Chapter 23: His Brave Soul

Jutting from the horizon was a round, dark shape. As they drew closer, Toven realized it was a hill, and at the top of it was a large wooden hall, its roof gleaming gold in the sunlight.

"Edoras," Boromir said. "The capital of Rohan."

"I didn't realize we'd come so far," Toven said. He didn't know much about the geography of the southern kingdoms, but he knew enough to guess that they were nearing the western half of Rohan.

They'd been keeping a steady pace for the past few days, though they'd traveled more slowly and for a shorter duration than normal. It was a necessary compromise for his shoulder to heal.

"Perhaps they will have news of our companions," Boromir said as they changed their course towards the city.

"Or a horse we can borrow," Toven muttered. "I thought this place was supposed to be teeming with them."

"Steeds are not so lightly given in Rohan," Boromir said with a chuckle. "Unless we're lucky, we'll most likely have to continue on foot."

Toven glanced at him. "You've been here before?"

Boromir nodded. "Several times. Long has there been friendship between Rohan and Gondor."

He looked out over the plains again, the gently undulating grass shimmering in the sun. It all seemed endless. It was disorienting, so unlike the close darkness of Erebor or the familiar forests to the north.

"Tell me about Gondor," he said. "I've never been this far south before, and I don't know if I'll ever get the chance to see it."

"It would be well worth your while to come to Minas Tirith," Boromir said. "It is like nothing you will ever see in your lifetime. It is a city of white stone, stretching high towards the mountain peaks, and it shines even in the gloom…"

The wistfulness in his voice faded into something heavier, and Toven could see the regret in his eyes. He stopped walking and turned to Boromir.

"You should go back." He shook his head slightly. "And I'm not just saying that to try and get rid of you. You deserve to be with your people."

Boromir frowned at him. "I have said already that I will not abandon you."

He let out a short, frustrated sigh. "You would choose a single Ranger over your kingdom?"

"If I cannot keep my word to one man, then there is nothing I can do for Gondor." Boromir held his gaze, speaking the words as though he'd repeated them to himself many times.

Toven searched his face for a long moment. There was no way to really tell what was going on inside his head—whether he still thought he needed to atone for his mistakes with the Ring or if he was following some deep-set conviction. Perhaps there was a little bit of both. Whatever his reasoning, Toven wasn't responsible for the other man's actions, and he doubted he could convince him to leave.

"All right." He turned away and continued walking. "Let's make for the city, then."

After another hour, they were close enough to Edoras for Toven to make out a few more details. Smaller buildings were spread out at the foot of the hill, with a tall wooden fence around its perimeter.

It was also strangely quiet. No smoke rose from within, and Toven couldn't see any movement besides the lonely thrashing of a couple green banners. As they reached the front gate, he realized it truly was silent—there was no murmur of voices, no shuffling footsteps or playing children.

"Something's wrong." Boromir motioned for Toven to step back and approached the tall wooden doors of the gate.

Toven's gaze fell to the dirt road. It had been marked by multiple footsteps, as well as a mess of hoofmarks and the long, deep trails of wagon wheels. The grass further out had been trampled and covered in dust, leaving a wide, dry trail towards the mountains.

"It looks as if they all just…left." He glanced at a relatively fresh pile of horse excrement near the road. "And recently, too."

Boromir pushed on the gate, which swung open with little resistance. He put a hand on his sword and stepped inside. "Come on."

They walked along the main road, past eerily empty houses. A flash of movement caught Toven's eye, and he tensed, but it was only a stray cat prowling down a narrow alley.

"There's no sign of a fight," he said, looking around. "So they can't have been attacked."

"They must have fled." Boromir stopped, his eyes fixed on the hall at the top of the hill.

"Where would they go? This place seems…somewhat safe." He cast a dubious look at the wooden fence. If Bombur could see what defenses these men had put around their capital, he would have laughed himself red in the face.

"They would go to Helm's Deep." Boromir turned west. "It is a stronghold in the mountains not far from here."

"Well, if they're running from something…" Toven faced the opposite direction. "We should probably be running, too."

Thunder rumbled low in the distance.

"If they are fleeing from the forces of Mordor, then we will need to make for Helm's Deep as well," Boromir said.

Toven nodded. It was one thing to be following their friends in pursuit of a pack of orcs, but he didn't like their odds if they were traveling with an army on their tail. But Mordor wasn't the only enemy with orcs as its disposal, now.

"Unless they're coming from Isengard," he said. "In which case…"

"We might already be too late." Boromir turned to look at him, and Toven realized he was waiting for him to decide their next move.

"We have to keep pressing west," he said. "If Saruman is the one threatening Rohan, and his forces reach Helm's Deep before we do, then we're already dead. We're going to have to take that chance."

Boromir nodded, and Toven looked away, feeling slightly uncomfortable. He was used to giving advice or opinions, but he'd never been the one to make decisions before. It made him feel a little nauseous.

"We should rest here for tonight, and hope that storm will have passed us by morning." Boromir pointed to the inky clouds gathering on the horizon.

"All right." Toven spared one more glance to the west, at the wind swirling over the dry grass, and prayed his friends were safe.

They took shelter in a nearby inn, named The Golden Saddle. It smelled like a stable inside, like leather and sweat, and there were even bits of straw on the floor.

Toven stepped around a table, taking in the dim room. It was strange to see it so empty, but there was something reassuring about it, too. He'd never really been able to relax in places like these, with so many people around.

He stopped next to one of the wooden beams supporting the ceiling. Someone had painted a pattern of white flowers down its length, though the paint had faded where dozens of drunken hands had passed over it.

Raindrops began to patter against the roof, and another growl of thunder rolled overhead. It had been a shitty couple of weeks, but Toven considered it a rare stroke of luck that they'd found a roof over their heads before the storm had arrived.

"I think we can risk a fire." Boromir deposited his things on one of the tables and walked over to the fireplace. "The storm will hide most of the smoke."

Toven approached the bar, inspecting the casks just behind, looked beneath the counter. Inside a wooden box were several bottles full of amber liquid. He picked one up, uncorked it, and gave it an experimental sniff.

"Don't tell me you're going to drink that," Boromir said.

Toven lifted the bottle and, maintaining eye contact, took a swig. He coughed as the burning liquid raced down his throat and set it down. "That's…strong."

"Remember we need to have an early start tomorrow." Frowning, Boromir went back to working on the fire. "And we did not come here to steal from these people."

"You can tell the guard about it when they get back." And just out of spite, Toven took another swig.

He wiped his mouth and went to join Boromir by the fireplace, taking the bottle with him. A wisp of flame peeled from the wood, and its warmth began to permeate the room.

With a sudden pang, he thought of Quinn. She would have been right beside him behind the bar. It's only stealing if you get caught, she'd once told him, and while he didn't totally agree with that sentiment, he thought back on it with a measure of fondness.

"She'll be going up against them," he said softly, the realization as heavy and cold as the raindrops outside. "If there is an army coming from Isengard, Quinn will be right in their path."

"But she cannot die," Boromir said. "At least, that is how I understood it."

"You're right." Toven crossed his legs and placed the bottle in front of them. "But she can still be wounded, as you saw in Moria. They could still capture her or hurt her…"

"I should not have accused her of being a traitor," Boromir said. "I am sorry for that."

Toven met his eyes. "I know she's strange and…a lot, sometimes. I'm not asking you to like her. But Quinn has a good heart. She would never betray any of us, and she would do anything to protect the people she cares about."

Boromir nodded. "I'll admit, you are both loyal and brave, but I don't see much of a resemblance between you two. You carry yourself so different from her."

A small smile twitched on his face. "I should hope so." He began idly rotating the bottle with one hand. "I was raised by more people than just my mother. I've had a lot of people teach me and guide me over the years." His thoughts drifted to Aragorn, and another pang echoed the first. "They say it takes a village to raise a child. I suppose I was just born in the wrong one."

"I am glad you were able to find a new home. A new family." Boromir was staring at the fire. "Few are so lucky."

There was a melancholy in his tone that made Toven curious, but he decided not to question him. "I think it's possible to choose. Sometimes it's…it's necessary to find a family outside your blood."

Boromir said nothing, simply watching the flames for another handful of minutes. Eventually, he roused himself and turned to Toven. "We should change your bandages again."

Toven reached up to untie his sling. He'd gotten more comfortable with letting Boromir help him over the past few days, but there was still an instinctive tension that lingered in his body.

"It appears to be healing," Boromir said as he unwrapped the last of the old bandage.

The wound had begun to scab, and the pain had lessened somewhat, but he hadn't tested the movement of his arm yet. It would take time to build up his strength again, and that was if he was fortunate enough not to have any internal damage. Toven counted himself lucky each day that it had not been his sword arm that had been shot.

Boromir replaced the bandage, his movements made quicker with practice, and moved back. Toven quickly drew his cloak back around his shoulders. He could probably find a new tunic somewhere in the city, but he wasn't sure he felt comfortable with rooting around another person's possessions like that.

The liquor was settling in his stomach, making him feel warm and relaxed, but he couldn't shake the tension hanging in the air, the weight of questions unasked and answers he wasn't sure he should give.

The rain picked up its pace outside, a steady drumbeat on the roof and windows. Thunder shook the air, but it was muffled by the sturdy wooden walls.

Boromir added another log to the fire and sat back. "You say that it's possible to choose. But there is duty in family, one that is not so easily forsaken."

Toven sat back and asked, "What is your duty, then?"

"My duty is to my people and…and to my father. The Steward of Gondor."

A small chuckle escaped his lips before he could stop it.

Boromir turned to him. "What?"

"You're the Steward's son." He had assumed Boromir was high-ranking to be sent as emissary to Rivendell, but this put everything in a different light. "I'm surprised this is only coming up now."

"Aragorn knows who I am." He turned back to the fire. "So did Gandalf."

"I see," Toven said quietly. "So there is no other choice when it comes to your family. You have an entire kingdom counting on you."

The shadows flickered over his back, and for a moment, Toven could see the whole weight of the burden he'd been carrying his entire life.

"Sometimes it is not so easy to avoid your fate," Boromir said.

"You seem to be doing a decent job so far." Toven gestured around them. "Hiding out in an abandoned inn with an injured Ranger instead of heading back to your people."

"This is only a slight detour," he said with a slight smile. "I will return to Gondor once I know you and the others are safe."

"We don't know what's going to happen." He glanced out the rain-lashed windows. "After everything…it almost seems foolish to be making plans."

"You should not lose hope," Boromir said, a slight rebuke in his tone.

Toven shook his head. "I don't hope for anything. It doesn't change things to simply think they might be different." Absently, he touched the bandages on his shoulder. "I've been having close calls with death since I was an infant. But I…I will never let the circumstances of my birth define me."

Boromir remained silent, simply watching him, but Toven kept his gaze on the fire. There was a moment of anxious deliberation, like standing on the edge of a precipice, before the words continued to spill forth.

"My parents left me to die because they could not afford to feed me." He paused and swallowed. "And because they did not want to raise a girl." A wry smile twitched on his lips. "If they'd bothered to keep me around, maybe they would have discovered that wasn't who I was at all."

His fingers wrapped around the stem of the bottle, but he didn't raise it. He didn't look at Boromir, either.

"But Quinn bothered. And when I told her how I felt inside, she acted as if it was the most normal thing in the world. She and the dwarves helped me change my clothes and hair, choose a new name. They made me feel right." He paused and let out a slow breath. "When I left Erebor, I learned that men are not so open about things like that. I know most of them look at me and see something different from what I am."

It was the main reason he avoided towns and cities. Even the Rangers had not all accepted him at first, but Aragorn had been swift to forbid any remarks against him.

"It doesn't matter what they see or what they think. I know who I am."

The room fell silent, save for the low crackle of the fire and the drumming of rain on the roof. Toven stayed still, his pulse thudding in his ears.

"It is needless that you should suffer such scrutiny from other men," Boromir said. "And I hope you will remember that there are still those that would see you for who you are."

Toven finally looked up at him. There was kindness and understanding in his eyes, and the fear he'd been harboring crumbled. Underneath he felt raw and exhausted, but there was a shaky relief there, too.

"I know you are not inclined to make plans for the future," Boromir continued. "But if we do survive this, I would like you to meet my brother. You and he have more in common than you know."

Despite himself, a genuine smile grew on his face. "I'd like that."

They sat in silence for a few minutes before Toven set the bottle to the side and lay down on his back with his pack beneath his head. His eyes were drifting closed, but some leftover adrenaline kept him from falling asleep.

"You should finish that story," he said. "The one you were going to tell in the mountains."

Boromir let out a small laugh. "It's not a very lighthearted story."

"I don't mind."

"All right." The floor creaked slightly as he shifted into a more comfortable position. "I was on a hunting trail in the White Mountains, one that I'd used before. Just before nightfall, I came to a set of tracks, which led to an abandoned tent…"

It took them another day and a half to reach Helm's Deep. The trail of the refugees was easy to follow, the grass flattened with the passage of hundreds of footsteps.

It was midday when the familiar scent of rot and blood reached Toven's nose, and he quickened his pace to the top of the hill they were climbing. He looked down the other side and swore.

Several bodies were scattered on the grass below—orcs, wargs, men, and horses. Some were impaled with spears and arrows, others lying in pools of blood that had already turned brown.

Toven hurried down the hill, stumbling twice in his haste. The stench of death nearly overwhelmed him, and he pressed the back of his free hand to his nose.

"Warg scouts." Boromir joined him at the bottom of the hill. "They must have come from Isengard to intercept the refugees."

Shit. So it was Saruman's forces that were set to attack Rohan. Toven stepped over a fallen orc, surveying the fallen men with hope and fear warring in his heart. None of them looked familiar—they all wore green cloaks and heavy chain—and he let out a sigh of relief.

"We must hurry," Boromir said. "If scouts have already arrived, the rest of the force won't be far behind."

"The others must have been able to get away." Toven climbed to the top of the next hill, and was relieved to find another swathe of grass, empty of more dead bodies.

"Let us hope they were able to make it to safety," Boromir said, and the two of them forged on.

It wasn't long before the fortress came into sight. It was built at the base of the mountain, embraced by two rocky slopes. A narrow tower rose to the right, situated above the main building, and a long, high wall stretched to the left, closing in the open area behind it. The earth below the wall was untouched, which hopefully meant Helm's Deep itself had not been attacked yet.

"Impressive, is it not?" Boromir said.

"I prefer fortresses that are built inside the mountain." Toven shifted his pack higher onto his shoulder. "But this will have to do."

As they drew closer, Toven could see the smoke from small cooking fires rising on the other side of the wall, mingling with the low murmur of what must have been several hundred voices. He resisted the urge to throw his hood up. He'd never liked crowded places, but he would take this one over an army of orcs.

They took the curved stone walkway up to the front door, where a pair of guards let them in without question. The narrow street just inside was crowded, women and children huddled against the walls with baskets of food and cloth. Their faces were weary and stained from travel, and they paid the newcomers little attention.

Still, Toven kept his eyes ahead, and let Boromir take the lead as they walked further into the fortress. His neck itched at the thought of having to wait out a possible siege with all these people.

"Oi!" A gruff voice called out, and some of his unease dissipated.

A stout figure with wild red hair shouldered his way through the crowd, and Toven's face broke into a grin. "Gimli!"

"Mahal's beard, laddie, look at you! Ikhrêsh bilis ni thadul." He pulled Toven into a one-armed hug. "You both made it here in one piece." He turned and slapped Boromir on the back, making him wince.

"I'm surprised to see you, too," Toven said. "What happened after you left? Did you find Merry and Pippin?"

Gimli shook his head. "We did not lay eyes on them, but the young rascals are safe for now."

"What do you mean?" Boromir asked. "How can you know for sure?"

"We crossed paths with Gandalf." Gimli rested his axe on the ground and propped both hands on the head. "He assured us as much."

Toven blinked. "Gandalf died."

"Aye, but he's returned to us now." He shrugged. "I don't fully understand it myself, but I trust his word."

"Oh." Toven wasn't fully clear on that either, but there were more pressing questions he needed answered. "Well, speaking of people who have returned from the dead, have you seen Quinn?"

"No, laddie." A shadow fell over his expression. "But I'm sure she's fine."

Toven nodded, feeling cold dread slide down his spine, and wished he shared Gimli's confidence.

Boromir laid a brief, comforting hand on his shoulder before turning back to the dwarf. "And where are the others?"

Gimli hesitated, and the chill along Toven's spine turned to ice. "Legolas is with us, but…we were attacked on the road. Aragorn, he…he fell."

A roaring filled his ears, so loud Toven could barely hear himself say, "Fell?"

"I'm sorry, laddie." Gimli's voice cracked. "The wargs surprised us, and he went over the cliff before we could—"

Toven stepped back. He could feel the stares of the people around him, clinging to his skin like spots of hot oil. The walls felt too narrow, closing in with the pressure building in his skull. Boromir reached out to him, speaking softly, but Toven could barely hear his words.

He stepped around his friends, avoiding their touch, and lurched forward in search of escape.

Toven stayed hunched on the rock face long after the cold wind had dried his tears.

He'd moved blindly, uncaring of the men walking around him, until he'd reached the top of the fortress. The main building was built partially into the mountainside, and some desperate impulse had driven him to start climbing the rocky exterior to the side of the fortress. The slope wasn't very steep, but it had still been a difficult climb, especially with one hand.

He couldn't bring himself to care. Even as the wind swept over him, numbing his fingers and pushing his hair into his face, he couldn't bring himself to feel more than a mild discomfort.

Aragorn was gone. The man who had mentored him, protected him, who had been the closest thing to a father he had…he was gone, killed in a skirmish with some orcs.

He had known that something like this could happen. He had been talking about it only a couple nights ago, how there was no reason to make plans because there was no guarantee any of them would make it to the end of this. But now, sitting there with the immovable knowledge that he really had lost someone, he didn't know how such a thing could ever make sense to him.

Quinn was most likely gone, too. Even if Saruman's forces hadn't killed her yet, they could still make her suffer. Even if he managed to see her again, she would disappear once the Ring was destroyed.

And if Frodo failed in his task, none of it would matter anyway.

The despair he'd been holding at bay came crashing down on his shoulders, made all the heavier by an undeniable, echoing loneliness. He put his head in his hands as tears threatened to rise again.

He didn't know how he was going to make it past this.

Light footsteps against the stone made him look up. Legolas was climbing towards him, moving swiftly over the uneven surface. Toven said nothing as the elf sat beside him, adjusting his bow so it wouldn't get in the way.

He didn't know what Legolas thought he could offer in the way of comfort. They hadn't spoken much during their journey. He wasn't sure he wanted to be with anyone right now, except the two people he had lost.

"You should know he thought highly of you," Legolas said, resting his forearms on his knees. "And he would be glad to know you are safe."

"As much as that's worth while we're hiding in this fortress." He shook his head. "None of us are safe anymore."

The wind hissed over the stone. Toven pulled his cloak tighter around himself as his shoulder began to ache.

"I fought alongside your mother in battle, many years ago," Legolas said.

"The Battle of the Five Armies," Toven said. "She's never talked about it." He knew what had happened from the stories the dwarves had told him, and he could see why Quinn had never wanted to talk about the battle that had killed her.

"It was the most death I had seen in my life," Legolas continued. "Or that I have seen since. I lost my mother to war some centuries prior, but it was…different, seeing the bodies of my friends and kin around me."

Toven glanced at him, surprised that he would share something like that. The look in his eyes was different, less detached, and he wondered if whatever it was that he shared with Gimli had changed him as well.

"I have been thinking of what Lady Galadriel said when we first arrived in Lothlórien. Everywhere now, there is love mingled with grief." He slipped something from his pocket, and it glittered in his palm—the gem Aragorn wore on his neck, a gift from Arwen. "There is still love, even when the person is gone."

Toven realized there were more tears slipping down his face, and quickly wiped them away. He could still feel that love for Quinn and Aragorn, but it hurt, so badly he didn't know how to move with it.

"It is cold, and you are injured," Legolas said. He stowed the gem away and held out his hand. "Will you come down?"

He felt no interest in seeking warmth at the moment. But there was something comforting about letting another guide him, so he nodded and took Legolas's hand.

Credit to the Dwarrow Scholar for the Khuzdul phrase Gimli says. It means "cutting the beryl in one go," essentially expressing that he's impressed Toven traveled so far.

So this chapter was a sort of coming out/reveal for Toven, and I think that scene is one of my favorites from this fic. This is something I've planned from the beginning, and I put a few bits of subtext in the first two chapters that I thought were sort of obvious, at least to people who knew what to look for. I could probably write another several thousand words on my thoughts about that scene but I'll just leave it in my head for now. I'm not a trans man so this isn't something I can write about from a personal standpoint but I've turned over this moment at least a dozen times in my head, and I felt like it was important to try and tell this story in the most appropriate way I could. Anyway, that's all I'm going to say about this for now, but I'm definitely willing to talk about it more if there was a particular line or part that caught your eye.

ETA: I just realized I posted this chapter on National Coming Out Day. Definitely a coincidence, but that's fucking hilarious. Love you guys.