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March 6, 3019

Boromir stood, his hand resting on Merry's shoulder, listening to the fading sound of Shadowfax's hooves in the night. As shocked as Boromir was by what had happened to Pippin, he knew Merry must be devastated. He was standing silent, watching, hand clenched on the blade that Aragorn had restored to him outside Isengard. But Boromir could feel Merry trembling.

"Gandalf will look after Pippin," he said. "And in these troubled times, there are worse places to be than behind the seven walls of Minas Tirith."

Merry nodded, still silent. They stood together until Aragorn joined them, followed closely by Legolas and Gimli.

"The king is determined to ride now, under the cover of night. The winged shadow that flew over us has changed his mind about waiting until the morning."

"You say the king will ride, but where? And what of you?" Boromir asked.

"The king rides to the muster he commanded at Edoras by way of Harrowdale t3o use the cover of the hills. Gandalf so advised him. And Gandalf has told me that my road will lead to Minas Tirith, but the way is dark. For myself, and any who might choose to ride with me…."

"I will ride with you," Boromir said.

"And I," said Legolas and Gimli almost as one.

Merry turned, moving out from under Boromir's hand. "You won't leave me behind, will you?" he asked. "I have done little but do not wish to be left like useless baggage. The Riders will not want to be bothered with me. Although the king did say I was to sit by him and tell him of the Shire."

"Five of our Company still remain," Aragorn said. "Merry, I think your road lies with the king. No road is safe in this war, but my heart tells me that you should ride with Théoden. And do not despair. You have done much, already, in bringing the Ents to Isengard. The rest of us…I cannot yet see. For now, we will go with the King back to Helm's Deep. And then…we shall see. An hour long prepared for is approaching but has not yet come."

The Company gathered what gear they had and went to their horses. As usual, Gimli rode with Legolas. Boromir took Merry in front of him, and they fell in behind the Riders who surrounded the King.

Swiftly, they rode through the night, leaving the dale where they had thought to sleep behind.

Boromir rode silently, glad for Fainala's beautiful manners. When they had found Pippin lying unconscious, staring at the sky, Boromir had seen the palantír clearly for the first time. Only then did he recognize it as kin to the one in the White Tower, one held secret by many generations of Stewards.

Once, before he had left the City for his first command in Ithilien, his father had taken him up the stairs and through the secret door at the top of the Tower, to show him the Seeing Stone. It had come down from the deeps of time, one of seven brought from Númenor, from Eldamar before that. Then, the stones had served to link Gondor's far flung lands. But they had been lost in the passages of time and the fortunes of war, so Boromir had thought this one remaining one was useless, a symbol of the past only.

Denethor had shown no sign of using the stone, Boromir thought, at least not then. But in late years, Boromir had begun to see changes in his father, changes that now, when Boromir looked back, seemed disturbing. He had spoken less and less to Faramir, seeming not to trust him. Had clung more tightly to Boromir. Had seemed to grow more fearful of the growing menace in the East. Moments of despair had grown into hours. And his temper had grown more and more chancy until, at times, a word or gesture angered him.

In the wake of Saruman's words, these changes seemed more than disturbing: do not think you bring any news to your father he does not already know.

Deep in thought, Boromir remembered his father's last words to him before he rode out to seek Imladris. They had stood together by the Fountain, near the Tree: If Isildur's Bane has in truth been found, it should be brought to Gondor where I shall set it in the deep vaults of the Citadel, denying it to our Enemy, denying him any victory. I charge you with this task, knowing you will not fail me, my son.

Boromir had remembered his father's words, had tried to bring the Ring to Gondor. Yet neither the Lord Denethor, for all his lore, nor Boromir himself, had truly understood the danger of the Ring. If Frodo, and then Faramir, had not stopped him, Boromir would have been lost. Had he taken the Ring, he would not have brought it to his father. His failure would have been absolute, and all he loved would have been lost. Or worse.

Boromir's hand clenched on the reins and Fainala, confused, stopped. Belatedly, Boromir realized they had fallen behind the others and that Merry was tugging on his arm.

"What is it," he said, keeping his voice low.

"Don’t you hear? Riders behind us."

Shaking his head, Boromir cursed himself for his inattention, and listened. Merry was right. Hoofbeats sounded clearly in the still night air. Many riders, riding fast.

Sliding one arm around Merry to hold him and kneeing Fainala to a run, Boromir rode to warn Aragorn and Théoden.

March 7, 3019,  Helm's Deep

Éowyn stood on the Deeping Wall, hair blown back by the early morning breeze, looking out over the valley. The Huorns had left late in the night, to her relief.  Gandalf had taken time to reassure her before she left that the strange trees meant no harm to the Rohirrim. Yet the uncanny forest that had filled the valley and killed the Orcs was nearly as frightening to many people as the Orcs had been. Fangorn Forest had long had an evil name among the Rohirrim who lived on the open plains, free under the sky, and even the aid of the trees against the Orcs did not remove that sense of peril.

Before her, the valley seemed strangely peaceful though many still toiled on the Dike or in the fields. Éowyn thought that when Théoden and the others returned, they would be glad to see what work had been done in their absence.

"My Lady," the gate guard called. "Riders approach."

Éowyn shaded her eyes, looking out. A small group, but still larger than the company her uncle had taken with him. Her breath caught, and she prepared to order the crudely repaired gates closed. Then the wind shifted, and she could see the green banner with the white horse. All was well although she wondered who had joined the Riders.

She gathered up her skirts and went to tell the women to prepare what food they could for those returning from Isengard.

"As a father you shall be to me," said Merry, kneeling at the king's feet in the hall of the Burg.

"For a little while," said Théoden. He lifted his hands from the hobbit's bowed head.

"Éowyn, is there gear of war in this place for my sword-thain?"

Éowyn smiled at the hobbit as she came forward and offered him her hand. "There is no great store, lord," she said. "But I will see if aught can be found before we leave. Come with me, Master Meriadoc."

Éowyn left the hall with Meriadoc and went down to the armoury. There they searched in vain, but found no armour that would fit a hobbit. Éowyn laughed as he tried on one helm which covered nearly his face. Then, as she was searching the shelves that held leather jerkins, she suddenly remembered something.

"Here," she said. "Try this leather jerkin. It is small for a man, but may fit you. And if you will be patient until we return to Edoras, I believe gear that my uncle had made for my brother when he was a child is stored there. That would fit you well."

Merry lifted the helm up and, standing on tiptoe, placed it back on the shelf, and took the jerkin from her hands. When he had donned it, it fell to his knees and was a bit large in the shoulders, but it was better than nothing.

"My thanks, my Lady," he said.

"Call me Éowyn," she said suddenly, moved by an impulse she did not understand. "We need not stand on our manners in this time."

"Only if you will call me Merry," he said, and smiled at her, a smile that made her heart glad.

It was the first time she'd seen him smile since he had ridden in with the others early this morning. Éowyn found him fascinating, someone who might have walked out of the old stories she remembered her mother telling her at night as they sat in front of the fire. He seemed so young, yet from the chance remarks he had let fall as well as what she'd heard from the others, he had already traveled far from his home and seen much. She would enjoy the chance to talk with him about his travels.

Faintly, she heard the horns sound the signal that would call the company to join the King in the journey for Edoras. While those who had come from Isengard had rested and eaten, others had prepared fresh horses and ordered the company. They would be leaving for Harrowdale soon.

She led Merry out of the dark armoury, through the corridors, and into the courtyard where the sun was now falling past noon.

There, as they prepared to mount, Boromir came to them.

"My Lady, Merry," he said. "I have come to take my leave of you."

"Aren't you going to Edoras with us," Merry asked, to Éowyn's relief.

He glanced down and smiled at the hobbit, then looked again at Éowyn. "Aragorn has seen new perils. He will lead his kindred to the coast, by ways of the Paths of the Dead, because otherwise he fears Minas Tirith will fall. Legolas, Gimli and I will accompany them. We will ride to Harrowdale ahead of you, faster than the king's company can travel, or the Muster of Rohan can be complete. And then we will take the road to Dunharrow."

Merry fell silent, looking confused.

Éowyn felt a chill of fear and could not help reaching out to touch Boromir, lightly, on his arm, feeling the strength under the smooth cloth. "Surely, my brother or some other has warned you about the dangers of the road Aragorn would have you take," she said. "The dead there will not suffer the living to pass. You will ride into shadow and doom. What is this madness when you are needed for the war in the East?"

Boromir took her hand and held it between both his. "It is not madness. Aragorn would not do this if he did not believe he could succeed," he said softly. "And I believe that, as Isildur's Heir, he can order those Dead who betrayed Isildur. We will come through to Minas Tirith."

"Then let us ride with you," Éowyn spoke on impulse, but heard Merry's eager assent.

Boromir smiled, but shook his head. "What would your uncle and brother say?" he asked. "And Aragorn has already said he believes Merry must go with Théoden. Yet even if all agreed, neither of you could keep pace with us."

Éowyn stared at him, frustrated. Had she known of this plan earlier, perhaps Dernhelm could have been granted permission to join them. But now, trapped in her skirts, she knew exactly what her brother and uncle would say. And what would happen if she tried to explain her deception to Boromir.

"We will meet again, I hope," Boromir said, raising her hand to his lips and kissing it. "Despite the tides of war that have come upon us. And if you see your cousin Dernhelm, thank him again for me for his actions here."

He released her hand and knelt to hug Merry who clung to him. "Merry, my friend, I am glad to leave you in better company than I feared when we hunted the Orcs across the plains."

"Farewell!" Boromir said, rising and turning to join Aragorn and the others, the Rangers from the north in their cloaks of dark grey, the others in their elven cloaks, grey-green in the westering light. 

Standing beside Merry, Éowyn watched Boromir cross the courtyard, easily mount his horse, and join Aragorn. One of the Rangers lifted a great horn, sounding a blast that echoed in Helm's Deep, and the small company rode out in haste.

Éowyn stood, dry-eyed, and watched until she could no longer see them, then turned to Merry.

"Come, Merry," she said. "Ride with me. We will go together to what deeds await us."

March 6-14, 3019

Éowyn and Merry rode down into Harrowdale, near the middle of the long file of Riders who accompanied Théoden. Days of slow riding through the hills lay behind them all. War lay ahead. The sound of water falling over stones was loud in the evening air. Cold shadows grew around them.

In the waning light, Merry had fallen silent. Éowyn missed the ready wit and laughter that had so charmed her during the past days. Merry had talked happily of his home, less happily of missing friends and kinsmen, and, sweetest of all, had told her much of Aragorn and Boromir that he had gleaned on the long road from Rivendell. And when she had asked him about that legendary place, he had filled her ears with tales of Elves and their secret valley with special emphasis on the variety and bounty of Elvish cooking.

Merry sighed.

"How are you faring, my friend?" Éowyn asked. "We are drawing near the end of journey. You will have a soft bed to sleep in tonight."

"Tired," Merry said after a moment. "I have always loved the thought of the mountains in stories marching on the edge of the world. But here, now, they seem so heavy. And…" he fell silent.

"You miss your friends?"

"Yes. And I fear from what the King said last night that he means to leave me behind at Edoras."

Éowyn heard the note of sorrow in Merry's voice. Not knowing what other comfort to offer, she hugged him as they rode into camp.

Éowyn stood high above the green land, wind tugging her hair. Below her, white stone buildings dropped away. She was standing as if on a cliff, but the streets and roofs below seemed to show that it was an immense city. Part of her dreaming mind knew she had never seen this place before, another knew equally well that this was now her home.

She was wearing a silk dress, a deep blue, shot with silver, one that pulled at her shoulders, swirled around her feet. She set her hands on the stone wall in front of her. The heavy fabric seemed to pull her down. She felt dizzy, light sparkling in her eyes.

A warm hand touched her shoulder, restoring her balance. She could breathe. Her dizziness abated.

Éowyn swallowed, grief heavy in her throat. For once, she let herself lean against the arm that slid around her shoulders, closing her eyes. She missed so much. Éomer, Windfola, Edoras, and her uncle. At that thought a larger grief threatened to break through. Even though in many ways, she was happier here than she could remember being since her parents died, these times of sadness still came.

The weight of eyes here. So many people watching made her uneasy. She felt her accent was strange. Wondered what people said behind her back. She felt she had so much time here, time to think, to wonder. Although the place was much larger than Meduseld, more people lived and worked here. And the distance between people was so much more than in Rohan. She no longer blamed Boromir for some of his assumptions about women, seeing his home.

"Come here, love." The voice low, pitched to her ears only.

Éowyn turned, burrowing into the warm embrace.

"Lady! You must wake!"

Éowyn sat, gasping, and Éoltha released her.

"You must come," the young woman said. "They are preparing to leave."

Éowyn nodded without speaking. As the young woman left, Éowyn told herself she was in the pavilion at Dunharrow. She felt hollow inside, fleeting images of a dream she could not fully remember teased her. Stones, fear, loneliness. Something felt wrong. Out of place. Her body ached as if she had not slept at all. And today they were riding to Edoras.

Despite her desire to crawl back under the covers and sleep the day away, Éowyn forced herself out of bed and began to dress.

When Éowyn came out of the pavilion, twisting her hair back, she was surprised to see how dark it was. A great fume was in the air, and the cloud overhead was thick, reaching as far as she could see. The faces of all around looked pale and dreary in the dim light. To ride to Edoras, gather the final Riders and begin the long ride to Gondor seemed futile, a foolish plan designed by children.

Grimly ignoring her feelings of despair, Éowyn went to eat, and then to saddle Windfola. Her mood, perhaps the dream that had so shaken her, as well as this darkness were simply deceits of the enemy. Riding would restore her.

As Théoden and Éomer spoke with Hama, ordering the final details of the ride, Éowyn began to search for Merry. They had ridden together, but when they came to Meduseld, Éomer had called her aside to give her instructions for his absence. When he'd finished, Éowyn had turned to find Merry gone. He was not in the courtyard. She went inside.

No small figure was visible in the hall. Éowyn, having learned something of hobbits in recent days, went to the kitchen. There, she did find Merry, but most unusually, he was not eating. Huddled in on himself, he sat on a small stool near the fire, head bowed.

She knelt beside him, an arm around his shoulder. "Merry, what is wrong?" she asked.

"I am to be left like unwanted luggage," he said, not looking up, his voice trembling. "All my friends have gone to war, but the King says none of his Riders can be burdened with me."

Éowyn bit her lip, anger boiling inside her. She had learned from Aragorn as they talked on the way to Helm's Deep something about these hobbits, what they had done, what one had volunteered to do. Gandalf had shared similar information with her uncle, she knew, and yet he was able to dismiss Merry, sworn to serve him, so easily. No Rider would be treated thus, Éowyn thought.

"Come with me, Merry," she said. She realized she had made a decision days ago and had not known it until now.

She slowed her steps as they left the kitchen together. When they reached her room, she asked him to wait outside. She slipped in to find that her pack had been left in the room. Stripping and donning Dernhelm's gear took only a few moments. When she stepped outside, carrying the empty pack she would fill with supplies, Merry leaped up from where he was sitting on the floor, mouth open.

She knelt, placed her hand over his mouth. "If you wish, Merry, you may ride with me, but you must promise to keep my secret. We must ride in the rear, far from my uncle's and brother's sight. You must hide under my cloak at first. The darkness will hide us from many but we must take care not to be seen and sent back."

Eyes shining, Merry nodded enthusiastically.

"One last thing," Éowyn said, and led him to her brother's room. As they opened the door, Merry giggled. Éowyn looked around and sighed. As usual, the room was a mess. Clothes were tossed around, the bedding trailing onto the floor. Dirty dishes were piled near the bed. Maps and glasses littered the one table.

She searched the room and finally found, in an old chest in one corner, the gear her uncle had made for Éomer when they had first come to live at Meduseld. The small chain mail shirt and helm fit Merry well. The small round shield, the white horse on a green field, was hanging on the wall over the chest. Merry could wear his elven cloak, and she could tell the blade he bore was much finer than any weapon she could give him.

"There you are," Éowyn said, smiling at him. "A true Rider of Rohan."

She led him out of Meduseld by the back way she had often used. They were able to reach the stable without meeting anyone. Quickly, Éowyn saddled and bridled Windfola, hoisted Merry up, and mounted, covering him with her green cloak.

Cautiously, she rode down the hill to join one of the companies preparing to start.

The shadows from the East grew darker as they took the road to the East and to war.

March 6-13: Aragorn leads Boromir, Legolas, Gimli and the Rangers to Dunharrow, then they take the Paths of the Dead. Reaching Erech at midnight, Aragorn summons the Dead. He leads the Host to Camenbel, across Ringló, and into Lebennin. They drive the enemy toward Pelargir where they capture the fleet of Umbar. They rest that night, then prepare to sail up the River to Minas Tirith.

March 14

Boromir stood in the prow of the great ship that Aragorn had taken for his own and watched Pelargir fall behind and the Anduin open up in front of them as they moved into the main current. A fresh wind blew spray against his face, and he thought he could taste the faint salt of the Sea.

Overhead, white gulls flew, riding the wind South.

In each of the black ships behind him, one of the Rangers commanded. The oars were manned by free men, and the ships bore many skilled warriors, some of whom had been freed from captivity. All burned to come to Gondor, to fight the foes attacking Minas Tirith. 

It was hard to believe that only a handful of days ago, his friends and the small company of Rangers from the North had ridden to the Dark Door. Of all the uncanny places Boromir had seen since he had left home, he had thought the Dimholt the worst. He soon learned that he had been wrong. 

Standing in the sun and clean air, Boromir recalled, as if in a nightmare, stumbling through dark passages, fear following hard upon his heels. The night when they had stood near the unearthly stone of Erech and Aragorn called upon the Dead to fulfill their oath. The haunted road through the dark fields, people fleeing in horror.

Only now was Boromir able to admit to himself that Aragorn's presence alone had kept him to that path.  Aragorn's mastery of the Dead, both in the Summoning and in the Releasing, had freed a new army to bring to the aid of Gondor. For the first time, Boromir began to feel hope for a future that a short time ago seemed impossible.

Boromir turned back to the ship. He saw Legolas standing in the stern, leaning out over the water at an angle Boromir would have thought perilous for any save an Elf. Looking back down the River, toward the Sea. Gimli was sitting nearby, sharpening his axes. Aragorn was speaking to one of the freed sailors. The wind blew their words away, but Aragorn finished, looked up, and then came forward to join Boromir.

"He says we should reach the City tomorrow, but what time will depend upon the wind."

Boromir nodded. He knew little of the mysteries of wind and water, but even he could tell that the wind and the current flowing to the Sea would slow them.

Aragorn stood, hands quiet on the railing, looking up the River. Boromir watched the shores they passed. These lands should be green, coming to spring growth, but war had created desolation.

And even so, there was more peace in this moment than Boromir could remember since Lothlórien. For the first time, there was nothing to do except eat and sleep. And talk. There was one thing he had been wondering about for some time.

"Did you ever wish to take the Ring?" he asked.

Aragorn looked at him, did not answer for some time.

Boromir waited, silent. There was time.

"Yes. Once."

They had never spoken of what happened at Parth Galen, Boromir realized "When I tried to take the Ring from Frodo, it seemed to be the most natural thing in the world," Boromir said. "I remember thinking that it was the only way I could save Gondor, the only way I could protect my City. I had no sense that it was the Ring overcoming my will, not until much later."

Aragorn nodded slightly, looked away, out at the water. "It was after Frodo was wounded at Weathertop. We left the hill, but the next night, I watched over him as he tried to sleep. He was restless. Merry and Pippin were deeply asleep, exhausted by all that had happened. He was pale, or maybe it was the moonlight shining on him. Tossing and turning, he had cast away his blanket, his shirt was open. I could see the Ring, gleaming in the light. It seemed so heavy on him, his body so frail. I began to think the only way I could heal him would be to take the Ring, free him from its burden."

Boromir swallowed, held himself back from touching Aragorn, seeing the tenseness in his arms and shoulders.

It made sense, Boromir thought, that the Ring's temptation for Aragorn would be cast as a healing, not power. Although Aragorn had ceased speaking, Boromir was sure there was more, so he waited.

After a sigh, Aragorn continued, closing his eyes. "I found myself reaching out, touching Frodo. I do not know what would have happened then, but my touch, light as it was, woke him. He looked at me. He did not move, did not speak, only looked at me. I realize what I was doing. I had to leave his side. He and I never spoke of it, but…I've always wondered…"

"What?" Boromir kept his voice low.

"If he was ever able to trust me again."

Boromir heard the pain in that question, moved to hold Aragorn's arm, shaking him slightly. "I saw his trust for you not only in Rivendell, but many times after. Do not give in to that doubt."

Aragorn said nothing, watching him.

"Frodo knew better than any of us what the Ring could do," Boromir insisted. "He saw you reject temptation, walk away from it. How could he not trust you?"

Boromir felt Aragorn relax.

"I have another fear," Aragorn said.

"What?"

"I was glad Faramir accompanied Frodo when they left the Company," Aragorn said. "But I also feared for him. You know your brother better than I. The Ring can tempt anyone. I know even Gandalf feared it. And Faramir will be alone with Frodo for many days and nights in the Wild."

It was Boromir's turn to fall silent, facing a fear he had not dared voice even to himself before this moment. Boromir had nearly fallen to the power of the Ring. Faramir had helped free him. But could Faramir withstand the Ring's whole power?

Boromir wondered, not for the first time, what Frodo and Faramir had chosen to do at Parth Galen. They had taken a boat. They could have crossed to the eastern shore, traveling through the Emyn Muil to the Dead Marshes. Or they could have gone down the old portage way and traveled by river, leaving the Anduin only in Ithilien.  Although Boromir did not know, he felt that Faramir would have counseled Frodo to go through Ithilien.

Their journey would take them through the southern parts of Ithilien before they reached the Harlond and Minas Tirith.

Faramir's knowledge of Ithilien was so great that Boromir felt sure he would have chosen that route. Boromir had served with the Rangers but did not love the country as Faramir had. He remembered Faramir's reluctance to serve, to take command, something that Boromir had never understood. He had never seen his brother as weak, a charge his father had made, but he had not understood Faramir.

"I do not know.." Boromir said. "I know that the Ring could tempt anyone. But Faramir so loves Frodo..."

"That might be his weakness," Aragorn said.

Boromir nodded. He could not disagree but found himself hoping that his brother's love, so long unfulfilled, would be strong enough to help him stand against the Ring.

Neither spoke further as they stood side by side, watching the River, dull in the gathering shadows.

March 15        

Éowyn slid her arms around the slim waist, resting her head on an inviting shoulder. She felt warm velvet against her cheek, sighed, relaxing into the embrace. The wind still blew around them, fresh and cold from the snows of the mountains, but standing like this let her companion's musky sweetness fill her lungs. The scent combined with strong hands moving over her back stroked pleasure which spiraled from her hardening nipples to belly and lower. Éowyn reached up to run her fingers through flowing hair. . .

"Dernhelm, please wake up." A low voice, urgent, hot breath in her ear.

Éowyn gasped for air, opened her eyes to see darkness.

"What?"

"It's me, Merry, please wake up. It's time."

As had happened at Harrowdale, Éowyn felt shaken. But not ill. Her nipples ached, as did her belly, but she didn't feel ill.  

She shook her head. Something she had seen, something dreamed, slipped through her fingers. She sat up, trying to see. Around her, she could hear the noises of many men and horses. The night was full of the rumours of war, the air heavy.

"What time is it?"

Merry sat back, releasing her. "It's night, but the King wants to arrive by dawn. So they're preparing to leave now."

Éowyn nodded, and stood, rolling her blanket. They had ridden carefully near the rear of the host since they left Edoras, safely out of sight. When the Rohirrim rested, Merry had been able to move closer to where her uncle and brother met with the leaders of the éoreds. Perhaps, as he assured her, the cloak he had received from the Elves in the Golden Wood had hidden him from the sentries, as keen-eyed as they were. In this way, he had been able to tell her all that was planned.

This last halt had been the last they would take before they arrived at Minas Tirith. Éowyn and Merry armed themselves and went to find Windfola. If all went well, Éowyn thought, they would see their friends before another night fell.

Boromir paused, surrounded by a group of men from Pelargir along with some of Aragorn's kin from the North. They had come from the Harlond together. In the heat of the fighting, they had been parted from others from the ship.

But Boromir's heart told him Aragorn was well. Since that moment when the wind had risen, and they had sailed under clear sunlight, Boromir had known they would win through, this battle at least. Winning one throw against the Nameless Enemy, he hoped, to give Frodo and Faramir the chance to win all.

At this moment, the tide of battle had shifted away from them although in the distance he could see the great mûmakil standing at bay, orcs and men rallying around them. Like a river in full flood, rising rapidly, the Rohirrim circled the islands of resistance. Smoke obscured the Pelennor, blown drifting by the wind fresh from the South that had helped the ships move so much more quickly up the River than any had hoped.

Looking around, to judge his next move, Boromir saw a fallen banner which caught at his heart. A white horse on a green field. Théoden's. It could not be. And close to that banner, a black hulk on the ground, winged, huge. It was a creature like the one that had flown over them on the River. That meant the Nazgûl were here.

"Come with me," he told the men around him and moved as quickly as he could, watching in case any of the fallen bodies on the field were still able to strike. As he came closer, Boromir could see a small figure huddled near the banner, wearing unfamiliar armour. His curly dark gold hair gleaming in the sunshine, Merry was sitting next to a fallen warrior and holding his hand.

"Merry!" Boromir called, his heart sinking. Théoden had assured Aragorn that he would leave Merry safe at Edoras before riding to Minas Tirith.

Merry looked up, but said nothing.

Boromir sheathed his sword as he hurried to Merry's side, knelt beside him. "Are you hurt?" Boromir asked.

Merry blinked at him through his tears. "Yes. No. I don't know. My sword burned up."

He tried to gesture with his free hand, but his arm seemed limp. Boromir ignored what he said, running his hands over Merry's arms, body, face. He could see no blood, no visible injury, but Merry's skin was cold, he was shaking. Some sort of head injury, perhaps. He wore no helm.

"The King.." Merry said.

Boromir looked and saw Théoden lying, his body full under the bleeding remains of his horse, both dead surely, Boromir thought. Close enough to the King's body to touch, the bulk of the dead beast lay, reeking, lifeless. This was a fell deed.

"Let me help you," Boromir said gently, trying to detach Merry's hand from the limp hand he held so tightly. The battle still went on, but he could send several men to escort Merry to the City, to the Houses of Healing.

"No," Merry cried, twisting out of Boromir's grasp, and shaking the limp arm of the body lying next to him.  

Boromir slid an arm around the small figure, planning to pick Merry up and take him from the dead. As Boromir lifted Merry, he clung to the fallen body, pulling it over onto its back. Boromir beheld the flash of pale golden hair and recognized her face.

He saw Éowyn as she lay and knew her. He stood a moment, feeling as if the arrow that had struck his shoulder on Parth Galen had instead pierced him to the heart.

He let Merry slide unheeded to the ground where he stumbled over to cling to Éowyn again.

"What devilry is this?" Boromir demanded, his voice shaking. He had said farewell to Éowyn at Helm's Deep. To see her here, on this field of death, was impossible. It was some trick, some deceit.

"She is not dead," Merry insisted. "Help her, Boromir."

Cold, Boromir stepped forward and dropped to one knee beside the still body. As if in a dream, he recognized Dernhelm's shield and armour. Dernhelm! He was going mad.

But Merry turned to shake his arm, insisting he aid her.

Boromir stripped off his glove, touched her hand, then set his fingers on the side of her throat, searching for any sign of life. Her skin was pale and cold, but no more than his. Her face was still. She seemed dead but then her lips parted slightly.

Boromir held his polished vambrace, part of the armour that Théoden had gifted him in Rohan, in front of her lips. A slight mist could be seen. Boromir was able to breathe again. She was hurt, badly, but still lived.

He rose to order the men to use what they could find to make a bier to take the King's body to the City. Merry insisted that he could walk, that Boromir must carry Éowyn.

Finally, rather than spend any more time arguing, Boromir agreed. It was the work of a few moments to take cloaks and lances and make a rough bier. Removing the horse from Théoden took longer, but was finally accomplished. Gently, the men lifted the King's broken body onto the bier and started to walk.

Carefully, Boromir picked Éowyn up, cradling her in his arms. As he turned, his foot struck a heavy helm, rolling it aside. The ground beneath his feet was soaked with blood and other fluids, slippery, littered with cast off weapons and cloaks, bodies, and parts of bodies. It was the aftermath of every battle he had ever seen, only worse, because so much larger in scope. Gondor's recovery would be slow, if it came at all.

He hated to leave the field, but he could not forsake his friends. He would return. Indeed, as he began walking slowly and carefully toward the City, watching Éowyn's still face, feeling Merry stumbling along beside him, clutching his belt to stay on his feet, Boromir knew he must return to find Aragorn.  

As they slowly laboured their way to the City, a mist rose from the River and surrounded them as a great rain began to fall.

Slowly, they paced across the field, the battle having moved closer to the River. Boromir looked up to see the ruin of the Gate, the fires in the City and the slaughter that had taken place while he was away. Clearly showing in the bodies, women and children, men in plain clothing as well as soldiers, lay, not only dead but many hacked apart, was the hatred and violence that had taken them. He saw not a few faces he recognized beneath the blood and burns.

As Boromir walked steadily up to the Sixth Circle, through the stench of blood and smoke and death, he felt a vast anger waiting, like a black wave, to break over his head.

For now he had to hold it back, leading the way to the Houses of Healing. Haste and care were needed if two he loved were to be saved.

From there, he would direct the men to take King Théoden's body to the Citadel to lie in state. And messages must be sent to Éomer, Aragorn, Gandalf. They must hear what had happened on the Pelennor.

Until then, Boromir could only take care to walk as carefully as he could, sparing Éowyn and Merry as much as possible.

March 15

Walking slowly to allow Merry to keep pace with him, Boromir followed the young woman in grey robes down one of the passages in the Houses of Healing. She turned a corner into a narrow corridor, and held the door to the room at the end of it open, motioning him to enter. He did so, seeing at a glance that the room was small, but comfortable. Two beds, narrow, but soft with pillows and comforters, flanked a window that opened upon a garden.  

He laid Éowyn down on the bed on the right and turned in time to catch Merry as he collapsed and place him on the other bed.

"Do you know what injury they have?" the Healer asked, her voice deep and melodious, a surprise given her slight frame.

"No," Boromir said. "I found them on the battlefield with no living foe near. I could find no wounds."

She nodded, coming to Éowyn's side, smoothing the tangled hair back, placing a hand on her forehead. "It could be the Black Shadow."

"The what?"

"We do not know what it is, Lord," she said, crossing to touch Merry's face, and hold his wrist. "We have seen it only recently in those struck down by the despair the Nazgûl seem to bring, so we call it the Black Shadow. Many who are suffering from it are in this House. We will wash and tend these two, watch over them as we can, but we know of no cure. None have yet died of this ill, but they do not wake."

Boromir stood between the beds. He could hear Merry murmuring, as if in a dream. Éowyn made no sound, her face even paler, he thought, than when he'd first seen her.

"I know of someone," he said, hesitantly. "Who could perhaps help. I can go find him."

"Where is he?" she looked up eagerly, pushing her dark hair, cut short to fall just above her shoulders, behind her ears. Her grey eyes were intent on him. "How quickly can he be brought here?"

"Below, on Pelennor Field. I must search for him. It could take time.

"If he is tending the wounded, he should be at the pavilions we set up in the First Circle," she said.

Boromir shook his head. "He will be fighting."

"Fighting? A Healer?"  She frowned. "No Healer would be in battle."

"He is like no Healer you have ever known," Boromir answered shortly. He did not wish to try to explain Aragorn to her.

She flushed, and gently released Merry's arm. "Very well. But...."

"What?" Boromir halted, turning back to her, knowing his impatience showed in his voice.

"Are you a friend to this woman, and this..this..."

"Halfling. His name is Merry, hers the Lady Éowyn."

She nodded.

"Yes, I am," he said. "Why?"

"Then you may wish to send someone else to search for this Healer. And stay with your friends. As I said, we know of no cure. But those who have friends or family to sit with them, especially as night falls, seem to fare better. Both your friends seem deeply affected. More so than others I have seen. If you stay with them, hold them if they cry out, it may help."

Boromir stood, biting his lip. He had no choice. He nodded. "I will find someone," he said. "And return as soon as I may."

He followed her to the door where she called to a stripling sitting on a bench at the end of the passage.

"Bergil, ask them to bring water for washing and clean nightclothes. And clean clothing for Lord Boromir. As quickly as may be," she said.

The dark haired boy leaped to his feet, nodded, and dashed off.

Boromir paused as she turned back to the beds. "My thanks," he said. "Would you tell me your name?"

She smiled at him. "Moriel," she said.

He nodded to her and left to find a messenger. It would be difficult to find anyone to send. He had seen the chaos in the streets as he and Merry had struggled to the Houses of Healing. Perhaps the best way would be to go to the Citadel where he knew there would be Guards posted.

Boromir left the passage, crossing the main hall to the door which opened onto the street. He paused as he saw a tall figure in white accompanied by a short one wearing black, both armed, walking toward him.

“Gandalf!” Boromir called. This was a stroke of luck.

Gandalf, and yes, it was Pippin, hastened to Boromir who ignored the problem of why Pippin was wearing the uniform of a Citadel Guard, and how they had found one that fit him, to greet him. Boromir knelt, and Pippin hugged him, flinging both arms tightly around his neck.

“I’m so sorry,” Pippin whispered.

Boromir was confused, looked up at Gandalf who stood, leaning on his staff, his face grave.

“Your father is dead,” Gandalf said quietly.

Boromir released Pippin and stood, clenching his hands around his sword belt. Silence echoed inside him. The echoes, ringing like metal on stone, were ones he thought he had heard before.

“Fighting?” he asked. “I know that he has long worn his mail and sword to keep from growing soft in old age.”

Gandalf shook his head. “It is hard to say this,” he said. “But Lord Denethor died by his own hand. This morning just as news came that the corsairs of Umbar were joining the attack."

Boromir shut his eyes. Aragorn had set his banner, black cloth worked with mithril and gems in the signs of Elendil that none had borne for long generations, at the prow of his ship. But the first sight of the black ships arriving from Pelargir could only have sent fear through the city. The corsairs of Umbar had been Gondor's foes since Gondor had defeated them. To think that Aragorn's triumph was the signal for Denethor's death was hard although a small part of Boromir whispered that there could have been no happy end to a meeting between his father and the man Boromir now acknowledged as the rightful King.

Swallowing his grief, ignoring the roaring echoes inside, Boromir forced himself to remember his errand. His father was dead. Théoden was dead. He could not help them. Rohan and Gondor had both lost rulers on this day. But others still lived and might continue to do so with healing.

“Gandalf, you must help,” he said. “King Théoden is dead."

“I know, we saw his body at the Citadel, and Halbarad told us where to find you."

“Lady Éowyn is inside, and Merry. They are injured.”

Pippin gripped Boromir’s hand, tugging. “What happened?”

“I do not know, Pippin. I found them on the battlefield. The Healer says it is the Black Shadow.”

Gandalf nodded. “This malady has struck many in the city the last day or two,” he said gravely. “I can do little to help them.”

“Surely Aragorn could.” Boromir did not know what he would do if Gandalf denied this last hope.

Gandalf nodded. “Perhaps. Yes.”

“Could you find him, bring him here?”

“I will try. Pippin, will you stay?"

“Let me go to Merry,” Pippin pleaded.

Boromir nodded. “The Healer said it could help to have a friend beside them. I'll take you to him."

Gandalf left, his white robes, stained with mud and smoke and blood, swirling in the wind that had brought the ships to Minas Tirith. Boromir led Pippin back to the room.

There they found Healers working. Éowyn was clean and in a white gown, still under the bedding, shield arm bound in a sling. They were just drying Merry. Wrapping him in a clean gown, they put him to bed. Pippin asked permission and, when it was granted, climbed up to sit next to Merry, holding his hand.  

The Healers prepared to leave, removing the weapons, armour, and stained clothing for cleaning and safe storage, they assured Boromir. Moriel lingered to speak to Boromir as the others left.

"There is always someone on duty in the corridor. We will check on your friends today and throughout the night, but if you see any change, send for us."

Boromir agreed.

She gestured," There's water, and clean clothing, for you, there. Would you like me to send food and drink?"

Boromir saw the basin and jug on the table, by a pile of neatly folded clothes, and thanked her. Before he could answer her question, Pippin did so. She smiled at him and left.

Silence. Light from the westering sun filled the room. With its white walls, stone floor, and large window, the room was clean and peaceful. Smelling of the clean linens and the green scent of the gardens and the herbs used by the Healers, it was the most pleasant place Boromir had been in since Lothlórien.

His armour and filthy clothing seemed out of place, but he was conscious only of a vast weariness, a desire to sit and not move. Still, he forced himself to strip and wash, then to don the clean leggings and tunic. They were obviously what Healers wore under their long robes, grey and simple. The leggings were too tight, the tunic too large in the chest. But the cloth was clean and soft against his skin. And it was pleasant not to be armed though he was wary enough still to keep his weapons close to hand. He piled the rest of his gear and dirty clothing under the table out of the way.

Boromir pulled a chair from the wall and positioned it between the two beds. He could sit there and reach both beds. And his sword. Then he waited.

The Pelennor was vast, more than ten leagues walled within the Rammas Echor. The fighting had spread over leagues although it was focused between the River and the Great Gate, only a league or so. But Aragorn could be any place. Gandalf would take some time to find him, even with Shadowfax.

Éowyn stirred, crying out, and Boromir reached out hastily, taking and holding her hand. At his touch, she quieted. Boromir shifted in the wooden chair, leaned back as easily as he could. They had only to hold until Aragorn came.

Éowyn ran through the dark halls of Meduseld. No torches were lit, and she crashed into walls, staggering, fleeing. They were dead, all of them. Pausing a moment, she panted, unsure of where to go. She had thought she knew the passages so well, but she was lost. Gathering her courage, she began to walk again, a hand stretched out to feel her way. She screamed when a cold grip twisted around her wrist, pulling her close. "Let me help you," an oily voice said. "Now that your brother is dead." Grima's white face loomed near hers, pale tongue flicking over his lips. Éowyn screamed, trying to pull her hand free, striking him.

She ran.

The walls melted, the hall collapsing around her. A chill wind blasted against her, blowing her hair violently around her face. She could not see. She tried to twist her hair back, clawing it out of her eyes, and realized she was naked. Standing in mud. Dark clouds pressed low, lightning flickered, and as she stumbled on, sharp rocks cut her feet. Black shapes around her tripped her, and she fell, falling forward onto her hands and knees. The shapes were bodies. Her uncle. Éomer. She tried to stand, to run away, but tripped again, falling over a body, seeing her mother's face streaked with blood and mud, decaying. A dark shadow, vaster than a tree, loomed over her. Armoured fingers gripped her wrist, the pressure enough to shatter bones. Despair filled Éowyn and she curled around herself, trying to pull free.

Suddenly, the fingers released her. She tried to stand and found herself in a narrow cage, iron bars closing in on her. She backed away, felt the coldness at her back, sank down, hiding her face against her knees. She was trapped. Alone. She could do no more. Her left arm ached, useless. Despairing, she made one attempt, reaching out with her other hand. If there was any slight gap, any way out.

A warm hand clasped and held hers.

Boromir followed Pippin out into the garden. The sun had already sunk behind Mount Mindolluin. The sky was the dark blue that comes just before the first stars appear. The garden dreamed in the quiet created by the sound of wind in the trees and the night songs of birds. Light shone behind some of the windows that faced the garden.

They sat on a bench under one of the spreading trees. Breathing deeply, Boromir stretched his legs, leaned back against the trunk. He was stiff from sitting in one position for so long, aching from the toil of the day. But Aragorn had brought Éowyn and Merry back from whatever evil dreams had trapped them.

Now, Aragorn, with Elladan and Elrohir, was tending others who lay dreaming under the Black Shadow. Merry and Éowyn had eaten and talked until Boromir had pulled Pippin off Merry's bed and told them to rest. When the lamps had been doused and the room was quiet, both had fallen quickly into a natural sleep. 

Boromir could still hardly make sense of what they had told him. Not only that Éowyn had always been Dernhelm, but that he, she, and Merry had fought-and killed or at least destroyed-the Leader of the Nazgûl.

Boromir remembered Osgiliath, standing on the bridge with Faramir. How the terror of the shadowy figure which drove the foe toward the bridge in such desperation that they had kept coming even as the bridge was cast down had affected Boromir. Huge and terrifying beyond belief, the figure seemed unassailable.

Boromir had not known of the prophecy Gandalf had shared with them, but he did not need to know. He had seen the reality. Words Gandalf had spoken sounded in Boromir's mind: No living man could harm him.

But a woman could. With the help of a hobbit. Before he had left Minas Tirith last summer, Boromir would never have believed such a tale. Now he was caught in the middle of it all.

Pippin shifted on the bench. Reminded of his presence, Boromir sat up straight. Now that the crisis was past, Boromir was able to recognize the uniform Pippin wore as one of a pair his father had had made for his sons to wear at their mother's funeral. It was Faramir's, Boromir thought absently, because his own had not survived. He had been so proud of wearing the insignia of the Guard that he had worn it to rags. Faramir had worn his once, then never again. Boromir had thought it long discarded. And remembering the day they had both worn it, Boromir knew he had a question for Pippin that could not wait.    

"What can you tell me of my father's last hours?" he asked, dreading the answer yet knowing he could not sleep until he had heard what Pippin could tell him.

Pippin sat beside him, swinging his feet. "The days before the battle were dark," he said finally, slowly. "Both for the smoke that came from Mordor, and the assault. I watched it start from the citadel with Beregond."

Boromir remembered Pippin's light-hearted laughter and jokes in Rivendell and on the first stages of their journey, and his heart ached for the loss of that innocence as he watched him, a shadow dressed in funeral black.

"The Nazgûl flew low, shrieking despair. Fires burned unchecked in the City. Men were leaving the walls. They could not stand. Gandalf was out in the streets, day and night. Your father left the Hall for a while, ordering me to stay. I do not know where he went. When he came back, his face was….changed. Grey and lined." Pippin sat a moment, then sighed and continued. "It was as if he had crumbled inside. When messages for aid came from the walls, he ignored them. Finally, he told me to send for his servants." Pippin placed a cautious hand on Boromir's leg. "I am sorry I could not stop him," he said, voice trembling.

Boromir hugged Pippin. "My father was Steward of Gondor. He was a man of strong will. His commands were law to the Citadel Guards. You could have done nothing, Pippin, nothing to change what happened."

Boromir wondered if his presence would have made any difference. He would never know.

Pippin hugged him back, stayed close. "He ordered them to bring wood and oil. He released me from his service and told me to die in whatever way I thought best. But…I followed. I did not know where they were going. I heard what he said…"

Boromir felt Pippin shiver, held him tighter.

"He said he saw something in a stone," Pippin said in a low voice, hardly audible. "Perhaps he was confused. I did not understand that. He spoke of his sons dying. You pierced by Orc arrows, Faramir chained and tormented by Orcs. He would not outlive his sons, he said. The forces of the Enemy were vaster than the Sea, and the House of the Stewards had failed."

Boromir closed his eyes, tasting the full bitterness in the cup that Saruman had first poured for him. Do not think you bring any news to your father he does not already know. His father had used the palantír. What he had seen of Boromir was a cheat. Boromir could only hope the same was true for Faramir.

"What did he mean, a stone?" Pippin asked.

"It was a palantír, Pippin. Yes," Boromir said, feeling Pippin shudder. "Like the one you looked in after Isengard. A Seeing Stone. Brought from Númenor along with others long years ago. I knew there was one in the White Tower. But I had not realized my father was rash enough to use it."

"I doubt he had used it long," Gandalf said.

Boromir had not heard him approach. Releasing Pippin, Boromir stood. Gandalf waved him back to the bench and came to stand in front of them, leaning on his staff, white robes glimmering, light from the windows shining on his white hair.

"He was too great a man to be overturned by the Dark Power's will, but he could be deceived. Shown that which was false, or true only in part. Thus his despair could be fed until it grew strong enough to overthrow his mind. And yet…"

Boromir waited, feeling Pippin shifting next to him. Finally, Gandalf spoke again.

"And yet, the Stones of Seeing do not lie. The forces gathered in Mordor are vast, greater even than that army which first came against the City and which we were barely able to fight off. Sauron has lost many, but our losses weaken us more. Another assault will soon follow. And although Sauron has lost his Captain, and a great evil has passed from the world, others are still arrayed against us."

The wind and bird songs paused, and Boromir felt as if they had stepped outside of time. "If that is true," he said, "what can we do?"

A moment passed before Gandalf spoke. "That is what we must decide," he said. "But not tonight. Sleep, first, and we will meet tomorrow. All the commanders must meet to consider what may be done. Pippin, where will you stay tonight?"

"Here," Pippin said. "With Merry."

"Boromir?"

Boromir hesitated. He should go to the Citadel, he thought. But he did not wish to return there this night. The thought of the silent rooms, his father's death, the image of his vision of Faramir cast a shadow in Boromir's mind.

"Aragorn has given orders to set his tent up on the field," Gandalf said. "And plans to return there to sleep after he finishes his work here. I do not know when that will be, but I know where his tent is."

Boromir looked hard at Gandalf, unable to see clearly his face, just the white glimmer that shone around him. Yet Boromir believed that Gandalf could see all that Boromir felt, more, that he knew all that had passed between Aragorn and Boromir, even after Gandalf had fallen in Moria. And not only knew but understood.

"My thanks," Boromir said finally, deciding that nothing else could be said, and stood.

Pippin slid off the bench and after a final hug for Boromir, went back into the room.

Boromir followed Gandalf out through a gate in the garden. They walked without speaking down through the Circles of the City. In the hours since Boromir had borne Éowyn from the field, some order had begun to be restored. Men still worked by torchlight to find the wounded and dead, but light shone from houses and the smell of blood and smoke were being replaced by the smells of food being cooked.

"Who holds the City?" Boromir asked. As oldest son of the Steward, he would have taken charge after his father's death had Aragorn not come. Yet Gandalf had said he was staying outside the walls.

"The Prince of Dol Amroth has taken charge temporarily," Gandalf said. "His flag flies from the Tower. Aragorn refused to enter the City even before he heard of the Steward's death. He came only because he was asked to the Houses of Healing. He will make no claim at this point. He feels the time is not ripe to declare himself. So he is staying with the Rangers."

Boromir nodded. It made sense. All knew Imrahil and trusted him. He would be a good caretaker in this time of chaos and strife. And on another level, Boromir was relieved not to have to step forward. He felt weary in a way that had nothing to do with the fighting he had done this day, or the dark journey on the Paths of the Dead.

The rubble of the fallen Gate loomed ahead. Gandalf called a faint light from his staff and led the way through the fallen stones, moving easily over the broken ground. He then led Boromir around to the right. The assault had come more from the north and east. The wrack of that battle would take more than a day to clear. He turned his back on the main battlefield and followed Gandalf through the night.

Ahead, torches flickered outside tents, many with light glowing from lamps inside. Quiet voices floated on the still air which was scented with the smoke from cooking fires.

Gandalf stopped outside the circle of light and pointed to the largest tent. "That is Aragorn's," he said.

Boromir nodded and bid Gandalf goodnight. Gandalf laid a hand on his arm, and Boromir halted.

"Your father's death is a bitter loss," he said quietly. "And yet he opposed the Enemy's attempts to subdue him, he fought until the end and refused to give the City over without resistance. Sauron did not win today in part because of your father's will."

"Could I have changed aught that has happened?" Boromir said, unable to hide his bitterness. "Had I stayed here and let Faramir go to find the answer to the riddle, as he had wished, would that not have been better? Did my pride cause my father's death?"

After a moment of silent, Gandalf released him and spoke, his voice soft and yet Boromir heard it clearly, its depth and resonance sounding in his ears. "None can know what will happen in the end beyond all doubt. Neither can we know what might have happened had we chosen another road. You chose one road last year. Staying in Minas Tirith and sending Faramir to Rivendell might have stopped your father's death. Or it might have caused worse. What might have happened had you looked into the palantír, Boromir?"

His breath stopped, Boromir looked at Gandalf, silent. Finally he spoke. "I do not know," he said, but shuddered inside, remembering what the Ring had done. To look into the palantír, to see the Nameless Enemy, would have been much worse.

"Then take what comfort you can in the knowledge that your father was not taken by Sauron. And do not torment yourself with wondering what might have been. Sleep now. There is still much to do."

Gandalf turned and left him. Boromir watched the white figure disappear and wondered if he would sleep this night, then turned toward the camp.

A Ranger challenged him before he could pass the ring of torches, but luckily the man who one who had ridden with Halbarad and who recognized Boromir.

Passing the guards, Boromir entered Aragorn's tent. While it was larger than some of the others, it was plain, stark. Inside was a chest that no doubt held clothes. Clean bedding and blankets was arranged on one side. A lamp, a jug with water, and a rack for Aragorn's weapons were the only other furnishings.

Shocked, Boromir realized he had left his weapons in the sickroom. He was more weary than he had realized, to have walked away without them. He would be able to retrieve them tomorrow, he thought, and with that, cast himself down on the bed to wait for Aragorn to return.

Boromir opened his eyes slowly, wondering where he was. He was lying on his side, on a soft surface, not on the ground. He felt relaxed, rested for the first time in a long time. Vaguely, he remembered a dream of green leaves and sunlight, the sound of water falling.

Sunlight through canvas walls, the sounds of men and horses. He had come to Aragorn's tent last night, falling onto the camp bed to await his return. But the light, the warmth of the air inside the tent, the noises outside told him it was past dawn. He must have fallen asleep.

Stretching, Boromir realized he was naked under the rough bedding which rasped pleasantly against him. His foot brushed warm skin, and he turned to see Aragorn sleeping next to him, curled up on his side, facing Boromir. Brown hair tangled over Aragorn's face, his breathing deep and regular.

Caught, Boromir did not move. All the times he had watched Aragorn, this was the first time he had seen him in daylight, so close, sleeping. He looked relaxed, younger, with his eyes shut, lips slightly open. Boromir's arm cramped, and he shifted his weight to relieve it.

Aragorn opened his eyes. Smiled.

"I did try to wake you last night," Aragorn said, voice low, drowsy.

Boromir finished turning, resting his head on his arm. "You did?"

Aragorn nodded, stretching. "Nothing worked. So I lay down beside you. It was late when we finished our work with the Healers. All those suffering from the Black Shadow have been recalled."

Boromir nodded. "Before I left, Éowyn and Merry had eaten and were sleeping," he said. "Pippin stayed with Merry."

"And you came here." Aragorn pushed hair out of his face, blue eyes intent on Boromir.

Boromir nodded.

Silence filled the golden warmth of the tent. The sounds outside did not diminish, but Boromir grew more aware of the sound of Aragorn breathing.

"Why?" Aragorn's voice seemed even quieter than before.

Images filled Boromir's mind. Éowyn and Dernhelm. What Pippin had told him of Denethor's death. What he had said of Faramir. The black anger he had felt walking through his city seeing so much death. Deaths he could not help feeling responsible for.

But for now, he pushed that all aside. He needed to talk of these things with Aragorn, but not now. Not this moment. This moment held another promise.

Boromir reached out and ran his hand through Aragorn's hair, tangling his fingers in it, holding Aragorn's head still. Shifting closer, Boromir slid his other hand under Aragorn's body, sliding up his back to his neck, and took his mouth, pressing against him hard enough to tilt him over onto his back. Lips opened under his while arms slid around his body to pull him down, arms strong enough to break his bones were their strength not controlled by a stronger will.

The bed creaked and swayed under them as Aragorn twisted under Boromir, rolling until Boromir was beneath him, one leg pressing between his. Boromir arched up, hardening, sliding his hands down Aragorn's back, gripping, feeling muscles move as Aragorn pressed down, changing his hold.

Calloused hands forced Boromir's arms to his sides. Aragorn's tongue and lips moved from Boromir's mouth down his throat. Shuddering, Boromir closed his eyes as the clever mouth trailed down his chest, tasting his skin with licks and soft bites. The sensation of Aragorn's beard rubbing against his chest and then his belly made Boromir's muscles contract, hard, trying to hold back. He panted.

Boromir was frustrated, wanting to hold Aragorn, wanting more, then gasped in shock as Aragorn's weight and hands shifted down. Aragorn pressed his legs apart, took his member deep into his mouth, sucking. Boromir had not expected this, was drowning in sensation. Warm wetness, subtle movements of lips and tongue, then, suddenly fingers stroking down, around, behind.

Sound tore at Boromir's throat as he thrust forward, no control left, wanting more time to enjoy, so taken by pleasure that he could not hold to time.

Later, Boromir reached for Aragorn.

Much later, Boromir stirred reluctantly. He was hungry and sure Aragorn must be as well. As pleasant as it would be to spend all day in bed, they had other duties. But there was one thing he had to know, one thing he thought he had realized, thinking back over their time in Edoras.

"Did you know?" Boromir asked quietly. He felt Aragorn stir, hair rasping against Boromir's arm.

"Know what?"

"That Dernhelm was not-that Éowyn was Dernhelm."

A pause, then Boromir felt Aragorn's nod against his shoulder. "Yes. I recognized her."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I thought it her secret. Well, hers and Éomer's. He obviously knew. I could not betray them. Not even to you. I tried to show you the riddle, once."

Boromir bit back words he wanted to say, felt tension pulse in his body. He could not argue with what Aragorn had said, but he wished to. He felt angry, but did not know for what cause, or at whom. Not at Aragorn.

He felt Aragorn push himself up, looked up as Aragorn leaned over him. "Are you angry at her?"

"Not angry.." Boromir said slowly, realizing it was true as he spoke. "Not at her. She saved my life at Helm's Deep. She saved many more on the Pelennor Field, she and Merry. But why? Why deceive everyone? Why lie?" That was the heart of it, Boromir realized, the deception. Lying to people you-lying to the people around you. That was what was hurtful.

"I have not spoken to her about her choice," Aragorn said, rolling over to lie on his back, head resting on folded arms. "There was so little time to talk in Rohan and none since. I cannot say. But.." Aragorn's voice trailed off.

"What?"

Boromir felt Aragorn sigh before he answered, speaking slowly as if reluctant to say anything.

"I remember her grandmother, Morwen, who came from Lossarnach. She met Thengel in Gondor when he had left the Mark in frustration with his father. They were married before he became King, and when they came to Rohan, she scandalized many of the Rohirrim. They called her Steelsheen. She was a strong woman who did not accept anyone else's…limits. Éowyn reminds me of her in many ways."

Boromir could hardly believe what he was hearing. "You knew? what? How old are you?"

Aragorn had dropped hints about his age before, but this was becoming impossible. Boromir had to know.

A pause, then "Eighty-seven, no, eighty-eight now."

Boromir rose, bracing himself on one arm, looking intently at Aragorn who lay still, looking back at him, making no attempt to cover himself. Brown hair, perhaps a sprinkling of grey at the temples, faint lines around blue eyes and mouth, but his skin, body, all spoke of a man close to Boromir in age. And his deeds since Rivendell had proven him stronger and more enduring on the road. He could not be that old. And yet Aragorn would not lie to him.

"I know the old houses of the Númenóreans were long lived," Boromir said. "But there are none in Minas Tirith who live much past a hundred. And none of those reach their eighties and still look or…fight as you do. When were you were in Minas Tirith?"

Aragorn watched him, unmoving except for the even rise and fall of his chest. "Before you were born," he said. "I served Ecthelion for some years. I left Minas Tirith before you were a year old."

Boromir stared, shocked.

"Lord Aragorn!" A voice from outside the tent. "Prince Imrahil requests you join him and the other commanders in council at Hall of the Citadel at the fourth hour. It is now the third hour."

Aragorn sighed, pulled Boromir's head down to kiss him, and rolled out of bed. "We will speak later," he said. "But could I ask you two favours?"

"Yes."

"I believe you need to speak to Éowyn."

Boromir thought, then nodded. It would be hard, but Aragorn was right. When he had recalled Éowyn and Merry from the shadows, they had spoken briefly, mostly Merry Boromir recalled. Then eaten and slept.

"I will. I also have to fetch my clothes and weapons," Boromir said.

Aragorn paused in the middle of dressing. "I wondered why you were wearing these," he said, tossing the grey leggings and tunic, which had been piled with his clothes on the floor, onto the bed for Boromir.

Boromir sat up, stretching, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He pulled on the leggings. "I could wonder that I was not wearing them when I woke," he said. "Since I know I fell asleep in them."

Aragorn shrugged, combing his fingers through his hair. "If someone is a guest in my tent, I want them to be comfortable," he said. "Shall we break our fast?"

Boromir stood, donned the tunic, and started to search for his boots. "Comfortable," he said. And smiled down at the boots for no reason as he pulled them on. "What else do  you wish to ask of me?"

Aragorn turned back from where he was untying the canvas to allow them to leave the tent. "Will you return here, to sleep, tonight?"

Boromir swallowed hard, suddenly conscious of the tightness of his borrowed leggings and nodded, wordless. Then he followed Aragorn out of the tent into the light of the day.

Boromir waited inside the main door of the Houses of Healing for someone to speak to him. Guards were stationed, not many, and most of those near the age of retirement. But the Healers had learned long ago that some of their patients had need of protection as well as healing. Those who did not work there were not allowed to wander the halls at will.

Finally, a strange Healer came out of one of the passages, saw him, and came over to where he stood. She was a tall woman, darker skinned than was usual in Minas Tirith, with velvety dark eyes rather than the more usual grey or blue. Her thick hair was cut close to her head, and she was as tall as Boromir, broad shouldered and straight, moving like a warrior or athlete.

"I am Spenna," she said. "Can I help you?"

Boromir introduced himself, explained his errand, and she nodded. "I know your friends' Healer," she said. "I think she is with them now. You may join them." She paused, considering him. "Please do not stay long," she said. "Both are still recovering."

Boromir nodded, and, at her gesture, left the hall.

The council of the commanders had been brief. There was little to say, in truth, after Gandalf and Aragorn had acquainted the others with the decision to send the Ring to Mt. Doom. Clearly, they had barely been able to hold off the last assault from the Black Land. The next would destroy the City.

Only Gandalf and Aragorn's plan to lead a diversionary force to the Black Gates offered Frodo any chance of defeating the Nameless One even though they were all like to die to achieve that goal. They had agreed that they would muster what force they could without leaving the City undefended and leave on the second morning from this day.

If he was not able to speak to Éowyn now, perhaps he could on the next day. He saw light shining through the half-open door at the end of the passage, heard voices.

Boromir eased the door fully open to find Merry and Pippin speaking with Moriel who was standing next to Merry's bed. Pippin was sitting on one end of the bed, still wearing his black livery which looked more wrinkled than it had the day before. Merry was holding the bedding close around him at the other end.

Éowyn lay still in the other bed, her eyes closed.

"Master Merry, you must let me examine your arm," Moriel said.

"I feel fine," Merry insisted.

"But you were burned. I need to change the bandages."

Merry opened his mouth, and Boromir moved forward.

"Greetings," he said.

Pippin bounced off the bed to hug Boromir who knelt briefly to return the embrace then stood.

"What's wrong?"

Moriel sighed and folded her arms. Merry blushed.

"He refuses to let me tend him," she said.

"Merry?"

Merry said nothing, just wiggled further down the bed, pulling the bedding higher. Only the top of his head and one ear was visible.

Boromir was concerned. This was most unlike Merry. Boromir sat down on the edge of the bed. "What'  wrong, Merry?" he asked again. Who knew what effects that Black Shadow could have on someone, let alone a hobbit.

Merry mumbled something Boromir could not hear. 

"What?"

Pippin clambered up to sit beside Boromir. "He's too shy," Pippin said, laughing.

Boromir glanced down at Pippin. "Too what?"

"She's a stranger," Pippin said. "And one of the Big People. And.." Pippin snuck a sideways glance at Moriel who was staring at him, frowning slightly, and finished in a whisper, leaning closer to Boromir, "and…well, female."

Boromir bit his lip to keep the laughter welling up inside from spilling out and offending everyone. Seeing how red Merry's ear was, Boromir realized Pippin was right. And remembering what had happened in Lothlórien made this moment even funnier. After a moment, when he was sure he could speak without laughing, Boromir leaned forward and laid a hand on Merry's head.

"Merry, many of our Healers are women," he said. "And Healers, men or women, help everyone. You need not feel shy. Let Moriel examine your arm, please. She only wants to help you."

Moriel unfolded her arms, leaning forward slightly, her frown disappearing. "If his people believe Healers of another sex should not tend them, I will try to find another," she said. "It is just that so many are out tending the wounded and ill in the City today."

Boromir grasped Merry's shoulder through the bedding and shook him, gently. "Merry," he insisted, "you can do this."

Reluctantly, Merry emerged, wearing a white nightshirt that was too large for him, still blushing. Boromir stood and moved away to let Moriel work. Merry did not look at her, but he did not resist as she slid the sleeve of his night shirt down, unwrapped his arm, and examined his arm. She rebandaged it after applying a pleasant scented salve. Then she knelt by the bed.

"The burns are healing," she said. "How are you feeling?"

"Stronger," Merry said. "And hungry."

Moriel laughed, causing him to glance at her and smile. "I will send more food," she said. "I gather that your people are.." she hesitated.

"Mighty trenchermen," Boromir contributed gravely. "Their appetites are heroic."

"I understand," she said without smiling, rising to her feet. "Then I will give orders that the kitchens include extra portions in each meal. Those who are healing must eat well." She nodded to them and left the room.

Boromir sat with the hobbits on Merry's bed while they waited for the promised food. They were eager to tell him more of what had happened since they had parted outside Isengard and to hear of the journey on the Paths of the Dead.

From time to time, Boromir would look over at the other bed, wondering if they were disturbing Éowyn. But she did not move. Something in her face, a tightness Boromir thought, hinted that she may not have been sleeping. Her face had more colour than the day before, but still seemed paler than he remembered. Someone had braided her long hair in a single braid. Boromir suppressed the wish to see the golden wealth he remembered from the march to Helm's Deep flowing over the pillow.

Finally, a youngster, Bergil, entered the room carefully carrying a loaded tray. He was followed by another stripling, even younger than he, carrying another, equally loaded, tray. Boromir pulled the small table between the beds and let them unload the food and drink. The clattering of dishes and chatter as the boys talked eagerly to the hobbits finally caused Éowyn to open her eyes.

She spoke little as they ate although her appetite seemed healthy enough Boromir noted as he piled his own plate high a second time. After so long eating lembas or camp food, to sit in a clean room and eat fresh food, even if the fruit was the last of the winter store, and drink cool wine was pleasant.

The hobbits as usual talked little as they ate. Boromir had noticed from the first meal he shared with them that nothing was allowed to interfere with eating. And neither he nor Éowyn seemed to have much to say. Boromir wished to ask her about her reasons for her disguise, but not in front of his friends. And she seemed to act as she had first at Edoras, avoiding his eyes.

But he could take a little time. He had no pressing duties before night. Boromir sighed. He had spoken to Imrahil after the after the council that morning.

Imrahil had signaled to Boromir, gesturing him back, as he began to leave with Aragorn, Éomer and Halbarad to pass on the orders for the muster. Boromir waited, standing in the Hall, trying to avoid looking at the empty black seat below the Throne of Gondor.

Imrahil finished speaking to Gandalf and smiled at Boromir.

"We have had no time to talk," he said, walking to his side, the sound of his boots echoing in the Hall. "I was sorry to hear of your father's death."

Boromir nodded his thanks, swallowing hard. He had been trying not to think of his father, focusing on the needs of the City in the wake of the Steward's death. Such a division had been a part of all their lives, Denethor's, Faramir's, and his, since Finduilas had died. Personal grief could not be allowed to stop one from doing one's duty.

But it seemed harder than it once had.

Imrahil looked at him, eyes grave. "I had thought you would come immediately to the Citadel to take up your office, Lord Steward," he said bluntly.

Boromir sighed. He had avoided the Citadel last night, but he should have known he could not do so for long. When his father died, Boromir had become Steward. It was a role he had been preparing for much of his life, ever since he had understood what a Steward was. And although Boromir knew the King had returned, that did not excuse the Steward from his duties.

"I know I should have," he said reluctantly. "But it was late last night when I learned of my father's death…" Boromir could not finish the sentence. The lateness of the hour did not excuse him. Or at least that was what Denethor would have said.

But Imrahil seemed to soften. He nodded. "I understand. And know that you journeyed long with the Lord Aragorn, and fought at the end. It was good to learn that you survived," he said. "And Faramir. When I arrived in the City, I heard many express fear that you both had died. Your father never spoke of it directly, but I know it weighed upon him as well."

Boromir nodded, unable to speak for a moment. That thought would be long with him. If he survived the next battle.

"And now that you are here, I can return the rule of the City to you. I assume you will return to the Citadel tonight? It would reassure your people in this time of uncertainty to know the Steward had returned."

Reluctantly, Boromir nodded. He knew his duty. He confirmed Imrahil's decisions regarding which Companies from Minas Tirith would take part in the assault upon Mordor and spoke with the captains who would be leading them.

He also explained to Imrahil that he planned to give one small Guard of the Citadel extended leave to tend his friend who had been wounded on the Pelennor Field. When Imrahil understood which guard Boromir spoke of, he smiled and agreed that this was one leave that should be granted even under the shadow of war.

And then Boromir had made his escape.  All the men who had been working under his father while he was gone would continue do their work. And who knows what would come after Aragorn led them to Mordor.

Boromir need not stay in the Citadel this day. He would speak to Aragorn later, try to explain what Imrahil expected of him. But first, he wished to speak to Éowyn.

"I'm fine, Pippin," Merry said. "I can walk. See?" He slid off the bed and demonstrated.

Pippin followed his friend, anxious. "Be careful, Merry!"

"Let's go out into the garden! I want to smell the grass and feel the wind in my hair."

Boromir watched the two as they vanished out the open door, Pippin insisting on holding Merry's good arm.

Their voices mingled with the sound of birds and the wind, but Boromir doubted they could hear anything said inside the room. This was his chance.

He looked at Éowyn. She was sitting on her bed, legs curled under her, the white robe she wore loose around her.  Her plate was set aside, a cup of wine in her good hand. She had refused both Boromir and Pippin's offer of help, managing her food and drink slowly but with ease despite her arm being in a sling. But she did not seem to be drinking.

Boromir poured himself more wine. "Lady," he said, wondering how he could start.

She looked up at him, unsmiling. "Call me Éowyn," she said. "It makes little sense to retreat to court manners now."

"Éowyn, then," Boromir said. "Or Dernhelm. Why?"

Her cool blue gaze did not shift. She did not pretend she did not know of what he speaking.

"What concern is it of yours? My brother knew what I did."

"He did not know you rode to the Pelennor," Boromir said. He had spoken to Éomer before the council that morning and had learned that Gandalf had notified him of Éowyn's presence at the Houses of Healing. And that Éomer had not known of "Dernhelm's" presence in the Muster although he had said he'd known she fought at Helm's Deep.

She nodded, acknowledging a hit. "True. But that is between him and me. You have not answered my question."

Boromir did not know what he had expected to meet in Éowyn when they spoke. But he was sure he had not expected this armour of apparent indifference. And…anger?

"I liked Dernhelm, what I knew of him." All he could do was speak the truth he knew. "And I…admired Éowyn. I did not think either would lie to me."

Her cheeks flushed, but she did not look away. "Neither intended to lie. But not all truths can be told."

Desperate to try to touch her in some way, remembering that shared moment on the march to Helm's Deep, Boromir pushed harder. "Surely you had a reason for disobeying the King's commands?"

"He gave me no command to stay behind," Éowyn said, frowning.

"Had he known what you planned, he would have. And I know he commanded Merry to stay at Edoras. He promised me he would."

She swung her legs off the bed, stood over him. "Why should Merry not choose to ride to war?" she asked, her voice low, dangerous. "He is not a child. And if I had chosen to stay behind, in the caves at Helm's Deep, you would not be sitting here accusing me of deception."

Stung, Boromir stood in turn, moving away from her, walking to the door that led to the gardens. His anger was kindled in response to hers, and he did not trust himself.

He stopped near the door, breathing deeply, forced himself to watch Merry and Pippin sitting under the tree. Pippin was leaning against the trunk, and Merry was lying on the grass, his head in Pippin's lap. Boromir watched Pippin stroking Merry's hair and wished that he could find such ease. Every day seemed to bring new complications.

If Éowyn and Merry had not disobeyed their king, had not ridden with the Rohirrim, the events of yesterday could have been much worse. As Faramir's decision to disobey their father's command had turned out to be the better choice as well.

Turning back to the room, watching Éowyn standing tall and straight between the two beds, Boromir pushed back his anger. "You are right," he said. "I did not mean to try to judge your actions, or Merry's. I do not wish to accuse you of anything. I simply wish to understand."

Éowyn began to say something, but before she could speak, the door opposite Boromir, the one that led back into the House, opened, and Aragorn entered. He was wearing his travel-worn clothing, still bore no outward sign of the kingship. Yet watching him enter the room and greet Éowyn, Boromir thought that he could see the beginnings of a change.

But Boromir could not take the time to solve this riddle. Aragon's arrival meant that the conversation took another path.

Greetings and inquiries about health, Aragorn's explanation about his visits to all the patients who had suffered from the Black Shadow, and the possibility of moving outside to speak to the hobbits washed around Boromir. He was glad when Aragorn suggested they move outside. The small room seemed too full, too crowded.

He followed Éowyn and Aragorn outside to sit on the soft grass as Aragorn examined Merry and Éowyn, holding their good hands, looking deeply into their eyes. Both claimed to be feeling fully restored.

Boromir said little as the others talked, watching instead to see how Éowyn tended to speak more to Merry, now avoiding Aragorn's eyes as well as Boromir's, or, when she had to speak to him, calling him Lord Aragorn. Boromir wondered at her retreat to the court language she had asked him not to use.

He was able to reassure Pippin that he could stay with Merry as long as he needed, that Boromir, as the Steward, granted him leave from his duties at the Citadel. This news both reassured the hobbits, and also seemed to bring a halt to the conversation. This reminder of the grim realities that lay outside the sunlit garden where they sat was sobering.

Soon, Aragorn stood to take his leave. Boromir accompanied him. Nothing had really been settled with Éowyn. And he now had to tell Aragorn that he would have to break his word. He could not return to Aragorn's tent tonight.

Boromir did remember to retrieve his weapons before leaving. Leaving the cool passages of the Houses of Healing for the sunlit streets of the City, Boromir found himself wishing they could leave immediately for Mordor.

March 16-17

Éowyn sat on the ground under the tree. Merry was next to her, Aragorn kneeling by Merry, holding his hand. Aragorn's other hand was on Merry's face as he gazed into his eyes.

Éowyn shivered. Aragorn had examined her first. She had found it alarming and exhilarating. She understood he was a Healer, but none of the other Healers' touches had affected her as his did. She hoped he could not read her response but feared he could.

"I'm fine," Merry insisted. "Now that they've started feeding us enough."

Aragorn sat back on his heels, hands resting on his legs. "Nobody has ever struck a Ringwraith, let alone helped destroy one, and survived," he said mildly. "And you were both unconscious for some time."

Éowyn looked hastily away as the blue eyes shifted to consider her.

"Do you recall any of that time?" Aragorn shifted, settling down to sit cross-legged, leaning back against Boromir's legs. Boromir was sitting on a bench under the tree with Pippin beside him.

"Dreams," Éowyn finally said, reluctantly. "I had evil dreams."

"Merry?"

Merry nodded. "It was terrible," he said. "I was wandering in a hobbit hole. Sort of like Bag End, but no light. No windows. All dark halls." Merry's voice dropped, and he looked uneasily over his shoulder before finishing. "And no matter how long I searched, I could find no food."

Aragorn nodded, but turned back to Éowyn, face expectant.

She looked down, concentrating on two blades of grass she held, twisting them. She could clearly remember her dreams. But she did not want to speak of them. Not here under the light of day, with Boromir listening. She might have brought herself to tell Aragorn, even in front of the hobbits, but not Boromir. Yet the silence from Aragorn weighed on her.

Finally, she sighed and spoke. "Darkness and cold," she said. "And a black shadow. I do not recall much, only the fear that I was dying."

Aragorn nodded, watching her a moment longer as if giving her a chance to speak further. She shook her head at him, spread her hands.

He bowed his head to her. "If you remember any more, please tell your Healer," he said. "We know so little of this ailment that any information could help."

She nodded. Perhaps she could tell Moriel, she thought. The other Healer, who had tended her once, Spenna, was more distant, but Moriel seemed friendly, willing to listen.

Éowyn relaxed, pretending to listen to Merry and Pippin talk, a small part of her admiring how the two hobbits were able to speak to the men both of whom seemed more at ease today than she had seen them before, wearing tunic and leggings, none of the armour or weaponry of the past weeks. But the sense of power surrounded them both even when they were laughing at hobbit jokes.

She had insisted to Aragorn that she was recovered, but she knew she had lied. Something inside had changed. Broken perhaps. She did not know what. She did not know why it had happened. She only knew she felt off balance, that nothing she had thought or planned had come about as she had hoped. Too many had died. She had tried to help but could do nothing. First, Théodred. Then Théoden. Both dying in her arms. Neither knowing her at the end. She shivered as the images from the dream, the dead bodies of everyone she loved surrounding her, took her again.

"Lady Éowyn found armour for me!" Merry said proudly, patting her arm.

Éowyn opened her eyes, jolted. They were apparently talking about Merry's feats. She swallowed the nausea that had risen in her throat.

"It was nothing," she said, taking refuge in a role she had long perfected: the White Lady of Rohan. "My brother had saved the gear our uncle gave him when he was a child. It was lucky it fit Merry so well."

This role was one she had played for nearly ten years now, a role that made the people around her happy, a role she agreed to because it masked her feelings, feelings that sometimes terrified her with their intensity and with the fear that, if she expressed them, people she loved would fear her, or fear for her.

Boromir laughed, tousling Pippin's hair. "A similar story lies behind Master Took's gear," he said. "Faramir and I were given uniforms of the Citadel Guard when we were children. Lucky it was for Pippin that Faramir had saved his. A hobbit would look strange indeed in a man's clothing, like a child playing dress-up."

Éowyn looked at Boromir, smiling, hair shining in stray beams of light that shone through the leaves of the tree that shaded them all. She bit her lip, wanting to say something to stop the laughter. She had wanted to strike Boromir when he had accused her of lying. But even worse when he had spoken against Merry. Merry!

If Merry had not ridden with her, she would be dead. She knew it. She could still feel the iron grip around her throat, the chill that had struck to the bone when the black figure had lifted her off the ground. For Boromir to laugh, to imply that what Merry and Pippin was doing was a children's game, was cruel.

"But I assume that Pippin does not wear the uniform as an empty honour," Aragorn said. "Does he not have duties in the Citadel?"

Pippin shifted uneasily. "I was assigned to wait on Lord Denethor," he said, his voice low.

Silence fell over the garden until Boromir spoke.

The smile was gone from his face, and Éowyn was surprised to find herself swinging from anger to grief.

"As Steward, I have given Pippin leave from the Guard." he said simply. "I think he must be free to stay here with Merry."

Merry jumped to his feet and hugged Boromir. And Pippin. Who hugged him back. When Aragorn complained at being kicked by hobbits, they pounced upon him, trying to wrestle him to the ground. After order was restored, the talk shifted to the planned assault upon the Black Gate.

Éowyn waited until the men and hobbits were deep in discussion, trying to work out the riddle of where Frodo and Faramir might be, how much time they would need to complete their task. Then she rose quietly and walked across the garden. She had seen a stair that led to the top of the wall and she wished to climb it, hoped to feel free for a moment.

She realized as she stepped onto the walkway that ran along the wall that it was part of one of Minas Tirith's seven walls. She turned to see a wall and a high white tower behind her. So they were on the sixth level. Turning back to look out over the City, she breathed deeply, surprised at how weak she felt after so short a climb. Her knees were trembling, her lungs burning. The arm bound in the sling pained her.

But at the top of the wall, the wind blew freshly into her face. She could feel alone, surrounded by quiet. She leaned forward, resting against the warm stones in front of her.

She was glad Pippin would be staying with Merry. Glad he would not be leaving to fight what seemed a desperate attempt sure to end in death. She looked down at the Pelennor far below, seeing the piles of bodies, the ruin of war machines, the small movements of men who were working to try to mend some of the injuries of the battle. What should have been green fields were scorched, smoking, in the clear sunlight that had broken at dawn yesterday.

She shuddered, remembering sitting on Windfola, hugging Merry in front of her, hearing Théoden address the Rohirrim. Then the wild ride across the field, borne up on wings of song and shouting.

Into the dust and smoke of the battle, the sheer terror of riding into the pikes, the men and horses falling around her under the rain of arrows, the horror of seeing the oliphaunts moving like mountains across the battlefield. She'd fought in a blur of fear. She could remember hardly anything except the fear until the stinking beast had landed on the ground, immense, dwarfing even the oliphaunts, threatening her uncle.

She'd had the same experience at Helm's Deep. She still flushed when she remembered throwing up. Fighting there, in a haze of terror and sweat, had taught her that she'd been playing at training for years. She had been lucky. She should have died. To be praised by the others for what now seemed a stupid game pained her. Yet what could she tell them?

Boromir's accusing her of lying made her see why she had never thought of what she did as Dernhelm as a lie. Too many people knew. Her cousin and brother. The men in their éored. Their wives and sisters and daughters. Probably most of the people of Edoras, given how the close-knit clans of the Rohirrim talked. Everyone had helped keep her secret that wasn't one.

Looking up into the dazzle of the sun, feeling tears in her eyes, Éowyn thought bitterly that the only people who had not known were Théoden and Grima. Perhaps a few commanders. Those few who did not last long, who were unpopular with the men of their éoreds. The Rohirrim would not follow orders only because the man who gave them had a title. If enough men complained about a leader, the King removed him.

Remembering how Aragorn had asked about Dernhelm, she was sure he had never been fooled. Only Boromir. And that thought led her again to the accusation that had so angered her.

Éowyn had not thought of Dernhelm as a lie, but she now saw what had happened in a new light. Everyone who had known had stood back and indulged her whim. They had let her play with weapons and her horse. And then when she threatened Éomer, and gone out to the wall at Helm's Deep, she had learned how it was not a game. But even then, in some further rage of fear or frustrated pride, she'd joined the Muster with Merry. She told herself her anger was for him when her brother had mocked the reach of his arm with Gamling. But that was a lie she'd told herself.

"Lady!"

Éowyn turned to see Pippin waving and calling to her, Aragorn and Boromir standing. They were leaving. She would have to go down and wish them farewell. She would probably not see them again. Assuming the mask she had worn for so long, she went down the stairs slowly, determined to show them nothing of what she was feeling.

That night, Éowyn dreamed again.

The dead she had seen at Helm's Deep and on the Pelennor surrounded her, bodies gashed and torn, faces twisted with anguish, those faces that she could see beneath the blood. The black shadows that flew high above her head shrieked despair at her. The deaths meant nothing, accomplished nothing. And even worse, Éowyn realized that she could feel nothing as she looked at the carnage before her.

"Wake up, please, Lady!"

Éowyn gasped, choked, and sat up, trying to strike out. Something was attacking her, shaking her.

The light from the small lamp that the Healers left burning all night showed her Pippin, shrinking away from her on the bed.

"I'm sorry," Éowyn said, reaching out with one hand. "What's wrong, Pippin?"

Pippin sat up. "You were crying out," he said. "In your sleep. I didn't know what to do. Should I get a Healer?"

Éowyn wiped her face. She wasn't sure if the dampness was tears or sweat, and maybe it didn't matter. Her robe was twisted around her, the bedding half tossed onto the floor. Her mouth was dry, her heart racing.

But it was just a dream.

"No," she said. "My thanks, but it was just a bad dream."

Pippin frowned at her. "Shouldn't you tell the Healers? Aragorn said to.."

"I know," she said. "And I will. Tomorrow. Truly. But it's not worth disturbing anyone tonight." She reached out to the bedside table where a pitcher of water and clean goblets sat, poured herself water, and drank.

Pippin slid off her bed and went back to lie down by Merry.

She realized that he was still watching her and tried to smile at him.

"I'm going to walk in the garden a while," she said. "Please, do not let me keep you waking." She stood and left the room. Perhaps the fresh air would help her sleep, sleep without dreaming.

Boromir stood on the balcony that opened from his room, looking out over the City. It was past the middle of the night. He should be sleeping. Imrahil had left a pile of scrolls on his desk, information on everything that had planned for the assault. Boromir would have to spend hours tomorrow going over and approving the plans. If he was lucky, he would be able to spend some of that time with Aragorn.

He closed his eyes, remembering how they had walked out of the Houses of Healing earlier that day. They had paused in the street a moment.  

Conscious of the people all around them, the anxious faces focusing on the Steward, on the man about whose healing powers rumours were already spreading through the City, Boromir sighed. He had not wanted to return to the Citadel today, but he could think of no place else where he might find a quiet spot in which to talk to Aragorn.

"Were you able to speak with Éowyn?" Aragorn asked.

"Yes. No. We talked, but…" Boromir started walking, up toward the Seventh Circle, and Aragorn walked beside him. "It was hard. I do not think she wishes to speak to me."

Aragorn seemed to sense his mood and asked nothing further. When they reached the Citadel, Boromir led him past the Courtyard guards, in through the main entrance, through the Great Hall, and beyond, through the Merethrond, and back toward the kitchens.

Faramir and he had played hunting and seeking through all the back passages when they were children, seeking rooms where they could play alone, unsupervised. Boromir still remembered the way to one storeroom where casks of wine were stored, waiting for the great Feast Days.

His memory had not led him astray. The passage was narrow, the doors barely showing in the light of the few torches. The doors were no doubt locked, but Boromir thought the passage would be quiet. None would be preparing for a feast this day.

Boromir stopped, turned to face Aragorn who still did not speak.

Boromir reached out, cupped his hand behind Aragorn's neck, and pulled him close. Leaning against the wall, Boromir pulled Aragorn against him, sliding his arms around him, holding tight. Aragorn breathed out, a small sound, and slid his arms around Boromir in return, relaxing completely against him.

They stood there. Boromir conscious of the warm strength pressed against the length of his body, searching for the words he needed.

Aragorn shifted, spoke softly despite the solitude of the passage. "I assume you are not feeling the need for Healing?"

Boromir bit his lip, remembering the bathing room in Meduseld, and spoke. "Imrahil spoke to me today. I must stay here. As Steward. Until we leave."

Aragorn sighed. "I understand. I should have expected it," he said. "Your people need you here after Denethor's death."

"You could stay here as well," Boromir said. He both appreciated Aragorn's understanding and was frustrated by what seemed his ready acceptance of it. He felt Aragorn's refusal in the shake of his head.

"Best I stay outside the City walls for now," Aragorn said. "A Ranger. Until we return." He pulled back, slid his hands up Boromir's sides, chest, up to hold his head. Leaning forward, Aragorn kissed his forehead.

"The King and the Steward must both live in the Citadel," he said. "Hold that thought in mind tonight." Releasing Boromir, Aragorn turned and left, walking quietly, making the first of the many turns in the passage with confidence. Of course, Boromir realized, watching him leave. He had been here years ago. He would know the Citadel.

Boromir released the breath he'd been holding, tilted his head back against the wall, and cursed under his breath.

He'd not been sure he could sleep tonight. With those last words, Aragorn had made sure he would not.

Boromir stared over the City, watching the red light flickering against the dark sky over Mordor. Even if the forces Aragorn and he planned to lead out of the City could force their way past Minas Morgul, all agreed that route had been the one Frodo and Faramir had most likely taken.  

Instead, the Army of the West would march far to the North, through Ithilien. And challenge the Enemy at the Morannon. The gate Gondor had built and let slide into his hands.

March 18-25 The Host of West marches from Minas Tirith to Morgul Vale, then passes out of Ithilien. They camp in the Desolation of Morannon. They come to the Black Gates where they challenge Sauron.

Boromir stood behind Gandalf and Aragorn and felt as if he was drowning in the black wave of anger that had threatened him since he had seen the dead in his City.

The messenger of Mordor stood in front of them, words dripping like poison out of the smiling mouth. The guard next to him stood silent, displaying Sting, Faramir's sword, and a green jewel, set in silver, strung upon a silver chain.

Boromir thought that the swords alone would not have convinced him. A warrior can lose a sword and survive. But the sight of his mother's favorite necklace robbed him of breath. He had not known Faramir had carried the jewel. Such secrecy for so many years meant that it could only have been taken from him after an intensive search.

Remembering Pippin's tale of what Denethor saw in the palantír, Boromir felt ill. Surely his brother must be dead.   

Gandalf seized the tokens, dismissing the envoy with words of contempt.

They had failed. And Sauron would spread his darkness over all of Middle-earth.

The only thing left was to sell their lives as dearly as possible. Boromir drew his sword and stood beside Aragorn. He would not leave him while they lived.