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Chapter Text

PEREGRIN

The lifting of darkness is always overwhelming.

It is especially so if it comes with pain, cold, or darkness equal to that which one has come out of. For it is then that one realizes just how worrisome one's situation is, because one has not woken unto light. The absence of light, that bringer of warmth and hope, is enough to strike fear into one's heart, particularly if one is a Hobbit.

So it was with Peregrin Took, who was presently reconsidering his life choices.

The memory was hazy at best, but what Pippin could recall was nothing short of tragic. Frodo had gone, taking the Ring and fleeing the Fellowship. He did not know what had become of Sam, although Pippin suspected that the gardener had followed his master.

Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli—the last Pippin had seen of them, they had been engaged in furious combat with the Uruk-hai, fighting valiantly to defend the fallen Boromir. Pippin was not afraid for them, for they were strong warriors and brave, and he felt certain that they would finish what he and Merry could not.

And yet the fate of Boromir himself weighed heavily on Pippin's small shoulders. The soldier had fallen defending the remaining hobbits, pierced with three black-feathered arrows even as he wound the horn of Gondor. Pippin remembered only the bleak sorrow that had filled his heart as the Uruk-hai bore him away, before something impacted against his skull, and he was made captive.

Pippin opened his eyes, allowing barely a sliver of sight to penetrate the blackness that he had willingly imposed upon himself, not wanting to see the awful sight that undoubtedly awaited him.

He had been right to do so. All around Pippin were great black shapes, and a foul stench came from them, filling his nostrils until he could focus on little else. Flickering orange light illuminated the outlines of the Uruk-hai, who conversed in their guttural tongue, their voices low and grating. Worst of all was the figure collapsed beside Pippin—Meriadoc Brandybuck, cousin and best friend to Pippin. Merry's breath was shallow, his eyes closed, and a bleeding wound was drawn across his brow. His hands were bound in front of him, and a second cord was tied about his ankles.

Seeing poor Merry in such a state drew Pippin's attention to his own body, which he now realized was quite sore, especially where he had been bound. A dull pain pulsed in the back of his head, and Pippin suspected that the impact had raised a swelling. He had no means to confirm the fact, with his hands being tied.

He dared to open his eyes entirely, and one Uruk-hai leaned down, his face spreading into a broken-toothed grin as he spoke to Pippin in the Common Speech. "Little Halfling's awake, eh? Better save your strength—the road to Mordor is long, and I don't expect you to be able to manage it."

"You'd be surprised at what I can manage," Pippin said, and sitting up he mustered the bravest look he could. "What did you do to Merry, you brute?"

Pippin's tone was sharper than he intended. The Uruk-hai was angered, and his hand connected with Pippin's cheek in a fierce blow that knocked the young hobbit back onto the ground.

"You'll watch your tongue, Halfling," the orc hissed as Pippin curled in on himself, a streak of fire blooming across his face. "The Dark Lord has been kind enough to let you come to him alive. Pray you don't give us reason to disobey his orders."

The Uruk-hai turned away, taking up a conversation with one of his brethren in the orc-tongue. Pippin pressed his injured cheek into his shoulder, having no other way to assuage the pain, and winced at the tenderness. The skin was swiftly bruising; a deep violet mark was sure to follow.

A low groan came from behind Pippin, and he rolled to his other side, inching closer to the slowly awakening Merry. Bringing his bound hands to his face, Pippin raised a finger to his lips so Merry could see, praying that his cousin would not cry out. Merry nearly did, his mouth opening to speak, but the sound of the Uruk-hai talking in the Common Speech silenced him. He and Pippin listened, fearing the worst, for the orcs were indeed discussing their prisoners.

"…alive and unspoiled, he's made that clear. Any Halflings are meant to be brought to him exactly as they are."

"Killing them would speed our journey," snarled the orc who had dealt Pippin his blow, and the hobbit wondered if the Uruk-hai would disobey their commander for one of their fellows' wishes.

"Our orders are to bring the Halflings alive to Orthanc," hissed the first orc. "Patience, Gornak. If they aren't what Saruman wants, we'll see them dead before the day is out."

"What does he want with Halflings?" came another voice.

"He is looking for something. Something we are not permitted to understand. A Halfling is said to carry it."

It was then that the truth became clear to Pippin: Saruman knew that a hobbit was in possession of the Ring, and so he had ordered the Uruk-hai to capture hobbits—why he wanted them alive, Pippin was uncertain, but the wizard clearly did not want the Ring to fall into the hands of the Uruk-hai, hence why they had not been searched. But the words of the first orc rang true—once Saruman discovered that Merry and Pippin did not have the Ring, he would send them to Mordor. Sauron would have them tortured for information about the Ring, then kill them. This was never the way Pippin had wanted to leave Middle-earth.

"He asks the impossible of us!" Gornak thundered, pounding his fist against the earth. "Saruman reveals nothing, not even to his most loyal servants—we, the Uruk-hai! Have we not served him faithfully? Do we not deserve the reasoning for our orders?"

"You are doubtful, Gornak," said the first orc, and his voice was lower now, darker. "Perhaps you are not fit to remain in Saruman's service."

"I…I meant no disrespect, Captain…I only…"

"We obey the wizard and the Dark Lord, Gornak. We do not question orders. You are not to touch the Halflings, or the river will run red upon the rising of the sun."

And so Pippin and Merry were safe for the night, but all throughout it dread flowed in Pippin's veins, and sleep became elusive, an inconceivable occurrence for the young hobbit. If he only had his blade, he thought, he could remove his bonds, but it had been taken by the Uruk-hai, or lost in the skirmish on Amon Hen. Did Merry still have his sword? Had any of the Fellowship noticed the hobbits' absence?

Pippin could picture them now, striding over wide fields of tall grass and descending great valleys, vowing never to slow their pace until they had claimed their lost companions. Perhaps Strider would be at the front, urging the others on, and Legolas would scan the horizon, provoking a shout of hope that would ring through the sky as had the horn of Gondor…

How long will it be? Pippin wondered, and then a horrible thought came to him: what if no one came? Would the last of the Fellowship simply journey to Minas Tirith, thinking it a worthier cause than two hobbits that had never been anything more than pieces of luggage, hindrances on their journey?

No, surely they would honor Boromir's sacrifice. They would not suffer him to die in vain. Pippin decided he must believe it, or else he must lose all hope, and he sensed that it would not be wise to do so. Wisdom had never been one of Pippin's greater virtues, but he knew that despair would not set him free. He would suffer whatever he must, but he would not lose hope.

So Pippin lay on his back on the cold ground, gaze aimed steadfastly toward the sky, and when Merry gave any sound of pain he clutched his cousin's bound hands in his own, and he wondered if Sam and Frodo too looked up at the flaming white stars.

A savage kick landed on the soft part of Pippin's side, and he jerked awake, pain flashing through his body. The Uruk-hai had no qualms about making their prisoners suffer, which Pippin decided must not have been considered spoiled. His head still ached, and his cheek and now his side felt tender. How many more wounds would he receive before this quest was over?

Something sliced through the bonds on his legs, and then a great hand took Pippin by the hair, pulling him upright and setting him on his feet. Pippin's legs gave out as blood rushed back into them, and he sank back to the ground amidst shouts of laughter from the Uruk-hai, clenching his jaw against the pain.

A flask was shoved to his lips, and Pippin was forced to swallow. Fire seemed to burn through his veins, but the pain in his legs vanished as the orc—Gornak, he realized—dragged him upright again. Pippin felt shaky, weak, but his head was clear, and he could stand. It was not so for Merry, who could not seem to remain upright, even after he had taken the orc-draught. Gornak released Pippin and scowled, planting his grime-covered foot on Merry's side and digging in. "You'll pull your weight, Halfling, or I'll kill you, I don't care what Saruman says."

Merry only shuddered, his eyes squeezed shut against the pressure. The gash on his forehead looked red and angry, a trickle of blood still oozing from the edge of the wound. Pippin's heart clenched at the sight of his friend in pain, and he rasped, "Let me help him."

Gornak laughed, baring his teeth in a grotesque sneer. "Fall an' you'll feel the whip worse than your friend."

"I'll manage," Pippin said defiantly. "Get your filthy foot off him."

The orc growled, and taking his foot off of Merry he thrust Pippin toward his companion. Pippin dropped to his knees beside Merry, and his cousin managed a weak smile. "This isn't the best time to provoke them, Pip."

"It is if you're hurting," Pippin said fiercely, brushing his bound hands over Merry's wound to gauge the pain. Merry's face paled and Pippin drew back, whispering an apology, then turned to the orcs, who watched them with narrowed glinting eyes. "Untie our hands."

"Saruman's orders are to bring Halflings to him bound," growled the largest orc, the Uruk-hai commander, and the white hand on his face shone in the new sunlight.

"I cannot help him like this," Pippin spat, and he proffered his hands, standing to allow the Uruk-hai access. "Cut our bonds, or we will go nowhere with you."

The orc jerked his head, and Gornak stepped forward, unsheathing his dark blade. He sawed at the cords around Pippin's hands, and the edge of the black knife, by no means accidentally, snicked against Pippin's wrist. He drew in a pained breath as a drop of blood rolled down his arm and splashed onto the ground, leaving a red trail down a blade of grass. The cords fell away, and Pippin clenched his teeth as feeling rushed back to his hands, stinging and burning as if they had been set aflame.

Merry's bonds were cut, and Gornak took the hobbit by his hair, forcing him upright again and pushing him toward Pippin. He was unprepared, and Merry's weight crashed against him, nearly sending him to the ground. Staggering, he pulled Merry's arm across his shoulders, pushing his hip against his cousin's to support him. It was a lurching and painful process, but finally Pippin and Merry stood upright, the weak dawn light hitting their faces with the ferocity of a thousand suns.

"Move," said the commander shortly, and Pippin stumbled forward, all but dragging Merry with him. He wondered again if perhaps the Fellowship drew near, roaring through the fields with their weapons out and their hearts burning with courage, for his own heart shrank in fear despite his forced bravery. How could Pippin possibly reach Orthanc like this, pained and terrified, pulling Merry behind him as they stumbled on weary feet?

Though light painted the horizon, it seemed to Pippin as if the shadow of Mordor had already crept over the land, filling his mind with doubt and draining his strength. And yet he struggled on, grateful for the calloused soles of his feet and even the orc-draught, for they made the journey less than unbearable.

He must have hope. He must not lose sight of the Fellowship's goal, for which he had left home and Boromir had given up his life. Pippin vowed then that, wherever he may be, he would help accomplish it, if only by withholding information from Saruman.

And so he plodded on, Merry's weight heavy against his side, and Pippin prayed to whatever power might be listening to let him endure, to walk to the edge of night, step through the overcoming darkness, and emerge victorious on the other side.

ARAGORN

The elvin boat, bearing Boromir's body in its wooden embrace, faded into the mist rising from the waters of Anduin, and Aragorn ended his lament, the song of the wind which had flooded his thoughts and seemed borne upon some inner light that he had not known he possessed. But the light was dimmed now, and turning away from the riverbank he took leave of Legolas and Gimli and went into the trees, wishing to be alone with his grief.

The crushing feeling overcame Aragorn, and he sank to his knees in the dawn vapor. His heart ached for the son of Denethor, and his eyes were misted with salt and sorrow as glittering drops splashed onto the fallen leaves. Legolas and Gimli, though downcast, had shed no tear, and Aragorn knew that they were stronger than he in that regard, not allowing the grief to sway them from their endeavor. As he wept, he felt fragile, mortal, seeing how swiftly a man's life could be taken, how much the loss of Boromir pained him. How could Aragorn take up the mantle of king, rule over so great a land and a people, when the loss of one man threatened to destroy him?

And now the hobbits had gone, with the Ring-bearer embarking on the last stage of the quest, his loyal gardener following. While by no means a comfort, it reassured Aragorn that all was as it should be with Frodo and Sam. The rest of the Fellowship had never been destined for Mordor, and though it seemed unfair if not cruel to send two hobbits there alone, any more of the Fellowship would have drawn the attention of Sauron and the Black Riders. Frodo and Sam were as safe as they could be.

But Merry and Pippin—the Uruk-hai had taken them, and Aragorn suspected that the orcs had been ordered to capture Halflings in general, not knowing which of the four bore the Ring. The White Hand upon the faces of the Uruk-hai told Aragorn that Saruman had sent them, and he feared the wrath of the wizard when he discovered that the young hobbits did not have the Ring.

Why had Gandalf chosen Halflings? They were by no means weak creatures—at times complacent and inefficient, perhaps, but certainly not weak. No, the quest simply seemed too great a task for the hobbits—all four of them were so young, so innocent. Boromir had feared also for them, and his words as he lay dying—"they took the little ones"—had cast a deathly pall over Aragorn's heart. Beings so small should not have been placed in such danger. If Aragorn could have borne the Ring and spared the hobbits this pain, he would have done it, even if it must have ended in death. But it had not been his destiny, no matter how much he had wished it to be so.

The Fellowship was breaking, he realized, though a more reasonable man might have said it was already broken. Gandalf had fallen into shadow, never to emerge from Moria again, and without his counsel Aragorn felt with every step as though he might plunge into a similar darkness. Boromir had been given to Anduin, and it was all Aragorn could do to hope that the great river would eventually bear him home to Minas Tirith. Merry and Pippin were taken by the Uruk-hai, surely bound and suffering, and Frodo and Sam were on a journey that Aragorn feared would end in death.

It had been his duty, his responsibility, to protect the hobbits, to lead the Fellowship in Gandalf's absence, and yet it seemed that everything Aragorn had done since the wizard had fallen had gone amiss. One dead and two missing on his watch—what sort of a leader was he?

He wept for more than Boromir now. He wept for Gandalf, the loss of his guidance, for Frodo and Sam, on an impossible journey, for Merry and Pippin, lost to the Uruk-hai, but most of all Aragorn wept for the future of his people, the Fellowship and all he was destined to rule, for he feared that he would only cause them pain and suffering. Any light that might have inspired him during the lament for Boromir seemed to have been extinguished by the forces of evil.

For the better part of an hour Aragorn knelt in the trees, feeling as though he were drowning in his own tears, until Legolas called for him and he stood, drying his face with the hem of his elvin-cloak. The soft fabric was not darkened with the wetness; rather, it held its pale gray weave, and Aragorn pulled it tighter against the morning chill as he walked back to Legolas and Gimli. The dwarf had his axe drawn, and Legolas' bow was held ready at his side.

"Are we to go after the hobbits?" Gimli asked, and his tone made it clear that affirmation was the only acceptable answer. "For I have not yet slain enough orcs to satisfy my blade."

Aragorn nodded. "I will track them. If Saruman has sent the Uruk-hai, it is likely that they have gone to Isengard. Legolas—" here he inclined his head toward the elf—"you will search the land for their army and for any other dangers. Gimli, should we meet the Uruk-hai, I will stand beside you in your endeavor. Let us depart."

So it was that the last of the Fellowship set their course for Isengard, and Aragorn reminded himself of his Elvish name: estel, hope, that thing he must ever cling to and never forsake.

The day was short, and Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli flew over the plains as if borne on the wind, following the trail of the Uruk-hai. It was not a difficult undertaking, for the orcs trampled much of the young grass and stirred up the dirt so that it lay in heaps upon the earth. The sun wheeled toward its zenith, then sank to the western horizon, and even as it dipped below the distant mountains and the mantle of night fell upon the land, the company did not slow their pace.

"Legolas," said Aragorn as they stood upon a high outcropping, the frigid breeze of night whistling in the air. "What do you see?"

"The land becomes stony five leagues from here," Legolas replied. "The trail will be more difficult to see, the scent harder to follow. But this small wind blows to the west, and it tells me the Uruk-hai are not afar off, though they move quickly. We shall see our companions on a nearer day than you fear, Aragorn."

"And yet the breeze whispers to me of change," Aragorn said, and he caught from the air a pale golden leaf, taking it between his fingers. "A great new thing is come in Middle-earth, and what it is I cannot say. I feel…" He shook his head. "Pay me no mind. We must continue."

"What is it you feel?" asked Legolas, his brows subtly arched as he regarded Aragorn, who sighed. "I felt for a moment that we were near to something great, something radiant. As though it had pierced the shadow of Mordor and illuminated our path. But the way is dark, and I fear that we will not find the light we seek."

"If you are quite done talking in riddles," said Gimli, "we ought to continue our journey. The Uruk-hai still flee, and with them go the hobbits."

Aragorn cast his gaze from the horizon. "You see reason as always, Gimli. I pray that such fantasies will take me no more before we reach the Uruk-hai."

And so they sped their journey, and still the wind called to Aragorn. The thought came to him that it blew from the east, the only wind they had left absent from Boromir's lament, and he wondered what tidings it might bring before it changed again.

They ran all that night, and their breath frosted in the chill air as the moon cast her light over the land. The visible trail was lost over the rocks that now covered the landscape, but Aragorn could still scent the Uruk-hai, moving much more quickly than he'd thought possible.

With the second dawn since Boromir's death came no sunrise. Dark, oppressive clouds hung over the plains, their rains stirring the earth up into a clinging sludge that only Legolas seemed unaffected by. The elf trod lightly over the mud, his faintly luminous figure shining against the pall that had shadowed the earth. Aragorn and Gimli were not so fortunate. The filth came halfway up Aragorn's calves, soaking through his boots, and though it was quite a hindrance it was much more so for Gimli. The dwarf sunk past his knees with every step, and it was only after several leagues and repeated insistence from Aragorn that Gimli allowed himself to be carried.

"Think of the poor hobbits," said Gimli from where he rode on Aragorn's back. "This is difficult enough for us; it is surely unbearable for them."

"It is easy enough for a fleet-footed elf," said Legolas, halting and searching the horizon as he waited for his companions, his white-gold locks streaming behind him in the wind. "Why do you come so slowly?"

The elf was beginning to irritate Aragorn. "The mud is deep, Legolas, and I bear our friend upon my back. Would you move any faster were you in my place?" He brushed his soaked hair from his eyes, leaving a streak of earth upon his brow.

"I would," said Legolas, and though the rain beat upon his face he looked as regal as any king. "For I am an elf, a son of the forest realm, and all of nature grants me passage, even the rain-washed earth."

"And I am a dwarf," Gimli countered, "who is in possession of an axe, and who may use it if you continue to boast of your brilliance."

Legolas fell silent, and the company pressed on. The muck only grew deeper, and by midday Aragorn had sunk to his knees, with Gimli's weight heavy upon his shoulders. The wet strands of his hair clung to his face and consistently obscured his vision, some of it flapping about in the wind, and he was covered in earth—which Aragorn often was, but said earth was not often wet.

Seeing Aragorn's weariness, Gimli insisted on walking himself, but as the sludge would have swallowed the dwarf up to his waist, Aragorn declined. He bore Gimli with him until night fell, fully intending to journey until dawn again, but Legolas said, "We must rest."

"The hobbits—" Aragorn began.

"—can wait one night," Legolas finished. "You are weary, Aragorn, and Gimli too. We must rest, or we will be of no help to the Halflings."

And Legolas seeing a great cliff to the north led Aragorn and Gimli toward it, and Aragorn set Gimli down on the stone under an overhang, wincing at the ache in the muscles of his shoulders and back. He realized that he was indeed exhausted—eyes burning, limbs trembling as he lay upon the stone with his elvin-cloak beneath his head. Gimli slipped into sleep almost instantly, and Aragorn watched Legolas stand silhouetted against the rain, his bow ready at his side.

"We will see the Halflings soon," the elf said, and turning to Aragorn he reassured him, "They still live, and they wait for us. They wait for you."

"Thank you, Legolas." Aragorn closed his eyes. "Wake me if there is danger."

"I will. Sleep well, Estel."

The blissful darkness took him as the ghost of a smile graced Aragorn's lips.

PEREGRIN

Pippin's legs shook with exhaustion, and Merry's weight seemed to drag him down, threatening to pull him into the dark, clinging mud with every step. He blinked against the driving rain, which coursed down his face incessantly, unrelenting. It did not seem to hinder the Uruk-hai, nor did the filth, the depth of which was steadily climbing.

Merry was nearly unconscious, stumbling through the mud with his lashes fluttering and his legs threatening to give out. It was all Pippin could do to hold his cousin up, whispering to Merry that he must struggle on, even if he too felt as though all he could do was collapse into the mud and lay there until it swallowed him up.

The east wind howled, and Pippin shivered against its icy breath as it drove the rain, which seemed to him as a volley of arrows, into his face. He pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulder, taking the shimmering leaf-shaped brooch in his numb fingers.

Then a stroke of revelation came to him and Pippin let himself fall, splashing into the mud as he hurried to unfasten the brooch. If any of the Fellowship were to follow he and Merry, the scent of the Uruk-hai would be lost in the rain. Pippin must give them some sign that the orcs had passed, and though it pained his heart to leave the brooch of Lothlorien behind, there was nothing else he could use. Once he had worked it off the cloak, Pippin tossed the brooch to the grassy knoll to his left, where the mud was not so deep, and prayed that Strider and the others would find it when they passed. He tied the cloak about his shoulders, knotting it tightly for warmth.

A whip-thong bit into his shoulders, and Pippin choked back a cry of pain. He staggered upright, hauling Merry to his feet, and put his arm around his cousin's shoulders as the whip caught Merry across the back. Pippin clenched his jaw as Merry nearly collapsed, struggling to stay standing.

"Don't go to sleep, Merry," Pippin whispered, brushing Merry's soaked hair from his brow. "You mustn't fall—they'll whip us, you know they will."

"I know."

Merry's voice was so faint—barely a murmur, and when Pippin's hand brushed his face he found that the skin was hot to the touch, despite the freezing rain, and his heart sank. The gash on Merry's brow was still oozing blood, and the edges of the wound were red and hot. Pippin was no healer—blood made him feel faint—but it was clear that Merry was not healing as he should.

As he should, Pippin thought bitterly. It is as he should, isn't it, we can't expect anything more from such a horrid journey.

He wiped his free hand on his cloak as best he could, then let his palm fill with rainwater. This he splashed over Merry's wound, trying to clean some of the contamination out. It wouldn't do for the gash to become infected—so far from any healer or physician, the fever would kill Merry as surely as the Uruk-hai.

Pippin kept at this for the better part of the day. Though he wished he could bandage the wound, the Uruk-hai did not stop for anything, and by the time night cast her shadow down, Pippin felt as though he might faint. His head still ached from the blow the orcs had struck him, and when he put his hand to it he felt that there was indeed a swelling there, painful to even his soft touch.

He wondered if the orcs would feed their captives. The hobbits had not been given any food as of yet, and the lack of sustenance was taking its toll on them both. Merry would need food if he were to overcome his rising fever, and Pippin was uncertain of how much farther he could go without a meal.

Suddenly he remembered the lembas in his pocket and silently cursed himself for forgetting about it until now. There were two wafers left, and Merry must have had some too—so long as it did not spoil, the hobbits could have enough food for at least a week, perhaps longer.

Pippin plunged his hand into his pocket, teasing the edge of the leaf wrapped around the waybread. Miraculously, despite the storm and the mud, the small cake felt dry, if crumbling slightly. Pippin broke off a small piece of lembas and placed it on his tongue; it seemed to dissolve as he chewed, but the sweet taste went swiftly to his empty stomach, and suddenly Pippin was invigorated, strengthened. He broke off a second piece and held it to Merry's lips, whispering, "Lembas, Merry, it'll help."

To Pippin's immense relief, Merry took the waybread, and instantly he seemed more alert. He leaned less on Pippin, taking more of his own weight, but Pippin was still anxious. Though the lembas would indeed help, it was in no way medicine, which Merry must have in order to stave off the infection.

The night wore on, and the ache in Pippin's skull worsened into a stabbing pain. His vision blurred at the edges, so that it was difficult to focus on even the flickering torchlight, and the cut across his shoulders burned. Dimly, he wondered how far it was to Orthanc. Two days? Three? Longer? No matter the distance, Pippin did not think Merry would last long enough to make it there.

Suddenly, Merry's legs gave way and he fell with a soft intake of breath, taking Pippin with him. The hobbits splashed into the mud, and Pippin's cheek hit the earth, jarring his already aching head as orc-feet thundered around them. He pulled Merry close to him, struggling to shield himself and his friend from the great filthy creatures that threatened to trample them with each step.

"Up, Halflings!" thundered the orc with the whip. "You're to walk, not be dragged to Saruman."

He kicked them both, first Merry, then Pippin, and though Pippin kept quiet, from Merry's mouth came a low moan of pain. The sound goaded the orc, and he brought the whip down across Merry's back, provoking a cry of pain from the injured hobbit and a fierce utterance from Pippin. "Don't hurt him! I'll—I'll get him up!"

Pippin took Merry under his arms and pulled him to his feet, then thought better of it and hoisted his cousin over his shoulders. Merry was sturdily built and tall, at least by hobbit standards, but Pippin was nearly his height and quite possibly stronger, especially now, with Merry so weak. Pippin straightened his back and stood, glaring at the orc and his whip in defiance. The vile creature would not touch Merry again; this Pippin vowed. They had suffered enough at the hands of the Uruk-hai.

Merry's weight seemed as an anvil before long, but Pippin struggled on, pouring rainwater over Merry's wound whenever he could, clenching his jaw against the sheer pain filling his body, until he too collapsed, legs shaking so badly they could not hold Pippin up any longer. There he lay in the mud, chest heaving with exhaustion, Merry slumped halfway over him.

"Get up," hissed the whip-orc. "Up, you worthless creatures, we must make haste."

His kick landed once again in Pippin's side, and the hobbit curled inward, gazing through bleary eyes at the faint milky smear on the horizon that heralded the coming dawn. Pippin tried to stand, but darkness crept through his vision and he felt faint again. Merry seemed completely unconscious now, unmoving upon Pippin's shoulders.

A growl from the orc, and then Merry's weight was lifted off Pippin as the Uruk-hai laid the hobbit over his shoulder. A second orc hoisted Pippin up in like manner, and he would have been relieved to be carried but for the ghastly stench of the creature, which Merry in his unconscious state was fortunate not to smell. At the very least the hobbits were out of the mud—less contamination in Merry's wound, Pippin hoped. Once they reached Orthanc, he would have to attempt to clean the injury no matter how much it disgusted him.

The orc's shoulder dug into Pippin's middle, and the rain beat down upon his back, but he found the means to sleep for a little while, and he dreamed of a cavalry of brave warriors with golden swords, with Strider at the head upon a great white horse.

He woke to a pale sky and lighter rain, a roaring sound echoing in the misty air. Pippin kept still but lifted his gaze, trying to glean some sense of his surroundings. The roaring was that of a mighty river, perhaps a branch of the Anduin, and a fierce wind stung Pippin's face as the orc carrying him forged ahead into the water.

The river was white and churning with foam, and cold droplets splashed upward into Pippin's eyes. As the orc waded deeper, Pippin shrank away from the water, wary of how close it was. Ahead of him, Merry was not yet conscious, and the ends of his hair brushed the surface of the water. The orc carrying him was barely a hundred yards into the river, and the foam was up to its chest—how did it plan to keep Merry's head above water? Had it even considered the fact that it would need to?

Clearly not, because the orc simply continued walking forward. As Merry's head went under, he gasped and jerked upward, spluttering, nearly falling off the shoulder of the Uruk-hai. It reassured Pippin that Merry at least had enough strength to struggle; perhaps he was not in such danger as Pippin had thought.

Pippin's own head drew near to the surface; despite the lingering soreness in his body, he scrambled up, crouching on his orc's shoulder before he could inhale water. The creature turned and bared his teeth in a fearsome grin. "Best hold on, Halfling. We wouldn't want you washed away."

Pippin privately thought that the orcs would not, in fact, mind if such a thing happened, but Saruman most likely would. The Uruk-hai would not suffer the hobbits to be killed, even in a river—provided the river itself did not have it out for them. The churning froth only seemed to be getting higher, and Pippin felt a sense of weightlessness as his orc began to swim through the rapids. Despite its filthy, slimy skin, he clung to it tightly, afraid to fall.

The Uruk-hai were sturdily built, enough to fight the river without succumbing to the current. The orc carrying Pippin paddled across the river, and though Pippin's feet and hands became wet, he was never in danger of being submerged. After they emerged, the Uruk-hai took Pippin by the hood of his cloak and cast him down. He landed in a heap at the orc's feet, gasping at the sudden twinges of pain that lit across his small body.

"If you're awake, you'll walk," snarled the orc, and Pippin scrambled up before he could be kicked. His head still ached, and the various cuts and bruises he had received pained him, but Pippin forced his legs to move. He could walk, so he must obey the Uruk-hai—he would not risk being punished and made unable to help Merry.

Miraculously, the ground was less damp on this side of the river, so Pippin did not sink into it with every step. He placed another piece of lembas on his tongue and wished he could get some to Merry, who once again lay limp upon the shoulder of his orc.

It was during this day that Pippin began to wonder what would happen to him at Orthanc. Doubtless he would be questioned for the whereabouts of the Ring, but would Saruman leave Merry out of it? He was much too ill to walk, let alone answer any questions, and he would not hold up under interrogation. Pippin was not sure how well he would fare, either.

Would he be able to answer Saruman's questions? If they didn't incriminate Frodo and Sam, Pippin might be able to give truthful answers, but he worried what Saruman might ask. He didn't know where the Ring was, nor Frodo, but Saruman would surely ask if Pippin knew the Ring-bearer. Could he possibly fool a wizard? Pippin doubted it.

The rain still fell, lightly but steadily, and Pippin was continually brushing his dripping dark locks out of his field of vision. Despite the dampness, however, Pippin felt better than he had thus far—the lembas had invigorated him, and when he touched the back of his head he found that the swelling had diminished significantly. Sleep and sustenance could evidently do wonders—but Pippin knew that, being a hobbit.

As the day wore on, the rain lessened until finally it was a fine mist leaving small droplets upon the folds of Pippin's elvin-cloak. These seemed to simply roll off, leaving the fabric as dry as ever. Upon this realization, he pulled his hood up to block the rain and forged ahead, squinting across the mist-wreathed land. The mountains were a faint smudge on the western horizon, and an ethereal haze of trees blurred the land to the south.

"Half a day," muttered one of the Uruk-hai—Gornak. "Isengard draws near."

By tonight, they would be in Orthanc. Pippin struggled to process the fact, trying not to worry about what might happen there. All would be well as long as he said nothing of Frodo to Saruman. All he must do was keep silent—although silence, much like wisdom, had never been one of Pippin's strengths. Still, Pippin was nothing if not stubborn. He would not tell Saruman anything about Frodo or the Ring, no matter how the wizard hurt him.

Night came more swiftly than Pippin would have liked. Merry awakened shortly before sunset, and the Uruk-hai shoved him back toward Pippin to walk. Pippin wrapped his arm tightly around his cousin, whispering, "How are you feeling? Are you hurting?"

"I'm alright, Pip," Merry said, but his voice was still too weak for Pippin's liking. "Are you…are you well? Have they hurt you?"

Pippin shook his head. "I'm much better, if I'm to be honest with you. Though that may change when we reach Orthanc—which will be soon, I'm sure. Gornak said earlier that it was only half a day's journey away. Saruman will ask us about the Ring, Merry. I fear—"

"Pip," Merry murmured, his eyelids fluttering half-closed. "Don't…don't be afraid."

He did not speak for the rest of the journey, but Pippin knew Merry didn't need to. He had said all he needed to say.

The clouds parted as the moon climbed to its zenith, a shining disk against the velvet blackness of the sky. Starkly illuminated against its light was a black tower, and from its top flew a dark flag emblazoned with a white hand—the seal of Saruman the White, greatest and most terrible of wizards.

The Uruk-hai commander stopped in front of the door, which was wrought of dark wood, and knocked three times upon it with his fist, roaring "Saruman!" A panel in the door slid aside, and a man with dark hair and sallow skin spoke to the orc. "Welcome, Ugluk. Any news of the Ring-bearer?"

"We have brought for Saruman two Halflings, Wormtongue," Ugluk told the man. "What are we to do with them?"

"I will bring them for questioning," Wormtongue said. "Saruman thanks you for your service, Ugluk. You may return to your quarters until he sees fit to call upon you again."

Then Ugluk with his great dark hand thrust Merry and Pippin forward, and the black door opened as they stumbled into the tower's antechamber. Wormtongue closed the door and bent down, his gaze searching Merry and Pippin's faces. Pippin looked at him defiantly, but Merry was still only half-conscious.

"So these are Halflings," Wormtongue drawled, and he took Pippin's chin in his rough, calloused hand, grasping it with a force like cold iron. "One of these pitiful creatures, chosen to bear the One Ring? It seems a great oversight of Gandalf the Gray's."

Pippin glowered at him, not trusting himself not to say something incriminating. Wormtongue studied his face for a moment more, then released Pippin and ordered, "Remove your clothing. I must search you for the Ring."

"Merry must go first," Pippin insisted. "He is ill with a fever, and he cannot go without the warmth of his raiment for long."

He helped Merry sit upon a chair against the wall, and carefully he unclasped the brooch of Merry's elvin-cloak, letting it fall. Pippin pulled off the shirt next, then the trousers, and finally Merry's undergarments, looking away to spare his cousin's dignity. Pippin was sure he had seen Merry like this often enough when they were children, but it seemed so wrong now.

They waited while Wormtongue searched Merry's raiment, then tossed it back to them. "You next, runt."

Pippin was affronted. "You know naught about hobbits, Wormtongue," he said. "Where I come from, I am considered uncommonly large and strong. And I will clothe Merry before I obey any of your orders."

He tugged Merry's clothing back on, being as gentle as possible, for he could see two vicious cuts upon his friend's back and bruising on his side. By the time Pippin fastened Merry's brooch again, the injured hobbit was nearly unconscious again, and Pippin barely had time to wrap the cloak around Merry before Wormtongue's hand clouted the side of his head. "Move, Halfling!"

Pippin grimaced at the sting of the blow but shed his raiment, feeling chilled and exposed as Wormtongue searched the garments. Upon finding nothing, he shoved them back at Pippin, who hastily redressed. The moment he finished, Wormtongue seized both hobbits by their hoods and dragged them toward the staircase at the back of the chamber. Merry nearly collapsed, and Pippin thrust an arm across his cousin's chest, offering what little support he could.

They climbed two flights of stairs, an arduous feat, and passed several small rooms with barred doors. Within them Pippin caught glimpses of prisoners, shivering bodies huddled under coarse gray blankets. They looked out at him with hollow, milky gazes, as if they had become blind with sorrow. Pippin wondered how long they had been here—days? Months? For their sakes, he hoped it had not been longer, though it was unlikely given that it had not been long since the start of the War of the Ring and Pippin could not think of another cause that Saruman would have to take prisoners.

They stopped outside of an empty cell, and Wormtongue released Pippin for a moment to take a ring of keys from the depths of his cloak. For a split second the possibility of running flashed through Pippin's mind, but Wormtongue still held Merry and Pippin would not leave without him.

Wormtongue unlocked the door, and swinging it wide he thrust Merry into the cell. Pippin he kept hold of, and he locked the door again before marching the hobbit down the hall. Pippin struggled, trying to pull out of Wormtongue's grasp. "Where are we going? I mustn't leave Merry!"

"Seeing as you are the only lucid one," hissed Wormtongue, pulling Pippin with him up a spiraling staircase, "it is you that will be questioned. I warn you, Halfling, do not lie to Saruman. This will be easier if you cooperate."

"I'll lie to Saruman all I want," Pippin spat.

Wormtongue bared his teeth in a snarl. "Then you will die tonight, you worthless Halfling."

They reached a great set of doors, silver and black and proclaiming their allegiance with an etching of a white hand, and Wormtongue knocked on one, then stood expectantly upon the threshold as the doors swung open of their own will. He pulled Pippin forward, and the hobbit laid his eyes on the far side of the chamber, on the wizard on the grand throne.

Saruman the White looked at first glance akin to Gandalf the Gray, and yet he was at once purer and more terrible, and his eyes were filled with a dark flame that was not the Secret Fire. The wizard's robes were the white of fallen snow, but when he moved they seemed to shimmer with all the colors Pippin had ever known. He seemed such a pure and wondrous being, but Pippin knew by his eyes that he was a servant of Sauron.

"Ah, young Halfling," Saruman said, rising from his throne. "You are even smaller than I imagined. What do they call you?"

"I am Peregrin Took, son of Paladin of the Shire," Pippin told him, holding his chin high. "I will warn you now that I am quite stubborn."

The wizard's lips tightened, becoming a small white line upon his pale face. "I see you want this questioning to turn in your favor. I'm afraid that stubbornness is not enough to save you, Peregrin Took. What will save you is the information I desire."

"And if I don't have it?"

Saruman leveled his staff, pointing it at Pippin's chest. "Then I shall no longer have a need for you—except perhaps as a hostage."

His mouth curled into a satirical leer. "Now, Peregrin, where shall we begin?"

Chapter Text

ARAGORN

     He dreamed of a tall figure clothed in white, wielding a gleaming ivory staff against the backdrop of night. The man’s face seemed to shift before Aragorn’s eyes, becoming first a great fiery eye, then an old man with a dark anger written upon his countenance. It shifted to the pointed features of an eagle, then seemed to melt into a face he knew well, one he knew he would never again behold save in dreams.

     Gandalf the Gray looked upon Aragorn, his eyes twinkling with a distant light, and he opened his mouth to speak. But from it came a tide of crushing darkness, and suddenly Aragorn stood upon a city wall, the weight of what he knew must be a crown heavy upon his brow. A great shadow covered the land, and his hands were slick with blood; the sword he held was broken into glittering shards.

     “Strider!” called a small, fearful voice. “Help us!”

     He looked down and with a pang of terror beheld the four hobbits at the foot of the wall, their eyes round and dark with fear. Frodo clutched the Ring to his chest, and Sam brandished his pan at the multitude of orcs that now swarmed the wall. Merry, bleeding from his temple, leaned against Pippin, from whose throat the desperate cry had been torn.

     “Strider! Strider!”

     Aragorn cast down his sword; its remnants struck the stones with a metallic finality. Dropping to his knees he thrust out his hand, and Pippin took it, despair emanating from his gaze as he clutched Merry tightly and Aragorn struggled to pull the hobbits to safety. From across the battlefield came a shout, and a small figure with hair whipped about her face by the wind held aloft what seemed a fallen star.

     “The Ring!” she cried. “The Ring is mine!”

     But it could not be, for Frodo had the Ring, and yet at the maiden hobbit’s cry a vast wave of fire swept across the land, consuming the armies, and Pippin’s hand slipped from Aragorn’s blood-soaked grip as the wall crumbled. The crown spun into the air, a flash of silver against the night, and then was extinguished.

     Aragorn fell, crashing into darkness, and blood flowed in rivers from the collapsing stone, and somehow he knew that this was his doing, his oversight, his mistake…

     My fault.

     A low gravelly voice rolled across the plain, and it was as a great crack of thunder, splitting the sky with its flaming words as if reading them from an ancient tome: Thus was the end of days in Middle-earth, and they were brought about by Aragorn High King of Gondor, for he let fear rule him as he should have ruled his people, and by his hand the ground was watered with the blood of all the people of Middle-earth…

     The shadow of Mordor, irreversible and eternal, fell over Gondor, and he was drowning in the blood of his people, and Aragorn thrust his hand above the surface for a lifeline which would never come.

     This is my doing.

     My fault.

     My kingdom come.

     He woke, the words tumbling in Elvish from his lips. The light of dawn was but a pale streak upon the eastern horizon, and Gimli still slept under his elvin-cloak at the other side of the cave. Legolas too was resting, his pale hair spread over the stone in a crown of white, though Aragorn knew he was not truly asleep, only in the elves’ daydreaming slumber. Outside the rain still fell, though it was but a mist to wash the earth.

     Aragorn’s cloak lay upon the stone, rumpled as if he had thrashed about in his sleep, and he had woken with one hand on his sword. The pale gray world seemed so quiet, so still, when held against the realm of shadow and blood and fire in his dreams. The War of the Ring felt so far from him here, as if it were a distant menace Aragorn could skirt around without being harmed.

     But the danger was very real, and all of them would fall to evil; it was foolish to hope that the darkness would spare them. Mordor’s shadow was deep, and the reach of Sauron’s eye was long; surely they would consume him and all the Fellowship before many more days had passed away…

     Aragorn tore himself from his darkened thoughts, placing a hand to his temple. He sat upon the stone, gazing out into the land which seemed wrought of glass and mist, and told himself that the darkness would not claim the Fellowship. Even Boromir, whom the Ring had so nearly taken, had not fallen to Sauron. Aragorn would not do so, nor would Legolas and Gimli. And it was quite difficult if not impossible to imagine a hobbit possessed by the Dark Lord.

     Legolas and Gimli awakened, and the company continued toward Isengard. They took to trudging through the mud once again, though Gimli stubbornly refused to allow Aragorn to carry him. The dwarf had to be pulled free of the sludge more than once, but he still insisted upon forging ahead.

     At midday they rested upon a knoll, and Legolas climbed to the top to search the horizon. Gimli clambered out of the mud with an irritated huff, and Aragorn crouched low on the browned grass, keeping his sword drawn. As he looked down an emerald glint caught his eye, and he brushed aside crackling blades to find an elvin-brooch like the one that clasped his own cloak. It looked to have been cast hastily aside, perhaps by a hobbit that wished to let the hunters know that they had passed this way.

     Aragorn could not keep the cautious twinge of hope from his chest. At least one of the hobbits had been able to drop the brooch, perhaps even knowing that the scent of the Uruk-hai would be lost in such deep mud. The company was drawing nearer to their lost companions—Aragorn knew not the distance to Orthanc, but he thought they may meet the hobbits in two days or less.

     “A man approaches,” called Legolas from the top of the hill. “He is two leagues distant, and he moves slowly. Yet I am certain he means to follow us. His beard is long and white, and he carries a staff of pale wood.”

     “It is Saruman,” Aragorn realized. “Why he is not in Orthanc, I know not, but he means to do the hobbits harm. We must reach Isengard ere he does, or I fear Merry and Pippin may be in grave peril—though it is doubtless the orcs will have already introduced them to it.”

     “We must speed our journey, then,” Gimli growled, hefting his axe in a display of ferocity. “The Uruk-hai have yet to taste my blade.”

     “Come, and let us double our speed,” said Aragorn, and he drew his sword from its sheath, holding it so that it gleamed in the pale light. “We shall reach Isengard before the second dawn is come, or we shall fall into shadow as did Gandalf. Come! We must make haste!”

     They set off across the storm-tossed land, and Aragorn knew Saruman still followed them, for he could feel the wizard’s presence as a pall and a shadow cast over the plain. It would not be long before the hunters had to face him; would they be able to take him with sword, bow, and axe together? Or would all three weapons still be no match for the power of a wizard?

     A full day passed in silence before Aragorn saw the white-robed figure enter a small copse of trees, leaning upon his staff. He held up a hand in warning, and the hunters sprinted to the front of the copse, slipping behind trees. Legolas nocked an arrow, which quivered upon his bowstring, ready to fly. Gimli brandished his axe, and Aragorn tightened his grip upon his sword.

     The wizard emerged, and Legolas sprang, his arrow poised against Saruman’s throat. Gimli scowled fiercely as Aragorn stepped forward, sword in hand, and looked upon the wizard’s face with the full measure of his wrath—then recoiled, shock coursing through his veins.

     “It cannot be,” he said hoarsely. “How…you…I saw you fall. All the Fellowship did.”

     The wizard smiled, and that alone was kinder than Saruman could ever be. “We cannot always trust our eyes, Aragorn.”

     Legolas lowered his bow and looked on him in awe. “Mithrandir.”

PEREGRIN

     Pippin lay upon the dark stone floor, his small chest heaving with exhaustion and pain. His entire being echoed with hurt, bruised from Saruman’s ruthless questioning, and he could taste blood in his mouth where he had bitten his tongue. Miraculously, no bones felt broken, but Pippin’s side, already bruised from the cruelty of the orcs, was so painfully tender that it seemed set aflame with every desperate breath. He fought to remain conscious, the blurriness gradually clearing from his vision.

     “Disappointing, Halfling,” came Saruman’s cold voice. “I am afraid that you have left me with no other option. Wormtongue?”

     “Yes, my lord?”

     “Retrieve the Halfling’s companion from his cell. If this one will not yield for me, surely he will for the other.” The wizard cast a cold sneer in Pippin’s direction. “You will not keep silent for much longer, Halfling. Not when your friend—” he spat this word as if its very essence disgusted him— “is subject to my wrath.”

     Pippin said nothing, still fighting for air, clutching his side as it twinged with each movement. He did not dare make a sound, not even one of pain or fear, for it would only give Saruman an advantage. What might he do to Merry? Would the wizard subject him to the same pain Pippin had endured, throwing him about the chamber with some invisible force? Would he resort to even more painful methods?

     Saruman would not have to. Pippin feared that he would crack under the slightest sound of pain from Merry, let everything he knew of Frodo and the Ring come cascading forth from his mouth in a torrent of words and heartbreak. He could not allow his cousin, with whom he had endured so much, to suffer because Pippin was too stubborn to reveal simple secrets to a wizard.

     And yet—

     Would all of Middle-earth be condemned if Saruman knew of Frodo? Would the quest be doomed to fail and the shadow fall over the realm as the dead of night? Pippin wished he could see into the future; Gandalf and Strider always seemed to, and they were ever the voices of reason in his life. He never looked past the present, never considered consequences, relied wholly upon others to advise him. Now Pippin was being forced to think—what might happen if he told Saruman what he knew? Was protecting Merry a noble enough cause for revealing the identity of the Ring-bearer?

     The black doors opened and Merry was thrust inside, landing in a shivering heap upon the cold floor. Pippin made as if to go to him, but suddenly the invisible hands took him and thrust him against the wall, holding him there with the strength of an orc. The hands seemed to clasp tightly about his neck, forcing Pippin’s head backward as he struggled to breathe.

     “Peregrin,” said Saruman, his voice low and smooth as silk. “Tell me, are you in contact with the Ring-bearer?”

     He shook his head, hands fisted at his sides, and Saruman raised the staff. “You would not do well to lie to me now, Halfling.”

     “I have not been in contact with the Ring-bearer since I have been a captive of the Uruk-hai,” Pippin insisted. “He left moments before the orcs took us.”

     “You admit you know him, then,” Saruman said. “Who is he?”

     “A cousin of mine,” Pippin told him, voice trembling. “He…he is from Hobbiton in the Shire.”

     “Give me his name,” hissed Saruman, and his hold on his staff tightened. “His name, Halfling!”

     “It is not for me to give!”

     Saruman the White struck his first blow. Merry’s prostrate figure was flung forwards, striking the pedestal in the center of the room, upon which sat a spherical object draped in a cloth the color of night. Merry fell, curling into himself, and Pippin gasped, “Underhill! Mr. Underhill of the Shire!”

     “You lie!” Saruman thundered, and Merry was thrown again, a fresh new cut opening upon his cheek. The hands tightened their grip, forcing the name out of Pippin’s lungs. “His name is Baggins! Frodo Baggins—I—please—don’t hurt him, nor Sam his gardener!”

     “Do they journey to Mordor?” the wizard spat, and his eyes flamed with a dark light that shook Pippin to his very core as he rasped, “He didn’t tell me—he didn’t say where he was going! I know not if they have taken the Ring to Mordor!”

     “And yet it must have been Gandalf’s plan,” said Saruman, and he propelled Merry toward the ceiling. The hobbit cried out, and Pippin wailed, “I don’t know! I can only tell you that Frodo has the Ring!”

     “Does he go to Mordor?”

     “I—I don’t—”

     Merry fell, and his cry was louder now, higher-pitched, and he did not stay upon the floor—Saruman thrust him into the pedestal, then the wall, and Pippin shouted, “Yes! He goes to Mordor—or he may not, no one tells me of these things! I—I can’t—stop, Saruman! I beg of you, you mustn’t—”

     “Do you know anything else of the schemes of Gandalf the Gray?” Saruman roared. “Answer me, Halfling, and your companion’s suffering will cease!”

     “I know nothing,” Pippin sobbed, his vision blurred with tears so that he could hardly see the cloud of white that was Saruman. “Gandalf never confided in me, I—I swear it on the Shire, on my standing as a Took, I will swear it upon anything you wish, Saruman, if you will only end Merry’s suffering!”

     He drew in a quivering breath and cried, “Please!”

     Merry struck the wall beside him as the invisible hands released their grip, dropping Pippin to the floor. His head spun and the room tilted strangely, but he crawled to Merry’s prone body, grasping his cousin’s shoulders with all the strength left in him.

     “Take them back to their cell, Wormtongue,” Saruman spat. “Gandalf will come for them soon enough. Until then, we can only wait.” He sneered again, his face contorting in a horrid gleaming smile. “I thank you for your service, Peregrin Took.”

     Pippin’s shoulders trembled with quiet sobs as he bent low over Merry, searching for any sign of life. His cousin’s chest rose and fell, if shallowly, and that was enough for the time being as Wormtongue took Merry and laid him upon his shoulder, then seized Pippin by the hood. Pippin’s vision swam with dark spots; he felt as though he were on the verge of a realm of shadow, moments away from collapsing into darkness.

     Down the staircase they went, and past the cells with the other prisoners, and Wormtongue stopped at the barred door and shoved Pippin inside, then placed Merry roughly onto the stone floor. His key scraped in the lock and then he was gone, his footsteps fading as he retreated to Saruman’s chamber.

     “Oh, Merry,” Pippin whispered, and kneeling upon the stones, his cousin’s still form clutched tightly to his chest, he wept.

     He knelt there for a long time, bowed down in sorrow. His side burned with each sob, but Pippin was unable to stop the flow of tears until a voice said, “I’ve had quite enough of your bawling, and I’d like you to stop, if you don’t mind. Or if you do mind, I’m really not concerned with your opinion.”

     Pippin wiped his eyes. “Wh-what?”

     “There we are,” said the voice, and Pippin registered that it was female. “The questioning is painful, yes, but I hardly think it merits this many tears. Why do you weep?”

     “He has tortured poor Merry,” Pippin snapped, still brushing tears from his cheeks. “And I have told him everything I know, which may bring about the destruction of Middle-earth. Would you not weep were you in my place?”

     “Nay,” she responded. “I would rage. Who are you? I know by Wormtongue’s fell tongue that you are a hobbit, as I am, or I would not speak to you, but I know not from where you come or what you are called.”

     Pippin looked around the small stone room, searching for where her voice emanated from. His eyes landed on a fissure in the rock, not even large enough for his hand, through which a shining dark green eye looked, framed by skin the color of silt and a wisp of dark hair.

     “I am Peregrin son of Paladin of the Shire,” he told her. “Though most call me Pippin, or even Pip. I have dwelt in Tookland for all my years, save for the last few months. Who are you?”

     “I am Diamond, daughter of Honor who is Queen of Long Cleeve,” she said. “I hail from the house of Dellshore and have recently come of age at thirty-three. How many years do you have?”

     “Twenty-eight,” Pippin answered, and Diamond looked on him with fascination. “You are little more than a boy, then. What are you doing so far from the Shire? What does Saruman want with you?”

     Pippin wondered whether to answer her. He doubted that Gandalf or Strider would like it if he revealed the nature of the quest to strangers, but since Saruman already knew it seemed trivial to tell the story to another hobbit.

     “I have been on a quest to destroy the One Ring,” he said. “We set out from Rivendell to go to Mordor, but our Fellowship split on Amon Hen when we were attacked by the Uruk-hai.” His voice trembled as he thought of Boromir, kneeling upon the forest floor, pierced by the black arrows. “Merry and I were taken captive and brought here to Orthanc. Saruman desired information about the One Ring, and I…I gave it to him.”

     “Are you the Ring-bearer?” Diamond asked, and her voice had changed. It had become guarded, and yet a note of surprise hung in her tone. “Or your friend Merry?”

     “No,” Pippin said. “The Ring-bearer is our cousin Frodo, and he left with Sam his gardener for Mordor before we were taken. Now Saruman knows all that I do about the quest, and I fear for the lives of Frodo and Sam, as well as for that of Merry, for the Uruk-hai injured him on Amon Hen, and Saruman cannot have helped matters.”

     “What is his wound?”

     “He has many, but the wound from the orcs is what worries me,” Pippin told her, looking down at Merry’s battered face. “It is a gash upon his brow, and I think it has gone bad, for his skin is like fire.”

     “There is a bowl of water in your cell,” Diamond said. “At least, there should be, as well as a blanket. You might clean the wound with them.”

     Pippin cast his glance around the cell and found what she had described. He supposed that all the cells must have had similar supplies placed in them, though no one seemed to have accounted for the fact that there were not one but two prisoners held in this cell. It was no matter about the blanket—Pippin would sleep under his cloak; Merry was the one who needed warmth—but he feared there would not be enough water to clean Merry’s wounds, and perhaps his own, while leaving enough to drink.

     Even so, he must disinfect the wound. Pippin slipped off his scarf, folded it, and slid it under Merry’s head, then crawled to the bowl of water and dipped a corner of the blanket into it. The fabric at least seemed clean, so he took the bowl and the blanket to Merry’s side and began to dab at the gash, which had blood and filth crusted around it. Pippin’s stomach seemed to twist at the sight of it; nevertheless, he continued to clean the wound until all visible contaminants were removed. Next he washed the rest of Merry’s face, taking care around the new gash from Saruman, and with a whispered apology turned his cousin over to get at the wounds on his back. Thankfully, they were not deep cuts and did not seem infected.

     Once this was all done he tore a strip of cloth from the blanket with his teeth and bound it about Merry’s forehead, covering the wound. Pippin then tended to his own hurts, though the open wounds were limited to the small cut on his wrist from Gornak’s blade and the lash across his shoulders. He washed the dirt from his face as best he could, then tugged the blanket gently over Merry, hoping he would sleep.

     “You care very much for him,” Diamond observed, and her voice startled Pippin, for he had forgotten that she still watched him. “Is he a friend of yours?”

     “My cousin,” Pippin replied, sitting against the wall beside the crack in the stone. “He has eight years more than I, but we have been the best of friends since I was but a lad.”

     He looked at a slit carved into stone halfway up the wall. It faced north, and a shaft of silver moonlight streamed through it; Pippin guessed it was Saruman’s idea of a window. Did every cell have one, he wondered, or were there some where the prisoners could not see the sky?

     “What does Saruman want with you?” Pippin asked. “As far as I know you’ve never met Frodo and can know nothing about the Ring. Saruman cannot be using you as a hostage for Gandalf, as he is Merry and I. Why are you still a prisoner? Have you been here long?”

     “I have been here two months now,” Diamond said. “Saruman has ordered the Uruk-hai to capture all Halflings, but he does not intend to let them go, even if they do not have the Ring. I expect he doesn’t want me going free now that I know about it—which is entirely his fault, as he is the one who told me of the Ring.”

     There was something in her voice, something unanswered, and Pippin knew that she had not told him everything—though there was no reason to expect her to, since they had barely met. Still, he sensed that what she refused to tell him carried great influence in the War of the Ring.

     “When Strider comes for us,” Pippin whispered, “you may come, if you would like. Knowing him he will let every prisoner here go free.”

     “Who is Strider?” she asked, and now there was a note of hope in her voice.

     “He is a Dúnedain, a Ranger of the North,” said Pippin. “I suppose his true name is Aragorn, but I have called him Strider since we met and see no reason to stop now. He will have followed us after the skirmish on Amon Hen, and he will free us once he arrives.”

     “What makes you so certain he will take me as well?”

     “Strider is a great man,” he assured her. “And only the greatest of them could have been Isildur’s heir. But he is not only great, he is also good, and so I have faith that he will set us free.” Pippin smiled faintly, gazing at the few stars he could see through the slit of a window. “And that is an encouraging thought.”

ARAGORN

     As they walked, Gandalf told the three hunters of his incomprehensible journey into the depths of Moria: his battle with the Balrog, his waking and healing from death, Gwaihir the King of Eagles that bore him back through the lands of Middle-earth. Aragorn listened in awe; he imagined Gandalf upon the back of the great eagle and wondered what it might be like to fly, to feel the wind in his face and the thrill of weightlessness.

     “And now I am here,” Gandalf finished, and leaning upon his white staff he laid his eyes upon Aragorn. “Come, Aragorn my friend, you must tell me of all that has happened in your travels. It has been too long!”

     “Where would you like me to start?” asked Aragorn, a faint smile crossing his face. “Our parting at the Bridge of Khazad-dûm seems a lifetime ago, so much has happened since then.”

     “Tell me of the fate of the Fellowship,” Gandalf said. “Where are Frodo and Sam? And what has become of Boromir?”

     Grief, still fresh and raw, welled up in Aragorn’s chest. “Frodo has gone to Mordor, and we think Sam has followed him. We can only hope that they are together and have not met such a fate as Merry and Pippin. Boromir…” His voice broke. “Boromir fell in Emyn Muil, defending the hobbits when we were ambushed by the Uruk-hai. He had been taken by the Ring, but escaped to fight the orcs. Merry and Pippin would be dead if not for him.”

     “Poor Boromir!” Gandalf’s ancient eyes shone with sadness. “Though I knew it must be his fate, it still tears at my soul to hear of his passing. I am glad to hear he broke free at the end, and that he died nobly. Do not grieve too much for him, Aragorn, for it was the end that Boromir would have wanted; of that I am certain.”

     “You knew he must die?” Aragorn whispered. “Why did you suffer him to join the Fellowship, if he was only to meet his end far from his city and those he loved? It seems unkind if not cruel to do so. At least Boromir himself should have known before he joined our quest.”

     “It was his destiny,” Gandalf said simply. “His path led as far as Emyn Muil, and there it would end, where the horn of Gondor blew for the last time. It was the only path Boromir was destined to walk, my friend. There was nothing that could be done.”

     Aragorn kept silent, but he could not help but think that something could certainly have been done. If he had run faster, slain more orcs, tried to heal Boromir’s wounds somehow…and those were only the things Aragorn could have done. Surely Gandalf could have told them of Boromir’s fate before they left Rivendell, or at any time after that? Was the son of Gondor truly destined to finish his journey with the Fellowship? Would it not have been kinder to leave him behind, so that he may have lived out his days, if not in glory, then in peace?

     “And Merry and Pippin?” Aragorn asked. “Have you seen their fate? What is their path?”

     “I have,” Gandalf replied. “Their fate is sealed, and I know where they have gone.”

     “So do we,” said Legolas. “The Uruk-hai have taken the hobbits to Isengard, and it is there that we go. We know not when we shall reach it, but we hope that we draw near.”

     “They were at least alive when they passed the knoll a day back,” Aragorn put in. “For we have found an elvin-brooch, one that was cast aside for us to discover. The Uruk-hai cannot be far ahead. Will you not join us, Gandalf? For if Merry and Pippin have indeed reached Saruman, a wizard will be a great help to us.”

     “Alas, my friends,” Gandalf said heavily. “Your roads lead not to Isengard, but to Edoras, where we shall meet Théoden King of Rohan in his hall—for you, Aragorn son of Arathorn, are needed there. There is war in Rohan, and worse evil: it goes ill with Théoden.”

     “Then we are not to see the merry young hobbits again?” asked Legolas. “It cannot be right for us to abandon them to Saruman.”

     “Fear not,” Gandalf told the elf. “Have patience, Legolas! Their fate leads them to safety with Treebeard and the Ents. Why, they may have met him already, and so we need not concern ourselves with the journey to Isengard. We shall go where we must go, and hope! To Edoras! I go thither and pray that you will follow.”

     “And yet,” said Aragorn, “my heart tells me that danger is near for Merry and Pippin. Doubtless they would be safe in Fangorn, but I fear greatly for them; I feel that you have not seen all their fate, Gandalf.”

     “You must come to Edoras,” insisted Gandalf. “I have seen it, and Théoden, in your journey to your birthright as High King of Gondor. You may destroy the path that has been laid out for you if you turn from it now. Do you not care for your future people?”

     Aragorn halted in the grass, looking on Gandalf with a twinge of uncertainty in his gaze. “I care more for them than anything. And yet I cannot believe that we are not meant to save Merry and Pippin. Can you not understand that I fear for them?”

     “I understand. But you must not fear your destiny, son of Arathorn,” Gandalf ordered. “Do not shrink from the darkness within you, for you must face it to bring light to Middle-earth. We have not yet met the end of days…You must not forsake hope, for the hobbits or for yourself.”

     “I cannot do this,” Aragorn protested. “My darkness is too great. It will destroy me as it destroyed Isildur. Fear rules me, Gandalf, and if I am king it will rule my people. I cannot bear to lose anyone as I lost Boromir. If I cannot bear that, if I cannot bear the loss of the hobbits, how can I rule the people of Gondor?”

     Gandalf sighed, a shadow falling over his weathered face. “Perhaps you should not fear so much.”

     “I have tried,” said Aragorn. “I cannot shake the terror that fills me when I think of the fate of the Fellowship—brief, mortal lives that can only be extinguished. So it will be with the people of Gondor. So it may be with Merry and Pippin.”

     “It will not be so,” Gandalf said, and his voice was kind. “Come, Aragorn, and we shall go to Edoras. The hobbits’ fate is in the hands of Ilúvatar, and he watches them as I do. You are needed with Théoden.”

     Aragorn cast his gaze to the wilted grass. “You have spoken wisely as always, Gandalf. Very well, we shall set our course for Edoras, and may the hobbits fare well, wherever they may be.”

     Gandalf smiled, and he clapped Aragorn on the shoulder, saying, “The hobbits are stubborn creatures, and I hardly think they will meet a fate that they want not. Take courage, Aragorn my friend! For we shall see them again, and all is as it should be.”

     So it was that they began the journey to Edoras, and yet unease still reigned in Aragorn’s mind. He wished to believe in Gandalf’s words, but his heart spoke of grave peril and nights of pain, and so when they stopped at nightfall to rest in a copse of trees Aragorn took first watch. Gimli fell into sleep almost immediately, and Legolas followed soon after, slipping into his strange dreamlike state. Aragorn crouched upon the dark earth and looked into the night, waiting for Gandalf’s quiet breathing to slow into that of slumber, and when he felt certain that the wizard was taken by dreams, he stood and looked back on his fellow hunters.

     “Goodbye, my friends,” Aragorn murmured as the night wind whispered about his face. “It has been good to travel with you. I pray that we shall meet again, but until that day comes, I wish you the speed of Ilúvatar and safety in all your travels. Farewell.”

     When he was a little ways off he stopped and looked back, a shadow of sorrow crossing his face, and yet his gaze was filled with hope.

      “May we rise to find the sun,” Aragorn whispered, and he turned and fled into the night.

     The stars were still flaming silver overhead when Aragorn came to the bank of the Entwash, and he looked across the rushing black waters with apprehension. He had crossed many rivers in his day, but he had never liked entering such swift and cold water; it carried much risk of being swept downstream by the current. The Entwash was swollen with the first of the spring runoff; it was at least twenty yards wider than usual, and the water moved with the swiftness of a galloping horse.

     He contemplated the safest way to cross. Going on foot was not feasible; the river was surely too deep, and it was easy to catch one’s feet between rocks in a riverbed. Swimming would make it easier to be caught by the current. No, Aragorn must anchor himself to some solid object; it was the safest option. There were trees on the other side of the river; he could fire an arrow into one of them. The nearest one was perhaps a hundred yards away—a great distance, of course, but Aragorn had been a Ranger for decades, and had learned how to shoot an arrow further than that.

     Aragorn took an arrow from his quiver and a rope, the elvin-rope of Lórien, from his pack, and tightly he tied the rope to the shaft of the arrow, tugging at the end to ensure it was securely fastened. Then he took his bow into his hands and nocked the arrow, squinting through the sight at the tree. It would have to be a powerful shot, to thrust the arrow deep enough into the wood to hold. He pulled the bowstring back to his cheek, felt it vibrate beneath his fingers, and as it sang with tension he let it go.

     The arrow soared over the river and embedded itself in the trunk as the string whipped against the bracer on Aragorn’s wrist—Boromir’s bracer, so that Aragorn would not forget. Before they had given Boromir to Anduin he had taken both wrist-guards and slipped them onto his forearms, vowing always to remember Boromir’s sacrifice whenever the armor protected him.

     It gave Aragorn a sense of peace now, knowing that had Boromir been here he would have followed Aragorn to Isengard. Of course, when it came to rescuing the hobbits, Boromir would have followed him to Mordor and back.

     “Be with me now, my friend,” Aragorn whispered, and he took the end of the pale gray rope and bound it about his waist, pulling at it to ensure the arrow’s stability, then stepped into the dark waters of the Entwash.

     The current tugged at his feet, its icy fangs biting into his skin. When it was deep enough Aragorn pushed off from the riverbed, striking out for the far shore. But the river was too swift for swimming, and so he grasped the rope tightly, pulling himself hand over hand toward the bank. His fingers felt like ice now; he would have to build a fire when he reached the other side.

     Aragorn clenched his jaw as a splash of water hit the side of his face, stinging like a frigid whip. As he drew near to the middle of the river, the current became swifter, colder, and he had to pull more forcefully on the rope to move forward.

     The black water became white with foam, and it churned about Aragorn’s shoulders with a ferocity that startled him. He narrowed his eyes against the spray and tightened his numb grip on the rope, hauling himself toward the riverbank. Once he left the rapids, the going would be easier.

     The cold seemed to seep into Aragorn’s bones, and his chest began to heave as he struggled to take in air. Controlling one’s breathing was difficult in water so cold, but he forced his lungs to work normally. It would do Aragorn no good to faint before he even reached the other side of the river. He must press on, even if he felt as though he might freeze. Grimly, he pulled at the rope.

     Slowly, with a flash of silvery gray, the knot slipped free of the arrow, and the Entwash consumed him.

     Aragorn was plunged into frigid darkness, and the shock sent a pulse of pain through his body. Blindly, he struck out for the surface, but the current thrust him down and he felt rough stone scrape over him and impact against his shoulder. His feet touched the riverbed; Aragorn kicked upwards and broke the surface, gasping in a single breath of frozen air before he spiraled downward again.

     More stones littered the current here; one dealt a blow to his cheek and he tasted blood. A sharp point, perhaps the fallen branch of a tree, lashed against Aragorn’s side and he gasped, taking in a great deal of what seemed ice and not water.

     The cold froze Aragorn’s lungs, and though his vision was already a torrent of shadow and ice it seemed to darken as though ink had been poured into his eyes. Gritting his teeth he lunged for the surface once more, but the Entwash dragged him into its depths, and between the blood and the lack of air Aragorn recognized his dream—was this the blood of his people? With his deviation from his path, had he doomed the whole of Gondor?

     Though he knew it was a foolish thought it seemed fitting for the moment, and as Aragorn spun through the river, his consciousness fading, he wondered if perhaps he would meet Boromir in Valinor, and whether his friend would receive him with joy.

     Through the water a voice seemed to drift, a shout of light and fear, and it called out, My king!

     And in Aragorn’s last moment of wakefulness, someone grasped the rope.

LEGOLAS

     The dawn was bright and chill, and mist hung about the trees when Legolas awoke from his dreaming state. Resting under trees, whether those of Mirkwood or those in this lowly copse, always rejuvenated him; such rest made his vision sharper, his running swifter. But it could not have prepared Legolas for the shock that awaited him in the waking world.

     Gimli still slept, curled in the roots of a tree, and Legolas watched the dwarf’s chest rise and fall with each rumbling breath. Beyond him was Gandalf, his eyes stretched wide but his breathing slow and steady, that of slumber.

     Aragorn was nowhere to be seen.

     Legolas breathed sharply, the air fresh and cold in his mouth. He dared not call for Aragorn; he could not risk waking the others for fear they would blame him. Instead Legolas climbed to the top of the tallest tree in the copse, scanning the vast plains for any sign of his friend. The mist revealed no trace of Aragorn; he was nowhere within Legolas’s vision, though the elf could see to each horizon. Aragorn had left early in the night, then; and Legolas could only assume he had gone to Isengard, for where else would he have fled to?

     The morning breeze teased the ends of Legolas’s white-gold hair and he turned his face into it, listening to the West Wind, silently asking it for tidings of Aragorn. It sent him nothing but vague flashes of memory: splashes of black water, a whispered farewell in the dark, the quavering tension of a bowstring.

     “Estel,” Legolas said to the wind. “I pray you have not done anything foolish.”

     Though the wind did not deign to respond, he could almost hear Aragorn’s voice: Fear not, Legolas my friend. When have I done a foolish thing?

     “Never have you done so,” Legolas murmured. “And yet I fear your noble heart has led you into danger. Even so…may the grace of Ilúvatar go with you, Estel, wherever you may be.”

     He sat there a while as the sun broke over the distant mountains, listening to the quiet murmurings of the wind in the trees, and then a great grunting snore from Gimli broke the silence. Legolas climbed swiftly down and knelt next to the dwarf, moving as if to wake him, then thinking better of it and clamping his hand over Gimli’s mouth to prevent any unwanted shouting.

     His hand moved to the dwarf’s shoulder, but suddenly it stilled, and all Legolas felt was Gimli’s warm breath on his fingers and the soft rough blaze of his ruddy beard; something awoke in him which had never before been stirred, but quickly Legolas stamped it down and shook Gimli awake.

     The dwarf sat up with a muffled shout; he went for his axe, but Legolas seized his wrist and hissed softly, “Silence, dwarf! We mustn’t wake Mithrandir!” Gimli ceased his struggle and cast a glance about the clearing, his brow furrowing. “Where is Aragorn?”

     “That is my reason for waking you,” said Legolas. “He has gone to Isengard, and he must have left early last night, for he has gone far enough that I cannot see. I wished to counsel with you, for I know not what Mithrandir will say, but I fear that he may be angry with us.”

     “An elf, asking for counsel from a dwarf,” Gimli scoffed. “We have no need for it; I can tell you what Gandalf will say: he will lament the loss of Aragorn but for a little while, and then he will take us with him to Edoras, where we will fight with whatever host Gandalf commands. He could care less about the fates of others, elf; he will not deviate from his present course, regardless of whom he loses on the way. You would do well not to fight him over it. My counsel is given, and I ask that you suffer me to go back to sleep.”

     Legolas stood, glaring sidelong at Gimli and tilting his chin to a haughty angle. “So much for counsel! Dwarves cannot be trusted to give the time of day, much less help in the disappearance of one’s friends!”

     Gimli shrugged, a look of supreme indifference on his rugged face. “I would expect no other reply from an elf. Why take the advice of a dwarf? After all elves ask much, and when given what they desire they only belittle their benefactor.” Now his eyes were angry, blazing with a bright fire. “I should like to cleave your oversized head in two!”

     “You would die before your stroke fell!” snapped Legolas, and he turned from Gimli and strode into the trees.

     “Legolas, my friend,” said the voice of Gandalf. “Why are you shouting? You have disturbed the peace of this little wood with your anger.”

     Legolas bowed his head. “I apologize, Mithrandir. But my anger is of no consequence, not when set against the reason for it: Estel has departed. I fear that he has gone to Isengard.”

     Gandalf cursed in some ancient tongue, standing upright with his staff raised, and a great white light swirled around him. “Curse the heart of Aragorn son of Arathorn! For he thinks he can forge his own path and heed not the one that has been laid down for him. Does he think he has the authority to go against the will of the Valar? He understands not the rending of destiny!”

     The light dimmed and he was an old bent man again, tears shimmering in the corners of his eyes. “I must apologize, my friends. I fear for Aragorn, and for the people of Gondor. This changes many things on the path I had laid down for us…the threads of destiny have tangled in ways I have not foreseen. Long have I known that Aragorn would be a driving force in the fate of Middle-earth, but this way…this path leads to darkness, to suffering. There may yet be a light at the end, but it is faint, and some things that should not be shall now come to pass. We can only pray that Estel still shines when the shadow calls for Aragorn.”

     There was silence in the wood for several long moments, and then Legolas asked, “What are these things that should not be?”

     “I know not how it is possible,” said Gandalf, and he seemed weighed down by years of sorrow. “But I see one who died that deserved life, and one who lived that deserved death…Our future is certain no more, my friends. It has been shrouded in darkness through which even my eyes cannot look. The fate of Middle-earth sits upon the point of a knife, a blade that has been placed into the wrong hands, and Aragorn son of Arathorn shall prove our saving grace or our ultimate destruction.”

     His gaze was a thousand days away as he cast it to the horizon. “Come, Legolas, Gimli. We go to Edoras. I shall not forsake what little of our path we have left.”

     “But what of Aragorn?” asked Gimli. “Shall we not go to him and turn him back?”

     “Aragorn has taken his fate into his own hands,” Gandalf said. “He is beyond our help now. All we can do for him is hope.”

     As he pondered these words they seemed useless to Legolas, for if Aragorn, hope incarnate, had fled his destiny, what hope was there left in the world? The windows to light were narrowing, and Legolas feared that they would never open again.

     So it was that with the leaving of Aragorn, the Dark Lord Sauron laughed and all Mordor was filled with mirth, for the light had dimmed and the very foundations of Middle-earth were shaken even as they prepared for battle.

     And yet, in the depths of those foundations, a light sprang from the shadows, and the Secret Fire awoke.

Chapter Text

PEREGRIN

Diamond fell into sleep when the moon reached its zenith, and Pippin was lonely as he sat in the silver light. Standing up he went to the window, gripping the sill and peering out into the darkness. He could see mountains on every side, and above them the stars gleamed and were reflected in the tarns below. The night wind whispered against Pippin's face and the chill stung his skin, but he preferred it to the dank musty cell. He had never loved small enclosed places where the air was stale and he could not run freely; this was perhaps the worst of all.

"Strider," Pippin whispered, the great round globe of the moon shining in his searching eyes. "Where are you? Do you come for us?"

This quest was not progressing as Pippin had hoped it would. He had longed for a bit of adventure, a journey outside the beloved but sheltered world of the Shire. Now he was here in a barred room with Merry unconscious and injured and no way of knowing whether anyone would come for them.

He wished Boromir were here; he had always sympathized with the hobbits, always listened when they were worried or hungry or grieving. Of all the Fellowship, excepting Merry of course, he had been the greatest friend to Pippin, and had not deserved such a horrible end. Pippin wondered if, when they were liberated from Orthanc, he and Merry might pay a tribute to Boromir.

Standing in the cell, the cold stone of the sill digging into his chest, Pippin thought it might have been the lowest point of his life. He had never enjoyed structure, had always wanted to keep himself open to new paths and sensations, but now it was all so uncertain that Pippin felt as though he had stepped blindly off a great cliff and plummeted into darkness.

"Pippin?"

He turned, tearing his gaze from the cobalt darkness. Merry was stirring; trying to sit up. Pippin rushed to him, wincing at the flash of pain in his side but shoving aside the hurt as he knelt beside his cousin. "How are you, Merry? Are you hurting?"

"I'm alright," Merry said as Pippin carefully pulled him into his lap. "What happened, Pip?"

"What do you remember?"

"We were in a room…Saruman…" Merry closed his eyes again, his face contorted in pain. "He…did he hurt you, Pip? You look terrible."

"Surely I don't look so bad," Pippin laughed, ignoring the twinges of pain. "I don't look like you do, Merry; I would consider that an accomplishment. Now, I cleaned your wound as best I could, but we have no medicine of any sort, so you ought to be careful about touching it."

"Look at you playing Strider," Merry said, and his voice was stronger now, though he shivered. "Speaking of, do you think he'll arrive soon? It seems he has already taken considerable time getting here, or else he doesn't know where we are. At any rate I hope he gets here quickly."

"He will," Pippin promised, lifting Merry's bandage and laying a hand on his cousin's forehead. It still felt as though flames burned beneath the skin, and Merry gasped as Pippin's fingertip brushed the jagged edge of his wound. Pippin murmured an apology and smoothed the cloth back down, careful not to provoke any more hurt. Privately he worried for Merry's condition; he was at least awake, but his fever felt higher than ever, and every few moments a shiver would run through Merry's body.

"Pip?" asked Merry, his voice slurred now, as if he were on the verge of sleep. "Pip, will you…will you promise me something?"

"Anything, Merry," Pippin replied, looking down on his cousin's battered face as Merry mustered a weak smile, whispering, "If…if ever I should not wake from sleep, Pip…and you go on to fight this war without me…don't let go of your purpose. Whatever may come…Middle-earth will still have need of you."

"Merry, no," Pippin said desperately. "Strider will come, and he can heal you, I know he can. And I'm quite certain no one has need of me—when has Middle-earth ever wanted a Took to save it? It needs Frodo, the Ring-bearer, and Strider, the king, but it has never needed me. Gandalf made that quite clear, and if not for my foolish actions he would still be here to guide us. This whole mess is my fault, Merry. If I weren't such a hindrance we wouldn't be here."

Hot tears had started in his eyes; he struggled to blink them back, but one fell and landed on Merry's cheek. Even so, Merry smiled, and he took Pippin's hand in both of his, his voice weak, "You may not think…all of Middle-earth needs you, Pip…but even if it doesn't…someone in it will. Do you…can you promise?"

"I can," said Pippin fiercely through his tears. "I swear to you, Merry, if I must fight without you by my side, I will never forget your words, and I will struggle to the bitter end for you if it costs me my life. This I promise, and may my oath stand until the end of days."

"'Yes' would have…been sufficient." Merry's eyes had closed, but he still smiled. "Thank you, Pip. I think I will try to sleep."

But he continued to shiver, and so Pippin took off his own elvin-cloak and laid it over him and Merry both, and he lay down beside his cousin, hoping to share with Merry his warmth. The night was cold, but Pippin took comfort in sleeping beside Merry as they had so often done as children. Hobbits often slept together in a heap, especially if they were related, sharing their body heat and giving comfort. The four of them in the Fellowship had done it as often as possible, and near the end of the journey Boromir had sometimes even joined them.

Those had been good times, Pippin thought sleepily. It was a strange thing, this War of the Ring; for while it brought hardship and sorrow it had also given Pippin new friends and led him on a wondrous journey. What more would it bring him before it was over?

He sank into dreams, and these were for once peaceful; Pippin dreamed of the life they would all have when the war was over, where the sun shone on the greening hills of the Shire, and he and Merry and Sam and Frodo were together again, and Strider ruled the land in peace and all was right in the world.

Sunlight came through the slit in the stone and fell over Pippin's face, and he shrank from it, curling under the cloak. He felt sore and stiff from sleeping on the stone floor, and Merry's temperature was so high that it seemed to be warming Pippin more than the cloak. He edged out from under the soft gray fabric and carefully tucked the corners under Merry's sleeping form, a pang of anxiety striking through his heart.

Pippin drank from the bowl of water, slaking his thirst, then brought it to Merry's side. Dipping a corner of the blanket into the water he pulled the bandage off Merry's forehead—and Pippin retched, his stomach lurching at the sight of the wound. The gash was swollen, grotesquely so; it was a horrible shade of scarlet and oozing a thick yellowish substance. Pippin would have vomited, but nothing came up; he had not eaten anything save the lembas in the last four days.

Though he felt as though he might be violently ill every time he looked at the wound, Pippin started to clean it, washing away the blood and the rank-smelling substance. He wondered bleakly if even Strider's athelas could heal such a wound; he had never seen one like this. What if Merry simply never regained consciousness? Despite his oath, Pippin was unsure if he would be able to go on without his cousin.

Merry's breathing was swift, too much for comfort, and when Pippin placed a hand on his cousin's chest he found that Merry's heart too pulsed far too quickly. Though he seemed buried under the mound of fabric he still shook violently, and his face was dry, with no sign of the fever breaking.

By the time the wound was as clean as Pippin could manage, he felt lightheaded, dazed; he stood and staggered to the window, falling against the stone and clenching his jaw as his ribs twinged. He closed his eyes and breathed as deeply as he could, filling his lungs with the chill dawn air. It helped somewhat, enough for Pippin to place a small piece of lembas in his mouth and swallow it. He would need to get Merry to eat some of the waybread and drink a little water; he would never recover without sustenance, but Pippin worried that Merry would not be able to keep anything down.

When he had gathered his thoughts Pippin turned back to Merry, taking the bowl and lifting it to his cousin's mouth, saying, "Come, Merry, you must have some water." But Merry was unconscious, his jaw slack and his eyes closed. When Pippin tipped water into his mouth, he would not swallow, only gasp for air, and so Pippin hastily tilted Merry's head to the side so the water trickled out.

Now Pippin began to panic. When had Merry last had anything to drink? He would not live long without water, that was certain; food was less of a concern. But how to get Merry to drink when he was unconscious and unlikely to wake unless he received better treatment?

Strider would know. But what use was Strider, when he was not here and had no way of getting help to Pippin? Perhaps Diamond knew something of medicine; Pippin could ask her.

Merry gasped in a horrible rattling breath and Pippin tried desperately to tip a little water into his protesting mouth, for it sounded as though thorns scraped against his throat. Merry still did not swallow, coughing out the water and splashing it onto Pippin's hands.

Pippin tried to think of what to do, his head spinning with blind panic. Perhaps he could shake the bars of the cell, shouting for Wormtongue or Saruman? No; even if they came, they would certainly do nothing for Merry—they only needed him as a hostage for Gandalf, who they did not know had passed, and Pippin would be sufficient for that purpose even if Merry died. An injured hobbit was of no concern to them.

Saruman would not be sympathetic, Diamond was still asleep, and Strider was absent. Was there no one who could help him?

Suddenly, Pippin remembered a night on their journey, the first one after Gandalf's passing, when they had stopped upon a cliff where the wind blew fiercely and he could not sleep—an extremely rare occurrence for a hobbit. He had lain awake, curled up with his head resting on Boromir's shoulder, and watched Strider walk to a clear spot of ground and kneel upon it in the moonlight…

Strider whispered words in what Pippin now knew as Elvish, looking as if he pled with the heavens. His shoulders trembled, and Pippin realized with a start that he was weeping, pouring out his soul to the sky—he had not known that Strider, such a wise and brave-hearted man, could weep. Yet here he was, his voice breaking over the unfamiliar tongue, splintering the inflections. He went on like this for a long time, crying softly to the stars.

When Strider had come to a lull in his speech, Pippin crept across the stone, his footsteps soft and padding, and sat beside him. "What are you doing, Strider?"

Strider looked down on him with kindness and sorrow, saying, "I am asking for help, Peregrin."

"But who can you be asking it of? For I have never been told of beings in the sky, and if they are there I do not see them."

"Do hobbits not know of the Valar?" Strider asked, a note of surprise in his voice. "Of the Ainulindalë, the Enemy, the One?"

Pippin shook his head, and Strider put an arm around the hobbit, drawing him closer. "Then I must teach you, Pippin." He looked up at the stars, and one streaked across the sky, leaving a trail of fire, as he began to speak.

"Long ago, at the dawn of time, the great beginning of all we know, there was the One. He was called Eru, and in the Elvish tongue they named him Ilúvatar. From him came the Ainur, the order of the Valar, and they are the great beings that shaped the world with their song, which is the Ainulindalë. From the void by the song came Arda, the world, and Middle-earth is but a great island in the seas of it. Manwë king of the Valar rules Arda, but even he takes counsel from Ilúvatar. All the Valar do, save one.

"Once a Valar, Melkor Lord of Fire fell from grace. He is the greatest Enemy of Middle-earth, and it is he that the Dark Lord Sauron serves. While we strive to end Sauron's reign, our quest is at its heart an attempt to drive back the influence of Melkor."

Strider with a long sigh said softly, "And I fear that, without Gandalf, we will not succeed. For he is a Maia, and also of the order of the Ainur. He was our guide and our protector from Melkor, and without him I fear that our quest shall fail. That is why I seek help, Pippin—I do not trust myself to lead the Fellowship to Mordor. I seek the blessing of Ilúvatar."

"How will you know if he has given it to you?" Pippin asked.

"I may not," said Strider. "And I find it a great effort to place my trust in anyone blindly, even the One. But I must do so now, for it is only by his blessing that we will reach Mordor. Darkness shrouds our path, and I cannot see the way through it. Gandalf always could, but he has gone, and I can only hope that the grace of Ilúvatar will go with us."

"Then I will hope with you," Pippin said, and as he and Strider sat upon the great cliff under the silver rain of stars, he wondered if Ilúvatar looked down on them and all the peoples of Middle-earth, and whether the One wept for the shadow that had fallen.

Pippin looked now to the roof of stone, wishing it were open to the sky, and whispered, "Ilúvatar?"

His breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed, trying again. "I…I know I have never asked anything of you. I don't know if you listen to hobbits, or if you even know of me. But I am in need of your blessing, as is my cousin Merry, for he lies ill with a fever that I fear he will never escape. Strider has not come, and I do not know the ways of healing; all I ask of you is some way to save poor Merry from this awful fate. He does not deserve such an end, and I could not bear it if I lost him."

He bowed his head, the tip of his nose nearly brushing Merry's brow, and choked out, "Please."

"Is he worse today?" asked a voice, a hint of worry buried under the guarded tone, and Pippin glanced up. Diamond's eye peered through the fissure in the stone, blinking as Pippin looked upon it and said, "He is. He won't take any water, and his heart beats too swiftly. I—I fear he is about to leave this world, before Strider can arrive to save him."

"I do not know much of healing," said Diamond, "but I can help you. Give him some water, but not so much that he will choke on it. Rub his throat, and he will swallow."

Pippin did so, tipping a small measure of water into Merry's mouth and putting a gentle pressure on his throat until, miraculously, he swallowed. Emboldened by his success, Pippin continued the process until the bowl had nearly run out.

He looked on the crack in the stone with gratitude welling up inside him. "I can never thank you enough, Diamond."

It was the first time he had said her name, and even as it left his mouth it felt too long, too formal, for the maiden hobbit, even if she did bear the title of princess. She evidently thought the same, for her eye blinked and she said, "Dia. I…my name is too long. Diamond Firebringer Dellshore; far too majestic of a name for a hobbit of my character. The only piece that truly fits me is my alkaressa, as it was given to me after I had been given an opportunity to display my character, unlike my given name, which is far too delicate."

"Do your people call you Firebringer?" Pippin asked, and he lay Merry's head carefully on the folded scarf, then went to sit beside the fissure.

"They do. When we come of age or prove ourselves in battle, each of us is given a name, an alkaressa, that reflects our prowess and character. I was given mine at twenty-five, when I set fire to an enemy camp. The queen was pleased."

"You have seen battle?" Pippin asked. "Is the War of the Ring so near?"

"Long Cleeve has always been a land of warfare, since the beginning of the Dellshore line," she said. "Is the Shire not the same? Are you not ruled by a queen, and go into battle at the slightest wave of her hand?"

"I have never seen battle," Pippin admitted. "The Shire is a peaceful land, one where we eat six meals a day, have large parties for no apparent reason, and give each other presents at every opportunity. It seems that it could not be further from your home. I suppose I thought all other hobbit-lands were the same; evidently I was wrong."

Diamond gave a short laugh, one of derision. "You ought not to guess at the lives of hobbits you have never seen, Shire-child. Are you not a Took? Perhaps not, for I know the North-Tooks of Long Cleeve, and they are the most vicious of all the hobbits I have encountered. You seem very much unlike them, for they would die before they shed a single tear."

"I am a Took," Pippin insisted, miffed. "Descended from Bullroarer, in fact, and allow me to say that you have guessed at my life just as much as I have at yours. We have no one to fight in the Shire, and we are not so much ruled as watched over by the Thain, who is my father, and the Mayor. Ours is a quiet life, a safe life, and all of us quite like it that way, thank you very much."

"You don't," Diamond said bluntly. "Why else would you be here in Isengard? You left the Shire for this quest, and though you long for simple comforts you have a fire in your eyes that I have not seen save in my own people. Can you possibly be both, and yet neither at the same time? A Shire-child, a prince even, and still a Took?"

"I suppose so," Pippin sighed. "I've never been quite one or the other, and I have wondered for some time which I am supposed to be. One foot in the Shire, and the other out the door, and my spirit on the horizon in some strange new land, that is how it has been all my life. But now that I am here I don't know what to do."

Merry gave a weak, rasping cough, nearly a death rattle, and Pippin rushed to him, moving too quickly and sending a twinge through his side. Pushing it aside he knelt by his cousin, laying the back of his hand on Merry's brow. The flames of fever burned hotter than ever, and Merry's lashes fluttered rapidly, his breathing matching them in pace. His heartbeat was weak, erratic, and Pippin's own heart seemed as if it had plunged into icy water.

"He's getting worse," he said desperately, tears pricking at his eyes again. "And there is nothing I can do; I have tried and I have nothing. What will I do if Merry is to die? How can I ever laugh or be cheerful again?"

"You mustn't lose hope," Diamond said fiercely, all trace of derision gone from her voice. "You won't give up on him if I have to shout it in your face. Strider will come for you, you'll see, and we'll leave Orthanc and go back to Long Cleeve. Merry can get well there, and we all will be safe. Don't you leave your promise behind, nor your cheer, for it is the only mildly entertaining thing in this prison and I shouldn't like it if you collapsed into a heap of sorrow like every other sorry captive here. Do you hear me, Peregrin Took? You will not give up on him!"

She was shouting now, and Pippin was taken aback by her ferocity. Trembling, he lifted his gaze to the fissure and saw Diamond's narrowed gaze, heard her swift and angry breath.

"Thank you, Dia," he said, and a flicker of hope burst to life in his chest as he let the hint of a smile curve his lips. "I see why they call you the Firebringer."

ARAGORN

The light was blinding, and he was cold. So very cold, in fact, that he feared that he was dead. But no, Valinor would not be cold, or, at least, he hoped it wouldn't. Also, pain would not exist in Valinor. Not pain like this—this bleeding hot burning feeling in his side and his cheek. Surely the Undying Lands would not have that. So he must be alive, which he was not sure was an improvement.

Aragorn opened his eyes.

The sun had risen some time ago; having cleared the mountains she now hung directly overhead, casting white light over the barren landscape. Leaves rustled against a cloudless robin's-egg sky, and the Entwash trickled, wide and flat, over a bed of pebbles. Aragorn lay just at the edge of this, sprawled on the brittle grass of the riverbank. The elvin-rope was still bound about his waist, the frayed end trailing in the water, and it chafed against the laceration on his side.

He meant to untie the knot, but as he sat up to do so he doubled over, coughing water out of his lungs. Aragorn clutched at his chest, which felt as though a knife had sunk into it, sitting hunched over the water until the coughing subsided. He swiped a hand over his mouth, then tugged at the knot with chilled fingers; it took several minutes, but the rope slipped loose. Aragorn wound it into a coil, and finding his pack still on his shoulders he placed it inside, then turned his attention to his wounds.

The cut on his side burned; it was a deeper wound than he had thought, and blood dampened his raiment. Aragorn cupped icy water in his hand and bathed the gash, grimacing at the sting. Taking the pouch at his belt he reached inside and pulled out a handful of athelas leaves. These he chewed into a paste and smeared on the wound; the pain began to subside as Aragorn gave the same treatment to the cut on his cheek, which thankfully was not so deep as the one on his side. The athelas leached the pain from it quickly, and Aragorn stood, trembling with dizziness and cold, then looked around.

Great trees loomed against the sky, and though winter was just beginning to loosen its hold on the earth their branches were thick with leaves. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, dappling the earth in shades of tawny gold. A soft breeze rustled through the clearing, stirring up the fallen leaves upon the earth, and Aragorn shivered, deciding that he must soon make a fire or he might well freeze to death.

He gathered the driest sticks he could find—many were still damp from the recent rains—and brittle leaves from the forest floor. These he arranged into a small pyramid, with the leaves at the center and a cage of branches surrounding them. Bark shavings would have made better tinder, but there were no birch trees to be found, nor any other with the correct type of bark. Leaves would have to do.

Aragorn took from his pack his firesteel, and he struck the flint against the metal. A burst of light leapt from it, and he struck it again and again until the leaves caught and smoked, small warm embers glowing against the pale veins. Aragorn blew gently on the tiny flame, and it grew, blackening the edges of the wood. He knelt with his back to the wind, shielding the fire from that which would blow it out, and stretched his hands out to the warmth.

As tendrils of feeling crept back into his fingers Aragorn wondered who it was that had grasped the end of the rope and pulled him to safety; for without them he would have surely perished in the torrent of darkness. He felt certain that it had been a living soul, rather than a rock or a fallen branch, for no rock or branch could have pulled him from the water. Whoever had done so must surely be nearby, but Aragorn could see or hear no one. Perhaps they had fled, not wishing to be known.

When his hands were no longer numb but tingling with warmth, Aragorn took his knife from his belt and cut a swathe of fabric from his tunic, binding it about the cut on his side. It and the athelas would speed the healing process; he could not let anything slow his journey to Isengard.

Aragorn then warmed his feet by the fire, and when all his raiment was dry he brushed dirt over the flames, smothering them. He stood, placing another leaf of athelas in his mouth to stave off the hunger clawing at his insides. Aragorn knew he could have hunted—though many of his arrows were lost in the river he still had his knife and twine for snares—but he had already spent precious time tending to his wounds. Merry and Pippin were quite likely in danger, and had been for the last four days.

He set off through the woods, breathing more deeply as the athelas began to soothe the pain of the gash in his side. Aragorn had been quite fortunate not to have drowned or been worse hurt in the river; he silently thanked Ilúvatar for his safety and continued on his way, deciding to put the matter of who had saved him out of his mind. They were gone anyway, and surely could not be called back.

The wind sang in the trees, leaves caught in its grasp twirling about Aragorn's shoulders. He pulled his cloak tighter against the chill as he walked deeper into the woods, wary of running for fear of causing his wound to bleed more. He would be no help to the hobbits if he could barely move; better to come slowly to Isengard than not at all.

After an hour Aragorn halted suddenly; he stood still and listened, his keen ears picking up the sound of faint, hurried footsteps. He turned, drawing his sword, though he thought he knew by the uneven tread of the footfalls who they belonged to.

A tall slender figure burst out of the trees, pale hair whipping about his face, and skidded, crying, "Estel!"

Legolas leapt forward and clasped his arms around Aragorn's shoulders, his hold almost desperate. Startled, Aragorn froze for a moment, then sheathed his sword and returned the embrace as Gimli stepped out of the brush with a stoic nod of greeting. "Good to see you're alive. The elf was going on about grim tidings, death's door, that sort of cheerful thing. I knew you'd be alright, and I told him so. It seems I was right as usual."

"You mustn't do that again!" Legolas snapped, stepping back and regarding Aragorn with annoyance. "I thought you had more sense, Estel! Mithrandir was furious, and Gimli and I have run for much of the morning to find you. The wind spoke to me of danger and turmoil, and it is nothing short of a miracle that we arrived before you were killed trying to storm Isengard alone!"

"I truly am sorry, my friend," Aragorn said. "I did not want to force you to come to Isengard when you were needed in Edoras. I thought that perhaps, if only I strayed from Gandalf's vision, all might be well. Alas! Now the White Rider shall have to go on alone. I pray that he will provide what help I could not—or would not, at least not with a clear conscience. But how did you come? Surely Gandalf did not simply allow you to take your leave of him."

"He retreated for some time to consult the future, as he calls it," replied Legolas. "While he did Gimli and I slipped away, for we could not leave you to face Saruman alone. Look at the wound on your face; clearly you cannot even be trusted to roam unknown lands without us."

It struck Aragorn how much younger he was than Legolas. The elf spoke like a parent or perhaps an elder brother; surely he must have been exceedingly anxious at Aragorn's leaving. Aragorn decided not to bring up the fact that he had been a Ranger for many years; it only seemed likely to provoke an argument.

"I am glad to have you, Legolas," Aragorn told the elf. "And you, Gimli. Shall we be off, then?"

"The blade of my axe has thirsted many days for the blood of the Uruk-hai," said Gimli gruffly. "It should not have got it in Edoras. Lead on, Aragorn, and may we cleave the heads of many an orc!"

"I suppose you have a plan for the siege?" Legolas asked as they set off through the woods.

Aragorn smiled. "Nay, I do not. But I daresay I shall think of something."

And so the three hunters set off across the plains of Rohan, and what awaited them in Isengard they knew not, but a worthy cause and a few sharp implements seemed enough to face it.

Surely nothing could possibly go wrong.

PEREGRIN

Night had fallen, and Pippin sat forlornly beside the fissure in the stone, Merry's head in his lap as his cousin shook with fever. All Pippin could do was to stroke Merry's sweat-dampened hair and clutch his hand, waiting for the end.

Perhaps Strider was not coming—or if he was, he would not arrive in time. Merry had little time left, and though Pippin had cleaned the gash and even forced Merry to swallow a bit of lembas, his cousin's condition had only worsened. Merry would be dead by morning; this Pippin knew with an awful piercing certainty.

"Isn't there anything you can do to lift your spirits?" Diamond asked, and her voice was firm but touched with kindness. Pippin shook his head, whispering, "I can think of nothing that would give me hope—nothing except the coming of Strider. I refuse to believe that he has abandoned us, but at any rate he will not arrive before…before Merry…"

He lifted a hand and pushed his hair back from his forehead, then dragged his palm down his face, wiping away the ever-present tears. "If I could go back, Dia, and do this all over again, I don't think I would have gone with Frodo. Our journey seems doomed to end in tragedy—Merry and I captured, Boromir dead, and poor Merry so close to joining him…" Pippin squeezed his eyes shut. "I…Dia, I'm afraid."

She was silent for a moment, and then her voice drifted from the fissure. "Who was Boromir?"

Pippin blinked; a single dewy tear quivered on his lashes and fell onto Merry's dirt-stained cheek. He wondered how to describe Boromir, the man that had at first seemed so stern and imposing but had been unflinchingly kind to Pippin. Boromir had carried Merry and Pippin through the snow on Caradhras, taught them to sword-fight, defended them when the Uruk-hai attacked. He had let Pippin curl up with him when the nights were cold, comforted him after Gandalf had fallen into Moria. He had been the strong and steady tower in the turbulent storm of the quest, the one that Pippin had never known he needed.

"Boromir was a great man," Pippin said quietly. "The son of the Steward of Gondor and the heir to that office. He was killed protecting Merry and I from the Uruk-hai, and he died one of the greatest friends I have ever known."

He lifted his eyes to the stars, wondering if perhaps Boromir watched him now, and whispered, "He was my brother."

"That feels strange to me," said Diamond. "A man, the brother of a hobbit? In Long Cleeve, we fight the men who would take our homeland for themselves. We burn their camps, steal their weapons, do all we can to ensure that men do not destroy us. It seems unthinkable that there could ever be peace between hobbits and men, let alone brotherhood. Love? Much less so."

"Perhaps it is strange," Pippin replied. "But love is a strange thing, is it not? And yet it is beautiful, and it carries us through the dark, and we emerge stronger for it. That is how I know Strider will come for us, Dia, and it is why I fear so much for Merry, and why I remember Boromir as my brother—because there are some things that cannot be broken."

"You are a strange thing yourself, Peregrin Took," Diamond remarked. "The North-Tooks would not speak in that manner. They would come straight to the point and not skirt around what they meant. Yours are the words of an innocent child, and yet those of one who has seen the darkness you speak of. Is there no end to your mystery?"

"I hardly think I am mysterious," Pippin laughed. "I don't even know what came over me. Usually I speak in a perfectly ordinary tongue, and I leave the riddles to Strider, or someone else older and wiser. But I somehow felt that it needed to be said, if you understand me."

"I don't believe I'll ever understand you," said Diamond. "I have never met anyone more different from myself, or more baffling. You are not a warrior, yet you wish to fight, and you are young and new to this cruel earth, yet you have seen much that you should not have. You understand the evil of the world, and yet you esteem the good above it all, and believe there is hope even when you say you have none. These are things I cannot understand."

"I suppose that is what you get when you raise a Took in the Shire and then allow him on a quest with men and wizards who talk in riddles!" Pippin laughed, and then he grew serious again. "Why do you not understand hope, Dia? Surely you wish for a better day than this."

"Long have I desired it," Diamond affirmed. "But I cannot look far enough ahead to see the light at the end of this great tunnel of darkness. My people have fought the forces of shadow for months, even years now, and though we have managed to hold them back we cannot drive them away. Evil is a plague upon the lands of Middle-earth, and it has kept its hold on them since Melkor came into being at the beginning of time. It shall never be gone, Shire-child, no matter how much you hope for it. Light is a weak and frail thing, and one that was never meant to prevail."

"It may be so," said Pippin, "but I am a stubborn thing, and one that was never meant to stop fighting. And I want the forces of good to win this war, and they will, Dia, you'll see—Strider will come, and he will save us all from Sauron, or from Melkor, or from whatever foes we must face, and I know it must be so, for what is there left if he fails? What is there left for the people of Middle-earth, and all of Arda, if Sauron wins? This is why we mustn't forfeit, Dia, because if we do we condemn all to shadow, and from that nothing will deliver us."

"So obstinately optimistic," Diamond grumbled, but there was a note of lightness in her tone. "You may as well have put it to music; that is the kind of thing that bards sing over a mournful fiddle, and the kind of thing that I do not like to listen to."

"Would you like me to sing?" Pippin asked, rather shyly. "I can do it if you'd like, though I have no fiddle."

"I don't suppose you have a song for destitute hobbits in prison? Surely they do not have pieces of that nature in the Shire."

"As a matter of fact we do," Pippin said, "though I did not think much of it until now."

"Well, go on then, if you must."

Pippin clasped Merry's hand more tightly in his own—he felt a pang of guilt for thinking so little about him in the last half hour or so—and began to sing, running his fingers through his cousin's hair and wishing Diamond could be in the cell with them so that she might have a greater measure of comfort.

"To you I sing an evening song,

Of those to whom we once belonged.

Though night's refrain is dark and deep,

A shining vigil still they keep."

He remembered hearing the song from his mother; she had sung it to him when he was small and sorrowing over one trivial thing or another. Pippin thought now of Boromir and wondered if he kept his own vigil in the sky.

"Though tears unbound fall from your eyes,

Fear not, behold, the dawn draws nigh.

The silver rain shall guide our way,

And lead us home to greet the day."

Home was far away now, so distant it might as well have been on the waning moon, and Pippin wanted nothing more than to go back to it, to be safe and warm once more—and yet he knew he must see his quest through to the end, for that was what he had chosen back in Rivendell, and now he was a part of the salvation of Middle-earth.

"Speak not of fear, of light I sing,

For hope shall take his place as king.

In realm of night, though darkness reigns,

The starlight gleams on broken chains."

Pippin's small voice fell silent, the final echoes of the song hanging in the still air. Clouds had now covered the stars of which he sang, and rain had begun to fall heavily upon the stones of Orthanc, but a small warm ember of hope pulsed in Pippin's chest, rekindled by the music.

Suddenly, he heard from far away in the prison a soft weeping, and a faint whisper of "Le fael, Ilúvatar." Even Merry, who lay fevered and distant in Pippin's lap, smiled—the faintest Pippin had ever seen from him, to be sure, but it was a smile, and it brought tears back to Pippin's eyes.

"Did you write that yourself?" Diamond asked, and to Pippin's great surprise, her voice trembled slightly. She steeled her tone, however, and continued, "It is perhaps the only good thing that has come to pass in this prison. You have a gift, Shire-child."

"Only the last verse," Pippin admitted. "I thought of it just now; it seemed fitting for our predicament, and for Strider, who will be High King of Gondor. The rest I heard from my mother many years ago. I am glad that it has brought you joy, Dia, and that it has done the same for at least a few souls."

"It has done more than that," said Diamond. "It was as if dawn had come without a night. Your voice is yet another strange and beautiful thing, Peregrin Took, and I pray that it will never be silenced."

"So do I," Pippin said softly, and he and Diamond sat for a long while in the dark, listening to Merry's faint rasping breath, until a great clamor sounded from outside.

Pippin, who had drifted off into a state of lucid dreams, sat upright. Merry was limp and still in his lap and he panicked, but when he listened to his cousin's breath it was still there, if fainter and even more labored. Pippin looked around; nothing seemed disturbed, and he whispered, "Dia? Do you hear the sound on the air? It is that of a great army; perhaps someone has come to free us!"

"The Uruk-hai are leaving," Diamond said, and Pippin heard her move to stand by the window. "I see firelight in the trees, but nothing else; I know not what has drawn them out."

"Pippin," whispered a voice as a dark silhouette knelt down in front of the cell door, gray eyes glinting from under a hood. "Pippin! Are you alright?"

Pippin looked up, and the face of Aragorn seemed as that of Ilúvatar as he gasped, "Strider!"

"Stay quiet," said Aragorn, and he pulled an arrow from his quiver, carefully pushing the head into the lock on the cell door. "The Uruk-hai have gone, but Saruman may be watching. We must be swift."

The lock clicked, and Aragorn took it and placed it on the floor. He pulled the door of the cell open, and Pippin leaping up wrapped his arms around the Ranger, burying his face in Aragorn's cloak as tears pricked at his eyes. Aragorn returned the embrace, holding Pippin gently to his chest.

"You're going to be alright," Aragorn said softly. "I am taking you both to safety, which I hope we shall find in the woods. I promise, Pippin, I will never let you out of my sight again." He set Pippin down and cupped the hobbit's face in his hands, tracing his thumb over the bruise on Pippin's cheek. "Are you much hurt?"

"I am not," said Pippin, "save for quite a lot of bruising and a pained heart, but Merry is badly hurt, Strider, and will die if we do not get him some sort of medicine. I think his wound has gone bad; it is oozing something rank and his fever is higher than I have ever seen one."

Aragorn went to Merry and laid a hand on his brow, and the shadow that crossed the man's face confirmed the severity of Merry's condition. As Pippin watched, his heart speeding like the hooves of a galloping horse, Aragorn took Merry gently into his arms and lifted him up onto his shoulders.

"You are right," said Aragorn. "He is far away from us. But do not despair, Pippin, for I am sure I can heal him. We will free the other captives and escape through the back entrance; from there we will flee into the woods and meet Legolas and Gimli. Come, Pippin, if you are able I would like you to help me open the locks. It will make the job twice as fast."

He showed Pippin how to place the arrow into the lock and twist the catch, and Pippin moved to Diamond's door, fiddling with the arrow until the lock opened. Pippin eased it off its perch and set it down, and when he opened the door Diamond stood before him.

He was enraptured.

She was tall for a maiden hobbit, only an inch or so shorter than Pippin, and her lithe figure was beautifully curved and muscled. The fetlocks on her feet were the same shade as her wild, half-curled hair, a dark, earthy brown, and her skin, while grimy and streaked with dust, glowed a tawny cream. A silver circlet sat upon her brow, glimmering even in the darkness. Most striking, though, were Diamond's eyes—a dark shining green that seemed to gleam with all the fierce light of a forest on fire.

"Dia," said Pippin, his voice little more than a breath. "I told you Strider would come."

"And I believed you," she said, and she drew herself up so that she stood, strong and bold, in the midst of the dimly lit stone. "Stop staring, Shire-child, we haven't got all day. We must free the prisoners."

She took the arrow from Pippin's grasp and moved down the line of cells, opening the locks much faster than Pippin could. With Aragorn working on the left side of the corridor, the doors were all swiftly opened, and the captives of Orthanc began to emerge. Pippin watched them in awe—he, Merry, and Diamond seemed to be the only hobbits, but he saw many men, several dwarves, and even a few elves. Aragorn helped one of the latter out of her cell, murmuring something in Elvish.

"We must go down the staircase at the end of this hall," said Aragorn once all the prisoners stood in the corridor. "At the bottom is a door; there should be little to no orcs outside. I will lead, and hew down any of the Uruk-hai who attempt to stop us; we will then flee into the woods. From there I shall point you down the road to the Gap of Rohan; once you pass through it you must follow the road to the city of Asgolen. You will find help and shelter there, and when the War of the Ring is over, I shall grant you all citizenship in Gondor if you wish it. Come, my friends, let us flee this place."

Aragorn descended the staircase swiftly and burst out into the night, and Pippin followed him, pulling his hood up against the driving rain. He squinted through the downpour, making out a blurred, towering white shape in front of them, and his heart clenched as Aragorn drew his sword, directing its point at the white-robed man.

Saruman.

Chapter Text

ARAGORN

     It had begun to rain when they reached Orthanc, tiny silver lights visible between the torn clouds for a short while until the sky became a low-hanging gray canopy. The rain was heavy and dark, but the elvin-cloaks kept the worst of it out.

     The three hunters crouched in the forest that ringed the tower, hidden behind the tremendous trunk of a fallen tree. Aragorn lifted his gaze above the wet bark and watched the Uruk-hai guards outside the entrance to Orthanc. There were only ten or so of them, standing stoic and unflinching beneath the dark tower. But Aragorn was not deceived by their small numbers; many more than this had attacked the Fellowship on Amon Hen, and those that had not been slain were surely nearby.

     He sat against the tree and dragged his fingers across the muddy ground, then brought his hand to his face and smudged the earth over his cheeks, though Aragorn was careful to avoid the gash upon his face. Legolas and Gimli watched him with bewilderment, and it was the dwarf who broke the silence: “Have you gone mad?”

     “Many have thought that of me of late,” said Aragorn. “But I have not gone mad, friend Gimli; it is all part of the siege of Orthanc. I need you to gather as much wood as you can and bring it here. Driest is best, and if one of you will cover the wood with your cloak, it would be most helpful. I would use mine, but the less that Saruman sees of me, the better.”

     “I am not very fond of this plan,” said Legolas doubtfully. “Do you intend to show yourself to Saruman? I would deem it unwise.”

     “Sauron knows only of our kind,” Aragorn reassured him. “Not our faces or what we are called. And even if the Dark Lord has told Saruman what he knows, it is not enough for him to know me, particularly if I am hooded, filthy, and in the dark. I will play a weary traveler seeking shelter; there is no reason for Saruman to turn me away, and even if he sees one I shall overpower whoever he sends to the door, for a wizard would see that duty as beneath him.”

     “And what shall we do while you are inside?” Gimli asked. “Will there be a need for my axe?”

     “There will indeed, my friend,” said Aragorn. “Tell me, how loud can you shout, and are you willing to bludgeon a tree as well as the orcs?”

     “I can shout as loud as any dwarf,” Gimli replied. “Which is quite loud, I assure you; my voice shall be heard upon the summits of the great peaks. I myself have no qualms about bludgeoning trees, but the elf seems to disagree.”

     Seeing the angered face of Legolas Aragorn said hastily, “I thought we might find a dead tree, Legolas, and hew it down to make a greater noise. If we time its fall with one of these claps of thunder my plan may very well succeed. I can think of no other way to do it, save for clanging my cooking pans together.”

     “Still we do not know your plan,” said Legolas, but a faint smile was upon his face. “Cease your dawdling and tell me what I am to do.”

     “We will need fire,” Aragorn began. “Fire and many torches; these we will place in the trees and ensure that they are shielded from the rain. We have only two soldiers, but you must appear as if you lead a great army toward Orthanc. The torches will make it seem as though many men come to fight, and the tree will be needed to provide the sound of a battalion. Legolas—after the torches are lit and the tree is fallen, you shall fire many arrows, flaming ones if you can, out of the forest; this will confuse the orcs and force them into the woods to confront you. Gimli—” here he nodded to the dwarf— “you will shout that you are here to destroy Isengard. You are free to add any threats you like, but kindly refrain from calling out our numbers; it will be too clear that we have less men than we say we do.”

     “I will stand for it!” said Gimli, raising his axe. “I shall lash the Uruk-hai with my tongue and then my blade; this will be a night that they will not soon forget!”

     “How shall we know when to light the torches, and fell the tree?” asked Legolas. “For you cannot shout a signal to us; nor can you raise a standard for us to see.”

     Aragorn thought for a moment, and then he picked up a stone from the ground and held it up for the elf to see. “I will throw this from whatever window I can; when it lands in the trees you will know to light the torches. Once the orcs have come into the woods to fight, you must get to the doors and guard them, for we cannot have the orcs going into the prison. I will go down from the room Saruman gives me and free the prisoners, then lead them out the back way to safety. We must then flee into the woods and continue to Minas Tirith, for I swore to Boromir that I would not let it fall.”

     He put the stone in his pocket and placed a hand on each of the shoulders of Legolas and Gimli. “I thank you for your courage, my friends. I wish I could help in your endeavor, but someone must free the hobbits; all I can do is work swiftly and give you time enough to prepare. I have faith in you, and I pray that we shall meet once more after the siege is through.”

     Aragorn stood and walked out of the trees, lending a slight limp to his gait; he hunched his shoulders and pulled his hood low over his face. The Uruk-hai growled and lifted their spears, and Aragorn bowed before them, saying, “I am Strider, a humble traveler, and I seek refuge from this storm. Who is the master of this tower, and might I speak with him? I ask only for a place to sleep tonight; I shall leave by morning.”

     The largest of the Uruk-hai regarded Aragorn with distaste and replied, “Saruman the White can be hospitable, if you are not a threat. Come, I will alert him to your presence.”

     He took Aragorn by the shoulder and half-led, half-dragged him to the great black door. Aragorn let himself stumble, and though the gash in his side stung he pushed aside the pain, wishing to seem as weak and pitiable as he could; it might make Saruman more likely to grant him hospitality.

     The orc pounded upon the dark wood with his great fist, and when it opened a man in dark robes stood on the threshold. He looked over Aragorn and said, a note of irritation in his voice, “This is not a Halfling, Ugluk.”

     “I know that, you foul worm. He seeks shelter from the storm, as do my soldiers; you would do well to speak to Saruman about that. Get this man a room and tell Saruman that he is here; I see no reason to trouble your master further.”

     The man sighed and stepped aside, and Ugluk thrust Aragorn forward. He nearly tripped on the hem of his cloak but righted himself, bowing his head to the servant of Saruman and murmuring, “I thank you for your kindness, good sir.”

     “It is but pity,” the man said, and turned toward a staircase in the corner of the entrance chamber. “Follow me; I will show you to a room. You are to be gone by sunrise.”

     “Of course. Thank you.”

     As they ascended the stairs, Aragorn clasped tightly the stone in his pocket, and behind him the black door of Orthanc swung shut.

     Aragorn waited in his room for as long as he dared; it occurred to him that while he could throw his stone at any point, Legolas and Gimli had no way to tell him when they were ready. That had been something of an oversight.

     He rather wished he was truly staying the night in the room; it was nice enough, and Aragorn felt certain that the last time he had slept in a bed was in Rivendell. He had grown accustomed to having a cloak for a pillow and the forest floor for a mattress, but a bed was a true luxury that he would have enjoyed experiencing again.

     The fact that it was his birthday made it even more disappointing. Aragorn had not remembered until sunset that it was the first of March—today he had lived for eighty-eight years, and yet he was sure he looked in his early thirties at most. Being a Dúnedain had its advantages.

     He gazed out the window at the dark trees, where Legolas and Gimli surely worked. How long had it been now? An hour? Half that? Time seemed to stretch and shrink oddly in this tower; perhaps it was the overwhelming presence of evil. But a strange feeling tugged at something in Aragorn’s chest; he must throw the stone now. The hobbits could be in grave danger.

     Aragorn took the stone from his pocket, and with his other hand he grasped the Evenstar that hung about his neck. Raising his gaze to the clouds he murmured a swift prayer—if his throw was not long enough, it could be traced back to him and he would lose his chance to slip out of the room and find Merry and Pippin. It must be a perfect throw, one that would arc over the trees and crash down into them without being seen.

     He pulled back his arm and felt the tension in his muscles as that of a bowstring. Whipping his hand forward Aragorn released the stone; it flew perfectly, high above the heads of the Uruk-hai, and landed in the trees with the snapping of branches and a dull thunk.

     Almost immediately many torches flared to life in the woods;  Aragorn could only assume that Legolas had fired flaming arrows at them. The Uruk-hai commander gave a shout of alarm, and at the next clap of thunder a great thud shook the forest and a volley of arrows were fired at the black tower. Many of them hit the orcs, who fell and further shook the earth as a roar came from the forest.

     “Saruman!”

     Gimli was impressively loud; his challenge did not disappoint. Aragorn watched as the remaining guards hoisted their spears and started toward the trees. Though they shouted in anger none could be heard over Gimli, who bellowed, “I am Gimli son of Glóin, and I come to claim Isengard! Let Saruman’s forces challenge me, if they can! All shall fall before their spears do! Come at me, you filthy brutes!”

     The sound of many running feet echoed through the tower, and Aragorn watched through the driving rain as many orcs charged into the woods. Out of them, running swiftly as he could, his hair flowing behind him as white silk, came Legolas, bow in hand as he stopped beside the door.

     “Estel!” he cried, and Aragorn knew that Legolas had done what he had forgotten and thought of a way to signal when all was ready. Quietly he opened the door and scanned the corridor for orcs; none were in sight. Aragorn stepped outside and shut the door behind him, then walked to the end of the corridor and down the staircase; he felt certain that he had seen a row of barred doors on the way up.

     He found the floor that contained the cells and moved swiftly down the corridor, peering into the small dark rooms. What Aragorn saw broke his heart—the prisoners were huddled in shivering heaps on the floor, gazes hollow and blank, and all of them were emaciated, so gaunt that they might have been skeletons.

     Near the midpoint of the hall, Aragorn stopped, looking into the cell before him. Pippin, his sea-colored eyes wide and anxious, sat against the wall. Merry was unconscious in his lap, a dirty scrap of cloth bound across his brow. Sorrow pierced Aragorn’s heart again, followed by anger; whoever had done this to the hobbits deserved a taste of his sword.

     “Pippin,” Aragorn whispered, and he knelt beside the door of the cell. “Pippin! Are you alright?”

     Pippin looked up, and hope rushed into his gaze like a dam breaking as he gasped, “Strider!”

     “Stay quiet,” said Aragorn, and he pulled an arrow from his quiver, carefully pushing the head into the lock on the cell door. “The Uruk-hai have gone, but Saruman may be watching. We must be swift.”

     He felt for the catch in the lock and found it, wedging the tip of the arrow underneath it. The lock clicked open, and no sooner had the door done the same then Pippin gently slid Merry to the floor and rushed to Aragorn, embracing him tightly.

     “You’re going to be alright,” Aragorn whispered, hoping it was true. “I am taking you both to safety, which I hope we shall find in the woods. I promise, Pippin, I will never let you out of my sight again.”

     He set Pippin down and cupped the hobbit’s face in his hands, studying it. A bruise darkened Pippin’s cheek, and his skin was smudged with dust, but he looked much better than Merry and the fire had not left his gaze. Upon learning that Pippin was not badly hurt Aragorn went to Merry and laid a hand on his brow, and the heat radiating from the hobbit’s skin shocked him. Merry was not so far gone that Aragorn would give up on him, but it would be a difficult healing process and greatly deplete Aragorn’s store of athelas. Nonetheless, he knew he must try, so he reassured Pippin and lifted Merry up onto his shoulders.

     Aragorn showed Pippin how to use the arrowhead to open the locks, and he went swiftly down the row of cells, opening the doors to release the prisoners. Most of them could walk, and came forth draped in their blankets, looking at Aragorn with empty yet grateful eyes. But one would not come, and remained a sorrowful heap under the blankets. Aragorn stepped cautiously into the cell and placed a hand on the prisoner’s shoulder, saying softly, “Come, I am here to free you. You need not be afraid.”

     The blanket slipped down, revealing pale moon-colored eyes and limp white hair. The prisoner was an elf, her face drawn and yet lovely as the morning, and tears glistened in her eyes. Aragorn changed tongues and said in Sindarin, “Gorga il, lle ier varna yassen amin,” which is rendered in the Common Speech “Fear not, you are safe with me.”

     “Le fael,” she whispered. Thank you.

     “Mani essa?” he asked. Your name?

     “Ithiriel,” said the elf, and Aragorn took her hand, pulling her to her feet as she said, “Amin aaye tuulo’ Taur-nu-Fuin.” I hail from Mirkwood.

     The elf stumbled as she stood, and Aragorn looked down to see that her ankles were gashed and bleeding, sure to scar. He had no need to ask Ithiriel where the wounds had come from; no blade that he knew could make such thin cuts, but he had seen the same wounds on Gandalf’s brow after his imprisonment here. They were the work of Saruman, his method of torture when the usual ones failed.

     Aragorn, careful not to shift Merry’s weight too much, wrapped his arm around Ithiriel’s shoulders, supporting her weight as they left the cell, and murmured, “Sii' lle ier leitha. Tul a’ Gondor ale’ i' ohta.” Now you are free. Come to Gondor after the war.

     “Le fael,” she said again, and she stepped carefully away from him, testing her weight. Ithiriel did not fall, and she stood on her own, bestowing upon Aragorn a radiant smile. She reminded him of Arwen, his beloved, and Aragorn’s heart ached for the simpler days of his childhood in the house of Elrond, the time when nothing could come between himself and Arwen, not even the One Ring.

     He tried to push aside the sorrow. That was the object of his quest—to bring about the salvation of Middle-earth so that he and all the people of its great lands could know a better day than this. That was what he fought for.

     Aragorn told the assembled prisoners of his plan, and he feared for them, for what if they could not run swiftly enough to escape the Uruk-hai, or Saruman himself? All would be for naught—but Aragorn vowed to himself that if any being, orc or wizard, attempted to attack the prisoners, they would have to kill him first. Those under his protection would have it until the bitter end.

     They descended the staircase, and Aragorn hoped it would not jostle Merry too much. The hobbit was still unconscious, but he would be in great pain if he woke, and Aragorn hoped that Merry would remain asleep until after the athelas had been administered. Outside the rain fell in dark sheets, and Pippin pulled his hood up to guard against it. He looked very small and fragile under his elvin-cloak, and a protective fire seared in Aragorn’s chest. Saruman had hurt the hobbits enough; no one would ever do it again if Aragorn could stop them.

     Suddenly Aragorn became aware of a pale figure standing before him, hooded and almost luminous in the rain. Saruman held his great white staff, and his eyes glinted with malice as Aragorn drew his sword and aimed its point at the wizard.

     “You have failed, Strider,” said Saruman, and his staff glowed at the tip with a pale fire. “You do not have the authority to release my prisoners; they are mine to do with as I wish. Now begone from Isengard, and perhaps I shall spare your life. I do not make a habit of killing weary travelers; you may leave in peace if you return the captives to me.”

     Aragorn slid Merry gently from his shoulders, and Pippin reached up with fear and understanding in his eyes. The hobbit laid his cousin over his own shoulders, and though Pippin was small he was also strong, steadfastly bearing Merry’s weight.

     “Run, Pippin,” Aragorn whispered, his lips barely moving. “Keep the prisoners together. Find athelas for Merry; you know what it looks like. Whether I follow you or not, you must not lose hope. Remember that, my friend.”

     He bent and kissed Pippin on the forehead; the hobbit looked up at him with eyes full of tears as Aragorn turned back to face Saruman, his sword at the ready. “Your forces are depleted, Saruman. You shall not destroy any more lives with the Uruk-hai, and you shall not take anyone captive again, for they are free to do as they will. And if you wish to do harm to any of the people of Middle-earth, you will have to go through me, for I am their king, and they are my people.”

     Aragorn raised his sword, cried, “Boromir!”, and charged.

PEREGRIN

     Pippin stumbled into the woods, the rain blurring his eyes and soaking his fetlocks. Merry’s weight was heavy upon his shoulders, and so his steps faltered as he crashed through brittle underbrush. Torches burned in the trees, the last of their dying embers flickering out into ashes, and Pippin wondered who had lit them and why.

     The shouts of Aragorn and Saruman, coupled with two other voices that Pippin knew as Legolas and Gimli, faded as the prisoners limped as swiftly as they could into the trees. Pippin heard no orcs pursuing them; he could only assume that they had all been slain or otherwise incapacitated.

     Would Aragorn and the others be alright? They were brave warriors, to be sure, and there were three of them to only one of Saruman, but the wizard was powerful and could launch multiple attacks with his staff. He may very well best them, in which case Pippin supposed the best course of action would be to run.

     They reached a clearing in the woods, and Diamond called, “Stop!”

     Pippin slowed to a halt, confused but relieved to rest for a moment. He did not dare put Merry down; if they had to run from orcs he feared he would not be able to hoist his cousin back up in time. Instead he simply stood still, the wet earth squishing between his toes as he looked on Diamond questioningly.

     “We must wait for Strider,” she announced. “He alone knows the road to the Gap of Rohan, unless any of you can get all the others there? I would offer you shelter in Long Cleeve, but I do not think my mother will take kindly to so many men entering the borders of her kingdom, so it will be better for you to go to Asgolen. We cannot get there without Strider; we can only wait and hope that he prevails against Saruman. Otherwise all of you will be finding your own way to Asgolen.”

     Diamond turned to Pippin and said, more softly now, “You are coming with me to Long Cleeve. Merry needs shelter and treatment, as do you to a lesser extent. Besides, the queen will wish to know of those who saved me. Perhaps she will reward you.”

     “I did hardly anything to aid in your escape,” said Pippin, bowing his head, “and I desire no reward but your company, Dia. I think if I were parted from you now I should feel as if a fire in a cold night had gone suddenly out.”

     Diamond narrowed her eyes. “Do not attempt to flatter me, Shire-child. You stand on the edge of my fierce anger more often than not.”

     Pippin managed a smile despite the rain coursing down his face. “And yet you seem to enjoy my company more often than you would like to admit. I’m beginning to believe that you actually enjoy having me around, Dia.”

     “I am quickly regretting my decision,” Diamond sighed. “Pray I don’t change my mind.”

     “Dear Ilúvatar,” Pippin said dramatically. “Please do not let Dia change her mind.”

     “You are insufferable.”

     “I make a habit of it, as most of the Shire will tell you,” Pippin laughed. “Though I try not to antagonize warrior princesses or anyone else likely to kill me.”

     Diamond looked as if she were going to reply, but a high-pitched yell cut through the trees, and Pippin recognized the voice as Aragorn’s. Another cry followed, one of “Estel!”, as a great roar of thunder rolled over the forest. Pippin glanced wildly back through the trees, but they had traveled such a distance from Orthanc that he could not see the combatants.

     “Gimli!” cried the voice of Legolas, and there followed a shriek of pain. Pippin had had enough; he took Merry from his shoulders as carefully as he knew how and began to shoulder his way back through the brush. The three hunters were in need of help; that much was clear.

     A hand landed upon Pippin’s shoulder, and he turned, meeting Diamond’s flaming green gaze as she hissed, “Where are you going? Strider told you to run!”

     “Strider needs my help,” Pippin insisted. “He and Legolas and Gimli; Saruman is hurting them as he did Merry and I. They cannot stand against him; I must go!” He looked at Diamond with a pleading gaze. “Please keep watch over Merry. I will return soon.”

     “The others will do it,” she said. “I am coming with you. Come, Shire-child, we must make haste!”

     And she sprinted away, Pippin following swiftly. The hobbits crashed through the underbrush, twigs whipping at their faces, until Diamond thrust out her arm, stopping Pippin in his tracks.

     “Saruman will take us,” she said. “For once I believe that we cannot simply run in; this enemy is too great for us. We must think of what to do. I will grab the elf’s dagger, you will—Peregrin Took!”

     For Pippin had leaped out of the bushes and ran toward the skirmish. He had caught sight of Wormtongue leaning out of the topmost window of Orthanc, holding what looked to be a ball of glass wrapped partially in a dark cloth. Pippin was certain that it was the object that had been on the pedestal during the questioning—and Wormtongue was heaving it out the window, prepared to shatter it and the skull of its victim.

     Aragorn lay upon the earth, shaking off a daze as he groped for his fallen sword, and Gimli was slumped near the wall of the tower, unmoving. Legolas stood a little ways off. The elf was firing arrow after arrow at Saruman, but the wizard sent them spinning away with his staff. The hunters were nearly defeated, and as Wormtongue let fall the glass with a shout Pippin knew it would hit Aragorn.

     “Strider!” he cried, and sprang from the ground in a leap that was immense for a hobbit. He sailed over the grass and struck the falling glass with his shoulder, and to Pippin’s surprise he felt a strong heat through the fabric of his shirt. He and the sphere of glass crashed to the ground, the impact driving the air from Pippin’s lungs.

     “Pippin, stay down!” Aragorn commanded, and climbing to his feet with a grimace he raised his sword. But Pippin’s attention was not focused on Aragorn—his gaze was fixated on the unbroken glass, which glistened with rain and sparkled as the moon, though no light came through the darkening clouds. A strange whisper came from it, a quiet dark murmur that Pippin did not hear so much as feel.

     Peregrin.

     He regained his breath and raised himself up onto hands and knees, crawling toward the glass; he was vaguely aware of Saruman’s scream of “No!” and swift pattering footfalls.

     “Elf!” Diamond’s voice shouted faintly. “Give me the dagger!” A flash of silver spun through the air, shrieking through Pippin’s peripheral vision.

     I have searched your soul, and I have seen darkness.

     Pippin stretched out his hand and felt the searing heat from the sphere. It did not deter him; rather, he felt as if it had beckoned to him, drawing him in. Saruman’s anguished scream pierced the air as Pippin reached out, and then his hand rested on the surface of the stone. He stood, cradling the glass in his arms. The dark silken cloth it had been wrapped in fell to the earth, and the world became for a moment vague and blurred.

     Embrace the shadow, Peregrin, for it is a part of your destiny, much more so than the light.

     Then the veil fell from his vision, and Pippin stood again outside of Orthanc, a very strange scene meeting his eyes.

     Aragorn eyed him with a wide, fearful gaze, his sword still in one hand even as the other clutched his side, blood trickling from a wound just above his eye. Legolas stood still with his bow held limply in his grasp, his sky-colored gaze vacant. Gimli still lay motionless beside the wall of Orthanc, and Diamond—

     Diamond stood, panting and flushed, beside a broken, pale figure upon the ground. Saruman’s throat trickled dark blood onto the wet earth, and his face was twisted into a ferocious expression of fury and terror. His staff lay beside him, cleaved in two as if Gimli had taken his axe to it.

     Saruman the White was dead.

     And Diamond clasped a silver-white dagger tightly in her hand, its blade stained with the wizard’s blood. Her gaze burned with a raging flame, and Pippin looked on her in shock and disbelief. Diamond had slain Saruman, when none of the three hunters had been able to. She had simply slit his throat, and the wizard had fallen.

     Aragorn broke the silence. “Pippin. What…what is the thing in your hands?”

     Pippin looked down on the glass, entranced by the way it glimmered, even with no moonlight. It no longer felt searing; rather, it was pleasantly warm in his hands, and he felt a surge of protectiveness toward it.

     “I know not what it is,” he said. “But it is a beautiful thing, is it not?”

     Aragorn must have seen something in Pippin’s gaze, for his own eyes widened, and he said firmly, “Pippin, drop the stone.”

     “I do not wish to.”

     “Pippin.”

     Why should he put it down? It was lovely and shining, and felt so warm against the chilly night; why would Aragorn want him to put it down? Pippin did not have to. He could hold onto this stone, keep it close to him where no one could hurt it. Suddenly he felt that it must be protected.

     “Please, Pippin.” Aragorn’s hands were on Pippin’s shoulders now, firm and pleading and having sheathed his sword. “I need you to drop the stone. It is for your own good. We nearly lost Boromir this way, I will not have you taken as well.”

     Panic began to spiral in Pippin’s chest. “I—I cannot—”

     “Give it to me, then.”

     “Take it,” Pippin whispered, fear tightening its grip upon his mind. What was this strange dark power that now flowed from the glass, when it had been so bright and wonderful only a moment ago? “Take it, Strider, please!”

     Aragorn took it, and Pippin drew in a gasp of wet cold air, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. But Aragorn too let out a gasp, one of pain, and the glass sphere crashed to the ground, though it did not shatter. Aragorn drew back, cradling his hands, and from what Pippin could see of them in the dark they looked red and raw.

     “It burns as if fire were contained within it,” said Aragorn. “I know not why, for when you touched it, Pippin, it did you no harm—not to your body, at least. It is clearly a powerful object, and one that we should not use lightly. When we meet Gandalf again I shall ask him what it is, and perhaps he can advise us.”

     “Why did it not harm him?” Diamond asked, edging forward. “Is it, perhaps, partial to hobbits? Or against men?”

     She brought a finger to her lips, moistening it, and touched the glass lightly. With a sharp hiss she too drew back, the dagger held in front of her as if the sphere might try to attack her. “Nor can I touch it. Elf? Will you not try?”

     Legolas, his gaze sharp and wary, placed a hand upon the sphere, and his body jerked and he cringed away with a gasp. “It is as the light of the Silmarils! None may lay their hands upon the glass, or it shall brand them as a flame of fire!”

     “None may touch it,” Aragorn agreed, “save Pippin. Why, I do not know, but Gandalf is learned in these matters. We will take it to him. At any rate I do not think we should leave this for anyone to find—but neither can we let Pippin carry it.”

     He bent and wrapped the glass in its cloth, handling it carefully, and slid it into his pack. Looking kindly at Pippin he asked, “Are you alright, my friend?”

     Pippin nodded; his hands were shaking and every ache in his body seemed to have been amplified, but he was free of the dark power. Suddenly he remembered Merry, lying on the forest floor with the other prisoners, and he shook the last of the daze from his mind. “We must get back to Merry, Strider. I fear we have left him for too long”

     “Of course. Legolas, will you bear Gimli and his axe? I do not think he is much hurt, but be careful with him all the same.”

     Legolas took Gimli’s axe from his limp hand and tucked it into his own belt, then hoisted the dwarf onto his back. Pippin thought he saw a faint tinge of red upon Legolas’s face, but he could not be sure in the dark.

     “What shall I do with this?” Diamond asked, and she kicked Saruman’s body more viciously than Pippin thought was required. Aragorn regarded her for several moments, deep in thought.

     “We shall leave him,” he said finally. “His servant will come for his body. Come, let us depart.”

     As they walked into the woods, Pippin looked back at the rain-soaked clearing, at Saruman’s body upon the ground, and wondered if the glass had ensnared the wizard too. If he took it again, would it drag him down and turn him to Sauron? Would he become a servant of evil?

     How much darkness had the glass seen within his soul?

ARAGORN

     The world was quiet, which Aragorn rejoiced in. The patter of the rain and their swift footsteps were the only sound, and he breathed in the misty air as deeply as he could before they emerged into a clearing, where the prisoners were huddled. Merry lay at the edge of this, shaking so violently he was on the verge of convulsions. Fear struck Aragorn in the heart as he dropped to his knees beside the injured hobbit, wincing at the many pains in his body but trying to ignore them. He wrenched the pouch from his side and took out several leaves of athelas, putting them into his mouth and chewing.

     “Pippin,” Aragorn instructed, speaking around the leaves. “I need you to find more of this. It is found all year round and grows in forests such as this one. Be as quick as you can; I will use all I have here for Merry, but there will not be enough for everyone here. You may take someone with you if you wish.”

     “I will go with Diamond,” said Pippin, and he turned to the maiden hobbit who stood beside him. “That is, if she will let me. Will you come with me to fetch athelas, Dia?”

     “I will,” she said, and the hobbits darted away into the forest. Legolas, who leaned against a tree with Gimli sprawled on the ground beside him, said, “Pippin seems quite fond of her. I wonder how they know each other. She is quite skilled with a dagger, so I doubt she comes from the Shire. I have heard they are too peaceful for such matters.”

     “We owe her our lives,” Aragorn said, taking the athelas from his mouth. He tore the bandage gently from Merry’s brow, and his stomach lurched at the sight of the infected wound. With his teeth he tore the cleanest strip he could from his tunic and dabbed at the gash, washing the excess fluid from it. When it was done he took the athelas and rubbed it deep into the wound, then bound the strip of cloth over it. Aragorn then treated the gash on Merry’s cheek, and seeing tears in the back of the hobbit’s waistcoat he pulled it down to find two lashes across Merry’s back. These he treated also, and when all was done Aragorn wrapped Merry tightly in his elvin-cloak and stood, looking over the prisoners.

      There was Ithiriel, with the gashes upon her legs, and another elf with two missing fingers, the stumps of which were still bleeding. A woman cradled one arm in the other, and a dwarf stood with much of his weight on one leg. Gimli was stirring, Legolas kneeling beside him. Aragorn reached into his pouch; it was empty, and he began to search the underbrush for more athelas. After some moments he found a single plant growing underneath a larger bush, and he took it by the stem and pulled it up, stowing the roots in his pack for food later.

     He went first to the three-fingered elf; thankfully the wounds did not look infected, and they were clean cuts. Aragorn spoke to the elf in his own tongue as he treated him, and he was pleased and grateful. He was the brother of Ithiriel, and his name was Cerindur; he and his sister were of noble standing in Mirkwood. Moreover, they were cousins of Legolas, who greeted them with cheer and sorrow at their capture.

     Ithiriel’s cuts would scar, but they were not fatal, and infection seemed unlikely. Aragorn wished he had thought to bring more bandages on the journey; he had run out some time ago and they were proving hard to come by. When he finished Ithiriel fisted her hand and placed it over her heart, and Aragorn returned the gesture, bowing his head.

     Pippin and Diamond returned, their arms full of athelas, and Aragorn went about treating the prisoners. When all were finished he went back to Pippin, who sat at the edge of the clearing with Diamond and Merry. Legolas and Gimli were a few yards away, conversing softly.

     “Come, Pippin,” said Aragorn, kneeling upon the earth. “Where are you hurt? Athelas will help, whatever it is.”

     “The worst of it is my ribs, I think,” Pippin said. “I don’t believe they are broken, but they pain me if I move too quickly. And there is a lash on my shoulders from an orc-whip, but it has not hurt for three days at least.”

     “Let me look at your side,” Aragorn requested. “We can go somewhere more private, if you wish.”

     “It is alright with me,” Pippin laughed, and he pulled off his shirt, laying his bloodstained scarf beside it. Aragorn looked over the hobbit’s chest and back; there were many bruises upon his skin, though they did not seem to pain Pippin. His side was mottled lavender and red, and Aragorn knew that the ribs underneath had been bruised. The salve would do nothing for that, but Aragorn gave Pippin a leaf to chew, which would dull the pain. He rubbed the salve over the healing cut on Pippin’s shoulders, then took the hobbit’s shirt and pulled it over Pippin’s torso. He caught a glimpse of Diamond looking swiftly away from Pippin, and Aragorn smiled as Pippin flushed.

     “Estel,” said Legolas. “Would you look at Gimli? He has a rather unsightly lump on his brow, and he is dazed from the blow Saruman dealt him.”

     “Of course, Legolas.” Aragorn stood and moved to kneel beside the dwarf, inspecting the swelling upon Gimli’s forehead. It was hard to the touch and hot, and when Aragorn touched it the dwarf hissed in pain and anger. Again Aragorn gave only a leaf to chew; he could think of plants that would have reduced the swelling, but none grew at this time of year.

     “Will he be alright?” Legolas asked, his eyes wide and shining with anxiety.

     “He will,” Aragorn reassured him, standing and placing a hand on the elf’s shoulder. “I shall watch him, and if he worsens I will give him more athelas. Are you injured, Legolas?”

     The elf shook his head. “Save for the burn on my hand, I am unhurt. It is hard to do an elf harm. But you are hurt, Estel; you must treat your wounds.”

     “I shall treat yours first.”

     Aragorn spread salve over Legolas’s palm, then over both of his own, as well as on the fingertips that had touched the glass. He tended to the cut upon his forehead, then looked once more on the one on his side; it was still clean, and the bandage he had bound over it was securely in place. Aragorn applied another coat of salve, then tucked the remaining plants into his pack.

     He sat down and pressed his back against a tree, grounding himself, and looked upon the people in the clearing. They looked happier, talking amongst themselves, and a few even laughed. Pippin and Diamond still sat beside Merry’s supine figure, and both looked up at Aragorn as his gaze fell on them.

     “I never thanked you, Diamond,” said Aragorn, “for felling Saruman. He would have slain us, and Pippin, were it not for you. Where did you learn to fight? I believed all hobbits were peaceful beings; evidently I was wrong.”

     “I come from Long Cleeve,” she said. Her accent was something like Pippin’s, but with softer consonants and brighter vowels. “My mother is the queen and commander there, and she has taught me to fight since I was but a child. As for the slaying of Saruman, it was something that must have been done, whether by my hand or by yours, for he imprisoned and tortured many innocent souls. Some were lost in the black tower, some that should have lived and that I knew. Middle-earth is made the better for my deed.”

     “She wants us to come to Long Cleeve,” Pippin burst out, as if he had been holding the exclamation back. “Merry needs someplace to recover, Strider, and so do you by the looks of it. Think of it—beds to sleep in, and perhaps even a full meal! I hate to say it, but that soup you make has long since lost its appeal.”

     Aragorn laughed, clapping Pippin on the shoulder. “You do not understand the greatness of athelas, my friend! I would think that a plant that can cure nearly any ailment, including hunger, should be prized among hobbits.”

     “We never had it,” Pippin defended, “and at any rate it has hardly any taste; you would do well to at least season it a bit. Perhaps the victuals of Long Cleeve shall change your mind!”

     “That is if my mother will be hospitable,” Diamond said. “She will not take kindly to a man in our lands, but as you are the one who brought me out of Orthanc she may be merciful, even kind. We ought to leave, Strider, don’t you think?”

     “Indeed,” said Aragorn, though his entire being ached and he wished he could simply lie down and sleep. He stood and called to the prisoners, “Come, my friends! We shall get on the road and make for the Gap of Rohan. I am afraid I will have to leave you before long, but my thoughts and my prayers shall go with you to Asgolen.”

     He hoisted Merry back onto his shoulders, and lifting a hand to beckon the prisoners he began the journey through the woods to the road. It would take them a few hours to reach a place where the Gap of Rohan could be seen well enough to serve as a landmark, but it was not far out of the way, all things considered.

     “You seem to have many names,” Diamond remarked, glancing up at Aragorn. “Pippin calls you Strider, but the elf calls you Estel. Why is that?”

     “Strider is what I am called as a Ranger,” Aragorn told her. “A Dúnedain of the North am I, and I have had sufficient time to go by many names. Would you believe that I am eighty-eight years old today?”

     “Are you really?” asked Pippin, grinning broadly. “Happy birthday, Strider! We ought to celebrate once we reach Long Cleeve. Why, if we were in the Shire we’d give you a feast and fireworks and bring presents for you.”

     “I think the company of so many would render me anxious at the least,” said Aragorn. “At worst I would lock myself in one of your hobbit holes and not come out unless Ilúvatar himself commanded it. Diamond, I have been called Strider by all who know me, save a very few, for many years. Before that, when I served in Gondor, I was called Thorongil, and for the first twenty years of my life I was raised in the house of Elrond in Rivendell. There I was called Estel, which signifies hope in the Sindarin tongue. But my name, the one my mother Gilraen gave to me, is Aragorn.”

     “Strider I shall call you,” Diamond decided. “It feels the most natural, since that is what I have known you as since Pippin told me of you.”

     “I did not know you served in Gondor,” said Pippin. “Why were you there?”

     “Elrond knew not what to do with me,” Aragorn told him. “Perhaps it was to train me in diplomacy. I served the Steward of Gondor, Ecthelion, before his son Denethor succeeded him. You know, Pippin, I was there at the birth of Boromir, and remained in Gondor while he was but a small boy. He was two years old when I left.”

     “Were you?” Pippin asked, a look of delight coming over his face. “That brings me much joy, for reasons that I cannot explain. What was he like?”

     “As kind a child as you could ever meet,” said Aragorn, smiling down at Pippin. “His eyes could draw you in and bend you to his will, and yet that will was as pure as the snow upon the towers of Minas Tirith that fell the day he was born. All who knew Boromir loved him dearly, and it saddens me to think of what they suffer now without him. But we were blessed with a few short months of time with him, and we are all the better for it.”

     Pippin smiled, but his eyes shone with tears. “I miss him, Strider, more than I miss even Frodo and Sam. But I suppose that’s because I might still see them again. Boromir I shall not see for a very long while, if ever. I wonder if we might pay him some sort of tribute, Strider?”

     Aragorn put a hand on Pippin’s shoulder, drawing him to his side as they walked. “We certainly will, Pippin. It is only fitting, since he gave his life to protect you. Let us do it in Long Cleeve, if we ever make it there.”

     “We shall,” said Diamond. “Although we are presently heading away from it, so we had better turn back as quickly as we can.”

     “Strider knows where he is going,” Pippin said confidently. “He has never led us wrong, and I don’t believe he’ll ever do it, not if he can help it.”

     “I will certainly try,” Aragorn agreed, and as he walked down the road with the two hobbits, Merry on his back and Legolas and Gimli following, he felt the most at peace that he had been for quite some time.

     He did not usually allow himself to feel safe, to feel as though he and everyone else were exempt from harm, but for now, Aragorn did.

     Just this once.

Chapter Text

PEREGRIN

They parted from the prisoners on a wide, lonely stretch of road, when the Gap of Rohan was visible on the horizon as a pass between two great shadowy cliffs. Aragorn bid them all farewell, urging them to come to Minas Tirith when the war was through. Then the remainder of the Fellowship, led by Diamond, turned west toward the horizon.

"It is a day's journey to Long Cleeve," said Diamond, and Pippin grimaced. He had never been fond of extensive walking, and though he had certainly become better at it in the last few months, another day seemed torturous.

"We shall go as far from Orthanc as we can before we stop," Aragorn decided. "I do not wish for Saruman's servant to come after us, and Gimli and Merry at least need somewhere to rest."

"And he shall not say it," added Legolas, "but Estel too is exhausted and should rest before he collapses."

Aragorn's smile was pained and weary. "I assure you, Legolas, I could travel all night if I wished, but I shall not let the others go without sleep, especially the hobbits. Still, we must get at least a league away from Orthanc before we stop, for anyone left in the tower will be searching for us."

"I will not be surprised if Wormtongue puts a bounty on your head, Strider," said Diamond. "He will not be pleased with our success. I will lead you as far as you can go, for you all look as though your legs will give out before we go much farther. Nevertheless, we must press on."

Pippin did not think he could go much farther; his eyelids were drooping, ready to send him to sleep, and his legs indeed felt like they may give out. But he would not collapse in front of Diamond; that felt something like a blow to his honor, so he struggled on as they traversed the road.

An hour into the journey, Pippin was so exhausted that Legolas took pity on him and hoisted the hobbit onto his back. Pippin did not protest; only rested his head on the elf's shoulder as Diamond taunted, "Delicate, aren't we, Shire-child?"

"I am not particularly fond of discomfort," Pippin mumbled, and then his eyes closed and he was asleep.

When he woke they had stopped in a clearing, and Aragorn was in a deep slumber on the other side of it. Legolas lay near him, Gimli a very short distance away. Pippin realized that his back was pressed against Merry's, whose temperature seemed lower than it had been in Orthanc. A wave of relief swept through Pippin—Aragorn's medicine was working. Perhaps he would not lose his cousin after all.

Peregrin.

The glass was speaking again. Aragorn's bag had opened slightly; Pippin could see the sparkle of the stone through the gap in the fabric. It was almost seductive, the way it called to him, and he wanted to go to it. Why shouldn't he? He had picked it up, it was his, it could not burn him as it did the others.

Look into my eye, Peregrin, you shall see all that you wish and more…

He stood, moving as if in a trance, and walked across the clearing. Aragorn would not notice, surely, and no one had to know, Pippin could simply place the glass back in the bag when he was finished. He only wished to hold it again.

Pippin stooped down and took the stone into his hands, holding it closely against his chest. It shone beautifully in the dim light, and he ran a finger down its smooth surface, wondering why he had ever doubted it. It was such a lovely thing, so full of light…

And then a great eye seemed to burst forth from the stone, an eye of flame and shadow, slit down the middle with a thin black void, and he was drowning in the fiery depths, visions flashing through his mind.

He saw a vast eruption of something like fire and yet like water. A great billow of smoke followed it, and a rumbling shook the earth; the land crumbled beneath his feet and he was falling, plummeting into depths like that of Moria, but his feet landed upon coarse grass.

The Shire was burning, its lush grass blackened and smoldering. Hobbits in chains were marched over the barren land, and to his horror Pippin saw his own face in the multitude. Merry was beside him, and Frodo and Sam trailed behind. Near to them were Pippin's sisters and his mother and father; his heart broke at the sight of them all so weary and clapped in irons. As he watched a whip came down across Frodo's back and Sam began shouting at the whipmaster, who delivered a blow to the hobbit's face that knocked him over. Pippin and Merry bent to help him, but they were whipped also.

Upon a dark, burned hill, silhouetted against a blazing red sun, knelt Aragorn, his hands bound and his face bloody. Legolas and Gimli were prostrate on the ground beside him, and Wormtongue stood over the three hunters with another whip. An old man with limp gray hair stood beside Saruman's servant, a look of utter, sadistic delight on his face. From the bottom of the hill Boromir watched, shouting incoherently and struggling to climb the slope while another, slighter man who looked much like him held him back.

"Father, stop!" Boromir roared, and Pippin's heart clenched at the sight of the tears running down the man's face. "Make him stop, I beg of you! They have done nothing to you!"

Scorching wind tore at Pippin's face; he shielded his eyes against it as the whip came down once more upon Aragorn's back. The king finally fell, pinning his bound hands beneath him, and Boromir howled something at the old man, who laughed, saying, "So much for the return of the king!"

You can stop this, whispered the voice, that black, dark thing that now consumed him. Give yourself over to me, and this future, this frightening end, shall be as naught…You shall be rewarded, Peregrin, rewarded beyond anything you can imagine…

The man beside Boromir pulled him away from the hill; tears were running down both their faces. Pippin now felt that he was watching from his place in the ranks of chained hobbits; there was something heavy and tight about his neck, and he could see that his wrists bore iron cuffs. Still he tried to go to Boromir, or perhaps he wanted Boromir to come to him; all he knew was that he was shouting the man's name.

It will be easy, my young friend…Give in to the shadow, the thing which occupies the souls of all creatures…you will not be alone…

Pippin knew he still stood in the clearing, clutching the stone, and yet he did not know, for all was fading, and now suddenly he stood at the edge of a great gulf, and below him a fire burned, and a voice cried "Cast it in!" But Pippin did not heed it, though he knew he must, and all he could do was open his mouth in a horrible shriek—

"Strider!"

The weight of the glass was wrenched from his hands, and Pippin fell suddenly again into darkness, which he would now have been content to never emerge from, for it seemed as if it were within his very soul, poisoning him from the inside…

Was this how Boromir had been lost? Was this how the Ring felt?

"He is fading—"

"What has happened, Estel?"

Then another voice, piercing the shadow, softer, lighter than the first two.

"Do not be afraid, Pippin, you are safe. Come back to the light."

He was half in and half out of a dream, and so Pippin thought he beheld Boromir's face again for a moment, smiling down at him from a place of radiant sunlight.

Then the shadow with a terrible wail of anguish wrenched itself from his soul, unclasped its shining teeth of corruption, and released him.

And Pippin woke.

Aragorn was leaning over him, gray eyes searching and fearful. He looked pained, as if he himself had drawn the shadow out of Pippin. Diamond was beside Aragorn, and Legolas on Pippin's other side; the elf looked worried, but Diamond seemed more irritated.

"Why did you touch it, Shire-child?" she berated. "Have you no sense?"

"It called to me," Pippin mumbled; it was difficult to get the words out. It felt as if he had plummeted from a great height onto the ground, perhaps striking his head, for it seemed hazy and pulsed with every heartbeat. Though Pippin's head felt like fire burned within it the rest of his body was as cold as if he had bathed in a frigid spring, and he wondered if this was what Merry's fever had been like.

"You returned from the shadow in time, Pippin," said Aragorn. "You are no longer in danger, though it may be an hour yet before you feel well enough to move. I am sorry to press the matter, but what did the shadow do? Did it speak to you, show you visions?"

"It did both," Pippin said faintly. "But I don't feel like talking of it now; I don't believe I can speak much more."

"Very well." Aragorn's voice was kind. "We shall speak of it when you have had a chance to recover. I apologize; it was surely a terrible ordeal for you, and you could not have done anything to stop yourself."

He looked down at his hands, and Pippin realized that they must have been burned—Aragorn had pulled the stone from Pippin's grasp and had seared his already scorched palms. Guilt tugged at Pippin's heart as Aragorn spoke again.

"This was my fault. We should have set a watch, knowing what the glass can do and how near we still are to Orthanc. You may all return to sleep, and I shall stand guard until morning. Forgive me, my friends. I shall be more cautious in the future; this was my oversight and mine alone."

"Neither you nor Pippin could have known," Legolas protested. "This was the fault of Saruman's servant, for throwing that stone at us. I have half a mind to take it back to the tower and let him handle the consequences."

"And leave it in Wormtongue's filthy hands?" Diamond snapped. "I'd sooner run myself through with Strider's sword."

"We cannot relinquish it," Aragorn said firmly. "If Sauron can speak through it, we cannot let it fall back into the hands of his servants. I will keep it in my pack and stand watch tonight. No one is to touch the stone, and if you feel that you must I shall talk you out of it. Now, my friends, you must depart to bed."

He slid one hand under Pippin's legs and the other under the hobbit's shoulders, probably intending to lift him, but Pippin saw Aragorn wince, and so did Legolas, who said, "You are injured, Estel. Let me take him; you must rest."

Aragorn reluctantly withdrew, and the elf took Pippin into his arms, bearing him back across the clearing and setting him next to Merry. "Sleep well, Pippin. If you think too long on the stone, tell Strider or I, and we will help you."

"Thank you," Pippin whispered, and he drew his elvin-cloak tightly about his shoulders, feeling colder than he ever had in his life, and slept once more.

He had hoped that once he no longer held the stone, the visions would cease, but it was a foolish hope.

This time he stood upon slick, soaked grass, and Pippin wondered if he saw the battle through his own eyes or those of another. He saw a great black gate ahead, and beyond the dark land of Mordor. Many people—elves, dwarves, orcs, men, even hobbits—fought around him, their blood staining the earth.

"We must retreat!"

The voice was Aragorn's; Pippin saw him with a scarlet-stained sword, his hair blowing about in the hot wind as he fought to defend a fallen lady with flowing golden hair. Beside her knelt the man from Pippin's last vision, the one who resembled Boromir. At present his face was stained with tears, and he clasped the lady's hand in one of his own, while his other hand was pressed to his shoulder.

"We cannot retreat!" the young man cried. "We mustn't lead them back to Minas Tirith! The Secret Fire may not yet have been found, and some still wait within; they cannot withstand a third siege!"

"We cannot stay here, Faramir!" Aragorn shouted, and he hewed down an orc that had drawn too near. "The mountain shakes; I fear all is not well with Sam and Frodo. Sauron is pleased; something has happened to the Ring!"

"Then we cannot go to Minas Tirith!" said Faramir, and Pippin knew from the man's name and his face that he must be the brother of Boromir. "Let us flee to Osgiliath, where our people will not be in danger!"

"The horn, Faramir!" Aragorn said, and he drew back from an orc that had slashed its sword at his arm, leaving a long cut. "Sound the retreat!"

Faramir took from his side a horn that looked much like Boromir's, and standing with difficulty he grasped it in both hands and blew. A great blast of sound rang out across the battlefield, and Pippin saw fear and hopelessness in the eyes of many as Aragorn cried, "Retreat, my people! We are in grave peril, we must retreat!"

The army began to flee, and it was all Pippin could do not to be trampled. He looked down at his feet and saw blood soaking dark blond fetlocks—not his own, then, but he knew these feet; he had seen them nearly every day of his life. Pippin was watching the battle through the eyes of Merry.

"Estel!" called Legolas, fighting his way through the throng. "Estel, we cannot retreat! We must hold the field, or Sauron shall prevail!"

"The mountain is going to erupt!" Aragorn shouted; his eyes were wild with fear. "It shall send fire and ash over all of us; come, Legolas! Bring Gimli and Merry! We must flee!"

Pippin's view of Aragorn shifted as Merry was taken up by the elf, who began to run, light-footed, over the battlefield, following the tide of fleeing soldiers. Gimli ran beside them, with Faramir bringing the fallen lady in his arms. Many around them were crying out with fear or pain, and Pippin watched as some fell. The orcs behind them were howling with delight, but Pippin knew that if the mountain did indeed erupt their victory would mean nothing.

Legolas outpaced Aragorn, and the ground flew past under the elf's swift feet. The earth shook, rumbling as it had in the first vision Pippin had seen, and Aragorn shouted, "Gandalf! You must call the eagles! Something has gone wrong; Frodo and Sam are in grave danger!"

"We must send word to Minas Tirith!" said Faramir. "The people do not know what peril they are in!" He stumbled, nearly dropping the woman he held close to his chest.

"Shadowfax shall take the message," Aragorn decided hastily, but Gandalf said, "You cannot rush a wizard, Aragorn! I have already promised to call the eagles; you may be king, but not yet! I shall do what I see fit."

"And I must do what is best for my people! No one but you can do these things, Gandalf!"

"Stop your bickering, you two!" Gimli ordered, panting as he fought to keep up with Legolas. "If that mountain's going to erupt, it shan't matter who takes any messages! We ought to run!"

Pippin looked through Merry's eyes at the great spire of Mount Doom and saw to his horror that a vast circlet of fire now crowned the peak, smoke issuing from the tip of the mountain. The air seemed to be growing hotter, and Pippin wondered what might happen when the strange liquid fire burst forth.

Then he knew. A roar of sound seemed to cleave the air in two, and Aragorn screamed, "Get down!"

That was the first sign of how serious this was; Pippin had never in the waking world heard Aragorn's voice so high or so loud. Legolas flung himself down, and Pippin watched him throw one arm about Gimli's shoulders. Aragorn too threw himself to the ground, shielding Faramir and the lady.

And then the surge of fire swept over them, and Pippin's mind flew suddenly to a city of white towers, where the heat blew many stones from the walls, and he clasped a small warm hand in his own as strong arms wrapped around him. Many screams rose around him, one of them his own, and suddenly all he knew was searing pain, the sensation of flight, and then crushing darkness.

Pippin woke again with a start; his cheek was pressed against a bony shoulder. A wisp of fine pale hair brushed against his skin, and he realized that Legolas bore him upon his back.

It was raining; the sky looked as if it were just after dawn. The company had turned onto wide open plains, with the faint shadows of mountains on each horizon. Pippin could see Aragorn ahead of Legolas, Merry still draped over his shoulders, and the heavy steps of Gimli sounded from beside the elf. Diamond walked between Aragorn and Legolas, and she looked up as Pippin laid his eyes upon her.

"Finally awake, Shire-child?" she asked. "Took you long enough; Strider has been nearly sick with worry and Legolas has complained of your weight for hours now. No one could sleep after your little stunt with the stone, so we set out and we are now a third of the way to Long Cleeve. Trust you to make trouble for us."

"I had no say in the matter," Pippin grumbled, though a smile tugged at his lips. "Legolas, you may set me down whenever you wish; I think I could walk now."

"Est—Strider has said not to let you down until he has made certain of your well-being," said Legolas. "And that shall not be until we stop and rest, which shall be a while yet. Is all well with you, Pippin? For you have muttered things in your sleep that concern us all."

"What sort of things?" Pippin asked.

"Why, the end of the world, of course," Legolas laughed. "Mountains and fire, retreat, grave peril! Indeed it would seem that the stone has disturbed your rest, even when you are not touching it; this Strider feared and it seems he was right to do so. For those cannot be dreams of the usual sort, at least not for a hobbit."

"They are not," said Pippin. "Usually my dreams are more pleasant and more often than not include second breakfast. These had no meals of any sort and served only to frighten me. I should like to talk to Strider, if he will permit it."

But the stress of the journey seemed to weigh heavily upon Aragorn, and he looked over his shoulder, his gaze flicking over his companions as his lips moved swiftly. It looked as though he were counting them, and then he scanned the horizon with a wary look in his eyes. Aragorn seemed to be hunched slightly with Merry's weight upon his back, and his cloak was drawn tight about his shoulders; he was the image of a weary traveler.

"Perhaps I shall wait until we stop," Pippin decided. "For Strider looks exhausted and should not be bothered with my troubles."

"Strider can hear you," said Aragorn, "and he bids you come to him with any troubles, no matter how small. Are you recovered enough to speak of the shadow, Pippin?"

"I am, if Legolas will only put me down."

Aragorn smiled, looking back at Pippin. "Put him down then, Legolas, and let him come to me."

The elf took Pippin from his back and eased him onto the ground, and Pippin swayed slightly. How much strength had the shadow taken from him?

He regained his balance and tottered towards Aragorn; the Ranger put an arm around the hobbit, pressing Pippin close to his side as Boromir used to do when the nights were cold. "Tell me, Pippin, how are you feeling? Do you still feel drawn to the stone, and does it trouble your dreams?"

"I know not what I feel about the stone," Pippin admitted. "It seems at times such a wonderful thing, full of light like the sun, and then suddenly, when I take it into my grasp, all I can see is shadow and flame and a dark power seems to come upon me. As for my dreams, I think it does trouble them, for I have never had dreams such as these before."

"What do you see?" Aragorn asked.

"I see fire," said Pippin. "Always there is fire, and I have seen you too, Strider, and the land is burning and you are afraid. Many are in bondage and in danger, and I see men and women I have never before known but that I know mean something to you. None of it do I understand, but there is one thing that makes the least sense to me, if these are indeed futures that the stone shows to me, for that is what the shadow told me they were."

Aragorn's face was pale; the cut on his forehead stood out as a dark crimson line. His voice was low as he bent nearer to Pippin. "What is it, my friend?"

"The stone told me that the future I saw need not be if I joined it," Pippin told Aragorn. "Would that not seem to you that it would therefore have some chance of happening? No matter what I did, that future could still come to pass?"

"It would seem that way, yes," said Aragorn. "Why, Pippin? What have you seen?"

"Boromir," Pippin replied, and Aragorn's face went from pale to white, lighter than the snow on Caradhras as the hobbit continued hastily. "I do not understand, Strider. Surely any future with Boromir in it cannot come to pass. It grieves me beyond measure to say it, but he has gone, and cannot return to us, not even in the darker paths that the stone has shown me. I would say it is only my imagination, my grief for Boromir, but I saw him when I held the stone and not when I was but dreaming. Surely this thing cannot happen, Strider?"

Aragorn's teeth were clamped down upon his lower lip. "What did Boromir do?"

"You stood upon a hill," said Pippin. "Boromir was at the foot of it; he watched as Wormtongue beat you, and Legolas and Gimli too, with a whip. An old man also stood by Wormtongue, and Boromir called him Father. Boromir pleaded for your release, and he looked as if he would run to you, but another man held him back. In my dream after you released me from the stone, I found that the young man was named Faramir. Do you know anyone by that name, and might he be the brother of Boromir?"

"Faramir is the brother of Boromir," Aragorn confirmed. "But I have heard that their father, Denethor, is a noble man, though I have not seen him since before he claimed the stewardship of Gondor. Why he would stand with Wormtongue, I know not, but this does not trouble me as does the presence of Boromir. I do not understand how he can exist in any future, no matter how unlikely it is to happen."

He tightened his grip on Pippin's shoulders, and the hobbit leaned his head into Aragorn's side as the Ranger spoke again. "But fear not, Pippin. You need not concern yourself with these fearsome matters; leave me to worry about them. Now go back to Legolas, my friend, for you are tired, and even the recanting of your tale has spent what little strength you have."

Pippin realized that it was true; his legs trembled slightly and he felt as though he had not slept at all. Still, he said, "I am alright, Strider, I think I can walk a little farther."

"I shall not risk it, Pippin," said Aragorn, and leaning down he brushed his lips against Pippin's dark wavy locks as if sending a child to bed. "Go back to Legolas. You have caused us no trouble."

Pippin smiled up at him and went dutifully back to Legolas, who took him back up, ready to bear him as far as needed. Pippin could not help but wish for Boromir and his broad muscular shoulders; Legolas was kind, but he was quite slender and his shoulder blades dug painfully into Pippin's chest.

The day wore on, and Pippin thought no more of the stone, but as night fell the moon came out, its light striking Aragorn's pack so that it seemed to glow from within. Pippin's gaze fell on it, and he felt a strange tugging sensation in his chest, but he pushed it down.

So it was that the night was silent, and no footsteps pierced the quietude, not even those of a curious hobbit. But a league away, in the city of Long Cleeve, a maiden hobbit sat up in her bed and clutched at the chain about her neck. Looking down at it she beheld that Reena-domë shone once more, a circle of golden fire against her silken bedclothes, and she woke her sleeping husband and said, "The Firebringer approaches, Valor."

"Diamond has returned?" he asked.

"Not yet. But she draws near, and the Ring is ready. It wishes to pass to her."

"Perhaps, mela, we shall learn where our daughter has been all these months," said Valor, and he clasped his wife's small hands in his own large, strong ones.

"We shall learn other things as well," said the maiden hobbit, and the Ring shone on her face with nearly the intensity of the sun. "The Firebringer is not alone."

ARAGORN

They had stopped a league outside of Long Cleeve, for Diamond did not think it wise to enter by night and wanted to approach her mother at dawn. Now the sun was near to rising and Aragorn was trying to wake everyone; the hobbits were being particularly troublesome. Well—not the hobbits. Mostly Pippin.

He was trying not to wake Merry, but as Aragorn took the injured hobbit into his arms, Merry's eyes opened, and he whispered, "Strider?"

"Merry," said Aragorn, and a smile took hold of his face and would not leave. "Before you ask, we have got you out of Orthanc, and Pippin is safe. We are going to Long Cleeve, the home of Diamond, who was in the cell beside you in the tower. How are you feeling?"

"I feel as if someone had bashed my head in," Merry complained, but he was smiling. "May I see Pippin? He must have been quite worried."

"Of course, if I can get him to wake." Aragorn turned and called to the other side of the hollow which they had camped in. "Pippin! Come here; I have something I think you will wish to see."

The young hobbit stood, rubbing his eyes and blinking in the dawn light. Then his gaze fell on Merry and he came fully awake, bounding across the clearing until he stood hesitantly in front of Aragorn, who set Merry gently on his feet. He kept his hands on the hobbit's shoulders lest he should fall, but it was not needed, for when Merry spread his arms and allowed Pippin into his embrace, both hobbits sank to their knees. Merry ran a hand through Pippin's dark hair, and Pippin buried his face in his cousin's chest, tears rolling down his cheeks as his own hands fisted against Merry's waistcoat, bunching up the fabric.

"I'm here, Pip," Merry whispered, his grip fierce but his voice exceedingly tender. "I'm alright, and so are you."

"Oh, Merry, I was so frightened," Pippin choked out. "You wouldn't wake up and y-your fever was so high…a-and I thought Strider might not arrive in time, and though he did I worried so much…I prayed to Ilúvatar, Merry; you know I haven't done that before, and still you were s-so far away and…"

"I know," said Merry. "I know, Pip. But you don't have to be frightened anymore; we're both here, and alive, and out of that horrid dark tower. We're going to be alright, you'll see."

He rubbed the younger hobbit's back gently until Pippin's sobs subsided into sniffling, and slowly Pippin let Merry go, hoisting a weak smile onto his tearstained face. "I-I don't suppose you've met Dia?"

Merry was still quite shaky, and Aragorn bore him upon his back for the rest of the way into Long Cleeve. Pippin skipped over the grass beside them, telling Merry of Diamond, of the stone, of Saruman's demise and the escape from Orthanc. Though Pippin was a wild storyteller the latter tale retained most of its integrity, and Merry laughed joyfully at Pippin's cheerfulness. It was the happiest Aragorn had seen the hobbits since before Caradhras, and his heart swelled with affection for them; he could see why Boromir had loved them so.

Boromir. Thoughts of the man had weighed heavily on Aragorn's mind of late; he was troubled by Pippin's visions and feared that things that were not meant to be would now come to pass. Was it because Aragorn had diverged from the path that Gandalf had laid down for him? Or could he never have prevented these futures? Was it all up to fate? Aragorn had always thought so, had thought that there was something, perhaps Ilúvatar himself, dictating his destiny…he only knew that it was not Gandalf…

How could Boromir possibly exist in any living world, no matter how slim a chance it had at coming to light? How could this strange dark world have a chance at all?

Though Aragorn knew that Gandalf must be furious with him he wished the wizard were here to offer his counsel. Surely Gandalf would know what the stone was and what Pippin's visions meant, and surely he would be able to provide some semblance of a plan for them; Aragorn knew not what would happen after they left Long Cleeve. Always he had tried to look as far enough ahead as he could, always tried to anticipate the most likely future, but now all seemed shrouded and dark.

It was the leaving of the path, he knew that…he had left the clear path, the safe path, and stepped off it into something vast and unknown. Aragorn was glad that Legolas and Gimli had come with him, and that Merry and Pippin were safe, for those things had turned out well, but from here they seemed to be deviating from the plan; what if Aragorn led the company into danger? What if some new unforeseen complication arose, and they were flung violently into another quest, one that some if not all would not return from?

He screwed up his face, closing his eyes and trying to ground himself in the present moment. Aragorn focused on Merry's arms around his neck, on the soft pitter-patter of hobbit feet beside him, on the faint warmth of the sun upon his cheek. There were these good and comforting things here, now, and he should try to center himself on them lest he should lose sight of what truly mattered. But how could Aragorn possibly think on the present when there was such a vast and fearsome future looming upon the horizon, ready to swallow them all in its darkness? Sauron's forces were massing, and Pippin's visions did not exactly give Aragorn hope.

Hope! It was a strange and futile thing, it seemed, and though it was a part of him as much as Strider or Elessar, it felt foreign, as if it were somehow removed from his soul. Hope incarnate, Legolas had said of Aragorn soon after the start of the quest, and he had taken Aragorn's hand gently in his and pressed his lips to the Ranger's knuckles. That was how Aragorn had learned that Legolas loved him, and a pang of guilt tugged at his heart for the grief he had caused the elf in saying that his heart belonged to Arwen. It had been a hard week after that, and Aragorn kept his mind off the guilt by watching Boromir and the hobbits frolic in the hills.

But no, he had not meant to dwell on that…he had thought of his Elvish name, Estel, and now Aragorn felt unworthy to bear it. How could he possibly raise himself up as a symbol of hope when he had none, when he could see only the pain and sorrow that was sure to come now that Pippin had seen it through the stone?

Perhaps he was not meant to be king…

Diamond's voice cut through Aragorn's misted consciousness. "We are here. Follow me through the gates; I shall take you to Queen Honor Soulreaper. Do not speak out of turn and do not draw your weapons, and perhaps she shall see fit to spare your lives. Quickly!"

Aragorn looked ahead and saw a great stone wall, with towers upon it, bathed in the golden haze of dawn. The only breach in the wall came in the form of two gates, wrought of some strange silvery wood. As they drew nearer he could see two unusually tall hobbits with spears standing on either side of the gates.

Diamond stopped in front of the guards, drawing herself up to her full height, and said, "I am Firebringer, returned from my sojourn in Isengard. I bid you open the gates and let my company pass."

"It shall be done, Your Highness," said the guard on the left, and Aragorn saw that she was a maiden. "Welcome home, seler. You have stayed away far too long."

"Mother and Father will be pleased," added the guard on the right, his eyes sparkling with joy. "Though it may not last long. I hope Mother is not too harsh on you, runya."

"You speak from your own experience, Maj," said Diamond. "Mother has never been as cross with me as she has with you. Now open the gate, ai-toror, the dawn is still young and I shall not have it any older while we stand here dawdling."

Aragorn realized suddenly that the young hobbits had spoken Sindarin; the male hobbit had called Diamond flame, and she had called the guard her younger brother. The maiden hobbit had spoken of Diamond as her sister, and so they must all be the children of the queen of Long Cleeve. How did they know Sindarin? Surely there were no elves in these parts.

Then all thoughts of the Elvish dialect fled from Aragorn's mind and he stepped into the city, for the gates had opened. Diamond led them down a cobblestoned road, with Aragorn behind her, Pippin scampering alongside them, and Legolas and Gimli at the rear.

Aragorn looked back at the rising dawn, and behind them, the silver gates swung shut.

Diamond stopped before a small, circular door in a hill. The door was made of exceedingly dark wood, its knob burnished gold and carved with the emblem of a sword and arrow crossed over an eight-pointed star. This knob Diamond turned, motioning at the rest of the company to remain outside.

Aragorn tore his thoughts from the architecture of Long Cleeve—it was fascinating; there were so many small circular doors like this, and yet there were many columns and fences as well. It now sunk in fully that he and the company were about to meet a queen, and they did not in any way look presentable, save for Legolas. Who could tell the secrets of an elf's untarnished beauty?

He set Merry gently down, steadying the hobbit as he said, "I am sorry, my friend, but we must all make ourselves presentable and I need to see your face. I think we shall take the bandage off your head; the wound beneath it is clean, but the dressing is filthy."

"I should like to comb my hair," said Merry as Aragorn took the bandage from his forehead. "Pippin? Do you still have a comb? I fear I have lost mine at some point on our journey through Rohan."

"Of course I do!" Pippin exclaimed, and his hand darted into his cloak and pulled out a small, finely wrought rosewood comb, carved with intricate golden filigree. "Mind you don't break it, Merry; it cost Mum a fortune!"

He handed it to Merry, who began to pull it through his tangled blond curls. "I don't suppose you have one for my fetlocks, too?"

Pippin produced a second comb, much like the first but smaller. "I carry it always. I suppose I haven't given much thought to my fets, or to my hair either." He bent down and began to comb his own fetlocks, smoothing the dark tangles out into something resembling silk.

"Is that what you call them?" Aragorn asked, nodding toward the hobbit's feet. "Fets? You seem to take great pride in them."

"Most hobbits do," said Pippin, and he and Merry exchanged combs. "I for one have been growing them out. It helps keep my feet warm when the ground is cold. My cloak does not cover all that it should."

At the mention of the cloak Aragorn remembered quite suddenly the brooch he had slipped into his pocket on the way to Isengard. He now brought it out, handing it to Pippin. "I found this on the road, my friend. I apologize for the delay in returning it; all thoughts of it had fled my mind."

Pippin took it joyfully into his hands. "Thank you, Strider! I had thought I should never see it again; it was a great wrench to cast it aside, but I feared that you might not find us otherwise." He clasped the glimmering brooch onto his cloak, lending a splash of color to the soft gray, and then began to comb his hair, brushing the tangles out. When he had finished Legolas seized the comb and began to straighten his own silky hair, which to Aragorn still looked immaculate.

By the time Diamond returned, the rest of the company had combed their hair as best they could, arrayed their cloaks to hide the worst of the mud and blood, and succeeded in looking as though they had journeyed for perhaps one month instead of two. It was not much of an improvement, but Aragorn hoped that Honor would still be hospitable.

"You clean up fairly well," Diamond decided after a moment of looking at them. "Follow me. I have explained to the guards our circumstances, and they say that Mother has allowed us to enter."

Her gaze narrowed. "I will remind you that my mother's alkaressa is Soulreaper. Do not speak out of turn and do not provoke her. She is a fiercely protective mother and wife, and she would as soon kill you as look at you. Of course, she will not harm you if you do not harm her or those she rules. She is, of course, an honorable hobbit-maid."

She pulled the door open, and Aragorn stooped down to avoid striking his head on the frame. Pippin followed, Merry leaning on him for balance, with Legolas and Gimli close behind.

The room beyond the door was small, and Aragorn guessed it must have been the entrance chamber, for two guards stood at the other side of it in front of a pair of doors much larger than the first. The hobbits eyes the company warily but stepped aside, pushing the doors open, and Diamond led them inside.

A vast underground chamber lay before them. Torches were placed in sconces every few feet along the walls, illuminating the recesses of the room, and a great candlelit chandelier hung suspended from the ceiling. On the opposite side of the chamber was a throne, carved of white wood and twisting into an intricate filigree at the top. Upon this sat a maiden hobbit, clad in a suit of leather armor and with a crown of silver and diamonds set upon her dark curls. Her eyes were much like Diamond's, fierce and penetrating, and her fetlocks were silky and pure black.

But none of these were Queen Honor's most striking quality. Indeed, once his eyes had focused on it, the ring was all Aragorn could see.

For the queen of Long Cleeve had about her neck a silver chain, and threaded upon it was a golden ring. Even without fire it shone with glowing script, and Aragorn could feel its power tugging at him from ten yards away. The ring glinted in a way the One Ring never had; he could tell that it had drawn everyone's eyes.

"Queen Honor Soulreaper," said Diamond, and she knelt upon the earthen floor, looking into her mother's eyes as she placed a fisted hand over her heart. "I come to you after two moons in Isengard. I pray that you will receive me back into the kingdom, for my sojourn was not willfully undertaken. I was captured by the armies of Saruman and taken to Orthanc, where I remained until my company arrived. Will you grant them permission to speak?"

"A moment, Firebringer," said Honor, raising a hand. She rose from her throne and descended the two steps to the ground. "Before I meet any new folk, I must greet my daughter. Valor, step out of the shadow and come see; our runya has returned."

She put her arms around Diamond in an embrace, and Aragorn watched as a male hobbit came forth from the darkness behind the queen's throne. He wore a silver circlet much like Diamond's, and his skin was several shades paler than his wife's, while his hair was a soft, sandy brown. Valor must have been Diamond's father, for he joined the embrace, and Aragorn smiled at the display of affection.

"Oh, Dia," Valor said softly. "We had feared the worst."

"You needn't have," Diamond replied, stepping back and looking her father in the eyes. "All was well in the end. May my company have permission to speak?"

"They may," Honor consented, sitting back down upon her throne. "Welcome, friends of Firebringer. I am Honor Soulreaper of the house of Dellshore, Queen of Long Cleeve, and this is my consort, Valor Skychaser of the house of Deeproot. What are you all called? Let us start with the eldest among you."

"That would be me, my queen," said Legolas, placing a fist over his heart as Diamond had done. "I am Legolas son of Thranduil of Mirkwood, and it is an honor to be in your presence. Allow me to introduce my companion, Gimli son of Glóin, most excellent of dwarves." Gimli nodded curtly, greeting Honor with his own salute.

Aragorn realized that his turn to speak had come, and he let his own hand rest over his heart. "I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, my queen, though the hobbits among us call me Strider. I lead this company as best as I am able, although I do not profess myself to be any sort of authority. We are grateful for your hospitality and I hope that we do not intrude upon your time."

Honor nodded slowly, blinking eyes framed by long dark lashes. "You do not intrude, Strider. Indeed, it is my honor to be in your presence, for I think I know who you are. But we shall speak of that later. What of the hobbits? They are like none that I have ever seen."

"I am Meriadoc Brandybuck of the Shire," said Merry robustly. "Son of Saradoc, Master of Buckland. My cousin—"

Pippin elbowed him. "I can introduce myself, thank you very much!" He turned to face the queen, a look of supreme joviality on his face. "I am Peregrin Took, son of Paladin of the Shire, though most call me Pippin, or even Pip, though that's if you're quite close to me. I have heard much about you, and I have drawn the conclusion that you are a remarkable maiden hobbit, for your alkaressa is truly awe-inspiring. How did you come by that name?"

"My prowess with a scythe," the queen said. "Forward, aren't we, little one? How many winters have you seen?"

"Twenty-eight," said Pippin proudly. "A scythe seems quite difficult to master; I myself have only ever used a small sword. I wonder if I might ask about that ring? It looks much like one I have encountered before."

Silence fell in the chamber, and Aragorn wondered if the queen would spring from her throne and strangle Pippin for asking, the ring on the chain looked so much like the One Ring. But Honor only smiled, and it was a faint, dark, terrifying leer. "This, young Peregrin Took, is Reena-domë. The Edge of Night. The Shadow Incarnate."

Her eyes flashed with an emerald fire. "The Ring of Melkor."

Chapter Text

Aragorn stood in a washroom of the underground palace, staring at a large basin of steaming bathwater.

This was something he had not seen for months. He was not certain when he had last bathed, only that it had been…longer ago than he would have liked. Contrary to popular belief, Aragorn prioritized keeping clean, but he almost never had the resources to do so.

He let his cloak fall to the floor, then peeled off his tunic, trousers, and undergarments. Oh, Valar. His raiment was stained with more dirt and blood than he had thought, so much that it was all fit to be burned.

At least the queen had provided new clothing for her guests. Her servants had brought the largest sizes available for Aragorn and Legolas, and Aragorn had been surprised that Gimli did not need the same size; it seemed that hobbits in Long Cleeve were taller than the ones in the Shire. Pippin and Merry's raiment had been easy to find, though they were shorter in stature than many of the hobbits.

Aragorn stepped carefully into the basin; the water was nearly scalding and so he sat on the edge, waiting until it cooled enough to get in. When the temperature was bearable Aragorn slid into the water, taking the cloth from the side of the basin to scrub the dirt from his body.

His skin was nearly white beneath the layer of grime; Aragorn had almost forgotten what his natural coloring looked like. He lathered soap onto the cloth, paying special attention to the gash on his side and the smaller cuts on his cheek and forehead. Thankfully, the wounds were still clean, and the washing would provide an additional barrier against infection.

By the time Aragorn climbed out of the basin and wrapped himself in a towel, the bathwater was an unpleasant brown. Most of the filth had come from his hair, which disgusted him; surely his unwashed appearance was not how a king allowed himself to look. Who would follow a filthy vagrant of a man clothed in even filthier rags? Aragorn knew that it should not matter to him—the only important quality for a king was the ability to govern his people wisely—but he feared that the more snobbish upper class of Gondor might not take kindly to his weather-beaten, patchy appearance.

Once dry, Aragorn took from a cabinet in the washroom some bandages and bound them about the wound on his side. He then put on the hobbit-wear, pleased to discover that it fit well, and draped his cloak over his shoulders.

His hand brushed against the Evenstar, and he lifted it in his fingers, admiring the silver-bound crystal of the pendant. Aragorn brought it gently to his lips, wondering if Arwen thought of him now, wherever she may be. He slipped the pendant under his shirt and fastened his brooch, then looked at himself in the mirror. Seeing the state of his damp hair Aragorn took a comb from the table beneath the mirror and ran it through his wet dark locks, surprised at how presentable he looked once he finished. It was almost a foreign concept to him, it had been so long.

Aragorn stepped out of the washroom into the earthen corridor, finding a servant waiting for him. "The queen requests your presence, aran."

King.

This young hobbit boy, younger even than Pippin, had, in his own monarch's palace, looked up at Aragorn and called him king.

Smiling down at the boy, Aragorn placed a fist over his heart. The hobbits of Long Cleeve seemed to have taken this gesture from the elves—or was it the other way around? How much culture did the two races share?

The servant boy smiled back and returned the gesture, then turned and led Aragorn down the hall. They turned into a great hall, in the center of which was a long table. Honor sat at the head, with Valor her consort on one side of her and Diamond on the other. Seated beside them were the young hobbits that had been guarding the gates earlier; with their helms removed Aragorn saw that they both looked very much like Diamond.

Aragorn was the last to arrive; Legolas and Gimli sat on one side of the table, with Merry and Pippin on the other. The only unoccupied seat was at the foot of the table, and Aragorn took it, hoping his weight would not break the wooden chair. He was a slight man, but still a man, and the furniture had not been designed with him in mind. Thankfully, the chair held, although Aragorn supposed he should have guessed it would; Gimli and Legolas had not broken theirs yet.

"Strider," said Honor, lifting her chalice and nodding toward Aragorn. "It is a great honor to be graced with your presence. Now we may begin the feast, and I shall tell you of our land and my people."

"The honor is mine, my queen," Aragorn replied as servants entered the room, bearing silver platters of food. "I look forward to your words."

"Who are all of you?" Pippin asked brightly, taking a roll from a platter as it was set down. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced, and I must know your names and how you are related, for I am most certain that you all hail from the same house."

The queen smiled faintly. "You are indeed quite forward, but I shall grant your desire, little one. This—" she gestured to the hobbit beside her— "is my husband and my consort, Valor. I have already introduced you to him, but I have not told you much; he is one of the few hobbits in the land who do not do battle. Valor is a healer and a philosopher, a reader of the stars and the wind. He sees things many of us do not and is able to provide me with valuable information about the strategy of our enemies. Our union is called Soulchaser, for our combined alkaressa."

Valor smiled, laying a hand over his wife's, and Aragorn was struck by how different they looked. Honor was smaller but more muscular, and her skin was the color of tea, her hair black as night. Valor was slender and tall for a hobbit, nearly Gimli's height, and his skin was pale as a dove's wing. His eyes were wide and dark periwinkle, and he was dressed in a simple gray tunic, while Honor still wore her armor. Though they seemed quite the opposite of each other Aragorn knew they were deeply in love.

Honor lifted a hand in the direction of Diamond's sister. "My daughter, Ruby Windhunter. She is younger than Diamond by perhaps a minute but all the more wise, and much like me in her skill in battle."

Ruby's smile was indeed very much like her mother's, tight-lipped and guarded. She was similar in height and build to Diamond, but her eyes were those of Valor and her skin was a shade darker than her sister's, though not quite as dark as Honor's.

Next Honor indicated Diamond's younger brother, who Aragorn thought seemed similar to Pippin with his broad smile and twinkling gaze. "Finally, my son, Majesty Duskpainter. He was born scarcely a moment after Ruby and has retained that haste all his life. Majesty is a master with a bow and arrow and a lover of song and dance."

"You may call me Maj," said the young hobbit. "My given name is far too long and regal, and it does not seem at all fitting for the youngest of the Dellshore line."

He too had his father's eyes, but his skin was the same shade of light brown as Diamond's and his hair dark like hers, and his build was very like Valor's also. Majesty still wore his armor from guard duty, as did Ruby. Diamond had changed into a similar livery, and all three siblings bore the same eight-pointed star upon their chests. Aragorn felt that they shared a deep bond, evidenced in the way they looked at each other.

"It is my pleasure to meet you," said Aragorn, taking a sip from the chalice that had been placed in front of him. The liquid was clear and cold like water, yet carried a sweetness like that of athelas nectar. "Do you all fight in the army of Long Cleeve?"

"We do," said Ruby. "Mother is the tauntari, the High Queen, and she leads us into battle when we have need for it. Dia and Maj and I each lead a battalion, and we are called the kanor, the commanders. Even Father helps in his own way; he is the fallan, the healer, and many lives have been preserved by his hand."

"You speak the Sindarin tongue," Aragorn observed. "As do I, or I would not ask, but how is it that you have come by the language? It is not well known in Middle-earth, and I was not aware that elves ever had dealings with hobbits."

"Long ago," said Honor, "Elves from the Forest Under Nightshade came to this land, searching for precious metals and medicines. There they met hobbits from the land of Eriador, and many elves felt great love for their small companions. Thus was the race of edhelai born."

She brushed a curl of dark hair from the side of her head, and Aragorn realized with a start that her ears were pointed, much more like that of Legolas than those of Pippin and Merry. "Then you are not truly hobbits?"

"I would not say that," said Valor softly, and Aragorn saw that his ears were pointed also. "We are certainly more hobbit than elf and so consider ourselves such. After all it has been long since there were elves in these parts, fifteen generations at least. But many of us, especially the nobility, bear a resemblance to the Sindar elves, and they gave to us many of our customs and mannerisms."

"Is the carrying of more than one halfbit one of these?" Pippin asked. "I know you think me forward, Queen Honor, but I must inquire about this, for I find it incredible that you bore three halfbits in one birth. Is this a common occurrence in Long Cleeve? It is not in the Shire; I have known but one pair of twins in all my life and have not even heard of carrying three halfbits."

"In fact, little one, you are correct," said Honor. "Two are called twinlings, much like your name for them, but three we call neldlings. Four may a hobbit-maid bear at once, though it is uncommon. It is more common, though, than a single halfbit; that happens perhaps every twenty years."

"How strange!" Pippin marveled. "But I suppose the Shire must be strange to you, just as Long Cleeve is to me. You see, we are lovers of peace and quiet, though we would not turn down a large party, and our hobbit-maids bear but one halfbit. We have never seen battle, not since I can remember anyway, and almost never do we venture out of the Shire. Merry and I are two of the very few who have."

Aragorn noticed for the first time the meal laid out in front of him; he had been so caught up in learning the ways of the hobbits of Long Cleeve that he had utterly forgotten his hunger. Now, though, it returned with a vengeance, and he reached out for a bowl of what appeared to be golden berries, ripe and shining under the torchlight in the dining hall.

"What are these fruits?" he asked, holding one of the berries up. Pippin shrugged, and Aragorn saw that the hobbit's fingers were stained with golden juice, undoubtedly from the berries.

"They are called malyavë, Strider," said Valor. "They are considered a delicacy here. If I were you I would crush them and spread them on bread, for they are most excellent when eaten that way."

Intrigued, Aragorn tried this, finding the concoction very much palatable with the warm bread and chilled fruit. Pippin promptly seized the bowl of malyavë, taking a great deal of berries and heaping them onto a loaf of bread.

"Ada?" asked a young voice. "Has Dia come back?"

Aragorn looked to the door; two small faces peered out from behind the frame. They were nearly identical to each other, with tousled dark hair, wide hazel eyes, and pale skin.

Valor looked up, his face breaking out into a smile. "Hullo, little ones! Yes, Dia has returned; you may come see for yourselves."

Two little hobbit boys positively stampeded into the dining hall. They too looked much like Valor; their eyes had the same somewhat astonished look and their noses the same slope, and both were dressed in fine tunics bearing the eight-pointed star of Long Cleeve. Joyfully they bounded to Diamond, and one of them clambered up onto her lap while the other climbed the back of her chair.

"Our foster sons," said Valor, smiling at no one in particular. "Luin—" he indicated the boy on the chair— "and Malin." The boy in Diamond's lap beamed, showing one missing tooth.

"Fifteen years old and more trouble than my neldlings were," Valor said fondly. "They are the sons of my twinling Virtue and his wife Tourmaline, who have fallen in battle. Honor and I have raised Luin and Malin as princes since they were but seven. We would have brought them to the feast, but they were asleep, as they are wont to be."

For a moment Aragorn wondered how the boys could be fifteen, but he remembered that hobbits aged differently than humans, and so the foster princes must have been around eight years old in the reckoning of men, and not even four when their parents had passed. He smiled at the boys, hoping he would not appear intimidating. "It is a pleasure to meet you, young Highnesses. I am Strider, and this is my dear friend Pippin." Aragorn indicated the young hobbit, who had looked over with a wide grin on his face.

"You are very tall," said Luin, his arms wrapped around Diamond's neck. "What are you?"

"Luin!" Ruby scolded. "You know you aren't to ask that, it's impolite."

"He has done me no harm," said Aragorn. "I am a Man, Luin, and I regret that I am nowhere near as fascinating as you most magnificent hobbits."

"Mama doesn't like Men," said Malin, but his eyes were twinkling. "She says they will take over the city. I don't think I'd like that, but I do wish more interesting things would happen; sometimes it's rather boring here."

He spoke with more of a lisp than his brother, a characteristic which Aragorn found endearing. Both twinlings regarded him with wide eyes, and then Luin asked, "Why did you come with Dia?"

"We helped her escape Orthanc," said Pippin cheerfully. "Would you like to hear the story?"

"You shall certainly hear more than truly happened," Diamond warned, but she was smiling. "Even so, you may begin, Shire-child, but be warned, for Luin is quite inquisitive and Malin is prone to outbursts of laughter and tears."

"I like a challenge," Pippin laughed. "It began in a tall dark tower, one ruled by an evil wizard, and with three brave hunters…"

As Pippin told the story and the food was slowly finished, Aragorn felt a rare sense of peace wash over him; this was the safest the company had been for months, with a roof over their heads and a feast before them, and they were surrounded by kind hobbits who had no desire to harm them. For a little while, he could almost forget about the Ring—well, the Rings—and the war, and the loss of Boromir and the fury of Gandalf.

Tonight, Aragorn thought, all is right in the world.

When the story was finished, both twinlings had fallen asleep, with Malin still on Diamond's lap and Luin curled upon the floor. Aragorn watched as Pippin bent and took the hobbit boy into his arms, asking, "Where is his bedroom? If you will permit it, Queen Honor, I shall take him there."

"Follow Diamond," Honor instructed. "She shall lead you and bear Malin with her. The rest of you may proceed to your rooms, save for Strider, with whom I wish to speak. Goodnight to you all, and may the eye of Ilúvatar gaze upon you as you sleep."

Aragorn waited as the rest of the company filed out: Pippin, bearing Luin in his arms, then Diamond with Malin, and Ruby and Majesty following. Legolas and Gimli went last of all; Aragorn watched the elf put a hand on Gimli's shoulder.

"The doors," said Honor, and when the others had all left servants came to shut the doors to the dining hall. The queen beckoned Aragorn toward her, and he rose, taking the seat opposite Valor. The consort smiled, his gaze comforting, but Honor's eyes were dark as she pulled from under her armor the finely wrought golden chain, on the end of which hung Reena-domë.

Aragorn looked on the Ring of Melkor, on its burnished sheen in the torchlight, and suddenly he was seized with a deep, horrible longing. He wished to take the Ring, wished only to hold it, to touch it…surely it would banish all his doubt, all his fear…

He wondered if this was how Pippin felt when he touched the stone, how Boromir had felt when the One Ring had tempted him. Was Aragorn so desperate, so like Isildur, that he would take a Ring of Power to save himself?

No, he thought. I do not wish it for myself. I wish it for my people, for their safety and their right to live under a fair and noble king.

And yet, said a voice in the back of his mind, though you wish it for a wise purpose, still, at the end of all things, you wish it…

"You feel its power," came Honor's voice, and Aragorn was drawn out of the black void.

"I—I am sorry, my queen," said Aragorn, bowing his head. "The Ring is indeed powerful, and I am foolish."

"Many feel its pull," said Valor, and his voice was soft. "You need not be ashamed, Strider. Few find themselves free of the influence of the Ring."

"Valor is among the few." Honor's face was lit from below by the glow of Reena-domë, with shadows cast on her cheekbones. "We know not how he is free, but I believe that purity of heart and strength of soul are crucial to resisting the influence of the Ring of Melkor. I have neither of these, and so I am burdened. My soul is weak; it has been cleaved in two."

"How do you mean, my queen?" Aragorn asked, but Honor was silent, and he added, "Forgive me if mine is an undue query."

"I offered my soul to the Ring," said Honor, and something bestial seemed to gleam in her eyes. "Diamond had fallen in battle, struck down upon the Pelennor. It was years ago now, just after she had received her alkaressa. Valor could do nothing, not with any power of the stars. I did not see light in the heavens, and so I turned to the earth, to the land where the shadows lie, and I gave a piece of my soul to Reena-domë. The Ring accepted my offering, and Diamond breathed again."

Honor lifted her chin, tracing her finger along her throat, and Aragorn saw that a raised, pale scar ran nearly all the way across her neck, a wound which surely should have cleaved her throat in two.

"I took upon myself her scar," Honor breathed. "But it came at a terrible price: the Ring claimed half my soul, and many times has it driven me to rage and destruction."

"Mela," said Valor, laying a hand upon his wife's, and his voice shook. "I thought we were not to speak of it."

"Strider must understand the danger." The queen's tone was firm as she looked to her consort. "He must know what I have done, if only to protect our daughter from my mistakes."

Honor turned to face Aragorn. "Immediately after we returned from battle, when Diamond still lay at the edge of night, the Ring took hold of my mind. Valor tried to stop me, but it could not be done, and I walked a bloodstained path that night…I slew Virtue Deeproot and his wife, and they died defending their sons whom we now raise. It was Ruby and Majesty who saved the boys from my wrath, though they nearly perished in the attempt. But it was not the end of our losses that night. Royal my twinling stood between me and the palace door, wanting to protect my subjects from me, and I slit his throat just as the men of Edoras had slit Diamond's."

Her voice was husky with emotion as her gaze dropped. "It was as though I had ripped out the other half of my soul. For that is how it feels to be a twinling…so few of us fall in love, for we already feel as though we are complete and need no one else. It is easier with neldlings; they find it less painful to separate themselves, but twinlings…they have a bond deeper than anything I have ever seen."

Honor looked upon Aragorn with pained eyes. "I destroyed two families and myself that night, Strider. This is why you must know. I call upon you to protect Diamond from the Ring, to guide her in the way of strength and resistance, for you are the king, Strider, and the one to lead this great quest."

"My queen," Aragorn protested, "I know not what quest of which you speak. I would repay the debt we owe to you in any way possible, but where do you wish me to go? What quest must I undertake?"

"Valor has read the stars," said Honor. "He has looked into the water, studied the reflections and the moving of the heavens. Eru Ilúvatar has spoken, Strider, and he has said that the time has come to destroy the Ring of Melkor. For centuries, millennia even, we have kept it in the house of Dellshore to guard the civilians of Long Cleeve against it. Many queens has it driven to violence, but the appointed hour had not yet come…Now it has."

"Ilúvatar has chosen you, Strider," Valor said, and his dusk-toned eyes seemed to shimmer with the light of a thousand stars. "I have spoken to him by night, and he has declared that Reena-domë shall pass to Diamond. She shall be the one to bear the Ring, but you shall be the one to guide her to the Secret Fire."

"The Secret Fire?" Aragorn asked, stunned. "No being knows of its resting place save Ilúvatar himself! How am I to find the way? How can you know for sure that it is I who should do this thing?"

Valor spoke softly, but his words entered into Aragorn's heart as if a spear had been thrust therein.

"Amid the night rose a city white,

And a soul Death failed to reap,

The heir beloved, one who frees

The dawn from endless sleep.

A flame came forth from a house of queens,

Glass sang of shadow's fall,

The sky and soul did greet the king

With the Ring to end them all."

"The words were given him by Ilúvatar," Honor explained. "We call it the Song of the Fall of Melkor."

"Do you know the meaning of it?" asked Aragorn. "Surely the flame that it speaks of is Diamond, and I suppose I must be the king, but I know not of the remainder of the words."

"We believe that The soul death failed to reap also refers to Diamond," said Valor. "Much of the prophecy seems to, and the city white tells us that the Ring-bearer must journey to Minas Tirith, the White City. The only line we do not yet understand is the one that speaks of singing glass; never have we heard of such a thing."

"I shall take the quest which you have given," said Aragorn, and he sank from his chair to the ground, kneeling before the queen as he placed a fisted hand upon his heart. "When shall I depart?"

"Not yet," Honor commanded. "The hour is not yet come; we still must bestow the Ring upon Diamond, and your company has traveled far. You may return to your chambers, Strider, and I shall call for you again in the morning."

"Thank you, my queen," Aragorn said, and he took her hand and bowed his head to kiss it. "And, of course, my consort. Both of you are most remarkable hobbits, and I look forward to our time tomorrow."

"The bestowing ceremony shall be held when the sun reaches its zenith," said Valor. "We shall meet in the throne room, and you may bring your company, for there seems to be no purpose in keeping the Ring from them. Go now, Strider, and may Ilúvatar watch over you in your sleep."

"May he do likewise to you."

Aragorn turned and left the dining hall, retreating to the sleeping quarters that had been shown to him earlier. In the room were nightclothes laid over a chair; he closed the door and put these on, then got into the bed in the corner, pulling the blankets up to his chin. It was all quite comfortable, he thought; the hobbits of Long Cleeve were certainly hospitable, if warfaring and steeped in bloody history.

Tomorrow the company would have the Ring. Tomorrow a new, grander quest would begin.

Tomorrow, the fate of Middle-earth would be forever changed.

PEREGRIN

"Come with us, Pip!" said Malin, and the young hobbit slid his small hand into Pippin's, smiling cheerfully. "We can go and play in the creek; it is cold but not so bad by the elenorn."

"What is the elenorn?" Pippin asked, letting Malin pull him along.

Diamond, who walked beside them with Luin, said, "It is the Sindarin name for the Tree of Stars, which stands in the center of Long Cleeve and brings light and warmth to our land."

Today she was dressed in finery for the bestowing: a white blouse with a dark corseted vest over it and a skirt which perfectly matched the color of her eyes. Diamond's circlet was set upon her wild, half-curled hair, and a knife was sheathed at her side. Pippin thought she looked like one of the Valar come to earth.

Luin and Malin too looked striking; both twinlings wore circlets much like Diamond's, but without any jewels set into them, so that they were plain silver bands like that which Valor wore. Luin's tunic was deep blue, while Malin's was a tawny gold, and both were richly embroidered with the star of Long Cleeve. Pippin felt as though he should have put on something more refined than his simple white shirt and brown trousers, but the thought was ridiculous; he had no other sets of clothing save for that which he had worn throughout the quest, and that was not fit to be worn anywhere, much less to a bestowing ceremony.

Pippin looked around as they walked down the cobblestoned street, taking in the sunlit streets and the hobbit holes dug into the hills. Though he knew this land's people were far removed from his own he thought it looked much like the Shire, and his heart sorrowed for his homeland. When might Pippin sit beside the fireplace once more, sipping tea while his mother wove yarn into soft sweaters and his father told stories, and listen to the beating of the rain upon the windows?

His sorrow fled suddenly when they crested a hill and he saw at the base a shining, luminous tree, one with white branches and adorned with blossoms pale as snow. Beneath it ran a bubbling creek, with crystalline water leaping over smooth stones, and it was to this that Luin and Malin ran, laughing as they splashed into the water. Pippin looked toward Diamond, silently asking if they might join the twinlings.

"Finery has never stopped me from frolicking," she said. "If it is the same for you, then by all means let us go down into the water."

"I shall beat you there," said Pippin, and he broke into a run, running toward the place where the creek bent around a large stone. Diamond followed swiftly, and soon she outpaced him. She stepped into the creek, and as Pippin followed her, she dipped her hands into the water, throwing up an arc of sparkling drops. Pippin yelped in surprise as the droplets landed upon his cheeks and was pleasantly surprised to find that they were not cold, as he would have expected, only cool and rejuvenating.

"Beaten by a maiden hobbit!" Diamond laughed, and she flicked another splash towards him. "Or do they not teach you to exercise in the Shire?"

"They do not," said Pippin, "but I always have. Still I am quite impressed by your swiftness."

He smiled at her and bent down toward the water, cupping some in his hands and splashing it over his face. Then he raised some to his lips and drank, and Pippin found that it was the water that had been served to the company at the feast; it was sweet and somehow colder when he drank it.

"The tree gives life to the water," said Diamond, and she cast her gaze to the low-hanging branches, under which the twinlings played. "It is much like the tree in the White City, though that has long since passed. In all seasons, its flowers bloom, but only in winter does the Tree of Stars bear fruit. It is nearing spring, so the globes have withered, but still the elenorn is beautiful."

"Dia!" shouted Luin, who had climbed upon a stone and was trying to prevent Malin from doing the same. "Might we climb the tree, Dia?"

"You know the rule, Luin," Diamond called back. "It is not the doing of a prince to climb upon the elenorn. Atar would be most displeased."

"Ada shan't care," Malin said dismissively. "Or at least he will not be angry. Mama is the one who will shout at us."

"Then I suppose we ought to make sure she never hears of it," said Diamond. "Up you go, then, little ones, and don't you fall, or I shall never hear the end of it!"

Malin scrambled up behind his brother, nearly knocking Luin off the stone. Pippin laughed as the twinlings pulled themselves up into the branches, climbing as high as they could until they reached a limb that seemed impossibly thin. Both hobbit boys situated themselves upon it, looking down with identical grins.

"Come, Dia!" Luin called down. "You and Pip must climb also; we can see all of Long Cleeve from here!"

"Oh, why not," Diamond said, and she too pulled herself into the sweeping snowy branches. Pippin followed, knowing he could not climb as high as the twinlings had but hoping to go as far as he could; he had always loved grand views and wished to see this one.

When Pippin had climbed to the highest branch that could hold his weight he stopped, settling himself upon it. He had gotten higher than he had thought he would; the twinlings' small, silken-haired feet nearly brushed the top of his head. Diamond sat next to him, her fingers drumming upon the ivory wood, and at the thrust of her chin Pippin looked out across the landscape, his breath catching in his throat at the wondrous sight which greeted him.

The western side of Long Cleeve lay spread out below them, shining in the golden light and full of hobbits bustling about, most carrying spears and shields. Children played in the creek downstream, flicking water at each other with squeals of delight. Pippin thought of the joy of being a child in the Shire, waiting for Gandalf to arrive with his fireworks, Sam teaching Pippin to plant bulbs and Frodo showing him how to read, and Merry running with him through the long grass…

Far beyond the city were mountains shrouded in morning mist, and out in the marshes the creek joined what Pippin thought must be the Anduin, or at least a tributary of it. The sky was gloriously blue and the day was warm, especially for Solmath.

"It is lovely, is it not?" Diamond murmured. "Now you see what I fight for, Shire-child; what all of us hope to preserve in this War of the Ring."

"It is a beautiful land," Pippin said softly, and he looked to Diamond, watching the way the wind swept through her dark hair, the sheen of the light upon her circlet. "And with such a valiant lass to defend it."

"You flatter me," she said, though she smiled. "I hope that the Ring shall aid us in our quest for safety, though of course I know that, in the end, we must destroy it. Are you to come with Strider and I, Shire-child?"

"If I am not then they shall have to throw me in a sack and send me home," said Pippin. "I don't mean to leave you, Dia, even if you believe you need not my help, which, in all fairness, you may not—but as I have said, I should not like to be parted from you, nor from Strider."

"Pip seems to like you quite a lot, Dia," said Malin, swinging his legs as he sat upon the branch. Pippin startled; he had forgotten the twinlings were listening. He looked up at them; Malin wore a cheerful grin and a scion of blossoms tucked behind his ear, while Luin had snowy petals in his hair and a gaze sparkling with mischief.

"Before you can marry our sister you must have an alkaressa," Luin told Pippin. "Perhaps you shall get one on your quest."

"We have not yet talked of marriage, Luin," Diamond said primly, laughter flashing in her gaze. "If we ever do it shall not be anytime soon, and I need no husband to bear the Ring and save my people."

"Perhaps, lads," said Pippin, "I shall try and win her heart. Though I fear I shall need nothing less than the powers of Ilúvatar to do so."

"Your fear is not unfounded, Shire-child," laughed Diamond. "My heart is a wild thing and has not yet been tamed, and I do not intend for it to happen. You may try, though I doubt you shall succeed."

She slid from the branch, and Pippin watched her go, circlet glinting, skirt billowing in the midmorning breeze. He sighed as Diamond crested the hill and was out of sight. "I don't believe she likes me much, lads."

"That went fairly well," Malin reassured him. "Dia has turned down many hobbits and even the occasional hobbit-maid, none so kindly as you. Though I'd be more hopeful if she'd use your name."

A horn rang through the city, and Luin gasped. "Oh, Valar, it's nearly time for the bestowing! Come, Mal, Pip, we mustn't be late! What'll Mama say?"

"We've still got an hour!" Malin complained, but he followed Luin down through the branches, with Pippin close behind. When they reached the ground both twinlings took hold of one of Pippin's hands, and together they dashed through the streets, heading for the great hill that housed the palace.

So swiftly had they come that Diamond was just getting to the door. Pippin watched her go in, saw her lovely face pass into the recesses of the antechamber, and wondered what he must do to win her favor.

Her heart might have been untamed, but perhaps it did not need to be tamed at all, for Pippin was nothing if not a wild thing.

Shafts of light streamed through the window at the top of the throne room, tracing a circle upon the earthen floor. Pippin watched as Diamond knelt in the center of this, her head bowed. Honor stood before her, just in front of her throne. The queen of Long Cleeve was clothed in a flowing white gown, which draped off her shoulders and pooled around her feet in a cloud of silk. Her circlet, gleaming in the sunlight, was set upon her brow, and her cheeks were painted with silver symbols, one the star of Long Cleeve and the other a tree.

Valor too was dressed in white; he wore a tunic embroidered with ivory thread and a cloak that trailed behind him just as his wife's gown did. His circlet, a simple silver band, nestled in his sandy hair, and his face was marked with the same symbols as Honor's.

Beside the throne, the Evenstar gleaming on the soft gray folds of his tunic, stood Aragorn, his presence comforting like a tree in a windstorm. Pippin saw that he too had been given a circlet, a band like Valor's, and wore his elvin-cloak. Aragorn smiled as Pippin met his gaze, gray eyes nervously excited.

Pippin looked next to the other side of the throne, where all four of Diamond's siblings stood. There were the twinlings, dressed in cobalt and sunflower, Malin seemingly unable to keep still and Luin nudging his brother gently. Ruby wore a deep violet gown, much like her mother's, though it did not trail upon the floor; rather, it fell to her ankles. The bloodred jewel set into her circlet seemed to glow against her bronzed skin, and her face was set in a stoic expression. Majesty, standing beside his sister, wore a dark gray tunic and a cloak that looked to be made of a wolf's pelt. The jewel in his circlet was a shade of dark lavender, and his eyes twinkled as he looked upon his sister.

Pippin marveled at the splendor of the royal clothes; he had never seen such finery, not even in Rivendell in the house of Elrond. Suddenly his shirt and trousers seemed quite inadequate for the occasion, and he could feel Legolas, standing on his left, shifting uncomfortably; clearly the elf was unused to wearing anything less than the finest in such important company. Pippin wished he owned a scarf that looked less like a dishrag.

His thoughts were pulled from the raiment of his companions when a horn rang again through the city, its call deep and warm. When the sound had faded Honor descended the steps of her throne with Valor on her arm, the Ring glinting on its chain around her neck as she stepped into the light. Pippin gripped Merry's arm tightly, knowing his cousin was still shaky, and listened as Honor began to speak.

"Princess Diamond Firebringer Dellshore of Long Cleeve," said the queen, her voice echoing impressively through the hall. "You have come of age to take upon yourself the burden of our people: Reena-domë, the Edge of Night, the Shadow Incarnate, the Ring of Melkor. I, Queen Honor Soulreaper Dellshore, have borne it for thirty-four years, and I now see fit to pass it to you. Do you accept the Ring?"

"I do," Diamond replied, and Honor bowed her head. With a kiss upon her dark curls Valor took from Honor the golden chain, and turning to Diamond he hung it about her neck. She raised her eyes and looked to her father as Valor clasped her hands in his own, his periwinkle gaze filled with pain. He turned away and went back to stand beside his wife, who looked on Diamond with pride.

"You may stand, Ring-bearer," said Honor. "With your acceptance of the Ring comes also the acceptance of the quest, for Ilúvatar has spoken…The time to destroy the Ring of Melkor has come. But fear not, Firebringer, for you shall have companionship upon this the most desolate of quests. Strider shall be your guide; I can think of none more fitting to lead the quest than the future king of Gondor. His company shall journey with you, and you shall search for the Secret Fire. None know of its location, yet I feel certain that you will find it. There is not another hobbit or another man in Middle-earth whom I would trust with this quest. You may wait to depart until all injuries have healed, and then you shall set your course for Minas Tirith."

The queen placed a fisted hand upon her heart. "I wish you the speed of Ilúvatar."

She swept forward and out of the hall; the great doors swung shut behind her and Aragorn made a small noise in his throat as if to call out, then swallowed and said, "I should like to speak with the members of my company, if it be within my authority. Queen Honor has permitted me to hold a discussion here, and all may stay if they wish. Princess, do I have your permission to move forward?"

Diamond inclined her head. "You do, Strider, though I would advise you to be careful of what you say, as there are children present. Malin is in training to be a fallaner and it shall not do to have him prophesying of the end of the world."

At Aragorn's bewildered look Diamond sighed and elaborated. "The fallanae are our healers. Their numbers are few, and though any may volunteer to join them, most only do because they cannot bear to fight, for they see the future. Some are born to be fallanae, such as Atar and Malin. They read all of nature, and I ask you to speak not much of the war. It may provoke Malin's Gazing Eye."

"I'll be alright, Dia," said Malin, sitting cross-legged upon the earth. "Ada isn't worried about it, so I don't see any cause to be so. Say on, Strider! Let's hear about the quest!"

Luin sank down beside his twinling, linking his arm through Malin's and grinning up at Aragorn. Majesty joined his younger brothers, though Ruby did not deign to sit. Knowing Merry must need to sit down also, Pippin guided his cousin to the floor and listened as Aragorn began to speak.

"I am honored to embark upon this quest with such a company," said Aragorn. "I would not have chosen any others to accompany Diamond and I to Minas Tirith. The journey shall be long, a few weeks by foot, but we shall press on and find the Secret Fire. None know of its location, but before we leave I shall consult Valor for Ilúvatar's guidance."

"Let us come, Strider!" Luin burst out. "Malin has the Gazing Eye; he can speak to Ilúvatar for you, and I am going to be an ethir, a spy; I can help with—well, things of that sort! Please, Strider, let us come."

Aragorn stood still for a moment; he looked torn, and Pippin wondered if he thought about the Council of Elrond, where none had wanted to let Pippin come along. Usually he would have told Aragorn to let the young hobbits come, for he saw much of himself and Merry in them, but Luin and Malin were only fifteen years old. Even Pippin was nearing adulthood; the twinlings were nowhere close to it.

"They shan't be going," said Gimli, voicing Pippin's thoughts. "We have let young ones come along before, and look where that got us—a dark tower in Isengard, facing a mad wizard! Not to mention the whole business with that stone. I have half a mind to leave anyone not of age; they shall be safer in Long Cleeve."

"You mustn't leave me behind!" cried Pippin, springing to his feet; he had not expected anyone to raise the subject. "I've come this far and I'll go as far as I must, but don't leave me, Strider! I cannot sit by while the rest of the Fellowship is endangered!"

"Pippin," said Aragorn, smiling kindly. "You shall not be left behind. You have proven yourself to be a most excellent companion and a steadfast friend, as well as capable with a blade."

He turned to the twinlings. "However, my young friends, I am afraid I cannot allow you to go. I may be wrong, but I assume that you have never before undertaken such a journey, and I do not wish to put ones so young in such grave danger."

At Luin's pouting glare and Malin's wide, plaintive eyes, Aragorn added, "But I shall need you to carry out some tasks while we are away. I have spoken to your mother, and she has said that the forces of Long Cleeve shall come to the aid of Gondor, should we ever need it. I suspect that we will indeed require your aid, and so I must ask you to make ready as many healing supplies as possible, for the wounded we will certainly have when you arrive. We will require bandages, salves, and blankets, as well as ways to carry water. Anything else you may think necessary will be welcomed. Can you do that for me, your Highnesses?"

Both twinlings looked considerably happier; they nodded vigorously, and Malin said, "You may call us by our names, Strider; we don't outrank you now that you have a circlet, and even if we did I would think it silly."

Aragorn smiled. "Very well then, Malin, Luin. Thank you for your service."

He turned to the rest of the company. "We shall set out for Minas Tirith once all wounds in our company have healed—worry not, Merry, Gimli, for you shall not slow our travels. I myself must wait to depart. I will not ask much of you, my friends, but I ask that you be cautious, so that our company is not thrown into unnecessary danger. If it should come to pass, though—" here Aragorn placed his fist upon his heart— "if by my life or by my death I can protect you, I will."

He walked to the great doors, and pushing them open he turned and looked back on the company. "May the grace of Ilúvatar be with us all."

Chapter Text

ARAGORN

The library of Long Cleeve was illuminated by a single shaft of dim light, silvered by the clouds that had covered the sun in the hours since the bestowing. Aragorn wondered if Ilúvatar had sent the storm as a sign, a warning of the danger that awaited Middle-earth now that the Ring had passed to its new bearer.

He sat at a small table underneath the opening to the sky, a vast, leather-bound tome open in front of him. The title embossed upon its cover was The Rules of Reena-domë, and its dusty pages were open to a section labeled Winyanost. The text was written in Sindarin, the characters beautifully inked onto the pages. Aragorn wondered how such a lovely thing could speak of such dark power.

Winyanost. The word in the Common Speech was translated as new birth, and Aragorn knew that it was this for which he searched. He lowered his gaze to the page and began to read, hoping to commit the words to memory. He did not wish to take the book from the library, and he was not sure the queen would grant permission for him to do so.

The winyanost, or the Risen, is a being given new life by Reena-domë after an untimely passing. This is done through another willing being, one who wishes to give up a part of their soul for one dear to them. There are, of course, certain conditions to be met, and the dangers of giving life to the dead may far outweigh the lessening of grief.

Aragorn took a sheaf of thick, well-made paper from the corner of the desk, with a long white-and-gold quill to write upon it. He dipped the tip of the feather into the inkwell, transcribing the words in hopes that he could take them with him, for he knew they would be critical for the quest; or, at least, for Aragorn…

Very seldom do any give their soul to the Ring; it has been done only thrice in the history of Long Cleeve. The first occurrence was the raising of consort Vigil Riverflame in S.A. 1019, and the second took place in the Third Age in the year 628. The last known soul-giving was performed by Queen Honor Soulreaper in T.A. 3011 for the raising of her crown princess, Diamond Firebringer. All soul-givings were carried out by the current bearer of Reena-domë, and all resulted in blood-soaked vengeance from the Ring, which drove each queen to madness so that they slew much of the royal family.

Many have studied the Ring, and many have failed to prevent the madness that comes with rending one's soul. Fallanae, who cannot be swayed by the instrument of darkness, theorize that perhaps the soul-givers' proximity to the Ring may have contributed to their reliance upon it; however, none have yet been willing to take it upon themselves for fear of breaking the line of succession.

The rending of one's soul, if carried out, is immensely painful, as the soul-giver is tearing a piece of herself from the whole and giving it forcibly to another. The soul-giver shall take upon herself the scars of the dead, and though the wounds shall not harm her, she shall carry the scars for the remainder of her days.

The winyanost's life force, once risen, is tied to the Ring and to their soul-giver. When either of these are destroyed, the winyanost shall pass also, often within moments. It is a terrible, painful end, and one that should not be thrust upon any creature in Middle-earth. Nothing is known of the fate that befalls the soul-giver if the Ring is destroyed, though one might assume that the soul-giver shall perish also, as the Ring has command over half her soul.

But if the giving of life-breath is still desired, then the soul-giver shall speak these words by moonlight and take life itself into her hands: She shall speak her name, and that of her mother, and offer her soul to Reena-domë. She shall utter the name of the dead and that of her mother, and take upon herself the scars of the dead, and give to her new life-breath. This oath she shall seal with blood, and the dead shall return, clothed in white and alive as she ever was.

Beware of this fearsome, dangerous magic; it shall rend your soul until nothing remains, and you shall lose yourself in the darkness of the Ring, from whence none can return…

Aragorn drove the quill across the paper with a flourish, and he took the paper in his hand and rolled it into a scroll, stowing it safely inside his cloak. This was all he needed.

Soon, Boromir would live again.

Aragorn took the athelas from his pouch; he held it up so that Pippin could see. "Athelas, Pippin. It is the most versatile of the healing plants of Middle-earth and can also be eaten in times of little sustenance. It is this I used on Merry's wound."

He put the leaves into his mouth and chewed it, his gaze flicking around the healing chamber of Long Cleeve as he did so. Aragorn knelt beside Merry's bed, which was small, soft, and white, and several other beds with the same coverings stood at regular intervals against the wall. The skylights had sheer, pale green cloth hung beneath them, so that the clouded light that streamed through the openings was tinted and soothing. Valor sat in a great chair on the far side of the room, sorting herbs and placing them in baskets; Aragorn could feel the fallan's gaze on him as both worked.

"If there should be a time when I cannot provide you with healing, Pippin," said Aragorn around the leaves, "you must learn how to use athelas."

He took the leaves from his mouth and dabbed the pulp gently upon Merry's uncovered wound. The gash looked much better; the infection at least seemed to be gone, for it was no longer scarlet at the edges, nor was there any discharge to be seen. Still the wound was wide and gaping, and Aragorn applied the salve liberally, then bound the wound with a bandage of white cloth.

"I have discovered a strange thing about athelas in the course of my travels," Aragorn said, almost to himself. "The leaf, when chewed, seems to become more potent with the lifespan of the healer making it. That is to say that salve made by an elf would be stronger than that made by a man, with the salve of a Dúnedain or a dwarf falling somewhere between them. I do not understand it, but it is certainly useful to remember."

"Can you eat the roots, Strider?" Pippin asked. "Like taters, I suppose? For it should be disappointing if all of athelas you could eat were the leaves."

"You can certainly eat the roots," Aragorn told him. "I have found that they make a remarkably good stew, especially when simmered with rabbit. I shall have to make it for you sometime."

"Can you use all of the shoot?" Merry inquired. "So far we know of the leaves and of the roots, but what of the stalk? And the flowers; I know that they bloom in the spring."

"The stalk I often cut for eating," said Aragorn. "But the aloe inside can be used for a sort of ointment; it does wonders for small burns. I am glad that you asked about the flowers, Merry, for they are the most potent part of athelas. The nectar is used for strong tea which can help heal many internal wounds, and the petals are all that will work on those burns which turn the flesh black and white. They are considered a delicacy to the elves, which astounds me, for they are so hard to come by that I believe they should be harvested only for medicine. Nevertheless I shall admit to having baked pastries that include the flowers, usually for Elrond."

"What sort of pastries?" Pippin's eyes twinkled.

"Chocolate squares, Pippin, those soft brown ones, and I drizzle them with the nectar of the athelas flower."

"When this is all over I should like you to make those," said Pippin. "Even being the son of the Thain of the Shire I have only had them once or twice in my life. At home we call them brownies; they sound like they would be marvelous with athelas nectar."

"Brownies." The word felt foreign and warm on Aragorn's tongue. "What a peculiar name. Although I suppose it is to be expected; hobbits seem to have the strangest and yet most lovely names for things. I wish I were more learned in the ways of hobbitry."

"They can be learned," said Merry, and sitting up he smiled at Aragorn. "Boromir knew much of our ways; he looked forward to the time when he could come to the Shire and see it all play out." A shadow of sorrow crossed his face. "It saddens me to think that he shall never see it."

Both Merry and Pippin hung their heads, gazing at the ground, and Aragorn's heart seemed to break a little at the sight of their sorrow.

"We shall offer a tribute to him," he said. "It is the least we can do, especially when we consider that you were not there to bid him farewell when we gave him to Anduin. Come, my friends; we shall fetch Legolas and Gimli and go down to the elenorn."

The hobbits got to their feet, their footsteps pattering behind Aragorn as he led them out of the healing chamber. He looked back to see Valor's gaze upon them, filled with some unreadable emotion, and wondered if the fallan saw beyond, saw what Aragorn wished to do for Boromir…but no, surely not even Valor's Gazing Eye was so powerful as to see that specific future…

A light rain fell outside the palace, and Aragorn saw Legolas and Gimli underneath a tree wreathed in a haze of green. He beckoned the elf and the dwarf, and they stood. Legolas cocked his head questioningly, and Aragorn said, "We go to let the hobbits pay their respects to Boromir. I hope it shall lessen a portion of their grief."

Legolas nodded, and together they walked silently over the crest of the hill and down to the elenorn. The bank of the creek was soft and muddy under Aragorn's boots, and shoots of new grass peeked through the earth. He knelt down upon the bank, looking into the water and imagining for a moment that he saw Boromir's face therein.

Pippin reached up and plucked a white blossom from the elenorn; he took one then for Merry and passed another to Aragorn. Legolas took one for himself and for Gimli, and Aragorn watched as the hobbits placed the blossoms into the creek. The water did not move swiftly, and so the snowy clusters of petals went slowly away from them. Aragorn tipped his blossom into the water; he watched it float serenely away, followed by those of Legolas and Gimli.

"Shall we sing for him?" Legolas asked. "As we did when we let him go?"

"We must," said Aragorn. "I pray that we shall remember the words."

He drew Pippin and Merry both against his sides, hoping to comfort them as Legolas began to sing.

"Through Rohan over fen and field where the long grass grows,
The West Wind comes walking, and about the walls it goes.
'What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you bring to me tonight?
Have you seen Boromir the Tall by moon or by starlight?'
'I saw him ride over seven streams, over waters wide and grey.
I saw him walk in empty lands, until he passed away
Into the shadows of the North. I saw him then no more.
The North Wind may have heard the horn of the son of Denethor.'
'O Boromir! From the high walls westward I looked afar,
But you came not from the empty lands where no men are.'"

Aragorn took up the song now, his voice lilting through the mournful tune as his eyes began suddenly to burn with tears.

"From the mouths of the sea the South Wind flies, from the sandhills and the stones;
The wailing of the gulls it hears, and at the gate it moans.
'What news from the South, O sighing wind, do you bring to me at eve?
Where now is Boromir the fair? He tarries and I grieve!'
'Ask me not of where he doth dwell—so many bones there lie
On the white shores and the dark shores under the stormy sky;
So many have passed down Anduin to find the flowing Sea.
Ask of the North Wind news of them the North Wind sends to me!'
'O Boromir! Beyond the gate the seaward road runs south,
But you came not with the wailing gulls from the grey sea's mouth.'"

Legolas sang now again, and Aragorn tightened his arm around Pippin as the young hobbit began to cry, silent tears dampening Aragorn's tunic.

"From the Gate of Kings the North Wind rides, and past the roaring falls;
And clear and cold about the tower its loud horn calls.
'What news from the North, O mighty wind, do you bring to me today?
What news of Boromir the Bold? For he is long away.'
'Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he fought.
His cloven shield, his broken sword, they to the water brought.
His head so proud, his face so fair, his limbs they laid to rest;
And Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, bore him upon its breast.'
'O Boromir! The Tower of Guard shall ever northward gaze
To Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days."

They had ended the song there, and Aragorn was fully prepared to let the tune fade into the rainy sky. Yet some inner light seemed to have kindled within him, as it had the day they gave Boromir to Anduin, and so he sang a final verse.

"The East Wind cried a mournful tune; she sang as she passed by,
And stirred the river so it leaped against the dawning sky,
Great Anduin bore him long away, his heart and breath were stilled,
And sorrow took the hearts of men, and crevices it filled.
Forget him not, O little ones, though grief your souls may rend,
Ilúvatar doth see your trial, and all things shall he mend.
'Fair Boromir was strong and true, and clear and swift of mind,'
The East Wind sang to all his kin and those he left behind.
For he was Boromir the Kind, until the bitter end,
And he shall watch through end of days until we meet again."

He wept now, for all that was, for all that could have been, and vowed that he would not let any of them suffer any longer. Once they had departed, once the quest was underway, he would give to Boromir new life-breath.

Aragorn knew the danger. He knew the pain it would cause him.

And he cared not.

For there were some for whom he would give up his soul, and Boromir son of Denethor was one of them.

PEREGRIN

Pippin lay curled in his bed, reveling in the softness of the pillow. His sleeping chamber was small, hobbit sized of course, but it was beautifully decorated and very warm. He pulled the blankets up to his chin and drew his knees into his chest, closing his eyes.

He dreamed of white blossoms drifting down the stream, the spray it threw up sparkling in the moonlight. A song floated on the wind, the tones of the lament for Boromir hanging, ethereal, in the darkened sky. The night was lovely and sad, and Pippin felt the weight of grief in his chest.

He seemed to be walking now, though he was still deep in the trance of slumber. Where did his feet carry him now? Pippin did not often sleepwalk. He knew something tugged at him, at his sleeping mind, but he could not fathom what it might be…

The door, whichever door it might be, was unlocked; Pippin put his hand upon the knob and it turned. In the pack on the little table was a gleam of darkened glory, and Pippin took the stone into his hands and cradled it, basking in the warmth that should have seared his palm but instead filled him with a pleasant light.

But the light turned sharply and fiercely to shadow, and Pippin saw the stream run red as the sun rose over a blackened land. The sky was a pale reddish-brown, and the wind blew through brittle trees and stirred dust up into little swirls. In the west stood a great black tower, and Pippin shivered as he saw that it was Orthanc.

He felt again iron bands upon his hands and feet, and he knew that he stood in a line of hobbits bound just as he was, strung together with chains and marching forlornly toward Orthanc. Merry was in front of Pippin, his chin thrust out bravely, but Pippin saw his cousin's hands trembling.

"Now you see!" shouted the old man from Pippin's first vision. "Now you see the futility of standing against the might of Sauron, you see what trust you placed in a doomed king!"

To his horror Pippin saw Aragorn beside the old man, and about his neck was a dark iron collar. His hair whipped about his bloody face, and his hands were bound with coarse rope. This alone broke Pippin's heart, and then he saw Boromir and his brother Faramir standing behind Aragorn. They too had iron bands about their necks, with chains running from them. The old man held these chains, keeping them cruelly taut, and Faramir began to gasp for breath.

"Father!" Boromir begged, grasping his brother's chain and pulling it in the opposite direction to ease the pressure on Faramir's throat. "He has not angered you!"

The old man only laughed, and he took the chain of Boromir and pulled it sharply towards him. Boromir fell, and Aragorn moved as if to help, but his chain was held by the servant of Saruman, and he could only say, "My Lord Denethor, they are your sons—"

Wormtongue drove his boot into the back of Aragorn's knee, and the king fell also as Wormtongue spoke. "He has ceased to call them his sons, fool; they would do well to know their place. As would you."

"Father," cried Boromir as Faramir fought for breath. "Stop it, I beg of you; Faramir cannot remain like this—"

"You are no son of mine, boy," Denethor laughed, and he let go of the chain. Boromir crawled to his younger brother's side, holding Faramir tightly as the old man hissed, "I know not what you think calling me Father shall do, for it shall not sway my heart; I have cast you off and no longer call myself your sire."

"Even so I thought you might find some sort of human kindness," Boromir spat, and standing he pulled Faramir up beside him. "You will never be king, you foul beast, and you will not take from Aragorn what is his! The king of Gondor shall rise again; this I know, and you will be nothing before him—"

Denethor moved suddenly, and with his free hand he struck Boromir hard across the face. Boromir flinched; his face screwed up into a grimace of pain, but he did not stumble, nor did he fall, and though his cheek turned swiftly scarlet he looked on Denethor with an expression of utmost contempt.

"It is you," said Denethor, "who are nothing."

He took up the chains again, and thrusting them into Wormtongue's hands he snapped, "Give to me Strider's chain; I wish to show the usurper to Sauron myself."

Wormtongue handed the chain to the old man, and Faramir said fiercely, "You will not speak of Aragorn that way, Denethor. Our family are the usurpers; we have taken the stewardship from the High Kings of Númenor, and the time has come to return it to Isildur's heir."

"You are an insignificant fool, second-born," Denethor snapped. "We did not take the stewardship, we saved it when all would have fallen into ruin, and the throne is mine not by blood but by honor where the Númenorean kings had none. It is mine and mine alone; I had hoped it would be Boromir's one day, but it seems that shall not come to pass."

He jerked the end of Aragorn's chain, and the Ranger stumbled forward. With a thrust of his chin Denethor beckoned the hobbits forward, and Pippin stumbled, nearly falling as the great throng surged around him. He was aware of his feet aching, and he wondered how long the hobbits had marched and where they were going.

Then suddenly the scene changed, and Pippin saw the white city again, only now it was crumbling before his eyes, great chunks of stone plummeting down into the streets as flame licked at the ivory towers. Pippin felt sharp rocky edges digging into his shoulders and back, and something warm and wet trickled over his brow. Was he bleeding? What had happened to the white city?

"Pippin!" called a voice. "Pippin, can you hear me?"

He could not let go of the stone. When had he started holding it? When had he taken the globe of light into his hands?

"Pippin, give me the stone!"

Aragorn. He was afraid; Pippin could hear it in his voice. Why was Aragorn afraid? Surely it was not the fault of the stone; it was such a pretty bright thing...

Then the shadow lunged, and Pippin cried out, a jolt of fear shooting through his heart. Always the shadow came from nothing, seizing him and sinking its horrible teeth into his soul. Pippin wanted it to go away; he wanted Aragorn to rip it from him—

Suddenly, the stone was pulled from his grasp, and Pippin's knees went weak. He fell to the earthen floor of the chamber he now realized was Aragorn's, his head swimming as several voices began to speak.

Aragorn leaned over Pippin, his face worried. He held the stone wrapped in a blanket, and his hair was mussed from sleep. Valor was beside him, looking stunned, and to Pippin's surprise, Malin clung to his father's leg, trembling.

Valor sighed. "I feared it was so."

Pippin sat upon a soft armchair in a small circular room, watching Valor pull large, heavy leather-bound tomes from the walls. He wondered if this was the consort's personal study; it certainly seemed sized for the work of one hobbit.

Upon a round table in the center of the room sat the stone, with a white cloth cast over it to hide its dark glass. Pippin saw Valor's gaze flick toward it and found it hard to keep his own away from the spherical swell in the cloth.

Aragorn knelt beside the fire, tending to the athelas leaves which steeped in a little cauldron. Malin curled on the chair beside Pippin, still shaking. Pippin put an arm about him, and the younger hobbit buried his face in Pippin's nightclothes.

"If you would bring the tea, Strider," said Valor softly as he sat at the table. Aragorn dipped his head, taking four clay cups from the mantel and ladling a pale green liquid into them. Gently he pushed one into Pippin's hands and another into Malin's, then set the third in front of Valor and sat beside the fire with his own.

"As I said," Valor began, nodding to Aragorn in thanks, "this is a thing that I feared. I felt the presence of the stone when you arrived, but I shall confess that I did not believe that you could possibly have it in your possession; after all the palantíri have been lost for many years. Still I could feel it calling to me, though I had hoped it would not pull me to it as it did tonight."

"But what is it?" Pippin asked, and he took a sip of his tea. He found the drink pleasantly warm and calming, and it soothed his troubled mind as he looked at Valor with a slight tilt to his head.

"This, Master Pippin, is a palantír," said Valor. "It is a seeing-stone; it shows a select few of us the clouded paths of the future. Most especially it calls to those of us who have the Gazing Eye, including myself and Malin. I am glad that the other fallanae do not possess the sight that we do, or it would have called many more of us to Strider's chamber."

"Then is it not required to have the Gazing Eye to become a fallan?" Aragorn asked.

"No, Strider," said Valor. "In fact most of us do not have it; it is such a rare gift and tends to run in certain lines. Even when there are twinlings or neldlings born only one of them will have the Gaze. Of course, that was proven untrue when Queen Glory Blademoon discovered that both I and my brother had been blessed with the gift. But rest assured that you need not have the Gaze to become a healer of our people. You would still make a wonderful fallan, Strider."

"But I do not have the Gazing Eye," Pippin insisted. "Not that I know of at least; I never got any visions before I had the stone. Why then does it tempt me so?"

"I have my suspicions." Valor folded his hands, and he looked at Pippin with his dusk-colored gaze. "But first I shall need to know how you came by the palantír."

"When we departed Orthanc and battled Saruman," said Aragorn, "his servant threw the stone down from the tower. He meant the blow for me, but Pippin thrust it out of the way. Saruman was afraid, though I knew not why, and after Diamond slit the wizard's throat Pippin picked up the stone. Ever since it has called to him and shown him frightful visions. None of our company save Pippin can touch the stone; it burns all who come into contact with it."

Valor's eyes seemed full of ancient fear. "Does it speak to you, Pippin?"

"It does," Pippin said. "It talks to me of embracing the shadow and of all the things I could do if only I accepted it. Why does the stone do this, Valor? It frightens me."

Valor sighed heavily, looking down at the tome beneath him as he opened it with a cloud of dust to a long-forgotten page. "I do not wish to frighten you further, my boy, but it appears that this is more serious than I had thought. I had believed that perhaps you possessed an undiscovered Gazing Eye, one that was awakened by the presence of such a powerful magical object, but it seems that this is of a…a different nature, shall we say."

He ran a finger over the page, scanning the Elvish words that Pippin could not read. "Pippin, I am afraid that the palantír has claimed you."

"Claimed him?" asked Aragorn even as Pippin felt a pang of fear run through him. "How do you mean, Valor? How can the stone—the palantír have claimed him?"

"He was the first to lay hands on it after its previous bearer had been slain," said Valor. "The burning of all others who touch it is a sure sign that Pippin is the only one who is meant to hold the seeing-stone. As one who has the Gaze, I may also touch the palantíri, but they have a much more powerful hold on me than they would on one who does not have that gift. I shall confess that more often than not I consider the Gaze a curse…but you need not be concerned with that now. My point is that, as Pippin is the only one who may touch the palantír, the stone has claimed him as its guardian: its vahka 'en heledh."

He looked on Pippin with something like sorrow in his eyes. "Pippin, the guardian has two choices when faced with a claim. You cannot cast it aside or give up the responsibility; you must either give into its power and serve the shadow, or you must destroy it."

"That can be arranged," said Aragorn before Pippin could even register the shock of Valor's words. "We are traveling to the Secret Fire; let that suffice for the destruction of the palantír."

"It will suffice," Valor agreed. "But it is a dangerous undertaking, for although I am not certain, I would hazard a guess at the fact that Sauron himself sees through the palantír. For that seems to me the only reason he would leave the seeing-stone with Saruman."

"Oh, Valar!" cried Pippin suddenly, springing up from the armchair. Malin had fallen asleep and so slumped onto the cushion, still peacefully unaware as Pippin turned to face Aragorn. "Strider, the stone was in the room when Saruman—when he asked me about Frodo and Sam! And I told him; I told him everything and now Sauron shall know all that I do, and I have touched the stone and he has seen me—"

"We must leave Long Cleeve at once!" exclaimed Aragorn, and he too stood swiftly, but Valor's steadfast voice cut through the panic.

"Strider," said the consort. "You need not fear. I assure you that you are well protected here; the army of Long Cleeve shall fight to defend you to the death, for that is the order that Honor has given them. And I understand that you have confessed to Saruman, Pippin, but surely if Sauron knew all that you had told the wizard he would have been here already. Diamond has told me of your cousin's quest with the One Ring, and if Sauron knew of that also he would have slain much of Middle-earth by now. I think we can safely assume that the Dark Lord does not know of anything that you spoke of in the presence of Saruman."

"And yet while we stay we bring danger upon your people," Aragorn argued. "We must not remain here any longer now that Sauron has seen into Long Cleeve. Please, Valor, wake the queen; I shall go to warn my company. We must depart."

Valor nodded. "I understand your haste. I shall go and wake Honor and the children, and I will consult the stars before you depart. It is earlier than I should have liked; after all some of you are still healing, but I shall send you with medicine."

He shook Malin gently, waking the little hobbit, and taking his son's hand Valor slipped through the door and hurried away down the corridor. Pippin followed them, and Aragorn took up the palantír, carrying it swiftly back toward his sleeping chamber.

Pippin burst into his own quarters and gathered his few things, putting his day clothes on and putting his combs and kerchief into his pockets. He clasped the brooch of his cloak, hoisted his pack onto his shoulders, and hurried out of the bedchamber. His steps took him to the entrance hall of the palace, where Malin and Luin stood, identical little pouts on their faces. Pippin nearly laughed; clearly the twinlings had not expected the company to leave so soon.

After some time the others arrived; Aragorn led Legolas, Gimli, and Merry into the hall, and then Queen Honor swept in behind them, Valor hurrying in her wake with several parcels. Diamond followed, the Ring glowing golden against her cloak, and Ruby and Majesty came also in their livery.

"Fellowship of Reena-domë," said Honor, her voice echoing in the hall. "I regret that you must depart so quickly. It has been my privilege to meet you, and I wish that our time together had not been so short. Still I wish you the best in your travels, and I pledge to offer you help whenever you stand in need of it. Send a messenger, wherever in Middle-earth you may be, and Long Cleeve shall answer."

She clasped a fist and laid it over her heart. "I pray that we shall meet again."

Then Honor went forth and embraced Diamond, and Valor joined her after a few moments. Pippin could see that the consort wept, his eyes fearful. Next Diamond's siblings said their goodbyes, and it tore at Pippin's heart to see the sorrowing twinlings, who flung their arms about Diamond's waist and refused to let go.

Pippin thanked the queen for her hospitality and then ruffled the hair of both twinlings, assuring them that he would return to see them after the war was through, though he hoped it would be sooner. After this he found himself facing Valor, who to Pippin's surprise embraced him.

"Do not fear the shadow," Valor whispered. "There is more light in your soul than you know, much more so than the darkness…You need not fear your path."

"How do you know?" asked Pippin; his voice sounded small and childish.

Valor pulled back, and he smiled, the weight of a thousand years contained in his face. "There are things I see, my boy, that you do not, and the goodness of your soul is one of them."

He placed a fist upon his chest. "Take care of my daughter, Pippin, though she will not thank you for it. She will need more protection from the Ring than she knows, and I have seen your paths intertwined in the stars."

Pippin returned the salute, mustering a smile. "On my honor, my lord."

All of his goodbyes were now said, and Pippin moved to stand beside Merry as Valor spoke to Aragorn in a hushed whisper. Pippin strained to listen, wondering if Valor had seen more in the stars than he had said.

"Guard your soul, Strider," said Valor. "Do not let the shadow claim it, for your path is shrouded in the mists of Reena-domë."

"Then is this not right?" Aragorn asked, his tone hushed.

"Right, Strider? Your choice may yet save Middle-earth," Valor said. "You have much to fear, and yet I believe that there shall be a light at the end of your road. Be cautious, Strider, but be strong, and when we meet again you shall be king."

Then the hobbit embraced Aragorn, and when they both pulled back Pippin thought he saw tears shining in the Ranger's eyes, but the gleam of emotion was gone as Aragorn turned and stepped through the circular door. Pippin followed, falling into step beside Merry, and the moon shone silver upon the grass of Long Cleeve as the company set out.

So it was that the Fellowship departed from Long Cleeve, and a greater quest than they had ever known began.

ARAGORN

Aragorn lay on his back on the earth, gazing into the sky. Stars flamed silver beyond the dark branches of the trees, and the crescent moon swung low on the horizon, a great sickle reaping the dust of stars. The rest of the Fellowship lay asleep, and Aragorn decided that the time had come.

He rose, heart suddenly thumping so quickly that he thought it might burst forth from his chest. His pack he slung over his shoulders, not wanting to leave it with the sleeping Pippin. Aragorn did not wish to think of what might happen if the palantír called Pippin to it in the middle of the summoning.

Diamond lay near Merry and Pippin, her breathing even and deep. The Ring shone golden even in the moonlight, it and the fine chain it rested on gleaming enticingly. As Aragorn stepped softly toward her he told himself that he did not wish to have the Ring; he only wished to hold it for as long as it took to complete the summoning, only to save his people…

No, whispered his conscience. You wish it to quench your sorrow…

Aragorn knelt beside Diamond, and reaching for the chain, much of which lay upon the ground, he unclasped it and lifted the Ring. Though it knew no fire it shone with glowing Elvish letters, and Aragorn read them, having never been close enough to do so before.

er korma a' tela sen ilya

One Ring to end them all.

Perhaps the One Ring could rule all of Middle-earth, but the Ring of Melkor could end it and all that the people of the land knew. This Ring was more powerful than any other object in Middle-earth, and here it hung, twinkling in the moonlight in Aragorn's hand.

He held the chain in trembling fingers, somehow unwilling to touch Reena-domë itself. He supposed that was a good thing, not to want it…and yet Boromir too had only wanted the One Ring for a little while…

Aragorn steered his mind away from these thoughts, striding quietly into the trees. He would need to be far away from the camp; he did not wish to endanger the company should the summoning go badly.

He walked for perhaps a quarter of an hour, then stopped and looked back; he could not see the camp anymore and so thought he had gone far enough. Aragorn now stood in a wide clearing; the moon was bright, though the shadows were deep. The paper with the words of the ritual he took from his pouch, and he read them, hoping not to stumble over them for fear that he would not succeed. He was shaking violently now, and he lifted the Ring, his lips moving in a swift, silent prayer to Ilúvatar.

Then, his voice trembling but his heart certain, Aragorn spoke.

"I, Aragorn, son of Gilraen and High King Elessar of Gondor, call upon the spirit of Boromir, son of Finduilas, and bid that life-breath return to him. For this I give my soul and take upon myself his scars, that he might live again."

He breathed deeply, tremulously, and then Aragorn put on the Ring.

All at once golden light struck him, but it was shot through with scarlet, and he was drowning in the blood of Boromir, and he heard the terrified wails of Merry and Pippin and the dark growling of the Uruk-hai. Aragorn saw it too; the horn of Gondor shone white and gold in the late afternoon, and it resonated with a deep, blaring call as Boromir blew into it.

He saw the flight of the arrows, three wicked black projectiles, and then a pain more horrible than anything he had ever felt pierced Aragorn's chest. Three searing, fiery wounds penetrated the skin, struck his heart, and Aragorn dropped to his knees, though he knew they were not real, and wondered how Boromir had borne this even for a few final moments…

Then suddenly, he saw things that he remembered from his service in Gondor thirty years ago: a pale-haired infant, wrapped in a soft white blanket, with his small face screwed up in a wail. Aragorn watched his younger self take the infant Boromir into his arms—how old had he been, thirty years ago? Fifty-seven; no, fifty-eight, still very young in the reckoning of the Dúnedain. Denethor had nearly cried with joy at the sight of his newborn son, and after she and her husband had time with him the lady Finduilas had given Boromir to Aragorn to hold. He had marveled at the baby's tiny hands, which clutched Aragorn's finger as though it were all that mattered in the world, and the wide gray eyes that eventually opened and woke some paternal instinct in Aragorn's heart, one that he had not known he had.

Now the infant was a small child, toddling down the corridors of the Citadel, and Aragorn saw himself again, looking more well-groomed than he ever did now. He swept the young Boromir onto his shoulders, and the boy laughed, wrapping his arms around the crown of Aragorn's head.

The scene shifted again, and Boromir was no longer a toddler, but still a child with his oversized tunic and slender frame. He clasped the hand of a much smaller boy, one with lighter hair and rain-colored eyes, and Aragorn knew that this was Faramir. A look of pure and sudden sorrow had overtaken Boromir's youthful features as he and Faramir ran across the grounds outside the Citadel while a mournful bell tolled somewhere nearby. Was this the death of Finduilas? Aragorn had not been there when it happened; he had departed for Rivendell, but he knew that he felt Boromir's pain now, for the wounds in his chest seared with white-hot light. Aragorn cried out and shrank from the pain, his chest caving in as the visions came harder, faster…

Boromir, a young man now, was shouting at his father, and Faramir cowered behind him, shaking and bleeding from his brow. Denethor pushed his older son aside and stormed from the room, and Aragorn watched as Boromir took Faramir into his arms, holding his brother tightly.

Now Boromir looked as he had when Aragorn had known him, and he rode across a wild moor, rain lashing against his face. Perhaps this was when had left for Rivendell.

Boromir now swung his sword, and Merry and Pippin shouted in delight and parried his thrusts. He let the hobbits push him to the ground, laughing with them…and now he carried them through the snow on Caradhras, shivering yet steadfast…now he leapt over the abyss in Moria, determination etched upon his dust-streaked face, and landed hard and painfully, but it mattered not, for the little ones were safe…

And now the Fellowship stood in Lothlorien, and Galadriel looked upon Boromir with sorrow and grave premonition. Suddenly the pain consumed Aragorn as Boromir was overwhelmed with guilt and grief, and he cried out again, blinded by the horrible agony of the wounds…he would not survive the summoning, that much was clear…

But suddenly the pain left him; Aragorn was left hunched over, tremors running through his body, and he wrenched the Ring from his finger, dropping it with shaking hands onto the ground. For a few moments he was unable to do more than breathe deeply and try not to sob with the lingering agony, and then Aragorn felt them: two hands upon his shoulders, and a voice that cried, "Aragorn! Whatever is the matter? Why are you so frightened?"

He looked up, and there was the face he had longed to see more than any other: strong jaw, dark golden hair and beard, wide, searching storm-colored eyes. The winyanost was dressed in a flowing tunic of pure white, and his expression was worried and kind, exactly as it had been before he had departed the earth.

"Boromir," Aragorn choked, and now all he could do was weep. He clasped his arms around Boromir's shoulders, his fingers bunching the fabric of the white tunic, and Boromir returned the embrace, clutching Aragorn just as he had Faramir. Suddenly the pain did not matter, though Aragorn knew that he would have scars now; all that mattered was that Boromir had returned.

"I shall never let you go again," Aragorn whispered, his face still buried in Boromir's shoulder. "We missed you so, my friend; all has felt shadowed and dim without you. Now I feel more joy than I can say, for I feared that I should never behold your face again, but we are here and you have returned."

"I hardly believe it myself," said Boromir. "I remember but a little of what it was like to be a spirit. All I know is that I was compelled to come to you twice: once when Pippin was nearly pulled into the shadow and once when you would have perished in the Entwash."

"It was you?" Aragorn cried. "I knew someone had pulled me from the water, but I saw no one. Now I understand, and I thank you for it, for I surely would have perished, and nothing would have gone as well as it has."

He retreated from the embrace and took Boromir's face in his hands, leaning his forehead against the younger man's. "All seems right in Middle-earth tonight, my friend. I feel as though our Fellowship could accomplish anything."

"I am sorry I did not call for you in time," said Boromir, and his voice broke. "If I had wound the horn earlier Merry and Pippin might have been saved from the wrath of Saruman. I know that they are safe now, but surely they must have suffered greatly at the wizard's hands."

"All are safe and well, Boromir," Aragorn reassured him. "And there are some that you have yet to meet; we have begun a new quest, and it is only through it that you have returned."

Boromir sitting back tilted his head. "What is this new quest? And you shall have to tell me how it is that I have come back; all I remember is some conviction that I had not departed Middle-earth forever. I must confess that I am utterly in the dark about all you have done."

Aragorn laughed, and it felt as if it were the first true sound of joy that issued from his mouth since Boromir's death. "Oh, Boromir, my friend, we have much to speak about."

Boromir smiled. "Very well, then, my king. Speak, and I shall listen."

Chapter Text

PEREGRIN

The first rays of the dawning sun streamed between the trees, and Pippin came awake, his mouth stretching wide in a yawn. He looked up from where he lay beside Merry, vaguely seeing two blurred figures kneeling upon the ground on the other side of the clearing. One was Aragorn, that much was clear, but he did not know the other, for it was too broad to be Legolas and too tall to be Gimli.

Pippin looked more carefully, and bewilderment overtook his thoughts; he realized that he did know the man kneeling beside Aragorn. He did not understand how this could be, for his eyes seemed to be lying to him, though his heart proclaimed his sight true. He stood and looked to Aragorn, tilting his head, his chest suddenly tight.

"I don't understand, Strider," Pippin said, his throat dry. Both men turned and looked, and Pippin beheld eerily similar gray eyes.

Aragorn smiled. "You need not understand, Pippin, nor do you need to sorrow any longer. He is truly here."

Pippin looked to the other man, and he felt his eyes fill with tears. "Boromir?"

"Pippin," said Boromir, his voice breaking, and he spread his arms. Pippin was frozen for a moment, and then he stepped forward, stumbling on his tired legs. Then he went farther, faster, and he ran to Boromir, thrusting himself into the man's arms. Boromir nearly fell, but there he remained, steadfast, as Pippin began to weep.

"I missed you, little one." Boromir's breath was soft against Pippin's cheek, his voice husky and broken. "I shall never regret anything more than I do not being able to stand for you until the end."

Pippin's hands clenched the back of Boromir's white tunic; all he could do was put all of his being into the embrace, his tears soaking into the man's chest. "I thought I should never see you again."

"I had hoped we would meet once more," said Boromir. "I cannot tell you the joy I feel at seeing you again, my little one. My last thoughts were of you and Merry; I felt such fear for you that I believed I could defeat every Uruk-hai that came against me. I am sorry I did not…that I could not protect you…"

Suddenly Boromir began to shake, his breath coming in sobs, and Pippin pressed his cheek more firmly into Boromir's chest, whispering, "No, Boromir; you did all that you could and more."

"I shall never leave you again." Boromir's voice was fierce, though he still wept, and he took Pippin's face in his hands and kissed his brow. "Never, my little warrior."

"You never did," Pippin said, and he smiled and brushed the tears from Boromir's face.

"Shire-child?"

Pippin looked up to see Diamond, standing against the sun. The light turned her wild hair to a halo of gold, and Pippin was once again struck by her beauty as she said, "Is this the brother you spoke of?"

"It is," Pippin told her. "This is Boromir Captain of Gondor, my brother and guardian against all evil."

Boromir's sobs returned in full force; Aragorn put a hand upon his shoulder. Pippin gently pried himself from Boromir's grip and said, "Boromir, this is Dia—Princess Diamond of Long Cleeve, I suppose, but she doesn't like to be called that. I suppose Strider has explained to you our quest?"

"He has," said Boromir, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "He has told me of the Ring of Melkor and the search for the Secret Fire, as well as of the hobbits of Long Cleeve. I wish I could have met them, for they sound like a most wonderful people. Still I am glad to meet you, Princess; it is the highest of honors." He clasped one hand into a fist and laid it over his heart, bowing his head.

"I would not describe my people as wonderful," said Diamond, returning the greeting, "but your words are not unappreciated. What I should like to know is—"

But none of them found out what she wished to know, at least not at that moment, for Merry came suddenly awake and sat staring blankly at all of them. Then he cried "Boromir!" and flung himself toward the man. Boromir laughed, ruffling Merry's hair and pulling him into a tight embrace. "Merry, my friend! How are you?"

"I must confess I am quite shocked," said Merry, a look of unbridled joy upon his face. "I know not how this has come to pass, but I feel that we should rejoice; if only Sam and Frodo were here to see you! Still I wonder; how is it that you have returned?"

Boromir looked to Aragorn, and Pippin saw something like pain in his eyes. "I know not how I have returned, save that Ilúvatar intended me to, but I do not believe that Frodo would be glad to see me. It is my fault that he left you, for I—I tried to take the Ring from him. I was blinded by its power and thought I should have it. It is because of my actions that Frodo has gone, and Sam with him."

"This is not your sin alone, Boromir," said Aragorn. "Many have been swayed by the influence of the One Ring. Worse is the power of the Ring of Melkor, and in this I have committed a graver error than you ever have, for it was by the power of Reena-domë that I recalled you from the grave."

"You took the Ring?" Diamond cried; she clutched at the chain around her neck. The Ring of Melkor hung about it now, but her eyes burned with a dark fire. "How could you take it, Strider? It is mine; Reena-domë is mine, and it is not yours to take!"

She backed away from Aragorn, her breast heaving, and as Pippin reached out a comforting hand she snapped, "Come no further, Shire-child! You are not to touch the Ring, nor its bearer!"

"Dia, you are not yourself," Pippin pleaded, feeling as though she was slipping away as had Boromir. "I beg you, let go of the Ring; it poisons your heart!"

Diamond's grip slowly loosened, and the expression on her face shifted from fury to annoyance. Aragorn looked on her warily; his eyes filled with regret. "I am truly sorry, Princess. Sorry that I took from you the thing which both you and I are sworn to protect. But I felt it to be a necessary evil for a time, for it was the only way that we could raise Boromir, who I believe we need for our quest. I promise that he shall be a great help to us; he has never failed me yet."

"But you are wrong," said Boromir, and his eyes shone with tears. "I have failed you, Aragorn; I tried to take the Ring from Frodo, and that is a wrong which can never be forgiven. You ought to run your sword through me now; I do not deserve this chance at life. I fear that it was not yours to give."

"Perhaps it was not mine to give," Aragorn sighed, and then his voice became stronger, more fierce. "Still have I given it, I have given you a chance, and to give a second chance is to give you a way to show your quality, to prove that you are worthy of the quest after all. For why would I have recalled you if I did not believe you were worthy? I am the king of Gondor, and you my subject; I decide what you deserve, and I say that you deserve this life; nay, the world. Do not let me hear you say that you are unworthy, for all of us here hold you in the highest respect, and never has there been a doubt in our minds about your worthiness. But if you must, Boromir, look on me and tell me I am wrong, if you still believe otherwise."

"I cannot take my king in error," Boromir said, mustering a watery smile. "I thank you, Aragorn, for this chance, and I swear I shall make good on it. In fact I take it upon myself to be the guardian of the hobbits; I shall protect them at all costs, even unto the laying down of my own life once again, and never shall I let harm come to any of the Fellowship as long as there is strength left in me. This I swear upon my life and my standing as Captain of Gondor, and I swear it before my king this day, that he may be a witness to my vow and hold me to it, that I shall never break it, even through the end of days."

Silence fell in the clearing for a moment, and Pippin stood in awe of the son of Gondor. Here was a man who would lay down his life twice over for Pippin, who would protect him from any evil they happened to meet upon the road. He could not imagine their little company without Boromir.

"Somehow I think you could have simply said 'thank you,'" said Diamond, breaking the silence, "but I suppose that was more impressive."

Boromir laughed, and Pippin's heart rejoiced to hear the sound; it had been too long. All things seemed right now, and he felt as if he could grow wings and soar away over the treetops.

Aragorn took Boromir's hands in his own and pulled the younger man to his feet, then nodded to Pippin. "Wake Legolas and Gimli, my friend; it is time to begin our first day of true questing!" Pippin did as the Ranger asked; after much shouting and tearful reunion, the company turned toward the dawning horizon.

"Let us depart!" Aragorn cried, and standing silhouetted against the dawn he seemed wreathed in glory and light. "May our feet never tire and our hearts stand firm! We shall make for Minas Tirith, the White City, and find the Secret Fire and cast the Ring in. All the while we shall look to the Great Eye and tell Sauron that he cannot keep us from our quest, for we are the Fellowship of Reena-domë, and nothing shall break us, not even all the fire and shadow of Mordor!"

"Cheers to that!" shouted Pippin, and they were off.

ARAGORN

The sky had begun to cloud over, and Aragorn smelled rain on the wind. He wondered bleakly if the Fellowship had been cursed to walk forever in the rain, for it seemed as if that was all the sky had done since at least Emyn Muil.

He turned and looked back at his companions. Legolas was directly behind Aragorn, with Boromir and the hobbits not far behind. As Aragorn watched Boromir took up both Pippin and Merry, draping them over his shoulders, and the hobbits squealed with laughter as Boromir broke into a run, diverting from the path and running in a great circle around the company before returning, breathless, to his place in line. Diamond looked on with a sparkle in her eyes, and even Gimli, bringing up the rear, threw back his head and let out a deep-throated laugh.

At this sound Legolas's cheeks flushed a pale rose, which did not escape Aragorn's notice. He beckoned the elf forward, saying, "Legolas, mellon, walk with me."

Legolas cast his gaze downward, but he dutifully quickened his pace until he strode beside Aragorn, still refusing to meet his eye. Aragorn reached out, putting a hand upon Legolas's cheek and turning the elf's face toward him. "Come, Legolas, what troubles you? For I can see that some matter weighs heavy upon your mind. You need not fear my anger; you may speak to me of anything."

Now Legolas raised his gaze to meet Aragorn's, and his sky-colored eyes shone with sorrow. "Oh, Estel, I—I am in love!"

He covered his face with his hands, and Aragorn asked softly, "With who, my friend? You may speak in your own time, but I should like you to know that you need not be ashamed of whoever it may be, for it is the right of all creatures of Middle-earth to find love when and with whom they will."

"This is not a right," Legolas said. "This is a curse, one that I should never have taken upon myself, for I shudder to think what my father should say if he were ever to know the thoughts of my heart. Indeed it is forbidden by centuries of hateful tradition, and I know not what to do, for my heart tells me that I should go to him and confess my affection. It often knows better than my head, I believe, but that tells me that I should carry this secret with me throughout the remaining millennia of my life."

"Who, Legolas?" Aragorn pressed, though he thought he knew the answer.

"Gimli son of Glóin," said Legolas softly, and it was as if a ray of sunlight had pierced the clouds and illuminated his face.

"But this is wonderful news, mellon," Aragorn said. "And your father is not with us; he need not know of your affections. Not yet, at least; I suppose that when we return to our homes he will have to know."

"How will I tell him of it?" Legolas asked. "If I am to wed Gimli it will take my immortality, and Ada could not survive the grief. And I cannot take him with me to Mirkwood; he will never be accepted there. Alas! I am lost!"

Just then the clouds broke and rain cascaded over the Fellowship, and Pippin squeaked in dismay and hid his face in his cloak. Boromir raised his own white cloak like the wings of some great bird and cried, "My friends! Come, take shelter with me; I think all the hobbits shall fit, and Gimli too should he desire it."

"You are a good man, Boromir," said Gimli gruffly, "but I shan't be taken under your cloak like some chick under its mother's wing; I shall bear the storm and all its fury!"

Pippin and Merry did not share his stubbornness, or at least not enough to march on into the wet, and they huddled underneath Boromir's cloak, pressing against his sides. Diamond turned up her nose and moved to walk ahead of them, but Pippin took her hand and pulled her under the cloak, and to Aragorn's surprise she did not leave. Boromir gathered the hobbits close to him, murmuring something comforting.

Seeing a copse to the south Aragorn led the Fellowship toward it, hoping they could take shelter for now and set out when the rain had lessened. Boromir took his cloak and hung it between three sturdy branches; he and the hobbits sat under it, conversing in hushed tones. Gimli reluctantly joined them, and Aragorn sat upon a large stone in the corner of the clearing, trying to console a distraught Legolas.

"You are not lost," Aragorn told the elf. "Such things have happened before; do you not remember Kili and Tauriel? Or the tale of Beren and Luthien?"

"Kili was slain," Legolas said. "And Beren and Luthien died also."

"But while they lived they were happy," said Aragorn. "What I mean is that elves have married outside of their race before, and they have never let the prejudice they face keep them from the one they love. Why, even Arwen has elected to wed me, and we do not fear the wrath of those beyond our control. Dwarves, men, even hobbits; it makes no difference who the elves say you must wed. It only matters who you wish to spend your life with."

Legolas tilted his head. "Hobbits? When has an elf married a hobbit?"

"Is that all you heard?" Aragorn laughed. "In my study in Long Cleeve, I looked on a map of the royal ancestry. It appears that Queen Honor's mother married an elf; not a part-elf, as many of the hobbits in Long Cleeve are, but an elf from Mirkwood by the name of Edhel Woodfern. I suspect that he has since passed, given that he would have lost his immortality when he wed Queen Glory, and she has clearly gone. Still it must have worked out. So it was with Beren and Luthien. So it shall be with you and Gimli, if you have the courage to pursue him."

"Have you heard nothing?" Legolas cried, and he put his face in his hands, softening his tone as the others looked on curiously. "It is not only the fact that Gimli is of another race. It is that he is a dwarf, a creature that the elves are sworn to hate; men and women and hobbits are frowned upon but not forbidden. In this I have erred; I should not act upon my feelings."

"In what have you erred?" Aragorn challenged. "In letting go of ages of prejudice and hatred? In finding a worthy one upon which to bestow the affections of your heart? I say unto you again, Legolas, that there is no shame in loving a dwarf; in fact, I think it is all the more beautiful when we think of the circumstances in which you have found your love."

He took the elf's hand gently in his own. "Know that I, at least, shall still care for you no matter whom you may love. So shall everyone in this Fellowship; if your father or your people make this difficult we shall not forsake you."

"But do they know what it is for a male to love another of his own sex?" asked Legolas in a small voice. "I fear that none of them have been introduced to the concept."

"You need not fear that," said Aragorn kindly. "I know that Long Cleeve allows hobbits to marry whomever they choose, and Merry and Pippin—well, let us say that they have been trying to push Sam and Frodo together for years. With the abundance of dwarvish men I should think that Gimli understands, and Boromir—well, I suppose that Boromir may not know, what with Denethor being so strict and Boromir's constant absence for battle. Still I think he shall be supportive, as he is with all else."

The wide blue eyes of Legolas had filled with tears, and he raised Aragorn's hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly. It was done as it had been at the beginning of the quest, when he had first confessed his love for Aragorn.

"Thank you, Estel," said Legolas, tracing the edge of the burn on Aragorn's palm. "My heart is given to Gimli son of Glóin, but I do not think that I shall ever stop loving you. While you may not be the other half of my soul, I shall trust you with my life for as long as we both shall live, and I shall never forget what you have done for me."

"I am grateful for it," said Aragorn, and he took Legolas into his embrace, murmuring into the elf's pointed ear, "I shall enlist the hobbits to help us. We shall employ any means necessary to obtain for you the affections of Gimli."

"You are noble and kind, Estel," Legolas laughed softly. "But it shall be a long and maddening road."

"Already we have set out upon two long and maddening roads," Aragorn pointed out. "Surely this one is within our power."

"And all shall end with a ring," said Legolas, and Aragorn laughed, suddenly thinking that perhaps the rain was not so maddening after all.

PEREGRIN

Pippin curled against Boromir's side, his head resting upon the man's upper arm. He was sleepy but not yet unconscious, and Boromir seemed the same way until he whispered, completely lucidly, "How are you, my little warrior?"

A stone dug into Pippin's back as he rolled over, and he pulled it from the earth, casting it aside as he looked up at Boromir. "I am well, Boromir, apart from the rain."

Boromir shook his head, pushing himself up onto an elbow. "I should have been more clear. What I mean to ask is how…how are you taking my return? Do you find me fearsome or unnatural? I understand if you do not wish to be near me."

"I could never fear you," said Pippin. "You are one of my dearest friends, and I am happier than I can say now that you have returned. And before you speak of how you have returned; well, it is entirely Strider's fault. You needn't blame yourself. And besides Strider seems quite normal; I do not think the Ring has hurt him."

"That is one of Aragorn's faults," murmured Boromir. "He does not let others see when he is hurting, whether in body or in spirit…I suppose it is not a fault. It is how he protects himself and his friends. But if he were hurt we would not know. And I find it difficult to believe that the summoning of my spirit did not require something from Aragorn. What the Ring took from him, I know not, but I feel certain that he has been wounded today."

Pippin sighed. "I wish it were not so. I wish that Strider did not feel so burdened and that this quest allowed us to ride upon horses all the way to Minas Tirith and that it would not rain so heavily. I wish we had Gandalf back as well; perhaps he could help speed our journey or at least lift our spirits with his lovely fireworks."

"That is quite a lot of wishing, Pippin," said Boromir. "Come here, little one; let me tell you something. Since I cannot show you, my words shall have to suffice."

Pippin shifted closer, pressing himself against Boromir's side as the man lifted his eyes to the overcast sky. "Do you know what we do in Gondor for wishing?"

When Pippin had shaken his head, Boromir smiled. "I do not know why I asked that of you; there is no way that you would know. But we wish upon the Morningstar, that one bright star that we see in the dawn light just before the sun rises. I suppose that you will not be able to see it when dawn comes, what with the storm and all, but I think the Valar shall still hear your prayer."

"Have you ever wished on the Morningstar?" Pippin asked, looking up at Boromir with wide eyes. "And did the Valar answer you?"

Boromir's smile was sad. "I have. I and my brother Faramir both wished quite hard upon it twenty years ago, and the Valar did answer us, but not quite in the way we had wanted…Sometimes, Pippin, the will of Ilúvatar is against mine, and that is how it was on that day. It was that day, the morning after I had reached ten years of age, that my mother Finduilas departed this earth, and though we wished upon the Morningstar all through the night before she passed, it did not save her. I hid myself from Ilúvatar for several years after that, thinking that he could not possibly hear me. But Faramir spoke to me one day, with a wisdom far beyond that of his twelve years, and showed me that the Valar had indeed heard my prayer: my mother's death was peaceful and much less painful than we had thought it would be. It was the will of Ilúvatar that my mother be taken then, but he made it all the better for that, and she did not suffer as she departed. Thus I still believe that every wish, every prayer, even that of a hobbit, is heard and answered. There are two forces at work in this world, Pippin, and they are good and evil, light and darkness, joy and suffering. They may go by many names, but they are all the same: the light of the Valar and the shadow of Mordor. And I truly believe that the light shall always overcome the shadow; that the night and the rain which we so dread shall not last forever. All that we must do is hope and pray, and we shall see greater designs than we as mortals can ever comprehend."

He tightened his arm around Pippin, squeezing gently. "Now, my little warrior, what do you wish?"

"I wish that you would talk in words that I can understand," Pippin complained, but there was a smile upon his face. "You seem as though you have a great wisdom about you, Boromir, equal to that of Strider or Gandalf. It is an unexpected change, but not an unwelcome one; I think Strider will like that."

He thought for a moment. "I suppose I mustn't wish for so many things. What I wish for above all else is for all of us on this quest to complete it and to return home safely, and that goes for Frodo and Sam too. Surely they must be worse off than we are, what with there being only two of them upon their quest."

Pippin smiled at Boromir, reveling in the kind, long-awaited face. "That is what I wish."

"It is a wonderful wish," said Boromir, and he lay down again, with Pippin still in the crook of his arm. "I wish it too, as I am sure everyone in our company does. And I have no doubt that Ilúvatar shall do his best to answer. But know this, Pippin: even if your prayer is not fulfilled the way you wish, all souls shall be saved, even if it must be that they pass into the West."

"Still I do not know what you speak of," said Pippin. "But still it is somehow comforting, and I find peace in it."

He pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders and pressed closer to Boromir's chest. "'Night, Boromir."

"Good night, Pippin."

The morning dawned wet and misty, and Pippin woke to water dripping through Boromir's cloak onto his temple. He sat up, swiping the droplets away, and blinked in the humid air.

"Up you get, Pippin," said Boromir's soft voice, and Pippin felt large, gentle hands pull him to his feet. "We must get to higher ground; the storm is becoming too great for us to ride out. Already the river is rushing and swollen; soon it shall burst its banks."

Pippin put his arms about Boromir's waist, hugging his friend tightly. Boromir hastily returned the embrace and looked down at Pippin, asking, "Why do you greet me so? It is not as though I do not appreciate it, but most do not embrace me this way."

"It feels now as though any time could be the end," said Pippin. "When you were gone there were many times that I wished I had hugged you more often. It is the least I can do to hug you each morning and know that if we die, we shall at least have died knowing the other cared."

There were tears in Boromir's eyes as he took Pippin and lifted him up to set him upon his shoulders. "You are wiser than I give you credit for, Pippin. Hobbits are truly wonderful creatures."

"Have all our company awakened?" Aragorn called from just beyond the edge of the trees. His dark hair was nearly black with rainwater, droplets of which cascaded down his elvin-cloak in rivulets. "Ah, Pippin, there you are; I feared lest you should sleep forever. We had best get to high ground swiftly. The Anduin shall swallow what is left of the bank any moment now."

"Why must the Valar punish us so?" Diamond complained from where she stood in the mud with Gimli. "It is as if they wish the Ring's journey slowed or even ended. Do they care not for our noble errand?"

"If you ask me we need not be concerned with the ways of the Valar," said Gimli gruffly. "We have simply had the misfortune to run across every storm that plagues the land. Fear not, Princess, for we have overcome much worse. If we can stand against the forces of Saruman I think that we can endure a little rain."

Just then a great wave of water came hurtling down the Anduin; Merry, sitting upon Aragorn's shoulders, let out a cry of fear, and Aragorn shouted, "Come! To the top of the ridge!"

The Fellowship climbed a muddy path to the peak of a short cliff overlooking the river, and by the grace of the Valar they moved more quickly than the wave, at least until they were out of its reach. The ridge was quite a ways above the water, so they were in no danger of a soaking, but the grass was slick with rain and interspersed with sodden, loose earth. Pippin wondered how long it would be before one of the company slipped and plunged into the chill water.

Not two heartbeats had passed before that very thing happened. Just ahead of Pippin and Boromir Legolas cried out as he lost his footing, and Aragorn looking back shouted the elf's name. Boromir lunged forward as if to seize Legolas's hand, but it was too late; the elf had slid down the escarpment and disappeared beneath the foaming surface of the Anduin.

"Legolas!" Pippin cried; for a moment he wondered what they should do, if anything, but he was saved from having to decide by Gimli's warlike bellow. Before Pippin could fully comprehend the turn of events Gimli had run over the side of the ridge and splashed into the river.

"They'll both be killed!" Boromir shouted, and with Pippin still on his shoulders he ran toward the far side of the ridge, where it sloped down to the riverbank. He slipped near the bottom, spilling Pippin off his shoulders. Pippin landed on his feet and began to run, staring in horror as the pale head of Legolas bobbed away through the current. The elf was moving too swiftly for any of them to reach out and pull him from the river, but Gimli was closing the gap between himself and Legolas, and as Boromir righted himself and ran after Pippin down the riverbank the dwarf seized Legolas by the hood.

"You must come to the bank!" Aragorn shouted, running along the riverbank and overtaking Boromir. "Come, Gimli, swim!"

"They shall need a rope, Strider," said Diamond, who kept pace with him. "The current is strong; they shan't fight against it for much longer. We must get them a rope."

Aragorn halted, pulling his pack from off his shoulders and thrusting a hand inside. "I think I still have mine. Thank you, Princess, for helping me to recover my senses. We shall have to get in front of them; throw out the rope for Gimli to take. I do not know if Legolas is still conscious; one of both of them may need the Anduin coughed out of their lungs."

"Throwing the rope shan't work," said Boromir. "We must get out into the river; neither shall be able to take hold of such a small thing in the current. I shall tie the rope about myself and go out to them. Aragorn, you must hold fast on the bank."

"We mustn't send you into the river," Aragorn insisted. "If the rope comes free you shall be taken by Anduin."

"You have already given me once to Anduin." Boromir smiled, but to Pippin he looked afraid. "What does it matter if I am taken back?"

With that he took the rope and bound it about his waist, and pressing the free end into Aragorn's hands Boromir began to run. Pippin sprinted behind him, and he heard Merry and Diamond mutter in unison "Oh, Valar!" before they and Aragorn took off after the others.

Pippin's gaze followed the heads of Legolas and Gimli as they were tossed about by the current. To his great astonishment the dwarf managed to grip a stone that rose a little above the frothing water, and Legolas clung to Gimli's neck, his hair slicked back against his skull so that he looked rather like a wet kitten.

"Hold fast, Gimli!" Aragorn cried. "Do not loose your hand! We mustn't lose any more of our company!"

"Men!" Gimli grunted. "So sure of our inevitable demise."

"Aragorn!" Boromir shouted; he had stopped on a grassy part of the riverbank and looked wildly toward the Ranger. "Come, stand upon the bank with me; I must go out to meet them!"

He waded into the river, and Aragorn moved to stand where Boromir had. Pippin pressed against Aragorn's leg and grasped the rope in his small hands, unwilling to let the great river sweep Boromir away.

Boromir fought the current, wading out deeper and deeper until the white-capped water reached his chest. As he drew nearer to the middle of the river, the current fought him back, and by the time Boromir was forced to swim, he could not stand against the might of the Anduin any longer. Pippin and Aragorn kept hold of the rope, but Boromir was pulled downriver, unable to reach Legolas and Gimli.

"I cannot get to them!" Boromir called, floundering desperately in the water as he struggled to keep his head above the surface. "Gimli—"

A crest of white foam pulled him under, and he came back to the air gasping and spluttering. "Gimli, you must let go! Please, you must trust me!"

"Aragorn is not strong enough!" Gimli countered. "He cannot draw us in, not even with all three hobbits! We shall be pulled farther down until we reach our end! It matters not if I trust you, Boromir, for though I do I fear that man's strength is not enough to save us!"

"Please!" Boromir cried. "Come, Gimli, let go; I shall catch you!"

He struck out for the rock again, but the current beat him back, and Pippin could tell as he fought that Boromir was tiring. Rivers exhausted anyone; Pippin knew this firsthand from escapades in the Shire as a wee lad. He could not fathom the strength it must have taken for Boromir to continue toward Legolas and Gimli.

Aragorn dug his feet into the ground, and Pippin held tightly to the rope as Boromir's weight pulled against it. The earth was slick under Pippin's bare feet, and he wondered what might happen if Aragorn slipped.

Just then Gimli let go of the stone, and the river bore him and Legolas towards Boromir. Pippin's heart leapt as Boromir lunged forward and seized Gimli's hand, pulling the dwarf toward him. "Hold on to me, both of you! Aragorn, pull us back!"

But the current was too strong, and the combined weight of Legolas, Gimli, and Boromir tugged abruptly on the rope. Aragorn gasped as he slid, his feet powerless against the slick, muddy earth. He fell, and the rope came free of his grasp and trailed in the current.

"Boromir!" Pippin shouted. He began to run, his own feet slipping in the mud, and Merry and Diamond came close behind, shouting. Pippin heard heavier footsteps and knew that Aragorn followed.

Boromir struggled against the current, but he could not keep himself afloat without releasing Legolas and Gimli. To Pippin's horror all three began to sink below the water, though Boromir and Gimli fought valiantly. Legolas had gone limp in the water, his eyes closed though his arms were still around Gimli's neck.

"I am going to let go, Boromir!" bellowed Gimli. "We only drag you down!"

"No!" cried Boromir, even as his voice was swallowed by a swirl of water. When he came back to the surface he was spluttering, shaking his head to get his clinging hair out of his eyes. "Gimli, do not let go! You shall be taken by the flood!"

"As shall you!" said Gimli. "Farewell, Boromir! Farewell, Aragorn! We shall meet in Minas Tirith!"

And he let go of Boromir. The rest of the Fellowship shouted after Legolas and Gimli, but the deed was done. Anduin had borne them away, and it was swiftly taking Boromir too. He thrashed in the current, gasping for air, but the river beat him back, forcing his head beneath the surface.

The rope, still trailing toward the bank, was whipped about in the frothing waves. Aragorn, still running, bent to seize it again and again, but every time it slipped through his fingers. Pippin wondered desperately if this had always been Boromir's fate: to be claimed by the great Anduin and borne home to Minas Tirith.

The river widened a hundred yards ahead, and Aragorn called, "You must get hold of a stone, Boromir, or a branch or anything that shall stop you! I may be able to take the rope once you have stilled!"

Almost immediately Boromir seized something that Pippin could not see; it seemed that he had taken hold of a stone below the surface of the water. At any rate he stopped moving, though Pippin could tell that Boromir was tired. He had fought the river for too long; soon he would sink below the surface, never to rise again. And the water was cold besides…

The rope was miraculously caught on a smaller stone, a little closer to the bank, and it was this that Aragorn waded out to. The water reached to his chest, but he took the end of the rope tightly in his hands and began to pull toward the bank. Boromir let go of the rock and Aragorn nearly lost his balance, but he clenched his jaw and remained upright.

Pippin's fingernails dug into his cheeks as he watched, the rain soaking him to the point where it looked like he too had nearly drowned. Merry and Diamond stood beside him in similar states of worry; Merry was gripping Pippin's arm tightly and Diamond's jaw was clenched more forcefully than Aragorn's. Her hand was clasped about the Ring, which glowed through her fingers, turning them a warm scarlet.

Aragorn stepped onto the bank and Boromir followed, collapsing onto the earth the moment he reached it. Pippin gasped and hurried toward him, with Merry close behind, but Boromir lifted a hand. "I am alright, little ones, only tired, as I am sure we all are. You need not worry for me; I have sustained no injuries. I worry for Legolas and Gimli, though, for I am not sure that the elf can even swim, let alone survive the flooding of such a great river."

He loosened the knot about his waist, taking the rope and giving it to Aragorn. "Thank Ilúvatar that you had this, my king, for without it I should have been lost. I am sorry; I was foolish in going into the river. It would have caused you all great sorrow had I been lost again. Still I could not stand by; I felt that I must retrieve Legolas and Gimli."

"Perhaps you were foolish," Aragorn agreed, "but you were brave, Boromir, braver than I have ever been. It takes a truly steadfast heart to put aside one's fear of death to save those one cares for. I commend you for it, my friend; fear not, for no one in the company is angry with you."

Boromir smiled, closing his eyes. He lay there on his back for a short while, and then he stood, shaking the water from his hair. "Well! Shall we be off, then?"

So the company set off again down the Anduin, wishing to meet with Legolas and Gimli again when the waters calmed. Pippin hoped that it would not be in Minas Tirith that they saw their companions again; he was sure it was as good a place as any, but it was so far from here, wherever here may have been (Pippin did not know).

They toiled in the deepening mud all day long, and just before nightfall Boromir was carrying Pippin upon his shoulders again. Aragorn bore Merry, who slept soundly despite the pattering of the rain. Diamond had refused to be carried, a fact which Pippin secretly admired. He wished he had the stubbornness to do such a thing. He did, in fact, have a great deal of stubbornness, but not in such matters of comfort. If he did not wish to walk anymore, he would not; it was as simple as that.

When night fell, the Fellowship stopped in a grove of trees. Boromir hung his no-longer-white cloak above the little clearing they all shared; Aragorn added his as well. The cloaks, though filthy, kept the rain out; it seemed that Boromir's cloak was woven of the same material as the elvin-cloaks from Lothlorien.

That night they all slept close to each other; hobbits often slept in piles and Boromir had no qualms about doing so as well. After some persuasion Aragorn joined them, pressing his back to Boromir's and letting Merry drape himself over the both of them. Pippin was curled against Boromir and Diamond had settled herself over the ankles of both men, quipping that they would at least wake her if they tried to take the Ring in the night.

Sleep took Pippin quickly, and he drifted into quiet dreaming. At first they were quite normal hobbit dreams; those of second breakfasts and warm fires and soft lovely sweaters, but during the night they shifted into those of blood and fire and shadow…

Pippin stood upon blackened grass, a reddened, smoky sky above him. Before him Diamond lay against a rocky outcropping in the midst of the desolate plains. Her face was smudged with ash and a cut on her brow shone scarlet. Pippin looked down at his feet and realized that the fetlocks were his own; he knelt beside Diamond, gripping her hand with bandaged fingers.

Valor held Diamond's other hand, speaking swiftly, though Pippin could not hear the words. All he knew was the howling of the scorching wind as it swept over them. As he looked closer at Diamond he realized that her stomach was swollen; she was with child, and here, in this horrid wasteland, was where her halfbit had decided to be birthed.

"She can go no farther!" Valor shouted, and Pippin saw that his eyes glistened with angry tears. He was pleading with an orc, and even when he drew himself up to his full height he did not reach the creature's chest. "Please, I beg you, tell the Lord Denethor to let us rest for the day; my daughter has begun the birthing process and must not be moved."

"You think Denethor will sympathize with you, Halfling?" the orc sneered. "We already go too slowly to Mordor; his patience wears thin."

"Surely he does not wish the Ring-bearer dead," hissed Valor. "I am acting king of Long Cleeve; let me speak to him face-to-face so that he may see reason where you have not."

The orc growled, and Diamond gasped as it struck her father across the face. Valor stumbled but did not fall, though the skin of his cheek was now abraded. Instead he said, "We shall go no farther, chieftain, and if the Lord Denethor shall not stand for it he shall have to kill all three of us—myself, sovereign of Long Cleeve, my daughter, the Ring-bearer, and her husband, the vahka 'en heledh. We are prisoners that he shall not wish to lose."

Perhaps the orc said more, but Pippin could not get his mind to comprehend what Valor had said. Was he to wed Diamond before this horrible dark future came to light? He could not deny the joy that leapt in him at this prospect, but he feared it too: what if by marrying her he thrust Middle-earth into the dark? He had no way of knowing whether his deeds would save or destroy the land or do nothing at all, and the uncertainty terrified Pippin.

Suddenly the wild hot wind began to blow again, and Diamond cried out. Valor dropped to his knees beside his daughter, and Pippin could hear faint shouts from other hobbits, begging their drivers to let them rest. But all Wormtongue and Denethor did was laugh, though Boromir, whose father still held the end of his chain, pleaded desperately on behalf of the hobbits.

Was this the only future Middle-earth had; pain and suffering in a burned-black wasteland? Worse, was it what should come to pass if Pippin gave in to the palantír or what should happen if he did not?

He did not wish to be the vahka 'en heledh; he wished to be simply Peregrin Took and nothing more. Pippin had dreamed once of a grand destiny; now he realized that he did not want it if it would destroy his land and all he held dear.

Please, he begged silently of Ilúvatar. Please, do not let this come to pass; I could not bear it. Do not place the fate of Middle-earth in the hands of one so small.

Then Pippin heard words echoing across the landscape, a trembling voice that seemed at once to thunder and to whisper into his ear:

When the shadow is fallen and all fate is dire,

The light shall spring forth from a trial by fire,

And the reaches of evil the heir shall raze,

Or befall the land with the end of days.

Chapter Text

ARAGORN

There was no sign of the sun in the sky; gray clouds still overshadowed the land as the Fellowship pressed on through the deepening water. They had tried to skirt around the flooded Anduin, but to Aragorn's dismay the whole land seemed to have become a floodplain. Now the grass was waterlogged, even disappearing in many places.

"Strider!" Pippin's voice, echoing over the small ridge that lay between him and Aragorn, was even higher than usual. "Come, Strider!"

Aragorn hurried over the ridge, his spirits plummeting as he saw the great gash in the earth; it spanned perhaps thirty yards and cut the earth in two for as far as he could see. There seemed to be no way to cross it, barring tying a rope to an arrow and firing it to the other side—and there was no way in Arda that Aragorn would be attempting that particular stunt again.

"Well, this seems a right pickle!" Merry nudged Pippin's shoulder. "We've been over worse though, haven't we Pip?"

"Caradhras was worse, I suppose," Pippin conceded. "But how are we to get across, Strider?"

Aragorn clamped his teeth onto his lower lip to prevent himself from snapping at the hobbit that, despite all Pippin had been told about Aragorn, he did not know the answer to every question. He was only a man, for Ilúvatar's sake; he did not possess the knowledge that Gandalf or even Legolas did. But Pippin knew no better; he was a mere child looking to an adult for assistance.

"I must confess I've no idea," said Aragorn. "We cannot go around it, neither can we cross it without some sort of bridge. Seeing as we have no such thing, I can see no other way but forward."

Even as he said it he knew that it was in no way feasible; though the walls of the chasm were littered with many handholds they were so steep that they were nearly vertical. The hobbits surely could not make the climb, and there was nothing on this side of the chasm to tie a rope to. There could be no lowering their company down.

"We might find a bridge," said Boromir. "Or perhaps it becomes less sheer a little ways down?"

"Or we might grow wings and fly the rest of the way to Minas Tirith," Diamond snapped. "At any rate we shall have to go far out of our way. I do not see why the Valar seem so intent on hindering our quest. They have sent every possible natural barrier our way."

Privately, Aragorn had to agree with her. Diamond was a very different Ring-bearer than Frodo—where Frodo wore the One Ring gravely and silently, and spoke only with much careful thought, Diamond was brash, brazen. She was not afraid of the Ring, and she was not hesitant to complain about their quest. It was refreshing, really, to have someone who shared Aragorn's misgivings, for it indeed seemed as though the Valar were going out of their way to make things more difficult.

"I suppose there is nothing to be done but go along with Boromir's suggestion," Aragorn decided. "We shall follow the chasm to the east. See if we cannot find a bridge or a shallower place."

They set off across the rim of the chasm, struggling not to slip on the soaked grass, though Aragorn knew it was only a matter of time before one of the company fell. The walk took the better part of an hour, which time comprised of Merry and Pippin complaining of the wet and Diamond cursing the Valar. Boromir said nothing that was not encouraging, but Aragorn could tell that he too was not enjoying the storm. The wind and rain had both picked up considerably; the hobbits especially were having great difficulty in navigating it, and Boromir's clothes, which looked as though they had never been white, clung to his skin in a way that looked most uncomfortable.

When they finally reached a suitable crossing-place, every inch of Aragorn's body tensed. The bridge, though it seemed stable enough, was a narrow spur of rock that looked as though everything beneath it had been swept away by some great flood. Still it was not this that worried Aragorn; the bridge was a near-perfect replica of the one at Khazad-dûm.

He looked around and could see that the rest of the company were also apprehensive; Boromir's jaw was clenched and Merry had actually taken a few steps back. But Pippin appeared the most fearful. His little face, framed by his rain-slicked hair, was quite white underneath all the filth.

"Pippin, lad," said Aragorn, kneeling before the little hobbit and arching his brows. "What troubles you?"

"The bridge," whispered Pippin, his voice barely audible. "It…it is like the bridge at Moria, Strider, the one which Gandalf fell from. I wish I was not, but I am afraid. I do not want to fall as he did."

Aragorn suddenly felt very foolish indeed. Here they were, months after Gandalf's fall into Moria and many days after the hobbits' rescue, and he had not told them that the wizard lived! How awful the little ones must still feel! But now did not seem the time to explain; he would tell the others once they had stopped for the night. For now there was much ground to be made up.

"You need not fear," Aragorn told Pippin. "Boromir and I shall be beside you all the way."

"I can even carry you if you like, Pip," Boromir offered. "You need not cross the bridge alone, and you need not be ashamed of having help."

Pippin, eyes wide with fear, nodded. "Thank you, Boromir."

Boromir bent and scooped Pippin into his arms, then straightened and looked to the other hobbits. "Merry? Princess Diamond? Would you like assistance as well? I can make additional trips if I must."

Diamond tossed her hair, sending a spray of droplets over the grass. "Your chivalry is admirable, son of Gondor, but I require no assistance. You'll meet with trouble in your crossing, mark my words."

She set off across the bridge, keeping one hand clenched around Reena-domë. Aragorn watched her go, tracking her progress meticulously. It would not do to lose the Ring-bearer to a simple chasm. But Diamond's footsteps were sure, and she crossed the bridge swiftly and safely, then turned to wait expectantly on the other side.

"Boromir, you shall precede Merry and I," said Aragorn. "I do not wish to let any of you out of my sight."

In reality, he wished to keep every member of the company near to and in front of him lest they should fall. The bridge was slick with rainwater, and the moss that adorned it at regular intervals did not help matters. Truthfully Aragorn was not sure he could steady Boromir should he fall; even without mail, shield, or hobbit Boromir outweighed Aragorn considerably. The only one Aragorn could be certain of catching was Merry. Nevertheless there was no shame in trying.

"Will you be alright, Merry?" Aragorn asked, looking down at the hobbit. "Do you wish for me to carry you?"

Merry shook his head. "I'm alright, Strider, thank you. I think it shall be enough for you to stand behind me."

"Very well, then." Aragorn clapped Merry on the shoulder as hard as he dared. "Let us be off."

Aragorn's body seemed to vibrate with tension for the whole of the crossing. He stayed as close to Merry as he could, his gaze flicking between the stone beneath his feet and Boromir, who walked a yard ahead. Strong gales blew about the Fellowship as they crossed the bridge, and Aragorn narrowed his eyes against it. The wind knocking one of the company into the chasm seemed within the realm of possibility, and so he kept a close eye on Boromir and Pippin as they passed the halfway point.

For a moment, as they drew near to the end of the bridge, Aragorn thought that perhaps they might all cross safely. But it was a foolish hope, for, a mere three yards from the other side of the chasm, a vast clap of thunder rolled across the land. Pippin yelped in shock, startling Boromir, who stepped a hair's breadth too far toward the stony edge. He lost his footing, and this time Merry's shout of terror joined Pippin's as the latter and Boromir plunged into the chasm.

There was a horrible sickening crack as the side of Boromir's face met the bridge, and the son of Gondor cried out. Aragorn lunged forward then, having been frozen in shock for a fleeting moment, and sought to grasp Boromir's hand—but, to his horror, his boots did not hold their grip, and Aragorn felt a swooping sensation in the pit of his stomach as his chest hit the stone. Desperately, his fingers scrabbled for purchase, the image of Gandalf's fall into shadow filling his mind, but just as Gandalf, Aragorn could not hold on.

The fall into the chasm was thankfully more of a steep slope than a sheer drop, and it was this that saved Aragorn from certain death, for the precipice was perhaps fifteen yards deep. Still every nerve in his body flared with terror as he fell, stone after stone impacting against his skin.

He felt the back of his head collide sharply with yet another stone, and then he slammed against something much softer, something which groaned in pain when Aragorn hit it. For a moment, there was nothing but darkness and the roar of the wind.

Then came a small, worried voice. "Strider!"

Aragorn became aware that he was lying on his front, the scabbed-over wound on his cheek leaking new blood onto the earth. His skull seemed to pulse with fire, but it faded to a dull ache after a few moments. Next to him something moved, barely a twitch, and panic shot through Aragorn's muddied senses as he realized that it must be Boromir.

"Strider," said Pippin's voice again. "Strider, are you alright?"

Aragorn turned onto his side, blinking the lingering stars from his vision. Lifting a hand, he brushed his sodden hair out of his eyes and looked into Pippin's horrified face. The hobbit crouched next to the feebly stirring Boromir, dark curls damp against his brow.

"I am alright, Pippin," said Aragorn. "I do not believe I have broken anything, save for my pride. That was foolish of me, to come after you as I did; I fear that I have injured Boromir."

"You need not fear," said Boromir, and he pushed himself half-upright, though he still seemed dazed as he blinked at Aragorn through the rain. "I am not hurt, save for perhaps a bit of bruising."

"Strider!" called another voice, and Aragorn looked up to see both Diamond and Merry peering over the edge of the chasm. It was Diamond who had called out; she had an expression of supreme aggravation upon her face.

"After all that fuss you made over crossing safely!" Diamond scolded. "This is why we do not let the males rule in our kingdom; with them at our head we would meet with our inevitable demise. How do you suppose you'll get out? I don't believe Meriadoc and I shall be able to pull you up."

Aragorn had to admit that she was correct. If he tossed a rope up to Diamond and Merry, perhaps they could lift Pippin back up to solid ground, but it would be extremely difficult for them to lift Aragorn, with Boromir next to impossible.

Before Aragorn could respond to Diamond, Merry called down, worry etched across his face. "Are you alright, Pip? Have you been hurt?"

"I am only shaken," Pippin reassured his cousin. "But we are trapped, Merry; I do not know what we are going to do."

"Is there perhaps a tree or a stone to tie a rope to?" Aragorn asked. "We might climb the side of the chasm."

"Not that I can see," said Diamond. "We shall have to leave and look for one. You may follow us as we go or you may wait for us to return with news. That is provided you can even get a rope to us; I don't like your chances of simply throwing it fifteen yards in the air."

"We shall follow you," Aragorn decided. "But will you and Merry lift Pippin up with you? If I can get you a rope it shall not be difficult for you to get him up."

"Perhaps you could tie the rope to an arrow," Merry suggested, "and fire it toward us. Of course we'll have to move out of the way, but if you back into the opposite wall I don't think it would be too hard."

Aragorn was still wary of tying ropes to arrows under any circumstance, but he could not deny that Merry's suggestion was a good one, and it seemed as though it may be the only thing that would work. He got to his feet, wincing at the pain that flared through his skull and down his spine, and in searching for his arrows saw that many of them had spilled from his quiver onto the earth. Two had been broken, likely by Aragorn's less-than-graceful fall, but it was not so great a loss as it could have been.

He took his ever-enduring rope from his pack and tied it about the end of one arrow. Seeing this Merry and Diamond moved back, until Aragorn could not see them any longer. He nocked the arrow and backed toward the opposite side of the chasm, eyes narrowed as he pulled back the bowstring and let the slender black projectile take flight.

Diamond appeared moments later at the edge of the cliff, the sleek gray rope clenched tightly in her grasp. "If nothing else, Strider, you are a fine shot. Come, Shire-child, take hold of the rope, and Meriadoc and I shall pull you up."

"But what about Strider?" Pippin asked, glancing worriedly about. "And Boromir? They mustn't stay here all alone!"

"We are not alone, Pip," said Boromir, stumbling to his feet and grinning crookedly at the hobbit. "What misfortune has ever come of Aragorn and I being alone together?"

"All that is possible, from what I have seen," Diamond quipped.

"We shall come to no more harm," Aragorn reassured Pippin. "Go now, take the rope and let Diamond and Merry pull you up. Boromir and I shall walk beneath you. Shout if you find anything, won't you?"

Pippin nodded and took the end of the rope. Almost instantly his feet lifted into the air as Diamond and Merry pulled valiantly. Pippin helped them somewhat; kicking against the wall of the chasm and boosting himself higher. Once he had scrambled over the edge of the cliff he turned and looked back into the chasm. "Good luck, Boromir, Strider! We will be quick about this, I promise!"

"We have no doubt you will," said Aragorn. "Go on ahead now, my friends; Boromir and I shall catch up in a moment."

Three pairs of feet went scampering over the grass as the hobbits set off back the way they had come. Aragorn turned to Boromir, his gaze finely tuned to catch injuries. "Boromir, my friend, allow me to point out that you are not alright."

Boromir laughed, though it sounded pained and was muffled by the hand pressed tightly to the injured side of his face. "Come now, Aragorn, when have I ever let something as simple as a fall hinder me? I was truthful when I said I had sustained no injuries save for bruising; I have certainly been spared from greater harm."

"I do not believe you to be untruthful," said Aragorn. "But a blow to the head is not something to be taken lightly. Might I see your face? I saw you collide with the bridge."

"I suppose there is no hiding it forever," sighed Boromir, and he removed his hand from his face. Beneath his rapidly swelling eye was a gash running the length of his cheekbone. The wound bled copiously, crimson droplets diluted in the rain running down into Boromir's beard.

"Does it look as awful as it feels?" Boromir's voice was slightly higher than usual. "I…I knew not of the…of the blood…"

He swayed upon his feet and nearly stumbled into the wall of the chasm. Aragorn hurried to Boromir, moving to put an arm about the injured man's waist, but Boromir lifted his bloody hand as he leaned against the wall, waving Aragorn away.

"You are frightened of blood." The realization stunned Aragorn. "Forgive me, Boromir, I did not know—and yet I still do not understand. How is it that you can fear this and fight as you do for Gondor?"

Boromir smiled weakly. "My father worked tirelessly to stamp it out of me. I must confess, I never truly got over it…I've gone soft, I'm afraid. I learned to ignore it in battle; I would close my eyes as often as I could and think of more pleasing things. Still there were many times when I could not bear it. I could not carry a dying soldier off the battlefield or number the dead when the fighting was through, for I would be no help to my people if I lay senseless in the Houses of Healing. Faramir was always stronger than I in that regard; he felt no fear when it came to bodily harm. He was the one to number the dead."

"And yet you still ride into battle for your homeland." Aragorn shook his head, amazed. "You are a remarkable man, Boromir, whatever your failings. I shall not hold this against you; all that you have done in the face of fear is admirable. Sit now; I shall tend to your wound."

Boromir obliged, sinking down the wall to the earth. Aragorn knelt next to him and took two leaves of athelas from his pack, chewing them into a salve as he cleaned the gash with a scrap of cloth. The wound was not as deep as he had feared and swiftly stopped bleeding, and though the skin was swollen the wound itself had spared Boromir's eye. There would be no complications.

Aragorn spat out the salve and rubbed it into the wound, pressing a clean white square of bandage over the site of injury and silently thanking Ilúvatar for Valor and his vast array of healing supplies. He secured the dressing with an adhesive of pine sap—another commodity he could never have come by without the healer—and sat back on his haunches. "Better, mellon?"

"Indeed." Boromir looked much improved, with no sign of dizziness, as he stood and offered a hand to Aragorn. "Come, we must follow the little ones. I fear that they shall get themselves into trouble without you."

Aragorn took Boromir's hand and pulled himself to his feet. Boromir set off briskly down the canyon, and Aragorn found himself hurrying to keep up. How could Boromir move so swiftly, especially with only one eye functioning properly? The man's devotion to hobbits knew no bounds.

By the time they caught up to the hobbits Diamond had found a small tree and was tying the rope to it. Aragorn insisted that Boromir climb out first, for he was unwilling to leave any member of the company behind, even for a moment.

As Boromir climbed, Aragorn turned his attention to the various aches plaguing him. He had not thought on the injuries he had surely suffered in the fall, being preoccupied with Boromir's. When he brought a tentative hand to the back of his head he found that the last stone had raised a swelling of considerable size, and the muscles of his back ached when he stretched. Apart from the reopened wound on his face, Aragorn did not think he had suffered any further injury, which he found rather miraculous; in his younger years he had been prone to injury and illness. Perhaps it had only seemed that way, though, as he had been a mortal among so many elves.

When his turn came Aragorn took the rope and climbed swiftly, reaching the top of the cliff in half the time it had taken Boromir. As he stood once more upon solid ground, Aragorn looked out over the plains: after a league or so of dryness the flood stretched as far as he could see, with the swollen Anduin snaking through the silvered grass. The sight of the vast gray land sent a pang of weariness through him; he did not like to think of how much further there was to go. Were the Valar indeed hindering their quest? Perhaps they were angry with Aragorn for leaving Gandalf.

Aragorn forced himself to put the thought out of his mind. Gandalf or no Gandalf, Valar or no Valar, the quest must be completed. He had always believed in destiny, but Aragorn had never wished to have it all laid out in stone; he had wanted to discover it for himself. And in this quest, he had. This was the path he had always been meant to walk.

As he looked on Boromir, on Pippin and Merry, on Diamond the Ring-bearer, he forgot for a moment how long the journey was, and Aragorn could not help but smile, for he knew now that he had found the only thing worthy, to him, of being called destiny.

Of course, floods tended to ruin whatever good mood Aragorn somehow managed to scrape together.

The chill water came up to his waist, just beneath the nearly healed wound in his side. He worried that it was still too new, that the injury may become infected if the water reached any higher. Even so there was nothing to be done about it; the water would do as it pleased. If it became deeper they would have to carry the hobbits, which Aragorn knew would be quite difficult with only himself and Boromir.

If only they had Legolas and Gimli with them. Aragorn wondered if they were safe, if they had found someplace to stay or if they were making their way to Minas Tirith as the rest of the Fellowship did. Had they been injured in the river? Aragorn hoped that it was not so; he did not wish to have to use any more healing supplies.

He looked over the hobbits and felt a pang of guilt; they were struggling to keep their chins above the water. It was a blessing that they were all fairly tall in the reckoning of their species, or they would not have been able to forge through the flood as they did. Still they would soon sink beneath the rain-rippled surface.

"Aragorn," panted Boromir after a while, turning back with his sodden hair clinging to his face. "We cannot go any further today. The flood is too deep and too cold, and we have no way to see the dangers beneath the surface. I fear that it shall be the death of the hobbits and of us."

"It shall still be our death even if we do get out of it," said Diamond. "For the rain still beats hard upon the water, and there is no dry wood with which we might build a fire. We'll freeze before we can get dry. I say we'd best press on until we are out of this Valar-cursed flood."

Pippin and Merry both nodded stoically, and though Boromir looked exhausted he seemed to agree. Aragorn bowed his head against the sky's furious torrent and forged on, trying to ignore the dull throb in the back of his head where it had struck the stone in the chasm. He did not think it a serious injury, but he would have dearly loved to rest.

The wind howled over the floodwaters, chopping the surface into white-capped ripples, and Aragorn could not keep himself from shivering. Pippin did not look to be faring much better; he was shaking violently, his head now barely above water. The flood was near to reaching Aragorn's chest and it was no surprise that the hobbit was finding it difficult to continue.

He bent and took Pippin into his arms, and the little one did not protest, instead wrapping his arms about Aragorn's neck and burying his face in the soaked tunic. Ahead of them, Boromir took up Merry, and though Diamond seemed furious at the prospect she conceded to let Boromir bear her upon his back. Aragorn felt rather guilty relief at the assurance that he would not have to carry two hobbits; he still ached in many places from his fall and did not think he could bear any more weight than Pippin.

"Strider," mumbled Pippin into Aragorn's chest when the flood had become a little shallower. "I must tell you something."

"Of course, Pippin. What troubles you?"

"I had another dream last night," said Pippin, looking up at Aragorn with wide fearful eyes. "I dreamed of the blackened land again, of the Lord Denethor and the march toward Mordor, but this time Diamond was with child, and she was to give birth upon the plains. Valor was there and he seemed quite fearful. This troubled me, though it was not nearly so worrisome as the words I heard at the end of the dream. They rolled across the land like thunder."

"Do you remember what they were?" Aragorn could not keep a note of fear out of his voice. What if the words were the same that he had heard in his dream just before Isengard, with the horrible echoing voice stating that Aragorn would bring about the fall of Middle-earth? "Please, Pippin, you must remember."

"I do remember," Pippin said, and he closed his eyes and the voice seemed to speak through him. "The voice said, 'When the shadow is fallen and all fate is dire/The light shall spring forth from a trial by fire/And the reaches of evil the heir shall raze/Or befall the land with the end of days.'"

Aragorn did not reply; his thoughts had burst into a raging hurricane of terror. Perhaps the words were not the same, but they carried the same message: he, Aragorn son of Arathorn, high king Elessar of Gondor, was to bring about the end of days in Middle-earth. He was not only doomed to lose the war but to destroy the land itself, to bring about the creation of the horrible blackened landscape that Pippin saw in his dreams. What was the point of continuing on when all Aragorn would do was bring destruction on his friends and his people? Why should there be a war at all?

"Strider?" Pippin whispered. "Strider, are you alright?"

He had stopped in the middle of the floodwater, his feet seeming now as leaden ingots. Aragorn could not breathe, could not move, could not think of anything but the horrific truth.

"No, Pippin," he choked out. "All is lost."

His head was pounding now, lightning searing through his body. The floodwater seemed as if it had turned suddenly to blood, a sea of blazing iron come to drown its prey. Aragorn would let it take him. He knew now that he could not continue, that he must never reach Minas Tirith lest the White City should fall.

A splash echoed vaguely through his thoughts, but Aragorn paid it no mind. He raised his hands to his temples, nearly doubling over with the blinding pain that now speared through him. His breath came swift and shallow, and dark swathes of shadow began to overtake his vision.

"Strider!"

It was Pippin's voice, and it sounded so like the cry in his dream, when Pippin had called out for him from a rising tide of blood…and the palantír was as a globe of fire, burning through his cloak…and suddenly vision upon vision of horrors poured through his mind, enclosed in a circle of flame…

Hosts of beings—elves, hobbits, men—fight upon a dark battlefield, and a vast black gate rises in the distance. The sky is dim and filled with ash, and a legion of orc-spears pierce the dusty heavens.

Splintered grass slick with blood covers the battlefield in a gruesome carpet. The air is filled with the cries of dying warriors, the ground with the bodies of the dead, who are great in number. Aragorn looks to the fiery red sun casting its weakened light over the scene and wonders bleakly if it too has been soaked in blood.

He scans the field desperately, searching for some familiar face to ground himself. He finds Queen Honor amid the throng, seated upon a dark horse and wielding a black-stained scythe. Her dark curls are whipped around her face as she swings the curved blade, cutting through the necks of orc after orc. Valor rides a white horse beside his wife, his mouth open in a desperate cry that goes unheard in the roar of battle.

A blade similar to Honor's, long and curved, slices across Aragorn's forehead in his moment of distraction. Blood runs into his eyes, tinting the battle scarlet. He raises Andúril and smites off the head of the orc that has wounded him, despair coursing through his veins as the men of Minas Tirith fall around him.

He cries out in horror as Honor falls from her horse. Valor leaps after his wife and takes up her scythe, tears running down his face as he wields it clumsily. Aragorn rides toward the queen and consort, passing a bloodied Legolas and Gimli, who fight back-to-back. They drive back many orcs, but more come, and Legolas roars in fury as Gimli is cut down.

Just beyond them is Merry, who is curled on the ground, writhing in pain as blood pools beneath him. A pale-haired woman is lying near to him, with a young man who looks much like Boromir crouched beside her. Is this Faramir? Aragorn has not seen him for many years, but the resemblance to the Captain of Gondor is striking. He too is bleeding, but he clutches the hand of the woman, pleading soundlessly.

Aragorn makes out the small figures of Majesty and Ruby Dellshore, unaware of their mother's fate, firing many arrows into the oncoming orcs. Their faces are bloody and filled with fear, but still they fight, unfazed by the march of their enemies.

The army of Gondor is falling. Everywhere Aragorn looks he is met with more fallen soldiers, more gouts of blood cascading onto the scarlet grass. Ash is whipped through the air by a burning wind, a horrible dark poison grating against his lungs.

And then—oh, Valar—

In the distance, the mountain shakes and the earth itself trembles in unadulterated fear. Fire is coming, spewing forth from the top of Oroduin. Aragorn's horse rears, terrified—for what man or beast would not be—and unseats him, and he falls, blood from the crimson-soaked earth splashing over his face.

And pain spears through Aragorn's chest, three wicked prongs of fire driving straight through him. It is not from the impact with the ground, nor is it made by any orc-blade. It is three long-ago arrows that pull the life from within him, three arrows come to finally do his shattered soul justice. Finally, he has retribution for his otherworldly deed.

"Ilúvatar, O One, father of heaven," he chokes out, barely able to speak, "hear my prayer!"

Footsteps thunder around him, the shapes of orcs and men blocking out the ashen sun, and Aragorn knows with a punishing finality that this is the day that his fragile mortal life is extinguished.

"Hear me," he whispers, even as the sky fades into darkness and an anguished cry echoes across the battlefield. "Spare him!"

Those words send the earth into tumult, and fire seems to sweep over Aragorn, carrying him to what he hopes are the shores of Valinor. But if not, even if he is not destined for such light and beauty, he will not allow the winyanost to be condemned to the same fate as he, simply because they share a soul…

"Spare him!"

And he falls.

"Estel!"

It was Boromir's voice. The strong hands were upon his shoulders again, just as they had been the night of the summoning, and he was on his knees, water lapping against his chest. His hands were still pressed to his face, shaking violently as he withdrew them and looked up.

It took Aragorn several moments to register that Boromir knelt before him, his eyes so wide that Aragorn could see the whites on every side. Rainwater cascaded in rivulets down Boromir's face, and his chest heaved as if he had spent a considerable time under exertion.

"Mellon." Aragorn's voice was hoarse, scratchy as if he had truly breathed the ash-filled air of battle. "Amman, honeg? Amman can-nin Estel?"

His voice broke over the words. "Beria hon, Ilúvatar…edraith iôn Gondor…"

"I cannot understand you," said Boromir desperately. "I speak only Westron, Aragorn; I know not what is the matter! Please, you must speak with me in the Common Speech, for I am unlearned in the noble art of tongues!"

The palantír had ceased to burn, and with its fading fire came the return of conscious speech. Aragorn struggled to form the simple words, as if he had regressed to his earliest days, when he struggled to learn proper Westron in the house of Elrond. His mother Gilraen had spoken the language to him when he was a babe, but when he came to Imladris he had learned only Sindarin; Westron was as good as his second language. Still he usually spoke it so well; he did not know why the skill seemed to have fled his tongue.

"Gohen—forgive me, Boromir," Aragorn whispered, choking back the Elvish words. "I…I do not know what possessed me. Was it you who cried my Sindarin name? I did not know that you knew of it."

"I spoke no Sindarin," said Boromir. "Nor did any of the hobbits."

"I heard you." Aragorn could not wrap his wearied mind around any other explanation. "Boromir, you spoke my name. You cried Estel and called me back from the palantír, or whatever it was that sent me such visions."

"Aragorn," said Boromir, firmly but gently. "I speak no Sindarin, nor did I even know your Elvish name. I thought the question was best left unasked; I did not know if it was a personal matter. But you are troubled and weary, and perhaps also pained from what I can tell. Come, lean on me; we shall find a place out of the wind and the rain, and we may rest for the afternoon."

Aragorn let Boromir pull him to his feet, where his trembling legs nearly sent him back to the ground. He looked over the hobbits, who watched him with apprehension in their gazes.

"Fear not, little ones," he said. "I am well, only shaken. Pippin, I think I must have dropped you, and for that I am quite sorry."

"Do not be so," said Pippin with his usual smile. "I was in no danger. Let us find someplace to shelter; I wish nothing more than to get out of the water."

Boromir pulled Aragorn's arm over his shoulders, and Aragorn leaned more on him than he would like to admit. His legs seemed as though they were made of the water that surrounded them, and his head ached as if some dwarf had taken a hammer to his skull. It seemed odd that a single vision had taken so much strength from him. Would it always be so taxing? Would Aragorn always be brought to his knees, passing out of the waking world and into the dreaming, and awake speaking in tongues foreign to his companions, with pain like this?

As they set off across the floodplain, Aragorn thought on the voice that had called him out of the vision. It had certainly sounded like Boromir, but now that he had time for further reflection, he thought that perhaps the voice had been slightly higher, though still the voice of a man. Could it be that another Man like himself was drawn by the palantír? If it was so, where was he?

Aragorn wished he could speak to Valor; the fallan was greatly learned when it came to these matters. He was sure that Valor could tell him what the palantír desired, who had called for him, perhaps even the truth of what he had seen—if it would come to pass or not. Aragorn needed guidance, and he needed it swiftly.

"How are you?" Boromir asked suddenly, though to Aragorn's relief he kept his voice quiet. "You do not look well, Aragorn; your face is pale as the blossoms of the elenorn and you are shaking. Visions seem to me an unpleasant business."

"I am well enough," Aragorn sighed. "It is a silly thing, but the vision frightened me, just as any night terror would. I shall be alright once I have had a chance to rest, though I hate to slow our journey so."

"It is inevitable that it should be slowed at some point," said Boromir, smiling faintly. "Why not now?"

Aragorn mustered a faint smile in return, but it quickly faded as he registered a seemingly trivial detail of Boromir's words. "Boromir."

His voice was firmer than he meant it to be, and alarm flashed through Boromir's eyes. "Aragorn? What troubles you?"

"Boromir, you have never seen the elenorn."

Their feet stilled, and they stood together in the now-knee-deep water, storm-toned eyes staring into each other, and suddenly Aragorn realized how alike their eyes truly were. The hobbits, a few paces ahead of them, looked on with confusion in their eyes.

"I remember it so clearly," Boromir murmured, his eyes glassy. "It was a beautiful thing, much like the White Tree of Gondor, and it grew beside a creek. There I heard, or perhaps I sang, a song that I think may be the loveliest thing I have ever known, and it came from deep within, borne upon some inner light."

Aragorn tried to speak but could find no utterance. Boromir remembered, he remembered the white tree of Long Cleeve, though he had never before seen it, and he had spoken with Aragorn's own internal words of the inner light. What had he been given along with Aragorn's soul?

The daze lifted from Boromir's gaze, and he looked upon Aragorn again. "Perhaps I dreamed it. Come, we must find shelter and make camp."

Aragorn was reluctant to let the subject drop, but he complied and the company continued to trudge trough the floodwaters. By the grace of Ilúvatar the flood began to grow less deep, and after another half a league or so they were walking only across sodden grass.

Near sunset, as the land became more jagged, they came to a rocky overhang and camped beneath it. Pippin and Merry curled up together, resting on top of Pippin's cloak and below Merry's, and fell asleep almost instantly. Diamond, wrapped in her own cloak, was close behind, lying a few feet away.

The sunset painted the edge of the overcast sky with fire, and Aragorn and Boromir sat at the mouth of the little cave, watching the golden light shine blinding upon the water. For a long time neither of them spoke, content to remain in the dampened, darkening world, and then Boromir broke the silence.

"What have you seen?"

Aragorn startled a little; he looked at Boromir with poorly concealed fear. "I—I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me." Boromir's gaze was steady. "What have you seen, my king? I have seen before the way you fell to your knees and seemed to pass out of this world and into another. I know that you have seen something that has frightened you. Please, tell me of it; perhaps I might soothe your fears."

"No man can soothe my fears," sighed Aragorn, but he relented. "I saw a terrible battle beside a black gate, where great armies fought beneath a red sun. The hobbits of Long Cleeve were there, as were some of our company and the men of Gondor. I watched Honor Queen of Long Cleeve struck down before me and saw the loss of many men. Just before the vision ended I was thrown from my horse, and I knew that I would die there upon the battlefield. But though the vision troubles me exceedingly it is nothing when compared to what Pippin has told me."

"What has he said?" asked Boromir.

"He gave to me a prophecy, one which recalled a dream I had weeks ago before the siege of Isengard," said Aragorn. "It frightened me, for both my dream and Pippin's riddle have said that I shall bring about the end of days in Middle-earth. Now I am fearful of myself, and I wonder if I must give up the quest so that I do not place the fate of us all upon the point of a knife."

"Speak not of leaving, Aragorn, I beg of you," Boromir pleaded, looking at Aragorn with plaintive eyes. "I find it difficult to believe that you and you alone shall hold the fate of Middle-earth. I think each of us has a part to play, for good or for evil, and no one of us has a greater destiny than any other. But even if that were not true, even if you did lead us into a land of blood and shadow and mountains of cascading fire, I would follow you to the end, for I would know that you had done your best to save us."

The measure of devotion, of pure and perfect hope, broke Aragorn's heart, for he had already made his choice. After tonight, Boromir would not think so highly of him—the cowardly king abdicating his crumbling throne.

Even so he reached out and placed a hand upon Boromir's arm. "Thank you, mellon. I am glad that you are here, with your kind words and your steadfast heart. Know that nothing done to me shall ever make me regret the summoning of your noble spirit."

You will lead this quest well.

He stood and walked to the wall of the cave, leaning against the stone. "I will take the first watch, Boromir. Go lie down with the hobbits, for I am sure they are in need of your warmth tonight. I…I shall wake you at midnight."

"Very well." Boromir took his sodden cloak from off his shoulders and laid it out upon the ground to dry, then curled onto the earth beside Merry and Pippin, his eyes already closing. "Good night, Estel."

Aragorn smiled faintly. "Good night, Boromir."

He stood still for a long time, watching as the sun sank fully beneath the glittering horizon. When it had gone Aragorn knelt down, looking upon his sleeping companions and ensuring that they were all, for better or for worse, deep in slumber, just as they must be.

Aragorn took his pack, which he had placed against the wall of the cave, and took from it many leaves of athelas, wrapping them in a length of bandage from the stores of Long Cleeve. He left one of his two precious jars of pine sap and a mortar and pestle, as well as a cooking pan and his firesteel. Lastly he left his coil of elvin rope, which had sustained them for so long. All this he pushed against the back wall, not wanting to let it become damp.

When it was all done he took a piece of charcoal and the parchment on which he had written the words to the summoning ritual, and the latter he turned over to the blank side. He began to write, fighting past the burning in the corners of his eyes.

The visions tell me I will destroy you. Our quest is doomed, or at least it shall be if I continue. Boromir shall lead this quest now and take my place as the true king of Gondor.

Know that I have great faith in each of you. I am sorry that I could not go with you to the end. May Ilúvatar grant you his protection and guidance as you complete your journey.

And if you can forgive me, perhaps one day we shall meet again.

With greatest love,

Aragorn

Strider

Estel

Aragorn rolled the parchment into a scroll and placed it beside the other supplies, and as he turned to leave he realized that it may be the last time he ever saw this last of his little company. Should all go wrong in Minas Tirith, should they be lost to the flood or to Sauron, he did not wish to leave them without a last goodbye.

He kissed both Merry and Pippin upon their brows, the sight of their little sleeping faces sending tiny cracks across his heart. Instead of Diamond's forehead he brushed his lips lightly across her hand, closing his eyes so he could not see the Ring on its chain about her neck. She was a valiant Ring-bearer, and it saddened him to think that he was leaving her just as he had Frodo, when it had been his duty to protect them both.

In a way, he was honoring that duty. This much he knew.

Lastly Aragorn went to Boromir. This parting hurt him the most, after so short a time of being back with his dearest friend, but he knew that it must happen, so that he might have even a chance of sparing him.

Just as he had when Boromir passed in the forest on Amon Hen, Aragorn took Boromir's sleeping face in his hands and kissed his brow, the words from that moment passing soundlessly over his lips. Be at peace, son of Gondor.

"Be at peace," he whispered again as he stood, unable to turn just yet toward the rain-washed horizon. "Farewell, my friends."

Then Aragorn went out into the night, unable to keep his tears from flowing now, and they fell upon the ground, mingling with the rainy tears of Ilúvatar, which wrapped him in a shroud of sorrow and left a trail of shattered destiny stretching out behind him.

Chapter Text

PEREGRIN

He woke from dreams of dark tunnels and shaking earth to low voices. As Pippin sat up and rubbed his eyes he realized that it was Boromir and Diamond who spoke, seemingly embroiled in an argument.

"We cannot follow him!" said Diamond. "The Dúnedain are swift, and Strider has been gone all night; he will have gone ten leagues or more by now. And we do not know in which direction he has traveled."

"Still I am not worthy to lead the quest," Boromir countered. "Though I know the way to Minas Tirith I have not been called of Ilúvatar to lead you, only to protect you. I fear that if I should lead you as Aragorn has requested, then we shall meet with ruin. I…I fear that I shall take the Ring from you."

"Then control yourself!" Diamond snapped. "You have done it thus far; why not continue? Believe me when I say I shall not let you get the Ring, for I am a stubborn thing, and one that shall not hesitate to use this if you try to take it from me." She pulled her dagger from its sheath and quick as lightning had the point pressed to the crook of Boromir's jaw. "So have a bit more faith in yourself, Captain, and know that the Ring is safe from you. In fact I think it was in greater danger of being taken by Strider; perhaps it is a blessing that he has gone."

"I don't understand," said Pippin, and both Diamond and Boromir turned towards him, the latter hissing in pain as Diamond's blade snicked against his neck. She lowered and sheathed her dagger, growling an apology.

"Has Strider gone?" Pippin continued. "What has happened? Is he alright?"

Diamond picked up a scroll of paper from the floor of the cave and thrust it toward him. "Read, Shire-child, and tell me if you think he is alright."

Pippin looked over the parchment, his heart dropping as he read. Aragorn's handwriting was very elegant and flowing, which made it rather difficult for him to decipher, but even so he could tell the message's tone was that of sorrow and self-doubt.

The visions tell me I will destroy you. Our quest is doomed, or at least it shall be if I continue. Boromir shall lead this quest now and take my place as the true king of Gondor.

Know that I have great faith in each of you. I am sorry that I could not go with you to the end. May Ilúvatar grant you his protection and guidance as you complete your journey.

And if you can forgive me, perhaps one day we shall meet again.

With greatest love,

Aragorn

Strider

Estel

"He is afraid of his own failings," said Boromir when Pippin had looked up. "He believes that Middle-earth shall fall because of him. I told him that it should not come to pass, but though I thought at the time that he believed me, it appears that my words did not change his mind. He must have intended to leave even before we spoke."

"But surely we must go and find him," Pippin said. "Though I don't suppose any of us know where he's gone? Strider does indeed move swiftly. I fear that he has gone a great distance without us."

"And we do not even know in what direction," said Merry's voice, and Pippin startled, not having known that his cousin was awake.

"I suppose we can at least rule out south—southeast, I suppose," said Diamond bitterly. "For Strider made it clear that he did not wish to continue to Minas Tirith. If he has gone due east he shall reach Emyn Muil, and if he has gone due south he shall be in the White Mountains. North shall take him to Fangorn, and west—northwest, at least—shall return him to Long Cleeve."

Boromir stood suddenly upright; he looked out to the horizon and said, "He has turned around."

"How do you know?" asked Merry. "Do you see him? Has he left tracks?"

"I cannot explain it," said Boromir. "I feel a pull within, deep in my chest…It is as if something is tugging me towards Aragorn. Something calls to me. I…I think he has gone to Long Cleeve."

"Then we mustn't lose any time!" Pippin sprang to his feet. "Up, Merry, let's get our things!"

Merry did as requested, gathering up the cloaks from the floor of the cave and thrusting Pippin's upon him. Pippin hurriedly fastened his brooch and tucked the little pot of sap and the firesteel that Aragorn had left into his pockets. Boromir took the rest of the supplies, which Pippin now realized were very little in number.

"Strider didn't leave us much in the way of supplies," said Diamond bitterly, echoing his thoughts. "And I believe that I am the only one of our company who possesses any sort of weapon. We shall certainly be ill-equipped to continue our quest if we do not go after Strider. I suppose there is nothing to do but follow him."

They set out across the vast plains back toward Long Cleeve. Pippin hoped that Aragorn had not gone too far; he did not wish to pass over the bridge again. Still he knew he would do it if it meant reuniting with Aragorn, whom he privately thought was the only level-headed one in the company; surely they would be lost without him.

The Fellowship had gone scarcely a hundred yards when Diamond cried out, her voice strained and sounding as though it took a great deal of effort to force out. "Stop—stop, we must cease our journey—"

She fell to her knees, clutching at her chest. For a moment Pippin wondered if she had been injured, but then he realized that Diamond had taken the Ring in her grasp. Reena-domë shone like a circle of golden fire, and it was for this reason that none of her companions approached her.

"Is all well, Princess?" Boromir asked.

"Of course not!" Diamond snapped. "You think the power of the Ring simple to bear, Captain? No, all is not well; Reena-domë wishes for us to turn back, to follow our intended course to Minas Tirith. It shall not let us pass back into the lands of Long Cleeve. I fear that it shall destroy us before we go a single league. We are to press on, with or without Strider."

"But how can we come into Gondor without its king?" Boromir asked. "Despite what he has written, I do not believe that he must relinquish the kingship. I am not worthy—"

"And yet you cannot deny that your heart has greatly desired it," said Diamond, and she got to her feet and faced Boromir. "While Strider fought the temptation of the Ring, you fought the temptation of power, of being able to protect the people you so treasured. I know that at first you were distrustful of Strider, thinking that he had come to take your office and your people."

"Princess." Boromir's voice was heavy; he looked very tired. "No, I cannot deny that my heart did desire the kingship in the beginning. I feared that Aragorn did not know the perils of my lands and people, that he would not know how to succor them as I would. But I am not that man anymore, nor was I when I fell upon Amon Hen. This is Aragorn's birthright, and it makes no difference whether he rules my people or any other. He cares for all those that stand in need, and I trust that he will lead them as I never could have. Even I see the dangers of allowing a man such as myself to sit upon the throne of Gondor. I am too prideful, too brash, and so very mortal. Aragorn is the rightful heir."

"Still he gives up the throne willingly." Diamond sighed and turned back to the south. "I am not trying to convince you to take up the kingship, Captain. I am only saying that, if Strider has indeed abdicated his destiny, we have a duty to preserve the future that Ilúvatar has laid out for your people. And to do that we must either find a king or make one."

"If there is no other way to ensure that Gondor is saved," said Boromir, "then I shall take up the kingship. But I will do it only when I know that Aragorn is beyond all hope. Until then, Princess, we can do nothing but place our trust in Aragorn himself. I believe that he will realize his worth while he takes this journey. He will understand how crucial he is to the salvation of Gondor and to all of Middle-earth."

"And if not?" Diamond challenged. Pippin was startled by the fear in her eyes as she continued. "What if he does not understand, Captain? What will our people do then?"

"Then we shall prevail without Ilúvatar's blessing," said Boromir gravely, "or we shall perish with it. If we must fight, then we shall stand together to defend our lands, and though we shall surely perish I will not suffer that your people and mine shall fall without honor. If all is indeed lost, then all we can do is hope for a better world in the domain of Ilúvatar."

Pippin found his voice; he thought it might have been choked down by sheer sorrow. "If you indeed become king, Boromir, I want you to know that I will die for you just as I would have died for Strider."

"So will I," said Merry. "And before you forbid us from doing so you must understand that this is war. We may die for you whether you wish us to or not. And if we should die then we shall do so fighting for the peace of Middle-earth. Believe me when I say that there is no other cause for which we would rather give our lives."

"Regardless of whether you or Strider is king," finished Diamond, "all the forces of Long Cleeve shall stand beside you."

Boromir's eyes shone with what Pippin thought must be tears. "You deserve the deepest thanks, my friends. I shall not hold you back from fighting to defend the White City, for we shall need all the warriors we can find, and you are truly magnificent hobbits—and a truly magnificent hobbit-maid," he added. "I shall forever hope that it shall not come to this, but if it must, then it gladdens my heart to know that you shall be by my side, little warriors."

As one they turned to the south, and Pippin asked, "Should we be off, then?"

"We should," said Diamond. "On to Minas Tirith."

They set off across the flooded, rainy land, and as the storm ceased and the sun returned, despite the fear of losing Aragorn and the uncertainty of the future, Pippin could not help but hope.

LEGOLAS

The touch of water awakened him, and the shadow that had enveloped Legolas was lifted.

He opened his eyes to a silver sky and a gently falling rain; there was young grass beneath his cheek. Water seemed to lap at Legolas's feet, and he turned onto his side to see that he indeed lay partially in the shallows of a river.

What had transpired? Why was he here at the edge of the Anduin rather than with his company, traveling across the vast plains of Rohan toward Minas Tirith?

Legolas tried to remember; it was difficult with his whole being waterlogged and battered. They had been traveling over a ridge, and it overlooked the rushing waters of the great Anduin. Merry and Pippin had been carried through the deepening mud by Aragorn and Boromir. Legolas had watched Gimli as he walked, talking gruffly to Diamond, and admired the coppery gleam of the dwarf's beard against the gray sky, the swell of his bicep beneath the edge of his shoulder guard as he hefted his axe.

He had felt ashamed of looking at Gimli son of Glóin that way; hadn't he always? Between his father the Elvenking's desperation for Legolas to find and wed a lovely Elvish princess and the simple fact that Gimli was a dwarf, Legolas had no right to watch his love in that way. To preserve his people and his heart, he mustn't do it.

It was to preserve his own life as well, for it was only because of the way his eyes were drawn to Gimli that Legolas had lost his footing and plummeted into the raging Anduin. It was not often that Legolas made such an error, but this one had nearly cost him his life.

Foolish, Greenleaf, he chided himself. You cannot let such things distract you from the quest. It is your duty to protect the Fellowship. To protect Estel.

Estel son of Elrond had been Legolas's first love. From the moment he saw the boy come into his manhood he had watched and waited, biding his time. It was not often that Legolas was blessed with the company of Estel, but during the fleeting moments it seemed to Legolas as if the light of the Two Trees had come into his world.

But then Estel left and lived as Thorongil of Gondor for many years, and when he returned he was less of the carefree youth that Legolas had known. Still he found that he could not turn his heart away from the mortal, and he spurned the advances of many an elvin lady.

And then Estel disappeared from Legolas's life for not just years but decades, and when they finally met again in Imladris Estel had become Aragorn, son of Arathorn, a filthy and feral Dúnedan, a Ranger of the North. Though Legolas had feared that all traces of the Estel he had known had vanished, he could see the careful consideration and the rare yet genuine smile that he so loved, and for a moment that lasted perhaps a few days, Legolas dared to hope.

How ironic Estel's name was, for it was he who had finally crushed the hope that Legolas had nurtured for seventy long years. Aragorn had taken the sapling grown in Legolas's heart and pulled it up, roots and all, and cast it by the wayside—because he loved his foster sister above the friend and playmate of his childhood.

The pain had mostly faded now; Legolas could speak to and even embrace Aragorn without fear of hurting either of them. But it had been a long and uncomfortable time of being unable to look at his lost love, and though he knew it to be cowardly he did not wish to repeat the experience, especially with a dwarf.

"Elf," grunted Gimli's voice, and Legolas's heart soared within him. He remembered his arms hooked around Gimli's neck in the Anduin, clinging to the dwarf as though he were the last solid thing in a crumbling world. He knew not when he had passed out of consciousness, but he knew that Gimli must have gotten him to the bank; it was likely the only reason he had not drowned.

"Are you alright, laddie?" asked Gimli as Legolas sat up, brushing his soaked hair out of his eyes. Legolas glanced over his body, searching for injuries; save for a bruise or two and several tears in his clothing (this was of course discounting the awful state of his hair), he did not feel much hurt.

"I am alright, Gimli," said Legolas as he came to his feet. "But what of you? I should hate for you to have sustained injury on my behalf."

"I'm well enough," said Gimli gruffly. "At least, I suppose I am, save for the fact that we have gone many leagues down the Anduin and know not where we may be. I should think that our company is terribly worried about us; we ought to get back to them as soon as possible. I shan't have the young ones worrying their hearts out over a foolish elf."

Though he knew it was meant to be a jibe it did not have that effect on Legolas. He was seized upon by the sudden desire not to return to the Fellowship; what other time would he have alone with Gimli before he must take up the quest once more?

"We might follow the Anduin to the White City," he said, praying that Gimli would agree. "I daresay that we can move faster than the others; though Estel is swift he must remain with Boromir and the hobbits. It shall be difficult to meet up with them along the way; let us make for Minas Tirith and see if we cannot reach it first."

"Ah, a challenge!" said Gimli. "Very well, then; let us press on! Though I think I have swallowed much of the Anduin I have strength in me yet. Come, Master Elf, let us make haste! For the day grows long and yet night shall not wait for us."

And he broke into a run, sprinting with his hands fisted at his sides and his strong legs pumping, kicking up spray as he went. Legolas followed, swift and light upon the wet grass, and laughed as the wind threw his sodden hair upon his face.

As he watched Gimli run he vowed to himself to cherish every moment with this dwarf, this stubborn fiery creature with a heart forged of gold and steel, for their time together would be short, and Legolas knew that such moments may not pass his way again.

So he ran along the riverbank, sometimes passing Gimli and sometimes letting the dwarf overtake him, and Legolas thanked Ilúvatar for his fall into the Anduin, for he knew now that it had truly been a blessing.

ARAGORN

Two days passed before Aragorn reached Long Cleeve. The rains had ceased by then, and he was grateful for it. He hoped that, wherever his company may be, they were able to walk without fear of infection or frostbite due to the waterlogged ground.

They had not come after him, which for some reason saddened Aragorn. He could not deny that, while he had left of his own will and did not intend for any of the Fellowship to follow him, some part of him had hoped that they might be sorrowful enough to wish to call him back.

He drove this thought from his mind and tightened his cloak upon his shoulders, keeping his gaze fixed on the glimmer of white on the horizon, the one that he knew was the elenorn. Behind him was only misery and broken fate; ahead was shelter and reassurance.

When he drew near to the city Aragorn took his circlet from his pack and placed it upon his head; he did not want to startle the guards and thought that the adornment may soothe any misgivings they had of him. He need not have done it, though, for the guards in question were Ruby and Majesty, and the latter welcomed him with great joy.

"I must speak with your father," said Aragorn as Majesty led him through the city to the palace. "For there are matters which weigh heavy upon my mind, and I would seek his counsel that I may know what course to take."

"Is all well with the Fellowship?" asked Majesty. "How is Dia? Is she alright?"

"She is well, as are the rest of the company," Aragorn assured him. "It is only I who stands in need of help."

"Then I shall take you to Ada's study," Majesty decided. "He is out gathering herbs with the twinlings, though they have been at it for three hours now; I wager they shall return soon. You shan't have to wait long."

They entered the palace and went down one of the tunnel-like halls to the room Aragorn recognized as Valor's study. Majesty led Aragorn inside and bade him farewell, reiterating that his father would return shortly.

Aragorn stood in the dimly lit room, studying the leather tomes upon the walls. There were many that he thought he might be able to read: The Silmarillion, History of the Naugrim in Arda, The Lays of Beleriand. He wondered if Valor had read all of the books he kept here; he would not have been surprised if the consort had.

The door opened and Aragorn turned around, trying not to appear too startled. Valor entered, setting a basket filled to overflowing with leaves and the first of the spring flowers upon the floor, then closed the door and looked upon Aragorn with a smile, his dusky gaze calm and inquisitive. "What troubles you, Strider?"

Aragorn took his pack from off his shoulders and reached inside, pulling out the palantír wrapped in its dark cloth and setting the seeing-stone upon the table. "This, my friend. I—I have seen concerning visions through it, or it not through it then through some other means which I know not of. I saw a battlefield under an ashen sky, upon which many warriors, including myself, fell. And Pippin through it has heard a prophecy, one which convinces me that I shall bring about the end of days in Middle-earth. I cannot continue the quest if this is what I am to inevitably cause. I am sorry I could not protect your daughter, Valor. If it is any comfort I have left her and the others with a man much stronger and braver than I."

Valor nodded. "The Captain of Gondor. The night that you left our lands I dreamed of a spirit recalled from the grave, and I imagine that it is he who now possesses the other half of your soul."

"He does," said Aragorn, and Valor sighed.

"Then it is as I have seen. The final piece has fallen into place. The return of Boromir changes…many things. Some things that should not have been shall now come to pass. But so too shall things which could not have been otherwise. Even so his reclaimed soul places the whole of Middle-earth upon the edge of a knife."

Valor held out his hands. "If I may, Strider. I…I should like to know for certain."

Aragorn let the consort take his hands, and Valor closed his eyes, murmuring something that Aragorn could not hear. At first Valor's face was placid, unmoving save for his lips. But then a horrible twisted fear seemed to seize upon him, and he cried out, nearly doubling over. Aragorn out of instinct moved to steady Valor, but the hobbit shouted "No!" and seized Aragorn's wrists with a newfound ferocity. He moved so swiftly that Aragorn did not have time to pull away before Valor took Aragorn's right hand and slammed both it and his own onto the palantír.

A wicked laugh poured from Diamond's lips; she raised a circle of fire into the air and moved it toward her finger. The earth shook both beneath and above her, but she knew no fear, for the Ring was hers and hers alone…

Boromir leaned against a half-downed stone wall, his tunic soaked in blood and his sword glistening black. Breathlessly he gasped out a prayer, then sprang from the wall at the sound of a shrill, high-pitched cry, hurling himself back into battle.

Pippin knelt in a small cramped room of stone; tears fell from his eyes as he sang a broken, haunted melody, and the red sun glimmered unforgivingly through a barred slit in the wall. The air smelled of ash and sulfur and misery.

Luin and Majesty Dellshore wove through a maze of sleeping orcs, and Faramir son of Denethor clutched Reena-domë in his grasp, his words as the drumbeats of doom in Moria, and Legolas lay upon blood-soaked leaves with his life draining into the earth. Soldiers of Rohan and Gondor fought and bled and fell, and Gandalf the White stood above them with his staff, shouting incantations that did nothing to turn the tide of battle.

Frodo and Sam toiled upon the slopes of Mount Doom, and a hideous creature tailed them, and great fear took hold of their hearts. Sam thrust what looked to be a star into the air, and for a little while it drove the darkness of Mordor and the great fiery Eye of Sauron back.

And the visions began to change.

A great gray ship passed into the West, and an old and withered king stood upon its deck, looking out to the sunset and then back to the receding coastline of the lands he had so loved, though he knew that he had taken on this great and last journey all that was dearest to him.

Two newborn halfbits were cradled in their father's weary arms, and excited shouts filled the land of the Shire. For the first time in many ages a dwarf dressed in silk kissed an elf prince beneath a white tree, and an ordinary man slipped a silver ring onto a pale finger and looked into boundless gray eyes as his beloved lady whispered yes through immortal trembling lips. Grass-stained fingers wove into dark hair as a kiss was planted on an ashen brow. A fair-haired woman whispered to a young man that she cared not what he had been born, only what he had grown to be. A brokenhearted hobbit-maid cried for her love, and another hobbit with the star of Long Cleeve upon his chest comforted her, and together they raised a beautiful daughter. Terrified, weeping parents welcomed their sons home to the Shire and vowed never to let them go again.

This was love in its truest, purest form, and Aragorn nearly wept at the sight of it. It was what could be; what should be—what would be if all turned out well. If he chose the right path to walk.

Did it truly all rest in his hands alone?

Valor pulled Aragorn's hand from the palantír and stepped back, his face deathly pale and wet with tears. Aragorn realized that he too had wept, and he brushed the moisture from his cheeks, asking, "Then have you seen it also?"

"Yes," the consort murmured. "I saw it. The end of the War of the Rings."

"It was beautiful," said Aragorn. "The war itself was harsh and painful, and yet beyond these darkened days I found hope, for once they were over I saw only expressions of exquisite love."

"Oh, to live within those days forever," said Valor. "If every creature in Middle-earth could experience a single moment of the joy we have seen today, then there would be no war upon this land."

"There is war yet." Aragorn looked pleadingly at the consort. "Please, Valor, you must tell me what these things mean. Why is it that I can see these visions? Why must they plague me?"

A terrifying thought struck him, and he asked, "Why can I now touch the palantír?"

Valor sighed and went to the fireplace carved into the wall, staring into the flickering warmth. "There is no easy way to tell you this, Strider, though I hope that you will at least take comfort in the fact that it is not easy for me to tell it to anyone. Nor was it easy when it was told to me. Those who possess my curse wish, after a few short years at best, that they had been spared its clarity."

He lifted his eyes to Aragorn and said, "I wish it were not so, mellon, but it appears that you possess the Gazing Eye."

For a moment Aragorn could not speak. When he finally found his voice, it was to say hoarsely, "How?"

"It is never truly known how," said Valor. "Still I do not know why I and my brother were cursed with the Gaze. Generally it runs in certain lines and is given to one male in each generation. I did not know that Men could be afflicted with it, though now that I do, I would hazard a guess at the Númenorean line bearing it."

"But I have never shown signs of it before," Aragorn argued. "And the palantír did not wake the Gazing Eye when I first came into contact with it; in fact it burned me just as it did the rest of the Fellowship."

Valor looked to be deep in thought, staring into the fire once more. "Again, I must resort to educated guesswork to explain this. You are the first to unite the lines of succession, to use both the palantír and the Ring of Melkor. Both twist your innermost fears to their own use, and once you came into contact with both artifacts, they woke the Gaze from its dormant state. Be honest with me, Strider; have you never even once had a dream that seemed far more like a vision? Or a feeling that you could not explain?"

Aragorn thought back on his journey. There was the dream that had come during the journey to Isengard, the vision of blood and broken crowns. Then had come the conviction that Merry and Pippin's fate was not as it should be, and the certainty that the raising of Boromir was the right choice. There was the strange and beautiful light within him when the lament for Boromir had been sung twice over. Was this the Gaze, then; this complex weaving of feeling and sight? Had Aragorn ever not possessed it?

"You speak the truth," he murmured. "Now that I think on it, I can see the signs that you speak of. Though I have seen only one true vision—two now, I suppose—I believe that the Gazing Eye has been a part of me for a long while."

Valor nodded. "It is contained within the soul; you are born with the Gaze and you shall die with it. Though I find it burdensome and at times agonizing I believe that the Gazing Eye can be used for good. I cannot deny that there have been times when I have been glad to have it."

Aragorn had stiffened; his mouth was quite dry as he asked, "You say it is contained within my soul?"

The consort nodded again, his gaze solemn and fearful.

"Then…" Aragorn swallowed. There seemed to be quite a large lump in his throat. "Then Boromir too has the Gazing Eye."

"I am afraid that you are correct, Strider." Valor cast his eyes downward, looking into the flames once more. "You have passed the curse to him with the fragment of your soul. I can sense his Eye opening; it may even see the visions that yours does. But he is not the only Gazer that stands upon your path."

"There is another?"

"Indeed. A young man in Minas Tirith. Unlike Boromir his Gazing Eye seems to have been open for some time; a decade or more perhaps. It is crucial to the quest that you meet with him, for he too shall have a part in the salvation of Middle-earth."

"Then I must go to the White City?" Aragorn asked. "Can you see, Valor? Is it truly my fate, or do I have a choice in the matter?"

Valor turned and looked into the swirling depths of the palantír. "That is the funny thing in matters of destiny, Strider: we always have a choice."

He closed his eyes and placed his hands on the palantír. For a moment the glass remained dark and impenetrable, but then the seeing-stone began to glow from within, the light, though weak at first, steadily increasing in brightness. Valor's face was screwed up in what might have been effort or pain; Aragorn did not know which.

The consort began to speak very swiftly in Sindarin, though Aragorn could not understand very many of his words; he supposed that Valor must have been speaking the Long Cleeve dialect. Though many of the words were similar there were significant differences, and Aragorn could only follow so much.

Valor seemed to crumple inward; he drew the palantír into his chest and screamed what might have been an incantation. Aragorn caught the words drego ad-fuin—flee back to the darkness. What thing of terror did the consort rebuke? Had it left, or did it still reach through the palantír to attack Valor?

With a great effort Valor flung the seeing-stone to the ground; he stumbled sideways, crashing against his desk and knocking an inkwell to the floor. Aragorn lunged to steady him, but Valor sank slowly to his knees, his eyes flying open to reveal pure blank whiteness.

"Give me the seeing-stone, Estel," said a voice that was not that of Valor Skychaser. "Give me the palantír, and you shall see your lands safe beneath the hand of my servant…you need not fear what you shall become. Come, Estel…come into the light…"

The palantír shone suddenly with a harsh light, and Aragorn raised a hand to shield his eyes. A great rushing wind seemed to fill the room. He backed away from the stone, a deep and terrible fear yawning within him as though it were a chasm, as the growling voice spat "Fool, Elessar!" through Valor's lips.

A single, manic burst of overwhelming white light, and Aragorn stumbled backward as his vision was overtaken by what seemed a thousand suns. He could not see; the only thing he knew was white, as if he had been thrust into a blizzard—and yet even in a blizzard one might see shadows. It was as if he had lifted his eyes heavenward and looked straight into the depths of Anor.

Aragorn's foot caught upon his cloak; he fell to the floor as a horrible shrill cry filled the study and for a moment left him both blind and deaf. He brought up his cloak in front of his face, not daring to look any more on the light, and waited desperately for it all to cease.

The ringing in his ears faded swiftly, and all he could hear was harsh panting, both Valor's and his own. At first the whiteness in his vision did not dissipate, and for a moment panic flashed through him, but gradually color began to return to the world, though he could scarcely distinguish light and shadow and everywhere he looked the glowing circle of the palantír seemed imprinted on his eyes.

He pushed himself to his feet, one hand on the wall to guide him, and looked at the blurred shape that he thought was the consort. "Valor?"

"He does not want the Ring," gasped Valor, and though he spoke with his own voice again his words were no less terrifying. "Strider, Morgoth does not wish for Reena-domë…though it does hold much of his power it is not the thing he wishes for above all. He desires the palantír, for even among seeing-stones this one is most unusual."

Aragorn felt his way to Valor and pulled him upright; both of them were shaking violently and nearly fell. Valor bent and groped blindly for the palantír, took it up, and pushed it into Aragorn's arms. "You must take the seeing-stone to Minas Tirith, Strider. It is a greater quest than even that of Reena-domë, for though Morgoth would be stronger with his Ring this is the thing which he will stop at nothing to possess. He will send the greatest of his armies; he will tear down the walls of Minas Tirith if he must."

He seized the front of Aragorn's cloak and brought his face closer to his own. "Hear me now, Estel. You must not give up the palantír. You must ride hard for Minas Tirith and stop for nothing. Once you reach the White City, with or without your company, you shall search for the Secret Fire, and when it is found you shall cast the palantír into the flame, for it would be better for all if it were destroyed. Do you understand?"

"I understand the quest," said Aragorn, pulling away from Valor. "But I do not understand why I must do this. What is so terrible about this palantír? I knew already that it must be destroyed, but the matter seems to have become a great deal more urgent. What have you seen, Valor?"

"The palantír may appear to be a seeing-stone without," said Valor. "To an extent that is truly what it is; it provides visions and opens the Gazing Eye like any other of its kind. But I have never seen one shine like this, and I believe that it contains an object that, while no more powerful than an ordinary stone, many in Arda would slay their kin for."

"The kinslaying…" murmured Aragorn, recalling his elvin history lessons long ago. "And why it burns those who would hold and look upon it…oh, Valar, no."

Valor nodded solemnly. "You have guessed at the same thing I have, and though I pray that we are wrong I know in my heart that we have found the truth. That palantír contains the light of the Two Trees of Valinor."

"You are saying," said Aragorn, slowly, as if it would make the inevitable truth strike him with less force, "that the seeing-stone is not only that. That it has somehow come forth out of the sea to plague Middle-earth once more, to make war between the creatures of this land. That it is a…a…"

He sighed, feeling as though a deep chasm of dread had opened in the pit of his stomach, and spoke the word he had been fearing. "A Silmaril."

Much of the day was spent in the study, and, when Aragorn and Valor had exhausted those texts, in the library of Long Cleeve. Though both knew that a Silmaril could not be destroyed save by the Valar they both were foolishly determined to find some means by which to break it.

When the unseen sun was sinking toward the horizon, Valor closed a massive tome forcefully, sending a swirl of dust motes into the air. "It is no use, Strider; there is no way for us to break this stone of the Valar. Thus we must destroy the palantír itself, cast the Silmaril into the Secret Fire, and pray that Morgoth does not come for it."

"Why do you speak of the Dark Lord so?" Aragorn asked. "Before this you were unafraid to call him by his true name."

"I do not wish to invoke his presence," said Valor. "I feel that it must call him to the palantír more readily than his common name, and thus I shall speak of him as Morgoth."

"I understand," said Aragorn. "Very well; I too shall call him Morgoth. Forgive me, my friend, but I must admit that I do not understand your instruction. How might I find the Secret Fire? I know that you know not where it may be," he added hastily, "but I have been taught that the flame of Anor is a force rather than a physical being. How am I to cast the Silmaril into it?"

"What you have been taught is the truth," Valor assured him. "But the edhelai believe that there is a place where the flame of Anor is physically manifest; a chamber beneath the earth. In our language we call this place Olinaur, but in the Eldar tongue it is called Thuridruin. For ages my people have believed that it can be found. This shall be your quest, Strider: to find the Secret Fire and to cast in the Silmaril. Your quest shall be joined with that of the destruction of Reena-domë; and if both your company and the little ones that have gone on to Mordor succeed, then peace may reign for many an age in Middle-earth."

"But how shall I know where to search for it?" Aragorn asked. "And when I find it, how will I make certain that it is the place, and how might I keep the stone from showing me visions as I go?"

He shook his head and looked down into the palantír cradled in his arms, suddenly conscious that he held it like a newborn infant. "Forgive me, mellon; I have many questions, and none that are easy to answer. I do not wish to trouble you further. Perhaps I ought to ride out now, while there is still daylight left."

"I wish that I could address your concerns, Strider," said Valor. "I would that I were more learned in these matters. Still, even with nearly seven decades of experience in the Gazing, I do not know all things to do with the reading of the future."

"Seven decades?" Aragorn asked. "I knew hobbits aged differently than Men, but I find it hard to believe that you are that old, my friend."

Valor laughed. "I have sixty and seven years in the reckoning of Men, but in body I feel the equivalent of thirty-five or so. And you are one to speak of such matters, for I know that you too are far older than you appear."

He stood, looking at the clouded daylight which streamed through the opening in the roof. "You may indeed wish to leave while there is still light upon the land. I shall have a steed and provisions prepared for you, and you shall ride as soon as we have finished here. I ask you to let me scry you before you depart, for I wish to alleviate at least a few of your fears. I would have done it before your company left five days ago, but with the hurried nature of your departure I could not. Still I may be able to offer reassurance to you. May I look into your future, Strider?"

"Of course you may," said Aragorn. "How does it work?"

"I shall need you to kneel," said Valor. "I am afraid that I am unused to working with Men; I have only ever scryed edhelai before."

Aragorn set the palantír on the table and knelt, his head bowed, and Valor placed his hands upon Aragorn's temples and began to murmur softly, this time speaking traditional Sindarin. "O Ilúvatar, lasta-nin epheth…thel-tiria im in cuil sen Dúnedan anna-hon Eru."

O Ilúvatar, hear my words, Aragorn translated silently. I will look on the days of this Dúnedan and commend him to you.

Valor stood still for a long while, unmoving save for his lips, for he spoke in many languages: both dialects of Sindarin, Quenya, Westron, and even one that Aragorn thought might be Khuzdûl. He wondered how many tongues Valor knew, or if he knew them at all; perhaps Ilúvatar spoke through him.

Finally Valor said, "Hanna-nin, Eru," and he removed his hands. Aragorn stood; his legs were numb from sitting upon them for so long and he had to grasp the edge of the table for balance.

"What have you seen?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"Many things," said Valor, and he sank into an armchair, bringing a hand to his brow. "Many darkened things, and yet within them were moments of great light and joy."

"You are weary," said Aragorn. "Forgive me; I shall wait for my counsel until you have rested."

"No," Valor insisted. "I must speak of it now, for you must ride swiftly if you are to reach Minas Tirith in time."

"Very well." Aragorn pulled a chair from the table he leaned against and sat down. "Speak to me, Valor."

"Your path leads through shadows great and deep," said Valor. "So deep that I do not think that I could find my way through them. Morgoth and his servant Sauron, though they do not have a great hold upon your heart, will stop at nothing to destroy you and the palantír that Pippin has become the unwitting guardian of. Already they are sending their forces to intercept you; this is why you must leave tonight."

He looked at Aragorn now, and his eyes seemed to burn with cobalt fire. "I am forbidden to say too much of a fate that I have seen, but I shall tell you this, Strider: there are two things I have seen that you must safeguard even unto the laying down of your own life. You must promise me that you will not forsake them for any reason save for your death."

Aragorn nodded. "I swear it, whatever they may be."

"You must not forsake the Silmaril," Valor instructed. "Let it remain within the seeing-stone until the time has come; you shall know when you must free it. And you must not let harm come to the Captain of Gondor—not only because he bears your soul, but because his rising must not be reversed."

He stood and went to the table, taking the palantír and setting it back into Aragorn's arms. "Forget the Ring, Strider; Dia shall safeguard it. Your duty is, first and foremost, to the Silmaril and to Boromir. Do not let Pippin know what the palantír truly is; he is liable to talk of it, though not with any ill intent, with those who would do it harm. He must still be the one to destroy the seeing-stone; only then will the Silmaril's protection be completely shed—and believe me when I say it must be shed."

Valor faced Aragorn with blazing purpose written in his gaze. "Hear me once more, Estel."

There it was, his Elvish name again. Valor seemed to use it when speaking of matters of great importance, so Aragorn nodded once more and listened.

"I shall speak these words to you only once more," said Valor. "There shall be a light at the end of your road, for there must be or all of Middle-earth is lost. I know that you fear the shadow; that you fear the grip you feel it has on you, but you must remember that even in the darkest of times there is always a light for those who seek it, and its power may very well turn the tide of darkness back. When the shadow is fallen upon the land, Estel, this light shall spring forth from the flames, and when looked upon all shall love it and despair."

He motioned for Aragorn to kneel again, and Valor leaned down and kissed Aragorn's brow. "The blessing of the fallan. Come now; I shall have your steed prepared."

So it was that Aragorn son of Arathorn rode southward from Long Cleeve, bearing the Silmaril, greatest of all gifts of the Valar, and Valor watched him until he and his steed faded beyond the horizon.

Honor came out of the palace to stand beside her husband, and quietly she asked, "Will it be enough?"

"The light? It shall," said Valor, and he took her hand in his. "Hope bears it."

Chapter Text

ARAGORN

     The night was chill and starlit; the rain had finally ceased, though the floods had not entirely receded yet. Aragorn rode onward through the deepening vale of shadow, knowing that he must ride swiftly but not wishing to push his horse too hard lest she collapse of exhaustion.

     The steed that Valor had given him was a beautiful mare, the color of night and black ink, and her name was Celemôr, swift darkness. So far she had shown no weariness nor fear, at times even galloping across the hills of Rohan with wild abandon.

     But now she slowed, her ears pricked, and snuffled worriedly. Aragorn bowed his head and soothed her, wondering what she might sense that caused her to fear so. He had learned long ago to trust horses when it came to matters of danger, for they were usually correct in their fear.

     Suddenly a sense of overwhelming fear overtook Aragorn; his grip upon the reins clenched so tightly that he was amazed Celemôr did not bolt. She pawed the ground nervously but did not move from her place, looking into the hills to the east.

     Something bright flashed in the darkness, and directly beside it another light became clear. Aragorn tensed, feeling as though a quavering bowstring went directly through him, and tightened the hold of his legs on Celemôr’s sides.

     And the hills moved.

     A great dark shape rose up, baring yard-long white fangs, and Aragorn heard a clicking sound as the thing lifted itself up onto eight tremendously long legs and its putrid breath washed over him.

     For a moment he was frozen, his mind racing desperately as he struggled to recall what this creature, this vast and horrifying monster, was. Elrond had spoken of it, of a monstrous arachnoid spirit who cast darkness over all she saw and consumed all sources of light.

     Ungoliant.

     He jerked the reins and drove his heels into Celemôr’s sides, knowing that it was hopeless to fight the creature, for she was vast and powerful and he would surely be slain if he tried to best her in combat. All that was left to do was flee.

     But Ungoliant, though large, was swift, and she pursued him between the hills. Aragorn urged Celemôr on, and though she galloped valiantly even her speed was not enough to outpace the mother of all spiders.

     Something slammed into Aragorn’s side, and he heard his steed scream in terror as he was thrown from her back. Whether she was injured he knew not, but his attention turned quickly to whether he himself was injured, for he crashed into grass and dirt and all the breath left his lungs.

     Aragorn managed to roll when he hit the ground, and though he could not draw in any air he managed to get to his feet and draw his sword. He doubted it would do anything against Ungoliant, but it and his bow were all he had. If he could slow her enough to shoot her, perhaps he could get away.

     That was his battle strategy, then: to wound the monster enough that she became disoriented, then switch to the bow and blind her in at least one of her two greater eyes so that Aragorn could flee—for there could be no real fight against this creature; Aragorn could only hope to wound her.

     He had only one advantage, Aragorn reflected as he ducked and wove between Ungoliant’s many legs: he was much smaller than this monster. If he could get underneath Ungoliant she could not get to him, not with her pincers at least.

     Aragorn slashed at one leg after another, aiming to maim rather than sever, for despite the danger to his own life he did not wish to destroy Ungoliant’s. The great spider turned in wide circles; though she moved swiftly she could not get to him with her beak. For a moment Aragorn wondered if he could simply run into the hills behind her; could he slip away without her noticing?

     But Ungoliant turned herself about and faced him, bringing her pincers down and carving a great gash in the earth. Aragorn scrambled a little ways up a hillside as she slammed her beak repeatedly into the ground, barely clearing the tangled, flailing legs.

     On Ungoliant’s next pass her clawed foot swept Aragorn’s legs from under him, and he fell to the earth. Though he got to his feet as quickly as he could it was in vain, for another leg collided sharply with his jaw, and pain lanced through his neck as his head snapped sideways. Aragorn stumbled again and fell, the skin of his elbow and forearm shredding against the stony earth.

     He climbed a little ways higher upon the hillside and fired two arrows blindly. Though Ungoliant screamed in pain the shots did not seem to faze her; she came on Aragorn with a vengeance and knocked him to the ground once more. He rolled aside as she brought her pincers down again, thrusting his sword into the air and barely missing the retracting mouth.

     As he dodged another attack Aragorn understood: Ungoliant meant to lift him up, to take him in her pincers and bring him to her mouth to devour him and the Silmaril he held. As much as he feared the monster he knew that it was the only way to go near enough to her eyes to fire.

     This time when Ungoliant lunged he let her; her claw sliced across his calf and his leg collapsed beneath him. Fighting every instinct in his body that told him to flee, Aragorn remained on the ground, drawing an arrow from his quiver and nocking it with trembling hands.

     Ungoliant seized Aragorn in her pincers; the horrible oscillating mouthparts closed about his waist and saliva began to dampen his clothing. He pulled back the bowstring as Ungoliant lifted him, knowing that he must shoot before the monster drew herself up to her full height, for he would not survive a fall from so high a place.

     Aragorn fixed his gaze on the leftmost of Ungoliant’s two great eyes, drew the bowstring back to his cheek, and fired.

     The scream was like nothing he had ever heard. Ungoliant’s mouth opened to a fearful extent and she let go of Aragorn. He would have landed on his feet but for the way she had taken him in her pincers; instead he dropped six or seven yards through the air, losing his grip on both his bow and his sword, and heard an awful crack when his side met the earth.

     Seeing stars, he slid a short ways down the hillside and lay crumpled on the ground in the sudden blackness that had come upon the hills. Ungoliant had released a plume of darkness, but even she could not see with her injured eye. Now was the time for escape; he must not fight anymore or he would be slain, and the Silmaril taken, never to be seen again.

     Aragorn felt through the darkness and grasped the hilt of Andúril; he drove the point of the sword into the ground and in this way pushed himself to his feet. His bow was not to be found, but it was of little consequence now; his arrows were scattered or broken and both they and the bow could be easily replaced. All that Aragorn now fought to preserve was his life, and he was not certain that he would escape with even that.

     He could stand only in a half-doubled position; pain speared through his side as he struggled to draw breath and he pressed one hand tightly against his ribs. Gritting his teeth he began to limp as swiftly as he could into the darkness, praying desperately that he would not catch his feet on the many stones that protruded from the grass.

     No stones disrupted his steps, but another flailing appendage caught Aragorn across the back of his skull, and he fell once more to the ground. He waited a moment but did not feel Ungoliant’s breath upon him; she did not know where he was. The last impact had been unintentional and that signified that Aragorn still had a sliver of hope.

     This time he did not rise. Instead he raised himself to his hands and knees and crawled upward, squinting as he tried desperately to see through the darkness. Aragorn could feel warm blood streaming down his leg; he put the thought of it out of his mind and focused on his climb. If he could get over the crest of the hill he thought he might be able to get out of the reach of Ungoliant.

     Hot breath hit the back of his neck, and out of pure instinct Aragorn fell to his side and rolled, thrusting Andúril upwards. He felt the blade connect with something soft, perhaps one of Ungoliant’s pincers, and the monster screamed again, retreating. 

     Aragorn stood now, bleeding from many wounds and still unable to draw enough breath, and went as swiftly as he was able over the crest of the hill. The darkness began to fade somewhat, leaving the usual night sky with its many stars.

     Once he had crested the next hill Aragorn broke into a limping run, his lower leg burning where Ungoliant’s claw had torn the flesh. Though every step sent what felt like a knife into his side Aragorn forced his legs to move more quickly. Ungoliant still thrashed behind him, her shrieking slicing through the darkness which she herself had created.

     Aragorn went on like this for perhaps a league or so; when he could no longer see the great dark shape of Ungoliant in the distance he made for a rocky outcrop upon one of the hills. Once he reached it he fell sideways against one of the largest boulders and slid to the ground with a pained groan, his arm still wrapped around his side. Aragorn knew that at least one rib must have been broken, though there were likely more, two or three perhaps.

     Athelas. He needed athelas; it would soothe the pain enough that he could treat his other wounds. He tore his pack from his shoulders and took many of the long dark green leaves from it, then placed them in his mouth and began to chew slowly, sucking the healing juices out of the plant.

     As Aragorn waited for the athelas to work its magic he ran his hand over his injured leg. He could feel a long gash down much of his calf, but the edges were not jagged and the wound did not seem terribly deep. It would need bandaging, that much was certain, but it was not so bad as he had feared. Though his temples ached fiercely the swelling on the back of his head was none the worse, and the rest of his wounds were limited to minor abrasions. Aragorn thanked Ilúvatar for this, for he knew that he had escaped Ungoliant with as little harm done to him as one could hope for. Still everything seemed to be throbbing and he was not sure he could take another step.

     Once the athelas had calmed the pain in his side enough that he could breathe without wanting to cry out, Aragorn cleaned and bandaged the gash in his calf, as well as the worst of his scrapes. Once it was all done he leaned his head back against the stone and looked up into the vast night sky, watching the Valacirca swinging low above the White Mountains.

     The Silmaril pressed through the fabric of his pack into his uninjured side, and he wondered bleakly what other forces might come for it. Balrogs, perhaps…Aragorn did not think he could best a Balrog in combat. Gandalf himself had fallen to one of the creatures; Aragorn did not stand a chance.

     But, then again, he reflected, he had not stood a chance against Ungoliant, and yet he was here, battered and exhausted perhaps, but alive and in possession of the Silmaril. Perhaps he had more strength in himself than he had realized.

     Something moved near him in the darkness and Aragorn tried to leap to his feet, but his injured side twinged horribly and he sank back, drawing Andúril nonetheless. He did not think Ungoliant had returned, but he would not have been surprised if another of Melkor’s deadly spirit creatures had come to finish him.

     He did not need the sword, it turned out, for out of the darkness came Celemôr, her dark mane rippling in the night wind. Aragorn, pleased to see his steed safe and well, got painfully to his feet and ran his hands over Celemôr’s muzzle. Then he climbed slowly onto her back and rested his pounding head upon the back of her neck, closing his eyes.

     Sleep took Aragorn quickly, and he dreamed of dark caves and great black towers as he and Celemôr rode on into the night.

PEREGRIN

     Two days after the leaving of Aragorn the floods began to recede. Pippin was immensely relieved; he had been growing tired of traipsing through the chill water. The grass was still sodden and cold against his feet, and his fetlocks were still wet and dirty, but his spirits were much higher.

     It was just after sunrise on this the second day when Boromir halted suddenly, squinting into the distance. Pippin looked out to the horizon as well, but he could discern nothing.

     “What is the matter, Captain?” Diamond asked. “The Ring has sensed no danger, but perhaps you have seen otherwise.”

     “Someone approaches,” said Boromir. “A numerous host rides toward us from the west.”

     To the surprise of all he dropped to the ground, and stretching out on his front he pressed one ear to the earth. Pippin glanced sideways at Merry, then at Diamond, but both looked just as confused as he felt. This to Pippin was proof that the Fellowship could not function without Aragorn.

     “Captain,” said Diamond with a deep sigh. “What are you doing?”

     “Quiet, please, all of you,” said Boromir. “I must listen to the earth.”

     None of the hobbits spoke, though Pippin was still utterly nonplussed as to the reasoning behind Boromir’s strange behavior. How could he know that anyone approached? What had possessed him to drop to the ground as he had and listen to the earth?

     Some strange desire seized him and Pippin lay down as well, if only to make Boromir feel less out of place. Though he pressed his own ear against the grass he could hear nothing, and for a moment he dismissed the notion that he might be able to discern a presence.

     But then it came; he did not hear but felt the tremor in the earth. It was the slightest vibration of the grass, a sign that someone approached.

     “He is right,” said Pippin, standing. “Though I suspect that I could only hear because whoever this is has drawn nearer. Who do you think this host is, Boromir?”

     “I do not know,” said Boromir, standing. “But I think they must be fairly numerous, though I know not why we cannot see them. The fog is thick, and the land is rough and full of hills; perhaps that is why.”

     Just then a great rumbling shook the earth; it seemed to come from all sides. Pippin realized that it sounded much like the hooves of horses before all three of his companions launched themselves at him; he gave a shocked little squeak as they tumbled down the hill that they stood upon.

     “Halt!” cried a commanding voice, and the rumbling ceased.

     Pippin scrambled out from underneath Merry and looked up at the crest of the hill. A tall man with long flowing hair sat astride a great horse, and he held a sword in his hand, the point of which was directed at Boromir, who was just getting to his feet. Behind the man were perhaps a hundred more horses, all of which bore warriors that looked much like their leader.

     “What is your business in the land of Rohan?” asked the man. “Speak, traveler.”

     “I am Boromir son of the Lord Denethor of Gondor,” said Boromir. “I am returning to the White City after my sojourn in the wilderness, and these hobbits are accompanying me. Am I right in guessing that you are Éomer of Rohan?”

     “You are,” said Éomer. “But I do not believe that you are Boromir, for the Steward lost his son some days ago.”

     “They think me dead?” Boromir asked, and Pippin could tell that the surprise on his face was feigned. “Have I been gone so long? Well, it shall certainly be a shock to them when I enter the city, then!”

     “You must have been gone for a long while, then,” said Éomer. “Do you not know of the fate of Minas Tirith? Orcs have occupied it for nearly a season now. I am sorry, Captain, but the White City has fallen.”

     Boromir’s face went white; Pippin wondered for a moment if he would fall over. He did not, though he took a step backwards, lifting a hand to his brow and raking it through his sodden hair.

     “Are we at least on the right path?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

     Éomer nodded. “If you follow the Anduin, then you are. I am sorry for the loss of your city, Captain. If aid is needed, send for Rohan, and I am certain that King Théoden will grant your desire. Farewell, Boromir. Halflings.”

     He jerked the reins of his horse, and the Riders of Rohan galloped away to the east.

     The company stood in silence for several moments, until Diamond said, “This changes…many things.”

     “Minas Tirith has been taken by the forces of Sauron,” said Boromir faintly. “They will have slain my father and brother, I am sure of it, unless they are keeping them for bargaining…oh, Ilúvatar, no.”

     He shook himself out of his daze and said, “We must make haste. I do not know how we shall reclaim Minas Tirith, but we must, or the prophecy shall not be fulfilled and Middle-earth shall be lost.”

     “How will we travel faster than we have been?” Diamond asked. “It is not practical to push ourselves harder; we will be no help to the citizens of the White City if we exhaust ourselves. We must find some other means of travel; perhaps horses, or—”

     She cut herself off, staring at the Anduin as it flowed between the hills.

     Pippin finished her sentence for her. “Or a boat.”

     They reached a little town called Harvoduin after two days, and it was here that Boromir suggested they find some sort of boating service, so that they might reach Minas Tirith more swiftly. They also elected to purchase supplies, for they had almost no food left and not many weapons.

     “What is the Westron name for this town?” Pippin asked as they entered the hamlet. He had learned that most things with Elvish names had a fascinating translation.

     “Riverside,” said Boromir and Diamond in unison, and Boromir added, “The left side, more specifically.”

     Diamond stopped walking and stared at him. “What sort of trick are you trying to pull, Captain?”

     Boromir stopped as well, looking at Diamond with deep confusion. “I beg your pardon, Princess?”

     “You told Strider that you could not understand Elvish,” said Diamond accusatorily. “Now suddenly you know a highly specific translation of the name of a town that I would wager you have never been to in your life. What are you hiding?”

     Boromir held up his hands defensively. “I swear to you, Princess, I have never understood Sindarin. Nor do I know why I am suddenly able to translate. The only explanation I can offer is that some—some essence of Aragorn has entered into me with my raising. Forgive me, I have not experienced the renewal of life before.”

     “Well, I have,” snapped Diamond, “and I did not suddenly possess all of the skills of my mother; I am absolute rubbish with a scythe and have been all my life. The Ring has given you some dark power that it never gave to me.”

     “Boromir, Dia,” said Pippin. “We are blocking the road. And people are staring.”

     “Yes,” Merry agreed. “I hardly think they will take kindly to you throwing out tales of dark power and raising the dead.”

     “Oh, very well,” said Diamond, and she seized the front of both Pippin and Merry’s cloaks and dragged them off the road into a narrow alleyway between two small buildings, Boromir following.

     “I do not think the Ring has given me power,” said Boromir when they were safely sequestered. “Perhaps Ilúvatar has, or perhaps it is simply a consequence of Aragorn being the one to raise me.”

     “Ilúvatar does not suddenly bestow the gifts of memory or tongues upon men,” Diamond spat. “Perhaps elves, or Valar, but not you. And Strider is no more worthy of power than my mother. There is no reason why you should possess these gifts and not I.”

     “Dia, no one doubts the power of your mother,” said Pippin. “In fact I think she may have more power than Strider, so there must be some explanation. It may be the Ring, or perhaps it is Ilúvatar. Perhaps Boromir needs these gifts now. Perhaps they will help us in the War of the Rings.”

     “I cannot think how,” said Boromir bitterly. “I—”

     He fell suddenly against the wall, bringing a hand to his brow, and would have knocked all three hobbits to the ground had they not leapt out of the way. As Pippin watched in horror Boromir began to speak very swiftly in Sindarin, his lips moving so quickly that Pippin doubted even Diamond could interpret.

     “Boromir!” Pippin cried. “What is the matter? What has happened?”

     Boromir stood suddenly erect and spoke in Westron.

     “At the White City’s fall, from the lands to the north,

     An ivory prince out of shadow comes forth,

     With the blood of kings is the heir adorned,

     Beloved is he, but his own hath he scorned.”

     He slumped against the wall once more, panting, his chest heaving, and slid to a crouch upon the floor of the alleyway with his eyes closed. For a moment the hobbits simply stood there, looking at him in shock.

     “Boromir?” said Merry tentatively, breaking the silence. “Are you all right?”

     “Yes,” Boromir ground out, rubbing his brow once more. “Give me a…a moment, little ones.”

     He crouched there for not one, but several long moments, then stood slowly, blinking as if dazed. “Aragorn did not say that visions were so…taxing. I feel as though I have been thrown from my steed.”

     “Does that happen often?” Pippin asked, trying to lighten the mood.

     Boromir gave a short laugh. “I would not say often, my friend—not now, at least. But my stallion Atticus threw me many a time when I was learning to ride him. Faithful he was, though, one of my greatest friends in fact.” His eyes narrowed, his hands clenching into fists. “If the orcs have taken him I shall be very unhappy indeed. Would that I had Atticus now, for he would speed our journey far more than any boat.”

     “I feel certain that the orcs have taken your horse,” said Diamond unabashedly, ignoring Pippin’s nudge in her ribs.

     Boromir sighed. “As do I. Nonetheless, I must still hope.”

     He took a breath, looking as though he steeled himself for a strenuous task. “Well, then, shall we be off?”

     They emerged back into the town with their hoods pulled low over their faces, although Pippin was not sure it would do much good, particularly when they passed several posters, featuring four familiar faces, tacked up on the side of a tavern.

     “Look,” Pippin murmured, tugging on Boromir’s sleeve. “We must leave.”

     They all stopped and looked at the posters. The largest of them showed Aragorn’s face, the smaller ones on either side those of Legolas and Gimli. The last poster depicted Diamond—Pippin thought privately that the artist had drawn her with more skill than they had the hunters.

     “Saruman,” Boromir growled, and before any of his companions could stop him he had clawed the posters down from the wall, then shoved them into his pocket.

     “Saruman’s servant,” said Diamond; her voice was low and shook with barely controlled anger. “I killed his master at Orthanc. Wormtongue wishes for information about the Ring—the One Ring, if I am not mistaken, and he certainly will want the palantír back. Did the posters give a sum for our heads?”

     Boromir took the badly crumpled posters out of his tunic and handed one to each of his companions. Pippin found himself looking at Diamond’s face again; the sketch of her had a dark gleam in its eyes that Pippin found disturbingly accurate.

     He glanced down at the reward offered for Diamond—alive, it said, which came as something of a relief. But as he read the price, it felt as though his stomach had dropped into the region of his bladder.

     “One hundred thousand Castari upon your head, Dia,” said Pippin. “Though it does ask for you alive.”

     “The same price is on the head of Gimli,” she said, and Merry chimed in to say that it was the same on the head of Legolas—though both the dwarf and the elf were wanted dead or alive.

     “What of Strider?” Pippin asked Boromir.

     “Five hundred thousand Castari,” Boromir spat. “And they wish him dead.”

     He crumpled the poster once more and threw it to the ground, crushing it beneath the heel of his boot over and over again until it was little more than shreds. Pippin, Merry, and Diamond did the same, and the scraps of paper were soon indistinguishable from the mud.

     “You know, Captain,” said Diamond as they made for a clothing shop, “I would wager that there are hundreds, if not thousands, of those posters around all of Middle-earth by now.”

     “Well,” said Boromir, “now there is not one on that tavern.”

     They went into the shop, where they purchased new clothing for Boromir—white made him terribly recognizable—and mending supplies, with what money the hobbits had brought with them (Queen Honor was thankfully a generous beneficiary). At Diamond’s insistence, they also bought a pair of shears, though she would not tell them why until they had left the shop.

     “If I am to be a wanted woman,” she said, “I shall have to cut my hair, though I will wait until we have left Harvoduin. Come, we must buy food, and then we’ll board our boat.”

     Now they split up, with Pippin and Merry gathering food and Diamond and Boromir going to find a boat that they might rent for a short time. Pippin thought that it was quite likely that the boat would never return to Harvoduin, but he did not mention this to anyone and hoped that the rest of the company would not think to do so.

     Mostly they purchased food essentials—bread, fruit, cheese—but Pippin insisted that they buy sweets as well, and Merry not-quite-reluctantly agreed. When they had finally finished in that shop they went down to the banks of the Anduin, where Diamond and Boromir had procured a boat. It was fairly spacious and looked sturdy; Pippin had no doubt that it could carry them to Minas Tirith.

     “We shall have to row,” said Boromir as they pushed off from the dock, “to make up the time. Even flooded the Anduin does not flow as fast as I would like.”

     He took up the oars and began to row. Pippin went to the back of the boat and sat beside Diamond, who had taken the shears from a bag and raised them to her curls.

     “Wait,” said Pippin, reaching out. Diamond’s eyes narrowed and he stayed his hand. “I only meant—would you like help, Dia? My mother cuts the hair of all the halfbits in the Shire; I have watched her work for many years. Perhaps I could help. I would follow your lead, of course.”

     “A hairdresser as well,” said Diamond, and she handed the shears to him, blades first, her face still set in a glare—but a curious one, Pippin thought. “Very well, Shire-child. Let me see your skills. And anyway you cannot ruin it; all that matters is that I am unrecognizable.”

     “I won’t ruin it,” Pippin said softly, sitting down behind Diamond. “How short would you like it?”

     “Shorter than your own.”

     Pippin took a portion of her dark curls in his hand and slowly worked the shears through them, cutting the hair to just below Diamond’s chin. She shivered as his hand brushed against the side of her neck, and for a moment Pippin drew back, but Diamond motioned for him to continue.

     Dark, curled locks fell to the bottom of the boat as Pippin worked; it seemed a shame to cut such long and lovely hair. When the bulk of the hair was gone Pippin framed Diamond’s face with shorter locks, and then her hair drifted about her head like a dark cloud.

     “How do I look?” asked Diamond once Pippin had woven three small braids into her hair. “Captain? Merry?”

     “Lovely, Princess,” said Boromir.

     “Absolutely ravishing,” said Merry, and Pippin did not miss the wink his cousin gave him.

     “Would that I had a mirror,” Pippin murmured when Diamond had turned back to him. “Then you could see how lovely you look, Dia. But I’m afraid that you shall have to rely only on my word.”

     “It is all I could have hoped for.” Diamond’s eyes were deep and unreadable, but Pippin thought he could see a spark of gratitude within them. “You are talented; this I know, even though I cannot see your work. Thank you, Shire-child.”

     She sighed and gave him the faintest of smiles. “Pippin.”

Chapter Text

ARAGORN

     The plains of Rohan—or perhaps the plains of Gondor; Aragorn did not know how long he had been riding—were once again soaked by rain as he and Celemôr rode onward into the misty morning. The Anduin had not flooded again, but the hills were shrouded in fog and Aragorn could not see for more than a few hundred yards.

     He tried to sit up straighter, to glimpse a better view of the horizon, but his side twinged and he hunched over once more, clutching the injured ribs. It had been three days since the attack of Ungoliant, and though Dúnedain were swift healers and the bones would likely mend within a week of injury, the pain rendered Aragorn nearly helpless, and he despised it.

     Taking another leaf of athelas from his pouch, he placed it into his mouth and chewed, releasing the healing juices, and the pain in his ribs subsided somewhat. Once it was bearable he sat up and raised a hand to his brow, squinting through the fog.

     Still there was nothing on the horizon. Aragorn sighed, winced, and lay down across Celemôr’s neck once more, feeling rather useless. What good was his flight to Minas Tirith when he could see nothing—no landmarks by which to judge how near the White City may be? He had not seen another soul in days, or he would have asked. It did not help that he kept falling asleep and continually had to correct his course. So far it had been much longer than the estimated time to Minas Tirith, and Aragorn suspected that in his repeated slumber, he had gone rather off course.

     Celemôr’s hooves pounded against the sodden earth, and Aragorn rested his cheek against her mane, his hand going to the Evenstar that hung about his neck. Gently he rubbed his fingers across the rain-slick silver and thought of his beloved.

     How he missed Arwen—her bright eyes, her teasing smile, the tenderness with which she always took his face in her hands. If she could see him now…

     Aragorn nearly laughed. He knew he looked quite a mess, with his rain-soaked hair and clothes clinging to him, his skin abraded and filthy, slumped upon the back of a horse with little of his strength left. What Arwen would say if she saw him! She was not the type to fuss over his wounds or his cleanliness; she would kiss him once and tell him to hurry up and do what needed to be done. Still Aragorn thought she might be rather taken aback by the sight of him.

     How he longed to be back in her arms, curled beside her while she stroked his hair and sang softly in Sindarin. How he longed to sing with her, or even simply behold her lovely face again.

     He looked down at the Evenstar, and his gaze slid to the bracer upon his forearm. He missed Boromir too, he realized. The man was more like a brother than a friend now—although he had been that for a long while, ever since he was born.

     Aragorn remembered that day vividly. He had been living as Thorongil, servant—scullery maid, really—to the steward Ecthelion, and just that morning, the worst blizzard seen in Gondor for many an age struck the White City. The snow, waist-deep and steadily rising, had prevented the midwives from reaching the laboring Finduilas. Aragorn, the only servant with some experience with childbirth, had been called upon to assist.

     The moment Boromir was born, the wind had howled so fiercely that it nearly drowned the infant’s first cry. But the little one had strong lungs, and his wails rent the air more violently than the wind. Aragorn had given Boromir to Finduilas and then to Denethor to hold, and when Finduilas passed into a deep, fevered sleep, Denethor had shoved the still-wailing infant back into Aragorn’s arms.

     He had rubbed the vernix into Boromir’s skin, wrapped him in a blanket, and found the infant a wet nurse, since his mother could not feed him herself. Those first few nights, Aragorn had stayed beside his charge, never once sleeping until Finduilas had healed. It had been the most exhausting—and perhaps the most joyful—time in his life.

     That little one was meant to be king of Gondor; Aragorn knew that now. He had watched—or at least imagined—as Boromir grew into a man that Denethor, even Ecthelion, would have been proud of. It was never meant to be Aragorn, no matter what the storybooks and the prophecies said. He knew the fate of Middle-earth, and its safety did not rest with him.

     He was not King Elessar. He was not Estel, for he had never harbored less hope. He was not sure he was even worthy to be called Aragorn.

     Perhaps he was only ever destined to be Strider—wandering, starving Strider, a filthy vagrant who looked out for no one but himself. Every life Aragorn touched, every creature he befriended, he managed to ruin. Strider had never done that.

     And yet he had never loved being Strider as much as he had Estel, or Thorongil, or Aragorn. He thought of his first days as a Ranger of the North, of the vicious, ravaging hunger that had torn at his insides. He had not yet learned the skills of a hunter, and his archery was shoddy at best. For many days, he had believed that he was going to die.

     Did he truly wish to be that young man again, homeless and friendless, curled on his side in the woods, resigned to death by starvation? Strider’s life had been difficult, full of pain and danger, but at least others had been safe.

     And yet…

     Aragorn’s life was frighteningly similar now: it was full of pain and danger like always, only now the ones he loved suffered alongside him. How could he bring such suffering upon a whole kingdom of innocents? Gondor would be better off without him; that much was certain. He would fight alongside Boromir for the remainder of the war, and when it was over, he would retreat into the North, living out his lonely days as a Ranger once again.

     The thought pained Aragorn nearly as much as his ribs. He would have to leave Arwen for good; he only prayed that she would let him keep the Evenstar, if only so he might look on it in his old age and remember her. His bracers would remind him of Boromir, the one for whom he had given up half his soul.

     Suddenly another thought struck him, and Aragorn sat bolt upright, hissing in pain at the twinge in his side.

     His soul. Boromir’s soul.

     They would not live through this war.

     The winyanost’s life force, once risen, is tied to the Ring and to their soul-giver. When either of these are destroyed, the winyanost shall pass also, often within moments.

     Neither of them was to be king of Gondor.

     The Ring would destroy them both.

     “No,” Aragorn said softly. Then, louder: “No!”

     He urged Celemôr to halt, then slid off her back and sank to his knees, turning his face up to the sky.

     “Ilúvatar, O One,” he pleaded. “I have all I could ever want. I have never asked thee for anything but thy blessing. I ask for it but once more, but I do not wish for it to rest upon me. Let it fall upon Boromir son of Gondor, that he may live.”

     His breath was coming swiftly now, too swiftly, as it had in the floodplain. “It was by thy grace that he came back into this world, and I pray that thou shall not send him out of it again. By thy hand was he raised, and by thy hand he may fall. I ask thee to stay thy hand for two hundred years, that he may live as a Dúnedan, and as high king of Gondor, for as long as this world needs him.”

     Tears burned in the corners of Aragorn’s eyes. “Please, O One, spare him! Spare the son of Gondor!”

     And he remembered his dream, where he was thrown from his horse onto the battlefield, when he had cried those same words to the heavens…

     Aragorn took his pack from his shoulders, tossed it to the earth, and seized from inside it the palantír.

     “Fool, Elessar!” spat the voice of Morgoth. “It was not by Ilúvatar’s hand that the son of Denethor was raised! I am he who breathes life back into the dead, I am he who granted you power through Reena-domë—I, Melkor!”

     “I shall not pray to you, Morgoth!” Aragorn shouted. “I shall never pray to you, for you and I are both nothing before Ilúvatar, and when his light prevails you shall despair and flee back to the shadow from whence you came!”

     The palantír seared suddenly beneath Aragorn’s hands, and he cried out, casting it into the mud as Morgoth’s voice grew to a roar, seeming to shake the earth. “You might have prayed to me; you might have called upon my glory to save him! Now, because of your arrogance, because of your cowardice, he shall die, and you shall die with him, and both shall be taken with me into my domain, into the land of shadow and fire from whence none can return!”

     “Ilúvatar!” Aragorn cried, backing away from the seeing-stone. “Ilúvatar, I beg of thee, spare him! Deliver his soul!”

     “His soul belongs to you!” Morgoth thundered. “The son of Gondor shall fall, and then shall I claim you, Elessar, for the light within you shall be vanquished in the end! All of Middle-earth shall kneel before me, and I shall have dominion over this land forever!”

     The last word echoed over the land, a great and terrible force bursting from the palantír, and pain flared suddenly to life in Aragorn’s chest, spearing through Boromir’s scars as he stumbled backward, falling to the ground. Celemôr reared, screaming in terror, and Aragorn shielded his eyes as the Silmaril seared once more with blinding light.

     “Begone, Melkor!” he screamed, and as the pain faded he curled onto the earth, sobbing into his cloak as the rain fell.

     Boromir was lost, and Aragorn had no man to blame but himself.

BOROMIR

     Four days had passed in the boat, and Boromir was beginning to grow tired of rowing. Whenever they passed through a particularly swift part of the river, or when he could not go any longer without sleep, he would put down the oars, but it still did not assuage the constant ache in his shoulders.

     It was the morning of the fifth day when the Anduin became swift and foaming. They had sailed through many rapids like this, but Boromir worried at the sight of the white water, because the river was at once wider and swifter, which did not bode well.

    “Merry, Pippin,” Boromir murmured. “Princess. It is time to rise, my friends.”

     As usual, Diamond was up in moments, while Merry and Pippin took longer to rouse. All three hobbits seemed anxious about the rapid water, and though Boromir was as well he tried not to show it. He instructed the hobbits to wrap their supplies in their elvin-cloaks, so that they might not be damaged by the leaping water, and then there was nothing they could do about the rapids but sit apprehensively in the boat, watching the white water flow ever more quickly.

     It was nearing midmorning when Diamond said, “Do you hear that?”

     “The river?” said Merry. “That is all I have heard for days.”

     “No. It sounds rather like…like roaring. And the river seems to be picking up speed.”

     It did indeed; Boromir clutched the oars tightly as the current tugged at them. He prayed silently that they would not be overcome by the water—perhaps they would be past the rapids any moment. And anyway the roaring may very well be far-off thunder.

     “Boromir,” said Pippin nervously. “That sound—it is getting louder.”

     It was, and Boromir could not deny it. He looked downstream, trying to find the source of the roar, but he saw nothing. In fact the river seemed to simply stop a hundred yards ahead.

     Oh, Valar, no.

     “The falls!” Diamond shouted, and chaos broke suddenly loose.

     The rushing water spun the boat sideways; and through no fault of their own, all three hobbits stumbled to one side of it. Boromir did not even have time to cry out before the boat tilted, hung still in the air for a moment that seemed much longer than it was, and then capsized, spilling them all into the Anduin.

     The current seemed much faster when one was in it rather than sailing upon it. Boromir immediately sucked in a great deal of water; he choked and went under, terror suddenly flaring in his chest.

     Cloth pressed over his airway, darkness encroaching as horrible laughter echoed from above the water—

     Boromir broke the surface and barely managed a gasp of air before the Anduin dragged him under once more. Something heavy slammed against the back of his skull—the boat, perhaps—and Boromir saw stars as he spun through the current.

     Drowning, he was drowning on land—

     No, he was very much in the water, and he must get out of it if he wished to live.

     He reached out blindly and felt something broad and curved, knowing without opening his eyes that it was the hull of the boat. Boromir clawed his way upward, clinging to the capsized craft as he coughed water out of his lungs. He was not drowning on land, he was drowning in the water, but he had some semblance of control and that stilled his fear slightly.

     Boromir shook his soaked hair out of his eyes and looked desperately around for the hobbits, calling their names when he could not find them. There was no answer from any of them, but as the waterfall drew nearer, Boromir heard a faint, high-pitched shriek.

     Pippin.

     He tried to call out once more, but the falls came up quickly, and the boat went over, airborne for a split second before crashing into the swiftest rapids Boromir had ever beheld.

     His vision became a blur of darkness and flashes of sky, and Boromir found himself relinquishing all control to the Anduin. The current dashed him against stone, against wood, and once he thought he may have felt the warmth of a hobbit’s small body. Whenever he felt air upon his face he breathed, but all breath was stolen from him when the river, a living thing now, pulled him back under.

     Boromir’s vision was beginning to fade. He could feel his lungs filling with water, with death, and all he could think of was the cloth, the cell, the fear—

     The hobbits.

     He was proud that this was his last thought before he sucked in one last gasp of water and everything went dark.

     Boromir came awake, coughing violently as his lungs expelled the Anduin. When he could breathe once more he rolled onto his back, his chest heaving, and groaned aloud in sheer exhaustion and pain.

     He brushed his hair out of his eyes and looked into the overcast sky, from which rain no longer fell. His clothes were still sodden, clinging to his frame, and from this Boromir gathered that he had not been unconscious long. For a moment he entertained the notion of standing, but his head felt quite heavy, still clouded from his time in the river, and besides his raiment was so waterlogged that it felt like mail.

     Tentatively, Boromir ran his fingers over the spot where the boat had struck him, just below the crown of his head. It felt sore and tender, but no blood came from it, nor had it swollen. He had faced worse in battle.

     When his daze had cleared somewhat Boromir sat up, wincing at the ache in every part of his body. His shoulders were still sore from rowing for so long, and he felt quite bruised in many places, but no true harm had come to him. The Anduin—or perhaps Ilúvatar—had been kind for once.

     Worry began to seep into his mind as his dizziness subsided, and he wondered what had become of the hobbits. He had fared well for such a calamity, but he did not even know if the hobbits could swim, let alone hold their own against such a mighty river. He must search for them; they could be in need of his help.

     Boromir stood slowly, rolling his shoulders to ease the stiffness, and started off limping back upstream. Here and there he saw wreckage of the boat—wooden planks strewn about, an oar lying broken upon jagged stones. He found both elvin-cloaks and the supplies that had been wrapped in them—most of the latter were still intact, which Boromir considered a miracle. Still he would have traded it for any sign of the hobbits.

     “Pippin!” he called; his voice was hoarse, and he had to clear his throat before trying again. “Pippin! Merry! Princess! Can you hear me?”

     When he had reached the place where the boat capsized Boromir was forced to conclude that the hobbits had not gotten out of the Anduin between there and the bank where he had awakened. He turned back, taking the supplies with him, and continued his search, calling out for the hobbits from time to time, but none answered.

     What should he do if he had indeed lost the Ring-bearer and his friends? Aragorn had given him charge of the little ones, and the first thing Boromir did was to put them all in a boat that could capsize at any point. He was starting to think that perhaps walking to Minas Tirith would have been a better decision.

     How was he to be king if Aragorn did not return? Boromir did not feel fit to lead a country, even his own; he was not even fit to lead three hobbits to the White City without losing track of them. He had always been better at following than leading; he had never loved the captain’s position, foisted on him for the last thirteen years. It made him feel far too responsible.

     After perhaps an hour of walking Boromir came to a place where the river was still wide, but less swift. On the opposite bank he thought he could see three small figures. Hardly daring to hope, he called out once again, and this time he was rewarded with shouts of “Boromir!” and “Oh, wonderful, the idiot’s alive,” the latter of course being from Diamond.

     Boromir beamed at the sight of his hobbits as they rushed to the riverbank. He would have to swim across and get them, of course, and leave the supplies on the bank. He was just setting his bundles down when he heard a faint splashing and looked up to see Merry and Pippin striking out for his side of the river, Diamond clinging to Pippin’s back. Panic thrilled through Boromir, and he began to wade into the river, but Merry called out, “Stay where you are, Boromir! We’ll be alright!”

     Indeed they were; the hobbits reached the shallows quickly and splashed through them onto the bank. Pippin and Merry came immediately to Boromir’s arms, and he embraced them tightly, then pulled back, looking over their small faces. Both were soaked, just as he was, and rather muddy. They did not look injured, but Boromir could not help but worry.

     “Are you well?” he asked. “Are any of you hurt?”

     “Dia’s hurt her ankle,” said Merry. “She caught her foot between rocks.”

     “It is not my fault I was trained in battle and not swimming,” Diamond groused from where she had sat down upon the grass. “Long Cleeve has no need for such skills.”

     “How bad is the injury, Princess?” Boromir asked. “Can you walk?”

     “I can,” she said, “but not for long. I see no swelling, although it is bruising a little. If anything it is a mild sprain. With the proper treatment it should heal within a week or two.”

     “Would you like me to wrap it?” Boromir asked. “I only know a little, but I have done it for soldiers before.”

     “Thank you, Captain, but I shall do it,” said Diamond. “Do we have healing supplies?”

     They did; they had bought them in Harvoduin. Boromir unwrapped the bundles beside him and rummaged through them until he found the healing supplies, encased in a leather satchel. This he gave to Diamond, and as she bandaged her foot Boromir turned to Merry and Pippin.

     “Where did you learn how to swim so well?” he asked. “I did not know hobbits trained in the water.”

     “Well, I’m from Buckland, aren’t I?” said Merry. “I was practically raised in the Brandywine. And it wouldn’t do to have Pip drowning every time he came over to play—which was nearly every day—so we’ve both been strong swimmers for a long while.”

     “Merry taught me by throwing me in the Brandywine,” Pippin added with a laugh. “I suppose it wasn’t funny then, but in hindsight it is. Say, Boromir, what happened to you? We looked all over and couldn’t find you.”

     “Truthfully, I’m not certain,” said Boromir. “But I know I swallowed a great deal of water. I woke on this side of the river perhaps an hour ago, and I have been searching for you ever since.”

     “But you’re alright?” asked Pippin.

     “Of course.” Boromir smiled. “It takes more than a river to wound me.” In truth he still ached a little, but he would not have called it wounded, and he did not want to worry Pippin over nothing.

     Diamond stood, shifting most of her weight to one side, and said, “We should be off now, shouldn’t we? I daresay we must be close to the White City.”

     Boromir thought so too; it had been twelve or thirteen days—he wasn’t certain—since they had set out from Long Cleeve. Or that was what Aragorn had told him. Boromir had only been alive for eleven days.

     That was a strange thought, that he had not lived for even a fortnight, and before his passing only thirty years. He remembered spending his birthday alone upon the plains, shortly before he arrived in Rivendell. Now—assuming he survived the war—he would spend the next one with Faramir, perhaps with Aragorn and the hobbits as well. Though he still worried for his brother and his city the thought brought him happiness.

     “I suppose we must be,” he said in response to Diamond. “Do you wish to be carried? I do not want you to worsen your injury.”

     “I can manage, thank you,” Diamond said, her chin held high. Though Boromir was doubtful of that, he let her walk for the first few minutes, and after that, he was pleasantly surprised when Diamond let Pippin assist her. He had watched the two hobbits become closer even in his short time with them, and he looked forward to seeing if they would begin courting. Between himself and Faramir, his brother had always been much more the romantic, but it had rubbed off on Boromir to a certain degree.

     They walked for the better part of the day, and as evening fell, they crested a ridge, and the battlements of Minas Tirith came into view. Boromir’s heart soared at the sight of the Tower of Ecthelion, and it took all of his restraint not to shout for joy.

     “There it is, little ones,” he said. “The White City.”

     As they stood upon the ridge, the setting sun broke through the clouds, gleaming upon the white towers, and tears came to Boromir’s eyes. He reached under his tunic and rubbed the pendant around his neck—the pendant carved into the shape of the White Tree of Gondor. It had been his mother’s, and it was the only thing, save for his sword, that had returned with him from his sojourn in the valley of death.

     “What do you think of it?” Boromir asked the hobbits.

     For a moment they stood in silence, and then Pippin said, “There are no words to describe it, Boromir. It is wonderful.”

     “Indeed it is,” Boromir said thickly, and he was overcome with such strong emotion that he nearly fell to his knees. He had thought he might never see his home again. Now, here he was, standing outside Minas Tirith once more, and it did not matter that the city was besieged, or that Sauron had a great hold upon it; it was still here, and that was all that mattered to him.

     The only thing missing from Minas Tirith, he thought, was its king.

     And then a voice called out, “Boromir?”

     Boromir turned, searching for the owner of the voice, and he saw Aragorn upon their ridge to the west, silhouetted against the setting sun, seated upon a steed black as night.

     “Aragorn!” he cried, his voice mingling with the hobbits’ “Strider!”, and they flew across the ridge to him. Aragorn slid from his horse, then gasped in shock as Boromir crashed headlong into him, wrapping his arms around Aragorn and lifting the slighter man nearly off the ground.

     “Boromir,” Aragorn gasped, his voice strangled. “It’s—it’s wonderful to see you—not the ribs!”

     Boromir let go, and Aragorn stumbled back, one arm wrapped protectively around his side. His breath came in short pants, and it was then that Boromir realized that his friend did not look well. Aragorn was filthy (though that was hardly out of the ordinary) and his cheek bore a partially healed scrape. His eyes were ringed with dark, shadowed half-moons.

     “What happened?” Boromir asked as the hobbits came running up behind him. “You are wounded, Aragorn; who has harmed you?”

     “No mortal being has wounded me,” said Aragorn, as if that should assuage his friends’ worries. “It is an attack you cannot avenge. I met Ungoliant, creature of shadow and lieutenant of Morgoth, six days ago. She wished to take the palantír, but by the grace of Ilúvatar I escaped with both the stone and my life—though not in one piece, I’m afraid.” He gave a short, pained laugh. “I do believe several of my ribs are broken, but they are nearly healed already; a few more days of rest and I shall be ready for battle.”

     “Why did she want the palantír, Strider?” Diamond asked, her arm still draped over Pippin’s shoulders. “Why would any creature want that horrible stone?”

     Aragorn sighed, then winced. “I have much to tell you, my friends. I returned to Long Cleeve to seek the counsel of your father, Princess, and he has told me many things that change our quest in ways I could never have foreseen. Perhaps we should make camp before we speak with each other.”

     “Perhaps we should wait until morning,” said Boromir. “You are wounded, and so are you, Princess, and in any case we all have traveled a great deal today. I say we make camp and speak in the morning.”

     Diamond shrugged. “I suppose it’s a sound idea. Let us go to the woods outside the White City; there we shall have less chance of being seen by the Orcs.”

     The company agreed, and by nightfall they were camped on the bank of the Anduin, in a moonlit, grassy clearing, where opalescent lilies grew in the mud beside the water. The clouds, already torn and tattered by the wind, dispersed soon after the moon rose.

     Later in the night Boromir lay on his back, his cloak spread underneath him, and looked up into the heavens. Hundreds of thousands of stars hung above him, a silver shroud against the mantle of night, and he imagined them crowning the White Tree.

     “Can you believe it, Aragorn?” he whispered, not wanting to wake the already slumbering hobbits. “Now we shall know once again the splendor of the White City, and she shall know the glory of her king.”

     There was a heavy silence, and Boromir waited, until Aragorn said, “I harbor no hope in my ascension to the throne. I am not worthy of it, Boromir; I have not known Gondor and her people but for a few years in my youth. I do not come from this land; I come from the wilderness, the lands where Men watch after only themselves. I am as the dust of the earth, and Gondor as the White Tree, which is pure and blessed.” He rolled over to face Boromir and said, “I am cursed, Boromir; there is no denying it, and it is not only I; this land is cursed for my sake.”

     Boromir thought for several long moments, casting about for the right words to say, and then stood and walked to the riverbank. He knelt down and plucked a moon-white lily, holding it up for Aragorn to see.

     “You speak of yourself as the dust of the earth,” Boromir said. “You are little in your own sight, and while it is good to be humble, you think of yourself as worthless—as cursed. You believe that you are unworthy of the land of Gondor, which is pure and untarnished as the lily. And yet the lily grows out of the mud; and is not the mud but dust and water?”

     Aragorn’s eyes were shining, perhaps with tears, as Boromir continued. “You see, Aragorn, some of the most lovely things in this world are born out of the dust—the wild new lilies, the great trees of the forest, even the White City. When you take up the kingship, it shall not be the ending of Gondor, but the beginning. The Seven Stars shall smile upon you, and the people shall take you as their king.”

     For a moment there was silence, and Boromir could hear only the soft rushing of the river. Then Aragorn said, “Boromir, you are a greater man than I could ever be.”

     Boromir shook his head. “No, I am not. I am proud, and boastful, and rash, and this is why I could never be king. But you? You are destined to lead this people, Aragorn. You are chosen. Ilúvatar has spoken, and it must be done.”

     Aragorn breathed deeply, his eyes wet. “Then let it be done, according to his will.”

     Boromir placed the lily into the water and let the Anduin carry it towards Minas Tirith. He stood and turned his face to the stars once more, the night wind blowing through his hair, and smiled.

     “Let it be known in Minas Tirith,” he said. “The lords of Gondor have returned.”

Chapter Text

PEREGRIN

The morning dawned with a clear blue sky and a white sun cresting the mountains. Pippin woke curled next to Merry; this was always the position he found himself in on their journey, even if he had gone to sleep several feet away.

He sat up and saw Diamond on watch, sitting on a log at the edge of the clearing with her dagger pointed downriver. Her other hand was held to her chest, and though her back was to him, Pippin knew that her hand was fisted around the Ring.

Pippin stood and tiptoed across the clearing, skirting around Boromir and Aragorn, who both lay upon their cloaks on the earth. Boromir lay stretched out on his back, his hands folded over his chest, while Aragorn curled on his side, limbs drawn in as he murmured softly in what Pippin thought was Elvish. This was all familiar to him; he had learned much about the sleeping habits of his company while on the quest. The only one he did not truly know was Diamond.

"Hello, Dia," Pippin said softly as he drew near to her. "May I sit?"

"If you must," she sighed, and Pippin sat tentatively beside her, watching her eyes dart about as she searched for threats.

"Have you been watching all night?" he asked. "You could have woken me."

Diamond snorted. "No, I couldn't have. You sleep like a halfbit. And anyway I would have chosen Strider over you in a heartbeat—for watch, I mean," she said hastily. "But he and the Captain stayed up for much of the night waxing poetic about lilies and dust. I did not wish to wake them, and besides I could not sleep. It comes with war, I suppose; I have not slept well in years. In Long Cleeve we are trained to sleep for no more than four hours a night."

"Surely not!" Pippin said in horror. "I myself can never function on less than ten."

"Of course," Diamond scoffed. "Perhaps you would be of more use as a fallaner."

"You know, I think I would," said Pippin. "What is it like, being a fallaner?"

"Not nearly as interesting as being a soldier," said Diamond. "All Atar does is sort and gather herbs and spend hours under the elenorn. All five of his children were tested for the Gaze at thirteen years of age, even though it is not needed to be a healer among our people. I think the only hobbit to have the Gaze and not become a fallaner was Atar's twinling. But there are many healers who do not possess it. All fallanae train under Atar; once he is gone the position shall pass to Malin. As for what they do—they simply treat wounds and look to Ilúvatar for guidance in battle. Many of our warriors do not think highly of the fallanae, and I confess that I did not for many years. But after…after my raising, I realized how much strength lies in those who heal. That is why I know Strider shall be an acceptable king." She sighed, closing her eyes. "Sometimes I fear that I shall not be an acceptable queen."

Perhaps he should have reassured her, but instead Pippin said, "Why not?"

Diamond scowled. "Mother says I am too rash. I do not think before I act. Sometimes I make decisions that do not consider others, only my own life. And I do not want the burden of ruling a kingdom; I wish to be free to do as I will." She sighed once more. "If I could give up the Ring, I would. But Ilúvatar has commanded, and I must obey."

"Is there no way for you to choose not to take the throne?" Pippin asked. "It seems silly to give you what you do not want when you have siblings that might take it."

"Only Ruby could take the throne of Long Cleeve," said Diamond. "The law dictates that our land must have a queen—and she would be a better one than I, truthfully. In regards to your question, yes, there is a way. But you would not understand."

"Perhaps I would," said Pippin. "I understand more things than people imagine."

"It is not only that you would not understand." Diamond clutched the Ring tightly, staring at the earth. "It is that it would break the hearts of many, including yours. It is better that you do not know."

"Why might it break my heart?" Pippin asked, dreading the answer.

Diamond looked at him with anger and sorrow in her eyes. "Not all of us will survive this war, Pippin, and though you shall never understand why, it is time you accepted that. Loving will only ever hurt you."

She stood and walked away, disappearing into the woods. Pippin watched her go, pondering the meaning of what she had said.

Not all of us will survive this war.

Pippin knew that; had always known that. Gandalf had not, and for a while he had believed that Boromir had not. Surely many warriors, those of Gondor and Rohan and Long Cleeve, would fall in battle. Though it grieved him immensely to think of, he knew that no being's life was guaranteed in the War of the Rings. But why did it pain Diamond so? Why did she believe that his heart would be broken, and that he would never understand?

He thought on this for a long time as he watched the sun rise over the trees, and as the morning mist lifted from the forest, he knew.

Diamond believed that she was going to die.

Aragorn called the company together as the sun neared its zenith, and Diamond returned at his summons, though she sat down upon her log and refused to move, insisting that she could hear the conversation perfectly well from her seat. Pippin was seated on his cloak between Merry and Boromir, and all of the company watched Aragorn as he removed the palantír, wrapped in cloth, from his pack and set it on the ground.

"I have told you already that I returned to Long Cleeve to speak with Valor," Aragorn began. "He showed me many visions and told me things which alter our course significantly. Of these things, there is but one that I must tell you of. Pippin?"

"Yes, Strider?" Pippin said.

Aragorn looked at him steadily, though Pippin thought he could discern fear behind the man's gaze as Aragorn said, "You are the vahka 'en heledh; and so you have charge of the seeing-stone. It is crucial to our quest, and to the salvation of Middle-earth, that you listen to what I have to say."

Pippin nodded, fear twinging in the pit of his stomach. Aragorn said softly, "I do not say any of this to frighten you, Pippin, I promise you that. But the stone is now a burden that you must guard with your life, and one that we too shall protect unto death. Pippin, have you heard of the Silmarils?"

He had not, but he quickly realized that he ought to have, for Diamond and Boromir both gasped, and the latter said, "Then it is one of them?"

"I am afraid so, my friend," said Aragorn gravely. "It has been placed into the palantír for its protection, I suppose; that is why the stone burns us. But yes, we are now in possession of what I hope to be the last Silmaril."

"What is it?" Pippin asked. "The Silmaril, I mean."

Aragorn sighed. "How do I explain this? Though it is a thing of light—the greatest light, perhaps, to ever shine upon Middle-earth—the stone has a long and bloody history. Do you remember what I told you about Ilúvatar? About the Valar?" When Pippin nodded, Aragorn continued. "The Valar dwelt in Valinor in the beginning of the world, and one of them, Yavanna, the lady of all growing things, sang into being two great trees. They were called Laurelin, tree of gold, and Telperion, tree of silver, and contained within them was a great and beautiful light. But Valinor was darkened by Morgoth, Lord of Fire, and his servant Ungoliant, whom I battled on the plains of Rohan. The Two Trees were poisoned, and though their last fruit and flower were made into the Sun and the Moon, they withered and died beneath the shadow of Morgoth.

"As for the Silmarils: they were crafted long ago by a great elvin smith called Fëanor. There were three of them, once, and they contained within them the last of the light of the Two Trees. For many millennia, Elves and Men fought for the Silmarils, all desiring the Light of Valinor for themselves. Noble warriors departed this world in their quest; so was the fate of Ëarendil, who took his Silmaril and sailed into the sky. But far more than departed perished. So did many who walked in the shadow between light and dark—Maedhros son of Fëanor cast himself and his Silmaril into the fire beneath the earth. Ours was cast into the sea by Maglor, the brother of Maedhros, and has come forth once more for no other reason than to torment us, I believe."

Aragorn shook his head. "My point is that whether the Silmarils were desired for good or for evil, their very presence made many lives forfeit. Ungoliant attacked because she wished for the stone—she will not stop at taking lives. Nor will Morgoth. Nor will any creature upon the face of Middle-earth. This is why the Silmaril is such a vital part of our quest, Pippin; if we were to make its presence known we would face a far greater war than that of the Rings."

Aragorn dragged a hand down his face; he looked worn and tired, and Pippin felt very sorry for him. Clearly Aragorn did not believe that they were capable of hiding the Silmaril for long.

"What must I do?" Pippin asked. "I will hide it as long as I must, but I thought I was to destroy the palantír. What of the Silmaril?"

"You cannot break it," said Aragorn. "Neither can I, nor Gandalf, nor any being less than a Vala. All we can do is hide it and pray that Morgoth himself does not come for it. Likely he shall send his forces before him, and if by some miracle we keep the Silmaril, he shall come upon us with all his fury. Morgoth has spoken to me through the palantír; I am afraid that he knows that it has come forth, and he may also know exactly where it is."

"Then we will not look into it," said Boromir. "We shall keep it hidden, perhaps bury it in the earth, and we will ask the Valar to destroy it."

"It will not be that easy," Aragorn sighed. "Some are drawn not to the Silmaril, but to the palantír. I fear that we shall not be able to resist its call."

"Surely—" Boromir began, but he was cut off by Diamond.

"We?"

Aragorn brought his hands to his temples; he looked as though he suffered from a splitting headache. "Yes, Princess. Your father has told me that I…I am afflicted with the Gaze."

There was silence for a moment, and then Merry said, "And you didn't know that already?"

Aragorn blinked. "No. Why would I?"

Merry shrugged. "Well, between your collapse in the floodplain and all that I heard transpired in Long Cleeve, it seemed that you might know. I thought you just didn't want to say so for some noble reason. It's alright that you have it, though; I'll just take the stone somewhere and bury it."

This to Pippin seemed a perfectly sound idea. "I think Merry is right. All of us that are called by the stone shall go somewhere we cannot see, or we might stay here and let Merry bury the stone. It seems the only way to preserve the Silmaril as well as our sanity."

"Strider has already lost his," Diamond quipped. "But for you there is still hope."

Aragorn laughed, though the sound was hollow, and turned to face Merry. "It is a good idea, my friend." He took the palantír, still wrapped in its cloth, and gave it to Merry. "Will you go and find a place for this? You shall have to mark it, so that we may return it to the Valar when this war is through."

"Should he tell someone else where it is hidden?" asked Diamond. "It would not do for Meriadoc to fall in battle and leave no knowledge of the whereabouts of the Silmaril. All the ground around Minas Tirith would be torn up and destroyed."

"Yes, Princess, that seems wise." Aragorn looked over their company. "Go with him and see if you can find a suitable place to hide the stone. Bury it deep."

Diamond and Merry rose and set off into the woods. Diamond was still limping, but she seemed much improved from the day before. Pippin watched her and Merry go, wondering what the envious twinges in his chest were.

"I would send you, Pippin," said Aragorn, noticing Pippin's expression. "But you are drawn to the palantír. I swear that you will still be able to guard it—the earth shall assist you, and when the time comes you will be the one to destroy the stone. Not the Silmaril, of course, but the destruction of the palantír has always been your destiny."

"Thank you, Strider," said Pippin, and gave him a small smile.

Diamond and Merry returned after the better part of an hour, and when they had stepped into camp Aragorn stood.

"I must speak with Boromir in private," he said. "Will you all be alright on your own? I don't think orcs would come so far out of the city, but—"

"Of course we'll be alright," said Diamond. "They've got me, haven't they? We'll be perfectly fine, Strider; you ought not to worry so much." She waved her hand dismissively. "Go."

Pippin looked questioningly at Boromir, who shrugged and followed Aragorn into the trees. The hobbits watched them go, listening to the footsteps fading away.

"Must we sit here the whole time they're away?" Merry complained as soon as the men were out of earshot. "I'm so tired of sitting. We ought to do something useful."

"What can we do, though?" asked Pippin. "I feel as though Strider takes care of most of the useful things."

"I think it's rather obvious what we should do," said Diamond. "We have been outside of Minas Tirith for half a day, and still we have not truly seen the city. And the Captain worries for his family within the walls. Besides, the Song of the Fall of Melkor says that we must enter the White City."

She stood and began to limp along the bank of the Anduin. Pippin and Merry scrambled up, following her.

"Where exactly are we going?" Pippin asked.

"We are going to climb a tree outside of Minas Tirith and watch it." Diamond looked over her shoulder, a determined light gleaming in her eyes. "If we are meant to enter the city, I think we had better find out how to get in."

ARAGORN

"What do you wish to discuss with me?" Boromir asked as Aragorn climbed the ridge. "And why must we do it away from the little ones? I worry that they shall get into some sort of trouble."

"It would be an invasion of your privacy to discuss it with them," said Aragorn. "You may speak to them later if you wish, but I thought it your right to know first, and anyway I do not think you will wish to tell them."

He crested the ridge and sat down upon it, struggling not to press his hand against his ribs. Today they only pained him with a dull ache, but he should not have climbed the ridge so fast; it had only hurt him further.

"You are still in pain," said Boromir as he sat down. "Perhaps we should wait."

"I do not wish to," said Aragorn. "This…this has weighed heavy upon my thoughts for days now. I cannot keep it secret any longer." Tears immediately began to burn at the corners of his eyes, and he took a deep, shuddering breath, struggling to hold them in. "Boromir, I…when I took the Ring from Dia, when I raised you from the dead, I split my soul in two. You know this."

Boromir nodded. "Yes, I do, and I cannot imagine the pain it must have caused you."

"You can." Aragorn's voice was little more than a breath. "It was your pain, the pain you felt in your…your final moments. I wished so badly for you never to be afflicted by that pain again. But I have broken things which are impossible to mend, and now you are bound to the Ring.

"Princess Diamond tells me you suddenly speak Sindarin. I believe this is because you possess a part of my soul. Still it is but the least changed thing about you. If I am correct in my assumptions, which I may not be, you may also experience heightened senses, swifter healing, perhaps even longer life—that is to say, you may have, in the taking of my soul, become of the order of the Dúnedain. Still these are not the only things that have changed."

Aragorn drew in another deep breath; his ribs twinged, but he pushed aside the pain. "Boromir, Valor told me in Long Cleeve that you now possess the Gaze."

Boromir was silent, staring into the wind with a look of blankness upon his face, and so Aragorn forged ahead, his voice coming faster and faster. "You—you may see visions, and the palantír will likely call to you. That is why I could not send you with Merry to hide it. Because of our shared soul you may even see the same futures that I do."

"Aragorn," said Boromir, but Aragorn did not heed him.

"I know that Valor has called the Gaze a curse, that it is seen as an affliction, but I have seen beautiful things, and I—it may be able to be used for good. But Morgoth speaks through the palantír, and to resist him shall be just as difficult as resisting the One Ring or Reena-domë, likely more so. I—I fear—"

"Aragorn, please—"

But Aragorn could not stop now; he must tell Boromir everything or it would eat him alive. "You are bound to the Ring, Boromir, and I fear that it may command you, or—or I, because I raised you, and for once in my life I did not think before I acted; I was blinded by grief, and now—"

"Aragorn!" Boromir's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Please, calm—"

"Boromir, when the Ring is destroyed, you will die!"

Without meaning to, he had screamed the last few words, and a jolt of pain shot through his side. But it was nothing compared to the ache in his chest, the unbearable weight of grief that had settled there after Boromir's death and that had now returned in full force. It took hold of Aragorn, nearly choked him, and he let out a strangled, gasping sob. "I—I am so sorry. I have failed you."

He buried his face in his hands, hot tears soaking into his palms, and succumbed once more to the awful hopelessness that so often now overtook him. Boromir would surely hate him now, or demand that Aragorn run him through with a sword at once. Perhaps he would shout, or cry, or depart the Fellowship to spend his last days in Minas Tirith.

What Aragorn did not expect Boromir to do was embrace him.

"You are safe," said Boromir as he wrapped his arms around Aragorn's shoulders. "We are not in danger. I know you feel as though all is lost, as though the world is ending, but these are feelings you can overcome. Breathe, Aragorn, you must—"

He could not breathe. He choked on air, on tears, and knew that he was soaking the shoulder of Boromir's capelet but could not bring himself to move.

"Aragorn." Boromir's voice had become softer. "Estel. Listen to me. I promise that you are safe. The danger you fear is not here with us. I know how much you fear it; I fear it too, but you must breathe."

Aragorn's thoughts, spiraling into a vortex of terror, did not heed Boromir, but some primal instinct deep within him told him that he would faint if he did not inhale. This he did, ignoring the little jabs of pain in his side, and took in great gulps of the spring air.

"That's it," said Boromir. "That's it, Aragorn, now breathe with me. In…and out. Come on now, thrice more."

Boromir guided Aragorn through far more than four breaths; in fact he sat there for at least a quarter of an hour while Aragorn fought to stem the flow of tears and terror. After that time he looked up, wiping his eyes, and Boromir gently released him. "There we are. Do you feel better?"

Aragorn nodded shakily, feeling like a child; indeed, he had experienced this very thing in his youth, and Elrond had often talked him through it. His father and Boromir both seemed to have a calming influence that few others could grant.

"I am truly sorry," Aragorn whispered. "I would not have raised you if I knew you were to depart once more."

"Surely it was inevitable," said Boromir. "Please, do not condemn yourself for this. At least now I will be able to say my goodbyes to Faramir, and to the little ones."

Though his voice was steady his eyes shone with tears, and Aragorn's heart broke for the son of Denethor, who had never deserved this fate. If anyone deserved to die by the Ring it was he.

Please, Ilúvatar, Aragorn prayed silently. If I am to die, then take me, but spare this man, for he is good, and far more would sorrow at his passing than at mine.

"Perhaps there is hope." Boromir sounded genuinely optimistic. "Perhaps all will be well. Think of your name, Aragorn, your Elvish name. Surely you must have some sort of hope."

Aragorn shook his head slowly. "I have not had hope for a long time, Boromir; this war is so much greater than either of us and our foe so much more powerful. Perhaps I should have more faith in Ilúvatar, but why should the One intercede in a battle that the creatures of Middle-earth have brought upon themselves?"

"Because he loves them," said Boromir simply. "Because, whatever their failings, they belong to him, and he does not wish to see them fall to Morgoth. I know the horizon is dark, my friend, but when the sun finally shines it will shine out the clearer, because you and I and Ilúvatar all see the good in this world. And I say it is worth fighting for."

Aragorn's tears returned, but he smiled, and for the first time since Boromir's passing, the tree of faith that he kept in his heart unfurled a scion of hope.

That night, the stars burned ever brighter, and Aragorn lay on his back on the earth, tracing the paths between pinpricks of light and thinking of the stories they told. He wondered whether, after the War of the Rings, there would be new constellations drawn to commemorate the fallen.

Unable to sleep, Aragorn watched the Valacirca make its journey across the sky, chased forever by Menelmacar the hunter. He found the Morningstar in the east, and though he knew it was childish, he wished upon it as he had not done for decades.

"Let them survive this," he breathed to the heavens. "Spare these whom I love."

He closed his eyes and curled onto his side as the moon wheeled past its zenith, and even then it was perhaps an hour until his eyelids at last began to grow heavy. Since the floodplain he had been wary of sleep—he did not wish to see more of those horrific visions—but Aragorn knew he could not function without rest.

Darkness finally claimed Aragorn, and he dreamed.

He stands upon a great black tower, and all the armies of Middle-earth fight beneath him. Dust and ash shroud the land, blocking out the sun, and a dark, stifling presence hangs over it all.

Orodruin blazes in the distance, fire crowning its peak. Blood slicks Aragorn's hands and his sword and the gleaming, searing stone that he grasps with no intent of letting go.

The Secret Fire is near. Aragorn can sense it. Soon, the two Quests of the Rings will become one, and Middle-earth will be broken or preserved.

Aragorn thinks it will be broken.

He watches the hosts of Mordor storm towards the tower, followed by Gondor and Rohan and Long Cleeve. It is far to the Black Gate; they will not arrive before Morgoth. The Lord of Fire is the only one whom Aragorn wants to see.

A blinding light bursts suddenly to life in the corner of Aragorn's vision, and he turns, shielding his eyes. The Silmaril falls to the floor of the dark tower, forgotten in the midst of a much greater light.

"Estel."

The voice seems to echo across the land, but Aragorn knows only he can hear it. The being standing across from him, made of pure and perfect light and crowned with stars, bears a message only for his ears.

"Ilúvatar," Aragorn says, and he sinks to his knees, bowing his head as he brings a fist to his chest. "It…it is the greatest of honors to kneel before you. What is your command? What would you have me do?"

"You came to me with a plea for the life of the son of Gondor," says Ilúvatar. "I know that this thing has troubled you for many days now. Your plea is a noble one, but it is one that I cannot answer."

Aragorn opens his mouth to plead once more, but Ilúvatar holds up one hand. "Though I cannot tell you that I will spare your honeg, I will tell you that I am fighting tirelessly for his soul—and for yours. There are things that you may do to ensure that his life is not made forfeit."

"Tell me, O One, please," Aragorn begs. "I will do anything."

Ilúvatar's eyes are at once stern and kind. "His soul is bound to yours and to the Ring of Melkor. As such, you are both claimed by the great shadow, but darkness cannot exist without light. It is why Boromir was tempted by the One Ring—because there was such a great light within him that Sauron saw fit to make it as naught with his darkness. Of course, he did not succeed. Now, Estel, it is your turn to make certain that Melkor does not succeed with you. Since the moment you came into Arda, the Lord of Fire has followed you, wishing for you to join him in shadow and flame. In rending your soul, and with the Ring and the Silmaril so close, you have made yourself vulnerable to his attack. But there is hope yet. You are a noble man, Estel, and one that cannot be swayed so easily by the great shadow. Keep your feet on the path, and your heart shall follow."

"But what is my path?" Aragorn asks. "How might it save Boromir?"

Ilúvatar kneels down in front of Aragorn and reaches out, cupping Aragorn's cheek in his celestial hand. "Estel, my son, you have always known your path. You know that you will become Elessar and rule over Gondor and Arnor."

Aragorn shakes his head. "I will die by the hand of Morgoth, by the destruction of the Ring. In raising Boromir I have doomed myself and Middle-earth."

"That is one path the future may take, yes," says Ilúvatar. "But do you remember when Mithrandir spoke your fate to you, and you did not heed his call? You changed the fate of many that day, including your own, and it still holds true. The road will be long and dark, but there is always a choice, Estel, and you know in your heart the right one."

"But…" Aragorn knows it is foolish, but if he cannot say it to anyone in Middle-earth, he must say it to Ilúvatar. "I am afraid."

Ilúvatar smiles, and it is the sun shining after a storm, the smile of every person Aragorn has ever loved. "I was afraid too, Estel. But I made you anyway."

The One takes Aragorn's face in his hands and kisses his brow, and Aragorn has never felt such peace, not in all eighty-eight years of his life, but he has one more thing to ask of Ilúvatar.

"Why do you call me Estel?"

Ilúvatar takes Aragorn's hands and pulls him to his feet, looking on his face once more. "Because it is the name that you must now remember most. Perhaps it was not the name you were born with, or the name you shall take as king, but it has always been the one that shows who you truly are."

Everything begins to blur—the black tower, the dusty sky, even the Silmaril, and Aragorn fades back into the waking world as the One's parting words echo across the void.

"Be at peace, son of Ilúvatar."

Aragorn woke in the cobalt haze before dawn, curled so tightly into himself that his limbs tingled as he moved. He guessed that he had been in the same position since falling asleep; his joints were sure to be stiff and sore for at least a few hours.

He lifted himself up onto his elbow and looked blearily around the clearing, taking a count of his companions. Boromir still slumbered, his hands folded over his chest, and Aragorn winced at the memory of his friend lying in the funeral boat. He wished Boromir would find a different sleeping position.

Pippin and Merry were curled together under a tree, but Diamond was nowhere to be found. Dread suddenly took hold of Aragorn, and he sat up, looking around for her. Perhaps she had gone on watch again, or—

The point of a dagger pressed into Aragorn's back, when the blade pierced the flesh between his shoulder blades he leapt to his feet, whipping around and drawing his sword. Before he could lunge at his attacker they threw themselves at Aragorn, crashing into his chest, and he stumbled backward and fell.

"You tried to take the Ring," hissed the voice of Diamond. "It was not yours to take. The Ring is mine."

Aragorn caught a glimpse of Diamond's face—twisted with fury and vengeance—as she plunged her dagger toward his heart, her eyes glowing scarlet with the light of Reena-domë.

Chapter Text

ARAGORN

     A swift dark shape slammed suddenly into Diamond, knocking her aside when her blade was but an inch from Aragorn’s chest. He scrambled to his feet, gasping, “Boromir—the Ring controls her—do not hurt her!”

     Boromir did not seem to hear him; he and Diamond still grappled, rolling across the leaf litter as Boromir tried to wrest the dagger from Diamond’s hand. She let out a furious shriek and kicked upward, striking Boromir in the stomach. He gasped and stumbled back, arms wrapped protectively around his midsection, and as Diamond lunged for Boromir once more Aragorn leapt forward and seized her wrists, forcing them behind her back.

     “Princess, please!” he begged as she fought to tear free. “You are not yourself—please, Diamond, listen to me—”

     With inhuman strength she wrenched her hands from Aragorn’s grasp and backhanded him across the face, so hard that his head turned to the side. He wondered dimly if Diamond had not broken his jaw.

     As Aragorn shook off his daze he watched Pippin walk slowly toward Diamond, one hand outstretched, his eyes wild with terror. Fear shot through Aragorn—if Diamond had been able to strike himself and Boromir with such strength, what might she do to a hobbit?

     “Pippin,” Aragorn rasped, his cheek throbbing. “Pippin, do not—”

     He was echoed by Merry. “Pip, she’ll hurt you—stop it!”

     But Pippin continued advancing on Diamond, and though her dagger was held out she backed away until her back was pressed against a tree.

     “I will kill you, Shire-child,” she hissed, her entire body trembling. “I swear by Eru I will kill you if you touch the Ring!”

     “I will not touch the Ring,” said Pippin softly, still walking toward her. Both of his hands were held out to her now. “Dia, please listen to me, it’s only Pip. Melkor wants you, but you mustn’t let him take you, do you hear me? You are stronger than he, and we need you here.” He was only a few inches from her now, looking into her eyes. Diamond had not moved her dagger toward him.

     “Please, Dia,” Pippin whispered. “Come back to me.”

     And a vision came, pain spearing through Aragorn’s temples as he caught a glimpse of a bloody, rain-washed night eight years ago.

     Honor was backed against a wall, trembling, and she clutched the handle of a scythe in her hands. Valor stood before her, his hands raised just like Pippin’s, and looked into his wife’s eyes.

     “Mela, please.” Valor’s voice trembled as Pippin’s did not. “Honor, listen. This is not you.”

     “No,” Honor agreed, her eyes glowing scarlet. “I am Melkor, coward.”

     “I beg you, mela,” Valor whispered. “Come back to me.”

     Honor swung the great curved blade, and Valor closed his eyes but did not move, his hands still held out in a gesture of peace.

     The golden scythe stopped an inch from his neck, and Honor’s eyes lost the horrible light.

     “Val,” she gasped, and collapsed into his arms as sobs racked them both. The scythe clattered to the floor as the edhelai sank to their knees, and Aragorn knew the weapon would never be used again.

     A flash of light, and he was back in the present, watching Diamond’s eyes meet Pippin’s. The company, nay, the world, seemed to hold its breath.

     The dagger fell.

     It seemed to shake the earth, tear at the very foundations of Morgoth’s shadow, and Aragorn thought he heard a faint, far-off scream of anger and agony.

     “Pippin?” Diamond rasped, and she brought a hand to her mouth. “I…I don’t…”

     “It’s alright,” Pippin said, though he was shaking. “You’re back, and that is all that matters.”

     “I meant to kill you.” Diamond’s voice was hardly a breath. “I would have done it.”

     “But you didn’t.” Pippin placed a tentative hand on Diamond’s arm. “You didn’t, Dia. I know you would have done it, but that doesn’t make it you.”

     To the surprise of all Diamond wrapped her arms around Pippin, squeezed tightly for a moment, and then turned and stalked into the woods. The company watched her go, and Merry ventured, “Do you think she’ll come back?”

     “I do,” said Pippin. “I think once she has had a chance to think, perhaps scream or cry, she will return. I hope it will be soon, but I think we mustn’t disturb her.” He looked around at the shocked faces of the others. “Are you all…alright?”

     “No,” Merry said, crossing his arms as he glared at his cousin. “She could have killed you, Pip. She would have done it; she said it herself. Why would you put yourself in such danger? You scared me!”

     Aragorn’s heart twinged at the sight of Merry’s swiftly welling eyes; when Pippin saw them he too began to cry. “I’m sorry, Merry, I really am. I…I just thought…perhaps I could save her.”

     “And you did,” said Merry. “But if she ever tries to hurt you I will kill her myself.”

     At this the younger hobbit dissolved into sobs, and Merry embraced Pippin, stroking a hand through Pippin’s hair. Aragorn decided to leave them to work things out, and he motioned Boromir back over to their cloaks to sit down.

     “Are you alright?” Aragorn asked. “I saw her kick you; are you in pain?”

     Boromir sighed, one hand pressed to his abdomen. “Well, I am certainly bruised; I suspect it will hurt to breathe for a little while. But I have faced worse, and anyway I have a bit of padding to protect me.” He laughed huskily. “It will heal quickly, from what you have said. What about you; are you hurt?”

     Aragorn’s hand went unconsciously to his cheek; he winced slightly as he touched the tender skin. “Bruised, much like you. But I am no stranger to these. I am less concerned by the wound itself and more by the strength with which she hit me. I thought she might have broken my jaw. It…it did not seem natural for a hobbit, even one with her training. And the way she threw you off her…Diamond should not have been able to fight as she did. I do not say this to insult her or her training; it simply seemed highly unusual.”

     “The Ring gives her great strength,” said Boromir. “It is the only possibility I can think of. The One Ring made its bearer invisible; the Ring of Melkor must provide strength.” He sighed. “How can we stand against such a thing?”

     “With faith,” said Aragorn. “It is all that we can do now—have faith, and pray that Ilúvatar sees fit to spare us.”

     “Perhaps he will.” A new light came into Boromir’s eyes. “I had a dream, Aragorn, a dream that Ilúvatar came to me. He told me that my life was not yet forfeit, that I may yet be saved if I remain a good man.”

     Aragorn smiled faintly. “You are the best of men, Boromir. If you cannot be good then I see no other purpose for you.”

     “But what is good, truly?” asked Boromir, and he cast his eyes to the stars. “What good have I done?”

     At this Aragorn had to laugh. “What good have you not done? Boromir, you have overcome the One Ring, led the company when I could not, protected the little ones every step of our journey. You have saved my life twice already; I am certain you shall save it again before this war is over. And I dreamed of Ilúvatar as well. He told me that he is fighting for your soul.” He reached out and grasped Boromir’s arm, looking into his eyes. “The One fights for you, Boromir, and so do I.”

     Boromir smiled, and with it the first light of dawn broke over the horizon. “Then all may yet be well.”

FARAMIR

     Faramir son of Gondor looked up through the skylight, staring at nothing. He rubbed at the beard forming on his jawline; he was lucky it grew so slowly or he was sure he would have looked rather like Mithrandir by now.

     He had been in the catacombs for months now, since winter fully descended upon Minas Tirith. The chill air was thawing now, but it did not bring Faramir any joy. The spring rains came through the skylight dug into the ceiling and turned the dirt floor of his cell to mud; Faramir had been curled in the corner for several days now, trying to avoid the filth. He may have been a prisoner, but he would not sacrifice his dignity.

     “Finduilas.” The voice came from the cell to Faramir’s left, just as it always did.

     Faramir did not look toward it, just as he always did.

     “Finduilas.” Denethor’s voice was sharper now. “They have brought us no food for four days. Does that not concern you?”

     “I have survived longer, Denethor,” said Faramir. He had decided long ago that if Denethor would not call him by his name, then he would not call the man father. “At your hand, if you recall.”

     “It is your fault,” Denethor hissed, and then came the familiar scraping sound of his fingernails on the bars separating them. “You antagonized Nagrakh, and now I bear the blame for your insolence. They force me to starve because of you.”

     In Faramir’s defense, Nagrakh’s hideous face had simply been begging to be spat in, but he did not say that out loud. Instead he turned so that he could not see Denethor even out of the corner of his eye and murmured, “We knew we would die sooner or later; why does it matter that it is this way?”

     “I will die with a sword at my throat,” said Denethor, “or a knife in my chest. Either way I will die by the hand of my enemy, fighting for my country.”

     Faramir scowled. “I hope the weapon is mine. And is not this dying for your country?”

     “Dying,” spat Denethor. “Not fighting—but what would you know of that?”

     “Only what Boromir taught me.”

     “I told you not to speak of him!” The bars began to shake, but still Faramir did not look. “You are not worthy to speak his name, you foolish, pathetic excuse for an heir—look at me when I speak to you, Finduilas!”

     Faramir ignored him. Denethor was becoming quite mad.

     “Look at me!” Denethor bellowed. “Look at me, girl!”

     “By all means continue shouting,” said Faramir. “I would prefer you waste your breath.”

     “Boromir would have looked!”

     At this Faramir sprang to his feet; his head spun with hunger and exhaustion, but he stayed upright, one hand on the wall as he glared daggers at Denethor and shouted, “You are the one who is not worthy to speak my brother’s name!”

     Denethor’s chin was held haughtily as he glared down his nose at Faramir. “He was the heir to the stewardship. Unlike you, he was my son.”

     “And you are a foolish, pathetic excuse for a father,” Faramir spat. “If you had let me go to Rivendell, Boromir—” His voice caught in his throat, nearly choking him. “My brother would not be dead.”

     “Would that I had let you go to the council.” Denethor’s eyes blazed. “Would that you had died in my son’s place.”

     “Would that I could stab you through the heart,” Faramir hissed. “I would, if I had a weapon.”

     “You would not,” Denethor taunted. “You are too soft for such things, Finduilas. All women are. That is why you will never be like him.”

     Faramir closed his eyes, leaning against the wall. He did not have the strength to continue this pointless argument, one that they had gone through many times before. Instead he simply sighed, “I know,” then turned away and slid down the wall, resting his cheek against the rough stone.

     He would have done it. He would have killed Denethor if he but had a weapon…and if he did not know how much it would have upset Boromir. Faramir’s brother had been, in all honesty, the softer of the two—so very afraid of the loss of life and the blood of his people. Faramir was of course not fond of these things, but he had grown accustomed to them. Boromir, despite his captain’s position, had not. And there had always been insistence on behalf of their father.

     I can fix him, Boromir had said once—ten years ago, when he was twenty and Faramir was fifteen and Denethor had beaten Faramir to the point that he lost consciousness. I can fix him, Faramir, I truly think I can.

     How Faramir missed him—kind, foolish Boromir, who saw the good in everyone even when it was not there, who believed no one was too far gone. Despite rumors to the contrary, between them, Faramir had always been much more the cynic. Perhaps it was because he had been blessed with far more brains.

     “You do not turn your back on me, Finduilas,” said Denethor. “Do you hear? You do not turn your back on me!”

     Faramir did not heed him; Denethor could not hurt him with his words anymore—had not been able to for many years—and besides they were separated by bars. He kept his eyes closed, his face against the stone, and let his dreaming mind carry him to far-off lands. This he had always excelled at—the blocking out of the world, the escape into fantasies and mystic realms that existed only in his head.

     Faramir dreamed.

     The forest is on fire.

     Someone is screaming, the sound high-pitched and shrill. Everything is blurred, swimming, and Faramir blinks dazedly. He feels no pain, after all this is only a dream, but he knows he is wounded.

     He is pulled upright by strong arms, ones that he has not felt for months—ones that he is painfully aware he will never feel again save in dreams, for Faramir would know his brother anywhere.

     Boromir pulls Faramir’s arm over his shoulders and shouts something, though Faramir cannot hear what it is over the ringing in his ears. Has something exploded, as it did upon the wall of Minas Tirith when the city was first taken?

     They begin to run—perhaps limp would be more accurate—across earth and stone as arrows fly around them. There are many other figures fleeing the burning trees, the hail of arrows. Some are quite small—children? Why are the orcs firing on the little ones?

     “Hold on, Faramir.” Boromir’s voice is hoarse and ragged, as if he has inhaled a great deal of smoke or water. “Come, we must move quickly—” He cuts himself off, coughing, and Faramir pushes his hip against his brother’s, holding Boromir upright. The world is tilting, nearly tipping off its axis, and Faramir wonders how it will feel when it finally falls.

     “Aragorn!” Boromir cries. “Where shall we go?”

     Aragorn. Who is Aragorn? Faramir recalls the name, very faintly, as if it were spoken to him when he was but a little child. It carries a great weight—Faramir is certain he has never met this Aragorn, but he knows the man will be important, perhaps even vital, to the endurance of the world.

     “Run,” comes the rasping, choked-out reply. “All we can do is run.”

     The voice comes from a man with dark hair whipped about his face by the scorching wind, raiment covered in blood and ash, eyes haunted and hopeless. Even through all this Faramir can see the starry, transparent outline of a crown upon his head.

     This is Aragorn.

     “Faramir,” says a soft voice. Boromir, of course, but his brother’s mouth is not moving. Faramir does not hear the voice so much as feel it.

     “Please, not this dream,” says Boromir. “Our days will not end in fire.”

     “Yes,” Faramir breathes. “This is how our world burns.”

     “Not like this. Not if I have a say in the matter.”

     “But you do not.” The burning woods blur, fade, and then Faramir is kneeling in his cell again, staring at the sky, and it is the day Nagrakh told him his brother was dead. He would rather be in the forest on fire. “You are gone.”

     “Who told you that? Was it Father? My soldiers? Or a vile creature of shadow with nothing to lose?”

     Then Boromir is standing before him, tall and proud with his chin held at that same haughty angle that Denethor’s often is—only on Boromir it paints him as a king. He is dressed in robes of flowing white, and his sword is held glowing by his side.

     “Boromir Captain of Gondor is no longer dead,” he says, and looks into Faramir’s eyes. “And I am coming.”

BOROMIR

     Diamond indeed returned after several hours, panting and flushed as if she had just spent the better part of the day bellowing her guilt and frustration to the sky. She growled apologies to each of the company, then disappeared once more to practice her technique with the dagger (or so she said; she was already so skilled that Boromir doubted that was truly her purpose in vanishing).

     Presently, he himself roamed the woods, searching for game. He had never been a great hunter, but he needed time with his thoughts, as well as to check in on his city.

     For two days now every fiber of Boromir’s being had been screaming at him to charge into Minas Tirith and demand to see his father and brother. Though he knew it was rash—even he in all his foolishness knew that it would result in a second death—he could not help but wonder how bad it could possibly be. Surely the orcs would not kill Boromir; they might only take him to wherever the prisoners were being held, and then he could simply incapacitate every one of them…

     He shook his head to clear these impulsive thoughts. He must wait until the company (which in reality only meant Aragorn) had constructed a well-thought-out plan, one with slightly less chance of failure than his current one. Besides they could not risk moving camp yet; there were still injuries in the company. Aragorn’s ribs were only just healed and Diamond’s ankle would need another few days of rest, what with the way she kept limping about on it.

     Since his return to the living world Boromir had begun to think that pain was an inevitable side effect of quests. True, he had only suffered bruising and the now-closed gash beneath his eye, but there were of course Aragorn’s broken ribs, and Merry had nearly died, and—well, Boromir had actually died, but he was trying not to dwell on that.

     He pressed gently into the bruise on his stomach. Though the skin was tender his abdomen was still soft, and Boromir concluded once more that he was not bleeding internally. From what he had seen with wounded soldiers, the abdomen usually became rigid an hour or so after the initial blow if something inside had torn. Boromir had not been terribly worried, but Diamond had kicked hard, and the wind had been knocked out of him for long enough to encourage him to watch the bruise.

     He wondered how much more pain his company would suffer before the quest was over. How many lives would be lost, and how many broken beyond repair? What if Faramir and Denethor were already gone?

     Boromir stopped walking, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. Panicking would not help matters. All he would do now was look upon Minas Tirith and see if he could deduce the orcs’ daily movements.

     The walls of Minas Tirith were some quarter of an hour’s walk away, and when Boromir came to the edge of the forest, he climbed the tallest, sturdiest tree he could find and lay down along the length of one of its great branches. He had never loved heights, but this was his only way to see over the wall.

     He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, hoping to conceal himself as much as possible, and watched the orcs enter by the main gate, which seemed to be heavily guarded; there were at least thirty or forty orcs taking up various positions around it. From what Boromir could see of the inside of the city, there were not many people. A few milled about, carrying sacks and piles of wood or cloth. Orcs patrolled the streets, brandishing long whips with many thongs, and as Boromir saw this rage began to burn in his chest.

     The orcs had enslaved his people, forced them to carry terrible burdens. What might they have done to Faramir? Did his younger brother now carry a great sack of ore for smelting, or wood to stoke a bonfire? Faramir had never been strong; Boromir wished he could be with him now, to ease whatever suffering Faramir endured.

     A wagon trundled through the gate, filled with what Boromir knew to be supplies—he had seen such wagons often in war—and the orcs let it pass, grinning greedily at the sight of food.

     All right, thought Boromir, there are things they let enter the city. What of people?

     Though he watched for nearly an hour more he did not see a single soul enter Minas Tirith. By that time his stomach and ribs ached where the branch dug into them, and so Boromir climbed carefully down from the tree, wincing as he stretched his stiff legs. Perhaps he would go to the back wall of the city and see if anyone ever left.

     He walked half an hour around the wall, keeping well away from it so as not to be seen, and when he drew near to the back gate he climbed another tree, not as high this time. He did not need to see into the city; his entire focus was on the gate.

     For the better part of an hour nothing happened; the gate was silent except for when rain began to fall. But around midday another wagon appeared, driven by two grumbling orcs. They did not seem pleased with their lot, and Boromir could understand why. The wagon was filled with the bodies of the dead.

     Just looking at them—their hollow cheeks, their sticklike limbs—caused bile to rise in his throat, and he had to look away. But in doing so his gaze flicked to the right, where the next bodies for the orcs lay, and these…they were far worse.

     There were two of them; whether they were male or female Boromir could not tell. One was missing both legs, the other its arm, and half-dried blood clumped their hair and clothing. More of it was splattered across the ground and on the trees nearby.

     Boromir’s head spun; he did not even wait for the orcs to be gone before he slid down the tree, crept as far as he could into the woods, then fell to his knees and vomited into the grass.

     His stomach flipped once, twice, three times, and then he dry heaved until his daze overcame him and he fell onto his side, panting and brushing his sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes. His temples were pounding, so Boromir closed his eyes, taking deep breaths of the petrichor-scented air until the daze cleared and he was able to sit up, rubbing his brow to soothe the headache.

     Land mines.

     He had seen such mutilated bodies before; he knew the work of explosives when he saw it. The orcs had mined the land around Minas Tirith, hoping to catch escapees fleeing from their cruelty. Obviously they knew the way through the minefield, or they would not have been sent to collect the bodies. Then again Sauron could always make more orcs; perhaps he found them expendable.

     Boromir cursed himself for having such a weak constitution. Otherwise he would have stayed to watch the orcs traverse the minefield, so that perhaps he and the company might walk through it safely. Still he had never had the best memory; he did not trust himself to remember where the orcs stepped. The Fellowship could not simply walk through the minefield.

     But—an idea struck Boromir—perhaps they would not have to. Perhaps they could climb aboard one of the wagons and ride it to whatever mass grave the orcs disposed of the bodies in. Surely there would be no land mines so far from the city; the burial ground had to be far enough away that the orcs could not smell decaying flesh, and it would not do to further blow up any of the dead. It would make an awful mess.

     The very idea of riding in a cart with the dead was horrendous, but Boromir thought it might be their only way out of Minas Tirith once they had rescued Faramir and Denethor. The walls of the city had no weaknesses, no culverts or loose stones or secret passages. It would have to be the putrid, dangerous way or no way.

     The more Boromir thought about this, the more he wished he had not had such an idea, but his resolve was only growing. If he must ride with the broken, bleeding bodies of his people, if he must walk through mined land to save them, then so be it. The orcs would not keep his city, not if Boromir had anything to say about it.

     Hold on, Faramir, he thought. I am coming.

     The camp was very quiet when Boromir returned. Aragorn looked as though he had just come from the woods; he was carrying a pheasant by its feet.

     “Oh—” Boromir blinked. “Forgive me, I entirely forgot my errand. I did not find any game.”

     “What were you doing?” Pippin asked.

     “I was watching Minas Tirith,” Boromir admitted. “I hoped to devise a plan by which we might get in and rescue my father and brother, but you will not like the one I have, and anyway it is only half a plan. I do not know how to get in.”

     Aragorn sat down by the fire, over which a spit had been set up, and patted the ground beside him. “Come, Boromir, sit. Tell us of your plan, and perhaps we can work something out.”

     Boromir opened his mouth to speak, but just then there came faint voices on the wind. All five of the company remained silent, listening, until Aragorn called out, “Legolas?”

     A sudden shout, then swift footsteps, and Legolas and Gimli burst out of the undergrowth. The company leapt to their feet, and Legolas threw his arms around Aragorn and planted a kiss upon his cheek. “Estel!”

     “Legolas!” Aragorn laughed, returning the embrace. “Oh, mellon, it has been so long! Are you both well? Where have you been?”

     “We are well, but we have walked along the Anduin for many days,” said Legolas. “We would have been faster if not for Gimli; I was forced to go at his pace.” He glanced sideways at the dwarf, grinning. “Dwarves are not distance runners, are they, Gimli?”

     Gimli huffed. “To an arrogant elf like you, no one is.”

     “I suppose you’re right. Even Estel has little stamina compared to my people.” Legolas was still beaming. “Oh, it’s so wonderful to see you all again. How are all of you? Did you meet with any trouble on your way here?”

     “Well, our boat capsized in the rapids, and Boromir nearly drowned—oh, and last night we had a bit of a scare with the Ring,” said Pippin cheerfully, beginning to number their misfortunes on his fingers. “Strider took a detour for a few days, and he fought Ungoliant—the giant spider, you know—and we found that he and Boromir both have the Gazing Eye. Oh! I don’t think you will believe it, but Valor says our palantír is really a Silmaril.”

     Legolas and Gimli both stared at him; the elf’s mouth was hanging comically open. It was then that Boromir realized how treacherous their inexplicable journey had been.

     “That is certainly a great deal of trouble,” said Gimli. “More than we have gone through, I daresay. All we faced was a mudplain.”

     “Are you all well?” Legolas asked. He took Aragorn’s face in his hands, tracing the edge of the darkening bruise upon the man’s cheek. “You look awful, Estel. Where did you get this?”

     “I—I’m alright, Legolas,” said Aragorn; his face was flushed scarlet, and so was Gimli’s. Boromir wondered why.

     “Perhaps,” Aragorn continued, his voice slightly higher-pitched than usual, “we could tell you of our objective? Boromir has begun planning our mission into Minas Tirith. It is of the utmost importance.”

     Legolas sighed and let go of Aragorn’s face, pulling his friend down to sit beside him. “Very well, then.”

     Gimli looked positively murderous as he sat down, which Boromir thought was rather uncalled for. Yes, Legolas had made Aragorn uncomfortable, but it hardly merited rage, and anyway elves did not have traditional concepts of boundaries. Perhaps Gimli was simply tired.

     “Boromir,” said Aragorn. “Would you tell us of your plan?”

     “Of course.” Boromir sat down, arranging his cloak underneath him. “I saw a supply wagon enter the city, and so I know that the gates are sometimes open. But I saw no people enter, so I do not know if the orcs will let us in.”

     “And the main gate is the only way?” asked Diamond.

     Boromir nodded. “Minas Tirith is well fortified. The good news is that I have an idea for how we will get out of the city, but you will not be fond of it. I know I am not.” He took a deep breath. “Each day the orcs carry the bodies of the dead out of the city. They bring them in wagons out through the back gate, and my proposal is that we ride in one of these wagons to whatever mass grave they place the dead in. Today there were only two orcs bringing the wagon; we could take them out easily once we were out of the city. The only drawback, besides riding with bodies of course, is that the land around Minas Tirith has been mined. I do not know how far the minefield stretches, but it is safe to assume that we cannot simply walk out of the city. At least if we go with the orcs they might know the way through.”

     He sat back and waited for the rebuttal, but none came. The rest of the Fellowship looked deep in thought.

     “Mined, you say?” asked Gimli. “Mining is not dangerous, not if you know the tunnels.”

     “Not dwarvish mining, Gimli,” said Aragorn. “They are land mines, explosives which are set in the ground to injure or kill enemy soldiers. I…I have seen the damage they can do, though not in the field; I was only a medic. Suffice it to say that it will not do for any of us to come into contact with one.” He turned to Boromir. “It is a sound idea, one that might work if we are careful. Could you see how they died?”

     “Some were killed by the mines,” said Boromir, shuddering. “Most looked as though they had starved. My guess is that the orcs do not give the supplies they receive to the people.”

     “We’ll have to look the part,” Aragorn mused. “Or as much as we can; food may be scarce on this quest, but we do not look starved. Perhaps if we have enough dirt on our faces they will not notice.”

     “How will you get in?” asked Diamond. “And do you even know where your family is being held? It seems this plan has many holes.”

     “I was going to take the company’s input, Princess,” said Boromir. “No, I do not know where they are keeping my father and Faramir, though I have a few guesses.”

     “We will have to find that out when we get there,” Aragorn decided. “For now we must decide how to get inside. Since we do not know where the supply wagons come from I do not think we will be able to ride in on one; thus we must go in as ourselves. Who would the orcs not turn away?”

     “Servants of Sauron, clearly,” said Gimli.

     “Other orcs,” Pippin suggested.

     “They are enslaving my people,” said Boromir. “It is awful, but surely they would not turn away more workers.”

     “But we cannot afford to stay for long,” said Aragorn.

     They fell silent for several moments, and then Legolas spoke.

     “I will pretend,” he said to Aragorn, “to be your wife.”

     Aragorn blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

     “They cannot turn away a woman with child.” Legolas’s expression was resolute; he had evidently been thinking of this for several minutes. “I will come with you to the gate, claiming to be your wife. We will use a waterskin, or the palantír, to make me appear as though I am expecting a child. You will tell the orcs that we have been traveling for a long while and that I must have somewhere to give birth. Once I promise our child to them as a soldier for Sauron, as well as myself when I have recovered from the birth, they will not turn us away.”

     “Legolas…” Aragorn sighed. “How would we…you are not a woman.”

     “I’d noticed, thank you,” said Legolas. “I will braid my hair; I can wear a kerchief to cover my ears. A waterskin will work better than the palantír; it cannot feel as though I am carrying a stone.” He smiled. “I could even wear one of Diamond’s dresses, if she would permit it.”

     “I suppose I would,” said Diamond grudgingly, “but I am not certain they will not turn away a pregnant male elf.”

     “They…honestly, they may not notice,” said Aragorn. “Many who have not interacted with elves before have a difficult time distinguishing between the males and the females.”

     Gimli gave a grunting sigh; his face was still rather red. “Aragorn. You are not actually going to agree to his ludicrous plan.”

     Privately, Boromir also thought it was a bit of a stretch, but it was better than his plan, and it had a far greater chance of success. Perhaps, if they were careful, they could pull it off.

     He was backed up when Aragorn said to Gimli, “I’m afraid we have no other choice.”

Chapter Text

ARAGORN

The next two days were spent planning the mission into Minas Tirith, and, much to Aragorn's chagrin, it was going quite well.

He supported Boromir in going to rescue his father and brother; of course he did. But sneaking into heavily fortified, well-guarded, orc-occupied cities was not supposed to go well, and neither was planning for such an occasion. Aragorn was quite certain that because of the smooth process up to this point, the mission itself would fail miserably.

It was decided that only he, Boromir, and Legolas would enter Minas Tirith, if only to minimize the number of people going into the city (it would be very difficult to convince the orcs that the hobbits were all the children of Aragorn and Legolas, and Gimli their very short uncle). Aragorn would have to claim that Boromir was his brother, which was easy, and Legolas his pregnant wife, which was not. It did not help that he was certain that Legolas's whole intent was to make Gimli jealous.

Presently, it was the morning of the mission, and Aragorn had been fighting nerves since before dawn. He had decided against his better judgement that it would not do to bring his sword with him into Minas Tirith; it would convince the orcs that he meant to fight, and they would only confiscate it. He would bring only his shorter blades and hope that they did not have to fight.

Aragorn slid a fifth dagger into his boot, then took a handful of mud from the ground—it had begun to rain again—and began to rub it upon his cheeks, making sure to streak his chin and jawline and leaving his bruise visible. The more bedraggled he looked, the more the orcs would be inclined to accept him. At least that was what Aragorn hoped; it had worked on the orcs at Orthanc.

He stood and locked eyes with Boromir across the clearing. The younger man had also rubbed dirt across his face, and his sodden hair hung limply about his cheeks. He had changed into his filthy, torn white tunic in an attempt to look more like a peasant. Boromir's eyes shone pale in the dim light; he looked determined, as though he feared nothing. Aragorn wished he shared such sentiment.

"We will succeed," said Boromir, reading Aragorn's thoughts. "We will return to camp tonight with Faramir and my father, and I will present to them the heir to the throne of Gondor."

Aragorn sighed. "I do not think your father will accept me as king, but we shall deal with that when it comes to it. You do not have your sword?"

Boromir shook his head. "I have no weapons. I must confess it makes me feel quite exposed, but I do not wish the orcs to think me unfriendly."

"It is for the best," said Aragorn, and passed Boromir a dagger. "Though I do not like to think what will happen should the company have to fight. Best to be covertly armed, I think."

Boromir slid the dagger into his belt, between the folds of his tunic. "It feels better than nothing, I suppose."

"I, too, will bring my dagger," said Legolas. "There is no reason why a woman should not fight if attacked."

Every time Aragorn looked at Legolas he had to force himself not to laugh. The elf had decided that Diamond's dresses were far too short for a woman of average height, and though he still wore one, layered above it was a cloak wrapped and secured just below his pectorals. The fabric fell nearly to his ankles, concealing that Legolas's figure was not nearly as curved as a mortal woman's.

The waterskin strapped about the elf's midsection was filled to the brim, nearly perfectly round, and Legolas continually complained about it pressing into his ribs. Even so he certainly looked as though he could be carrying a child, and the kerchief tied over his hair hid any trace of his elvin blood. The only thing Aragorn worried about was that Legolas's chest was quite flat, and Diamond's dress did not quite conceal that. As a precaution they had draped Boromir's capelet about Legolas's shoulders, but Aragorn was not convinced the subterfuge would hold.

"I do not know how women do this," Legolas complained as Gimli finished twisting his hair into two simple plaits. "Elves never have such a weight upon them in pregnancy; our children are held deeper. They do not…protrude so much."

"In any case you must look at least eight months along," said Aragorn. "The orcs may not take anything but imminent birth, if they take us at all."

"Atar says Mother looked to be at full term when she had only carried for six months," said Diamond. "Of course there were three of us, so I suppose it's to be expected."

"I don't think my mum ever looked full term," Pippin said. "I was born early, almost two months so. After that she didn't want any more little ones, so I do not have much experience with childbirth."

"I do," said Merry sagely. "I was there when Pip was born, of course, and for several little Brandybucks. I must say, Legolas, you pull off the look quite well."

Legolas smiled broadly. "Thank you, Merry! Perhaps one day I shall experience it for myself."

Aragorn laughed loudly at the looks of utter shock and confusion on Pippin and Merry's faces, and even more so when he saw Boromir's mouth hanging open.

"What, did you not know?" he asked. "Male and female elves are both capable of carrying children. I have seen many males with child in Rivendell, and been present at the birth of several elflings, both from fathers and mothers. Legolas, should you ever give birth, I hope that I might be there."

"I would wish for no other midwife," said Legolas. "There, how do I look?"

"Ridiculous," Gimli offered, though he seemed flushed.

"Quite convincing," said Aragorn. "Why, if I did not know you, I would never have guessed."

"Although you are quite tall for a mortal woman," said Boromir. "Taller than I."

"Ah, the perils of being an elf," sighed Legolas, twirling one of his plaits around his finger. "There are many, aren't there?"

"Yes, and one of them is consistently perfect features," said Diamond. "Put some dirt on your face, elf, or they'll never believe you."

Legolas stared at her in horror, and Aragorn said, "She's right, Legolas. We mustn't have Boromir and I looking like we've been dragged through the mud while you remain pristine."

"It is such a shame," said Legolas as Gimli began to smear a handful of mud across his face. "Oh, Gimli, don't get it in my eyes, please."

"I have half a mind to, laddie," said Gimli gruffly, but he left the elf's eyes and airways perfectly clear. "There, now you could pass as a peasant. Just don't open your mouth; your accent will almost certainly give you away."

"Are we quite done making a mess of me?" Legolas asked. "It is nearing midday; we must leave soon if we are to search the whole of Minas Tirith before the death carts are brought out at sunset."

Aragorn nodded. "I think we had best be going. Come here, little ones."

Pippin and Merry came quickly to him, throwing their arms around his waist, and Aragorn embraced them tightly, kissing each of their brows in turn when they pulled back. "I pray that we will come back, my friends, but if we do not, it is your duty to destroy the Ring and preserve the Silmaril. Can you do that for me?"

Both hobbits nodded solemnly and went to bid farewell to Boromir. Aragorn busied himself with saying goodbye to Gimli and Diamond, so that he would not have to hear the undoubtedly heartfelt parting. He did not wish to cry today, and besides he needed to thank Celemôr—tied to a tree at the edge of the clearing—for bearing him so far.

When all the farewells were finished, Aragorn faced the company once more, Boromir and Legolas at his side, and placed a fist over his heart. "With any luck, we will return shortly after sundown. I wish you all the speed of Ilúvatar."

The company returned the salute, and Aragorn turned and led his companions into the trees, setting course for Minas Tirith.

The east gate of the White City was guarded by perhaps forty orcs, which was more than Aragorn would have liked—though of course any orcs were more than he would have liked. He decided to count himself lucky.

Please, if you have any compassion at all for a foolish king, he prayed, let us return from this alive.

"Alright," he murmured, holding up a hand, and Legolas and Boromir halted. "Legolas, put your arm around my shoulders, and hold onto Boromir with your other hand. You must look as though you can barely support yourself. And please do try to look as desperate as possible."

Legolas slumped immediately against his side; Aragorn nearly fell over. He kept his balance and pulled Legolas's arm over his shoulders, pressing his hip against the elf's. Boromir took hold of Legolas's opposite elbow, and upon Aragorn's suggestion added a limp to his step and pulled his hood low over his eyes. Someone recognizing the captain of Gondor may very well be the worst possible thing that could happen on an already precarious mission.

His thoughts began to spiral, and Aragorn breathed deeply. He must not panic here. There would be time for paralyzing terror later, when they were attacked by one orc. For now there was no grave danger.

They stumbled out of the greenery, and before long they were limping across cobblestones. Several orcs growled, and Aragorn raised a hand in a gesture of surrender, trying to ignore the crossbows aimed at him from the top of the wall.

"We come in peace," he called, keeping his voice hoarse. "Please, we need your help."

The orcs did not shoot, which Aragorn took as a good sign. He led Legolas and Boromir to a spot ten feet from the orcs, then looked at the creatures through eyes he hoped looked exhausted, filling his gaze with a silent plea.

One orc, tall and gray-skinned, came to stand before Aragorn. "I am Gornak, Head Gatekeeper of Minas Tirith. State your name and business."

"I am Estel," said Aragorn. "I am but a weary traveler; I have come many leagues with my brother and my wife. We cannot go much further. My wife is close to giving birth, and I will not let her labor in the woods." He looked imploringly up at the orc. "I beg you to receive us into Minas Tirith."

The orc laughed roughly. "Why should the Lord Sauron receive a scrawny vagrant like yourself?" He tilted Aragorn's chin up with a calloused, abrasive finger and looked over his face—then, without warning, Gornak clouted Aragorn across the stomach with his other hand. Aragorn stumbled back, nearly dragging Legolas and Boromir down.

"Weak," hissed Gornak. "You are unfit to serve the Lord Sauron, little scrap. Move along."

"Please!" Boromir cried as the orcs laughed. "My…my sister-in-law…she cannot give birth with no midwife. I am strong, I assure you; let me work for Sauron in Estel's place."

The orc pulled back Boromir's hood, and Aragorn's stomach swooped in a horrible flash of panic, but Gornak did not seem to recognize the captain. He only looked over Boromir's face, then the lines of his shoulders and torso. "What is your name, human?"

"Beregond, sir," Boromir said, his voice catching on the lie. "I have trained in swords for years; I can carry whatever burdens you require."

"You do look strong," said Gornak grudgingly. "And you, woman?" He seized Legolas's wrist and yanked him forward. The elf cried out, and Aragorn started forward, then froze.

"Please," Legolas cried; he had changed his voice so that it was higher, with a rougher accent. His hand was held over the brooch on the capelet, ensuring it did not release. "My child—please, you will hurt him!"

"What are your skills?" Gornak growled. "Can you sew? Weave?"

"Both," Legolas gasped. "And I shall pledge my child to you, when he comes; you shall have one more servant for your lord. I only ask that you let us in."

Gornak thrust Legolas to the ground, and Aragorn and Boromir moved to help the elf. Legolas laid his head upon Aragorn's shoulder, relinquishing control of most of his weight.

"Very well," said Gornak. "You shall be taken into the city and put to work after the woman gives birth. Find your own way to the midwifery."

And with that the gates opened, and they were in.

They took refuge in a small, reasonably secluded alleyway, and it was there that Boromir told them where he thought Faramir and Denethor might be kept.

"They may be on any floor of the Citadel," he said, his voice hushed. "But I think the orcs would deem it too lovely for a prison—which we do have, of course. Still orcs are more set on breaking their prisoners than holding them. I think they will have chosen the catacombs."

"I can already tell I will not like whatever they are," said Legolas. "What are the catacombs?"

"They are where the most dangerous prisoners of war are held," said Aragorn, "or simply the ones with the most value to the opposing side of war. If ever Gondor were to capture an enemy leader, they would be kept underground, in a filthy cell crawling with rats and infection. I…I do not like to think of the fate of anyone kept there."

"There is an entrance near here, I think." Boromir led Aragorn and Legolas out of the alleyway and toward an archway tucked into a shadowed corner. Aragorn watched carefully the orcs and slaves around them, making sure they had drawn no one's attention.

Boromir pressed down on one stone in the wall, and several others turned aside, leaving a gap less than a meter high and half as wide. Aragorn shuddered; he had never liked small spaces. Perhaps it would open up once they got into the catacombs.

"It is a bit small," Boromir confirmed, his voice strained as he forced his shoulders through the gap. "But—there, see, I'm through. You'll be alright, Aragorn."

Aragorn helped Legolas slide through the aperture, and then he climbed through himself, dropping a few feet into a damp stone tunnel. Boromir placed his palm on the wall, and the stones slid back into place, sealing the three companions into darkness.

"Boromir," said Aragorn, his voice echoing in the musty dampness, "do you…know the way through the catacombs? Have you trained in navigating them?"

"Well, no," Boromir admitted, "but surely it is not terribly difficult. They do not stretch very far."

"But…" Aragorn trailed off. "It is quite dark, Boromir. And we do not know where your family is being kept; they might be on the other side of the city for all we know. We have perhaps a few hours until sundown—what shall we do if we take longer than we have to search the catacombs?"

"We shall not take so long, Estel," said Legolas. "For you it may be dark, but the eyes of an elf may see through deep shadows, and I can hear many things—hushed voices, the footsteps of small creatures. Somewhere a blade is sharpened, and many prisoners are asleep."

"Will you lead us to them?" Boromir asked.

"Of course. Hold onto me, both of you, and I shall guide you."

Aragorn placed his hand on the elf's shoulder and hooked his arm through Boromir's (he did not trust Boromir to navigate through the dark without sufficient support). The three of them began to make their way through steadily darkening and dampening tunnels, lit only by torches that they passed every quarter of an hour or so.

After nearly two hours—by Aragorn's estimate; it could have been much longer, or perhaps only a few minutes—the stirrings of quiet breathing drifted through the stale air.

Unfortunately, so did the sharpening of the blade.

"Someone guards them," Aragorn breathed as quietly as he could. "Legolas, can you see? We must not make any sudden moves—"

But a low, guttural voice cut him off, reverberating off the stone walls. "That's right, girl, keep praying. The One shan't save you; you ought to have learned that by now. I wonder what you think this will accomplish, you foolish poet."

Boromir's arm tightened around Aragorn's to the point where Aragorn feared his bones might bruise. He could feel Boromir's whole frame shaking, his breath speeding. Whoever it may be, Boromir knew this voice.

"It is an orc," Legolas said, so softly Aragorn almost missed it. "He is tall and broad, and he wields an axe. There are two prisoners, I think; we can hope that they are the ones whom we seek."

"A few more days," the orc-voice continued, and Aragorn could hear the horrible leer positively dripping from the tone. "Just a few more days, little stewardess, until the Lord Sauron decides you are no longer useful, and your blood will run across this filthy floor. Or we could tie a rope around that pretty neck, couldn't we?" Surely the orc bared pointed teeth now. "Though of course I would never wound such a lovely creature…not on the outside, at least…"

Boromir sprang.

Aragorn had not thought his friend could make such a sound; an agonal, screeching roar exploded through the cramped tunnel as Boromir flew around the corner, a flash of silver signifying the drawing of his dagger. Instinctively Aragorn started after him, whipping a knife out of his belt, and stopped in horror as he took in the scene before him.

Boromir was on the back of the orc, hands slipping on the creature's oily skin, and his dagger was a swift blur as he hacked at the orc's neck and shoulders, howling furiously and unintelligibly. The orc stumbled, slammed Boromir backwards into the wall, but he held on, looping one of his arms around its great neck.

His scream was inhuman as he slashed the knife across the orc's throat, cutting deep, vitally, and blood dark as fresh ink sprayed over the earth.

"You will never touch my brother again!"

The orc fell, crumpling to its knees, and Aragorn covered his mouth with one hand, the other still on Legolas's shoulder as they watched Boromir plunge his dagger into the orc's back, over and over again until the creature fell completely still, pitch-dark lifeblood draining across the floor.

Silence fell, and there was only Boromir's panting, rasping breath as he stood, his eyes wild and blazing, his face splashed with blood not his own. His chest heaved as he trembled. His hands shook so violently that Aragorn deemed it necessary to step forward and take the dagger from him.

"Who was it?" Aragorn asked, his voice hoarse.

"Nagrakh," said Boromir, and the word quivered with untethered rage. "He—he took me from Gondor—I was in Mordor for a long time, and Sauron and his servants, they—" His voice broke. "I was seventeen, Aragorn, seventeen and he took me from my home, and Faramir came for me; we nearly died. And now I learn that this—this piece of scum—" here he kicked Nagrakh's body— "he dared to hold Faramir captive and scorn him; he dared to touch my little brother, and I—have had—enough."

"Boromir?" said a faint voice, and Aragorn turned to see its owner behind a barred door, grasping the iron in white-knuckled fingers. The man was covered in filth, and Nagrakh's dark blood was upon his face too, but Aragorn could see his eyes clearly: pale gray, soft as a dove's wing in the morning rain, and he knew.

"Faramir," Boromir choked, and he broke, tears streaming from his eyes as he went to the bars, placing his bloody hands on his brother's cheeks. "Faramir, I—I'm sorry—" A sob cut his words short.

"I think these are the keys," said Legolas quietly, stooping down beside Nagrakh's body and retrieving a silver ring, upon which dangled two tarnished keys, from the orc's belt. "Here, Estel, let them out."

The first key Aragorn tried worked on Faramir's cell, and he watched, tears welling in his eyes, as the emaciated, filthy young man stumbled through the mud and collapsed against his brother's chest. Boromir continued to sob, and his arms wrapped tightly around Faramir as both sank to the muddy floor.

"I am so sorry," Boromir cried, his voice muffled against Faramir's hair. "I left you alone—I did not know—oh, Faramir, what have they done to you?"

Faramir did not answer, only wept into Boromir's tunic, and the latter stroked Faramir's hair gently, murmuring something Aragorn knew no one else was meant to hear. Both men continued to shake with sobs as Aragorn took the other key on the ring and inserted it into the lock on the door of the second cell.

An old, weathered man, just as gaunt and dirty as Faramir but with a proud tilt to his jaw, looked up at Aragorn as the door screeched open. "Thorongil?"

Of all the things Aragorn had expected him to say, that was not it. He inclined his head in respect and murmured. "My Lord Denethor. It has been a long time."

Denethor nodded. "It has. But not long enough."

He stood, and Aragorn moved aside to let him out. Denethor, though shaking, refused to let himself fall, grasping the iron bars for support as he stared with mingled distaste and pride at his sons. Aragorn thought he knew which emotion was for which man.

"Father," said Boromir, and though he looked up he did not loosen his grip on Faramir. "It's lovely to see you, Father, truly. I had thought I would never behold your face again."

"As did I, my son," said Denethor, and his voice was warm. "How is it that you have returned? I was told that you were dead."

"I was." Boromir's voice was still wet, choked. "But I will tell you of it all when we are safe. For now we must move; I fear that the orcs will have heard my battle." He turned his gaze toward Aragorn. "I am sorry. I did not think. They may very well be after us now."

"There is nothing to forgive," said Aragorn, "but you are right. We must move. It is not yet time for the departure of the wagons; we need to find someplace to hide."

Faramir looked up; tear tracks had cut through the grime upon his hollow cheeks, revealing pale skin beneath. "I know a place."

Faramir brought them through the catacombs (or, rather, he navigated; Boromir insisted upon carrying his brother) to an aboveground alcove draped in sheer fabric, so that dim light fell in silvered shafts to the dusty floor.

"What is this place?" Boromir asked softly, setting Faramir down upon a cushion next to a small bookshelf. "Oh, this is…you did not tell me about this one. How long have you had it?"

"Not long," said Faramir. "Since just after you left."

"It is lovely." Boromir smiled, still looking rather shaken.

Aragorn sensed that there was some understanding of this place, or places like it, that passed between the brothers, which he could not make sense of. No matter how much he and Boromir—good as his younger brother—had been through together, Boromir and Faramir would always have a greater bond. After all they had faced great battle together, both with distant foes and, from what Aragorn had seen, within their own home.

He and Legolas sat together while Boromir told his father and brother all that had transpired. Legolas had decided to be quite dramatic about his counterfeit pregnancy and lay sprawled upon the floor, one hand over his eyes.

"Legolas," Aragorn sighed. "Perhaps…decorum, Legolas, have you ever heard of it?"

"Oh, relax, Estel; I was hardly ever away from my father as a child—and he was positively obsessive about the fact that I conduct myself with decorum. Now I have gained my freedom, and I intend to make the most of it." Legolas grinned widely. "I will not be a king for a long while, if ever. It is you who should worry about decorum."

Aragorn sighed once more; it seemed to be all he was doing these days. "Have you checked the waterskin lately? Is it leaking at all?"

"Of course I have," said Legolas. "It would be quite a shame if my waters broke."

"I could have done without the jest. Have you forgotten what we are doing here?"

"You worry too much, Estel," Legolas laughed. "You always have. There is still joy in this world, even in the darkest of times; you would do well to embrace it. After all how can there be any happiness if we are not willing to make it?"

"Poetic as always," said Aragorn with a half-smile. "You are a credit to this world, mellon. I pray that you shall never lose your joy."

Soft footsteps paced across the floor; Aragorn looked up to see Denethor standing beside the wall of the alcove, peering through a slit in the stone. Boromir sat beside the wall with Faramir curled against his chest, absentmindedly stroking his brother's hair. Aragorn took this as an opening and went to them both, sitting cross-legged before them. He raised his brows, silently asking Boromir if he may speak, and Boromir gave an infinitesimal nod.

"Hello, Faramir," said Aragorn softly, looking into the young man's eyes. "I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, a Ranger of the North. You may know me as—"

"Thorongil," said Faramir. "But as you have commanded, I shall call you Aragorn. Why have you come to Minas Tirith?"

"I…" Aragorn did not know if he should state his true purpose; what if Faramir would not give up the position of steward? "It does not matter; we are leaving soon anyway. We will only return when we have reclaimed the city."

"You are the heir," said Faramir plainly, and a smile curved his lips. "Were I in better condition, I would bow to you."

Aragorn shook his head, flustered. "Oh—no, Faramir, I do not need you to bow to me. Nor will I if I assume the throne. You are still a steward of this land, and in your suffering you have been braver than I shall ever be. For this service to your country I commend you."

"And I thank you," said Faramir, "for returning my brother to me. I shall never be able to repay you, but I pray that my allegiance is enough."

"It is, even if it is not deserved."

"It is deserved, Aragorn," Boromir cut in. "It always has been."

"And I am grateful for it," said Aragorn. "Boromir, I—I wish to ask you something."

"Of course."

Aragorn took a deep breath. "I understand if you do not wish to answer; after all I am asking you to relive a part of your past that I know brought you pain. But if I can help, if I can speak to you about it, I would like to." He looked into Boromir's eyes, which were guarded and perhaps fearful, and asked, "What happened in Mordor?"

For a moment there was silence. Boromir cast his gaze to the sky, let out a long sigh, and said, "Thirteen years and I still remember everything, as though it were branded into my mind by an iron."

"As I said, you do not have to—" Aragorn began.

Boromir cut him off. "No, I feel that I must speak of it. It has been too long." He drew in a shuddering breath, then began.

"I was scarcely seventeen, trained hardly at all for battle, and I had been promoted to captain, a position which I still do not believe I deserve. During battle I was thrown from my horse and captured by Nagrakh and his squadron, and we journeyed to Mordor. There I was questioned by the Witch-King and Sauron himself, and—and when I would not yield to them, they forced the answers from me through Nagrakh."

"What did he—" Aragorn started.

"He whipped me." Boromir's voice was hollow. "Starved me. I did not eat for weeks. When Sauron came I was nearly drowned—it was all I could think of when we capsized in the Anduin. And the Orcs…they played with me, Aragorn, as though I was only a toy to be used for their enjoyment, and Nagrakh stood and watched. And after a long time Faramir and Éowyn his betrothed came to Mordor, and they had faced grave peril for my sake…we all nearly died that day. Had it not been for Nagrakh Faramir would not have been in such danger, and I would not have dreamed of death. Now I learn that he would dare to touch my brother in a way he did not want, and I…I could not stand it any longer, Aragorn. I knew I must kill him for all he had done to my family."

Boromir leaned his head back against the wall. "Perhaps it was not necessary. Perhaps he had done good in a different time. But all I saw was the orc who hurt me, who hurt my brother, and I had to end it."

"You have done nothing wrong, Boromir," said Aragorn firmly. "No one with a shred of goodness in their heart would question your decision. A creature that has committed such grievous wrongs must be ended, and I am glad you were the one to do it, for Nagrakh wounded you most terribly. Had you not killed him he would have dealt us even greater atrocities."

Boromir's voice was wet once more, shaking slightly. "I suppose you are right. You have imparted great wisdom as always."

Aragorn placed a hand upon Boromir's shoulder. "You are a good man, my friend. Do not despair, you have not given yourself over to the darkness. No matter what Sauron has done to you, he shall never hold your heart."

"Thank you, Aragorn." Boromir smiled, wiping the tears from his eyes. "Will you sit with us a while? There are still hours until the wagons leave."

"Of course," said Aragorn, and he moved to sit beside Boromir, turning his face up to the light rain and lifting his thoughts in a silent prayer.

I pray thee, O One, do not let anyone I love suffer in this way again.