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Thanks to Catching Fireflies for Beta-ing.


The ash was choking him, coating his mouth and slithering down his throat in a powdery river. Gil-galad could not stop himself from coughing, and a fine spray of ash from his mouth dusted the back of Boromir's head.

Why did I roll into the unlit fire? Gil-galad wondered, impressed by his own stupidity. Now I can hardly speak, and I feel as if I could fall off the horse I ride on! He doubled forward with another fit of coughing. But I must not! I must ride through the gates. For Boromir! For Isildur!

If there was ever a time Gil-galad felt like weeping, it was then. Boromir was unconscious, only still on the horse thanks to Gil-galad firmly holding him on it. Isildur was captured, and most likely injured. Gil-galad had nearly wept as he saw the orcs dragging Isildur into one of the tents. It choked him to see the Man he cared for like a brother being treated like a filthy animal. And Boromir! Boromir, with a bloody cut on his arm, with a dazed expression on his face. Gil-galad had not known Boromir as long as he had known Isildur, but he cared for him all the same. It was the worst of tortures to have seen the two Men in such pitiful conditions.

The gates approached, and Gil-galad halted his horse, making sure that Boromir stayed seated. "Open the gates!" he shouted. His voice was so raspy and damaged by the ash he had inhaled that even he did not understand what he was saying. "Open the-" Suddenly, Gil-galad found that he was shouting, and no sound was coming from his mouth. Desperation made him impatient, and he was quite tempted to leap off his horse and rattle the gates, until a person's voice came from inside.

"Who are you?" the sharp voice asked. "What is your name?" Gil-galad valiantly tried to speak, but the ash clogged up his throat so much he could not. He sat there helplessly on his horse, balancing Boromir in front of him.

To his gladness, a familiar voice interrupted the first. "Open the gates, quickly!"

Aragorn! Gil-galad thought, relieved, as the gates were opened. He quickly drove his horse through the shining gates, hunched forward over Boromir's body protectively, vainly trying to keep himself on his mount. Gil-galad found himself surrounded by nearly a dozen guardsmen. Aragorn stood near them, his face both stern and concerned.

"What has happened?" he asked Gil-galad. "Where is Isildur?" Gil-galad tried to cough and enable himself to speak, and ended up getting more ash in his throat. His breaths came out as strained hisses. "Can you not speak?" Gil-galad shook his head, holding fast to the dead weight of Boromir. "Good Valar!" Aragorn exclaimed, examining Gil-galad's tired horse. "Your horse needs resting. I am afraid we must go on foot to the Citadel."

Gil-galad shook his head, his arms still wrapped around Boromir's unconscious body. He gave a mighty cough, and found his throat was a bit cleared. "No- no need to go to the Citadel," he rasped. Ash slid down his throat. "Boromir is- is in need of... of care immediately." It was a struggle to get words out. He attempted to swing himself down from his horse, but as he was still holding Boromir up, he found the action rather difficult to carry out. He ended up tumbling off the horse, holding tightly to his companion. Gil-galad landed on his feet in an awkward stagger, struggling to hold up Boromir. Fortunately, Aragorn rushed to his side and helped hold up Boromir's weight.

"Let us go to the stables," the King said. "There is medicine kept there, if we are in need of it." With a short nod, Gil-galad began walking forward, aiding Aragorn in holding up Boromir. The Man was still completely unconscious. When they arrived in the stables, Boromir was laid down carefully on a bed of hay away from the stalls of horses. His face was oddly peaceful, and he looked many years younger than he really was. He looked quite vulnerable, in Gil-galad's eyes, and Gil-galad felt rather protective of him, like a brother or a father would.

I shall not let harm come to you, Boromir son of Denethor, he swore silently. Never again.

Aragorn was not looking down at Boromir, though. He peered worriedly at Gil-galad. "What is wrong with your voice?" he asked.

"Ash," Gil-galad managed to choke out. An orc had tried to spear him, and he had hit the ground to duck the weapon- and fallen right into an old fire-circle. The Elf put a hand to his face. It came away grey and black. He imagined he must look ridiculous.

"I see," said Aragorn. His eyes scanned the room. "I believe there is water there," he said, pointing to the small one-roomed building attached to the stables. Gil-galad took one last look at Boromir and walked into the building. It was filled with remedies -undoubtedly for injured or sick horses- and a barrel of water sat in the corner of the room. Gil-galad eyed it doubtfully, for after all, it was sitting by a horse-filled stable. But the water appeared clear and fresh. Gil-galad found a wooden mug beside the barrel, so he dipped it into the water and drank deeply. It pained him greatly to swallow, but the water washed the ash out of his throat, and when he tried to speak, his voice only sounded slightly hoarse.

He walked back to the main stables to discover Aragorn kneeling beside the lying form of a conscious Boromir. The Man was stiffened in pain, and his face was quite pale. "They should not have- have gone after me..." he said through clenched teeth. His eyes were screwed shut. "What is this pain?" he moaned, his hands gripping the straw beneath him. "I feel as if I have been roasted over a fire and bled till I collapsed... I am only still dreaming? Could it be that I am still among the enemy?"

Gil-galad stepped forward quietly, and, on a sudden impulse, crouched and seized Boromir's battle-worn hand. "Peace, Boromir," he said, struggling to remain calm. "You are among friends."

"Gil-galad?" Boromir asked weakly. His eyes opened, and he stared up at his companion. Gil-galad thought that, for a second, Boromir looked like an injured child. "What happened? Where am I? Where is Isildur? Why do I feel so much pain?"

"Isildur and I left Minas Tirith to rescue you from the Blue Wizard and his orcs," said Gil-galad patiently. He felt a stab of mixed guilt and pain as he said, "I last saw Isildur being dragged away by the orcs. His horse had fallen, and he with it. He looked as if he could not run. The orcs caught up with him." Gil-galad swallowed hard. His throat felt clogged up still, but not by ash. "I know not where he is."

Boromir's face went even paler. "I was not worth rescuing," he said angrily. "You should not have came to the camp." His eyes were haunted as he stared up at Aragorn and Gil-galad.

"Nonsense, Boromir," said Gil-galad, shocked by Boromir's dismissal of his own worth. "I am angry of Isildur's capture, but I rejoice at the fact that you are safe."

"It was a failed rescue," Aragorn spoke up firmly, "but only in some aspects. Now, Boromir, where do you feel pain?"

Boromir's face was contorted in seeming agony. "My feet, I believe. Possibly my legs." Aragorn nodded, and began to unlace Boromir's worn boots. Boromir suddenly switched grips with Gil-galad, seizing the Elf's hand instead of Gil-galad gripping his. A pained hiss came from the small gaps between his teeth. Aragorn stopped and looked up, worry written on his face. Boromir saw this, and forced a blank look on his face. His breath came out unsteadily.

"Aragorn," Gil-galad said quietly, seeing the intense pain his friend was in, "his arm is wounded. Shall we tend to that, first? It is bleeding quite readily." He indicated the bleeding wound on Boromir's forearm. Aragorn studied it carefully.

"Yes, I believe that would be the best idea. Are there bandages in the next room?" he asked, pulling Boromir's sleeve up gently. Boromir closed his eyes tightly, as if the absence of sight would numb the pain.

"I know not," Gil-galad said. He attempted to rise, but found something was still anchoring him to the ground. "Boromir, will you kindly release my hand?" he asked. Boromir took in a gulp of air and removed his shaking fingers from Gil-galad's hand. The Elf stood and walked again to the adjoining room. Many wooden shelves lined the walls, and he saw a roll of clean, white bandages. They were quite large, as they were made to be used on horses, not Men, but Gil-galad supposed they would do. He spotted herbs that he recognized on one shelf, and took them with him, knowing that they might be used to staunch the bleeding. On his way out, he also found a healer's knife, and took it with him.

He walked back to the stables, setting down his findings. Aragorn, with a murmured "Thank you", cut a square of bandages from the roll and used it to mop up some of the blood on Boromir's arm. Boromir flinched, and gripped the folds of his cloak, holding them to numb away the pain. His hands were white, but his face was yet paler. He looked as if he could pass out at any second. Guilt attacked Gil-galad's mind. He felt terribly responsible for the whole mess they were in.

Aragorn picked up the knife, and looked pointedly at Gil-galad. "If you do not wish to look upon this particular practice of healing, I suggest you leave," he said, holding the knife over Boromir's arm. The son of Denethor saw it and went, if possible, even paler. Gil-galad did not know what Aragorn would attempt to do with the knife and Boromir's wounded arm, but he knew he did not wish to see it. He hesitated, though, as he looked at Boromir. The blame is partially mine, for not going to rescue him earlier, he thought. If I leave Boromir when he is in pain, I am certainly not atoning for my actions.

Perhaps Boromir saw the hesitant look on Gil-galad's face, because he spoke up. "Go if you wish to, Gil-galad," he said weakly. "I shall be fine."

Gil-galad gratefully walked out of the stables and into the street. He was not entirely surprised when he found himself not alone. Leaning against the outside stable wall, with a concerned look on his face, was Faramir the Steward. He looked as if he was attempting to listen to Aragorn and Boromir inside the stable. He did not move when Gil-galad approached him. The Elf stood there awkwardly for a moment. Finally, he mustered up a smile and gave his best calm, "Hello."

Faramir flinched and stiffened up, his sound right hand on the hilt of the sword on his belt. When he saw Gil-galad, he visibly relaxed, seeming to sink into the wall. "Good day, Gil-galad." He wore armor that reflected the dim sun. Gil-galad wondered if the Steward was planning on going into battle. It would certainly be a difficult endeavor without two of his fingers, but not an impossible one. "How fares Boromir?"

"He is in pain," Gil-galad admitted, seeing no reason to conceal the truth from Faramir. Faramir seemed to be quite a good Man, and Gil-galad sensed that he would be able to tell if he was hiding something. "Aragorn is currently tending a cut on his arm, and Boromir says that there is pain in his feet and legs. But Aragorn is a skilled healer," he added, wishing to convey a bit of optimism. "I believe he shall rec-"

He was interrupted by a cry of pain from inside the stables. Faramir paled, and Gil-galad felt another rush of guilt. He found his eyes drawn to Faramir's bandaged, mangled left hand. Actual bandaging had been applied to it, replacing the torn-up bedsheets that Gil-galad and Aragorn had bandaged it with immediately following Faramir's injury. Faramir's hand looked quite empty somehow, missing his ring and little fingers, and Gil-galad pitied Faramir with all of his heart.

Faramir gave a sigh. "If only I could enter," he said wistfully, staring off into the distance at something Gil-galad could not see.

"You can," Gil-galad said. "If you are strong-stomached enough to witness the healing, that is."

The Steward looked sideways at the Elf, as if sizing him up. "Physically, I am able to enter, yes," he said. "But, yet again, I was not there for my brother when he needed help most. Entering the stables would make me feel yet more guilt for that."

Gil-galad understood painfully. "I feel the same guilt," he said, "though I can understand why you might feel it more. But I am sure Boromir would not have wanted you to ride to his rescue. He did not wish for Isildur and I to do so. Certainly he would not his brother to." Gil-galad felt the words pouring out his mouth uncontrollably, as an impulse. "He cares for you very much. The whole journey to Minas Tirith, he talked of you with pride in his voice. He would not wish for you to willingly ride to danger on his behalf. I am sure he does not find fault in you for not going to the Blue Wizard's encampment."

He felt as if he had said too much, and for a second Faramir looked almost close to weeping. But then Faramir gave a small smile and said, "You are right. Though I believe I shall stay out here until Aragorn is finished healing the wound on his arm. It sounds to be quite a painful process."

"That is why I am here," said Gil-galad, returning the Steward's smile. "If the truth shall be told, I had not seen or healed wounds such as that since your hand was injured. And before that... not since the siege of Barad-dur have I used my skill of healing." Faramir nodded, and did not speak. Gil-galad, frankly, was rather glad of that.

When he did speak, it was because another cry of pain had began to sound in the stables. Perhaps Faramir wished to drown it out, because he asked, "Shall you attempt to rescue Isildur before the start of the battle?"

Gil-galad had not considered doing so. He thought for a moment before responding, "I believe not. One failed rescue is enough for a day."

Faramir smiled slightly. "Perhaps leading a band of soldiers to the camp whilst the battle rages shall suffice," he said. "I know many men that would follow me there."

"I should like to ride with them," said Gil-galad instinctively. Faramir looked closely and approvingly at him again.

"That will be most welcome," said the Steward with a grim smile. He held out his sound hand. Gil-galad took it, and they shook hands, sealing their alliance. "Together, we shall lead yet another rescue mission. May it have more luck than the last!"


"Look upon him!"

"The mighty King of Men!"

"Son of Elendil!"

"A leader of his kind!"

Isildur's ears rang with the orcs' sarcastic words, and he bit back a scowl. His eyes were shut tightly. You shall not look upon them. You shall not bear witness to your own defiling and dishonoring, he told himself. His breathing was unsteady and shaking. The rough bark of the tree stuck like spear-points into his chest. Something vile was thrown at his back, and he flinched as the sickening aroma reached his nose. An object that felt like a stone struck his leg.

"Why does he not scream?" said a frustrated orc's voice.

"Stubborn, this one is," said another. Something hot and searing was held close to Isildur's arm- a torch. You shall not cry out, you shall not cry out...

"Ah, but of course he's stubborn!" The torch was moved away from his arm. Laughter sounded through the gathering of orcs that were watching their prisoner. "He's no mere Man! This here is Isildur son of Elendil, a Numenorean King!" Something hit the back of his neck, and Isildur forced himself not to let a curse fly from his mouth. "King of the dung hill, more like it!" More laughter sounded, and Isildur felt his temper come dangerously close to boiling over. "And the son of a haughty bastard."

Isildur could not stand it any longer. He thrashed against the bonds that held him to the tree, instinct urging him to snap the neck of whatever orc had said such terrible words about his father. The orcs laughed at that. Isildur kept his eyes shut. It was torture enough without looking at their cruel faces.

"I believe the stubborn fool's earned himself a few lashings!" said an orc gleefully. Isildur went limp against his bindings, frustrated. Excellent, he told himself, you merely have earned yourself even more pain. His hose was yanked down, his lower legs bare. Isildur felt his ears turn red at the dishonor of it all.

A whip smacked Isildur's calves. He counted the lashes, trying to give himself something to distract him from the white-hot pain. Five, ten, fifteen lashes hit him, and suddenly, the whipping stopped. Blood trickled sluggishly down his legs, and Isildur let a sigh of relief come from his mouth. The lashes started again. The orc that was whipping him had heard his sigh, and was undoubtedly hoping to make him scream for mercy.

After countless lashes, Isildur knew that the whipping would not stop until he made some sound of pain. He felt all the dignity that he retained crumbling away, and he opened his mouth and screamed against the abrasive tree bark, tears of pain stinging his eyes.

Where are you? he could not help but thinking as the orcs shouted for him to scream louder. My friends, why have you left me here? He screamed louder, a desolate, lonely yell of anger, sadness, and pain. Where are you?! Suddenly, he resented Gil-galad for not turning and aiding him, even though he himself had told his friend to ride off. Help me! It took all of Isildur's willpower to keep him from screaming the words aloud.

"Another few lashes!" snarled an orc. "He's not crying yet! And we can't hear what he's screaming! I want to hear him cry for our mercy!"

Before the whip could hit his legs again, Isildur began to sob, heaving his shoulders to the point of exaggeration, tears trickling down his face and staining the bark of the tree. His screaming formed words, and even he was surprised by what they were: "Father!" he howled. "Father!"

The orcs laughed. Isildur's heart, pride, and body ached, but he kept calling out for his long-dead father. When the orcs got sick of the sound of that word and started to whip his legs again, Isildur called out for his companions and his heir until he could scream no longer.

Where are you?