30 — FOR FOREVER

Quick note: thanks for the Thanksgiving explanations. I hope you all enjoyed your turkeys and gave sufficient thanks for your continued survival in the wild lands of the New World.

"Would you dance with me, Tíniel?" Aragorn asked, offering his hand. Tíniel glanced around; she couldn't see Éowyn nearby. Why didn't he dance with her? Why was her heart suddenly racing?

Legolas put his hand on her shoulder and shook his head minutely. "I think not, Aragorn."

Aragorn merely smiled. "I know you are trying to protect us, my friend. But do you think I don't know how things stand? I ask merely for a dance, nothing more."

Legolas still hesitated, glancing down at her. Tíniel paused too, unsure of what to do. Some part of her mind acknowledged that had she been sober, she would have politely – an very firmly – refused and walked away. But she'd had one too many drinks, and another part of her mind thought perhaps that wasn't a bad thing.

"It's alright," she said to Legolas. "As he said, we are but two friends dancing. What harm could come of it?"

A lot, she thought to herself. The thought was reflected in Legolas' eyes, but he let her go regardless.

"I will be at the table," he said cautiously, and walked away.

For a moment, they stood unmoving, each watching the other as the music continued. Then Aragorn stepped forward.

"May I?" he said.

"May you what?" she asked stupidly.

"Touch you," he said, then blanched. "To dance. Take your hand, I mean. May I?"

She slipped her hand into his in response. He held hers gently, and rested his other hand lightly on her waist. They began to step together, out of time with the music and apart from all the other dancers, but somehow in rhythm with each other. At first, Tíniel kept her eyes firmly fixed over his shoulder, but with meaning them to, they crept up to his face. His grey eyes were already on her.

"You are beautiful," he said.

Her breath caught in her throat, but her expression remained neutral. So much for a dance between friends, she thought. "Not as beautiful as Éowyn," she said dispassionately.

He frowned. "Is it a competition?"

She arched an eyebrow. "I don't know, is it?"

His frown deepened, and immediately she flushed with shame. She was jealous when she had no right to be – jealous, no less, of a close friend. Tíniel hated jealousy, considered it a weakness that was resorted to by people with nothing better to do. She should be ashamed.

"I am sorry," she said quickly, dropping her eyes. "Gods, I am sorry. That was ridiculous. I think it is a good thing."

He steered her out of the way of a careening couple. "What is a good thing?"

"You and Éowyn. It is a good match. She has the rank and the beauty, not to mention the courage, intelligence and kindness that many queens have lacked in the past. She is perfect for you."

"Queen?" he choked. "Let us not speak of queens until the war is won.'

She nodded, not meeting his eyes. "As you wish."

There was another silence, one that stretched a moment too long – long enough that Tíniel began to notice the way she felt warm under his touch, and how good it felt to have her hand in his. She needed to distract herself.

"What is your next move?"

He blinked, but kept up with the conversation. "Tomorrow I will go to the muster at Dunharrow, I think. Gimli and Legolas will go with me. I would that we leave for Minas Tirith sooner, but there is little sense in my going there without an army."

"Come with me, then," she offered. "I will not wait for the mustering of the Riders. War is upon us, and every minute we wait, Mordor spews more darkness. My people march to Minas Tirith tomorrow morning, and it would be our honour if you three would ride with us."

He considered it a moment, then nodded too. "The honour will be ours."

"You should be careful, going to Minas Tirith," she said.

Aragorn spun her in a neat circle. "Why do you say that?"

"You do not know Denethor as I do," she replied. "He doesn't know that you exist – yet. And when he finds out… well. You must be very, very careful."

"He is so opposed to the return of the king?"

"He is of a mind with Boromir – convinced that Isildur's line disappeared long ago, and that he is the only remaining rightful ruler of Gondor. He will consider you an upstart for asserting your claim – an inexperienced, entitled fool."

"I am of an age with Denethor."

"Yes, but he has spent his life ruling, gathering wisdom and serving his people as best he can," she reasoned. "You have spent yours wandering the North, as far as he is concerned."

He smiled at her concern. "I have faith in my blood, Tíniel, and I have spent my whole life preparing. I do not fear the Steward of Minas Tirith."

"Perhaps you should be wary of him, then. He is a difficult man to deceive, and a dangerous man to cross. All I ask is that you enter the city in the proper way for the king, so that he cannot find fault with you."

Aragorn's smile faded and he held her gaze solemnly. "If you ask it of me, then it is done," he said.

"Thank you," she said, and they danced in silence for the moment. Tíniel was surprised at how easily the steps came.

"I count myself fortunate," Aragorn said, "that I have come this far. Not a month ago we were fighting for our lives on the shore of the Anduin."

"Fighting to the death," she said, her expression darkening.

His hand tightened fractionally around hers and his face became sad. "We are not Boromir," he said. "We have a future. Hope."

"Swords," she added, and he smiled.

"Swords too," he said. "We are not dead yet."

Another silence fell, but it wasn't uncomfortable or loaded. They simply danced. Tíniel found herself lost in Aragorn's eyes. They reassured her, steadied her, made her feel she could do anything so long as he was with her. She couldn't help herself; the next step she took she used to move fractionally closer to him. She told herself it was because she wasn't steady on her feet, because she didn't know the dance, but she knew the real reason was something else entirely.

Aragorn struggled to breathe normally when she took the tiniest of steps closer to him. She looked up at him, her face neutral but her eyes filled with an unplaceable emotion. Her face was only inches from his.

Without thinking, he swept her into the centre of the floor where they could move more slowly without being run down by the other dancers. The couples whirling around them seemed to disappear into his periphery as he gazed down at her. She was perfect. Perfect and unattainable.

But it doesn't matter, he thought to himself. He had little moments like this that he could remember, moments that could sustain him years into the future when she was married and leader of her tribe in the East. There was this dance, the kiss by the river, their time in Lothlórien…

They stood, barely moving, her arms around his neck and his around her waist, trapped in each other's gazes. She looked so sad, he thought. So beautiful and sad. But holding her hand in his was bliss, and he held his breath, willing the moment to last, willing himself to memorise every minute detail.

Too suddenly, the song ended, and the spell was broken. They separated, and Aragorn felt suddenly cold. She watched him with her sharp brown eyes, looking as though she wanted to speak but she didn't know what to say. Then she merely nodded at him, and disappeared into the crowd.

'You fool,' he whispered to himself, looking after her. The dance had been a bad idea, a terrible one, and he knew he never would have done it if it weren't for the ale bubbling through his blood. He knew his actions had been thoughtless, but he couldn't bring himself to regret them. Taking a deep breath, he followed her.

Tíniel was nearly crying. Why, why had she agreed to such a stupid thing? As soon as she'd walked away from Aragorn, the spell had been broken and the moment shattered. The dance had been a terrible decision. Angrily, she ignored the merry calls of Petakh, Borund and Tcharum and pushed her way outside.

Winter was well behind them, but the cool night air still took her breath away. She walked a little way until she found a balcony, then she leaned against it and stared out into the darkness.

She could see the tens of fires down on the grassy plain below where her bamyë was encamped. She began to calm down, and she smiled; she could hear the faint sound of music and laughter floating up on the breeze.

It was still and peaceful on the balcony, so she jumped when she heard a sound behind her, her hands going automatically to her knives.

"It's only me," Aragorn said, stepping into the moonlight. She relaxed, but involuntarily took a step back. His face was set, determined.

"Am I needed?" she asked cautiously. "Are – are you well?"

He shook his head doggedly. "No. No, I am not."

She began to feel afraid. "Aragorn?"

He closed the distance between them in three short strides, but he didn't touch her. She held up her hands placatingly.

"Aragorn, please… is all well? Did something happen?"

He breathed slowly, his eyes fervent. "Yes. I decided to stop being a coward, to stop feeling sorry for myself. I decided to live. That's what happened."

Her heart was thumping hard against her chest. "You did?"

"Remember what we said inside? We are not dead yet. What is the point of being alive if we are not living? Why should we hope if all we can hope for is a lifetime alone?"

"Please don't talk like this," she pleaded.

"I am not saying it because I have lost hope. I am saying it because it is real, and if I let my whole life go without doing something about it… there will be no time in death to do the things I long to do in life."

He edged closer again, and his fingers brushed feather light across her cheek. She shivered.

"You have a duty, promises to keep, and I understand. So do I," he breathed, his eyes pleading now. "But is there no way to do your duty and be happy?"

He edged closer still, and despite herself, she tipped her head back to meet his searching eyes. Their breath mingled, and she fought to keep hers under control. "Duty is before everything," she whispered, willing herself to remain strong. "Duty… comes before happiness."

He leaned in further still without meaning to. His nose touched hers, and her eyes fluttered closed. "So you doom me to love you alone?" he breathed. "Because that is the truth. I do love you, ardently and painfully and uselessly. I am meant for you, and you are meant for me. Never have I known a stronger truth than that."

For the hundredth time, she felt her heart break. It hurt more than it had ever hurt before. He was so close, so close, that she could reach up and kiss him with the barest effort, hold him to her as near as she wanted in a mere moment. But she couldn't. She wouldn't.

With a gasp, she wrenched herself away, stumbling backward a few paces. She was breathing fast, and he watched her fixatedly, waiting for her to reply.

"It cannot be," she choked out brokenly. "It can never be, and I am so sorry for it –"

"Tchakhura?"

She whirled to see Borund climbing the steps to the balcony. He saw Aragorn and his expression darkened.

"Borund," she said in Khandi, hiding her shaking hands in her skirt. "Is all well?"

"Yes, yes, we are fine. But I saw you leave, and you seemed… well, I wanted to make sure you were alright," he replied. "So I followed you… I followed…" he frowned and pressed his hand to his head.

Tíniel took a step forward. "Borund?" His breathing got faster and faster, and he swayed where he stood.

"Tchakhura..." he said uncertainly, looking up in fear.

"Borund!" she cried, and rushed forward to catch him before he collapsed. He fell onto her, but he was heavy and she teetered under the weight. "Help me, Aragorn," she gasped, and after a moment the weight lessened.

Aragorn gently laid Borund on the ground and pressed his ear to his chest.

"He's breathing, but his heart rate is too high," he muttered. Borund's eyes rolled back in his head and he mumbled something unintelligible. Aragorn felt his forehead for a temperature, and after a moment turned to Tíniel, his face grave.

"It… it won't be long," he said quietly.

She frantically took Borund's hand in both of hers. "What do you mean?" she said unsteadily.

Aragorn hesitated. He could see in her face that she understood him well enough, so he didn't push it. "We should get him to a bed."

She nodded silently, trying to stop her hands from shaking, and slung one of his arms over her shoulders. His whole body had begun convulsing violently, so it was beyond difficult to carry him, even with Aragorn shouldering most of his weight.

As they passed by the door into the great hall, Tíniel kicked it open and shouted in.

"Tcharum! Tcharum, come to me! Tcharum!"

The door swung closed and they went on by, but seconds later Tcharum emerged with Petakh, Vagura and Mugura. "Tchakhura?" he called.

"Here, Tcharum! Help us!" He saw them and rushed over, taking more of Borund's weight. He looked up at Tíniel, fear written all over his face. She knew it was reflected in hers too.

They took Borund to Tíniel's room and lay him on the bed. She tried to cover him with the blanket, but his limbs were still spasming. Tíniel had to keep taking deep breaths to keep from bursting into tears.

"What is wrong with him?" she asked Aragorn, trying to speak without her voice trembling and failing miserably. "What happened?"

Aragorn shook his head, at a loss. "It could only be poison," he muttered, raking his hands through his hair. "But where from? His symptoms came on so suddenly, and they were so erratic – he seemed better today… he shouldn't have – unless…" Realisation dawned on his face, and he turned urgently to Tíniel. "In the battle, at the Hornburg, was he injured? Anything at all, even a small scratch?"

She pressed her hands to her temples, trying to think clearly. "Yes – yes. There was a wound, a knife wound on his shoulder, but it was shallow and not bleeding much. He told me he would dress it."

"Lift him," Aragorn ordered, and Tíniel translated for Tcharum. Together, they carefully lifted Borund into a sitting position. Aragorn quickly unlaced and removed the man's tunic, and then his undershirt. On the back of Borund's right shoulder there was a gash about as long as Tiniel's hand. It was clean and it wasn't bleeding, but nor was it healing. Aragorn leaned in and sniffed it. Immediately he recoiled.

"Lay him down," he said, and they did so. He turned to Tíniel, his face grim. "Whatever blade caused that cut was poisoned," he said. "Many Rohirrim suffered the same fate, but most of them died two days ago. I cannot understand how he survived this long."

"He is strong," she said shakily, the information not quite sinking in. "He is big."

Aragorn nodded. "He has followed all the patterns of orc-poison. He was ill, feverish for hours. He felt cold, but he was sweating. Then he seemed to be better, seemed to have recovered. And now… I am so sorry. He doesn't have long."

Her heart dropped to her feet, and she looked at Borund's ashen face. She wanted to throw up. "What can you do?" she said, her voice suddenly low and even. "Tell me you can do something."

Aragorn shook his head helplessly. "There is nothing that will –"

"There must be something you can do!" she shouted. "He cannot die this way, not now!"

He hesitated, and looked down at the dying man. Tíniel was devastated, angry, and she had every right to be. At the very least it would give her some comfort, he thought.

"Clean cloths, hot and cold water," he said. "Any herbs you can find – especially lesser centaury, kingsfoil and verbena. Can you find them?"

She nodded, surveyed the room one more time, then swiftly left.

Aragorn turned back to the bed as she disappeared out the door. They wouldn't be here long; Borund would be dead within the hour. There was a chance he would wake up for a moment before the end – he had heard that many of the poisoned Rohirrim had done so – but then again, there was a chance that he would not.

Without warning, the convulsions worsened, and the man cried out in pain as he thrashed on the bed.

"Hold him still!" Aragorn cried, grabbing one of his legs. He wasn't sure if they'd understand, but one of them – a boy of about fifteen – called something in Khandi, and the three adults each grabbed a flailing limb to keep him still. After a moment, the cries subsided and the convulsions stopped. They all let go of Borund, and seconds later, his eyes fluttered open.

He said something in Khandi that Aragorn didn't understand, but he heard the name Tchakhura. Tíniel's name. Her brother replied to Borund, taking his hand and squeezing it. He pointed at Aragorn as he spoke, and Borund's eyes found his. His gaze was steady and challenging, and Aragorn held it evenly. After a moment, Borund called the boy to his bedside and said something, nodding toward Aragorn. The boy nodded and turned to him.

"My name is Mugura," he said to Aragorn in thickly accented Westron. "I speak some of your speaking. Borund speaks to you by me."

It took Aragorn a moment, but he understood. "Borund… wants to speak to me, and you will translate?"

Mugura nodded and turned to Borund. Tcharum propped him up on the pillows. He took a deep, shaking breath and began to speak.

"My name is Borund," Mugura said, his eyes on the dying man. "I am warrior of Maruvikh tribe of Khand. Tchakhura Khondyë is my wife." Mugura hesitated and turned to Aragorn. "Not wife, but… soon will be."

"Betrothed,' Aragorn said. 'I understand."

"My heart is sad when Tchakhura Khondyë is running away from Khand, long years ago," Mugura went on. "But always I love her. I find her again, heart is happy."

There was a pause while Borund curled up and grunted in pain, but after a minute the paroxysm subsided and he began speaking again.

"I love her," Mugura said. "I love her, but I see… you love her also."

Aragorn tensed, and so did Tcharum and the woman – Petakh.

"I do not…" Mugura turned to Petakh and said something in Khandi, asking for a translation.

"Trust," she replied softly

"I do not have trust for you," Mugura went on. "But this night I see you with Tchakhura Khondyë. You dance. And her eyes see you, with love."

Aragorn watched Borund as he spoke, his brow creased. Mugura went on.

"She sees you with love, and I never see this love for me. For me she sees duty, for you she sees love. You understand?"

"I do," Aragorn whispered. Borund nodded, satisfied, and his weak voice became deadly serious.

"Now you swear to me," Mugura said, listening carefully to Borund's fading words. "I am in death soon. This I know. But you are in life. You love her." He paused, as if waiting for an answer. "You love her."

Aragorn realised it wasn't a statement but a command. "I swear it," he said readily. "I will love her until I am dead, and beyond."

"You protect her. Fight for her."

"I swear it."

"You give care for her."

"I swear it."

"And you give care for her people also, Maruvikh tribe."

Aragorn hesitated, but then nodded firmly. "I swear it."

At this, Borund sank back into his pillows and muttered something final-sounding.

"He says, gods are with you," Mugura said. Aragorn saw that there were tears in the boy's eyes, and he squeezed his shoulder.

"I thank you, Mugura," he said, but before the boy could respond, Petakh and Tcharum took Aragorn by the arms and propelled him into the far corner of the room.

Tcharum backed him against the wall and drew one of his long knives to hold it at Aragorn's throat. He spat something in rapid Khandi, and Petakh translated with just as much venom.

"We have no trust for you, Northman," she said. "You know not ways of Maruvikh, of Khandi, of Tchakhura."

Aragorn tried not to breathe too hard. The knife looked sharp. Tcharum said something more, his eyes dark and deadly serious.

"In Khand, promise is for forever," Petakh said, putting emphasis on the last word. "You say 'I swear, I swear,' but this is for forever."

"I understand," he said quietly.

"Tcharum protect Tchakhura sister. I protect Tchakhura Khondye. You hurt Tchakhura, you die. By us."

"I protect her too," Aragorn said. Petakh relayed his words to Tcharum, and the man narrowed his eyes but then nodded.

"Yes," he said, and sheathed his knife. He stared at Aragorn for a moment, then took his face in his hands and pressed his nose to Aragorn's. "Brother," he whispered. Aragorn didn't know how to respond, but at that moment the door opened again.

"I found the centaury," Tíniel said in Westron, breathless, "but the kingsfoil and verbena…" She hesitated at the door, seeing Mugura and his brother by Borund but the other three in a corner. They came over quickly.

"Tchakhura…" Tcharum said, his eyes filling with tears. "He is almost gone. You know it is useless. You know it, I know it, your Northman knows it. Borund does too."

She shook her head furiously. "We just have to try, brother. We need to."

He took the bandages and herbs from her hands and put them on the bedside table. "It is time to say goodbye," he said quietly.

Tíniel stared at him for a moment, her face aghast. He held her gaze steadily, despite the tears welling in his eyes. At last she nodded jerkily, and knelt beside the bed where Borund was lying, barely conscious.

His eyes were only half open, but he knew she was there.

"I am sorry," he breathed weakly, and she took his cold hand in hers.

"There is no reason for you to be," she said steadily. "You have never once failed in your duty to me or to the bamyë. You are a king among men."

"I wish I… could have married you," he went on hoarsely, every word an effort. "I wish I could have seen our children. Taught them to fight." His face suddenly scrunched up and he hissed through his teeth as his body was suddenly wracked by pain.

"Be easy, Borund," Tcharum said, kneeling beside Tíniel and joining his hand to theirs. "The way is easy now."

"Gods guide you," she whispered, forcing a smile. "And we will see you again soon."

He was so close to death, she could almost smell it on him. It hurt her to see him like that, pallid and pained and somehow smaller. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to picture him as he always had been: tall, broad, strong. Vibrant and filled with life, always laughing, always ready to make someone else laugh. Now he was sinking with Boromir into the ocean.

"Khuma," she whispered. Seconds later, he breathed out and didn't breathe in again.

"Oh, Tchakhura," Tcharum whispered, and she turned to him. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her shoulder, shaking with sobs. She held him tightly, stroking his hair to comfort him.

"Hush, brother," she whispered as the tears streamed down her face. "He goes to be with his father."

"We knew it was coming," he sobbed, his voice muffled by her dress. "We knew what would happen and we did nothing."

"We did everything we could," she replied. "We did everything, but now the will of the gods is done."

They stayed that way for a long while, the two remaining parts of what had once been three. Borund lay beside them on the bed, his eyes still half-open but now unseeing. Finally, Petakh cleared her throat.

"We should take him back to camp," she said, her voice heavy with grief. "We must burn him and sing for him before we move on."

Tíniel pulled away from Tcharum. "You are right," she said. "Find a plank of wood, a stretcher, a bier, anything. We will carry him down."

Petakh, her husband and Mugura filed out. Tcharum stayed hunched by the bed, but Tíniel got up and walked quickly to the window. Aragorn went with her, but didn't dare touch her.

They could still hear the sounds of revelling and merrymaking in Meduseld, but they felt wrong now. The half-moon was more fitting, shrouding the city below them in a pale, sombre light. Tíniel sucked in a shaking breath and Aragorn realised she was silently sobbing.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered.

Her face crumpled. "It is my fault," she wept. "He died for me. The gods took him so I could do what I need to do."

He couldn't simply leave her there to suffer. He took her hand. "What is it you need to do?"

She struck the stone windowsill with her fist. "I don't know," she sobbed, and he took her in his arms. She held him hard, almost painfully tightly, but her grief was so great he didn't care.

"I knew he would die," she confessed, her words choked and halting. "Even before they found me in Ithilien. I knew he would die, and I let it happen. I dreamed about it."

"You did everything you could," Aragorn replied, unwittingly repeating Tíniel's own words to Tcharum. "Please don't blame yourself."

She didn't move for another moment, but then she drew in a deep, shuddering breath and pulled away, wiping her face. "You have comforted me twice now after the death of my brothers," she said, her voice taking on the strange emptiness he hated. He knew she was trying not to feel. "Boromir first, and now…"

"I wish it didn't have to be so."

"I wish I had time to grieve them," she said quietly, looking up at him but not really seeing him. "But I won't. I never will, until this war is over."

"You will have time," he whispered, but he knew the promise was empty.

The three who had left came back in with a stretcher taken from the hall of the wounded, and Tíniel left the window to help them lift Borund's body onto it. Aragorn watched helplessly as they lifted him onto their shoulders and began the long march back through Edoras and to their camp.

It's with great sadness that I put this chapter up. Borund was such a kind, funny, gentle guy, and he deserved so much better than to be doomed to a painful death. Damn you, story plan.

I also want to acknowledge (especially for my canon-aware readers – yep, looking at you, pineapple pancake...) that in the books there was no night of celebration in Edoras. But never fear: the action shall continue next chapter, along with tidbits for my Tíniel-Aragorn shippers.

There is also cause for celebration: this is the thirtieth chapter of The Rómentári, and it's been over a year since I began publishing. Bloody good effort everyone. As a marker of this auspicious day, all readers are begged to review. Peace out and stay tuned.

S