40 – FAREWELLS AND OLD FRIENDS

Faramir wheeled her back to her room, but he was too weak to lift her back into the bed.

"I'm comfortable enough in the chair," she said. "Put me by the window, and I am sure Aragorn will be by soon."

"Will he indeed?" he smirked.

"Probably," Tíniel replied coolly. "Oh – and say hello to Éowyn for me."

The smirk was wiped from his face. "Wait, a moment, how did you know?" he huffed. "How could you possibly have found out? This is unfair! And unfair of you to bring it up like that!"

"Know what?" she answered innocently. "She is my friend, and that is all." Faramir raised an eyebrow and folded his arms. "And she is very pretty," she added, the grin creeping onto her face. "Now go to bed, you look like death."

"Fine," he said, swooping in and kissing her on the cheek. "I'll see you soon."

"Until then."

She sat by the window for perhaps an hour, the palantír on her lap, staring out at the city and the plain below. She could see the mountains of Mordor in the distance; unnaturally dark smoke hovered ominously above them, lit dull red underneath by fire. She would be there soon.

It was going to be a challenge, the journey there. It would be painful, but she was willing to endure it. She would ride if she could, sit in the back of a wagon if she had to, but the one thing that she was certain of was that she would go.

She'd meant what she said to Faramir before. She didn't want to sit in Minas Tirith, waiting for the shadows to flow from the East again. She didn't want to watch while the city was surrounded and infiltrated, didn't want to be raped and tortured and finally executed. Death was coming for them all, and the last piece of freedom she had was to choose how it found her.

She knew she wouldn't last long in the battle. In this state, she'd be lucky if she lasted longer than a minute. But it would be a good death, a noble death, the kind she had wanted since she knew what death was.

Still, as she sat there, she couldn't stop herself wishing for something different, for a world that hadn't ended around her so soon, just as she had really begun to discover it.

She didn't know how long she'd been there, but she jerked back to reality when there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," she called. It opened to reveal Harûk and Tcharum.

"I don't know where you find these people," Tcharum bit off in Khandi, striding over to stand before her. "This man is the wildest, most ridiculous… What is he even doing in the North? Why in the name of the gods is he here?"

"Is this your brother?" Harûk asked her in Westron. "Because he is nothing like you. Even you can be fun on very, very rare occasions, but him… what a bore!"

"He has been talking incessantly for twenty minutes," Tcharum growled. "I don't think he knows that I can understand some of what he's saying, but I would struggle to find a ruder man this side of the desert!"

"He's so boring," Harûk continued dramatically. "Even Mahaya finds him dull, and Mahaya's own mother found him boring. I don't know how you dealt with that growing up. But it balances out, because he's also the most handsome man I've ever seen in my life!"

Tíniel, wide-eyed, looked back at Tcharum. "Do you know, I didn't even know what the word boring meant until he started following me around?" he asked desperately.

"I tell you, Tíniel, if I were a woman, I would marry him as quickly as I were able," Harûk said earnestly. "Though you probably shouldn't, seeing as he is your brother. And also he's boring. But those smouldering eyes! That jawline! And he's so tall! It's clear that he inherited all the good looks, and you inherited the slightly less boring personality."

"He just doesn't shut up," Tcharum said despairingly. "And I don't even know who he is…"

"It's alright," she said, unable to help laughing. "He is Harûk, a friend from the ship I was on."

"I know you're talking about me," Harûk said, his eyes narrowed. "It isn't very polite."

She frowned at his blatant hypocrisy and turned back to Tcharum. "Did you need something?"

"Yes," he said. "I heard there was a council this morning. Did you go? Do you know what the plan is?"

"We are marching to Mordor tomorrow at dawn," she said, and his face fell a little. "Tell the bamyë that I order none to go, but any who wish should assemble outside the gates tomorrow."

"They will all go," he said sadly. "It is only honourable to go. And they would do anything for you."

"I know," she said softly. "But I will be with them."

His eyes widened. "No, Tchakhura. You cannot."

"I will be there, brother, like it or not."

"And have you informed Aragorn of this?"

"Well, it's none of his business," she said shortly. Tcharum raised his eyebrows, but she went on before he could say anything more. "I am sorry I cannot come to oversee the preparations, but… well. I'm not in the best way."

"I shall see it done," he said. His expression turned dark. "As long as you keep this Harûk away from me it will be easy."

"What did he say?" Harûk asked, his head jerking up at the sound of his name.

"I said, you are bad," Tcharum snapped in Westron, turning around. "Stop to – to follow me! I do not like you!"

Harûk's eyes widened as Tcharum left the room. "When I said I wanted to marry you before, I was joking!" he called after him. There was no reply, and he turned back to Tíniel. "No I wasn't," he whispered, and she burst out laughing. She laughed so much that tears came to her eyes, half from the mirth and half from the pain in her broken ribs.

"Ah, Harûk. Never change," she said, when she could speak again. "But please stop torturing my poor brother. He isn't usually that boring, he just doesn't like you much."

"Well, I had little choice. I came here to find you, but you weren't here. So I went to find him to ask where you were, but he didn't reply, so I assumed he didn't speak Common. Which he clearly does," he said, throwing an accusatory glance at her. She grinned back.

"But I needed to speak with you, urgently, which was why I was being so persistent," he finished.

"Annoying, I think Tcharum put it," she said. "But what is it?"

"Well," he said. He paused. "I'm not quite sure how to put this."

She sat up a little straighter. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, yes, fine… and, well, I know exactly how to put it. It's just, I know you have a lot on your shoulders, and I didn't know if I should bother you with it, but it's sort of very important, and –"

"Harûk," she cut across impatiently. "What is it?"

"It's Remuil," he said. "He's here. And he won't see anyone but you."

She waited with little patience for what felt like hours but was probably only one or two. Gimli, Merry and Pippin came to see her, but she could barely focus on what they were saying. A Healer brought her food, but she only picked at it. Remuil was coming.

She wasn't sure why she was so nervous. She'd lived with him for a long while, and though he'd been distant, he'd been kind enough. But since then, she'd learned things about him. She knew he was an Elf now. The lady Galadriel had recognised him when she'd seen him in her mirror, too… there was something special about Remuil, and possibly something dangerous.

But the quiet afternoon grew late, and still no one came. Her thoughts began to turn to the upcoming battle again, and she began to wish for Aragorn. She sighed and turned back from the window to reach for her water-flask – and ended up drawing her knife.

A tall figure, hooded and wearing a black cloak, stood against the far wall, watching her. She waited for her heart to stop racing and let out a long breath, loosening the grip on her knife.

"How long have you been there?" she asked with forced calm.

He shrugged gracefully. "A minute."

They stared at each other, unmoving. She couldn't see his face; his whole body was hidden by the cloak. But at last he reached up and lowered his hood. His black hair, tied back as always, glinted in the late sun.

"Remuil," she said.

"Tíniel," he replied, and moved to stand behind her. He gripped the chair and turned it around, so that she was facing into the room. He didn't comment on her fading bruises or her broken arm. "It has been years."

He sat on the chair beside the bed, still with that fluid grace. Tíniel didn't know what to say; now that he was in the room with her, she was even more aware of how dangerous he could be.

"I have been busy," she said cautiously, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. The pain was returning.

He caught her tone and dropped his eyes. "I understand if you do not wish to speak with me. I beg only a moment of your time."

She softened a little. "Forgive me, Remuil," she said. "The times are strange. I am glad you've come."

He smiled at this. "Your Westron is perfect."

"I've picked up one or two things here in the North," she said. "I know what Elves are now too."

"What a pity," he said lightly, watching her so closely it was almost unsettling. "I enjoyed my years of anonymity at sea." His gaze flicked to her lap. "What is that?"

She drew the vadi well over the stone, though it was already covered. "The thing that split us apart, funnily enough. It is a palantír."

"Then perhaps it is fate that has brought me here."

She returned his stare, but he was unreadable. "Why did you come inland, Remuil? The others told me you decided to stay out at sea."

"That is a tale in itself," he said, "and perhaps someday I shall give you all of it. But for now, I shall say only this: I came to repay my debt to you."

Tíniel frowned. "You owe me no debt."

"But I do," he said, and a shadow of sadness came into his face. "I failed you, that day in the City of Corsairs. I watched you be taken from us, against your will. I had sworn to protect every person on my ship, no matter his past, while he remained a part of my crew. But I failed to protect you."

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter now. Besides, what could you have done?"

"Something," he replied. "I could have done something, and I did not. I sat and watched you go."

"Then I hold you released from your oath to protect me," she said, smiling a little. "I've done well enough for myself. And as I told Mahaya and Harûk, being taken to Gondor is something I don't regret."

"Indeed, you seem to have built a life for yourself here," he said. "But never in my life have I broken an oath." Immeasurable pain flashed across his face, but as soon as it had come, it was gone. "So, in answer to your question, I have come to protect you in repayment of a promise broken, no matter the cost."

She stared at him for a moment, her mouth slightly ajar. Then she snapped it shut. "I'm not sure what to tell you, Remuil," she said. "It's just… I can understand that you won't break your oath, but… well, the thing is, we're marching to the Black Gates tomorrow morning."

A shadow shifted over Remuil's face. "I see," he said. "And you?"

"I will march too," she said. Something in his face twitched.

"That is unwise," he said.

"Nevertheless."

"Tíniel, I beg you to think about this," he said. "It may be a decision that many will come to regret."

"I have thought about it a great deal," she said stonily. "I wish to have the power to control my own death, and no one – no matter how many of them try – shall dissuade me. Not even you."

"Have you considered what will happen if we win?" Remuil asked. "Certainly, it seems hopeless now. But I have witnessed triumph against greater odds. If the Enemy is defeated, the army will return home. But you will be dead."

Tíniel opened her mouth to retort, but she paused as she considered what he'd just said. What if they did win? What if, against all odds, their plan worked, and Frodo destroyed the Ring while they were drawing Sauron's gaze? She will have died in the first moments of the battle, unable to defend herself in her state. Life would go on, without her.

They would come home, triumphant. The King would return to Gondor, and there would be the first real chance at peace. Tcharum would be the Khondyë of the Maruvikh. Faramir would be Steward, and Éomer the King of Rohan. The crew of the Haedannen would go back to sea, and the Easterlings and Haradrim would be free from their overlord. There would be peace, and joy. And she would be dead.

In a flash, she realised that she desperately wanted to be there. It was what she had fought for, what she had struggled for the past years – peace, and freedom for those in bondage. She wanted to cling to her life, cling to the chance to see it come true…

But the alternative was worse.

The beautiful vision faded from her gaze, and she shook her head.

"I must go," she said quietly. "I will go, and I will die."

Remuil watched her with his ancient, unreadable blue eyes. "Very well," he said at last. "You have chosen. But understand that I must fulfil my vow. I will protect you."

"If it is your wish," she said. "But only a fool would stay on a sinking ship."

"One more thing, then," he said. "I ask a favour. I do not wish to reveal myself to anyone here. Will you allow me to march to the Morannon with your army?"

Tíniel studied him, indecisive, but in the end she sighed. "I don't trust you any longer, Remuil," she said. "Since I left you, I have heard… whispers about you. There is more to you than meets the eye."

"That is true of everyone on the Haedannen," he said. "You seemed an ordinary girl when I first met you. Now you are a leader of thousands."

"Maybe so," she said. "Remuil, what is your true name?"

He stared at her, and she thought she saw a turmoil of pain and longing in deep his eyes. "If we meet again after the Black Gate," he said, "I will tell you."

She held his gaze for a moment. "As you wish," she relented at last. "I too owe you a debt, Remuil. You took me in when I was at my weakest, and you gave me a home without questions. Pass me the paper and quill there."

He did so, and she dipped it into the ink and scratched a rough image of the Maruvikh standard: a curved sword before a setting sun. She blew on it to dry it.

"Go down to the second circle of the city and ask for Tcharum, my brother," she instructed, handing the paper to him. "Show him this and ask for a tunic and a vadi. He will know I sent you. You will march with us tomorrow."

Remuil nodded slowly. "I thank you," he said.

"One more thing," she added. "During my travels, I passed through the Golden Wood." Remuil stiffened almost unnoticeably, but said nothing. She went on. "I looked in Galadriel's mirror, and I saw you. She saw you too."

"Alas for that," he said, getting to his feet quickly, his brows creased. "This is ill news for me."

"She gave me a message for you, in case I ever met you again," she went on deliberately, trying to gauge his reaction. "I did not understand it, but perhaps you will."

Remuil looked down at her, stone-faced. "Perhaps I will come to regret the day I let you on board my ship," he said. "What was the message?"

"She said, the curse died with the stones," she quoted. "And perhaps you will have a second chance."

Remuil's eyes widened, and he sank back down into the chair. "A second chance?" he whispered, the turmoil in his eyes clearer than ever. "Did she speak truly?"

But a moment later, he leapt to his feet again, his eyes on the door. Seconds later, there was a knock, and it opened to reveal Aragorn. He glanced between her and Remuil.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Am I interrupting?"

"Not at all," Remuil said, his imperturbable mask back in place. "Well met, Isildur's heir."

Aragorn entered the room slowly, his eyes fixed on the Elf. "We have not met before," he said.

"I have seen you, but you did not see me."

"How do you know me?"

"In 2980, you led a fleet of Gondorian ships against the Umbar province," Remuil said, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "You slew the Pirate King. I remember you, for your face and manner takes after that of your forefather. But you have a strength and a kindness in you that he did not have. That is well. You will make a good king, if it should come to that."

Tíniel saw Aragorn's eyes widen fractionally. She was sure Remuil noticed it too. "Who are you?" Aragorn asked steadily.

"I have had many names," Remuil replied. "Strong-voice, Gold-cleaver; mother-names, father-names, names given for good and bad deeds. You may call me Remuil. And what is your name, son of Isildur?"

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. "You may call me Estel," he said.

Remuil laughed at that. "I had forgotten the arrogance of Northern Men," he said. "But then, I have witnessed arrogance far greater among my own kind, and my own family. Well met, Estel son of Isildur." He looked down at Tíniel again and smiled. "It is a good name for the hope of all the Free People, do you not think?"

"Good enough," she agreed. "He has brought hope to us all."

Remuil studied her for a moment, and she felt his eyes strip her to her core. Then he leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead.

"A thousand blessings to you, silent woman," he said quietly. "For you have brought hope to me today – a light in an unseen darkness that I thought eternal. Perhaps it is ill to gain hope so soon before death… but perhaps not. At least I shall feel alive before I die."

He touched her cheek and turned back to Aragorn, leaving Tíniel more confused than ever.

"Will you show me to the herb gardens, Isildur's son? I wish to walk with you, and perhaps we could find something to help us there."

Aragorn looked at Tíniel, and she shrugged, baffled. "It would be an honour," he said. Remuil went to the door and turned to look at her one last time.

"Until we meet again," he said, "if ever we do."

They were gone for a little more than half an hour. Tíniel sat in her chair, waiting for Aragorn to return. Dusk had fallen, and she could see soldiers in the city below her preparing to leave the next morning. Where before the thought of going had made her anguished, it now only brought her a strange kind of peace.

She wondered at the identity of Remuil. She wondered at the fact that she would possibly never have the use of her legs again, wondered whether Éowyn and Faramir would confess their admiration to each other, or what Petakh's baby would have been called. And then she stopped wondering, because she realised that in a few days, none of it would matter.

The stars were beginning to come out when Aragorn returned with a little glass bottle in his hands. He shut the door quietly behind him.

"Remuil told me that you mean to go to the Black Gates," he said, his voice unreadable.

"I do," she said softly, preparing for a fight. "Did you not guess?"

"I hoped you wouldn't."

"Then I am sorry."

He sat down in the chair that Remuil had recently vacated. "Please don't go," he said quietly, the stifled emotion evident in his voice.

"Aragorn…"

"You don't understand, I… I can cope with the thought of my own death. But when I think of you dying, I…" he sighed. "It hurts me in a way I never knew I could hurt. I turn cold, I can't breathe. Please don't go."

"We will be together the only way that we can be together," she said firmly, swallowing the lump in her throat. "In death."

"So be it then," he said.

She frowned. "That's it? I thought you would put up more of a fight than that."

He smiled hollowly. "I know better than to try to change your mind by now."

She stared at him. Something didn't quite feel right, but she decided to let it drop. It was the last night they would be able to spend in peace together. She didn't want to spend it worrying.

"Will you get me out of this chair?" she said. "It's getting uncomfortable."

It wasn't just uncomfortable – it was getting mind-numbingly painful, but Aragorn seemed to sense that without it being said. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he lifted her out with the gentleness that never failed to surprise her. He laid her on the bed and pulled off her shoes.

"I'll give you something for the pain," he said.

But she shook her head. "Not yet," she said. "It makes me slow, and, well… I don't want to be slow at the moment."

He stared at her, his expression indecipherable even after all the time she'd known him. Then he lay down beside her, putting his head on the pillow next to hers.

"Why not?"

She smiled, but it was sad. "Because I just want to be here, with you for a while."

"For the last time," he whispered.

"Why did the Valar draw us to each other?" she asked quietly. "It has brought us only pain, and I cannot understand why."

"Is that true? Have you felt only pain?"

She hesitated. "No."

"Nor I," he said, his grey eyes flickering. "I'm glad it happened, despite the hardship it brought. I am glad I dreamed of you, and that I met you in Rivendell, and that I kissed you that night in Lothlórien."

"I'm glad I kissed you by the Anduin when I went East," she said. "And I'm glad we met again at Helm's Deep. And even that you found me on the battlefield here."

"I would have liked very much to marry you."

"I would have liked that too."

"We could have lived here in Minas Tirith."

"I might have taken you over to Khand, to see my homeland."

"I would have liked that."

"We could have had children," she said, feeling a tear gather in the corner of her eye. "I had a vision once, when Denethor imprisoned me. I was holding a tiny baby boy. I think it was ours."

Aragorn took her one of her hands between his. "What did he look like?"

"His skin was lighter than mine, but darker than yours. His eyes were big and brown, and his hair was curly." The tear slipped from her eye, and Aragorn leaned in and kissed it away.

"What else?" he whispered.

"In his eyes… there was trust. The kind that only a child could have. And I loved him so much, I could just tell…"

"And what would his name be?"

"Bahakh," she said. "I would name him Bahakh. It means love."

"I always wanted to name my son Adanion," he said.

"What does that mean?"

"Son of Man. It's an Elvish name, like yours."

"Hm. I like it."

"We would have been happy," he said quietly. "We would have lived, really lived. And as long as you were with me, everything would have been as it was meant to be."

She pulled his hands up to her mouth and kissed them one after the other. "What a beautiful dream."

The sadness of reality crashed over Aragorn's features, and without warning, he pulled her closer and kissed her.

It was unlike any other kiss they'd shared. It was hard, rough, filled with desperation and a knowledge that it would come to an end all too soon. Tíniel kissed him back passionately and despairingly, trying to imprint the feeling on her memory. Too quickly, he pulled back an inch, and they stayed there, their breaths mingling.

"By the Valar, I love you," Aragorn whispered, his voice barely audible.

"I love you too," she replied. "It hurts."

"I know," he said, and he kissed her again. "I know. I know. I don't want to say goodbye to you."

He kissed her deeply, longingly, but she pushed him away. "We don't have to say goodbye yet," she said. "We'll ride to the gate together, won't we?"

He just kissed her again, and this time she could feel the wetness of tears. He was crying. She returned the kiss, trying to tug him closer with her one arm.

"I love you," she mumbled against him. He pulled away, planting a kiss on each of her cheeks, then on her eyes and her nose, and at last her forehead. He pulled back, and she watched him as he watched her back. Tears were falling steadily from his eyes.

"Why is everything all wrong?" he whispered. She brushed some of the tears away and shook her head.

"I don't know."

After a moment, he rolled away from her and grabbed her flask of water from the bedside table. He took the little glass bottle from his pocket, removed the stopper and poured its contents into the water. Then he shook it and handed it to her.

"Drink this."

"What is it?"

"An Elvish potion that Remuil made for you. It will take away all your pain, but it won't slow your mind."

"Really?" she asked, unstoppering it and sniffing. It smelled like warm jasmine and crushed orange leaves.

"Drink it," he said heavily. "Drink it all, and it will make you feel better."

It tasted exactly how it had smelled – not at all unpleasant, and easy to drink. But as she swallowed the last mouthful, she felt a tingling weariness creep into her fingertips. Her arms suddenly felt too heavy to hold up, and they fell to her side. Aragorn took the flask from her hand, not meeting her eyes.

"Aragorn," she said, the fuzziness creeping into her head. "Aragorn, what…"

He looked up, and his face twisted. "Valar, I'm sorry, Tíniel," he said. Some part of her saw that his body had begun to shake with restrained sobs. "I'm so sorry, but I couldn't watch you die. Not again."

There was something terrible that she needed to realise, but waves of weariness were crashing over her now, and she couldn't grasp it.

"I love you," he said, taking her hand again. "I love you, and I will do everything I can to keep you safe…"

Then the blackness flooded in, and she slept.

Flickering images came and went like sunlight through water.

She was in Imladris at the Council of Elrond. "Speak the words of the prophecy, Tíniel," Elrond said to her, "for they are destined to touch the lives of every being in Middle-earth."

She turned around and found herself surrounded by the towering mallorn trees of Lothlórien, lit by a pale crescent moon. Galadriel smiled down at her knowingly.

"There are swords sharper than those we wield in battle," she said, her voice echoing in every part of Tíniel's being. "Do not fear what you do not know, princess."

"But I do," Tíniel replied as the Lady dissolved before her. "I am afraid."

"To accept one's fate is not to be powerless," she said, but suddenly she had become Akhund. He tilted his pointed hat toward her jauntily and grinned. "Nor does acknowledging fear show cowardice."

"But I don't know what to do!" she sobbed, falling to her knees. Someone pulled her back up, and she looked up to see Aragorn. It was his image, but she could tell he was not really there.

"We're going to be alright," he said gently. "We are two broken people, but we're going to be alright."

"You can't say that," she whispered. "Soon you and I will both be dead."

He blinked, and when his eyes opened again, they were a blinding shade of violet. He spoke in a voice that was at once terrible and majestic.

"Fleeing from hate and hiding from fear,

Betrayer of those who hold her most dear:

First for life,

Next for gold,

Last to follow what heart has told."

She had raised her shaking hands to cover her ears, the words unwanted, but the purple-eyed Aragorn reached up and gently pulled them down.

"Light to be in a darkness unseen," he went on in the voice that wasn't his. "Part of two worlds, yet torn between…"

"The greatest to be, despite hatred and scorn," she finished for him, "is the lowest among you, the Khondyë's firstborn."

"Yes," he whispered, the violet glow from his eyes pulsing. "Yes, we shall make you the greatest…"

She jerked awake, breathing hard. She was still in her bed, in the Houses of Healing. But Aragorn was gone, and there was someone else beside her, sewing in the candlelight.

"Healer Ioreth," she rasped, trying to sit up and making her head swim. The old woman looked up and smiled.

"Ah, awake at last, child. We wondered how long it would last."

Tíniel frowned. "What – where is Aragorn?"

"The lord Aragorn? Why, he left with the others!"

Tíniel's stomach growled with hunger, and she froze. Something was very, very wrong. "What do you mean, left?"

"They gathered their forces and marched off to Mordor," Ioreth said, her smile disappearing. "And if the Valar are good, they shall bring them back again too."

"No," Tíniel whispered. "No, no, no…" she looked up at Ioreth. "They left this morning?"

"Yesterday morning, my child," Ioreth said, laying her sewing aside. "You have slept for two nights and two days. Oh, and there was this left for you." She picked up a folded bit of parchment from the bedside table and passed it to Tíniel.

"This cannot be," Tíniel said to herself, her heartbeat increasing in speed and her breath coming short. "This cannot be…"

"Is there anything I can do for you, child?" Ioreth said, concern creeping into her voice.

"Leave me, please," Tíniel breathed. The Healer hesitated, but eventually picked up her sewing and got to her feet.

"Just shout if you want me, then," she said, dropping a shallow curtsy. She shut the door behind her, and with shaking hands, Tíniel unfolded the paper.

Tíniel, it read.

I am sorry, but I cannot let you come with me to the Gates. Perhaps there is no chance of victory. But if there is a world after this war, I need you to be in it. Remuil made the sleeping potion, but do not blame him. I made you drink it.

If I don't come back from Mordor, I want you to know that I love you more than I've loved anything in the world.

Aragorn.