Aeardis sat next to Boromir by the bank of one of the numerous streams that cut through the Golden Wood. She had a grim expression, but as of late her expression always seemed grim. In truth, Boromir could not remember the last time he had seen her smile in earnest. "I've sent word to Rohan," she began, "but have received nothing in return." Just over a week had passed, yet Rohan was never so tardy in their responses to matters concerning Gondor. Théodred or Éowyn had always sent swift replies. "Still, we should depart."

With time, his wounds had healed on the surface, though at times Aeardis could still catch a grimace of pain flash across his face while practicing with a bow as he had yet to be able to competently wield a sword again. Boromir adjusted the strap of his shield, still growing accustomed to its weight again since that day on Amon Hen, he nodded, "Yes."

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He stood in glittering silver armor in the light of the rising sun beneath a banner displaying the sigil of Gondor, the White Tree. Aeardis was there to bid him farewell, as she always did, though this time there was a knot in her chest and stomach that did not fade. She tried to reassure herself that all would be well, Boromir was a competent warrior, an able commander, he would return to her as he always did. But those thoughts could not console her heart or mind.

"If anything happened to you..." she began, looking away from the proud Steward-Prince of Gondor.

A calloused thumb softly brushed her red-tinged cheek. Her sentence did not need to be finished, Boromir did not wish the consequences to be put in words. It was one of the reasons why he had not wanted to get married or have any relationships with women because he was going to die and they would be alone. It wouldn't be fair, it wouldn't be right. Aeardis deserved a happy life, not the life of a widow.

"Shhh, my sweet sea bride. Do not fret," he said, voice low and gentle, "should anything happen, I will return and you can scold me for not heeding your advice." Aeardis glanced up at him and offered a weak smile. There was a pause. A moment of silence before she stepped toward him and rose up onto her toes, pressing a tender kiss upon his brow.

Aeardis woke with a start from the memory. It seemed that more often than not, her dreams had come to nothing more than days long passed. She dreamt of her father, of her childhood, and of the two brothers she had grown to love.

Boromir remained fast asleep, one of his hands loosely clutching at what had been the deepest and worst of his wounds. She returned to his side and rested her head on his shoulder. Without fully waking, Boromir shifted, so that her head lay on his chest and his arm could wrap around her shoulders.

They both needed the rest, for soon they would leave the protection of the elves and be homeward bound.

Preparations began within the week for their departure. The elves, having grown to know Aeardis as a member of their own kin, provided parting gifts of finely crafted saddles and packs, it was only befitting that they would at least do that much.

While packing, her necklace had slipped from under her tunic when she bent over to arrange the provisions into packs for the journey, she had always kept it tucked away near her heart. Boromir glanced up at her and saw the flash of silver from a gift he had given her what now seemed to be many years ago. "After all this time you still wear it," he mused.

She lifted the tarnished key and looked at it pensively, the blue stone still shone even if the metal did not. "I don't think I've ever taken it off, to be honest." Only on rare occasions had she removed the necklace. Mostly for court events that demanded her presence. Denethor was not fond of his advisor wearing such gifts from his eldest son. Aeardis turned the key between her fingers, "will I ever know what this key unlocks?"

Boromir took her hand and brought it to lay against his chest. A soft smile had already formed on her lips. "You now know the answer to that question." It seemed a shame that it had taken them so long to realize it. That the ache in their chests that came whenever they were separated was more than just simple friendship, but something more, something that they had nurtured for half a lifetime.

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With the blessing of Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn and the goodwill of the elves, they departed from Lothlórien early one morn, before the sun had even fully risen. They had been clothed in the garb of the elves, given strong mounts, and ample provisions that would see them through even a heavily delayed journey.

The great mallorn trees with their silver gold leaves soon faded in the north. What lay ahead were soft rolling hills permeated by outcrops of grey stone. It would be a shorter trip to return than it had been to travel from Gondor to Rivendell, but still treacherous.

Fangorn delayed them. The forest had a will of its own and some days it seemed to be set against them. The trees cracked and groaned, moving, blocking an ancient road and veering them off course. Once the forest had passed, they ventured into the realm of the Horse Lords.

Though they found no welcome in Rohan, for all their riders had gone away aid Gondor. Such news hastened their pace. Boromir was eager to see the white towers of Minas Tirith once again, as he had not been keen on leaving his people, to begin with.

Almost ten months to the day they had first departed from the city of Osgiliath, they entered the realm of Gondor, following Ered Nimrais along the watchtowers of the Rangers. Smoke rose from some of the beacons, though now most of the posts had been abandoned.

When they came upon Pelennor Fields, Boromir's heart dropped. A short gasp was offered to the winds that blew. The acrid air was tinged with the smell of rot and fire. The bay gelding yielded to his rider, stopping at the sight of the Pelennor. Her once golden fields had been reduced to ash. Aeardis stopped next to him, though at first, her focus was on him.

Mounds of twisted bodies still smoldered. The black armor and twisted scimitars of the orcs could not be mistaken, though among them were the fallen Southrons too. Shields and swords from both Gondor and Rohan lay scattered about, forgotten in the aftermath of the storm.

Such sights stretched as far as the eye could see.

Aeardis glanced down at the blackened earth, finding that the patches that remained unscathed were bathed in the blood of orcs and men alike. She felt bile rise in her throat.

Boromir pulled the reigns of his bay, halting as the spire of the Tower of Ecthelion rose on the horizon. Beyond the destruction, Minas Tirith, his beloved city, still stood. But, she had not escaped the siege unscathed. Parts of her were missing. There were holes in the walls and some of the towers. Tears had begun to form; welling up beneath the silvery eyes that looked at the scene with a profound sadness. This is what he had been afraid to return to.

Yet despite it all, Gondor was still strong, still standing, glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver.

At least he was able to return. An open hand rose to lay on his chest. Underneath the clothes- graciously given to him in Lórien - were three large scars. In time they would turn white, as the others he had received had done, but these were still too new. Too fresh. Aeardis looked over the carnage, tears silently streaked down her cheeks.

The hand dropped to the reins, gathering them for the final part of his homecoming. Legs squeezed, urging the mount into a walk, then a canter and finally a gallop. Each stride brought the broken gate closer. His heart rising with each moment.

He was home.

But he had not been welcomed by the clear ringing of silver trumpets.