Hello, everyone!

Thanks for all the feedback these past few days. Today, we finally get through the last bit of The Fellowship of the Ring! I think Senna dreaded this the most because she was probably as afraid to let go of Boromir as Éohild, haha. Or because she hates fight scenes which, despite Amon Hen, may be rather sparse in your opinion. Or it might not be. In which case, wonderful! Either way, this chapter is shorter than most.

And, we know what we said about everything probably being depressing starting from the previous chapter, but we decided that Legolas and Éohild may as well have something of a moment before everyone gets you-know-what! It also serves as a basis for the hurt/comfort/romance/lembas(what?) moments you know are coming. Ha!

One note, which we should have mentioned in the previous chapter. After Lórien, the Fellowship traveled for about 10 days before the Breaking of the Fellowship happened. We took out some scenes (like the orc and Nazgul attack) from the book and kept mostly to the movie version, except the part where they go on land for a while before Sarn Gebir, these rapids they couldn't possibly cross, and carry their boats across the land on a portage-way before using the boats again to get to Emyn Muil. (You'll see this at the start of the chapter. Just to clear things up.)

/

Regin: Hello again! And thank you for another review! :)

Mellon: A mellon, indeed! We're so happy you still like it. Hehe! Please feel free to tell us what you think of Senna's take on this one! Though it is a rather perfunctory chapter in 10th Walker fics now. Your review definitely helped inspire (i.e. Elis slave drive) Senna into working on those updates more quickly!*

twibe: Hello! Yes! Thanks again for the Théoden/Théodred part. That was a typo on Elis' part. To reiterate, Éomer is 27. Éowyn is four years younger at 23, and Éohild is 21, making her the youngest member of the Fellowship. Éohild isn't meant to be a perfect character, so she will have flaws which hopefully get resolved over the course of the story! She's also of the race of Men, which means the Ring will have a pull on her, especially given the problems Rohan currently faces. How she responds to the temptation, however, is based on her self-perception, personality, understanding of the situation, etc. We'll see this chapter! :)

junior-wheel: WOW, thank you so much for the per-chapter review! Feel free to keep it up! Senna loves reading about what people think of the story and Elis just loves typing up replies and getting emails on our account. Yes, we did mean for Éowyn and Éohild to come across as sisters on more-or-less-equal terms. We didn't want Éohild to overshadow the amazing female character that is Éowyn, Lady of Rohan, but we wanted her to have her own personality and achievements (and an excuse to get with Legolas, of course...). At the same time we wanted her to still be the 'little sister' of Éomer and Éowyn, who takes strength from and depends on her older siblings, even if she will have seen more battle and death than her sister. We're so glad you like Éohild!

And yes! In Lothlórien, Legolas did try to change the subject from Haldir and any plighting of troths. Though we'd say that he's not fully aware of why he's doing that himself, yet. (With the mindset of 'She's very young,' even if he respects her, so at that point it's probably more of 'I have only the utmost respect for Haldir, but she's part of our Company so this is making me uncomfortable,' even if we all know what that actually means. Tee hee. Perhaps.) Nice catch! And don't worry, romancing will happen in time!

/

*No Sennas were harmed in the making of this chapter.

One last thing! Because Elis' friend, who wishes to go unnamed, is complaining about the confusing lack of chapter titles, we present you now with generic and/or lame chapter titles! Just to help you distinguish between events. We're very excited now to start with Two Towers! Which will have much more Legolas/Éohild in it, we assure you. It's almost sickening how much romance there's going to be to make up for its absence in the last 7 chapters. Just kidding! Or am I?

For now, though, the Breaking of the Fellowship! Please read on and review below to tell us what you think!


The Province of Men

Chapter 7: Scattered

Having spent the last decade earning her keep in the barracks, Éohild knew by now not to take words spat out in anger to heart; or, at least, not to show it, something she might also have learned from her sister. She and Boromir spoke briefly during breakfast, but only to pass around provisions. He looked neither bitter nor as apologetic as she might have hoped; only distant, as though his thoughts had gone elsewhere when she left him the night previous and he had not yet returned completely.

Éohild was troubled, though she put on her most encouraging expression for the others and managed to coax one out of Merry. That cheered her a little, in turn, until she met Frodo's gaze. He wore a smile, but it seemed strained, like he pitied her. Had the others heard Boromir's admonishment? Or perhaps it was fear and she merely saw too much.

"Legolas and I will go forward along the shore," said Aragorn, motioning to the path ahead of them. The early morning fog had unsettled them, and their leader wished to see if the portage-way spotted yesterday remained traversable all throughout before setting the entire Company on its path. "The rest will remain here. If we do not return in a day…"

"Wait, Aragorn," said Éohild, fixing her belt onto her waist. "I would join you."

He nodded and gave the others further instructions. Boromir simply agreed, and looked absent still. They set off with Aragorn at the head and Éohild taking the rear. The road was narrow and the ground made uneven with divots, as though those who had last used the portage-way had given up and dragged their boats along the soil instead. Éohild took her time spotting rocks obscured by the dirt that might make their journey more taxing and considered it her duty to toss them off the path.

To keep herself engaged amidst the tall boulders and trees, she counted the rocks, and she had heaved her twenty-eighth into the mist when she realized she had lost her companions.

"Aragorn?" she whispered. They had been quiet so as not to attract any possible pursuers—especially a creature named Gollum who had stalked them since Moria. Aragorn had mentioned him as the three of them left earlier. What kind of creature might he be? She wondered. Small and hunched; gaunt, Legolas had described with pity in his voice. Éohild did not understand. "Legolas?"

She turned in circles searching for them so that she had forgotten whence they came. Fear crept closer, but she knew better. Going back would mean seeing the others, and going forward would have her meet with Aragorn and Legolas. But Aragorn had mentioned forks in the road should they return and had taken note for them, aloud, which paths to take upon their return.

Not that, then. She would follow the rocks and the river! Éohild had kept her eyes on the ground for her task and the path littered with rocks would be the way forward. And though she could hear the fury of Sarn Gebir all around her for how loud it was, she attempted to pinpoint which direction would have the river's roaring to her left. Understanding now her tasks, she kept on, staying the course behind her companions.

That was when the leaves rustled, stopped, and Éohild had hunted with Boromir long enough to have heard at least one footfall despite the water. Drawing a blade, she whirled. Meeting her steel with his own, her pursuer appeared more taken aback than malicious.

"Legolas," she sighed in relief and sheathed her weapon. "Forgive me. I had thought you a beast. Lightfooted," she corrected herself, "if there ever existed such a creature. I was quite preoccupied."

Was that a smirk? Éohild could not tell amidst the fog and pale morning. "Yes," he replied, "Aragorn bade me leave you to your path-clearing. He insisted you would follow eventually."

Éohild coughed. "Yes, eventually. As you can see, I still am, er, path-clearing."

"I shall aid you."

"Oh! Well, thank you, Legolas. It isn't that I need aid in any manner," she reminded him as much as herself, still remembering Boromir's words, "but…I would be glad of your help."

Legolas inclined his head and peered at the ground. "Fallen rocks, then?"

"Yes. Over which the party might stumble, like this one," she said, moving past him to dig up a slab of rock the length of her forearm buried in the soil. Legolas inspected it, carried it, and tossed it to the side. "Yes, exactly like that."

"Might you lead on?" he asked. Éohild looked ahead. Visibility was still rather low, but a little beneath eye-level, it was not too difficult to see the ground. The Hobbits would see well enough here. With Legolas in tow, she lost count of the rocks, but it certainly was faster.

Legolas preferred to line the path with rocks instead of casting them aside completely. He dropped the latest one along the edge, then spoke. "Aragorn and I parted ways here. He should be further along the path. Shall we continue?"

Why he asked her at each turn confused her. "Yes," she sighed, picking up another rock and lining it along the way. But Legolas hadn't moved. It looked as though her sigh had caused him some consternation.

The Elf had long ago lost his naïveté when it came to traveling parties. He did not think it necessary that all members must become great friends; only that they should efficiently accomplish their task. They were only fortunate that their Company had grown so close over the past months, and now this included himself, Gimli, and Éohild the past week. But it had been clear to all that Boromir and Éohild were as brother and sister, "if not lovers," Pippin sometimes teased behind their backs (though Legolas thought he saw no inclination from either of them).

Though the rest slumbered the night previous, Legolas had only watched the stars. Their way forward worried him and a terrible inkling nagged his senses, and it was this—not his own will—which led him to overhear the awful argument between the two. He supposed to have been shocked would have been foolishness, or a betrayal of his senses. Boromir had been quiet of late, with the foulest of moods, and ever since she had cried out on the river for no reason, Éohild had kept to herself, as well. But no one deserved such words as she'd taken from him.

"Legolas?" her call roused him. And then, a tone in her voice he did not expect. "I did not think Elves were the sort to daydream through an important task."

A smile flickered on her lips. She meant to tease. "I allowed you merely to equal my…rock count," he informed her, eyes sparkling with amusement. None of their Company had shown any inclination for mirth since their departure, and so he welcomed this fully. "I have heard that oft do Men lumber about with their burdens."

Éohild gave half a guffaw and a scoff. "It is expected, I suppose. We are not apt to completing tasks looking as though frolicking in a meadow."

He only blinked in reply. "You speak as though frolicking is a thing to cause shame."

At his genuinely confused expression, Éohild tried to stifle a giggle. "Allow me to explain, Master Elf. Most Men…warriors, that is, would refuse to frolic in a meadow. Or anywhere, for that matter."

"…Does this augment their proficiency in battle?" he asked thoughtfully. "I have never heard of it."

At last, Éohild felt guilt for laughing at him so, and schooled her features. "Forgive me, Legolas. I mean no disrespect and know now that Men and Elves truly differ: our customs, our expectations of warriors, of men and women…"

Legolas still failed to understand why she had found humor in his words, but perhaps Aragorn would answer it another day. Her apologetic expression had quelled any indignation he might possess, and he nodded. "Nevertheless," he said, "You would remain a warrior regarded and recognized by both Men and Elves."

His kind smile surprised her. Then Éohild faltered, and comprehension filled her stance. "You heard us, last night. I know the face you wear," she muttered. "Pity. I have seen it many times. You can be assured that I need it not."

"One pities a helpless child," answered Legolas. "Not a great warrior, or a trusted friend. I meant only that Boromir's words must not dishearten you. Friends speak unkindly at times, when troubled."

Éohild appeared reluctant to agree. "Boromir is greatly troubled."

"Know that none in our party believe such false words. Boromir least of all." The truth was that Legolas was not certain of this, but neither could he believe otherwise. Boromir was a good man and a trusted ally, and the others relied on him for much; Éohild the most. It would not do to let any of them despair, especially now that their journey would surely lead them to peril. Though Boromir himself had despaired at Aragorn's refusal to turn to Minas Tirith…he would speak of it with Aragorn on less precarious shores.

Éohild nodded at first, unable to speak. It touched her, truly, that Legolas would speak such kindness, and she did believe that Boromir's own worry had caused his cutting words. They remained with her nonetheless, but she was grateful. "Thank you, Legolas. But who else…?"

"I cannot be certain," he admitted innocently. "Gimli may have…though it was difficult to ascertain as he snored."

"Indeed, I had never thought you might be so cruel!" Éohild's embarrassment faded when she laughed, though she knew it to be true.

Before Legolas could speak in his own defense, however, the sound of footsteps approached and Aragorn emerged from the mist. He quirked a brow, eyes squinted at the stones lining the path, but said only, "The rapids end but half a mile below us, and beyond it the stream becomes clear and smooth again, though it remains swift. It shall be safe until we reach the Argonath."

"Excellent," remarked Éohild, still smiling at the Elf, but she knew there existed more important matters on which to dwell. With a serious countenance now, she faced Aragorn. "To camp, then?"

The fog receded as the three found their way back to the boats, and by then it was almost noontime. Frodo looked especially relieved upon their return and was highly agreeable to traveling at once, though Éohild rather dreaded carrying the boats. But they were lighter than expected, and the Hobbits were able to pull theirs out of the water while Gimli collected the baggage.

"What do Hobbits carry in these things?" grumbled Gimli, dragging their packs next to boats beached on the gravel.

Situating as much as he could carry on his person as he prepared to lift one of the boats with Boromir, Aragorn looked over his shoulder. "Overwhelmed, Gimli? Éohild might share your burden."

When Legolas and Éohild had made stand one of the light Elf boats, the latter shook her head. "I would, but I'm to carry our boat. Whose is that pack?"

Gimli wrinkled his nose at Aragorn at the very suggestion. "Share the burden! Unnecessary… Just like all this…" he gestured to the pack, various equipment hanging from its sides, "what is this…"

"Oh!" Sam dropped Boromir's belongings and left Frodo's side to take from Gimli his heavy backpack, the largest in the Company. The others stared curiously. Its bulk and height—almost exactly the Hobbits'—gave it the look of an awful burden, but Sam had never so much as grunted in complaint. They'd hardly even noticed it till then. "That'd be mine, Gimli. It has rope, a frying pan, barrow-blades, sausages, lembas, taters—"

"Lembas!" Pippin gaped at Sam and the pack. He hadn't smiled for days, and so it felt as though his mouth had solidified into a near-frown, but the glee was familiar and he did not turn it away. "You kept them?"

"Naturally," frowned Sam, stepping away when the Hobbit came closer. Pippin's sigh was filled with palpable longing. "We're going to need it down the road."

Éohild nodded. "Especially when our supplies begin to dwindle." Nobody heard Boromir grunt in frustration.

Merry gave her an all-too-pleasant grin. "You still have an entire satchel of them, don't you, Éohild?"

"Not until we finish Sam's stock of regular food," she said, glancing at the Hobbit next to Aragorn. "And at present, they are not mine to give. 'Tis Frodo who keeps them safe for me as we traverse the portage-way."

The Ring-bearer inclined his head with a small, knowing smile.

"You wound me, milady," Merry squeezed his eyes painfully shut, a fist to his chest. "Would you still distrust a Hobbit who swore not to take more than his fair share of lembas?"

"Tread carefully, Merry," warned Aragorn, though he was also glad of the party's generally lifted mood. "The Rohirrim do not take oaths lightly, nor do they easily forgive those who speak falsehood."

Uplifted to see Frodo wear even the tiniest smile, Sam allowed himself some amusement and cleared his throat. "Then I wouldn't make that oath so quickly."

"Nevertheless," enunciated Gimli, still holding the Hobbit's things, "I suggest you take the weapons, lad." He loosened and searched the pack, then handed Sam the blades. "Makes everything much lighter on your back."

"Always keep them close," agreed Legolas, looking warily round. "We are far, now, from friends in Lórien."

Nodding, Aragorn and Boromir were cordial as they led the group and lifted one boat together. Behind them, Frodo and Sam carried their packs. Legolas and Éohild brought along their boat while Merry, Pippin, and Gimli stayed behind with the last. It was an easy trip, though the last third of the journey had them nearly stumbling over the rocks they had failed to move, as well as crouching beneath the lee of a rock-wall.

Aragorn, Éohild, and Frodo left to retrieve the last boat while the rest kept the first two by the shore. And finally they all reached the southern landing past the head of the rapids, where it was safe once more to journey by boat. As he, Gimli and Éohild settled into theirs, Legolas watched the others set off. He was almost sorry to impose the air of discouragement that had blanketed their camaraderie since Moria, but it was imperative. It had needled his senses for days now, and he could ignore it no longer. Enemies would come upon them soon.


Their ninth day saw them pass the Gates of Argonath. Aragorn marveled at the great figures cut by the statues of Isildur and Anárion, brothers who ruled and fought together in the Second Age before the War of the Last Alliance rent their kingdom's forces. My kin, Aragorn breathed in wonder at the sight.

Éohild understood his denial of Boromir's request to travel to Minas Tirith, disheartening though it was to hear, but all this time, Aragorn had denied his inheritance. That he should call these Men his kin now after saying such things both to Boromir upset her. For the moment, Éohild brushed it away. It would do them no good for her to harbor ill will toward any in the Company, least of all for personal reasons. If his inability to accept his birthright did not hinder their journey, she would say nothing.

On their tenth day, they disembarked on a crop of land not far from a waterfall at the base of Amon Hen. Legolas stood by the river, watching out as always, while Gimli took to honing his axe. Settling on the right end of camp, Sam had found the corner of a rock to lie against with Pippin, Merry, and Éohild sitting before him in similar fatigue. It was to them Aragorn spoke.

"We cross the lake at nightfall. Hide the boats and continue on foot," he commanded. "We approach Mordor from the North." Éohild and Merry groaned in response, but rose to pull the boats closer where the foliage would conceal them and left to collect firewood for the camp.

Gimli, however, was hard-pressed to follow as easily. "Oh, yes?" his chuckle rang with mockery. There had been no attempt on his part to conceal his frustrations of late, borne of worries for their party members—the Hobbits especially—though he knew himself it would have been better to simply move on. "It's just a simple matter of finding our way through Emyn Muil? An impassable labyrinth of razor sharp rocks! And after that, it gets even better!" His ire was only encouraged by the alarm clear on Sam's and Pippin's faces. "Festering, stinking marshlands, far as the eye can see!"

Aragorn would brook no disagreement today. It was here their final decision would be made, and he knew that the subtlest show of hesitation would give Boromir hope for Gondor. Though he shared the Captain's fears, Aragorn had no intention of traveling there. Not with the Ring in his grasp.

"That is our road," he replied tersely. "I suggest you take some rest and recover your strength, Master Dwarf."

"Recover my—!?" Gimli snorted at that. Only he had enough fire in him left to speak his mind!

Ignoring the coming argument of his companions, Legolas approached Aragorn. Surely he would see sense, now that the Company was unarguably restless. "We should leave now."

Aragorn was adamant. "No. Orcs patrol the eastern shore. We must wait for cover of darkness."

"It is not the eastern shore that worries me," insisted Legolas, and turned his gaze to the pine forest ahead of them. "A shadow and a threat has been growing in my mind. Something draws near—I can feel it."

Éohild followed Merry back to camp, taking his share of the firewood and arranging them next to Sam. Gimli was muttering something or the other about how preposterous it sounded, his needing rest. Since all of the Company had noticed his demeanor the past week—gruffer than usual, sharper in tone—they wisely remained silent.

Merry did, however, notice one thing. "Where's Frodo?"

A foreboding silence fell over the camp. At once Éohild's eyes flew to where she last saw Boromir—there only lay his belongings now, covered by his shield. Aragorn knew her mind as she looked to him in fear.

"Éohild, with me." He picked up his sheathe and tied it round his waist, motioning to the upward path that forked before them as the rest of the Company jumped to their feet. "Gimli. Legolas. Take the western path."

"Aye," said Gimli, irritation all but distinguished as he and Legolas nodded at one another. He tossed his honing steel aside and fixed on his helm. "What about the Hobbits?"

Aragorn met their expectant glances with a shake of his head. "Stay put," he ordered, "and stay hidden. Should Boromir or Frodo return, wait for us."

When Éohild finished slipping on her leather vambraces, the Big Folk and Gimli disappeared into the wilderness. Left behind with the rest of their equipment, Sam, Merry, and Pippin exchanged urgent expressions.

"We…we can't just stay put," murmured Sam.

"He's right," said Pippin, fist clamped tightly around the hilt of his Noldorin dagger. Lady Galadriel had said he would find his courage, and this was one thing to be brave for if there ever was one. "Big People tend to miss us, sometimes!"

"That's it, then," Merry decided, meeting the slope of the path with ready strides. "What are we waiting for?"


Aragorn tracked Frodo in silence, as he and Éohild had agreed not to call out and attract any other pursuers. They had not spoken of it, but both knew who such a pursuer might be. It had been difficult to miss the strange glances Boromir had sent Frodo's way since their arguments with him prior to Sarn Gebir, and their reason vastly more painful to accept even as conjecture.

"Here," grunted Aragorn, waving his hands at a trail of twigs crushed beneath what Éohild assumed were Halfling footsteps.

She followed him to a hill crested by a tall structure that must have been part of a greater edifice in a time long past; they had skirted past broken statue faces and columns of similar make on the way. Stone eagles perched at the top, but it was the Hobbit sprawled amid the leaves at its feet which caught their eyes.

Éohild stood next to Aragorn as he approached slowly, hands raised in surrender. "Frodo?"

At the sight of them, Frodo whirled and scrambled to his toes. That he should fear them, his own friends—both Men already knew. "It has taken Boromir!"

Aragorn frowned deeply. "Where is the Ring?"

"Stay away!" cried Frodo. Éohild grabbed Aragorn's arm, a grip he promptly shook away. Still it seemed to have affected him, as his menacing advance toward the Hobbit ceased.

"We would never hurt you, Frodo," said Éohild, though her voice wavered.

"We swore to protect you," finished Aragorn.

"Can you protect me from yourself?" He held the Ring out to them on his palm, blue eyes watching warily. Éohild was torn. Aragorn approached Frodo, reaching for his hand, but she could not move to stop him. She thought of her Uncle, whose illness the Ring might have the power to heal, a safe family, a safe people, just as she and Haldir had hoped.

But she also remembered Frodo's eyes, the innocent gaze that had captured her heart from the moment Pippin introduced them, that engulfing need to protect him. The difference now was that she knew he was no child; he was a brave, strong Hobbit, and his eyes betrayed his intentions. If he meant to leave them…she feared the strength of his body, but trusted his heart to complete their journey.

"Riders of the Mark do not take oaths lightly," she repeated, and breathed a sigh of relief. Suddenly she felt free of the Ring's grasp, as though in facing and denying it outright, she had finally overcome its allure.

Aragorn faced Frodo and closed the Hobbit's fingers around the Ring with a gentleness he had not seen since their first meeting. "I would have gone with you to the end."

"I know," said Frodo, gratefully, to them both. "Look after the others. Especially Sam. He will not understand." Neither did Éohild, in truth. All her life she had worked within a unit, and striking out alone was unthinkable. But she would respect his wishes.

Suddenly, Aragorn leapt to his feet and took a step back, nearly bumping into Éohild. She saw the cause of his alarm in the glow of Frodo's hip—rather, his sword, Sting. "Go, Frodo," urged their leader.

When their Ring-bearer looked at them a last time, fear and worry and trust etched on his features, Éohild heard it finally. Disciplined marching, and the stench of filth she had been born and raised to fight. "Go!" she cried, lifting him by the shoulders herself. She meant to share a last embrace with him, but there was no time. "Run!"

Frodo skidded down the small hill and disappeared from sight, lost to them, perhaps forever. At that moment, it was for the best—the snarls and grunts of fury had reached them, and behind the small structure the gruesome, yellow-eyed Uruk-hai bearing the White Hand of Isengard advanced. They were just as Gandalf had described. Aragorn and Éohild spoke no further, drew only their blades, and faced their hunters head on.

"Here is your quarry," snapped Éohild, knees bent and ready. "What now?"

The wretched creatures gave no reply save to rush forward at the pair, squawking and shrieking as monsters were wont. Their practice sessions with the Hobbits all those months ago saw their use now: each Man knew well the techniques of the other, and paired together, Aragorn and Éohild were an efficient pair. He deflected their mighty blows and she incapacitated them while distracted.

But the Uruk-hai numbered a hundred, certainly more, and drove into the structure, up the stairs next to the sitting eagles. Éohild spun with her blades out to scatter them, tackling one's back and running a sword through the opening of its helmet. Its brothers wailed at the sight, but only for the perceived threat. They tossed its corpse aside soon enough while its attacker scrambled up the steps for Aragorn.

"Find the Halfling!" roared one of the Uruks still on the ground, bearing no helmet: a symbol of its rank. "Find the Halfling!"

Aragorn rushed past Éohild, who thrust her blades into the waiting necks of two who might harm him and kicked them aside. And then he leapt from the perch with a cry to his forefather, "Elendil!" Beheading an Uruk as he fell, he rolled into the crunched leaves as another ran itself into his ready steel.

Éohild thought it a good enough plan, seeing that she was cornered, and jumped into the fray with him. Eorl! was her cry, and just as she landed on bruising knees, she felt a weight on her back as a vision flew before her. Gimli and Legolas, axes thrown and bowstring drawn; the Elf had shot an Uruk poised to slit her throat.

"Aragorn, Éohild, go!" barked Legolas. Éohild elbowed the corpse off her back and ran forward, clasping fists with Gimli for only a beat before lunging after Aragorn.

They followed Frodo's trail, stalked by the running Uruk-hai, and cut them off as they descended the hill. Aragorn caught their attention with a slice to the knees of the creature who led them, flipping him over and sending him tumbling down the slope. They ran into a new set of pillars forming an archway as half the Uruk forces headed now for them. From every direction they came at the two, some stronger than the rest. Éohild had the pleasure of dealing with one such creature.

It was her antithesis, wide and broadly built, its swords doubly bent, wearing a sneer that could have rendered her a little girl at the cusp of adolescence stranded in a dank cave if she were any less courageous. It had chosen her over her over her taller companion, swarmed as he was by its brethren, and it did not share. She was a woman, it could see, by the curve of her leather cuirass against her chest and the soft features of her face. She would sate well its bloodlust.

Éohild watched it slog across the trees to her, her grasp on the hilt of her swords aching in anticipation. Too soon it came upon her, swinging its twisted blades, and she ducked beneath its legs. It wore a groin guard, and at present she did not trust her strength to follow through with such a base attack enough to come out unscathed. It lifted its swords, preparing to cleave her in half—only it missed, as she barreled to the side.

She struggled to her knees, but the Uruk swiftly stomped down at her. Éohild moved only enough to spare her ribs, leaving exposed her shoulder. Her left arm burned underneath its sharp heel, eliciting a pained screech, and her opponent's body shuddered with howling laughter.

"No," groaned Éohild, voice hoarse, struggling to break away. She allowed it to kick her on her back to free her right arm. Numb it was for having been grazed into the dirt, but no less eager to fight for her life.

Her blade found its way to the monster's shin and dug deep. The Uruk staggered back with a bellow, giving Éohild time to regain her equilibrium. With a single swipe, she tore the weapon from its leg and sliced upward, hacking off an arm. It was distracted now, swinging wildly with its remaining limb. Leaping on its back, Éohild wrenched its helmet away and nearly balked at the stench of dry blood, but kept to her task and drove her second sword into its head.

It fell forward, face first into the dirt. Climbing off him, Éohild held her left arm and flinched. All the injuries it had sustained in the past revealed their fortune to her now. With one arm well enough and both legs in perfect condition, fighting remained an option, injury be damned. Past a few trees and behind an archway, she spotted Legolas and Aragorn still fighting off an endless horde. She had gone to them slowly, regaining her balance, when unfamiliar horn-blasts sounded out.

"The Horn of Gondor!" gasped Legolas.

"Boromir," murmured Aragorn, shoving down a slain Uruk-hai. He looked behind him and fell into step with Éohild, bounding in the direction of the rest of the Uruks. Legolas sprinted in their wake, firing at those who would ambush his friends.

It was a steady descent, but their way to Boromir seemed no quicker. They were caught constantly by Uruks who sought to deter them, and when their numbers had dissipated, it was clear the creatures had succeeded. At the foot of the hills was a figure, shoulders slumped, forced on his knees before a helmless Uruk-hai who drew an arrow, ready to shoot him down like a beast.

"Go, Éohild!"

She had needed no orders. Sprinting, she vaulted, tackled the Uruk and sent its bow far from them both. Aragorn met the Uruk-hai's blade with his before it could retaliate. The two seemed of equal strength, and Éohild had just run to Boromir's side when the filthy Uruk threw its bladed shield at Aragorn, trapping him to a tree.

He slipped from underneath it just as decapitation was in sight and hurled a fist into the Uruk's stomach. It kicked him instead, drawing its heavy two-handed sword from the tree, while Aragorn evaded it and unsheathed one of his small throwing knives. He and Éohild were of the same thought: he dug the blade into its knee. This earned him a beating, and Éohild could watch no longer.

She caught a handful of the Uruk-hai's hair and tugged as it lifted Aragorn in the air. Tossing the man aside in favor of the girl, the Uruk turned on her. It pulled the knife from its leg and licked its own viscous blood from the steel, eyes on Éohild all the while. The woman was unable to help the disgusted expression that made it laugh.

"No!" cried Aragorn, shoving past Éohild and drawing her sword from its sheath. He engaged the Uruk at once, jerking his head at Boromir, and she understood.

Éohild scurried to Boromir as her wound shot a surge of pain through her left arm. He had lain against the ground, but she dragged him with all her might to the slope of a rising mound of leaves. Reaching for the arrows on his chest, she begged, "Boromir, lie still!"

He clasped his fingers round hers and stiffly shook his head. "Éohild, I've failed! I tried—"

"Stop! You've failed no one, Boromir," she hushed. She could do nothing else, save to press around the arrows that marred his chest and forestall the loss of blood. Yet his features began to pale. "You cannot go, Boromir," she whispered, vision misting from her tears. "Who will I look to? If you cannot brush this away, what will become of me, a lesser warrior? You must live…"

"No, no—" he protested weakly. "I was mistaken. You are a better Man than I, Éohild. My greatest friend. You've—"

"Shh," she pleaded, tightening her grip on his to resist the urge to sob. Words would only weaken them both. "Aragorn will save you."

Finally, Aragorn knocked down the Uruk-hai and managed to behead it. He came to them at once, and Boromir nearly wept at the sight of their leader. Éohild moved for Aragorn to speak with their friend. "They took the little ones," he confessed. "Frodo...where is Frodo?"

"We let Frodo go," answered Aragorn, looking quickly over his wounds.

"Then you did what I could not," whimpered Boromir, breathing hitched with difficulty. "I tried to take the Ring from him…"

"The Ring is beyond our reach now."

"Forgive me," he asked, gripping Aragorn's shoulder, though his eyes searched Éohild's as well. She had not removed her hand from his. "I've failed you all."

"No, Boromir! You fought bravely," Aragorn reassured him, free hand reaching for the arrow in his chest. He could only assume that Éohild's attempt had been deflected. "You have kept your honor—"

"Leave it!" Boromir insisted. Éohild looked away as he cried for his city, despaired of the ruin that would befall Middle-earth. It was unbearable to see him so weak, so despondent, this man she had followed blindly to the North and who had told her not to lose hope. She wished she could comfort him, but only Aragorn held that power, and she felt infinitely grateful when he used it.

"I do not know what strength is in my blood, but I swear to you: I will not let the White City fall, nor our people fail!"

"Our people?" Boromir repeated. Éohild had seen many a comrade's death and knew he clung now to the last vestiges of life. But there was also hope, the one thing she could have wished for him in death. "Our people," he agreed, a smile finally on his lips, as Aragorn helped his right hand clasp his sword over his chest. "I would have followed you, my brother. My Captain. My King…!"

With a last squeeze of Éohild's hand, Boromir allowed the life to fade from his gaze, and he breathed no more. Aragorn touched his hand to his forehead and to his lips in a prayer Éohild did not know. Gently, she released Boromir and lowered his eyelids.

"Be at peace, Son of Gondor," whispered Aragorn, pressing his lips to the man's forehead.

Searching Boromir's face, Éohild could have believed he only slept, as in the days they had traveled together toward Rivendell, had spoken of bringing his brother and her sister together, had hoped against hope for peace in their lands and a greater friendship between both kingdoms; the kind they had shared. But Boromir was gone now, the Horn of Gondor cut clean in half. The arrows of Saruman's Uruks had taken him from them.

"They will look for his coming from the White Tower. But he will not return."

She found the strength to look upon Aragorn, face stained with dirt, blood, and tears. It was only then that she saw Legolas standing behind him, Gimli at his side, heads bowed in sorrow and respect. It was tempting to simply lie there—he was her best friend, and it would only have been right— but the same wish had come to her upon Gandalf's death. Neither of them would have willed that they cease simply for their deaths.

"Something honorable…" she muttered. The others watched her with confusion, so Éohild rose and spoke clearly. "I will not leave him here. He would have desired an honorable farewell."

"The boats," said Legolas, without hesitation, meeting her gaze with one of apology. "Let us lay him in a boat with his weapons, where he may lie at peace."

Aragorn nodded. "We will send him to the Falls of Rauros and give him to Anduin. The River of Gondor will take care that no creature dishonors his bones."

Gimli and Éohild agreed to it and set to their task. Spent though they were in heart and body, their movements were quick and soon they stood ashore. They spoke few words, and Éohild had little to share that the others would have understood. The men allowed her to keep steady the boat. Boromir lay within it, clasping his sword and the Horn of Gondor, his shield at his head. Éohild bent over to plant a last kiss on Boromir's cheek.

"Goodbye, my friend. 'Twas your courage and my fortune that led you to me. May they bear you home, swift and safe."

Free of her hand, the boat sailed toward the waterfall. Éohild ran along the shore, taking his last journey with him until it tipped over the edge and the white water obscured all from sight. She wished to weep, but she stayed her heart for his memory. His was the only face she had known in the treacherous wilderness of old glories. His was the face that kept her alive. Boromir had been her brother, her sister, her People; he was the greatest of them, and now he had fallen. What now could she do?

Aragorn held the answer in his mournful yet confident bearing. Legolas had thought to follow Frodo and Sam across the eastern shore, unaware that this separation had been their Ring-bearer's intention. Upon seeing Éohild keep to her slow pace even as he forced the last boat toward the water, however, the Elf understood. He turned to Aragorn with disappointment.

"…You mean not to follow them."

"Frodo's fate is no longer in our hands," admitted the man, wounds patched up with cloth from their few extra tunics. Despite her protests, Legolas had earlier done the same for Éohild while the others prepared Boromir's belongings.

Gimli approached them too, standing across Legolas, between Éohild and Aragorn. "Then it has all been in vain! The Fellowship has failed."

"Not if we hold true to each other," came the answer. Aragorn clasped arms with Legolas and Gimli, who were inclined to do the same to Éohild. "We will not abandon Merry and Pippin to torment and death. Not while we have strength left." When the Dwarf and Elf nodded, Aragorn looked at last to Éohild.

It shamed her to have forgotten the others, but Éohild agreed, returning the tight squeeze her friends had given her shoulders. She'd had reservations, but it was as though she had known it even in the beginning, and Boromir had loved him in the end. Aragorn was more than a Man to admire; he was one she could follow wholeheartedly. "Boromir fulfilled his oath to his dying breath. So must we keep ours!"

Aragorn cracked a smile, dropping his arms and sheathing his weaponry, tightening his bandages and preparing to set off. "Leave all that can be spared—we travel light. Let us hunt some Orc!"

"Yes!" cried their Dwarf, pumping an axe into the air, exchanging grins with Legolas and Éohild. All three allowed it: their sorrow to make way for determination, for courage, for hope, and swept past the dark trees to hurtle after Aragorn.