckled softly. "Now the Fellowship really is whole again."

"You'd best get back to your songs and tales, before they miss you."

"Won't you come with me? The Nine Walkers should be together on this, of all days, to celebrate their victory."

Boromir sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, then he suddenly smiled, and his face was transformed. He got swiftly to his feet, moving with the old energy and grace that Frodo remembered. Even his cloak seemed to swing more jauntily from his shoulders. "Very well, but you must promise to shield me from Sam's wrath. I have not my sword with me."

Frodo scrambled up, laughing. "I will."

He waited, feeling suddenly awkward and unsure what to do. Boromir stood beside him, his manner equally uncertain, and Frodo got the distinct impression that Boromir was afraid to touch him. Thrusting aside his own nervousness, Frodo slipped his hand into Boromir's and started walking. Boromir fell into step with him, but after a moment, he gently detached his hand from Frodo's clasp and placed it instead on the hobbit's head. In this way, they moved easily down the gentle slope toward the tents and revelers below.

*** *** ***

The Armies of the West marched home in triumph. When they came at last within sight of the city walls, they found Minas Tirith decked out in all her finery to greet them. Banners, flowers and lengths of bright silk, embroidered with the arms and devices of all the victorious lords, flowed from her battlements. Gaily dressed people massed along the walls and poured out of the gates - people from every land to the south and west, who had flocked to the White City to welcome their King - and they sang as they waved to the soldiers or threw flowers onto the roadway where their mailed feet would tread.

Faramir stood apart from the throng, with Húrin, Warder of the Keys, beside him and a group of liveried Guard behind. They waited, solemn amidst the riot of celebration, for the Captains who rode in the van of the army to draw near. At last they came. Aragorn, astride Roheryn, clad all in black mail girt with silver, a cloak like new snow about his shoulders and a star bound to his brow. Boromir and Merry upon Fedranth, with Éomer, Legolas and Gimli beside them. Pippin, Frodo and Sam, with Gandalf and the Prince of Dol Amroth as their escort. And thirty Men all clad in grey and silver, their faces stern yet fair to look upon - the Dúnedain of the North.

As the great army ranged itself in lines that filled the Pelennor with sharp lances and shining helms, this small company dismounted and continued forward on foot. They moved into the wide, empty space before Faramir and the ruined gates, and as they came, an awed hush fell upon the gathered host.

Faramir stepped out to meet them. In his hands he carried the white rod of Stewardship, and his tunic was of white silk that blazed in the sunlight with no device upon it. He bowed to Aragorn with deep respect, but it was Boromir whom he approached. When he reached his brother, he bowed again and held out the symbol of his office.

"Welcome, Brother. I have fulfilled your commands and kept your city against your return. I now offer you back what is yours, Steward of Gondor."

Boromir stretched out his hand, and Faramir placed the staff in it. "I thank you for your care of our people and our city." The brothers embraced, and Boromir added, so that only those closest to them heard, "And I thank you for your welcome."

When they moved apart, Boromir turned to face Aragorn and knelt before him. Holding out the staff across his palms, he said, "The last Steward of Gondor begs leave to surrender his office."

"That office is not ended," Aragorn replied, as he placed the rod firmly back in Boromir's hands and closed them about it. "Take from the hand of Gondor's King that which is yours by right of blood and worth. Take it and my undying gratitude, Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor. Rise, and do your office."

Then, with due ceremony, was Aragorn, son of Arathorn crowned King of Gondor by the hands of those who had labored most to bring him to his throne. Boromir spoke the formal words of introduction to the people, bidding them recognize their rightful King. Faramir lifted the wingéd crown of Eärnur from its great black and silver chest, where it had rested through many generations, awaiting this moment. Frodo took the crown from Faramir's hands and bore it to where Aragorn knelt in readiness, then Gandalf the White, mightiest of wizards, wisest of the Wise, placed the crown upon Aragorn's brow.

When he rose to his feet, every voice upon the field and the city walls was stilled, and all eyes gazed in wonder at the King. It seemed to the people of Gondor as if the legends of the ancient Sea-Kings had come to life before them, and the figure that stood upon the field was no Man at all, but one of the great heroes of old, come back to lead them out of the Shadow. Then the Steward turned his blind gaze upon the King, and all those who watched thought that even he must see the light that wrapped the King about and shone from his lordly face as brightly as from the gems that adorned his crown.

Lifting his arms, Boromir cried aloud, "Behold, the King!"

At his words, every trumpet rang out from the city walls and the people burst into song. Amid the tumult, Aragorn signaled that their horses be brought and all the company mounted again. They all turned toward the gates of Minas Tirith, but they hung back, leaving the King to ride alone onto the roadway.

Aragorn urged Roheryn forward only a few paces, until the horse's hooves trod on a thick carpet of flower petals, then he halted and lifted his head to gaze up at the tower gleaming so high above him. He saw the banners snapping in the breeze, heard the trumpets ring out, and gazed at the white walls that rose so majestically from the knees of Mindolluin. A smile touched his lips, and he twisted in his saddle to look behind him.

Holding out one hand, he called, "Boromir!"

The Steward looked askance at his summons and did not move. But Merry, who sat before him in the saddle, saw the imperative gesture Aragorn gave, motioning them closer, and he obediently urged Fedranth forward. They rode to where Aragorn waited, and Fedranth sidled up beside the other horse.

Aragorn reached over to catch Boromir's arm. "Do you hear them? The trumpets?"

Boromir lifted his head, exactly as Aragorn had done, and his friend knew from the expression he wore that he was picturing the lofty towers, bright banners and soaring walls just as Aragorn now saw them.

Aragorn's fingers tightened on his arm and tears of gladness started in his eyes. "Come. They are calling us home."

And together, Steward and King rode through the gates of Minas Tirith.

To be continued...

Chapter Text

The morning sun, bright with the promise of a hard-earned peace, poured its light through the windows to bathe the tower room. An enormous table dominated the space, its top thickly piled with maps, parchment, scrolls, leather tubes and well-chewed quills. Behind the table stood a large, ornate chair - not a throne, but clearly meant to signify authority. Aragorn, the man who held that authority, had abandoned his chair to pace the room, while his second-in-command lounged in the kingly seat.

Boromir leaned his elbows on the table, disarranging a pile of documents in the process and earning a look of mild reproach from his king.

"Those papers have been carefully sorted," Aragorn remarked, dryly.

Boromir nudged a pile with his elbow, then fingered the top sheet of parchment. "What is all this?"

"Lists. Dispatches. Proposals for my consideration. Reports on the condition of our defenses and allied lands."

"Rubbish," Boromir growled.

Aragorn stopped his pacing to lean in the window embrasure. He smiled slightly, his eyes warm with affection for his irascible Steward. "This coming from the man who so wanted to be King?"

"We all have our moments of folly."

"Now that you have put aside your folly, you can help your beleaguered king with his labors, instead of muddling up his desk."

Perversely, Boromir brightened at that suggestion. "That is easily done! Only fetch me a candle, and I'll clear your desk in no time..."

Aragorn chuckled. "You don't need a candle. You need a secretary to read all this rubbish to you. Then you can be of real help."

"Secretaries!" Boromir's voice dripped with scorn. "Oily voices and soft hands... Gah! I'll have no secretaries about me."

"We'll find one who isn't too unctuous."

"I'll have none of them, I tell you!"

"Perhaps a retired soldier who is lettered. Or a squire you can train to manage these things the way you like."

"You are not listening to me, Aragorn."

"You will need a squire, in any case, and if we choose one with a talent for..."

"If you send me a squire of any sort," Boromir interjected wrathfully, "I'll toss him out the nearest window!"

Aragorn gazed at him curiously, unperturbed by his flare of temper. "When did you conceive this dire hatred of squires? You were one, were you not?"

"Of course I was. All noblemen's sons get their earliest training as squires..." He broke off and scowled blackly in the King's direction. "Do not try to distract me, Aragorn. I know what is in your mind. You will saddle me with a hoard of attendants who will guard, guide and help me out of my wits!"

"What choice do you have? Without servants you can trust, how will you fulfill your duties as Steward?"

"I already have people I can trust about me."

"But none who will serve the purpose. Even without the burden of stewardship, your brother will be too busy to read dispatches for you. As will I."

Boromir looked suddenly uncomfortable. "I wasn't thinking of you or Faramir."

Aragorn hesitated for a moment, reading his true thoughts in his face, then said, "Merry is leaving."

"Offer him a knighthood or free run of the royal kitchens, and he'll stay."

"Merry is leaving," Aragorn repeated, firmly, and Boromir's scowl darkened. "He stays only for Arwen's coming and my wedding, then he and others will return to the Shire."

"I know."

"That is his home, Boromir."

"I know it!" Boromir snapped. "It was a jest. Merely a jest. Merry is no wretched underling, to spend his days trailing at my heels and reading piles of cursed lists."

Aragorn tried to smile again, but he found it difficult. "We will find someone you can tolerate."

"I tell you, I don't need anyone. What I need is a new pair of eyes!" With the last, shouted word, Boromir's frustration came to a sudden boil, and he shoved hard against the edge of the table, upending it with a crash and sending drifts of parchment sliding across the floor.

Aragorn came to his feet in alarm but halted well back from the disaster in the middle of the room. Utter stillness followed Boromir's outburst, as the King surveyed the wreckage and the Steward sat very still in his chair, visibly embarrassed by his own behavior.

After a very long moment, Aragorn spoke in a tone of mild reproof. "Those papers were carefully sorted."

"I beg your pardon," Boromir said, stiffly. "I'll clean them up."

"Do not bother. That's what I have wretched underlings for."

A discreet knock on the door signaled the arrival of one such underling, drawn by the noise in the room and concern for his lord. Aragorn opened the door, being careful not to tread on any of his valuable documents as he skirted the edges of the room to reach it, and found his Chamberlain standing outside. The man bowed slightly, his brow creased with disapproval as his eyes dwelt on the wreckage of the study.

"Is aught amiss, my lord?"

"Nay, all is well." The Chamberlain made a disgruntled noise in his throat and turned to leave, but Aragorn halted him with a raised hand. "We will be going down to the council chamber, when the trumpets sound the watch change. You may then send someone to clean this up. Until then, we do not wish to be disturbed."

"Aye, my lord."

Aragorn shut the door and turned to find Boromir still hunched forward in his chair, staring blankly at the darkness around him with a familiar scowl on his face. Since his meeting with Frodo at Cormallen, Boromir had seemed much more at ease, as if he had found some kind of peace within himself. He smiled more readily, even laughed upon occasion, and when his blindness forced him to accept guidance or help from one of his friends, he did so with a grace that Aragorn had not seen in him before. To watch him slip back into his old brooding state was painful for Aragorn.

"What is troubling you?" Aragorn asked, abruptly. He was learning not to treat Boromir's moods delicately, now that there was a bond of trust between them. Delicacy only gave the stubborn man an excuse to avoid questions, while bluntness drew the truth from him quickly. "Is it Merry's departure, or the Council?"

"Both." Boromir slumped back in the chair, still scowling. After a long, tense pause, he asked, "Have you considered that Faramir may yet side with Imrahil?"

"Certainly I have. What of it?"

"You will find it difficult to face down the entire Council, with Faramir to support them."

"I will not."

"I will."

"Then it is well that the burden falls on me."

Boromir struggled for a moment, clearly trying to force his words past some barrier in himself. When at last he spoke, his voice was oddly desperate. "Why must it be public, Aragorn? Can you not go to Faramir and sound him out in private? If he sides with Imrahil, and the Council backs them, then I will step aside. It need not be a public display of rancor and division!"

"Nay, Boromir, it must."

"I have said I will abide by Faramir's choice..."

"Enough." Aragorn's tone, mild as it was, silenced Boromir. The King crossed the room to where the great table lay on its side and circled around it, stepping over the outstretched legs. Propping himself against the thick edge of its top, he folded his arms across his chest and fixed a kind but unyielding gaze on his friend. "We will not have this argument again. You are my Steward and you will remain my Steward, regardless of what your brother thinks. Have I made myself clear?"

Boromir laced his fingers together and stared down at his hands, where they lay on his lap, hiding his face from Aragorn's eyes. "Then why the farce of this Council?"

"It is no farce, but a necessary step in establishing my reign. I cannot rule Gondor as a tyrant, nor can I act on this behind the scenes, in the shadows, where lies and whispers grow. The people must see that their King deals fairly with nobleman and commoner alike, and that he faces his challengers in the full light of day."

"And my brother?"

"He must declare himself. I must know where his loyalties lie and hear his reasons for his choice."

Boromir stirred uncomfortably. "While I must listen to him number my faults."

"Is there aught that he or any man can say that we have not already heard?"

"Nothing that bears any truth. You know the worst of me, Aragorn."

"Then you have nothing to fear. Have faith in me, Boromir, and in my love for you. I'll not fail you."

"I know you will not." Boromir stared at his hands for another moment, then murmured, "'Tis I who would fail you, my King. In sober truth, I would rather go away with Merry than stay in Minas Tirith and fight this battle against my kin. I could settle in the Shire, lead the life of a hobbit, and spend my days fishing on the Brandywine."

Aragorn smiled fondly at him. "You would make a dreadful hobbit."

"No worse a hobbit than a soldier or a steward."

"Very much worse!" He paused for a moment, then asked, quietly, "Do you think your blindness would be any easier to bear in the Shire - among strange people and strange customs - than it is here?"

Boromir pondered his question at some length. At last he answered, "I would be a stranger there myself, an unknown, judged only by what I am in the present, not by what I once was."

"Yet still an oddity, for your very strangeness, and an object of suspicion. Far better to stay in Minas Tirith, brave the Council, and wait for the turmoil to die down. When all is done, you will find yourself established as Steward and doing the one thing that will give you fulfillment."

"Caring for my land and people."

"Aye. You are a true son of Gondor, Boromir. This is where your heart dwells."

"Not all of my heart." Boromir lifted his head, allowing Aragorn to read his troubled, doubtful expression. "Some part of that will always be lost to me in the green hills of the Shire, with Merry. 'Tis a hard thing to love someone you cannot keep near you."

A vision of Arwen came suddenly to Aragorn's mind, and with it, the feeling of intense longing, pride and sadness that always accompanied thoughts of his future bride. The sadness was fading at last, as their wedding drew near, but he had lived with it for so many years that he could not relinquish it easily. It was woven into the image of her face, into the musical echo of her voice.

"I know it well," he murmured.

He opened his mouth to deliver a calming speech, giving Boromir the benefit of his wide experience, but the sudden call of a trumpet interrupted him. He crossed swiftly to the window and peered downward at the courtyard so far below. The trumpet sang again, heralding the change of the watch. In the street of the sixth circle, a small company of liveried guards marched toward the gate, while in the Court of the Fountain, a number of men clad in rich fabrics and burnished mail broke up their various conversations and headed for the open doors of the Citadel. The guard flanking the great doors saluted them as they passed within.

Turning back to Boromir, he said, "'Tis time."

Boromir pushed himself to his feet and waited for Aragorn to approach him. As his fingers closed a bit too tightly around Aragorn's arm, he muttered, "Let us be done with this."

"Do not be in such a hurry," Aragorn chided. "We should be the last to arrive, when they have had time to wait and worry a bit."

Boromir made a noise in his throat of mingled disgust and amusement, and a wry smile touched his lips. "The King should make a proper entrance."

"Precisely."

Together, they left the chamber and strode down the hallway with the measured tread that Aragorn deemed fitting for his dignity. Beside him, Boromir had assumed the harsh, proud mien that had overawed so many men throughout his illustrious career and now concealed his growing dread. It did not fool Aragorn, but it would serve him well in the Council. Aragorn smiled to himself, confident that together the King and his Steward could meet any challenge, any threat that might be leveled at them.

That Aragorn had timed their entrance aright was clear to Boromir from the swell of voices that poured out of the chamber to greet him. All the council must be gathered, waiting, growing more restless and expectant with every minute that passed. He tightened his clasp on Aragorn's arm and squared his shoulders, resolutely subduing his own nervousness as he stepped into the room at the King's side. A thunderous silence met their arrival, then every chair scraped back from the table and every man rose to his feet in a chorus of creaking leather and jingling metal.

How Aragorn greeted this show of respect, Boromir could not tell, but something about his upright carriage and firm step told Boromir that he had slipped into his lordly role. When he chose to do so, Aragorn could change from a quiet, ragged wanderer to the living image of the ancient Númenórean kings, all in a breath. Boromir had spent the morning in conversation with his friend, Aragorn, but now the gathered council of nobles would face King Elessar. And to judge by the palpable tension in the air, they must all have realized this.

Together, Boromir and Aragorn walked the length of the great table to where the King's chair stood at its far end. Aragorn halted and gently broke Boromir's grip on his arm.

"The Steward's traditional place is at the foot of the table, opposite his King," Aragorn said, "but I prefer to have my most valued councilors beside me. Sit here on my right."

Boromir found the high, carved back of a chair ready to hand. He grasped it tightly and awaited Aragorn's signal that they should take their seats. Under cover of the general noise, as all around the table men settled themselves into heavy, wooden chairs, Boromir pulled out his own and sat down. He did not shift forward eagerly or prop his forearms on the table, as he heard those about him doing, but stayed leaning back in the chair, apparently at his ease, distancing himself from the air of excitement in the chamber. If his hands gripped the arms of the chair more tightly than normal, no one could see it. And if his features were unnaturally hard with strain, less than a handful of the men present would suspect the reason for it.

Aragorn waited for his councilors to make themselves comfortable, then he rose again to his feet. The murmurs about the table died. When he spoke, it was in a grave, quiet tone that thinly veiled a wealth of power and an indomitable will.

"My lords, I welcome you to the Citadel of Minas Tirith and the council of King Elessar. I have called you all here, because I have need of your wisdom at this time. We have won a great victory. Now we must forge a lasting peace that will safeguard our people, a peace that does honor to the blood that was shed and the lives that were lost to bring us here. I look to you to help me forge that peace.

"Those of you who are traditional members of the council may look about this chamber and wonder at what you see. You may ask yourselves what the King of the Mark or Gandalf the White have to do with Gondor's peace. But I tell you that Sauron was not destroyed by Gondor alone, nor will our duties end at Gondor's borders. All Middle-earth is joined with us in the new age that dawns, and the leaders of Middle-earth will ever be welcome at my council table."

Aragorn paused to let the murmurs quiet again. When he resumed speaking, his voice had subtly changed. Boromir detected a note of dryness, of irony, and possibly of warning in it, though the King remained scrupulously polite.

"Before we can begin our labors in the cause of peace, we must settle our conflicts within these very walls. Some of you have questioned my choice of Steward. I do not need to impress upon you how serious a matter this is, for you are all aware what power the Steward of Gondor wields and what responsibility lies upon his shoulders. You have lived beneath a Steward's rule and watched that Steward fall into darkness."

A ripple of tension went about the table, inaudible yet strong enough to set Boromir's teeth on edge. He forced himself not to react, though Aragorn's choice of words struck as dissonant a chord in him as in the others listening.

"Because the horror of Denethor's madness is still fresh in your minds, I do not blame you for your present fears. They are understandable. And I am prepared to hear your arguments against my Steward. But remember this, my lords. The Stewards have ruled Gondor in an unbroken line, from Mardil Voronwë through Denethor II, passing the rod of office from father to son for twenty-six generations. Boromir is the firstborn son of Denethor, the rightful heir to the Stewardship of Gondor, and your liege lord. Had I not ridden out of the West to claim my crown, he would now be your king in all but name."

The sudden rasp of chair legs against stone interrupted Aragorn's words and announced that someone down the table to Boromir's right had risen to his feet.

"My lord King," Imrahil said, deferentially, "none of us here doubts the right of Denethor's son to hold the Stewardship. Nor do we deny that allegiance we owe to him."

"If you would neither deny his birthright nor withhold your allegiance, then what is the nature of your challenge, Imrahil?"

Boromir set his teeth against the dull pain of the words he knew were coming. From the lingering sadness in Imrahil's voice, he guessed that his kinsman did not find them easy to say. "It is not his right, but his fitness that we challenge."

A murmur went around the table, but whether of agreement or discontent, Boromir could not be sure. The man who sat at his right hand stirred and clasped his arm briefly. Éomer's welcome voice sounded in his ear, muttering, "The King will make short work of this."

Boromir tried to smile his thanks, but his face was set too hard with tension. "He cannot. He must hear them out."

Éomer tightened his grip for a moment in a gesture of sympathy, then settled back in his own chair. Boromir sensed the other man's restlessness and knew that, as his staunchest supporter outside the Fellowship, Éomer was itching to shout down the murmurs of the statesmen about the table and vent some of his growing frustration. Like Boromir, Éomer was a man who preferred the direct approach - a drawn weapon, a snarled oath, and a swift conclusion upon the field of honor - to all this polite backbiting. But for once, Boromir knew, a bright blade would not serve his turn. He must sit and listen in rigid silence, while a man he had loved and respected all his life traduced his character and laid bare his faults - both known and supposed - for the inspection of all.

It progressed just as Boromir had feared. The King encouraged Imrahil to lay his doubts and concerns before the council, asking occasional questions but offering no comment and making no move to stem the tide of the Prince's eloquence. Much of what Faramir had said to him - painful as it was coming from his brother - was now repeated by Imrahil and embellished with references to Gondor's weal that lent the whole thing a sordid air, as if Boromir, unbalanced in himself, was likewise unmindful of his people.

Boromir could not remove himself from the council chamber and he would not give his attackers the satisfaction of seeing him flinch under the lash of Imrahil's tongue. Whatever the turmoil within him, he would maintain his outward calm.

Feigning unconcern, he let his head rest against the polished, carved wood behind it. The blank bandage where his eyes should have been gave him a measure of freedom. He did not have to meet the hostile gazes of his enemies or school his own to hide his emotions. He could turn his thoughts where he would, distancing himself from the scene of bitter betrayal that played out around him, and none would be the wiser.

He breathed slowly, opening his hands to rest lightly on the chair arms, forcing his body to assume an outward calm that he did not feel. This was a familiar artifice, a soldier's ruse used to thrust aside nervous distractions and clear his head. It served him in this conflict, as it had in so many others, and he felt himself begin to relax.

Clean air moved softly against his face, and Boromir realized that he was seated opposite the row of tall, arched windows. Someone had opened at least one of them, allowing the telltale breeze to enter. No doubt Aragorn had ordered it done, just as he had ordered all the torches extinguished and the fire left unlit. Boromir could still smell cold ashes from the hearth and the bitter trace of old smoke on stone, but they were subtle smells and easily ignored. Clearly, Aragorn had tried to make the chamber comfortable for him, and on such a bright summer's day, none of the attendant nobles would miss the torches that were wont to line the walls.

He relaxed even more, as the moving air brought the scents of the city to him. Minas Tirith in the summer was a pungent place, but Boromir loved the smells of his city, as he loved everything about it from its lofty towers to its noisome alleyways. Aragorn had spoken the truth when he said that Boromir was a true son of Gondor - more so even than her King, for he had grown to manhood behind these white walls, steeped in the beauty, the pride, the bustle and dirt and stench that was Minas Tirith - and that his heart would ever dwell here.

A stirring at the table interrupted his private musing and forced the Steward to pay attention to business once more. Imrahil was pacing up the length of the chamber to Aragorn's chair. He laid something on the table with the rustling of parchment and the faint tap of heavy wax seals against the wood. Aragorn waited until Imrahil had resumed his seat, then he opened the scroll, spreading it out flat with his hands. Boromir sensed the flare of new tension in the room, as all those who had sat in mute support of Imrahil now prepared to add their voices openly to his.

Aragorn read in silence, deliberately unmoved by the growing unease of his councilors. At last, he let the parchment curl around itself again and gave an audible sigh. Was it relief, Boromir wondered? Had he looked for a given signature on the document and not found it?

"Many lords and many lands are named here," Aragorn said, "but some are quite notably lacking. Morthond, Lossarnach, Anfalas. And of course, Rohan."

Éomer snorted in disgust, making no attempt to mask his reaction from those around him, and Boromir felt a fresh surge of gratitude for the other man's outspoken, unstinting support.

Aragorn took no notice of the interruption. "One name, more central to your purpose than any other, I do not see. What of the Lord Faramir?"

Imrahil answered, "We did not ask that Faramir set his name to that document, my lord. His place is not among the petitioning nobles but in the Steward's chair."

A low murmur rose from the seated men, a subdued chorus of agreement and relief that the words were finally spoken. Those seated closest to Aragorn - those loyal to the King's chosen Steward - maintained a stony silence. Boromir himself felt only cold, choking dread.

"You bid us remember that the Stewardship belongs to the son of Denethor. I bid you remember, King Elessar, that Denethor has two sons, and either one of them may lawfully step into his father's place." Imrahil hesitated for a moment, then he resumed speaking more urgently, his words for Aragorn alone. "You love Boromir and would have him as your Steward, in spite of all the arguments against it. I honor you for that. I am proud to call you my King and to lay my sword at your feet, for I know that you are a man who values your friends and keeps your vows."

"Yet you stand up before my council and bid me be forsworn," Aragorn said, his voice dangerously soft.

"Nay, I ask Boromir to release you from your vow, so that you may, in all honor, choose a Steward more fitted to the task."

"And if he will not?"

"Then you will have no choice but to break it, for Gondor's sake. But I still have hope that my kinsman will put Gondor and her welfare before his own wounded pride and spare his King such dishonor."

A growl rose in Boromir's throat, and he shoved his chair back with a scrape that tore at the charged air. His hands gripped the table edge, ready to hurl him to his feet, and he bared his teeth in a snarl of rage. Suddenly, Aragorn's hand fastened around his wrist, halting his move to rise.

"Peace, Boromir."

"I have listened long enough to his calumnies!" Boromir hissed. "I will not hear him befoul your name with mine!"

"My name and yours are both beyond his reach."

"He would disgrace you and make me the instrument of it!"

"I have said nothing but the truth!" Imrahil retorted, his voice sharp with anger. "It is no surprise to me that you refuse to hear it! You were ever too headstrong and arrogant to be guided by your betters!"

"My betters!" Boromir surged to his feet, heedless of Aragorn's grip on his arm or the calming words murmured in his ear. "What do you know of my betters, Imrahil, or the counsel they have given me? Ask the King, or Gandalf, or the Ringbearer what they bid me do! It is to them that I look for guidance, not to that flock of carrion crows at your back!"

"Carrion crows?! A fine thing to call your allies and advisors, my Lord Steward! Men who seek only to help you..."

"Aye, help me to a begging bowl and a filthy street corner, all my own!"

"This is what you think of me? Your kinsman, blood of your blood, who has ever been your friend? And what of your own brother?"

Boromir felt his hands clenching into fists, knotting with helpless rage. "Leave Faramir out of this!"

"Is he to be called a scavenger, as well? Scorned and insulted, because he will not follow meekly where you lead him?"

"Nay, Imrahil, I will not. Nor do I need you to speak for me." From the far end of the table - the Steward's traditional place, Boromir realized with a flash of foreboding - came the scuff of boots and the brush of fabric, as Faramir rose to his feet. "I wish, for both our sakes, that I could stay out of this Brother, but I am already in too deep."

Boromir sank into his chair, his hands once more gripping the carved and polished arms as though he would crush the wood to splinters with his fingers. From behind him, he caught the sound of rapid breathing, and he sensed a presence almost at his shoulder. The hair lifted on the back of Boromir's neck, and he thought of the sword he had left in his chambers that morning, deeming it impolitic to come armed to the council. Suddenly, irrationally, he wished he had a weapon ready to hand.

"Since I am left with no choice but to speak for myself, or to become a mute weapon in the hands of others," Faramir said, "I beg the King's leave to address this council."

*** *** ***

The burst of raised voices carried through the open windows, across the court, to where two young hobbits huddled together on a stone bench in the shade of the library wall. Merry flinched at the sound, and Pippin clenched his hands together in his lap. Beside them, Legolas sat cross-legged on the grass, bent over the bow in his hands. He did not react to the angry noises, though his sharp ears could certainly make out the words that were lost on his companions. He remained intently focused on his work, testing the bowstring for wear or weakness, and ignored the furor in the council chamber. Gimli, who was pacing the small greensward with one hand gripping his axe head and the other clamped on his belt, cast one frowning glance toward the windows but did not check his stride.

Merry envied them their composure, and he wished, not for the first time, that he had thought to provide himself with some sort of distraction. His eyes dwelt on Legolas' hands, watching their sure, steady movements and letting the Elf's tranquility soothe him. Then another distant shout twisted his stomach into a painful knot and broke the spell.

"It isn't going well," Pippin said, miserably.

Merry nodded agreement. "That's Boromir. He promised he wouldn't lose his temper, but I suppose that was too much to hope for."

Pippin shivered, then asked, plaintively, "Will Faramir really try to take the Stewardship away from him?"

"I don't know." Merry slipped his hand into Pippin's and gripped it tightly. "I hope not, Pip."

"I can't believe he would do it! Not Faramir! He's a great man, Merry, kind and noble, with eyes that look straight through you and smile all the time. Like Strider, only... warmer. I feel like I could tell him anything, follow him anywhere, face any danger for him. I have only to look in his face to love him!"

Legolas spoke without lifting his gaze from his work. "You have keen eyes, Pippin, and a wise heart."

"Could a man like that betray his brother?" Pippin demanded.

"'Tis not a question of betrayal, but of what Faramir deems right. His first duty is to Gondor and the King, not to Boromir."

Gimli gave a snort of disgust and growled, "Wrap it up in clean linen, if it pleases you, Master Elf. But I call it treachery, when a Man takes what belongs to his brother and terms it duty."

"So do I," Merry muttered.

Legolas let his hands fall still and fixed his piercing gaze on Merry. "Are you so sure that Faramir will side with the conspirators against Boromir?"

"I'm not sure of anything, but I'm afraid. Terribly afraid."

"Of what? You know that Aragorn and Mithrandir will allow no one to supplant Boromir. His place at the King's side is assured."

"I know it."

"What, then, do you have to fear?"

"Faramir." Merry let go of Pippin's hand and wrapped his arms about his own body, holding himself tightly against the chill that gathered in his breast. "You and Pippin are both right about him, but that only makes it worse. Boromir knows what kind of man he is. He can't help trusting him. And if Faramir stands up in front of the council and declares Boromir unfit to be Steward, Boromir will believe him."

"He also trusts Aragorn," Legolas pointed out, "and Aragorn will not let him falter."

Merry ducked his head to hide his face from his friends' eyes. "Between them, they'll pull him to pieces."

A long silence followed his words. Legolas quietly resumed stringing his bow, though the distraction in his gaze proved that his thoughts were elsewhere. Gimli began pacing again. Pippin gazed with pleading eyes at the distant windows, his face twisted with distress. Merry stayed drawn in on himself, alone with his dread, unwilling to share it any further with his companions.

And so they waited.

Chapter Text

"You laid a grievous burden upon me, my lords." Faramir's voice was quiet and grave, but it rang against the stone walls and whispered through the vaulted ceiling, as the gathered nobles hung upon his words in eager silence. "I could not, in good conscience, refuse it, though it may have cost me the one thing in my life most precious to me. My brother's love."

Boromir's hands closed convulsively on the table's edge, ready to push him to his feet, but Aragorn reached out to catch his arm, and this time, Boromir obeyed his unspoken command. He subsided into his chair, his jaw clamped tightly shut and his face rigid with pain.

Faramir went on, steadily, "For Gondor, for my King, I would risk even this most terrible loss. You knew this, when you sent my kinsman to draw me into your conspiracy, and you forced me to stand in judgement upon my brother."

"I asked only that you do your duty," Imrahil interjected.

"And I have done it. I have watched, and I have pondered what I saw. I have weighed your fears against Boromir's deeds, your doubts against the certainty of those who uphold his claim. And I have looked into my own heart, where dwells the thing of shadow and longing that I call by my brother's name, to better grasp my own fears. Now I am ready to lay my judgement before this council, if you are ready to hear it."

It was the King who answered him. "What say you, Faramir? Do you deem your brother fit to shoulder the burdens of Stewardship, or would you take those burdens from him?"

"I say that Boromir, son of Denethor, is the rightful Steward of Gondor - born to it, groomed for it, proven upon the field of battle and in the halls of power, approved by his people and chosen by his King." A hum of startled, angry protests rose at Faramir's words, but he did not falter, merely pitching his voice louder to carry over the din. "He is my liege lord, my Steward, second only to King Elessar in power and second to none in my esteem! I will serve him in all faith and love, as I will my King, so long as I live!"

The room erupted into chaos, the furious protests of Boromir's enemies warring with the triumph of his friends to be heard. The man at the eye of this storm collapsed back in his chair, sick with relief and unable to speak for the tears that choked him. He wanted desperately to weep, to ease the tightness in his throat, to pour some balm upon the festering wound of suspicion, distance and doubt that had poisoned his heart for so long.

He could not weep. Nor could he have private speech with Faramir to vent his feelings another way. But he could feel his brother's gaze upon him, searching, anxious, so he lifted his head and turned to face him. Years of trust told him that Faramir could read his expression from the other end of the chamber and would see the gratitude beneath the strained, white mask he wore.

Suddenly, Boromir felt the lurking presence behind his shoulder draw closer. Under cover of the general din, a soft voice hissed in his ear, "What did you promise him, in exchange for his lies, Shadow Steward?"

Boromir stiffened, turning instinctively to find the speaker, but the man was gone the instant the words left his lips. No sound of his leaving - not the rustle of fabric or the scrape of a boot on stone - marked his passage, but Boromir did not need such betraying noises to tell him where the man had gone. He had recognized both the voice and the import of his words. And he knew, with utter certainty, where to look for the silent, grey shadow that was his true foe, when the time came.

"How is it, Faramir, that you have forgot your duty to Gondor?!" Imrahil shouted, finally stilling the clamor of his allies and drawing all eyes back to him. "How do you reconcile this treachery with your sense of honor? Your allegiance to the truth?"

Boromir opened his mouth, ready to leap to his brother's defense, but Faramir needed no assistance from him.

"You accuse me of treachery?" he demanded, aghast. "When I risked everything I hold dear - the love of my brother and the trust of my King - to do your bidding? I believed that you had Gondor's welfare at heart, Imrahil, else I would not have taken up the charge you laid before me. But you cared naught for Gondor or for the truth. You wanted a standard-bearer to lead your charge, a champion to hand you a bloodless victory!"

"Nay! I looked to you for justice!"

"I have given it to you."

"You have bartered your honor for a brother's favor!"

"And you forget to whom you speak." Boromir felt a chill go down his back at the familiar cold, disdainful edge in Faramir's voice. It seemed that he was not the only one to hear the shade of Denethor speaking those words, for Imrahil was momentarily shocked into silence. "I will not be forsworn or dishonored for any man - not for you, for Boromir, or even for the King. To suggest it is to insult me and demean yourself."

"By the Valar!" one of the lords muttered, and directly across the table from Boromir, Gandalf chuckled.

"Enough, my lords!" Aragorn was on his feet, his firm voice carrying throughout the chamber and bringing instant quiet. "This public rancor is unseemly and solves nothing. The final decision was never yours, in any case."

Faramir murmured, "I beg your pardon," and sat down.

When Imrahil remained standing, Aragorn addressed him directly. "Have you anything more to say to this council, Prince?"

"Nay." Imrahil settled heavily into his chair. "I am done."

Aragorn turned his attention to the row of tense, expectant faces confronting him from both sides of the table. "Do any of you have aught to say in this matter?" No one moved. "Then I have heard all the arguments you have to put forward? There is nothing you would add, to tip the scales of judgement?"

Boromir heard a tell-tale rustling from the darkness to his left, where Halbarad lurked behind Aragorn's chair, but the Ranger did not step forward.

"So be it. You have made your feelings clear to me, now I will make mine clear to you." He lifted the thick parchment, its pendant seals scraping on the table top, rolled it up and tapped it lightly against his palm as he spoke. "I chose Boromir as my Steward when my Kingship was naught but a distant promise. When we journeyed and fought and suffered together beneath the Shadow, with no hope of victory. But do not think I chose him out of pity or despair. I did not. I chose him because I saw in him a Man of honor, valor and deep loyalties, who loves his land more than his life, and who has learned well the price of betrayal. I knew then, as I know now, that there is no Man in all Middle-earth better fitted to serve both Gondor and Gondor's King. And I will have no other beside me, as I take up the burdens of my crown."

To the accompaniment of twitching and muttering from his audience, Aragorn left his place and moved to stand at Boromir's shoulder. "Come, Boromir."

A hand on his arm drew the Steward to his feet and guided him a few steps away from the table. Then Aragorn halted and turned to face him squarely. He caught both of Boromir's wrists and placed his hands together, palm to palm, then he placed his own hands over them.

"Do you remember the words I spoke to you, when we lay upon the plains of Rohan, waiting for death?" Boromir nodded mutely. "I cannot forget them. They were burned into my heart, even as they passed my lips, and their promise will bind me forever. Now, my friend, I would say them once more, make that vow anew before these lords and princes, that they may hear and witness it."

"Aragorn..."

"Peace." Boromir could not see the smile on his friend's face, but he heard it plain in his voice, and he felt the tears gather in his throat again. "I swear to you, Boromir, by the blood of Isildur and Elendil that flows in my veins, by the love I bear my people, and by the wingéd crown I wear, there will be only one Steward in Gondor, so long as I am King. I will have you as my Steward, or I will have none."

Boromir bowed his head, too overcome for words. Suddenly, he heard another voice, one that had not spoken all this while, and he realized that Gandalf now stood at Aragorn's side. "It is well done, Aragorn."

The wizard pulled Boromir's hand gently from Aragorn's clasp and closed it about a familiar object. Boromir touched the smooth, polished surface and instantly knew it for what it was - his rod of office, the symbol of his Stewardship. Before he could react, Gandalf's hands came up to clasp the sides of his head, tilting it downward, and he felt the wizard's kiss upon his brow.

"It is well done, indeed," Gandalf said, in a voice meant only for Boromir's ears. "Never doubt that, son of Denethor, and never forget that you carry with you the love and respect of Gandalf the White. I have great faith in you."

Boromir's smile was twisted by the emotion that gripped him and the tears he could not shed, but he knew that Gandalf would read it aright. "I will not forget. And whether or not you credit it, I am grateful."

Gandalf gave a soft chuckle and dropped his hands.

Aragorn then turned to the men seated at the table and cried, "My lords, 'tis time for you to make a choice! Until this moment, you were blameless, your actions lawful and just. Now I have given you a Steward, and your duty is clear. Acknowledge him, and you will remain blameless, no whisper of suspicion to follow you. Refuse, and you will earn the name of traitor."

Before Aragorn had finished speaking, Faramir was on his feet, striding up to where his brother stood. Boromir hastily shoved the staff he held at Gandalf, freeing his hands to clasp those that reached so eagerly toward him. Faramir gripped both his hands and, to Boromir's bewilderment, dropped to one knee before him.

"Get up, Faramir!" Boromir protested. "Do not kneel to me!"

"Nay, Brother, let me do it." His fingers tightened around Boromir's, and his voice thickened with emotion. "I have waited long enough to offer you my fealty. Let me do it properly." Then, deaf to Boromir's protests, he bowed his head and uttered a formal oath of allegiance, sealing it with a kiss pressed to the back of Boromir's hand. At last, he allowed Boromir to pull him to his feet and embrace him as a brother.

Turning from Boromir, Faramir held out a hand toward his kinsman, who still sat in brooding silence. It seemed that the other men of the council waited upon Imrahil's example, for none of them had moved to answer the King's challenge. Even those who had supported Boromir from the start were waiting, out of curiosity, for the Prince to declare himself.

"Come, Imrahil. I know you are no traitor." Faramir's tone was beguiling, rich with memories of a lifetime of trust and friendship shared with this man.

In contrast, Imrahil's voice sounded harsh and heavy. "I am not."

"Then let go your anger and humble yourself, this once, for Gondor's sake."

Slowly, Imrahil rose from his chair and paced the length of the table. He halted in front of Boromir and stood silent for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he said, "When first I set my feet upon this road, I vowed that I would bend to Faramir's judgement, to follow it or turn aside at his bidding. Almost, I was forsworn. Almost, I let my pride betray me into folly. But let it not be said that Dol Amroth marred the King's return with treachery. Will you take my hand in friendship, Boromir?"

Boromir extended his hand, smiling as Imrahil grasped it in the familiar soldier's salute. "I am ever your friend and kin, Prince Imrahil."

"And I am ever your liege man, my Lord Steward."

One by one, drawn by Imrahil's surrender, they came to clasp Boromir's hand and call him by his hard-won title. Boromir accepted their gestures without hesitation or concern for what bitterness they concealed. Faramir believed in him and Imrahil would stand firm, whatever his doubts, once his word was given. That was enough for today.

Some of the lords who stepped up to greet him harbored no secret ill will. They had taken no part in the conspiracy and were genuinely happy to call him Steward, as Boromir was happy to hear their friendly voices in the throng. Old Duinhir, Golasgil of Anfalas, and Forthond, son of Forlong the Fat who had died upon the Pelennor fields. Éomer came last. He embraced Boromir as a friend and brother-in-arms, openly rejoicing at his victory. When Éomer had done, Boromir turned away and would have found his seat again, but Aragorn halted him with a hand on his arm.

"Halbarad."

There followed a tense pause, as the scattered lords became aware that the King was not done and broke off their talk. Boromir could not locate Halbarad, so quiet was he, but he sensed that Aragorn had turned toward the cold hearth at the west end of the chamber.

"Will you not give your oath to your Steward?" Aragorn asked.

At last, Halbarad stirred, the soft scrape of metal against leather telling Boromir that he was alive and solid, not a thing of smoke and whispers. "I owe him no allegiance."

Aragorn's fingers tightened painfully on Boromir's arm. "What of the allegiance you owe to me? Will you refuse my commands?"

"Do not press him, Aragorn," Boromir said, "unless you are prepared to break him. It is the only way he will bow to the Shadow Steward."

Aragorn whirled to face Boromir, still gripping him fiercely, and snapped, "What did you say?"

"Naught but what he whispered in my ear, not an hour past. Is that not so, Ranger?"

"Why should I deny it?" Halbarad retorted coldly. "You have been called such before, and with good cause."

Aragorn froze, his body rigid with disbelief and fury. Whatever expression he wore, it must have been terrible, for before he could open his mouth to speak, Gandalf intervened. Moving up beside the King, he leaned close and said, in a penetrating tone that brooked no argument, "I think this is not a matter for the whole council. You had better retire to some more private place."

"Aye." With a palpable effort, the King collected himself and turned to address the gathered nobility. "This council is ended. I thank you for your time and bid you good day. Faramir, is there not a small audience chamber next to the Great Hall?"

"There is."

"Escort my kinsman there. Gandalf? Will you join us?"

As Aragorn started for the door, threading a path between the scattered groups of men with a firm hand on Boromir's arm to guide him, Imrahil suddenly bestirred himself and called, "This concerns me nearly, my lord! I pray you..."

"Come," Aragorn growled, without breaking stride.

They crossed the wide antechamber, alive with muted echoes and cool shadows, in a tight, silent group. Faramir ushered them into the smaller chamber - one Boromir vaguely remembered as a place where his father held intimate meetings with visiting dignitaries, when he did not want to overawe them with the majesty of the Great Hall or remind them of the empty throne at his back. It stank of smoke - of the countless torches and candles that had burned within its cold walls - and Boromir checked in the doorway, balking at the feel of the enclosed space. Aragorn thrust him bodily into the room and shut the door behind them.

Boromir took two hasty steps across the floor, halting when he felt woven carpet beneath his feet. He did not know the room well enough to move through it unaided, and the tension in the air mixed with the bitter stench of smoke to cloud his senses. He was adrift, with no familiar thing to anchor him. Taking a deep breath that clawed at his throat, he forced himself to relax and to concentrate on the voices around him, to place the others in the room and shrink the darkness to bearable proportions.

"Now you had best explain yourself, Halbarad." That was Gandalf, seated over to Boromir's right and sounding crustier than he had in some weeks.

Halbarad spoke from directly ahead, well toward the back of the chamber. "I do not answer to you, Gandalf the White."

"It seems you don't answer to anyone, of late."

"He'll answer to me," Aragorn said, at his most dangerously soft. He moved forward from the door, brushing past Boromir and approaching Halbarad on a Ranger's feet - silent and deadly. "And this time, he will give me the truth."

"I have never lied to you, Aragorn," Halbarad said, evenly.

"Then it seems I asked the wrong questions."

Faramir spoke up from his place at Halbarad's side, sounding shocked and troubled. "Was it he, indeed, who set the assassins upon my brother?"

"Answer him, Halbarad," Aragorn demanded.

"I plotted no murder."

"Did you start the rumors in the camp that Boromir was a threat to the army?" Halbarad said nothing, and Aragorn growled, "Did you spread tales of the Shadow Steward? Did you sow the seeds of fear and superstition among the soldiery?"

"Aye."

"Why?" The King's voice tightened with a rage he could barely contain, growing louder with each word he flung at his impassive lieutenant. "Why? What did you hope to gain, if not Boromir's death?"

"I did not mean him any bodily harm, though I cannot pretend a remorse I do not feel for what followed. And now I can only regret that the assassins failed."

"Treacherous cur!" Imrahil hissed. Boromir heard the scrape of a sword being half-drawn, then a shout of protest from Faramir.

Halbarad laughed coldly. "You deem your aims loftier than mine, my lord Carrion Crow?"

"I would die by my own hand, before I shed the blood of my kin!"

"Fine words, when you have someone else to do the killing for you."

"Silence!" Aragorn roared. "Enough, Imrahil! Leave him to me!"

Imrahil slammed his sword back into its scabbard and stalked across the room to stand in front of the door, as though he would guard it against Halbarad's escape.

"What did you hope to gain by your slanderous whispers, Halbarad?"

"I sought to weaken Boromir's position with the armies."

"That is all?"

"They were his strength. His one unshakable source of power. Without them, he would have nothing to sustain him when we marched away."

"So you hoped to turn the armies against him and leave him powerless without me to support him."

"Aye."

Aragorn stood in the grip of his seething anger once more, only the sound of his harsh breathing disturbing the silence. When he spoke at last, he was neither King nor canny Ranger, but a man pushed to the limits of his endurance. Boromir had never heard such a note of disbelief and pain in his voice before. "You have betrayed me, Halbarad."

"Nay, not you! Never you, my King!"

His lieutenant's keen distress did not seem to reach Aragorn. He went on in the same raw tone, as though his very heart were bleeding through his words. "You abused my trust in you, hiding your foul crimes behind a face I could not suspect, while you labored in the Enemy's cause."

"Aragorn!" The word was more a gasp of horror than a name.

"I told you once what I would do, if I found that it was you who tried to murder my friend."

"Aragorn, I beg you! Do not end our long kinship in hatred and bloodshed!"

"I have sworn to bring the traitors who threatened Gondor's Steward to justice, and so I will. You are condemned out of your own mouth, and your life is forfeit!"

"Nay, Aragorn," Boromir took a hasty step toward the other man, forgetting that he did not know what might be under his feet in his urgency. "You cannot."

Halbarad gave a hiss of fury and spat, "Do not waste your breath on me, son of Denethor! I want no mercy at your hands!"

Boromir turned a pitying look on him that he knew must rankle in Halbarad's breast more than any taunt or threat could do, but he could not help himself. The desperate longing he heard in the other man's voice, when he spoke to Aragorn, struck a familiar chord in Boromir's memory and stirred the old shame in him. He could not allow his King to surrender someone he loved to the madness of that longing without a fight. Not for Halbarad, but for Aragorn he could not allow it.

His hand found Aragorn's shoulder, and he stepped in close to murmur, "He has acted against your commands, for which he should be punished, but he has done no murder. He did not lift a blade against me, nor did he set Elenard and Hirluin on to do it. You know this is true."

"Whatever his intent, he might have cost you your life, Boromir. For that, I can never forgive him."

"You have forgiven me much worse. He might have caused the death of one man. I might have caused the downfall of all Middle-earth. How is it you can forgive me, and not him?"

Aragorn's hand came up to clasp Boromir's where it gripped his shoulder. "You asked it of me."

"Mayhap he will, too, given time. Please, Aragorn, do not strike such a final blow in anger. Give him time."

Aragorn let go his hand and turned to gaze at Halbarad. His voice was still taut with fury when he spoke, but he had mastered himself again. "Boromir is right. You have acted foully and dishonorably, but you are not deserving of death. I will not take your life Halbarad. But neither will I have such a creature about me."

"What will you do with me?"

"Banish you."

Halbarad made a strangled noise somewhere between a sob and a snarl. "Then you have slain me, in truth!"

"Halbarad of the Dúnedain, I name you traitor and exile. I banish you from Gondor and from all lands over which I hold sway, so long as you live."

"Do not do this, Aragorn! Do not!"

"I give you until the New Moon to cross the borders of my domain. If, after that time, you ever set foot in Gondor again, you will die."

"I have lived all my life for you!" Halbarad railed, his voice edged with desperation. "I would have died for you! Now you cast me out and put that son of a cur in my place?!"

"You had a place of your own at my side, had you but seen it. But you chose enmity, subterfuge and festering hatred over my love. Now you must live with your choice - or die with it. I care not, so long as I do not have to look at your face again."

"You fool!" Halbarad hissed, and Boromir felt his innards writhe at the familiar sound.

For a dreadful moment, he thought he heard his own voice spitting those same words at a terrified halfling and saw his own hands reaching to grab the shining thing that lay against Frodo's breast. He shuddered at the agonizing memory, and his hand tightened fiercely on Aragorn's shoulder. "Nay!" he gasped. "I'll not be his weapon a second time!"

Aragorn clutched at his arm, concern for Boromir distracting him from his anger at Halbarad. "What do you mean? Boromir! Are you all right?"

Boromir drew in a ragged breath and fought down the sickness that threatened him. "Please, my King. Do not destroy your oldest friend for me."

"He has destroyed himself. This is not your fault, Boromir."

"'Tis the Enemy at work, even now. Sauron is gone, but his evil still lives in us. I can hear it in his voice..."

Aragorn turned to face Boromir and clasped his arms in strong, reassuring hands. "All the more reason to banish him, before he spreads his poison."

Boromir shook his head. "And what of the day when he realizes his mistake? If the gate is shut behind him, where will he go in his despair? Aragorn, what would I have done, without you to help me find my way out of that darkness?"

Very slowly, Aragorn let go his arms and turned once more to face his kinsman. Heavily, reluctantly, he said, "For Boromir's sake, I will offer you this chance."

Halbarad gave an angry hiss and spat on the floor.

"If you will kneel to us both, before these witnesses, and take an oath of fealty to Gondor's crown - and Gondor's Steward - then I will allow you to remain within the boundaries of my realm. I will grant you lands in the north, between Fornost and the Weather Hills, where you may live in freedom, near to those of our people who yet dwell in Eriador. So long as you keep your oath, you will remain my honored kinsman. But the day that you break it, in word or deed, your life is forfeit. What say you, Halbarad?"

"I say that I want no gift from the hands of Denethor's son. Banish me or kill me, it makes no odds, only have done."

"So be it. Get you gone."

Halbarad started for the door, shoving past Aragorn as he went. "Have I leave to take my horse and sword?"

"Take what you will, only be sure you have passed the Ramas Echor by nightfall."

"Have no fear of that!"

"Nay, Halbarad, think of what you do!" Boromir protested. He made as if to follow the Ranger, but Aragorn caught his arm to stop him.

Halbarad laughed harshly. "Best muzzle him well, Aragorn, lest he turn and bite you!" With that, he slammed out the door.

Boromir wrenched his arm free of Aragorn's clasp and took a step toward the doorway. He could hear Halbarad's booted feet on the flagstones of the antechamber, carrying him away from his lord, his friend, his home, and his last chance to redeem himself. Frustration boiled up in him, and he hazarded another few steps into the darkness.

"Leave him, Boromir. He has made his choice."

"I know what is torturing him. I have heard those whispers in my own mind, and I know how hard it is to silence them! Please, Aragorn, let me talk to him!"

"He'll not listen to you, and he is dangerous in this mood."

"I will make him listen! Who better to reach him than one who has walked that road before him? I must try, my King. I must."

Aragorn gave a sigh of frustration and said, wearily, "Faramir, go with him."

Together, the brother's raced through the antechamber toward the Citadel doors. Boromir could still hear the Ranger's footsteps and knew that Halbarad was too angry to move with his usual silent grace. He was not slinking away, but stalking off in a towering rage, heedless of all around him.

As he ran, Boromir shouted, "Halbarad! Stop!"

The footsteps faltered, then resumed more quickly. "He's outside," Faramir muttered.

"Halbarad!" Boromir broke into a full run. As he burst out of the doors, into the heat and warmth of courtyard, he called furiously, "Are you too much a coward to stop and face me, Ranger?!"

"No man calls me coward and lives!" Halbarad snarled.

Faramir came to an abrupt halt, pulling Boromir up short with him. "He's armed, Boromir. He has a dagger at his belt."

"I know it."

"Come, then, son of Denethor! Come and face me, man to man!"

Boromir let go Faramir's arm and stepped pointedly away from him. "Leave us, Brother. This is not your affair."

Faramir hesitated for a moment, then murmured, "If you wish it. He is just inside the upper gate, straight ahead of you. Be wary. I like not the look of him."

Boromir only grunted and took a step forward. In his mind's eye, he could see the wide, white-paved courtyard, stretching from the doors of the Citadel to the dark archway that marked the upper end of the seventh gate. Nothing stood between him and Halbarad. Of this he was sure. Yet his heart pounded hideously in his breath grew ragged with panic, as he ventured farther and farther into the emptiness. Only a consuming need to reach the other man - to find him and help him - kept Boromir moving against the swirling, treacherous current of fear that sought to overwhelm him.

"Stop there, Steward, if you value your skin." Boromir obediently halted and fixed his bandaged gaze on the Ranger. "Why do you tempt me thus? You know I would have you dead. Why put yourself in my power?"

"You will not harm me, when I am unarmed and alone. Bitter and angry you may be, deceived by the whispers of envy that torment you, but you are still a man of honor."

Halbarad laughed harshly. "And you will gamble your life on this?"

"If I must."

"To what purpose?"

"To stop this evil, now, before it claims another life."

"My life is not your concern."

"It is, if you throw it away out of hatred for me. Think, Halbarad! Why should you give up all you love, condemn yourself to the waking death of exile, only to spite me? You are the one who suffers for it, not I."

Halbarad made a queer noise in his throat, formed of tears and sour humor, and rasped, "'Tis true enough. Why should I pay for that which I have not done?"

"Give Aragorn but one chance, and he will forgive you. But you must do it now, before all the leagues of Wilderland and all the festering pain of betrayal lie between you, or there will be no way back. Do not condemn yourself, needlessly, Halbarad!"

"Have no fear of that! I will see that justice is done!"

As the words left his lips, so too the dagger at his belt scraped free of its scabbard. Boromir heard the sound and took a step backward, empty hands lifted toward his attacker.

"Halbarad..."

But the Ranger was already upon him, landing with his full weight on Boromir's chest and his dagger's point driving up beneath his ribs. The double blow knocked the Steward from his feet and hurled him backward, as pain lanced through him. He fell hard, flat on his back, his head struck the pavement with a vicious crack, and the pain vanished into blackness.

Legolas heard the ring of a blade being drawn, and his head came up with a start. He had seen the Men come out of the Tower, seen Faramir withdraw again, and seen Boromir approach Halbarad. Then he had purposefully turned his eyes away, shutting his mind to the voices that carried so clearly to him, that he might not intrude on their meeting. But such a sound, at such a moment, could not be ignored.

Sunlight flashed on metal, as Halbarad drew back his arm and threw himself bodily at his rival. Legolas sprang nimbly to his feet, to the sound of Merry screaming, and began to run. Boromir was flung to the ground beneath Halbarad's weight and the force of the dagger thrust, and Halbarad leapt neatly over his sprawled body in one bound. Legolas flew across the wide court, his bow already in his hands, but the Ranger could run nearly as fast as an elf, and he was only a few paces from the upper gate.

Even as Halbarad vanished into the shadows of the tunnel, Legolas heard Gimli bellowing, loud enough to shake the windows in their casements, "Ho! Guard! Stop the Man!"

All in an instant, the elf's keen eyes took in the details of the scene. Two guards stood at the Citadel doors, but they carried only lances and swords, nothing that could reach Halbarad in time. Two more guards, he knew, waited at the lower end of the tunnel, just outside the seventh gate. They would come when called, but it would take them time to grasp what had happened, and they would not think to detain Aragorn's lieutenant. By the time they gave chase, the traitor would be gone.

Without breaking stride, Legolas turned and ran directly at the wall. A single leap took him onto the parapet, and he checked himself, balancing effortlessly on the wide stone ledge. His eyes scanned the street below. Behind him, shouts and the clash of arms filled the court, but no one had yet reached the lower end of the tunnel - no one but the Ranger and two confused sentries. Halbarad was fleeing along the curving street, headed for the sixth gate with one sentry in belated pursuit.

As fast as thought, Legolas had an arrow nocked and ready. His eyes narrowed, tracking the flight of the grey-clad Man, and the wicked point of the arrow moved with them. He waited for the sentry to shout a warning, "Halt, in the King's name!" Waited only to see that Halbarad gave no heed. Then he let fly.

The first arrow had barely left the string when he had a second fitted and the bow drawn back. Down the length of the shaft, he watched his quarry turn to pass through the sixth gate, watched him stumble as he ran and pitch headlong through the gate. Then Legolas let fall his hands, and he stared down dispassionately at the figure sprawled in the shadow of the sixth gate.

Halbarad, Dúnedan of the North, lay dead upon the cobblestones in a pool of dark blood, with an elvish arrow through his throat.

Chapter Text

Boromir awoke to a shattering pain in his head and the murmur of voices all about him. He had no sense of time or place, no memory of how he had come to be lying on his back on warm stone, surrounded by the clamor of pounding feet and shouting voices, and the only thought he seemed able to hold in his abused skull was the hope that the noise would cease before its onslaught turned his bones to jelly.

A familiar voice came out of the darkness from just above him, the speaker's breath warm on his face, as gentle hands clasped his head. "Boromir... my brother..." Then, as suddenly as it came, the warmth of closeness vanished and the voice hissed in a hard, desperate tone, "Curse me for a fool! I should never have left him!"

"Nay, Faramir, the blame is mine," said another voice. It sounded like Aragorn, but with his wits so addled and so much noise assaulting him, Boromir could not be sure of it. "'Twas I who gave him leave to follow, though I knew Halbarad was goaded beyond reason."

Halbarad! With the name came a rush of panic, as agonizing as the impact of his head against stone. He had to find Halbarad, before some great evil befell Aragorn! He could not remember what it was that threatened his King, but he knew that it was terrible. And only the Ranger could prevent it. He had to find Halbarad!

Driven by this one thought, he tried to twist away from Faramir's confining hands and to get an elbow under him for leverage. He managed to turn his head, but the movement ignited a blazing pain in his skull and sent a wave of sickness through him. He groaned softly.

Faramir's clasp on his head tightened, steadying him, and his brother cried, "He wakes!"

"Halbarad!" Boromir gasped.

"Be easy, Boromir. Be easy." Aragorn's voice poured over him like a balm, while his familiar healer's hands gripped Boromir's shoulders to hold him down. "There is nothing to fear."

"Halbarad..."

"Lie still and let me help you."

"...must find him."

"Nay, you must lie still. Gandalf!" A cooling shadow fell across Boromir's face, as the wizard answered Aragorn's summons. "I pray you clear the courtyard. We will do better without an audience. Imrahil, send to the Houses of Healing..."

"No healers," Boromir muttered, trying again to shake off the hands that restrained him. "I need... no healers."

"Boromir, you must lie still!" The command in his voice could not be gainsaid, and Boromir obediently collapsed back against the pavement. "Send to the healers and warn them of our coming. We need a litter here and field dressings for a sword wound."

"'Tis naught," Boromir whispered, as he lifted a hand to cover his bandaged eyes. He was appalled to feel the tremor in his fingers and the weakness of his own arm, and as hard as he tried to remember what had happened to him, he could conjure up only fragmentary emotions. Anger. Desperation. Helplessness. And over it all, the frantic need to find Halbarad. "Only let me up... let me find him..."

"There is no need, my friend."

Aragorn sounded tired and grim, with an edge of grief to his voice that troubled Boromir more than the pain in his own body. What had happened? Why could he not remember?

"I must withdraw the blade before we move him," Aragorn went on, speaking to those who still crowded around, filling the darkness with their fear. "Legolas, take this and be ready to staunch the bleeding. Merry, hold tight."

In answer to his words, Boromir felt small, strong fingers close around his left hand, and for the first time, he became aware of the comforting presence lurking at his shoulder. He turned toward the hobbit, his mouth open to utter a greeting, but a sudden, tearing pain in his left side cut off his breath and sent a shudder through his body. His fingers tightened crushingly around Merry's, even as his free hand reached to clutch at the source of the pain. But Legolas was there before him, brushing his hand away and pressing a makeshift bandage to the wound. Blood ran warm over Boromir's skin.

Merry spoke up, his voice edged with tears. "It's all right, Boromir. It's over."

"Merry..." Boromir drew in a long, ragged breath and exhaled the pain, struggling for control. The clasp of Merry's fingers steadied him, gave him focus and reassurance, as did his welcome voice. "Merry."

"I'm right here."

"He bleeds but little," Legolas interjected, "and breathes freely."

"Aye, so he does." Aragorn sounded bemused. "Look at the dagger."

"It should be blooded to the hilt!" That was Gimli, without doubt. No other could put such amazement and belligerence into one growl. "How is this? What can have turned the blade?"

"'Tis naught... only a scratch..." Boromir muttered. He still did not grasp the full import of their words, but enough of the day remained in his memory to assure him that all this fuss and furor was needless. Did they think Boromir, soldier of Gondor, so lacking in common sense as to walk into the same trap twice?

"You always say that when you're bleeding!" Merry retorted.

Aragorn shifted forward to bend over Boromir. "Aye, but mayhap he's telling the truth this time. Let us see what you have under that tunic, my friend." Deft fingers plucked away Legolas' bandage and worked at the heavy brocade of his tunic. Boromir heard the sound of tearing fabric. Aragorn bent lower, his rapid breathing loud in Boromir's ears, then he abruptly sat back and laughed. "I might have known!"

"What is it?" Pippin asked from his place at Aragorn's side.

"A mail shirt! He is wearing a mail shirt!"

Boromir grunted sourly. "I may be blind... but I'm no fool."

"Thank the Valar!" Aragorn's hand tightened on his shoulder, and another gust of laughter shook him. "'Tis I who am the fool for doubting you! And for putting you in such peril..."

"Not your fault," Boromir muttered, though he had no clear idea of what peril Aragorn spoke. He felt the touch of his brother's hand, resting gently on his head, and he remembered the first words he had heard upon waking. "Nor yours, Brother," he added, softly.

Faramir took a hissing breath and whispered, brokenly, "I thought I had lost brother and liege lord at one blow. And all through my own folly!"

"You won't claim my birthright so easily," Boromir chided, in a weak attempt at humor.

Faramir's only answer was to bow his head and press his lips to Boromir's forehead for a moment. When he straightened again, he had gained command of his voice enough to ask, roughly, "What now, my King?"

"We must bandage the wound tightly, to spare him any further loss of blood. 'Tis ugly enough, though shallow, and cannot be left untended for long. But I deem the blow to his head more serious than the sword cut."

"I don't understand!" Merry cried. "If he's wearing a mail shirt, how did the blade touch him?"

"This dagger is of Elvish make, as are many of the weapons of the dúnedain." Aragorn's fingers again displaced Legolas', peeling up the bandage to probe the wound gently. "Its point was keen enough to pierce the hauberk but could not reach any vital spot. The lung is untouched."

He broke off to bend low over his work, his concentration complete and his hands moving deftly. Boromir submitted to his ministrations in grim silence, his teeth clenched against the pain of even so gentle a touch. He kept a firm grip on Merry's hand and tried to detach his mind from both the King's words and his actions. And in the ensuing quiet, an abrupt flash of memory came to him.

"Halbarad." He tried to sit up, earning him a protest from Faramir and a sharp command from Aragorn. He let his body relax against the paving stones again and said, "I was talking to Halbarad. He was... angry."

"Do you remember what happened?" Aragorn asked, his voice strangely harsh.

"Nay. Only..."

Running footsteps interrupted him, sending fresh tremors through the stone beneath his head and drawing a groan from him. In the stillness, with little movement around him, he had almost forgotten the battered and abused condition of his skull. The pounding of booted feet reminded him all too clearly.

"Here are the bandages," Imrahil's voice panted. "The litter comes."

"That is well."

When Aragorn again bent to his work, Boromir felt him cutting away fabric and peeling up heavy chain mail to expose the wound more fully. Faramir kept a hold on Boromir's head, supporting and steadying it for which he was grateful, and Merry clung tightly to his hand. At the strangled sounds of pain that escaped him, Aragorn muttered an apology.

"'Tis my head you are hurting, not my side!" Boromir gasped.

"I know it. But we cannot get you to the Houses of Healing and a nice, soft pillow for your head, until we stop the bleeding."

Through clenched teeth, he asked, "Aragorn... how did this... happen?"

The Ranger hesitated, his hands still busy, then answered tersely, "Halbarad tried to kill you."

So that was the silent fury that gripped them all. That was the despair that put an edge to their voices and made them all crowd so close, so protectively about him. "He has fled?"

"He tried. He did not get far."

"What... what will you do to him?"

"Nothing." Aragorn pulled the bandage tight with a vicious tug. "He is dead."

Boromir's ragged groan was born as much of sorrow as of bodily suffering. "Nay!"

Aragorn said nothing, but Legolas spoke up from close on Boromir's left, his words calm and yet taut with a keen, cold rage. "Pity him if you will, Boromir, but do not hold Aragorn to blame. Halbarad sealed his fate with his own dagger thrust."

Boromir lifted his hand to cover his eyes again, shielding his face from the gazes of his friends. "I know who is to blame."

"Not you, Steward of Gondor."

He shook his head very slightly and, swallowing the tears that clogged his throat, whispered, "I am weary of shadows and bloodshed. When will it be done?"

Aragorn answered him. "It is done. And you at least, my steward, will rest."

*** *** ***

Crumpled leaves of athelas floated in a bowl of steaming water beside the bed, filling the air with their healing fragrance. The smell made Merry think of the Shire in spring - of a Shire lush and beautiful beyond imagining that lived only in his dearest dreams of home - and his heart grew light. He sat quietly on the foot of the bed, his legs curled up comfortably beneath him, and watched the Men work without comment. His sense of well-being suffered a bit when he looked at Boromir's face and saw the pale, strained exhaustion in it, but then he reminded himself of Strider's promise.

"All will be well, Merry," he had said, as he watched Legolas and Faramir lift Boromir onto the stretcher, "you have my word. I will let no harm come to him." Then he had taken Merry's hand and walked with him through the streets toward the Houses of Healing, keeping the frightened hobbit close to his side, protected by his calming presence.

All will be well. The promise of a friend and healer. The promise of a King who had led them all through fire and darkness and despair to a bright dawn. How could he doubt Strider now?

He watched the Ranger's long fingers swab at the wound in Boromir's side and, bolstered by the effects of the athelas, barely flinched. Boromir did not seem to notice the pain, now that he was more himself. The frightening confusion and weakness he had shown in the courtyard had given way to his usual acid temper and grudging acceptance of ills he could not avoid. He had flatly refused to allow any healer near him but Aragorn and had sent his brother off to find Gil, snapping out an order that overrode Faramir's protests. Brother and King had bowed to his wishes and barred the door to all save the drudge. Now, having won that skirmish, Boromir seemed content to let Aragorn take command.

Aragorn tossed a bloody swab into the basin at his feet and nodded at Faramir to hand him the prepared dressing. Together, Faramir and Aragorn bound the wound up tightly, while Gil retrieved the basin and fished a few stray, gruesome wads of cloth from under the bed. At a soft word from Aragorn, she hurried from the room with the foul basin and returned a few minutes later, bearing a large silver cup that steamed gently in her hands.

When Aragorn had fixed the last pin in place to hold the bandage, she offered him the cup. He took it with a word of thanks and set it on the table beside the bed. Gil then busied herself collecting the bits of clothing scattered about the room. Aragorn stepped back to eye his handiwork.

"You can breathe easy, Boromir. We are done with torturing you. I have cleaned the wound as best I may, and now it needs only time to heal."

"I thank you," Boromir said, his voice sounding thin and ragged with strain. "I will be even more grateful if you can stop the pounding in my head."

"Drink this." He lifted the cup, moving to place it in Boromir's hand as he said, "It will ease the pain and hasten sleep."

Boromir, in the act of taking the cup, recoiled sharply. "Sleep?" His face turned wary. "I need no sleeping draughts."

"Do you not trust your King and healer? I brewed this medicine myself, and I will vouch for its effects. Drink it, Boromir. Do not suffer needlessly."

"Nay." He dropped his hands to grip the edge of the mattress, ill concealing the tremor that shook them. "The pain is naught, and I would rather heal in my own time."

Aragorn looked at him with a growing comprehension in his eyes. Boromir kept his face averted and his hands stubbornly locked on the mattress, while his brother glanced from one to the other, an anxious frown creasing his brow. Finally, Aragorn broke the deadlock by setting down his cup with a decisive snap. Then he turned to cast a swift, meaningful look at Gil.

She read the dismissal in that look and promptly turned to leave, with only a quick curtsey and a quiet "my lord," to mark her exit. Neither Aragorn nor Faramir noticed the tightness around her mouth or the hollow pain in her eyes when she glanced in Boromir's direction. Merry noticed, but she was gone before he could offer her comfort - not that he knew what comfort he could give or what she would accept from him.

Aragorn waited until her footsteps had faded into silence down the stone-flagged hallway, then he sat down on the bed and turned to face Boromir directly.

"Why will you not sleep?"

Merry cast a swift glance at Faramir and saw that he, like the King, was leaning forward, anxious to hear his brother's answer. Merry thought it strange that they even had to ask such a question, but then, they had not traveled at Boromir's side through these weeks of darkness and heard the echoes of torment in his voice when it came out of the night. On a protective impulse, Merry edged closer to Boromir, close enough that the Man could feel his presence beside him, and waited to see how he would respond.

"You drive yourself ceaselessly through each day," Aragorn went on, "and haunt these Houses like a restless shade at night. If you go on this way, you will drain your body beyond its power to heal. I would help you, Boromir, but you must tell me how. Tell me why you will not sleep."

Boromir did not answer. He sat with his bandaged gaze fixed on his hands where they lay in his lap, the fingers curling up in a helpless gesture. His face was drawn and grim, but somehow distant, as though his thoughts had wandered far from this small room and the concern of his friends. Aragorn waited patiently. Faramir stared at his brother with open pain in his eyes but said nothing to disturb him. It was Merry who finally broke the stillness by laying a hand on Boromir's arm. The light touch seemed to bring him back to himself. His head came up with a start and something like confusion showed in his face.

"Boromir?" Aragorn spoke softly to him, no longer demanding but pleading. "What's wrong?"

With a visible effort of will, Boromir answered him in a rough whisper. "I am afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"The darkness. It grows so large when I am alone with it. Especially the darkness of sleep. I am afraid that once I have passed into it, I will not find my way out again."

The look Aragorn gave Boromir caused Merry's throat to close up tight with tears, so profound were the sorrow and understanding in it. And the hobbit suddenly grasped, as he had not before, how deep the bond between the two Men ran. Theirs was a love forged in the fires of Isengard and tested by the Enemy himself. Nothing could break it. And no darkness could claim Boromir, while Aragorn was there to lead him out.

"I will not let you be lost," Aragorn assured him, echoing Merry's thoughts. "Will you trust me, Boromir, and believe that I can guide you back again, should you wander too far?"

"He did the same for me," Faramir said. "When the Black Breath held me prisoner, 'twas the King's voice that freed me."

"And me," Merry murmured.

Boromir's hand reached to cover Merry's, and his fingers tightened convulsively around it. "How will you know if..." He swallowed painfully. "...if I am lost?"

"Someone will be here with you, keeping watch for me. Someone you trust. And we will awaken you every few hours to be sure you have not sunk too deeply into sleep." When Boromir did not speak but stared down at his lap with a look of cold dread on his face, Aragorn added, "You will not be left alone. I swear it."

Boromir took a sobbing breath. "You must think me contemptible."

The eyes Aragorn fixed upon him glittered strangely, and Merry realized, with a start, that they were full of tears. "I think I have put my kingship before the welfare of my friend for too long. And as ever, you are suffering for my choice."

"Nay, Aragorn. I do not look to you to heal my hurts and banish my fears."

"It is as much my duty as the raising of armies or the making of laws. I am Elfstone, Hope of the West, Healer and King, and sworn brother-in-arms to Boromir of Gondor even unto death. I can give you rest and peace, free from all fear, if you will but trust me."

For a long, quiet moment, Boromir sat with his head down and his shoulders bowed, caught in a silent struggle with himself. At last, he lifted his head and nodded once. Faramir broke out in a relieved grin and knelt swiftly to pull off his brother's boots. Merry clambered down from the bed, giving the two Men room to work, and watched them ease Boromir's stabbed, bruised, battered and exhausted body to a comfortable resting place on the mattress.

Much of the color had drained from Boromir's face by the time his head lay upon the pillow. He looked so drained and ill that Merry was frightened, but when Aragorn stooped over him to straighten the coverlet, he demanded strongly enough, "You'll not plague me with healers? Or that old woman who never ceases chattering?"

"No healers, but there must be a guard on your room."

"Merry is all the guard I need."

The hobbit smiled at the familiar words and murmured, "I still haven't got a sword."

"The guards can protect you from assassins and unwelcome visitors alike," Aragorn pointed out. "They will have orders not to enter the room, unless you call for them, and to admit no one without my orders." He took the gently steaming cup that stood on the table and held it to Boromir's lips, but the other man turned his head stubbornly away. "Drink, Boromir. This is the trust of which I spoke and the medicine you need."

"I will drink it, but... not yet. My stomach churns so that I cannot swallow it. Let me lie here a while. Merry will see that I drink it."

Aragorn eyed him consideringly. No more than Merry did he believe that Boromir felt too sick to drink the soothing draught, but he opted not to press the injured man any further. "Very well. But if you have not drunk it when I return, I'll not be so forbearing. You will find that I have ways of enforcing my commands."

Boromir muttered something that may have been agreement, and Aragorn decided to make good his escape before his wayward patient could find anything else to complain about. Clasping Boromir's hand in farewell, he said, "Rest now. Let the athelas do its work. Merry will stay until I come myself to relieve him, but if you need me ere then, only call. I will come.

"As will I," Faramir assured him.

Aragorn turned to leave, but Merry halted him at the door with an outstretched hand. Gazing anxiously up at the Ranger, Merry asked, "Is he truly still in danger, Strider?"

"I know not, and I will take no chances."

"Maybe I should have a sword."

"Aye, mayhap you should." Aragorn thought for a moment, then grasped the hilt of the Elvish dagger thrust in his belt and drew it free. The blade was long and slender, a thing of deadly beauty, and its point was still marked with the blood of Gondor's Steward. As its graceful length slid from beneath his belt, Aragorn saw the ugly stain and hesitated, his face growing hard with revulsion. He would have pushed it back in its place, but Merry forestalled him.

"Is it that good blade?" he asked.

"It is indeed." Aragorn weighed it in his hand, as if remembering the many times he had seen it in the hand of his kinsman - the kinsman he had loved and trusted, not the traitor who had died in the street not an hour past. "This blade has fought bravely through many lives of Men and never, 'til this day, been fouled with cowardice or treachery."

Merry held out his hand, and Aragorn laid the dagger in it. He curled his fingers about the hilt, feeling the balance of the blade and reflecting that his life had taken a strange turn, when he could stand before a King and coolly weigh the merits of an Elvish weapon.

"May I have it?"

"With my compliments." Catching the blade near its guard, Aragorn used the corner of his cloak to polish its tip. "But unlike your King, you should always remember to clean it, Master Swordthain. Now you are well fitted to guard your lord." Then he stepped back and bowed formally to the hobbit.

Merry flushed slightly as he returned the King's salute. He stayed quietly by the door until Faramir had taken his leave of Boromir and both Men had left the room. Then he softly closed the door, padded across the flagstones to the bed, and laid his sword carefully upon the small table beside it. Scrambling onto the bed once more, he sat down next to Boromir and pulled the Man's hand onto his lap, clasping it in both of his own. Boromir smiled briefly at him, but the tension in his face did not ease or the creases smooth from his brow.

"I have a proper sword now," Merry said in a matter-of-fact way, "so you have nothing to worry about."

The smile flickered again, and Boromir murmured, "I'll rest easier with you guarding my back."

Merry could not tell from the tone of his voice if he was serious or poking fun at his loyal, but diminutive, champion. Cocking his head to one side, he eyed his friend suspiciously and asked, "Do you mean that?"

Boromir looked startled. "Aye, of course I do!"

"Good. I thought maybe you were teasing me, because of the cheese knife."

"I would never make a mockery of that rescue. It was an act of supreme bravery, worthy of Gondor's greatest heroes."

"Now you are teasing me."

"Nay." Boromir's fingers closed firmly around his, and for the first time, a genuine smile warmed his face. "I am grateful to you, Little One, and not least for the hours you have spent in just this way - talking and laughing and remembering with me."

Tears started in Merry's eyes and swelled painfully in his throat. He never doubted Boromir's affection for him, nor the trust the cautious and reserved soldier placed in him, but to hear him speak of it so easily and so openly now was like a balm to his bruised heart. Anxiety, fear, anger and outright panic had all left their mark on him this day. He had gone from gnawing tension to cold terror, only to find himself at last in the role of patient companion and protector once again. It made his head ache until tears seemed the only possible release.

Whether Boromir heard his doleful sniffles, or whether his thoughts had turned of their own accord to darker matters, when he spoke again the warmth had left his voice. He sounded tired and sad, with a hint of the old despair creeping into his words. "Soon, our quiet hours together will be naught but another memory."

"I'm sorry." Merry had to clear his throat noisily, before he could go on. "I would give anything to stay here with you, except..."

"Except your chance to see the Shire again."

The dull resignation in his voice fell like a weight on Merry's heart. He knew that Boromir had accepted his decision to go, as far as he was able, but still Merry felt the need to justify it - to win the Man's wholehearted approval instead of this grim, tight-lipped surrender. "Gandalf says that I will be needed in the Shire, before this war is done. I thought it was over and we were going home to rest, but he says that we still have work to do."

"You go at the Wizard's behest?"

"No. I believe him, but even if I didn't, even if all that awaited me in the Shire was a snug hobbit hole and pipe full of the best Longbottom Leaf, I would still go back. It's where I belong, Boromir."

"You are not the same innocent, lighthearted creature who set out from Buckland all those months ago. You have seen the greatest and most terrible events of this age, and you have grown far beyond the simple pleasures of hobbit hole and pipeweed. The Shire may not seem so much like home to you, now."

"Was Minas Tirith any less your home, for the months you spent away from it? Or for what you found when you returned?"

"Nay." He hesitated, then added, softly, "Were she burned black as Sauron's hand, ground into dust, her people scattered through the wilderness, yet would my heart ever dwell in the White Tower."

"Then you do understand."

"Aye." Boromir took a deep, sighing breath, made ragged by the pain of the wound in his side. "I cannot hold you here, and I cannot follow you into the West. So I have no choice but to find my way without you."

"I must find a way, too."

They both fell quiet and yet, in spite of their melancholy thoughts, it was a companionable silence. Merry found that he had no arguments, pleas or advice left to give his friend. Nothing would take away the pain of bidding farewell to Gondor and her beloved Steward, but he could comfort himself with the certainty that her King would safeguard them both. And however sorely he might miss his halfling guide, Boromir would still find his way through the dark paths that awaited him. Merry had no doubt of that. All that remained was for Merry to set his feet upon the path that he had chosen, lonely though it would be, and follow it home.

When Boromir stirred and lifted his free hand to cover his eyes, Merry left off contemplating the weary leagues that separated Minas Tirith from the Shire and turned his attention to the injured Man. The gesture spoke of pain and weariness, and it reminded Merry of his duty.

"Are you ready to sleep, now?" he asked.

Boromir gave a grunt that Merry could not interpret.

"You promised Aragorn that you would drink his medicine."

"Aye."

Merry took the cup, now well cooled, from the table and sniffed cautiously at the contents. "It smells of herbs and honey. Not bad at all."

"You may have it. Sleep, and I will keep watch over you."

Merry chuckled. He made to slide a hand behind Boromir's head, to lift it so he could drink more easily, but the Man cried a protest at his touch and knocked his hand away. Chagrin flooded Merry's face. "I'm sorry! I didn't think!"

"All right... It's all right. Ye gods, but it hurts!" he gasped. "I could almost welcome a drugged sleep to escape it!"

"You know that you can trust Aragorn. He would give you nothing that could harm you. Please, Boromir, drink it and rest."

"For you, I will."

He held out his hand and allowed Merry to curl his fingers about the cup. Together, they tilted it to his lips, and he swallowed the sweet-smelling brew. When the cup was empty, he surrendered it to Merry and let his head sink into the pillow with a soft groan of relief. Once again, he held out his hand to the hobbit. Merry clasped it in both of his own and smiled when Boromir murmured,

"Tell me a story about the Shire, Merry. Something... something warm, that smells of summer."

When Aragorn returned to the Houses of Healing, it was nearly sunset. He found Merry curled in a chair by the window, eating an apple, and Boromir fast asleep. Laying the fresh leaves of athelas he carried on the table, he bent over to look closely at the sleeping man.

"He hasn't stirred in hours," Merry said.

"That is well."

"Do we have to wake him up? He looks so peaceful... I hate to disturb him. And even with your sleeping draught, it took him two hobbit folktales and one of old Bilbo's songs to fall asleep."

"Don't fret, Master Perian. He'll not even remember that we woke him."

Some minutes later, when Aragorn had fetched boiling water from the kitchen in which to steep the athelas and roused Boromir long enough to pour another draught down his throat, the King pulled a chair up to the bed and stretched out his long legs to rest his heels on the mattress. In this relaxed posture, he looked so much like the Strider Merry remembered of old that the hobbit expected him to pull out his pipe and call for a tankard of ale. Only the ragged cloak and muddy boots were lacking.

Eyeing Merry from beneath drooping lids, he said, "Get you to your dinner, Merry. I'll stay by him through the night."

"If you don't mind, I'd rather stay with you."

The hooded eyes gleamed for a moment. "Afraid to turn your back on him, Merry?"

The hobbit grinned shamefacedly. "A little. I'm never sure what he'll do, if I let him out of my sight."

"Tonight, he will only sleep. You have my word."

"It's not that I don't believe you..."

"But you would rather stay." Strider chuckled. "Stay then, Little One. I shall be glad of the company."

Smiling contentedly, Merry took a large bite from his apple and settled down in his oversized chair to wait out the night. He fell asleep to the sound of Strider's slow breathing.

** *** ***

Sausages. Someone was cooking sausages, and the smell was tempting enough to draw Boromir from a light, comfortable doze to full wakefulness. His stomach gave a protesting growl. Rolling onto his back, he pushed himself up on his elbows, barely noticing the dull pain in his side, and cast about the room for some clue as to who attended him.

He knew that someone was in the room with him, for in all the days of his convalescence, he had never awakened to find himself alone. At first, he had sunk into the bottomless sleep of injury and utter exhaustion. When familiar hands shook him awake, he came reluctantly and slid back into the dark abyss as soon as they released him. In that time, he drank what medicines they put to his lips, ate what simple foods they pressed upon him, but could not remember from waking to waking who had spoken to him or even put names to the voices.

As his body mended, his sleep lightened into a more natural, restful slumber. He woke of his own accord, though not often, and he began to pay heed to his surroundings. At last, he recognized the voices that greeted him. Merry, Pippin, Faramir, Aragorn. They all kept watch over his sleep. Once, he awoke to find Gandalf in the chair beside his bed, smoking a pipe and muttering to himself, though he later wondered if he had dreamed it. The old Wizard seemed an unlikely nurse.

On this particular morning, redolent with the smells of summer and frying sausages, Boromir awoke feeling both alert and hungry. This came as a bit of a surprise to him, after days of listlessness, a queasy stomach and a lack of interest in anything outside of sleep. Perhaps Aragorn's potions had at last worn off, and his innards would sit still for a more substantial meal than weak tea and dry toast. Like sausages.

Soft footsteps and the rustling of skirts approached the bed. Boromir pushed himself fully upright, fighting the dizziness that took him, and smiled in the general direction of the sound.

"Good morning, Gil."

The drudge answered, at her primmest, "My Lord."

"I smell breakfast."

She paused, sniffing audibly, and retorted, "What you smell is the manure Mother Ioreth spread on the herb garden."

Boromir started to laugh, but a sudden wave of vertigo hit him, and he swayed drunkenly instead, his face going blank and white. Gil caught him deftly, steadying him with a firm hand on his arm. With her free hand, she twitched at the scattered pillows and bolsters until she had a heap of them at his back. He settled against the pile, tilted his head back to rest on the uppermost pillow, and sighed in gratitude.

"It seems I'll not have sausages for breakfast, after all."

"Hm. There is nothing wrong with you, my lord Steward, beyond an empty stomach and too long a time spent abed. The King sent word that you're to eat a proper meal this morning. Then a wash and clean clothes."

"Then a skirmish with the Easterlings and a raid over the Mountains of Shadow to burn out some orcs," he murmured, lifting his head as Gil laid a tray across his lap. The tantalizing odors of sizzling meat and fresh bread floated up to him. "I must recruit my strength."

"Aye, that you must."

She shook out a napkin and spread it over his chest, then set a cup on his tray with the faintly musical sound of ceramic striking wood. Boromir decided that he needed tea even more than he did food, and he reached for the cup. Just as his fingers touched the smooth china, something heavy and searing hot fell against the back of his hand. Instinctively, he recoiled from the heat, even as Gil checked her movement and snatched away the tea pot. His cup went flying, scalding liquid slopped out of the pot to drench his sleeve, and his start of pain nearly upended his tray onto the floor.

With the lightening reflexes of a Elvish warrior - or a veteran servant - Gil swung the dripping tea pot well away from them both and caught the near edge of the tray, halting its slide into chaos.

"Don't move!" she snapped.

Boromir wisely obeyed, freezing with his right hand braced on the bed, his left knee raised, and his sodden left arm held carefully away from his body. He remained poised in this ludicrous position for a moment, while the rustling of fabric and the clinking of dishes on the table informed him that Gil was putting the tea pot safely out of harm's way. Once she could get both hands on the tray, she grasped it and lifted it from its place on Boromir's knee. He cautiously straightened his leg, then eased himself back against his pillows, all the while keeping his mouth tightly shut and his face averted from Gil's sharp eyes to hide his chagrin.

"Did it scald you?" she asked.

"Nay." Boromir plucked at his sleeve, where the wet spots were cooling rapidly. The skin across the backs of his fingers burned and stung, but he forbore to mention this. After an awkward moment, he added, wryly, "At least it was not the Halfling's breakfast, this time."

Gil uttered a wordless grunt, as she once again set the tray across Boromir's lap. "This time, the meal survived. Eat, lord, before I have to mop it up off the flagstones."

Boromir smiled sheepishly at her and asked, with an assumption of meekness that made her snort in disgust, "Is there any tea left in the pot?"

She took the cup from his tray, stepped safely away from the bed to fill it, then placed it firmly in his hand. He sipped the strong, hot brew appreciatively and waited until the sound of Gil's footsteps informed him that she had turned away. Then he set down his cup and hunted around on the tray for a knife. He did not like eating in front of people - it made him feel awkward and rather childish when he did not know what was on his plate - but even less did he like to admit his shyness or ask for help. This morning, he was too hungry to play games with his watchful nurse, and so the moment she had turned her back, he abandoned caution, found his knife, and speared the nearest piece of food on it. He was in luck, and it turned out to be a fat sausage.

By the time he heard Gil sit down in the chair by the window, he was happily devouring his breakfast and unconcerned with appearances. Gil fell quiet, only the occasional sound of fabric moving betraying her presence. Boromir ate until the empty, lightheaded feeling left him and he began to feel positively cheerful. When he settled back to finish his tea, Gil got up to move the tray and refill his cup.

"Were the sausages Aragorn's idea?" Boromir asked, idly.

"The contents of our larder are not the King's concern," she answered.

"Then they were your idea. I thank you."

As she resumed her seat by the window, she said, flatly, "I serve my lord as best I may."

He made a skeptical noise but offered no comment. After a quiet moment, he again broke the silence. "What are you doing?"

"Darning sheets."

"What, not spreading manure?"

"The manure will still need spreading, when I am done here."

"Do you earn no rest?"

"I have been resting since before dawn. You are not a taxing patient... when asleep."

"Shall I beg your pardon for waking up and disturbing you?"

"You shall do as you like, my lord Steward."

"Confound you, Gil, stop darning and talk to me." Her hands stilled, and Boromir imagined that he could see her expression of blank, dumb obedience fixed upon him. "Have I offended you, that I get nothing from you but stiff courtesies?" he demanded.

"Nay, lord, do not think it." Her voice roughened noticeably. "'Tis only that... I am glad to find you well again."

To a man less familiar with Gil's odd, prickly kind of dignity, this last statement might have seemed irrelevant. To Boromir, it explained everything. It was, in fact, the only relevant thing she had said all morning.

He sat very still, no hint of his thoughts showing in his face, for a long moment. Then suddenly, he smiled with perfect unconcern and said, "Did you say something about a wash?"

Boromir sat on the edge of the bed, gingerly pulling on his boots. Clean, shaved and groomed, he now struggled to clothe himself decently, before Gil broke in on him again. The ties and buckles frustrated him, and he had nearly used up his meager store of strength. But his pride had suffered enough for one morning, and so he persevered in defiance of the weakness that weighed upon him.

He managed the shirt and breeches easily enough, but the tunic, with its intricate clasps, he could not fasten for the tremor in his fingers. And bending over to reach his boots caused his head to swim alarmingly. By the time he had finished dressing, he felt sick and shaken. A swallow of cold tea settled his stomach, but he still did not feel equal to leaving the haven of his bed.

When a stir sounded outside the door, Boromir assumed that Gil had returned. But the visitor who strode into his room walked on booted feet and brought with him the scrape of stiff brocade against leather-clad limbs, not the muffled swish of heavy skirts. He crossed swiftly to the bed and halted within arm's reach of Boromir.

There was a brief pause, then Aragorn's voice came to him, soft and full of laughter, "How fare you, my lord Steward?"

A wide smile lit Boromir's face. "Well enough. And you, my King?"

"Well." He laughed aloud and caught Boromir's arms, drawing the other man to his feet and into his embrace. "Well, indeed!"

As they stepped apart, Boromir smiled at his King bemusedly. He did not need to see Aragorn's face to know that it was alight with joy, yet stern and kingly. He could sense the regal mood upon him again - the blood of Elendil singing in his veins, the pride of ancient Númenor crowning his head with light - but there was more. This was not the King Elessar that Boromir had come to know. This was a man so filled with gladness that he could not contain it all within his mortal body, but spilled and scattered it about him like water from a fountain.

"Something has happened," Boromir said. Then inspiration struck, and he demanded, "Has the Lady Arwen come?"

"Nay, but the day draws near. Nearer even than I hoped, if I read the signs aright."

"What signs, Aragorn?"

"Come with me, and I will show you. I have waited for this day - waited and hoped. Now at last it is here." Laying a hand that trembled with eagerness on Boromir's shoulder, he urged, "Come, Boromir, and look upon our final victory!"

"I will come with you and gladly. But you speak in riddles!"

"Nay, all will be made clear! The sign is meant as much for you as for me. I am certain of it. And the beauty of it... Ah, Boromir, it will heal your heart!"

Staying only long enough for Aragorn to fasten the last few clasps and buckles for Boromir, they left the Houses of Healing through the sunlit gardens and walked the broad street of the sixth circle to the Citadel gate. The guard hailed them and snapped to attention as they passed. As they strode up the slope in the echoing coolness of the tunnel, Boromir asked, "Where are we going?"

"Patience," Aragorn replied.

Through the upper gate they came, and Boromir anticipated that the King would lead him into the Tower. But instead, they crossed the wide Court to the greensward at its center. Boromir heard the music of the fountain and cast a questioning look at Aragorn. Beside him, Aragorn drew in a sharp, elated breath, and his body seemed to grow both taller and straighter than before. The joy in him was now a living presence, vibrating through his frame like a plucked harp string.

Together, they stepped from the stone paving of the courtyard onto the yielding grass. Aragorn gently freed his arm from Boromir's grasp, then caught the Steward's hand, drawing him forward.

At Aragorn's urging, Boromir paced up the sward to the place where stood the White Tree of Gondor. Boromir approached it reluctantly. He had no desire to touch the withered trunk and see again, in his mind's eye, the dead and barren pride of Gondor rotting beside the pool. But as he drew closer, he caught the scent of blossoms in the air. He halted, amazed, and as he listened he fancied that the music of the fountain, always so melancholy to his ears, now played merrily among green leaves and pliant branches.

"I found it on the highest slopes of Mindolluin at the sun's first light," Aragorn said, his voice deep and his tone reverent. "Gandalf led me to it."

"What is it?"

"The sign for which I have waited all my long life."

Again, he drew Boromir forward, and Boromir obeyed him, resistless. His outstretched hand touched smooth bark. Slowly, he let his palm curve about the delicate branch, his fingers sliding over living wood. It was a tiny, seemingly fragile thing, standing no higher than his waist, with a fringe of cool, supple leaves at its tip. And it was alive. Miraculously, gloriously alive.

Disbelief and wonder swelled in Boromir's breast, choking off his breath and filling his throat with tears. He sank to his knees on the grass, his hand still lifted to touch the leaves. "It lives," he whispered.

"Aye, and ever will, so long as Gondor flourishes in our care." Taking Boromir's hand gently in his, Aragorn moved it to where a cluster of flowers sat like a crown upon the sapling's leafy hair. "This is our victory, Boromir. Yours and mine. Growing and blooming in the heart of our city."

"The White Tree."

"It is a sign that our greatest labor has only begun. But if we stand together, we cannot fail."

"Aye." Boromir let his hand linger on the soft petals for a moment longer, then he rose stiffly to his feet and stepped back to take his place at Aragorn's side. "I am ready, my King."

To be continued...

Chapter Text

Boromir listened to the soft padding of bare feet, moving inexorably away from him, and pictured the halfling's bright head bent in dejection as he walked. He should call Merry back. He should throw off this somber mood, muster his courage, and return with Merry to the wedding feast where Aragorn and all the great ones of Middle-earth celebrated together. Instead, he slumped back against the sun-warmed stone of the parapet and listened to those dragging, reluctant footsteps head back to the Citadel without him.

He heard Merry's parting words in his mind again and wondered at how far he had fallen, when his friends feared to leave him unattended for an hour or two. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" Merry had asked. "I hate to leave you here alone." Then he had pleaded, "Do try to stay out of trouble, Boromir!"

As if he could find trouble in this peaceful garden, in broad daylight, with all the city at its revels in the streets below. The Steward of Gondor did not need a keeper to guard his every step!

It occurred to Boromir, as he settled his shoulders against the curved wall and tilted his face up to catch a wayward breeze, that a keeper was exactly what he needed. But he thrust that thought away from him, before it could begin to rankle too bitterly, and willed his mind to empty. Willed himself to ignore the familiar cold knot of loneliness that tightened in the pit of his stomach when Merry walked away. After the noise and bustle of the Tower, he did not want company. He wanted nothing but quiet, solitude and peace in which to rest.

Below him in the streets of Minas Tirith, the singing went on as it had since daybreak, as the people of Gondor welcomed their new Queen, and with the swell of voices came the thick, sweet scent of flowers borne on the hot summer air. Music and perfume. They had surrounded him throughout the day, clinging to his flesh like the folds of his velvet cloak, weighing upon him like the chain mail he wore beneath his wedding finery. He found them oddly oppressive, even as he savored them for the joy they heralded.

The Steward knew that his own weariness and dejection had little to do with the day itself. In truth, this had been a glorious day, a day of wonders to rival even that on which Aragorn had claimed his crown. All the city celebrated the union of Elessar and Arwen Undómiel, rejoicing in their King's long-delayed happiness, and Boromir shared his people's joy in full measure. But beneath his gladness lurked a quiet, aching melancholy that he could not banish.

By all rights, he should be as elated as Aragorn on this day. It marked a beginning - not just for the newly wedded couple, but for all Gondor and all the race of Men - and for none so much as for Boromir, son of Denethor.

His hand strayed to the heavy brooch that secured his cloak at the throat, and he touched it with something akin to reverence. His fingertips brushed over smooth enamel, marked by a sprinkling of hard, sharp gems. Tiny they were, like stars scattered across a midnight sky. And at the center of the oval face, faint but unmistakable, was inlaid the familiar shape of a great horn. He could feel the cool threads of silver set into the warmer enamel, tracing the contours of the horn where it lay among the star gems.

Of all the day's wonders, this small gift was the greatest. Boromir could still hear the warmth in Aragorn's voice as he pinned the device to Boromir's cloak with his own hands and said, "The Horn of Gondor is not broken. It lies amidst the stars of Anórien, and I give both into your keeping. I name you Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, Prince of Anórien."

Tears thickened Boromir's throat at the memory. Aragorn had given him Anórien. And to Faramir had gone Ithilien, that green and secret land that his brother loved as no other. The King could have chosen no gifts that would touch the brothers more deeply or bind them more strongly to him, had either of them needed such outward tenders of his love.

Boromir traced again the graceful curve of the horn, and he swallowed painfully to ease the growing ache of the tears he could not shed. Prince of Anórien. The title conjured up in his mind an image of soaring mountains clad in purple shadows and crowned with snow, of trees black in the moonlight, of a midnight sky glimpsed through twisted branches, strewn with stars.

His hand fell to his lap, and he curled his fingers into a tight fist, as if to keep close the memory of what they had touched. As he had all this day, Boromir felt at once proud and disheartened, glad and sorrowful, for this peerless gift came at a price: the loss of his brother.

Faramir, too, had a princedom to rule and naught to hold him in Minas Tirith save a brother's love. Duty and inclination bound him to Ithilien. He would make a princely home in Emyn Arnen and grace it with a wife worthy of its beauty. Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan. Faramir's joy at this prospect was palpable, his regret at leaving the White City and Boromir no more than an echo of sadness, quickly overwhelmed and forgotten. Boromir could not fault him for his happiness, nor could he diminish it with his own sorrow.

Deep as was his love for Minas Tirith and strongly as his heart was rooted here, Boromir felt increasingly as if he were being set adrift in the city, anchored nowhere, guided by no one. Aragorn remained, but Boromir could not look to him for support. Indeed, it was the Steward who must support the King, not the reverse, and Aragorn would expect Boromir to be at his side, ready, when the press of duties grew too much for one man to bear. But how was he to take his place at the King's side, when he had no friendly hand to guide him there?

That was the heart of the matter, the source of his melancholy and the fear that lurked around each dark corner for him. All those he loved and trusted were leaving him, in one way or another, to muddle through as best he might with none but strangers to aid him. Perhaps this was Aragorn's way of forcing a final decision upon him, of stiffening his resolve to accept the harsh necessities of his life, rally his courage, and step forward without brother or friend at his side to protect him. If so, then the loss of his brother was meant for his own good, and he should be grateful. But for the moment, he could find no gratitude, only grief and loneliness.

"My lord?"

The voice jolted him rudely from his reverie and brought him halfway to his feet in alarm.

"My lord, are you ill?"

He sank back on the bench, feeling his face heat with embarrassment. So deeply had he lost himself in thought that he had not heard the crunch of feet on gravel or the rustle of heavy skirts. Now he found himself torn between laughter and chagrin at being caught unawares.

"Gil. I did not hear you approach."

"I am sorry if I intrude."

"Nay. 'Tis only that you startled me." Struggling to regain his composure, he leaned back against the parapet and fixed her with his bandaged gaze, a wry smile tilting his lips. "You should know better than to creep up on me like that, Gil. I might have spit you on my sword before I knew you for a friend."

"I am more afraid of being trampled, scalded or knocked headlong over the wall," she retorted sourly.

The smile widened into a full grin, as he relaxed into the familiar sparring of a conversation with Gil. "Dare you come any closer?"

"I am safe enough. I brought no teapot with me." Abruptly, Gil left off her banter and said in a voice of genuine concern, "You have been sitting here for close on an hour, my lord. Is there aught you need? Where is Master Merry?"

"Merry is at the feast, in attendance upon Éomer King. He would have fled the party with me, but he has a duty to his liege lord that he cannot shirk."

"Then you are alone."

"Aye, by choice."

"I beg your pardon. I will leave you now," she said stiffly.

"Nay, do not!" His words halted her move to depart, and he heard the scrape of her feet in the gravel as she turned to face him once more. Rising swiftly to his feet, he offered her a courteous bow and his most charming smile. "I pray you, walk with me a while about the gardens. Do not leave me to the mercy of my own thoughts!"

"My lord, I..."

He crooked his elbow, invitingly. "Come, Gil. Will you not join me?"

Gil gave a snort of disgust, just to let him know that she was not beguiled by his courtly manner, and slipped a hand through his arm. "You needn't play off your tricks for me," she scolded. "I am bound to obey you."

With a chuckle, Boromir turned to his right, away from the Houses of Healing, and set off along the curve of the wall. Gil fell into step beside him and let him set both their pace and their direction, guiding his steps only when some obstacle threatened. Together, they strolled down the gentle slope of the lawn to the west.

They walked in easy silence, and Boromir made no attempt to break it, content merely to enjoy the smell of warm grass, the feel of sunlight on his face, and Gil's company. With her beside him, he had no desire to dwell on loss or sadness. He felt his spirits lift and the aching knot of sorrow in him ease. In truth, from the moment her voice had startled him out of his brooding, he had not thought of princedoms or partings, but only of the comfort he drew from a friend's welcome presence.

In this state of quiet contentment, he made no effort to examine his heart or consider where it might lead him. He did not want to consider how absurd his friendship with Gil must look in the eyes of his peers. Nor did he want to think of the duties that would inevitably keep him mewed up in the Citadel, far from the Houses of Healing and this garden. That a common drudge had no place in the Steward's life was a fact - unpalatable, but inescapable - and somewhere within himself, Boromir knew that he must soon accept it. Then would come another parting, another friend and guide lost.

As if echoing his thoughts, Gil suddenly spoke. "I did not think to see you here again, my lord. You have not visited us for many days, not since Lord Elfstone came for you."

He responded lightly, without thinking, in his wonted teasing manner, "Is that a reproach? Why, Gil, can it be that you missed me?"

She flinched and made a move to withdraw her hand, but Boromir forestalled her. His hand clasped hers, holding it firmly against his arm, and he said softly, "I am sorry. I did not mean to offend you."

"You did not."

"I did, but it is foolishness, Gil. You need not be afraid of me."

"I am not," she asserted, her voice trembling.

"I missed you." Even as the words left his lips, the truth of them struck him with the force of a cudgel blow, stopping him dead in his tracks and rocking him back on his heels. He had missed her. He had missed her dreadfully, and the thought of never walking at her side again or hearing her low grunt of laughter or engaging in another skirmish of caustic wit with her formed a cold lump of loss within him. In that moment he knew that he could not bear to bid farewell to yet another friend.

"Gil." He turned to face her squarely, reaching to catch her by the arms. She stiffened alarmingly beneath his touch, and he felt as though he had grasped a marble statue between his hands. Recklessly, he tightened his hold on her and refused to back away, though he knew that he was teetering on the brink of utter disaster. "Gil, did you not miss me just a little?"

Her voice came as a hiss of outrage and panic in his ears. "Do not ask me that, my lord!"

"I must, for I tell you honestly that I missed you, that I am glad to be with you again and loath to leave you, knowing that it may be weeks or months or an endless time before we meet again." Easing his grip on her arms, he let his hands drop away, freeing her. "I cannot command your trust. If you will not give it freely, will not look upon me as a friend, there is naught that I can do to compel you. But know that you have mine in full measure, and trust is something I do not give lightly."

"You cannot call me friend. You are the Steward of Gondor, and I am a drudge. A menial."

"I know well what you are, for you will scarce let me forget it. I know what I am and what gulf yawns between us, and that is why I must keep you near me. I must not lose you in the darkness."

"I do not like this jest, my lord! I beg you, have done!"

"'Tis no jest." Carefully, so as not to startle her into instant flight, he lifted a hand to rest on her shoulder. "I should have seen it before, had I not been so intent on licking my wounds and bemoaning my fate. How simple it now seems!"

"What is simple?"

"Aragorn has charged me with finding a squire to be my guide and chief attendant. I delayed in the vain hope that some inspiration might come to me, some escape, but I have been thrice a fool! Gil, my dear, crusty, obstinate Gil, you are all the guide I need!"

A tremor ran through Gil's body, and Boromir knew that only a lifetime of rigid discipline kept her from taking to her heels, leaving him stranded in this unfamiliar place. "You are cruel to mock me so!" she hissed.

"Indeed, I do not. I am in earnest."

"Your wits have turned."

"Then must you humor me in my madness."

"I will not. It is folly! Wicked folly!"

"Why?"

Gil floundered for a moment, making strangled, inarticulate sounds as she hunted for a telling argument. At last, she blurted out, "Squires are noblemen's sons!"

"Aye, so they are."

"What am I? A baseborn creature with no name, unlettered and untrained in the ways of the court? A woman? A nice figure I should cut among the highborn of Gondor, in my drudge's apron and kerchief!"

Almost he laughed, so great was the need to relieve the apprehension and urgency building within him. But he controlled the impulse and said, his voice trembling slightly, "We might find you garments more fitting to your station."

"I know my station. And I am properly clothed for it."

"For a drudge, perhaps, but not for the Steward's squire. Your skirts would most likely prove awkward, especially on horseback."

"Horseback!" Gil recoiled from him, jerking her shoulder out of his grasp, and cried in horror, "You have truly run mad!"

"Do you not ride?"

She shuddered. "Nay, I do not. Nor do I mean to get anywhere near one of those beasts!"

"Horses are not so bad, once you learn to handle them," he remarked, letting a note of entreaty creep into his voice.

"I will not learn. I will not." Boromir opened his mouth to speak, but she overbore him, nearly shouting, "The King himself could not make me do it!"

"Very well." In contrast to her burgeoning panic, Boromir sounded unnaturally calm and reasonable. He knew it for the calm of desperation, but Gil did not. "I shall find a groom to ride with me."

"Ride with you?" she demanded, scandalized. "You would put me up on a horse... with you?"

"Nay, we have agreed that you will not ride. And mayhap you are right to refuse. It would not be seemly to go about with a young woman perched before me in the saddle, no matter what garments she wore."

"It certainly would not!"

"But I still deem a tunic and breeches more suited to a squire's duties than skirts."

Gil tried to laugh, tried to match his apparent ease, but failed utterly. "Do you think I would make a passable boy?"

"I know not. Would you?" Her only answer was a wordless snarl, and Boromir instantly abandoned his attempt at humor. "I am thinking only of your comfort, Gil. You are accustomed to moving about the Houses and garden, dressed in your drudge's weeds, unnoticed and largely unseen."

"I like it that way."

"Aye. But were you to stand among the squires and pages that throng the court dressed as you are, every eye in the Great Hall would be drawn to you. Dressed as a squire, though any fool would know you for a woman at a glance, few would bother to cast even that first glance in your direction. You would be as nameless and faceless to most of the city as you are now."

"Until all Gondor began to whisper that the Steward's squire was a foundling brat."

"Are you afraid of whispers? I am not. I will protect you from them and defend your honor as I do my own."

She hesitated, and Boromir could sense her doubt in the way she shifted restlessly from one foot to the other and wiped her palms against the rough fabric of her skirt. He made no move to touch her, giving her space enough to breathe freely and the chance to flee if she wished, but he had to fight the urge to grab her, shake her roughly, and tell her not to be such a blind, stubborn fool. He knew full well how he would respond to such treatment, and he knew Gil well enough to be certain she would do the same. So the only course open to him was to wait and to pray that she trusted him enough to consider his words.

"You would... fight for me?" she whispered, at last.

"Assuredly I would. It is my duty as your liege lord and my privilege as your friend."

"Why?"

"Because you are my friend. And I am your Steward, whether or not you choose to become my squire."

Again, she paused, then asked with a quiet, fierce intensity, "Why is this so important to you, lord?"

His hands closed into fists, clenched tightly against his thighs, and his face hardened with strain. He knew that he had touched Gil, had goaded her into revealing herself, into asking for the truth. And now he must give her the truth in return. Nothing less would suffice, though the necessity of it turned his innards cold with fear.

"I need your help, Gil." His voice sounded harsh in his own ears. "I cannot shoulder the burdens of my stewardship without it, and if I cannot be Steward in truth as well as in name, then I am nothing. Broken and useless. Fit only to beg on a street corner, as my enemies would have it."

"There are others more fitted to help you."

"But none I trust as I do you."

Boromir held out both his hands and waited until he felt Gil's fingers rest on his palms. They were cold and they trembled slightly, but she made no move to withdraw them when he tightened his clasp. The touch steadied him and gave him courage. "Can you understand what it means to be surrounded, hemmed in by strangers? To feel that all your life is governed by your need of them?" His voice shook, and he paused for a moment, struggling for a measure of control. "It is a fearful thing to realize that your safety, your honor, your integrity as a Steward and Prince lie in the hands of faceless strangers."

"You can learn to trust them."

"I have no time to learn. I must take up my duties and entrust myself to a legion of secretaries, squires, body servants, grooms... They will have the sifting and reading of every letter, the penning of every dispatch, the guiding of my steps and the serving of my food. I cannot dress myself without a servant by me to choose which cloak and boots I wear!" He shook his head angrily, feeling a familiar, gnawing bitterness well up in him. "If just one of my attendants is lax in his work, corrupted by ambition, or too rash in his judgements, 'tis I who must answer for it. And my King who must set my blunders to rights. Nay, I have no time to learn trust, as I have no leisure for mistakes!"

"What would you have of me? I cannot read or write. I will neither ride with you nor attend you in your chambers. You would still need your host of attendants, whether or not I am among them. I do not understand how I can help you."

"You can be the friend who stands with me, the welcome voice in the darkness, the arm that does not flinch from my touch. You can make the rest of it endurable."

"That... that is truly how you think of me?"

Boromir bowed his head, shielding his face from her gaze, and spoke quietly, from the depths of his bruised and weary heart. "Each time I take another creature's arm and let him guide my steps, I am placing myself in his hands. It is not something I can choose to do or not to do. It is the only means I have of moving farther than a few strides from where I stand. And each time I do it, I am reminded how fragile and vital is trust. Even the strongest friendship or family bond becomes doubtful in that moment, when I must swallow my pride and place my trust in that other, unseen creature.

"There are only a few whom I can trust so completely without fear or strain. Aragorn, Merry, Pippin, my brother. And you. Do not ask me how you came to be among those few, for I cannot explain it. Perhaps it is as simple as a lack of pity. You have never shown me pity, and your fear is of my title, not my blindness. Whatever the reason, I can take your arm, follow your steps, listen to your voice chide me for my clumsiness, and feel myself at home in your company. That is more than important to me, Gil, it is everything. Without it, I am lost and alone and... afraid."

Gil stood in silence, pondering Boromir's words and struggling with her private doubts, while Boromir waited. He could do no more than wait, his spirit turned to lead within him, his nerves aching as if they had been scraped raw with a dull sword. When Gil stirred, letting her breath out on a long sigh and returning the clasp of his fingers very slightly, he knew that she had come to a decision. Her voice sounded flat and wooden in his ears, but her words were music.

"I believe it wrong for you to place such trust in me, but if you would, then I am willing and honored to have it so."

Relief and gratitude flooded him, lighting his face with a brilliant smile. He felt a momentary urge to embrace her but contented himself with lifting their clasped hands to his breast and saying, simply, "Thank you, Gil."

"Are you certain that this is what you want?"

"Without a doubt."

"And we are agreed... no horses."

He laughed, but it came out closer to a sob. "No horses."

As she proceeded to number all the things she could not or would not do, she seemed to regain her composure. He voice took on its wonted crispness and her words became demands. "You know that I cannot read or write."

"You can learn. Or are you as leery of words as you are of horses?"

She gave a small, neutral grunt, then added, "I'll not enter your chambers after you retire or before you breakfast."

"Indeed not."

"I will give the servants no food for gossip!"

"Nor will I."

"And I must have your leave to deal with the other squires in my own way. Boys are a pesky lot, and only get worse as they get older. If I am to hold my own among them, I must win and keep my place!"

"Only tell me of any trouble from that quarter and I will..."

"Nay, that is my battle." A new thought suddenly occurred to her, and she asked in alarm, "Where am I to live, my lord? I cannot sleep in the squires' hall!"

"I will find you a private chamber in the Tower. The Chamberlain will know best where to put you."

"Ah."

"Is there aught else that troubles you, Gil?"

"All of this troubles me. I called it folly, and folly it is, but... I have said that I will do it."

"Perhaps it is folly, but I hope it will bring us both a measure of content. You may find that you enjoy being more than a drudge."

"Or I may not."

"If you are truly unhappy, tell me of it. I will not hold you to a bargain that injures you. But if your fears and hurts are such that I can mend them, I will. Trust me, Gil."

"I do. That is why I have agreed to this madness."

Offering her another unguarded smile, he lifted one hand to drop a light kiss on her knuckles. Gil's hand twitched in his, trying to withdraw, but he held her firmly, drawing her to his side and tucking her hand in the curve of his arm. "Come then, let us to the Houses and speak to the Warden. We will ask his leave and the King's before we dress you up as a boy and turn you loose on the unsuspecting court."

As he spoke, Boromir turned so that the ground sloped uphill before him, and he began walking. Gil moved with him out of habit, but when they had gone only a few paces, she halted and drew her hand from his arm.

"Stay, my lord, this is not meet. You would not offer your arm to a squire. How is it you walk with the halfling? Or with your brother?"

"When you wear breeches, I will treat you as a squire. But while you still wear your skirts, I will treat you as a lady."

"But I am not..."

"Be still. The first lesson you must learn is not to argue with everything I say."

Her voice held a suspicious hint of laughter when she asked, "What is the second."

"Not to ask impertinent questions."

Gil uttered her customary grunt and put her hand on his arm again. "Aye, my lord."

"I expect I will soon grow heartily sick of those words."

She paused, then said, demurely, "Aye, my lord."

Boromir was still laughing as they set off through the gardens together.

*** *** ***

"Don't shuffle," Merry cried in exasperation, "and keep your head up!"

The slim figure, clad all in black and silver, halted its pacing to stand glaring at him. "I do not shuffle, Master Perian."

"You do," he retorted, making no effort to soften his tone or curb his annoyance. After most of a morning spent in company with the Steward's squire, trying to accustom her to her new station in life and her new clothes, he had learned that bluntness served him better than courtesy. "You walk like a drudge."

"I am a drudge."

"You are not. You are a squire, with some standing at court, and you must carry yourself with dignity."

"A real squire may have standing - a noble father and a chance at knighthood, at the least - but I am..."

"You stand higher than any of them." Hopping down from his seat in the window embrasure, Merry crossed to where Gil stood and glowered up at her, daring her to contradict him. "You wear the Steward's livery."

Her hand moved to touch the front of her garment, fingering the device stitched upon her breast, and her scowl turned thoughtful. "Aye. But it does not make me a true squire."

"Then you must learn to be one, for Boromir's sake and your own. Now try it again. And don't shuffle."

She favored him with a parting glare but obediently began to walk the length of the chamber again, her movements an odd mixture of hesitant and defiant. Merry watched her critically, shaking his head, a frown of concentration on his face.

He had spent much of the morning with Gil, here in the great council chamber. It offered them privacy and room to move freely, and Aragorn had ordered that they not be interrupted while they worked. It was now late morning, and the sun rode high above the plains, barely touching the tall, arched windows with its beams. Bars of light fell across the stone flags just beneath the windows, but most of the lofty chamber remained in shadow and comfortably cool.

Gil, in her dark livery, looked like a living part of those shadows. She was both small and slender, and from a distance she strongly resembled the noble youth that her clothing proclaimed her to be. It was only when he looked in her face and saw the mature woman gazing suspiciously back at him, or when he watched her move in her peculiar, hunched, heavy way that Merry recognized the drudge in this boyish figure.

If she could only hold herself upright and step forward with confidence, Merry thought, she would look the part to perfection. But of course, she could not. She had spent all her life as a menial, scurrying about her work with her head down, avoiding the feet and eyes and notice of her betters. She had spent only a few days as a squire, and that in name only, for she would not assume her duties while Merry remained in the city to attend her lord. Nor would she show herself in public until her garments were ready - the boy's surcote fit to her woman's body and the Steward's colors blazoned upon the black velvet.

This morning had, at last, left her no excuse for delay. With her livery hanging, finished, in her servant's cell, and with Merry due to leave at daybreak on the morrow, the time had come for the Steward's squire to take her place at his side. Even her claim that Ioreth could not spare her for another day had been belied by Ioreth herself, who had marched Gil up to the Tower and forcibly installed her in her new quarters. The old woman had wept tears of joy when she saw her foundling child clad in the rich livery of a royal squire, with the Horn and stars of Anórien upon her breast and the band of white silk edging her black tunic. As a final gesture of love and pride, Ioreth had dressed Gil's hair with her own hands, braiding it and twisting it about her head into a shining coronet that she covered with a velvet cap.

It was this creature made up of contradictions who now stood before Merry, hunched defensively, her eyes dark and wary in the cool shadows. Neither young nor old, part elvish boy and part stolid drudge, fragile-seeming yet unbroken by years of labor, possessed of a dignity that had nothing to do with her worth in the eyes of Men. She glared at him from behind her blank, wooden mask that was a kind of defiance in itself, and demanded,

"What say you, Master Merry? Am I a disgrace to our Steward?"

Merry sighed. "You do look odd when you walk that way, but I don't suppose Boromir will notice."

"Unless you tell him I am not fit for a squire."

"Why would I do that?"

Heaving a sigh of her own, Gil sat down on the edge of the hearth. Merry crossed to her and boosted himself up on the hearthstone to sit beside her. She looked so dejected that he wanted to touch her hand, to offer some comfort, but he restrained the urge and kept his own hands firmly clasped around his knees.

"Is that what you want, Gil? For me to tell Boromir that you can't do this?"

"It matters naught what I want." She crossed her arms in a protective gesture and seemed to draw her head down between her shoulders, retreating into herself. "He would think it a betrayal."

"No... not that, exactly..."

Merry knew well how much Gil's help meant to Boromir. He had seen the relief in his friend's face, heard the tentative dawning of hope in his voice when he spoke of taking Gil as his squire. And for the first time, Merry could think of leaving Gondor without feeling the cold clutch of despair at his heart. If Gil took fright and deserted Boromir now, Merry knew that he would not find the courage to ride away from the city gates, come dawn tomorrow. And if he did not go tomorrow, he would never go.

"It will not serve, Master Perian. You know it will not."

"Please don't say that."

"This is folly."

"Whatever it is, it must work. It must." In desperation, Merry dropped his guard and let loose the emotions he had kept under tight rein all through the morning. Pain welled up in him, tears stung his eyes, and his voice took on a frantic edge. "I beg you, Gil. If you won't do it for Boromir or for yourself, then do it for me. Promise me that you will stand with him, as his squire and his friend. Promise me!"

She lifted her head and fixed her intent gaze on him. "For you? This is what you want?"

"Yes."

"'Tis you who should stand with him, not I. You love him as no one else, and he loves you. How can I hope to fill that place?"

"Promise me," Merry whispered, doggedly.

"And if I do not..." He shook his head helplessly, too choked by tears to answer her. To his surprise, she reached over to clasp his hand in strong, slender, callused fingers. "Will you not stay and serve him, Merry?"

"I cannot." He swallowed convulsively and forced the words out past the lump in his throat. "I must go home."

"Even if it tears your heart in two?"

"It will not, if I have your word that you won't leave him."

Gil did not speak for a long moment, and when she found her voice again, it had dropped to a soft murmur. "Does it mean so much to you?"

"Yes."

The single word held a wealth of conviction and feeling, and Merry could see Gil struggle beneath the weight of it. For a moment, fear and longing blazed openly in her face for Merry to see, but then she turned away, shuttering her thoughts behind heavy eyelids and the blank expression he knew so well. At last she said, with a touch of wry humor, "Then I must strive not to disgrace either one of you."

"You won't," he assured her, somewhat damply. Wiping his nose on his sleeve and giving a prosaic sniff, he climbed to his feet to stand on the high hearth. "At least, you won't so long as you don't shuffle. Let's try it again."

Gil shot him a swift, humorous look and stood up, bringing her head on a level with his. "How long will you keep flogging this lame horse, Master Perian?"

Merry smiled, relief shining through the tearstains on his face. "Until the horse learns to walk."

"Or falls down dead of exhaustion."

"Walk!"

*** *** ***

Chapter Text

Frodo stood on the stone bench, leaning over the parapet to watch the shadows lengthening upon the fields below. The sun was sliding behind the peak of Mindolluin, casting the Pelennor into gloom and gilding the distant curve of Anduin with its last rays. Beyond the river towered the Mountains of Shadow, painted rose and gold in the dying light, with the shimmering, secretive green of Ithilien at their feet.

"This is a lovely spot," he murmured.

Beside him, Merry crossed his arms on the top of the wall and leaned his chin upon them. His eyes gazed into the distance, full of memory and melancholy. "I spend a lot of time here. It's my favorite place in all the city." He paused for a moment, still gazing outward, then added, "It is strange to think that we may never look upon those mountains again, or see the river running silver across the plain. I've grown so used to all this grandeur that I won't know what to make of the dear, old Shire when I see it again."

"It will be something of a shock to go home, but I'll be glad to see it, all the same."

"I will, and no mistake," Sam muttered.

Both Merry and Frodo turned to look at him, where he pottered and poked through a nearby flowerbed, and Frodo smiled. "Have you had enough of great mountains and cities, Sam?"

"That I have, Mister Frodo. Give me a snug hobbit hole with a proper garden, and you can keep your cities."

"I do miss the gurgle of the Brandywine on a summer evening," Merry admitted, "and the glimmer of light from the windows of Brandy Hall."

"A pot of ale at the Green Dragon," Frodo offered.

"A pouch full of the best Longbottom Leaf."

"The smell of seed cakes baking..."

"...in the kitchen at Bag End!"

Frodo grinned in delight. "It will be nice to get home!"

Merry sighed and turned away from the vista of the plains below to look toward the garden gate. "I wish I felt that way." He sank down on the bench, propping his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. "I wish Boromir would come."

"What time did he say to meet him here?"

"Dusk, or thereabouts. But he was deep in talk with Aragorn and Imrahil, and to judge by the pile of lists on the desk, they could be at it all night."

"Don't worry. He won't fail us. The Fellowship will have its last few hours together."

As if summoned by his words, the crunch of booted feet sounded on the pathway. Merry knew that step as surely as he did the tall, proud figure that approached and the voice that hailed him, cheerfully. He bounded off his seat before his name had left Boromir's lips and ran up the grassy slope to meet him. Frodo fixed a thoughtful gaze on his back and Sam a doubtful one, but Merry ignored them both, too relieved and delighted at seeing his friend again to care what the other hobbits thought of him.

"Boromir! You're late! Hullo, Gil."

Gil turned to look at him but neither smiled nor broke her stride, merely inclined her head slightly. Boromir's hand seemed to weigh heavily on her shoulder, but Merry knew that it was not the burden of responsibility that made her move so deliberately, only caution. Under his tutelage, she had put aside her drudge's shuffle, but she had not yet learned to walk with any ease in her unaccustomed garb. She pushed her feet forward as though thrusting aside heavy skirts and planted her light shoes on the gravel path with grim finality.

"I am not late," Boromir chided, his free hand dropping to rest on Merry's head, as the hobbit fell into step at his side. "The sun sets even now, and I am here as promised."

"True, but I have been waiting and waiting." He peered around Boromir's large person to smile impishly at Gil. "And worrying that Gil's courage would fail her in the end."

The squire lifted her chin haughtily. "I know my duty, Master Perian."

They moved up to the bench, and Merry guided Boromir to the corner of the embrasure, where he always sat with his back to the curved wall. As the Man settled onto the bench, Frodo stirred, breaking his perfect, hobbitish stillness and bringing Boromir's head up with a start.

"Hello, Boromir," he said.

"Frodo." It cost Boromir a visible effort to relax, as it always did when he found himself in Frodo's company, but he managed it. The tautness of his shoulders eased and the closed look left his face. Then he smiled with genuine warmth. "Sam must be here, as well, I think. Good evening to you, Samwise."

"Master Boromir." Sam left off his study of the flowerbed and moved up beside Frodo. Like Boromir, he approached these meetings with caution, but unlike the Man, he made no attempt to overcome his wariness. Frodo's many assurances that Boromir meant him no harm and was, in fact, a valued friend had done much to allay Sam's doubts but had not made him comfortable in Boromir's presence. Steward and gardener treated each other with a scrupulous, guarded respect. "Begging your pardon, Master Boromir, but who is this boy you've brought with you? Or who brought you here with him, I should say."

"'Tis no boy. 'Tis my squire, Gil, and a lady."

Both Frodo and Sam stared at Gil in frank curiosity, and Merry saw a dark flush creep into her cheeks. Sam saw it as well and gave an apologetic grunt. "I don't know as I've ever seen a lady in such outlandish clothes, but I reckon you make a right proper squire." He bobbed his head affably at her and said, "Samwise Gamgee, at your service."

Gil started to curtsey but realized, too late, that she wore no skirt and turned it into an awkward bow. "Master Perian."

Frodo, with the instinctive kindness and courtesy that never deserted him, began making conversation with Gil, trying to draw her out. Sam climbed onto the bench next to Frodo and listened to their somewhat stilted talk. Merry was grateful to his cousin, both for the attempt to make Gil feel welcome and for giving Merry a chance to talk privately with Boromir. But when the hobbit drew close to his friend's side, apart from the others, he found that he had little to say.

All through the day, the awareness that time was running short and that every hour spent brought him closer to parting had weighed upon Merry's thoughts and tied his tongue. Words of farewell, of loyalty and love and lasting friendship, poured frantically from his lips when Boromir was not by. But when he looked into that beloved face, saw his own sorrow and dread reflected there, the words deserted him. He had a few more hours yet to postpone it. A few more hours simply to sit with Boromir, listen to his voice, feel his touch, and pretend that the morrow might never come.

With a sigh of contentment, Merry sank down to sit on the grass at Boromir's feet. His head leaned trustingly against the Man's knee, and a familiar hand rested upon his curls. A happiness beyond words filled Merry's breast, driving away all fear of what was to come, and he knew that Boromir felt it as well by the gentle, protective quality of his touch. For a precious time, Merry allowed himself to be happy, allowed himself to forget.

The other members of the Fellowship began to arrive, drawn from their various pursuits to this last meeting upon the walls of the White City. Legolas and Gimli came first, climbing the gentle slope from the west end of the garden together, laughing at a shared jest. Pippin said goodbye to Bergil at the gate and ran down the path, calling boisterously to his friends, his voice shrill on the evening air. Gandalf appeared next, from what secret errand none could guess, with his staff and his pipe and a pouch full of good pipeweed to share with his companions.

The last to arrive was Aragorn with, to Merry's surprise, Faramir beside him. Faramir hung back when he saw the company into which the King had brought him, insisting that he did not wish to intrude, but he was overborne.

"Nonsense," the Gandalf said, when he would have withdrawn, "we will have quite enough of our own company on the journey west. You are welcome among us, so long as you can endure the prattling of hobbits."

"And the grumbling of wizards," Pippin countered.

Greetings and warm laughter rang in the air. There could be no constraint between such friends as these, and the knowledge that they would begin another journey together on the morrow only drew them closer to each other, lightening their hearts and loosening their tongues. They found seats upon the grass or atop the stone parapet, making themselves at home, filling the cool southern night with the warmth of their voices and the smell of burning pipeweed.

Gil stayed well out of the group, hiding in the thickening shadows to the west of the embrasure where the others were gathered. All of the Fellowship, save Frodo and Sam, had met her in her drudge's guise, and they likewise knew of her change of state. They treated her with courtesy, the more garrulous among them trying to tease her out of her taciturn mood, but she held herself aloof.

She seemed most nervous at meeting Faramir, but Merry suspected that Aragorn had spoken a few words in the Prince's ear and cautioned him to treat her gently, for he gave her no more than a polite nod in passing. Whatever his private opinions, Faramir was a just man, and he loved his brother. He would do nothing to threaten Boromir's well being, even if it meant that he must tolerate the drudge's presence.

Merry also suspected that Faramir had been brought here for a reason - at Boromir's request, or at least with his consent - for the Steward showed no surprise at his brother's appearance and was as vocal as the rest in urging him to stay. This thought intrigued the hobbit, used as he was to knowing every thought revolving in Boromir's head. Perhaps he simply wanted to enjoy Faramir's company while he still could, since his brother would ride with the King for Rohan tomorrow. But if so, then he stayed strangely silent and made no effort to engage him in conversation.

The talk flowed steadily as the sun sank into the west, and the stars began to glimmer in the velvet sky. Inevitably, thoughts turned to the journey ahead of them, and they began to talk of their planned road. Merry tried to shut out the voices, to hold onto his feeling of peace and contentment, but the fear of what the morning brought crept inexorably back into his heart, causing it to ache afresh.

Suddenly, the words of a song he had known since childhood popped into his head and came, unbidden, to his lips.

It was not until Frodo laughed that Merry realized he had spoken aloud. He broke off, embarrassed that he had thus shown his melancholy to all the company. But Frodo was delighted.

"Thank you, Merry! Bilbo's old Walking Song is just what we need to start us on our way home!"

"So long as the road goes home," Sam interjected, "and not off on another adventure. I've had my fill of adventures."

Frodo smiled down at him, his eyes looking strangely weary in the growing darkness. "So have I, Sam. I'd like a nice, quiet tramp through Middle-earth in summer, with nothing more to worry about than where to find enough firewood and fresh game for the stewpot."

"And a dry place to sleep, with no acorns in your back," Sam added.

"Let us hope you are granted that much," Gandalf said, his normally gruff tones softened by affection. "You have certainly earned it. All of you."

"You're coming with us, aren't you, Gandalf?" Pippin demanded.

"I am, for part of the journey, at least."

"Then you will look after us."

Gandalf chuckled. "Your faith in me is touching, Pippin, but when have I ever led you away from adventure?"

"Well, there's a first time for everything. And it seems to me that adventures are not so thick on the ground as they once were, since you and Strider and Frodo set things to rights."

"They are of more manageable size, at any rate." The old Wizard drew deeply on his pipe and muttered to himself, "Just about hobbit-sized, I should think."

Merry, who sat close enough to hear, shuddered. Boromir must have felt it and understood his distress, for he abruptly straightened up and asked, his head tilted back as though looking at the sky, "Are there stars tonight?"

Merry looked up at the gorgeous, jeweled display above them and smiled. "Yes."

"Then it is time for me to beg your indulgence and my brother's kind offices."

"What would you have of me?" Faramir asked, amusement and a faint, caustic note of suspicion in his voice.

"A story."

Faramir laughed. "Nay, Brother. I know well how you pay me for my stories! We are too old for such boys' tricks!"

"You promised me this one. Do you not remember? When we had Elvish stars overhead?"

The smile faded from Faramir's lips. "Aye. The legend of Gilthaethil." His eyes shifted to where Gil's slight figure lurked in the shadows, and Merry caught a fleeting, troubled frown upon his face. "There are others here who would know that tale better than I. Have Legolas or Aragorn tell it, or Mithrandir, who knows the lore of Men and Elves alike!"

Boromir's answer could be heard by all the Fellowship, yet Merry sensed that it was meant for Faramir alone. "It is your voice that I would hear. Please, Brother, ere you leave our city and our home, do this for me."

Faramir hesitated for another moment longer, his gaze shifting again to the silent squire, then his face relaxed suddenly into a smile. "As you will."

Frodo immediately hopped down from his place on the bench and gestured for Faramir to take it, while he joined Sam on the grass. The Man rose gracefully to his feet and moved to claim his storyteller's seat. Merry was struck by his easy assumption of command, by the way all eyes followed him and all attention stayed fixed upon him. Even Gil drifted from her hiding place to stand where she could watch his face as he spoke. The moonlight seemed to gather where he sat, shining in his hair and eyes, throwing his features into pale relief against the night.

"This is the tale of Maeldhuin and Gilthaethil,* as I heard it long ago." Faramir let his eyes fall half-closed, and his face took on a dreamy, far away look. In a soft, almost reverent tone, he sang a few lines in Elvish. Merry did not understand the words, but he heard the sorrow and longing in them. As Faramir let the last notes fade, Frodo sighed softly with regret.

"Do you know all of the song?" he asked.

Faramir smiled and shrugged. "'Tis a long poem and many years since I heard it in full."

"He knows it," Boromir said, promptly.

Faramir laughed. "Mayhap. But tonight, I will do my best to render it in the common tongue. 'Tis a tale of valor and loyalty and deadly peril, a sorrowful tale but still hopeful withal. And 'tis a love story, of a kind."

"Aye, so it is," Legolas murmured thoughtfully. "Of an Elvish kind."

"All of the Elvish stories I've heard end badly," Pippin said, "especially the love stories."

Faramir chuckled again, but his face was soft with melancholy. "You will judge how this one ends, Master Perian, and tell me if it is Elvish enough for you."

He leaned forward in his seat, bringing his voice closer to them all and letting Merry see the gleam of his eyes in the darkness. "You know already the tale of the Rings of Power." All around the group, heads moved in quick, eager nods. "The tale of how Sauron seduced the Elven-smiths of Eregion with honeyed words and treacherous gifts, how he guided them in the forging of many Rings while learning their secrets for his own uses, and how he betrayed them. How he forged secretly in the Mountain of Fire the One Ring to bind all lesser rings to his will. And how, at the moment when The Enemy placed the Ring upon his hand, Celebrimbor perceived his treachery and hid from him the Three which he had wrought."

Faramir paused, letting each of them remember this tale, in which they had played such a vital part, in his own way. Then he went on, solemnly, "Sauron's rage was terrible to behold. His deep-laid plans to enslave the race of Elves had failed, and the Eldar were now armed against him. The Three Elven Rings, the ones he most coveted, were hidden and their power denied him. He could gain nothing now by concealment. And so he threw off his fair guise and mustered his armies to fall upon the Elves.

"Celebrimbor foresaw the coming of the Dark Lord and hastened to fortify his city, but he knew full well that his people's strength lay in their mastery over the riches of the earth, not in their mastery of arms. Fearing the destruction of the city, he resolved to send the Three Rings to the wisest and most powerful of his race who remained in Middle-earth, with the warning that they should never be wielded openly, so long as Sauron held the One. And so, in the pale light of a winter's dawn, three messengers rode from Ost-en-Edhil, bound for Eriador and the hidden realm of Forlindon.

"It is for their part in this desperate quest that Maeldhuin and Githaethil have been remembered through the ages."

Again, Faramir paused. When he resumed speaking, he had abandoned his lofty, somber tone for a more comfortable one.

"Maeldhuin was a herald in the service of the Lord Celebrimbor. He had no skill as a warrior, neither with bow nor blade, and no gift for the working of gem or metal. But he was fleet of foot and could speak many tongues, and greatly did he love both his lord and his city.

"When Celebrimbor chose his messengers, he gave to Falathar, his chief herald, the task of carrying the Rings to Gil-Galad. With Falathar went Maeldhuin and another young Elf who was his kin. The younger elves knew nothing of their true quest, only that their lord had charged them to deliver gifts and messages of great import to the King.

"The three messengers journeyed far into Eriador, nearly unto the Gulf of Lhûn and Mithlond. But ere they reached the Havens, in the place that we now know as the Tower Hills, they were waylaid by orcs, and Maeldhuin's young kinsman was slain. Falathar, fearing another orc attack, entrusted to the fleet-footed Maeldhuin the perilous tokens he carried, extracting from him a vow that he would surrender them into the hands of none but the King himself. Then they struck out on separate paths through the hills, hoping to elude their enemies, and Falathar was lost. Alone, Maeldhuin fled the marauding orcs until, lost and despairing in the deepening twilight, he stumbled upon the hidden sanctuary of Gilthaethil.

"Naught is known of Gilthaethil's family." At this, Merry shot a startled glance at Gil, but she continued to stare unwaveringly at Faramir, her face expressionless. "It is believed that she was born to the Silvan Elves, though none now claim kinship with her, for she loved the green solitude of the forests and sought out the company of beasts. Swift as a running deer she was, gifted in the healing arts, and as secret as an image carved in stone. And though she was not of his people, Círdan the Shipwright, Lord of Mithlond, loved her as a daughter and welcomed her in his lands.

"To her Maeldhuin came in his hour of despair. And in their meeting was the fate of the West forever changed. For the keen eyes of the Elf maiden perceived the burden that was laid upon Maeldhuin and the great love for his beleaguered lord and city that spurred him on, and she was moved to offer him what aid she might. So became Gilthaethil the guide and companion of Maeldhuin.

"They went first to Círdan, seeking his help in reaching the King. But Gil-Galad was in the far north, in Forochel, preparing for war against a new and nameless enemy. Círdan, unsettled by rumors of war in the east, was wary of a messenger who would say naught of his errand but only demand favors of his betters. Paying no heed even to the pleas of Gilthaethil, the child of his heart, he resolved to hold Maeldhuin in Mithlond while he waited upon the counsels of the Wise.

"But Gilthaethil would not suffer Maeldhuin to be imprisoned. She smuggled him from the city, disguised as her servant, and together they traveled up the River Lhûn, into the bleak wastes of Forochel in search of the armies of the King.

"Long and arduous was their journey. Numberless were the dangers they faced. And as they made their slow, perilous way northward, what had begun as a simple matter of shared duty grew into a bond of trust and friendship between them.

"So it happened that, one day, Gilthaethil walked apart in the forest on some errand of her own. While she was away, Maeldhuin was set upon by orcs, and so great were their numbers that he could not withstand them. Knowing himself lost, he cast away the Rings, trusting that Gilthaethil would find them and fulfill his quest by taking them to the King.

"His trust was not betrayed. Gilthaethil came swiftly and silently back to the clearing, drawn by the sounds of battle, to find Maeldhuin gone and the leather pouch that he kept always close to his breast lying in the leaves at her feet. She knew it for what it was and knew that now the burden of the quest lay solely upon her shoulders. Bitter was her grief at the knowledge that she must abandon her friend to suffering and death. But firm was her resolve that he should not suffer in vain. So she took up the Elven Rings and turned her steps toward the encampment of King Gil-Galad.

"She was alone in a cruel land. Her horses were slain or fled in the orc attack, no shelter was to be found, and the very air had turned against her. Sauron, to speed the victory of his Black Captain, had sent the storms of Mordor to harry the armies of Gil-Galad, and terrible was their wrath. Into the teeth of these storms Gilthaethil ran, swift as the woodland deer, tireless as the winds that howled about her. League upon league, through forest, wasteland, rock and flood, day and night, without pause she ran, until more a creature of the storms than an Elf she seemed. Strange and terrible she was to look upon, with her garments and hair flying madly about her, streaming with wet and filth, as her torn and bloodied feet flew over the merciless ground.

"At last, in the dying moments of a foul, sunless day, Gilthaethil came before King Gil-Galad and laid in his hand the gift sent by Celebrimbor. Thus were the Three saved from the wreck of Ost-en-Edhil and brought, untainted by Sauron's malice, to the King of the Elves. And thus was the oath of Maeldhuin upheld."

Faramir's final words faded into silence, but none of those listening stirred, so powerful was the spell of his voice upon them.

"What of Maeldhuin?" Frodo finally asked. "Was he lost?"

"Maeldhuin was taken to the dungeons of Forochel and cast into a pit. There, with other prisoners of all races, he labored to fortify the stronghold of the Witch King, Sauron's chief warlord and greatest captain. When Gil-Galad rode to war against the Black Captain, the prisoners, led by Maeldhuin, rose up, overthrew their captors, and helped the Elven King to defeat his enemy.

"With his armies victorious in the north, Gil-Galad could at last turn his might upon Eregion and the rescue of Celebrimbor's people. To Ost-en-Edhil he sent a great host under the command of Elrond Half-Elven, and to Elrond he gave a powerful weapon, a token of the King's favor to gird him for war against Sauron. Maeldhuin, who longed for his home, bid farewell to Gilthaethil and rode with the host of Elrond into Eregion.

"Grievous was his parting from Gilthaethil. But more grievous still was the sight that met his eyes when he returned at last to his beloved city. Help had come too late. Ost-en-Edhil was in ruins, her people scattered or slain. The might of Sauron had fallen upon the Elven-smiths who had dared to defy him and crushed them utterly.

"Elrond gathered what survivors he could find and rode north, into the wilderlands, to build in secret a sanctuary for the Eldar in the dark years to come. But Maeldhuin did not go with him. The herald of Ost-en-Edhil knew that he would find no healing within sight of the Misty Mountains, and so he turned his weary steps back to the West and the Grey Havens. He came at length to Mithlond only to find that his last hope had failed him. Gilthaethil had gone, disappeared back into the forests from whence she had come."

"He got on one of those grey ships, didn't he?" Sam blurted out. "He sailed away and left her!"

Faramir's teeth flashed in a quick smile. "Nay, Sam, he did not. It was his right as one of the Eldar to sail into the West, should he choose, but Maeldhuin would not leave Middle-earth and the mysterious Elf maiden who held his heart.

"Turning his back on the sea, he rode once again into the winter hills. Long he searched, and of his perils on that road naught is written. But at last he came to Gilthaethil's sanctuary and found her there, waiting for him. On the night of the first snowfall, they pledged their hearts to each other, and for many years they dwelt together in the forest. That much is known, for now and again they were seen, walking together among the trees or riding across a field by moonlight. And Círdan knew much of them, for they came often to visit him.

"But as the years passed and the skies of Middle-earth darkened, they came less and less to Mithlond, until their existence was forgotten by all save Círdan. Slowly, they passed from sight into memory and from memory into legend. Whether Gilthaethil and her beloved still dwell in the forest caves of Eriador, whether they perished in the dark years, or whether they sailed West with the last ships, none can tell."

In the silence that followed upon his words, Pippin gave a small sigh. Faramir smiled down at the young hobbit and asked, "What say you, Master Perian? Is it Elvish enough?"

"More than enough. Why are all the stories of the Elves so melancholy?"

It was Legolas who answered him. "Remember, Pippin, that the life of one Elf can span all the Ages of Men, and in that time, he will know great joy, great sorrow, and much peril. As the tale of years is told, the sorrow begins to outweigh the joy, and the soul becomes weary of the burden. Then his eyes turn toward the sea, his dreams toward the Undying Lands, and the beauty of Middle-earth can no longer hold him here."

"That's why they all leave?"

"Aye."

Pippin shook his head, his expression glum. "I am glad I will not live forever, if it means that even my happiest memories turn sad in the end."

Legolas smiled fondly at him. "Not for you the slow, sorrowful dwindling of the Eldar, Little One. Halflings were made for laughter, not tears."

"And for warm beds and hot meals, not long nights under the stars." The hobbit stretched and yawned, then glanced hopefully at Gandalf and wheedled, "I don't suppose you brought a bite and a drink along with that pipeweed."

The Wizard chuckled. "I could not carry enough food about me to satisfy four hobbits!" He looked up at the stars and moon wheeling above them, measuring their progress across the sky, then cocked a bushy eyebrow at Pippin. "Get you to bed and forget your stomach's complaints in sleep. We must be up before the sun and will not wait for lazy Tooks."

Pippin yawned again. "Tie me to the back of your saddle, Gandalf, and I shall sleep all the way to Rohan."

"Is that any way for a soldier of Gondor to travel?" Aragorn chided, laughing. "Trussed up like baggage? For shame, Pippin."

At the urging of Gandalf and Aragorn, the members of the Fellowship picked themselves up from the grass and turned their steps toward the gate. The spell of Faramir's story and the starlit night lay over them still, and their voices were held to a subdued murmur as they said their goodnights. Only Boromir and Merry remained seated, making no move to leave. Gil rose to her feet but hovered uncertainly near Boromir's side, waiting for some sign from her lord as to what he wanted of her.

Faramir stood and turned to clasp his brother's arm in farewell. "Will you not return with me to the Citadel?" he asked.

"Nay. I am more in need of fresh air than sleep this night." His hand ruffled Merry's curls, and he added, smiling, "Merry will see that I come to no harm."

"What of your squire?"

"Shall I stay, my lord?" Gil asked, clearly in doubt as to whether a night spent on the city walls with the Steward would offend her sense of propriety more than leaving him here without his appointed guide.

"Nay, Gil, get you to bed. Tomorrow will be a long and arduous day." She nodded shortly, murmured a last, formal, 'my lord,' and turned to go. But Boromir stretched out a hand to stop her, calling, "Stay! You have not told me what you thought of the story."

She halted, fixing her steady, frowning gaze on the Steward's face. "'Tis as the perian said, a melancholy tale. But fanciful for all that, with its foundling princess and immortal lovers. I see why Mother Ioreth loved it so."

"And why she chose Gilthaethil as your namesake," Merry added.

Gil gave her customary snort of disgust. "It is foolishness. But even so..." Her eyes moved hesitantly to Faramir, and her face lost its wooden stiffness. "I am glad to know something of my name, though I know naught of myself. I thank you, my lord Prince."

Faramir, looking rather startled at her courtesy, bowed slightly to her in acknowledgement.

"And thank you, lord," she said earnestly to Boromir.

He smiled swiftly at her, then waved her away, growling brusquely, "Have done, Gil! This excess of gratitude will convince me that you are sick of an ague and like to die! Get you gone before I summon the Healers."

She did not smile at this sally, but Merry knew her well enough by now to notice the way her eyes narrowed in amusement. "As you wish, my lord. Good night."

This time, as she turned away, Faramir moved with her. He paced up the path toward the gate beside her, his hands folded behind his back and his eyes fixed on a point well ahead of him, but his voice carried back to Merry and Boromir, saying politely, "If you will allow me, Gil, I will see you safely to the Tower."

The erstwhile drudge answered him warily, her body held even more stiffly than usual. Faramir did not appear daunted by her cold manner.

"It was Ioreth who chose your name? I did not know her to be versed in Elvish lore. What stories did she tell you as a child?"

Boromir waited until the crunch of their footsteps and the murmur of their voices had faded away into the night, then he turned his bandaged gaze on Merry and remarked, dryly, "My brother has found himself a kindred soul."

"Who, Gil?"

"Nay, Ioreth."

Merry chuckled. "Do you think he will ever learn to like her? Gil, I mean, not Ioreth."

"I know not." Boromir ruffled the curls beneath his fingers affectionately and said, "Are you tired, Little One? Would you rather spend this night asleep in a warm bed, while you still have one?"

"No. I want to be here, with you, under the stars."

Merry got to his feet and climbed onto the bench to sit beside Boromir. As one, they pulled their cloaks about them and leaned their backs against the wall, stretching their legs out before them. Merry's short legs only reached to the outer edge of the bench, where his toes stuck up from under his cloak, but it was a mild night and the wind felt good on his bare toes.

As they sat together in companionable silence, Merry heard again the words of Bilbo's song in his head. He listened to it, thinking that he had never before noticed how sad it was. But then, he had never before felt sad at the thought of stepping out onto a road. And because he could think of no better way to voice his thoughts, because his own words deserted him when most he needed them, he spoke the familiar lines aloud.

"I never asked Bilbo if there was another verse," he mused, "one about staying safely indoors, where the road can't sweep you away."

"Or mayhap one about taking the road home?" Boromir offered.

"Home. Every road leads to someone's home, I suppose."

He paused and swallowed painfully. The night was slipping by him, as the day had before it, and the hours were growing short. All too soon, he would find himself stammering out a tearful goodbye, with Frodo and Pippin and the beloved Shire pulling him inexorably away and no time left for the words that mattered.

Summoning his courage, and trusting that he would find something to say at the moment of truth, Merry opened his mouth and began, "Boromir, I..." But nothing came to him save stinging tears, and he broke off in confusion.

Boromir fixed his shrouded gaze on the hobbit beside him and said, "Peace, Little One."

"It will be morning soon."

"Not so soon. We have many hours of darkness yet to ourselves."

"It feels like barely a moment." Merry's head drooped forward, and tears slid from his eyes to splash on his tightly folded hands.

"Do not weep." Boromir's hand found Merry's where they lay in his lap and clasped them warmly. "We will not say goodbye until we must, and we will not waste these hours with weeping."

"What shall we do, then?"

"Listen to the stars. Be happy for a time. Wait for the morning together."

"And then we'll say goodbye."

"When me must."

With a last, doleful sniff and a swipe of his sleeve across his eyes, Merry settled down next to Boromir to wait. With the solid warmth of the Man beside him, he let go of his grief and relaxed into the beauty of the night that was given to them, untroubled and unafraid. Eventually, his head grew heavy and slid over to rest against Boromir's side. Boromir obligingly drew his cloak about the hobbit's huddled form. And somewhere in the middle of the stars' song, he fell asleep.

To be continued...

*Note: The Tale of Maeldhuin and Gilthaethil was written by Annys. The character of Maeldhuin belongs to her; the character of Gilthaethil belongs to both of us (I provided the name and time frame, she did the rest). I will post the entire story as an Appendix to "The Captain and the King," when it is finished. -- Chevy

Chapter Text

At daybreak, the Men of Rohan brought the body of their fallen King from the hallows and bore him through the city in solemn state. To either side of the bier walked Éomer King and his sister, Éowyn, together with Meriadoc, swordthain of Théoden. Soldiers of Gondor and a grey company of Dúnedain followed behind, weapons held at the salute, as a guard of honor. Among them went King Elessar and his Steward, Gandalf, Legolas the Elf, Gimli the Dwarf and a small figure in the full livery of the Tower Guard. Éomer himself had asked that these companions join him on this, the last march of Théoden King, in memory of the marches and battles they had shared in darker times.

The streets were thronged with people, as they had been such a short time before when Minas Tirith turned out to welcome her Queen. But on this summer morning, there were no flowers or songs, only respectful silence and grave, sorrowing faces. None in that city had yet forgotten the sound of horns upon the wind or the sight of silver helms flashing bravely in the new light, as Rohan rode to the rescue of Gondor. None had forgotten the price Rohan paid for that victory.

Slowly, the procession passed through the gates and onto the Pelennor fields, where waited the rest of their company. At a word from Éomer, Théoden's bier was laid upon a great wain beneath the standard of the white horse of Rohan, and his arms were arrayed about him. Then the King of the Mark mounted his horse, and all the gathered host did likewise.

Merry quietly left his place at Théoden's side and hurried to where Boromir stood with his hand on Fedranth's bridle. In the chill hour before dawn, as they stood in the Silent Street before the doors of the King's house, Merry had begged Éomer for this favor - that he be allowed to forego his place upon the wain and ride the last mile to the Rammas Echor with Boromir. Éomer had smiled and placed a gentle hand on Merry's head, saying, "Théoden King would not begrudge you that mile."

So the swordthain of Théoden did not mount up beside his liege lord, but was tossed into a high saddle by the Steward of Gondor. And it was astride Fedranth that Merry turned his face to the north, away from the soaring, white walls of Minas Tirith, on the first steps of his journey home. His hands clasped Boromir's lightly, guiding their mount, and his eyes blurred with tears of mingled gratitude and pain.

The wagon that bore Théoden's bier set the pace of their ride. Fedranth could not stretch his long legs beyond a plodding walk, and Merry had ample time to look about him as they went. He and Boromir rode with the rest of the Fellowship, slightly apart from the greater company. Ahead of their quiet group rode Strider's Dúnedain and the sons of Elrond. Merry could just glimpse the flare of sunlight on gold beyond the row of grey-clad backs, marking where Galadriel and Celeborn rode with the Elves of Lórien. He could not see the Queen anywhere in the throng, but he guessed that she and Lord Elrond had drawn apart for some private talk together. Faramir and Imrahil, he knew, rode with Éowyn, close by the bier, and a company of the Tower Guard brought up the rear.

Indeed, all the greatest, wisest and most powerful rulers of Middle-earth were gathered in this august company. Had it not been for his experiences over the last few months, Merry might have felt overwhelmed by the pageantry around him. As it was, he could admire the brave livery of Gondor and Rohan, the graceful beauty of the Elves and the stern valor of Men without feeling more than a twinge of awe. And in truth, Merry had little attention for those who traveled with him. All his thoughts dwelt on the one who would soon leave them and the terrible parting to come.

Slow as their progress was, it carried them all too quickly across that fateful mile for Merry's liking. He saw the stone wall of the Rammas Echor loom ahead, and his heart grew heavy in his breast. The sun had not yet reached its zenith when the funeral wain halted before the gate that would take them from the fields of the Pelennor into Anórien. The gate where the nine companions, the Fellowship of the Ring, at last would take their separate roads. This was but the first of many such partings to come, but for two at least of their number, it would be the most bitter.

Gandalf and Aragorn urged their mounts through the silent files of Men and Elves toward the gate, and the rest of their companions followed. Merry kept his eyes fixed on the pale, dancing flames of the torches that flanked Théoden's bier, resolutely ignoring the pity and sorrow in the faces of those they passed. When he drew up before Éomer, he saw that the Elven Lords and Princes of Gondor were there before him, waiting to take their leave of the Steward.

Throughout the farewells that followed, Merry stayed seated upon Fedranth, silent, his head bowed. He cared naught for what was said of victory, of friendship and of parting. He cared only that each person who clasped Boromir's hand and bade him farewell was one less who stood between Merry and his own leave-taking. Most of those present spoke lightly, in anticipation of a swift return to Minas Tirith. Some, like Faramir and Aragorn, had said all that was needful at another time and sufficed themselves now with a swift embrace and a murmured word or two for Boromir's ears alone. Of the Fellowship, only Gandalf and the hobbits lingered over their good-byes, for it was they who traveled the farthest and with the least hope of ever seeing Gondor or her Steward again.

Merry endured it all without hearing any of it, lost in his own misery, groping fruitlessly for the proper words to part him from his lord and the strength to say them without faltering. He found neither, and his heart was aching when he lifted his eyes to find one last rider waiting before them. To his surprise, he saw that it was Éowyn.

When Merry's eyes met hers, she smiled, but there was sadness in her face. "Will you ride with me, Master Holbytla? I would be proud to bear you company once again."

Merry opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came from his swollen throat. He gaped at her for a moment, then turned to look at the Man seated behind him. Boromir put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly.

"Go with her, Merry," he urged.

"We are fugitives no more," Éowyn said, "and we go not to war or death. Yet still we ride into an unknown future, with sorrow and loss behind us. Methinks that we might give each other comfort of a kind. Will you not ride with Dernhelm again?"

Merry looked at the lady, so proud and fair upon the back of her war horse, and wondered if she were, in truth, the Dernhelm he had known. There seemed no trace of that grim, despairing youth in this gracious lady, gowned in white, with a mantle of green about her shoulders and her pale hair flowing loose down her back. Slender she was and straight, keen and beautiful, but more like a flower upon a thin stalk than a killing blade. She had softened in the warm sun of the south. But then she looked at him with eyes that seemed to gaze back through countless shadowed years, heavy with grief yet too proud and too remote to acknowledge it, and he recognized his erstwhile brother-in-arms.

"Come, Merry. We will bear our fallen lord company on his journey home."

Merry still could give no answer, but Boromir took the matter out of his hands. Swinging himself down from the saddle, he reached up to catch the hobbit and said, firmly, "Come. 'Tis time."

Merry obediently slid into his grasp, but when his feet touched the ground, he did not turn toward Windfola. Instead, he caught Boromir's hands in his and pulled on them, drawing the Man down to kneel in the road before him. They regarded each other silently for a long moment, their heads on a level and their hands clasped between them.

"I've been trying to think of the right words," Merry said at last.

Boromir shook his head. "There are none."

Letting go of Merry's hands, he fumbled at his belt for something that hung there beneath the folds of his cloak. Slowly, he extended his hand, an object resting on his open palm, and Merry stared at it through a sheen of tears. It was a horn - not one of the great horns of Gondor's soldiery, but a small, graceful thing, bound with silver, hung upon a baldric of velvet and tooled leather.

Boromir extended his hand, offering the horn to Merry. The hobbit took it reluctantly. He knew it for a parting gift, and in the sorrow that overwhelmed him, he wanted no token to underscore the finality of this leave-taking. The horn felt cool and strong in his hand. It fit his grip perfectly. It shone and flickered in the bright sunlight, drawing his eyes to the delicate pattern chased into the silver. There, through the blurring of his tears, he saw etched the image of the White Tree and a single rune. He stared at the rune, too numbed by grief to recognize its import. Then slowly, painfully, he recognized it as the first letter of Boromir's name.

"This was mine, when first I donned the livery of Gondor and rode out to her borders to learn my trade," Boromir said. "Look at both sides."

Merry obediently turned the horn over. The silver on this side bore the same pattern, but the rune beneath it was an M, newly cut and unworn by age or use. He gave a small sob.

"It is yours, now, my friend. But I left my mark upon it, so you would remember from whence it came and the son of Gondor who once carried it."

"I... I will remember," Merry whispered.

"If ever you have need of me, sound the horn. I will hear it."

"And if you have need of me?"

"You will know it," Boromir lifted his hand to rest his fingertip lightly in the center of Merry's breast, "as you always do. Farewell, Meriadoc of the Shire. I pray that you will never have need of horn or blade again, but live in peace all your days!"

Merry cried out in pain and, catching Boromir's hand in his, kissed it, as he had once before. And as before, Boromir did not draw away, though his face grew more sorrowful and he bowed his head. "I cannot leave you!" the hobbit cried. "How will you manage without me?"

"It will be hard," the Steward of Gondor admitted, a twisted smile belying the tears in his voice, "but I must learn. And you must go home, my dear Merry. You must go, while I can still bear to let you."

Merry was weeping openly now, his face streaked bright with tears. All about him, the great ones of Middle-earth sat in respectful silence, their faces grave, their eyes turned away to afford him some privacy with his grief. Only Pippin met Merry's gaze, as he looked wildly about him for help or escape, but the pain in Pippin's eyes did nothing to ease his own.

He turned back to Boromir and said, desperately, "Let me ride back to the city with you... only to the gates! Let me be your guide that far, at least!"

"Nay, Merry, that is your place no longer. And I... cannot do this a second time." Breaking away from Merry's hold, Boromir rose to his feet, caught the hobbit beneath the arms and lifted him up into Éowyn's waiting hands. As she settled Merry in the saddle before her, Boromir turned away, reaching for Fedranth. The horse nuzzled him affectionately, and Merry saw him raise a hand to caress the velvet nose, his face hidden against the animal's neck. He stood thus for a moment, hiding his grief with his face, then his shoulders straightened, his head lifted, and he moved purposefully to find his stirrup.

When he was once again mounted, Boromir sidled his horse up close to Éowyn's and reached out toward the sound of Merry's weeping to rest his hand on the hobbit's head. His voice dropped to a murmur that carried no farther than the three of them - halfling, soldier and lady - and it was rough with unshed tears. "Be happy, Merry. Be full of song and food and joy, as you were always meant to be. And when you think of me..."

Heedless of the long fall from the back of the horse, Merry leaned precariously out of the saddle to fling his arms around Boromir. He buried his face in the soft velvet of the man's tunic, pressing his cheek hard against the mail beneath it, and cried, "I will remember the greatest man and the truest friend I have ever known!" he sobbed.

Boromir bent his head to whisper into the tousled curls, "If you remember that I love you, it will be enough." Then he gently broke Merry's grip on him and set the hobbit forcibly back in the saddle. Éowyn's arm came around his waist from behind, holding him as both a comfort and a restraint. "Farewell."

"I will come back! I will! I promise!" As if at some unspoken command, all the host of riders began at once to move. "Goodbye, Boromir!"

Éowyn urged her mount forward, falling in with the rest, and Merry found himself carried inexorably through the gate of the Rammas Echor. He twisted about in the saddle as they passed the wall, craning his neck to catch a final glimpse of the beloved figure seated, motionless, on the great grey horse of Rohan with a bright array of soldiers at his back. Boromir could not see him, he knew, but at that precise moment, he lifted a hand in farewell.

"Goodbye!" Merry cried, his voice shrill and despairing. "Goodbye!" Then he turned away, pulled his hood over his face, and wept.

To be continued...

Chapter Text

26 September, 30 IV.

The torches guttered, as the lofty doors at the far end of the hall swung open. Aragorn saw the flames twist and flatten, and he knew that his time of private grief was over. Still, he did not turn to greet the Men who paced silently down the length of the Great Hall toward him. He kept his eyes on the flames, on the bier they guarded, his hands clenched tightly on the white rod that lay across his knees.

The younger of the two men halted well back from the foot of the dais. The elder moved up to the lowest step, where stood the Steward's chair, and waited in respectful silence for his King to acknowledge him.

At length, Aragorn spoke without turning. "Is it time?"

"That is for you to say, my king," Faramir answered.

Aragorn sucked in a deep, steadying breath and pushed himself slowly, awkwardly to his feet. He had spent all the watches of the night seated on this stone stair, saying and saying again the farewells that he could not believe in his heart and shedding the tears that seemed never to end. With the coming of day he had found calm, if not peace, and his eyes were dry. But his body was weary, stiff with age and cold, and he felt every moment of his one hundred and twenty years hang heavily upon him. Faramir made as if to help him rise, climbing another step toward him and reaching a hand to catch his arm, but Aragorn stilled him with a gesture. He met Faramir upon the lowest step and paused to lay the staff of Stewardship across the arms of the Steward's chair.

"I am grateful that you are come," he said. Turning his desolate gaze on the younger man, he added, "Both of you."

"You need only ask, lord. We are yours to command."

Aragorn shook his head wearily and turned to look at the flickering torches again. "This is not a time for commands, my friend, but for shared grief and bitter choices."

Abandoning his formal manner, Faramir caught the King's arm in a firm clasp and said, earnestly, "You know that I and all my people stand with you, in any choice you make. Do not fear us, Aragorn, and do not doubt yourself on our behalf."

"That is why I called you here before the rest. I must be certain that you understand," Aragorn murmured.

"I do. I would have it no other way."

The dark head turned, and eyes that seemed to swallow the light, so profound was the emptiness behind them, met Faramir's unflinching gaze. "I will not be forsworn."

Tears sprang to Faramir's eyes. "And I would not have it so."

"What of you, Elboron?" Aragorn shot a piercing look at the young man who hovered well behind his father. "Do you accept the decision of your King? Can you be content with the future he has chosen for you?"

Elboron stepped swiftly forward and dropped to one knee before his lord, fair head bowed, one hand clasping the pommel of his sword. "I am content, my lord King."

"Rise and let me look upon you."

The young man stood as gracefully as he had knelt, and he lifted his head to meet the King's eyes. Aragorn gazed into his face, reading the pride, the wisdom and the acceptance there, all of it overlaid with a veil of sorrow that leant him a gravity beyond his years. He strongly resembled Faramir, both in face and character, and never had Aragorn felt a moment's doubt of his loyalty or his skill as soldier and statesman.

Mustering the travesty of a smile, he placed his hands on Elboron's shoulders and kissed him lightly on the forehead. "You are a solace to me, son of Faramir."

"What of Caladmir?" Faramir asked softly. "What of Boromir's son?"

Aragorn released Elboron and stepped back. Once again, his eyes strayed to the torches and the figure lying so still between them, and he made no answer.

"Is he not also worthy of his King's love?"

"Aye. Worthy indeed."

"Is he not to take up his father's honors?"

Aragorn felt afresh the weight of his terrible loss, and his shoulders drooped beneath it. "Boromir's children will have all that I can in honor give them."

Before Faramir could speak again, Aragorn turned away and climbed the wide steps to the top of the dais. Faramir followed, and together they approached the bier. The torches flickered in the currents of their passage, seeming to draw away from the men as they came.

Aragorn cast them a look of loathing. "Who placed torches so near him?"

"The Guard kindled them as a sign of respect. They knew no better, and Boromir can no longer be troubled by them."

"Aye, and yet I cannot but shudder at the sight of them."

"Nor I." Faramir gave the baleful lights a final, darkling glance, then he stepped up beside his King and gazed down at the figure laid out before them.

There, upon a litter draped with white and silver cloth, lay Boromir, son of Denethor, Prince of Anórien and Steward of Gondor. His hands were folded quietly upon his breast, empty, and his head was bare of all save the black cloth that covered his eyes. Age sat lightly upon him - as it did upon all true heirs of Númenor, even the lesser ones such as Denethor's sons - but injury and illness had harried the flesh from his bones, leaving his features drawn and seemingly harsh. To Aragorn, who knew that face more intimately than he did his own and who had seen death in many guises, he looked neither unnaturally stern nor newly at peace. He simply looked dead, as all men did when the passion and fire of life had left them. It was because Boromir had burned with a hotter fire than most that his emptiness now brought such unbearable pain to those who looked upon him.

In the watchful silence, Aragorn could hear the hiss and snap of the torches and feel Faramir's grief like a living presence between them, breathing chill and damp and festering dread into the air. His own grief lay in the stupor of utter exhaustion, subdued for a time but at a terrible cost. It had taken him all the night to do it, wracked his body and spirit almost beyond endurance, and always with the certainty that the pain would rise again in all its virulent strength to sink its poisoned claws into his heart. But not until his duty was done and his friend laid to rest in the House of the Kings, where Aragorn would one day join him.

In that thought lay his torment and his hope. The gift of Ilúvatar was bitter indeed, for those left behind, yet it was given at the last to all Men. Even to a King out of legend. With Queen and realm on the one hand, calling him to his labors among the peoples of Middle-earth, and the hope of a dear friend's greeting on the other, he felt himself drawn upon a rack, torn and bloodied with the agony of loss and delay.

Aragorn knew that such doubts could not last. He knew that he must open the doors to the Hall, suffer the body of his Steward to be carried out, and see it brought to the Silent Street, never to return. Then he must take up his crown and his duties again, despite the wound in his heart and the empty place at his right hand, and none must guess how close he came to choosing the other road while he sat alone and wept the darkness away. Such were the burdens of a King.

Drawing that kingship about him like a shining cloak, Aragorn straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. He wore no ornament upon his head save a bright star, bound with a slender fillet of silver - the same he had worn at his crowning, upon the Pelennor Fields - and yet it seemed as though the high, wingéd helm of Eärnur gleamed and flickered upon his brow. Turning a kindly gaze upon the Man beside him, he said, softly,

"It is time. Summon the Guard and bring the Halflings to me."

They stepped from the cool dimness of the antechamber into the brilliant sun of an autumn morning, yet it appeared to Aragorn as though the city had been covered with a blanket of snow. White hung from every window and parapet, fluttered from the roofs of buildings atop staves and pikes, adorned the garments of every creature who flocked the streets of the silent, mourning city. Flowers, banners, scarves and bits of fabric woven into clasps or lacings. Great silken banners hung from the upper windows of the Citadel, sheathing the stone in gleaming white. The Tower Guard, resplendent in their black and silver livery, wore sashes of white silk tied from shoulder to hip, covering the device of the tree and stars, in remembrance of their Captain's fabled ride from the city gates. Even the White Tree herself had chosen to honor the fallen son of Gondor. Though the last flower of the year had long since fallen from her branches, one great bloom had opened in the night, a delicate and sweet-scented gift hanging just within reach.

Aragorn stepped into the Court and, under the eyes of the waiting throng, approached the Tree. Behind him, four guardsmen carried the bier to the edge of the greensward and halted there. To either side of the litter stood small figures that might have been mistaken for children among the tall Men of the South, had not their fame gone before them and their bearing proclaimed them princes of their kind. Merry and Pippin had ridden up to the gates of the city a bare week past, arriving unlooked-for and only just in time to greet their old friend, the Steward, before he slipped beyond reach of their voices. It was Merry who sat with Aragorn through the last days of Boromir's illness and Merry who placed a farewell kiss upon his brow as he died. Now it was the Hobbits who stood with Aragorn at Boromir's side, in the shade of the blossoming Tree.

Bowing to the Tree in a gesture of reverence, Aragorn reached up to pluck the flower. Turning back to where his friend lay, he lifted the flower to his lips and kissed it, murmuring a few words in Elvish, then he placed it gently on Boromir's breast, over the embroidered device of the Horn of Gondor. Beside him, Merry gave an undignified sniff that sounded more poignant and gracious in Aragorn's ears than all the speeches of the Wise. He placed a hand lightly on Merry's head, as he had seen Boromir do countless times, and kept it there as he turned to face the silent crowd.

"I am humbled by grief and have no heart for words." His voice, though low and rough with long weeping, carried easily throughout the Court and seemed to ring in the streets below. "Now would seem the time for lofty speeches, but I know not what to say. Of my own loss I cannot speak. Of the loss that all of you, all Gondor and indeed all the race of Men have suffered, you know as much as I. Boromir is gone."

He had to pause, to swallow the tightness in his throat. Then he went on, "The line of ruling Stewards is ended. The House of the Stewards in Rath Dínen lies in ruins, never to be remade. And Boromir, son of Denethor, last Steward of Gondor, will lie forever at Elessar's side in the House of the Kings."

A soft murmur of surprise went through the host, and Aragorn raised a hand to still it. His eyes skimmed the faces turned to him, reading their mingled sorrow and curiosity, marking those he knew, those he loved, those he pitied among them. The King's eyes rested longest on a quiet, withdrawn figure clad all in sober black, who stood a little distance from Faramir and Éowyn, eyes downcast, with her three children close about her. She wore no ornament upon her stark garments save a white gem on a chain about her neck . A plain kerchief covered her hair, concealing much of her face as she stood with her head bowed. Aragorn knew well that face, and he felt a moment's gratitude that she did not lift her head. He did not think he could bear to see her pain when his own was yet so fresh and so terrible.

His gaze moved from Gil to the young man at her side, and he felt his heart contract with sorrow and regret. So like his father in face and form, so like him in nature that Aragorn often felt that he was watching Boromir's youth unfold before his eyes when he looked upon him. A young warrior only just grown into manhood, with the light of hope and high courage burning in his eyes as brightly as the sun upon the breast of Anduin. Caladmir. Jewel of light. Boromir's jewel, and the gift that he now left for Gondor and Gondor's King in this dark hour.

It was to Caladmir, and to his silently grieving mother and sisters that Aragorn now spoke, though his words touched every creature who heard them.

"A King has many burdens placed upon him. Some are easy to bear, while others would break the will of any Man not upheld by honor and duty. Boromir knew this well, for in loving his King, he suffered for that King's choices as no other has. But he did it willingly, because he did love me. And I loved him - will love him always, though he lie in death a hundred years without me. Often I have been forced to choose between my kingship and my friend, and each time, my friend accepted that kingship comes before all - Gondor before all. For he, too, held Gondor's weal more precious than any bond of family or friendship.

"Thus, as the one whose burdens he willingly shared and for whom he willingly suffered, it is my right, my duty to carry on as Boromir began, for Gondor. So hear now the promises of your King, made for Boromir's sake.

"His family will dwell in my heart and under my protection so long as I live, honored for their own sakes as much as for his. They must make of their lives what they will, and while their King cannot give them advancement, their friend, Aragorn, will do his utmost for them.

"His princedom will revert to the crown of Gondor, held in trust until such time as I find another worthy to hold it. His brother, Faramir, is confirmed Prince of Ithilien and Captain-General of our armies. Faramir's children and his children's children shall rule Ithilien in the King's name, our beloved and most valued councilors, so long as his line endures.

"As for his Stewardship..." Once again, the murmurs whispered through the courtyard, but this time, they died of their own accord. Aragorn stepped from behind the bier and stretched out his hand to Faramir, who stood with Éowyn and Elboron on his left. Faramir approached, carrying the Steward's white rod in his hands. He knelt swiftly at Aragorn's feet and held up the staff across his open palms. Aragorn took it and lifted it high above his head, so that all gathered in the Court or upon the walls could see it, gleaming white in the sunlight.

Then he cried out in a voice rich with power and rough with tears, "Once, in a dark and fearful hour, as I lay upon the fields of Rohan and dreamt of death, I made a vow. I swore that I would have Boromir as my Steward or I would have none, that there would be only one Steward in Gondor, so long as I am King. Hear me, people of Minas Tirith, and bear witness to my sworn oath! Boromir, son of Denethor, dearest of friends, bravest of warriors, brother of my heart if not of my blood, is my Steward now and through all the days of my reign!"

At his words, a single trumpet sang out upon the walls. The white standard that flew atop the Tower of Echthelion fluttered brokenly down, felled by a knife stroke. So too fell the great silken banners that hung from the tower windows. And from every hand, from every house and every stretch of wall, the people cast down the tokens they carried in a soft, swirling white storm. The snow that had mantled Minas Tirith's walls now drifted down to lie at her feet, and every voice in the city rose in the ancient song of mourning for the last Steward of Gondor.

To the accompaniment of this lament, Aragorn lowered the staff and laid it reverently upon Boromir's body, like a champion's sword. Merry helped him to clasp the dead man's hands upon it, though the halfling could scarcely see for weeping. Then Aragorn bent to press a kiss to the cold brow and whispered, "Farewell, Brother. May the gift of Ilúvatar bring you light at last."

Finis.

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Author's Note: For those of you who have made it this far and are reading this final note, I want to say thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I sometimes doubted I would ever reach this point and type that lovely word, finis, on the page. But here I am, one year to the day after I posted the first chapter, finished. I speak with utter sincerity when I say that I couldn't have done it without you all - those of you who wrote to me or posted reviews, and those of you who chose not to share your thoughts but took the time to read my epic - I am truly and deeply grateful to you.

Now, I know that some of you are shrieking at me (virtually speaking) and demanding to know how Boromir ended up with three children, how he died, what happened in the intervening years between Merry's departure and his funeral. Well, I'll tell you... No, not here, but at great length, as is my wont. I will start work on a sequel to "The Captain and the King" once I have recovered from the strain of writing this story and proven to my family that I still exist.

It may be some time before you see the second story. I am very tired and feeling a bit battered, and I need time to recuperate before I start all this again. I need time to write for the fun of it, not to meet a deadline.

If you would like me to notify you when the story is posted on the 'net, please send me an e-mail (my address is in my ff.net profile) and I'll make up a list.

My best wishes and deepest thanks, until next time...

Love,

-- plasticChevy

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A couple of technical notes about the Epilogue...

The year 30 of the Fourth Age is 32 years after the destruction of the Ring. Boromir would be 73 years old, Aragorn 120, Faramir 68. Aragorn will live another 90 years and Faramir another 52 years. Imrahil, who is 95, will only live three or four years more (the exact date of his death is not known).

Elboron is the name given by Tolkien to Faramir's son... I think. I read it somewhere but can't remember where, so I'm not sure of my source. But I didn't make it up.

I did make up the names of Boromir's children (obviously). His son is Caladmir, which means "jewel of light". His daughters are Estellas and Merilin. Estellas, the eldest child, was named for Aragorn/Estel. Merilin is the Sindarin word for nightingale.