Chapter 26: The Boys Are Back in Town

The next morning, Wulfrun provided me with a new dress—along with strict instructions to keep it clean this time, or so help me I'll have you back in prison, sorceress or not! Dodging her threats, I hid my flare gun under my pillow for safekeeping, slung my violin case over my shoulder, and went looking for a place to practice my music.

Meduseld was enormous, for all its cramped, dark ceilings and narrow, slanted windows, and I breathed in the dusty smell of wood and grass, trying to calm my restless thoughts. Be patient, Bee. It'll take a while for them to get here, like Strider said…

Still, it was hard to relax. The halls were crowded with men and women talking in thick accents, children tugging on their parents' ragged clothes, elderly people gathering to rest in the dining halls and leaning their bent backs against the walls wherever there was free space. Among them all, servants dashed about distributing food and water and blankets. They were refugees, if the maids' gossip was anything to go by, and more of them than ever were descending on Edoras.

I had asked more than once that morning if the servants needed help tending to them—working as a maid in Rivendell was a pretty impressive resumé addition, after all—but they had balked, seeming afraid to talk to me or meet my eyes.

Trying not to let it get to me, I settled onto the soft grass outside the Golden Hall, under a scraggly, windblown tree. I opened my instrument case, eager to play my new violin at last, but I paused at the dozens of sheets of parchment tucked against the violin's pale body. My letters! I'd left the ones for Amarien and Bilbo in Lothlorien, hoping a courier could bring them to Rivendell, but the others remained, a bit wrinkled but otherwise none the worse for wear.

I glanced over them, my mood souring. They suddenly looked so meager, so pathetic—was this all I had to offer to my family and friends back home, after so many months?

Dear Mom,

Hello again from Middle Earth! I'm in an elven forest called Lothlorien, but I'm sure that doesn't mean anything to you. I can't imagine how worried you must be about me, but I promise, I'm fine. My new friends are with me, and we're looking out for each other. One of them is training me in sword fighting too. So don't worry, I'll be perfectly able to keep myself safe—

I scowled blackly, resisting the urge to rip the parchment in half. I stuffed the letters away—then hesitated as I dug up the folded-up sheet music I'd saved from my old violin case. I studied the folded papers gratefully; they, at least, weren't depressing to look at.

I spread some of the music out on the grass, weighing the sheets down with rocks. Setting my bow to the strings at last, I began to play.

The elven violin outdid itself. Each note echoed with a piercing brilliance into the cold spring air, in eerie defiance of the billowing wind. The strings were perfectly in tune, even after being carried in a wild sprint all the way to Edoras. Even my old sheet music seemed new and exciting, being played on such a gorgeous instrument—how had I ever been bored of these songs, my old Irish jigs and country tunes? I improvised with each melody, adding new flourishes and trills, marveling as the bow moved like silk over the strings. God, I'd missed this.

"Lord Aragorn said you were a musician, but he did not tell me you possessed such talent."

I looked up to see Eowyn, her blonde hair loose and whipping around her shoulders in the wind. "Thank you!" I said, beckoning her to sit down. She was smiling tentatively, as though she'd half-forgotten how.

"Forgive me for interrupting you," she added, "but I have come to bring you something." She handed me a folded piece of parchment.

"Really?" I took the parchment haltingly, wondering why she'd taken it upon herself to act as a messenger for me.

She must have seen the confusion on my face. "In truth, my uncle wishes me to keep an eye on you. I hope you take no insult, for you must understand, he is rather leery of magic for the present."

"No worries," I said honestly. "I get it." He'd been under Saruman's control for a year, according to Eomer—of course he'd be wary of me.

Still, Eowyn didn't seem terribly bothered by her assignment. She sat down under the tree near me, elegantly folding her feet under her dress. After a while, she nodded at the letter she'd given me. "Forgive my presuming, Bee; if you cannot read, I will do so for you."

I looked back to the letter she'd given me. "No, no, I can read. But what is it?"

"Theodred's was not the only funeral to be held yesterday. You were friends with Alfric, were you not? His daughter found that in his pocket before the burial. Clearly he meant to deliver it to you, before…"

Before Wormtongue found him. I nodded in understanding, unfolding the letter.

Biyetris, it began, and it took me several moments to realize it was a dreadful attempt at spelling my own name. I grinned despite myself, tears welling in my eyes. I hope you are well and staeing hiddin with the servents. Rest assurd I am well as mae be. Heelers are taking good care of me. They say I will certenly walk agen, thow I can only gess how long it will take. Stae safe, little miss. -Alfric

It was barely a letter at all, only a few scrawled lines, but the thought that he'd wanted to check up on me, make sure I was safe, overwhelmed me.

"I did not know Alfric myself," Eowyn said after a while, tactfully looking away while I wiped at my face. "Though my brother told me he was quite proud to have learned his letters—he taught his children as well, it seems, and according to Eomer he would brag about it to anyone who would listen."

"Thank you for bringing me this." I tucked the letter into my violin case with my other leaves of parchment, eyeing my letters with a bit more fondness than before. "I just wish I could have…I don't know…" My voice trailed off—I wasn't even sure what I wanted to say.

"Come with me," Eowyn said abruptly, and I obeyed, gathering up my violin case. She led me around to the north side of the Golden Hall, where a panoramic view of the grassland stretched out below us.

"This is beautiful," I said faintly, the cold wind snapping violently at my hair.

"Alfric is buried at the base of the hill. There, you see?" I squinted in the direction Eowyn pointed, but shook my head. "The fresh patch of earth there, amongst the flowers."

"Oh!"

"I thought perhaps seeing his resting place would bring you comfort. Of course little comfort is to be found in such a circumstance, but…"

"Thank you." She was right, I supposed; it was a small comfort, at least, that Alfric might be at rest in such a beautiful place. "I've never seen flowers like these," I added. From this distance, the valley could have been carpeted in a dusting of frost.

"They are called simbelmyne," Eowyn murmured. She was gazing into the horizon, her eyes cold.

"Symbol—what?"

"Evermind, in the Common Tongue," she said, taking pity on me. "Little else will bloom in the cold seasons of the Mark, nor upon the barrows of my uncle's forebears."

I twisted my sleeves in my fingers. "Then, they'll grow on Alfric's tomb too?"

"Just as they will grow on my cousin's tomb. As they grow on my mother's, and my father's, and so many of my people's. At times it seems the Mark will consist of nothing but barrows, one after another, all blanketed in simbelmyne like snow, and it shall not melt, even in the summer's warmth."

"I'm sorry," I said—what else was there to say? If she'd been anyone else, I'd have offered her a hug, but I had a feeling she might snap in half like an icicle if I dared try.

We stood in silence for a while. I wasn't sure if it was a companionable silence, exactly, but I didn't want to leave, not just yet. Edoras was beautiful, and despite my less than warm welcome, I found I quite liked the view from Meduseld.

My hands were bloodless with cold when I finally returned to the servants' quarters. I went to my bed, intending to wrap myself in a blanket for warmth, but nearly leaped out of my skin at the sight of Griyr wielding my flare gun in her hands. "Miss Bee, what is this?" the girl asked eagerly, trying to jam one of the flares down the barrel. "Is it some sort of magic slingshot?"

"Don't touch that!" I lunged forward to rip the gun and flares out of her hands, holding them far out of her reach. My heart pounded with the memory of the Uruk-hai being shot in the chest with a flare, in the middle of that horrible campsite in the dark, before Ugluk's fist had connected with my jaw and all hell had broken loose—"Damn it, don't ever touch this again, understand? This isn't some magic toy, this is dangerous, Griyr!"

Tears welled in her eyes, and without another word she fled. I stood alone for a long moment, clutching the flare gun in my clammy hands, my chest still heaving with panic. Then I turned to see several other maids in the doorway, glaring at me. I stuffed the flare gun into my pocket hurriedly and looked away, trying to pretend I couldn't hear their frightened whispering.

I was still trying to think of something to say to them when a frantic knocking sounded at the drawing room door.

"Oh my," one of the maids said as she opened the door, going pink as Legolas entered the room.

"Has Bee returned yet?" he asked, looking around, oblivious to the ogling stares of the younger servants. They'd clearly never seen an elf before, and I was reminded quite forcefully of me and Amarien spying on Legolas when he'd first arrived in Rivendell. I could've been friends with them too, I thought miserably.

The maid at the door gathered herself at last and pointed shyly in my direction. Without so much as a greeting, Legolas pulled me from the room and began dragging me down the hall. "I have been looking for you for hours," he chided me. "Where on earth were you hiding?"

"I was just outside playing the violin, and then Eowyn was—oh, for Pete's sake, Legolas, what's going on?" I demanded, trying and failing to tug my arm free.

"They have arrived—they are here at last!" he cried, beaming.

"What? Who, not Boromir and Gimli already, Strider said—"

"Yes, yes, they are! I was sent to fetch you—see now, Gimli, I have found her!"

"Wh—" The words were squeezed out of my lungs as I was pulled into a violent dwarven hug.

"Bee! Where were you, lass?" Gimli grinned up at me, his eyes crinkling into a smile under a horrible case of helmet hair.

"Off playing her violin, of course!" Legolas laughed. He had pulled me to the dining hall, where a spread of meat and cheese and ale was laid out. Refugees crowded around the tables, Strider and Gandalf sitting among them. "How good to see you safe and sound, lass! Charming all the servants with your music, were you?" Gimli reached up to clap my shoulder.

"It's great to see you too," I said. "But no, not at all. They're all terrified of me, I think."

"Well, more fool them," Gimli laughed, fairly pushing me into a seat at the table beside him. Legolas grinned and sat on his other side. "Come now, eat, eat—we've got to build your strength back up, lass, for I doubt those orcs fed you well, eh?" He shoved a plate in front of me and started piling it with food. I sighed and took a bite to appease him. "What did I say, Legolas? We won't be letting her out of our sight again!" Gimli said fondly, patting me on the back so hard that I doubled over, choking. "Ah, how worried we were," he went on obliviously as I wheezed for breath. "And now at least, our poor Boromir might refrain from another fit of madness."

"What?" I coughed, straightening up. "What do you mean?"

Gimli sighed and dragged a hand down his face. "I fear he pushed himself too hard by far, getting us here as quickly as he did. He was badly hurt at Amon Hen, but would he listen to a word of caution? Hmph! When he saw that red fire of yours on the horizon, the poor man damn near broke into a sprint—or he tried to, at least."

"My flare?" I said, startled. "Y'all saw it too?"

"Aye, couldn't have missed it, lass," he said, nodding appreciatively. "Even brighter than the fireworks we make in Erebor—I'd dare even Gandalf to make its equal! Though it likely wasn't the best idea setting off such a thing, considering it drove our Boromir half mad."

"Oh no," I moaned, pressing my face into my hands. "I'm so sorry—"

"Ah, don't fret, lass," the dwarf grunted, waving away my apology. "Magic's not to be used lightly, but I'm sure you don't need me telling you that. In any case, I thought that was the worst of it, Boromir dragging himself after you and Merry and Pippin like that. But then when that horse found us—" Gimli broke off with a shudder, clearly not fond of riding. "There was a note in the saddlebags: Ride for Edoras. Aragorn and Legolas in search of hobbits, believed to be alive in Fangorn. Beatrice safe and heading for Meduseld, or some such. Well, Boromir lost the other half of his mind at that, and off we went again—he took the reins of course, for dwarves don't take to such things, but he seemed to have lost all reason. He led us at a gallop, exhausting the poor beast and falling from the saddle more than once—"

"What?" I leapt up, nearly knocking my plate over. "No wonder y'all got here so fast—what was he thinking? Where is he, is he alright?"

"Oh aye, he'll live. He's being patched up in the infirmary now—"

"Which way?" I demanded.

Gimli pointed down a corridor and opened his mouth to speak again, but I was already sprinting away.

I tore down the hall and flew through the infirmary doors. The main rooms were occupied with refugees: elderly Rohirrim, a heavily pregnant woman, a few golden-haired men with their arms in slings. Huffing impatiently, I barged into the private rooms at the end of the hall. Boromir was some important lord in Gondor, so of course he'd get his own hospital room, wouldn't he?

And I was right. There he was at last, resting on a low bed, his head propped up with pillows. My breath caught: having imagined Boromir dead for so many days, I could barely take in the sight of him now. His chest was startlingly bare, fresh bandages wrapped thick around his right shoulder and upper arm. He looked terrible. Injured he might have been, but he was alive, he was really here, the Fellowship was that much more whole again—then his eyes turned to me.

"Beatrice!" Boromir leapt upright, then flinched and fell back onto his pillows with a groan.

"Easy now!" An elderly, round-faced woman, who had been applying some kind of poultice to his ribcage, huffed and held him in place with an exasperated hand. "Please, my lord, no sudden movements," she said, then turned an eye on me, scanning my servant's dress and frowning. "Whatever business you have here, girl, wait outside until I'm done."

"But I'm his friend," I said desperately, hesitating in the doorway. "I just wanted to—"

"Did you not hear me? Out!"

"She may stay," Boromir told her sternly. He hadn't taken his eyes off me.

The healer threw up her hands in defeat and sighed. Giving the woman a wide berth, I ran to Boromir's bedside. "I'm so happy to see you," I exclaimed, my voice breaking. "I thought—"

"Are you well?" he interrupted. He grasped my forearm and dragged me to him, examining my face desperately. "Beatrice—Beatrice," he whispered, raising his injured arm with difficulty and tracing the bruise on my jaw, gently turning my chin to study the marks on my neck. His grip on my arm tightened. "Are you well, are you truly safe? Aragorn told me you had been imprisoned—he said you were unharmed, but no one in this damned hall would let me see you for myself!"

"Well, of course not, you needed medical attention," I said breathlessly. Boromir had pulled me so close that I was teetering over his bedside, my hair hanging in a curtain over his face. Heat radiated from his bare chest, and I cleared my throat, loosening my arm from his grasp and stepping back slightly. "I'm alright, Boromir, I promise," I insisted. "Don't worry about me, you're the one who was shot, after all! God, I just can't believe you're here—" My voice broke again, and I pressed my face into my hands, trying to gather myself. "I know Eomer sent a horse to find you, but I just can't believe you got here so quickly."

"Aye, at the expense of his own health," the healer broke in huffily—I jumped, having half-forgotten she was there. "Riding at anything more than a trot was likely to agitate his injuries something awful."

I glared at Boromir, reminded forcibly of Alfric, nearly tumbling from his horse in blind, stubborn exhaustion. "Gimli told me how hard you pushed yourself," I said accusingly, wanting to shake him. "Damn it, you've got to take care of yourself—what were you thinking?"

His jaw tightened, and he looked away.

I hesitated. He blamed himself for our capture, I realized belatedly, so of course he'd do whatever he could to find us, even if that meant dragging himself, broken and bleeding, halfway across Middle Earth. How could a man with his stubbornness, his protectiveness, his sense of duty, do anything else? Oh, Boromir. "Are you in a lot of pain?" I pressed, more gently. "Gimli said—"

"Pay no heed to Gimli," he grumbled. "He would have you believe I was on death's door."

He certainly looked like it, I thought, eyeing the thick bandages on his shoulder and forearm—the work of the Uruk-hai's two arrows, and the violent bruises on his abdomen, radiating outward from two epicenters—the bullets fired at his torso. I swallowed heavily. I hadn't known bruises could come in such riotous colors. "Your ribs aren't broken, are they?"

"One, miss," the healer cut in again, and I raised my eyes to the ceiling, wishing she'd leave. "And at least one other cracked. Nearly pierced his lungs on his journey here, I should say."

"I'm so sorry," I told him, unable to muster any more anger at his recklessness. "I didn't know the Kevlar vest would leave so much damage."

But Boromir's scowl was deepening with every word. "Mistress Heortha," he said abruptly, "perhaps you might fetch Beatrice some tea."

The healer pursed her lips, seeing the dismissal for what it was. "Yes, my lord."

Once she was gone, he sighed, dragging a hand down his face. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his cheeks were gaunt—he'd lost weight. Looking at him now, the change that had overcome him was so stark; I could barely recognize the proud, boasting man who had spoken at Elrond's council.

I perched on the edge of a chair near his bedside. "Are you sure you're okay?" I asked again, desperately. "You—"

"Why did you give me that armor?" Boromir interrupted, his voice low.

"What?" I blinked, taken aback. "I…I was trying to help, that's all."

"You did not wear it yourself, nor did you offer it to any others in the Company," he said pointedly. "What prompted you to give it to me?"

Something like panic was welling up in my chest. "Well, it was too big for me, and it definitely wouldn't have fit the hobbits—"

"Beatrice." I'd never heard his voice so harsh. "I would not have you lie to me. You have been granted some measure of foresight; am I wrong?"

"No," I said quietly. "You're not wrong."

"Then you knew I would need the armor. You saw me injured," he went on. "Perhaps you even saw me killed. And if you saw that much—" He broke off and looked away. "You must have also seen—you must have realized that it would have been better, far better, to have left me to my fate."

I flinched. "Left you to—what do you mean?"

"Do not lie to me," he snarled again, struggling to sit upright. The tendons in his neck strained with the movement, and he let out a hiss of pain. "Can you truly tell me you did not see all that happened, all that I did, at Amon Hen? You saw that I tried to take…" His throat convulsed, and he hung his head, unable to say the words. Tears welled in his eyes, startling me.

"I did." I forced the words out, though they tasted like bile. "But that doesn't mean—"

"Then I was right." Resignation settled blackly over his features. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his voice thick with self-loathing. "You knew."

Hesitantly, I rested my hand on his good shoulder, bare skin hot to the touch. He flinched away and I withdrew, mortified. "Look, I may have known, but that doesn't mean I'd have left you to—"

Just then the door opened again. "My lord, you must lay back down!" Heortha cried, running over and easing Boromir's shoulders back onto his pillows. He allowed her to fuss over him, his face like stone. "If I may be so bold, miss," she added, pressing a tin mug of tea into my hands, "your being here is doing Lord Boromir no good."

I looked at Boromir again, but he had shut his eyes, brows furrowed. "Leave me, Beatrice," he said quietly.

I shook my head desperately, the mug of tea trembling in my hands. "I'm glad you're here, Boromir," I insisted. "Truly. I can't tell you how happy I am to see you again."

"Go," he muttered. "Please." He covered his face with his hand, his shoulders shaking.

Reluctantly, miserably, I obeyed.

I tried to visit Boromir's room later that evening, despite having no idea what I might say to him, but the healer Heortha folded her arms and barred me from the door. "The lord Boromir is resting," she said imperiously. "Run along, girl."

After being similarly turned away the next morning, I took to complaining to Gimli and Legolas.

"And that jerk in the hospital won't even let me talk to him," I grumbled, stabbing at my breakfast with my fork. Eowyn sat next to me, her eyes trained on Strider, who sat across from us.

"Perhaps he does not wish to see you," Legolas suggested, and Gimli elbowed him violently.

"Don't listen to him, lass. Boromir is just tired, mark my words. That thick-skulled man put himself through a great deal to get here, you know."

But I frowned, wondering if Legolas's words were true. Why would Boromir want to see me? I wasn't sure if any of the others knew that he had succumbed to the Ring—certainly Gimli and Legolas weren't acting like they knew—but why would he want to be around someone who had seen him at his lowest point, someone who knew his darkest secret? Not only someone who knew, but who had known for months on end, and done nothing to stop him?

"If you wish for an audience with him, I will accompany you and speak to the healers myself," Strider cut in. "As it is, they likely think you to be a servant, and thus an improper guest for the Captain of Gondor."

"Oh." I plucked at my ill-fitting maid's dress. I hadn't considered that.

"Bee, why do you stay in the servants' quarters?" Legolas asked, shaking his head. "Surely more fitting accommodations might be found for you."

I scowled. "More fitting? I was a maid in Rivendell, after all."

"Out of some misguided attempt at payment, as I understand it," he replied, "for you were no servant in your Texas, were you?"

"Well, no, but I had a low-paying job and lived in a roach-infested dump. I was hardly some high-class lady."

"Yet still you are well-educated," Legolas went on. "Is that not deserving of—"

"Oh come on," I exclaimed. "We don't have nobility back home, at least not the way y'all do here." I didn't like the thought of having to climb some medieval social ladder just to see my own friends, as though I wasn't worthy of them in the first place. "We can't all be royalty, your highness."

Gimli snorted into his plate, but Legolas looked affronted. Before he could protest my words, Eowyn silenced him with a tactful look. "As it happens, your elven friend is right," she told me. "New quarters are being outfitted for you as we speak, Bee."

"Really? But why?"

She shrugged, looking away. "It seems that some of the maidservants have expressed some amount of…discomfort, in sharing their quarters with—"

"With a sorceress," I finished. My heart sank.

"Chin up, lass." Gimli nudged me. "It is hardly surprising, is it, that they'd be wary of a former convict, armed to the teeth with magic weapons!"

"Hey, I'm hardly armed to the—"

"I am sorry, Bee," Eowyn said. "You will be quite comfortable in your new room, I am certain, though you are unlikely to enjoy it for more than a single night."

"Why's that?"

"Has no one told you?" Gimli exclaimed. "We are to part from Meduseld at all speed! Next morning, isn't that right, my lady?"

Eowyn nodded, and I set down my fork in surprise. "Who's we?" I asked.

"Every man, woman, and child in Edoras," Strider said, and I gaped at him. "The Golden Hall and its houses are to be emptied. These refugees bring grim news—war is brewing in Isengard, though you likely have guessed as much already. Theoden King has deemed it unsafe to for his people to remain here, unprotected, and wishes to go to battle from a place of strength."

"We go to Helm's Deep," Eowyn explained at the look on my face. "The great stronghold of Dunharrow, forty leagues south of Meduseld. If anywhere is to prove safe for us, it is behind the Deeping Wall."

"Oh," was all I could say, and we finished our meal in silence.

I wandered around Meduseld afterward, studying the dozens of refugees even more curiously than before. Most of them didn't exactly look up for walking or riding forty leagues at a moment's notice—although admittedly, I still wasn't sure how far a league was.

How desperate must Theoden King be to evacuate all of his people like this?

"Beatrice?" I whipped around, a familiar broad-shouldered figure making its way toward me from the crowded main hall.

"Boromir! You—you look better," I said awkwardly. It was true—his movements were stiff and slow, but he seemed to carry himself steadily enough. "I'm glad you're up and about again."

"Thank you. I would speak to you," he told me quietly, "if you would allow it."

I nodded, and he led me outside, away from the crowds of refugees and soldiers milling about the throne room. It was windier than ever, the air thin and cold, but at least we had some space to ourselves.

"Why don't we sit down?" I suggested, eyeing Boromir with worry. He didn't seem to be in pain, walking around like this, but he looked so exhausted that a single gust of wind might sweep him off the hilltop.

He obeyed, and we sat side by side on the stone steps leading up to the Golden Hall. "I need not keep you long," he said, his voice reluctant. He rested his elbows on his knees, wincing slightly as the movement tugged at his shoulder. "Beatrice, I…"

"I'm sorry," I blurted, before he could go on. "I didn't mean to see what happened at Amon Hen, I promise. I just…saw it. The movie, or my foresight or whatever you want to call it, didn't really allow for much privacy."

"I supposed it must have been so. I did not think so little of you as that." Boromir hesitated. "In truth, I came to apologize to you. I was rude to you yesterday, unpardonably so. You must understand it is—it is myself I am angry with, not you, little excuse though it is."

I twisted my sleeve in my fingers, pulling at a loose thread. "There's no need to apologize. I understand, you know, what you must have—"

"Don't," he muttered, not meeting my eyes. "Forgive me, but I will not speak of it. I—I cannot bear it." He shook his head. "Not with you."

I swallowed heavily and nodded. We'd grown so comfortable with one another in Lothlorien, spending countless days sparring and talking and relaxing in companionable silence. But the quiet that stretched between us now was almost unbearable.

"I owe you my life," he said at last, his voice so low that the wind nearly carried it away entirely. "You have seen now what little worth my promises hold, but I swear to you, I shall never forget what you have done for me, and I will repay it if I can."

Guilt and misery were swelling in my chest. "Boromir, please don't say that. I…"

"Yet even so, you should not have given me your armor. Hear me now," he added sternly, cutting off my protests. "Should we find ourselves in danger again, promise me that whatever your foresight has shown you, you will use what sorcery you possess to protect yourself first. Do not waste such efforts on me."

"It wasn't a waste!" I exclaimed, clenching my fists. "It wasn't!"

"Promise me, Beatrice!"

"No!"

"Valar, woman!" He gripped the edge of the stair at his side, his knuckles going white. "Are you so determined to ignore what I have done? Or do you truly think so little of your own safety?"

I hesitated. I wasn't ignoring what he'd done. Right? For the first time I allowed myself to picture it, to really picture it, Boromir threatening Frodo, yelling at him, lunging for the chain around his neck. I saw Boromir's gray eyes turning wild and full of hate, his face red with rage, twisted until no trace of the kind, honorable man remained. My memories of the movie were fuzzy enough to have all but disappeared, but still the scene was easy to imagine. Too easy to imagine, because those were the same emotions I'd felt back on Caradhras, and in the mines, when I'd come close—so close—to doing the same.

Maybe I'm not as worthy of safety as you think, I almost snapped, but I bit the words back, shame bubbling up hot in my throat.

"Beatrice?" he prompted, more softly. There was concern in his voice, and I turned away.

Tell him the Ring took you too, I told myself bitterly. He needs to know that you're not worth worrying over. Coward, coward, coward—I shook my head, tears welling in my eyes, and suddenly Boromir's hand was on my shoulder, gentle and uncertain.

"It seems I owe you another apology already," he said, "for I did not intend to upset you. I meant only that I would not have you put yourself in danger, least of all for my sake. But you are safe now. You—" His voice broke, his grip tightening on my shoulder. He bowed his head, the chill wind whipping at his hair. "You cannot imagine my fear for you, Beatrice, as I followed you through the wilds. But you are safe, you are here. Scarcely can I believe it, even now."

"I can hardly believe it either," I admitted quietly. "But it doesn't feel like much of an accomplishment, not when I left the hobbits behind—"

"You must not blame yourself for being separated from them," Boromir insisted, though his face twisted in pain. "I exchanged harsh words with Eomer about his handling of your rescue, believe me." The coldness in his voice made me shudder; I wouldn't have wanted to be in Eomer's shoes for that conversation. "But we will be united with Merry and Pippin ere long. I am certain of it. Loath as I was to abandon our search, Aragorn spoke most assuredly of their safety in Fangorn."

There was a time, I thought distantly, that Boromir would have dismissed a promise like that from Strider with a doubtful sneer. I was glad he trusted the man's words now. "He's right," I said. "Harm won't come to them there."

"Your foresight at work, I take it?"

I jumped as I realized I'd spoken with a confidence I couldn't explain. "Oh, no. I'm afraid my foresight's run out now. It's just…there was something about that forest. I don't know how to explain it. They'll be safe there."

"Your words comfort me," he said. "I am glad Fangorn is not dangerous, at least."

"Oh, no, it's very dangerous. Just not to the hobbits." Again the words had spilled from my mouth unbidden, and I pressed my hand to my lips, unsettled.

Sorceress. He didn't say it aloud, but I saw the word in his eyes, a ghost of a smile flashing across his face, ever so briefly. But it disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving him looking more solemn than ever.

"I am glad to have you back again, Beatrice," he said quietly. "More than I can say." He stood, turning away from me—but not before I saw him grimace in pain. "You had best begin packing your things, for the people of Edoras leave at dawn."

I nodded, but I stayed where I was, studying him as he turned back inside the Golden Hall.

Boromir was back, at long last, but somehow it felt like he was still lost, wandering far off in the wilderness, leagues away—whatever a league was.

I've been writing so many future scenes, I'd almost forgotten how long I've kept y'all waiting for a reunion! I hope this made up for the five or so Boromir-less chapters, although these two clearly have a lot of stuff to get through before the romance can pick up. But stay tuned—the next chapter is one of my favorites! :) Don't forget to leave a review, if you have time—I love hearing from y'all!