At last, we're off to Helm's Deep! We've circled back to the movie version for a while (more or less)- they're traveling slowly, Eowyn is with them, etc. although I couldn't bring myself to include the warg-attack scene. That never made much sense to me in the movie- why bother sending wargs after them all when you've built up a giant army to destroy them a few days later?

Anyway. Sorry for getting this chapter out later than I meant to, but hopefully it was worth the wait! Thank you all so much for your continued reviews and support, and please do continue to let me know what you think!

Chapter 27: Do I Contradict Myself?

"Merry?" I called desperately. "Pippin!" I was racing through a forest, tripping over roots in the darkness, branches clawing at my face and limbs. "Hold on, I'm coming!" My voice broke, panic stinging behind my eyes. I could almost see them—the hobbits were being spirited away by some faceless creatures, just out of sight—if only I could run faster! Then a horn sounded behind me like a crack of thunder, and I whirled and reached for the sword at my side. But there was no one there, and nothing in my scabbard but my violin bow, the horsehair sticky with rosin.

I dropped the bow in confusion, eyes darting around uselessly in the dark, then stumbled over something much larger than a tree root. It was a person, lying face down in the dirt, the Horn of Gondor cracked in half at his side. Trepidation curling in my throat, I heaved the figure onto his back. "No, no—Boromir?"

But it wasn't Boromir, it was Alfric, his eyes wide and glassy, head lolling to the side, black poison dribbling from slackened lips. I cried out and scrabbled back, but when I looked away all the trees had disappeared, and in their place was a towering obelisk of black stone. At its foot was Saruman, looming over me, his face like Gandalf's and yet unlike it, and the wizard's shadow wasn't a shadow at all, but Wormtongue, a cloaked figure in the dark slinking closer, closer—

"Miss?"

I woke with a gasp, my heart racing. For a blurred moment I expected to see my bedroom in Dallas, peeling paint on the walls, concert playbills tacked onto a crooked bulletin board, but then I remembered—Edoras. I was in Edoras, in the new quarters Eowyn had provided for me. It was pitch-black outside my window.

"Miss, I've brought breakfast. And some riding clothes, courtesy of the lady Eowyn." A maid was poking her head through the door as though peering into a dragon's den. "We're to leave at dawn, Miss, the whole household—barely an hour hence."

I took the breakfast tray from the maid's shaking hands, a candle flickering on a saucer next to my plate. Beyond its wavering light, I could see torches being lit at the far end of the hall—Meduseld was waking up. "Thank you," I said, setting the tray down and using the candle to light the others on my nightstand. "What's your name? I recognize you from the servants' quarters, but I don't think we were introd—"

I turned around to an empty doorway; the maid had already fled. My shoulders slumping, I forced down my breakfast and turned to my new clothes; it looked like I'd have to dress myself. What I wouldn't give for Amarien's help.

Another knock sounded at my door soon after. "Are you ready to depart?"

It was Eowyn's voice; her uncle must still want her keeping an eye on me. "Almost," I managed, my arm twisted violently behind my back as I clawed at my stays. "Come in."

Eowyn sighed sharply as she eyed my predicament, and without being asked she took up the laces to my stays, tying them with deft hands. "Oriana was meant to help you dress. Why did you dismiss her?"

"I don't know," I muttered; I didn't want the maid to get into trouble. "I thought I could do it myself."

Eowyn sighed again, this time in understanding. "She was frightened of you, wasn't she?" she prompted, and I gave a noncommittal shrug, hoping she wouldn't see how much it had hurt. Clearly deciding that a change of topic was in order, Eowyn looked around the room and lit on the elven scabbard and belt on my nightstand. "You have a sword!" she cried, her eyes brightening. "May I?" I nodded, noticing for the first time that she wore a sword at her own hip. She examined my blade in the candlelight. "I take it, then, that the women of your homeland fight as well as the men?"

"Yes, but not with swords. I've only been practicing with that for a few months."

"We shall have to spar, then, when we have the time," she replied, with more enthusiasm than I'd ever heard from her. "And you must tell me more about these fierce women of Texas, who go to battle without swords."

I smiled, hoping despite myself that this meant we were becoming friends, or something close to it—Eowyn didn't return my smile, but her eyes didn't hold the ice they so often did, and I took that as a modest success.

"If you have all your belongings," she told me as I donned my sword and slung my violin case over my shoulder, "then let us be off. We await only the king's signal to depart."

I followed her out of the Golden Hall, shivering in the predawn chill. All around us, the Rohirrim were descending down the steep hills toward the gates of Edoras, horses bearing weary-looking men and women or dragging carts behind them, laden with sacks of grain and other provisions.

"Oh," I faltered as I saw that Eowyn was leading us to the stables. "You want me to ride a horse?"

She huffed—the closest thing to a laugh I'd ever heard from her. "Would you prefer to walk to Helm's Deep?"

I nearly said yes, but luckily I didn't have to. "A horse? Pah!" Gimli appeared at my side, his helmet under his arm and a scowl on his face. "What need has our dear Bee for such things, when she might fly instead, eh?"

"Fly?" Eowyn repeated, looking startled.

I whacked Gimli's shoulder. "Don't listen to him, Eowyn."

"Ah, lass, you're certain you can't summon one of those flying contraptions you told us about and whisk us all off?"

"Now Gimli, you shan't get out of riding a horse, and that is that," Legolas laughed, following the dwarf and leading a horse behind him. "I shall help you, worry not."

"Hmph. No escaping these elves, I see." The dwarf scowled up at the horse. I looked at it with no less trepidation.

"You might have to help me, too," I admitted to Eowyn as we continued on toward the stables, Legolas dragging Gimli away behind us.

"Why?" Eowyn raised an eyebrow.

I winced—better to get it over with now. "I've actually never ridden a horse at all. Not by myself."

"Ah, you—you are in jest," she said, smiling haltingly as though I'd attempted a joke that didn't land.

"Nope." I tugged at my sleeves and looked away, hoping Eowyn wouldn't see the embarrassment on my face.

Before I could explain myself further, hushed voices reached our ears from one of the stalls at the end of the stables. "Will you not eat something?" Eowyn and I paused—it was Strider's voice, low and stern. "I will not have you go on like this; truly, you look very ill."

Boromir's impatient huff answered him. "I thank you, but I have little appetite."

"We would all see you well again," Strider urged. "You did not attend dinner last night, and now—"

"Save your concern for one more deserving. Give my rations to one of the refugees from the Westfold, if such abundant food is to be found. Enough, I beg you," he cut Strider off again. "I will speak no more of this!"

Boromir stormed from the stall, nearly colliding into Eowyn and me.

"Beatrice! Lady Eowyn." He swallowed, then inclined his head to us both. "Excuse me." Looking uncomfortable, he departed without another word.

"Is all well with Lord Boromir?" Eowyn asked, wide-eyed.

Strider sighed and met my eyes for the briefest moment. Suddenly I understood—he knows what Boromir tried to do. "Yes, yes," he said wearily, following Boromir out of the stables. "These last few days have been difficult for us all. Now come along, both of you—the army shall lead Edoras forth in mere minutes."

I nodded distractedly. Their conversation was twisting my stomach into knots. It had been obvious that Boromir was avoiding us ever since he'd made it to Edoras, but now I wondered how badly his health would be affected if he kept this up for long…

A horse whickered in a nearby stall, making me jump. Eowyn jumped too—she had been staring rather wistfully after Strider, and we both cleared our throats.

"So then. You cannot ride a horse." She sighed. "It is not your fault, I suppose, if there are no horses in your homeland, but in any case we must teach you to ride, and quickly."

I nodded, deciding not to mention that Texas was, in fact, chock-full of horses. I was being enough of a burden to her already—scaring all the servants, borrowing her riding clothes, and now needing riding lessons?

"Here, you may ride Aethelthryth," Eowyn was saying.

"Atha—Ethel—what?"

"Aethelthryth is quite docile," she assured me, leading a large gray mare from her stall and adjusting a dark leather saddle onto her back. "I would have you ready her yourself, but time is of the essence. Here—try to mount her on your own."

It took me a few attempts, but I managed to clamber onto the mare's back. "Ha!" I swayed in the saddle proudly.

Eowyn sighed.

Getting into the saddle was the easy part, it turned out. Just leading Aethelthryth down the dark cobblestone streets to the gate took all my concentration. Once Eowyn was sure I wasn't going to fall off and break my neck, she jostled her own horse's reins and rode on ahead to speak with her uncle.

The sun was spilling over the horizon at last when my mare and I joined the rest of the Rohirrim outside the gates. "You arrived in one piece, I see," Legolas laughed. Gimli seemed to have given up riding alone and was seated behind the elf.

Ahead of us, Theoden King's soldiers all waited, mounted in endless rows at the gates, not far from the flower-dusted barrows Eowyn had pointed out to me. Their horses stamped restless hooves and snorted, their breaths forming pale clouds in the chill dawn air. All before them were scattered the rest of the Rohirrim, children clinging to the backs of their parents on horses, the injured and elderly crouched in wooden wagons. Among the throng on horseback was Boromir, grim and pale, his shield slung over his back. He swayed in the saddle and clutched at his right shoulder. Uncertainly, I bumped Aethelthryth with my boots, hoping to get close enough to talk to him, but the horse just tossed her head again and didn't move.

"Come on, Eth—Altha—oh, come on, girl," I pleaded, but before I could try again, a flurry of horns sounded—the Rohirrim were ready to leave.

Theoden King rode out in front of his army, Gandalf on a blindingly white horse beside him, and the rest of us followed them into the grasslands.

As the day passed, I found myself looking back at Edoras, the gold roof of Meduseld catching the light of the sun before it was swallowed up on the horizon. Would I ever see it again? To my surprise, I found I wanted to; there was a fierce sort of comfort to be found in those high wooden halls.

Our pace was slow. Luckily, Aethelthryth didn't need too much direction—seemingly worried about being left behind, she kept a steady pace with the other horses around her. When my legs ached too much to continue riding, I slid clumsily off Aethelthryth's back and walked for a while, holding her reins in my hand. Most of the other Rohirrim did the same, at intervals, though in places the grass was too high to comfortably walk, and we were forced back onto our horses.

We settled in for the night as the sun began to sink below the horizon, dozens of soldiers riding out in all directions to scout our path ahead. Once we'd stopped, many of the women set up large pots for preparing potatoes and vegetables and what little meat had been packed. As in Edoras, I offered to help, but several of the women shied away from me, whispering behind their hands to the others, and I retreated, discouraged.

I unrolled my sleeping bag on the grass—a woolen one borrowed from Eowyn, my polyester sleeping bag having been left behind at Parth Galen—and sat down for a meager dinner. My eyes sought out Boromir a little ways off, but he wasn't eating. He sat on the grass, staring out at the mountains in the distance, his expression unreadable.

"Bormeer, Bormeer!" A child of no more than five dashed up to him and tugged on his good shoulder. "Lord Bormeer, 'member me?"

Boromir brightened. "You cannot be little Elfhege," he cried. He tugged on the boy's wild blond locks. "No indeed, for when I passed through Edoras last year you were no taller than this!" He held his hand only inches from the ground, and the boy shrieked with laughter.

"I wasn't that short!"

"But you must have been, for the men of Gondor always speak the truth," Boromir said, placing a hand on his chest sagely. "And who can say how tall you will be a year hence, at this rate? Ten feet tall, I should say, and the strongest warrior Rohan has ever known!" The boy squealed in excitement, and Boromir laughed.

I wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't known him so well, but Boromir's smile didn't reach his eyes. As Elfhege clung to him again and begged him for stories from far-off lands, he ruffled the boy's hair again and apologized. Standing stiffly, he excused himself and wandered away, his smile falling away like autumn leaves.

I frowned and picked at my food. "Has Boromir visited the Riddermark often?" I asked Eowyn. "Everyone seems to know him so well."

"On occasion, for matters of state," she replied, following my gaze and frowning. "When last he rode through the Riddermark, it was in search of Imladris, the elven-home of legend. He regaled us with tales of far-off battles and valor, sparred with the young boys and let them try to heft his mighty shield—you see how the children remain so fond of him."

She was right—several boys with wide eyes and tangles of blond hair were still trailing, awestruck, behind Boromir, one of the bolder ones jumping up to cling to his uninjured arm. At that, Boromir paused and spoke gently to him. With another empty smile, he waved them off and continued on alone.

"How altered Lord Boromir seems to me now," Eowyn went on. "Indeed, I hardly knew him when he came riding through the gates two days ago."

"A lot has happened since he came to Rivendell," I muttered. "To all of us."

"Lord Aragorn told me your Company saw many hardships of late. But he would provide so few details to me. I wished—" She broke off, looking suddenly flustered. "I…I had rather hoped he might confide in me, for it pained me to see him in such distress."

"Don't take it personally," I said gently, finally recognizing something in Eowyn's tone—she's into Strider! "Our Fellowship had to operate under a lot of secrecy, and it's probably still safer to keep quiet about it all for now. I'm sure Strider would've told you more, if he could."

"Why do you call him that?"

"Oh! That's how he was introduced to me, back in Rivendell—that's what the hobbits called him. Call him," I corrected myself hurriedly. Called him, I'd said, as though they would never see him again, as though they were already d—

"I hope I might meet these halflings of yours one day," Eowyn mused. "How fondly you and your friends speak of them. They seem a kindhearted, peaceful folk."

"They are," I said distantly. "Although they can surprise you—they can be really brave when they need to be." I recalled Merry and Pippin in the Uruk-hai's camp, the night we'd been separated, holding their own against those horrible creatures—but soon my mind drifted to Frodo and Sam, and I looked away. They needed to be brave now, more than ever. Had they reached Mordor yet? I squeezed my eyes shut, trying not to think about the fury and fear in Sam's gaze as he glared at me in Moria—kind, sweet, gentle Sam, whose features didn't seem made for hate.

"Bee?" Eowyn pressed, and I jumped, realizing she'd been speaking to me. "I asked if you might tell me more about the halflings."

I shook my head, my eyes stinging. "Strider can tell you more, if you're interested."

Setting my bowl aside, I curled up in my sleeping bag for the night, having suddenly lost my appetite.

On we went the next day, the sun rising high and clear under a cirrus-dotted sky. "Mares' tails," Eowyn called them. "A storm is coming soon. Let us hope we reach Helm's Deep before it breaks."

But Helm's Deep seemed impossibly far away. Soldiers returning from patrols spoke of villages going up in smoke, battalions marching across the Riddermark, danger coming closer, closer. We spurred our horses onward, but with the children, the elderly, and the injured among us, we never moved past a trot at our fastest. Impatient as I was to get to Helm's Deep, I was secretly glad—I had a feeling if I tried to goad Aethelthryth into a gallop, I'd fall and break my neck.

Evening fell, and I picked at my dinner again, tired and anxious. As before, Boromir wandered away from the rest of the Rohirrim, waving off another stern word from Strider. His movements stiff, he sat down in the grass and dragged a hand down his face, staring out at the line of mountains on the horizon, silhouetted by a hazy sunset.

This couldn't go on. Setting my dinner aside, I took a deep breath and followed him.

"Hey. You alright?" I sat down beside Boromir in the grass, tucking my feet under my dress.

"Of course." He patted his injured shoulder bracingly and looked away. "The healers in Meduseld have done their job well."

I twisted the end of my sleeve in my fingers. "That's not what I meant, you know."

He went still. "I know," he said stiffly. "I thank you for your concern, but I am well."

"I know you don't want to discuss it—but, well, you're not well. You're not eating or sleeping; you're not taking care of yourself, Boromir. And I understand what you—"

"I know that you understand." His jaw tightened, hands clenching into fists; he looked as though he'd rather be anywhere than here. "Do you expect me to be comforted that you know what I have done?" he bit out. "That you are so intimately acquainted with my weakness, my selfishness, my cruelty? Forgive me, Beatrice, but if you sought me out to speak of this again, I have nothing more to say."

"I know, and I'm sorry—but you have to understand, I don't think less of you for what happened!"

His gaze darkened. "Then your opinion of me must have been abysmal from the beginning."

"No, that's not what I meant," I said desperately, wishing I could snatch the words back; of course it hadn't exactly changed my opinion of him, since I'd known he was going to fall prey to the Ring all along. I gestured helplessly into the air, trying to find the right words to say. Oh, why had I thought dredging everything up again would solve anything? Tell him—you have to tell him. I took a shuddering breath, steeling myself. "It's only that…well, I know how you're feeling—"

"You have gathered that I feel guilty, have you?" he interrupted. "Well done, Beatrice. I thank you." Looking more livid than I'd ever seen him, he got to his feet.

"No, damn it," I snapped, leaping up too. "Guilty isn't enough to describe how you feel!" He hesitated, and I pressed onward, the words spilling out like a flood. "You feel ashamed, because it made you think all these horrible, violent thoughts about your friends, people who trusted you, and at the time those thoughts didn't even scare you like they should have—they felt right, and normal, and that was the worst part. You feel afraid, because it took over your mind so completely, before you even knew it was happening, when you were always so sure you'd be strong enough to resist it. And now you feel like—like you can't trust yourself anymore, because it preyed on all the things that you thought made you a good person and turned them selfish and cruel—your love for your home, and your loyalty to your family and friends…"

Tears were welling in my eyes and I shook my head desperately, dashing them away with a trembling hand. "And you feel sick," I said hoarsely, "whenever you think of the rest of the Fellowship, because they were like a second family to you, but you were willing to go back on your word and betray them all, and now you can't even think of Frodo or Sam without hating yourself—like you're going to suffocate from self-loathing. And you're disgusted with yourself, because some part of you still thinks, even now, that maybe—maybe it was your one chance at making everything right, and you let it slip away, and now you'll never see your home again."

Turning away, I wiped my eyes on my sleeve, my heartbeat loud in my ears. Neither of us looked at each other for a long moment.

"Beatrice…" He didn't say anything else—he didn't need to. Realization was in his voice, and I knew that at last, he understood.

"I came so close to taking it," I whispered, hardly able to get the words out. I sat back down in the grass, tucking my feet under me, suddenly wanting to make myself as small as possible. "Just after Moria. I thought I could use it to get back home. That it was the only—the only way I could make it back."

He sat down next to me. "I did not know."

"Of course you didn't. I never told you. I wanted to, you know, so many times—I knew it was taking you too, and I thought I might be able to help. I tried to say something, in Lothlorien, but I couldn't stand the thought of you knowing how selfish and cowardly I'd been, and I'm sorry. You shouldn't have apologized to me back in Meduseld—you don't owe me anything, because I let you down, and I'm so sorry, Boromir."

"I may confidently say," he said blackly, "that no wisdom you could have imparted would have prevented me from acting as I did at Amon Hen. Do not place my weakness on your shoulders; it is not your burden to bear. And if nothing else," he added, "you have proven your superior will, for at least you did not act on its influence."

I balked. "That wasn't will. I wanted to take it—I would've taken it, if we hadn't been attacked in Moria when we were, if we hadn't lost Gandalf when we did. It was just chance! I was so—so eager to abandon you all, just to get what I wanted. And I was a coward too, and selfish. I didn't warn you, I didn't say anything to Sam—"

"Sam?" Boromir repeated, looking startled.

"Yes, he found out I wanted it—God, he heard me arguing with Gandalf, and what did I do? I just avoided him instead of trying to make things right." I glared at the ground, my eyes stinging, because I hardly needed to tell Boromir that I may never have a chance to apologize to Sam now. "Gandalf knew too. That's why he and I fought in Moria. I—I nearly tore the whole Fellowship apart after just a few weeks, and all because I wanted to go home! At least I didn't act on its influence," I repeated his words bitterly. "Well, at least you wanted it for your people, didn't you? You started with noble intentions, at least—"

"There was nothing noble in what I have done!" he snarled, his voice breaking. "Had you but seen, had you but heard—I know not the details your foresight saw fit to grant you," he said, "but you would not have known me. Scarcely did I know myself, when you found me in the forest, alone. And now—" He rested his elbows on his knees, tearing at his hair. "I am not fit to wear the emblem of my people, nor to be named among our Fellowship. I cannot atone for it. I cannot even beg forgiveness, for I have—I have driven Frodo to his death."

I shook my head helplessly. "You don't know that."

"Always I have strived to be—always I have considered myself a good man, a noble man, but—"

"You are a good man."

"Do not patronize me. Would a good man act as I have done?"

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe." Boromir looked at me incredulously, and I fixed my gaze on my ruined sleeve, where I'd started preying at the lace again, a nervous tick that was slowly ruining every outfit I'd worn in Middle Earth. "Being a good person doesn't mean being perfect, never making bad choices," I went on. "You know, 'we contain multitudes,' after all."

"What?"

"Oh—it's a line from a poem back in my country." I'd translated it with Bilbo back in Rivendell; the memory felt like years ago now. I smiled humorlessly. The old hobbit had hated the Walt Whitman poems with a passion, complaining that they had no proper rhyme scheme until I finally took the hint and went back to the safer waters of Robert Frost.

"Multitudes," Boromir repeated, as though the word tasted bitter on his tongue. "Your people must have a strange concept of good and ill."

"I just meant that being a good person is a series of choices, not a single unchanging trait."

He frowned. "Perhaps. Yet the gravity of one choice may outweigh many others, for it is no trifling mistake I have made."

"I know," I said. "You did something terrible, but you're still trying to do the right thing, again and again, aren't you? You nearly died protecting me and Merry and Pippin in Amon Hen, doesn't that count for anything?"

"No, for even in that I failed! You know not how it torments me, that you and the hobbits were taken away as I was left behind, unable to protect you—"

"Don't say that!" I cried, but he only turned away from me, his shoulders shaking. Hesitantly, I rested my hand on his forearm. "It's not your fault that we were captured by the Uruk-hai. Believe me, I don't blame you for that, and I know Pippin and Merry don't either. Look at me, Boromir—" My grip tightened desperately on his arm. "You're one of the best people I've ever known!"

The words settled over him slowly, and he turned to stare at me.

"And that's a big deal," I added, in a pathetic attempt to make him smile, "because I know people across two different worlds now."

He swallowed, his eyes searching mine warily, as though he half-suspected I was mocking him. I met his gaze as earnestly as I could, my fingertips digging into the bracer on his forearm, and slowly a look almost of wonder spread across his face. "You have a high opinion of me indeed," he said at last. "I…I shall endeavor to deserve it, Beatrice. I swear it."

He was still staring at me as though he'd never seen me before. I smiled tentatively, more than a little overwhelmed, and released my grip on his arm, moving to stand.

I faltered as Boromir grasped my hand. I thought for a moment he was going to shake it, as he had in the wilderness months before, but he only squeezed my fingers tightly, his hand warm on mine. "There is a saying among my people: the praise of the praiseworthy is above all rewards," he said quietly. "For you must know—surely you must know—that I hold you in the highest regard as well."

Heat leapt across my skin unexpectedly, and I looked away. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but no sound came out.

Boromir shook his head. "Indeed, you must believe me," he insisted, clearly taking my flushed silence for doubt alone. "I know now that you feel as I do—weak, ashamed, defiled by the influence of the Enemy. But just as you think highly of me, know that my opinion of you remains constant, whatever multitudes you possess."

I sat frozen for a long moment. Then, my hand still trapped in his, I pressed my face into his tunic, hugging him as fiercely as I dared, that startling heat under my skin only growing stronger as the meaning of his words sank in, almost too much to bear—that he knew my darkest secrets and still thought well of me.

"Thank you," I whispered. I wasn't sure if I could see what he saw in me, but he was right, at least, that I couldn't absolve him without absolving myself. If he had multitudes, then maybe I did too. "Thank you, Boromir."

"Come now, there is…" He cleared his throat. "There is no need." He returned my embrace gingerly, as though unsure how. I supposed, distantly, that he wasn't in the habit of hugging his female friends—if he'd ever had any female friends at all—and I smiled weakly into his tunic.

I wiped at my eyes as I drew away, and he frowned. "I shall remind you of your worth, Beatrice, every day if need be," he told me, clearly worried I was still distressed. "Whenever it passes from your sight."

"I'll do the same for you, you know." My voice came out rather watery, and I cleared my throat. I had dreaded telling Boromir what I'd almost done, but now that I had, a weight seemed to have been lifted from my shoulders. At last—at long last—I didn't have to deal with this alone. "We'll get through this," I told him, with more conviction that I'd felt in months.

"Yes," he said softly. "We will." He smiled at me then, earnest and open and warm, a smile that fully reached those gray eyes at last—and oh, I could have stared at that smile for the rest of the evening.

At that thought, I cleared my throat again, unsettled. "I should finish my dinner," I blurted, standing up. "It's—it's nearly dark."

"Of course." Boromir released my hand slowly, his fingers lingering on mine for a long moment before falling away.

On our journey went, and on, and Helm's Deep appeared in the distance at last—an enormous structure of white-gray stone, gleaming between the steep mountain walls like the moon against the horizon. "Can your Texas have strongholds such as this?" Eowyn asked me. "I imagine war must look rather different for your people, they who bottle fire in metal devices like yours and fly through the air at will. What must your fortresses resemble, to defend against such magic?"

It was a more perceptive question than anyone had asked me about my home so far, but I wasn't sure how to answer her. Whatever forces we would be weathering from Helm's Deep would certainly be unlike anything my home had seen in centuries. "We don't have anything like this," I said distantly.

"Lord Boromir told me at length of the wreckage of the flying machine he found," Eowyn said thoughtfully. "How frightening such magic seems to me."

I sighed. "I wish he wouldn't go on about it. It's not magic, not really. Is he trying to make everyone even more afraid of me?" I grumbled, glaring behind me, where Boromir walked alongside his horse, chatting with one of the children of Edoras, a skinny preteen with a mop of blond hair and a sullen expression. As I looked, Boromir patted the boy's shoulder gently, then, nudging him, passed the boy his circular shield. Brightening slightly, the kid hefted it with a grunt and drew a long knife from his belt, parrying an imaginary foe as Boromir gave him pointers.

"Lord Boromir seems in rather a better mood today, do you not agree?" Eowyn was saying.

"Huh?" I shook myself. "Yeah, definitely." I knew he wasn't out of the woods yet, and neither was I; the fear and guilt and thousand other emotions stirred up by the Ring weren't about to go away overnight. Still, Boromir was eating again, and smiling, and no longer seemed to be avoiding us, and that was enough for now.

I looked back at him again and found his eyes already on me. He jumped, looking flustered, then coughed and turned back to the young Rohirrim. "Keep your arm up, Cenric. A shield is of no use if it is lowered to the ground, eh?" The boy obeyed, his face screwed up in concentration.

My hands tightened on Aethelthryth's reins. "Cenric," I repeated, turning to Eowyn. "Is that Alfric's son?" She nodded, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

Should I say something to him? I'm sorry for your loss. Your father was a good man, and he did everything he could to help me. But I swallowed and shook my head—I couldn't say that; I didn't deserve to say that. Your father might be alive if it weren't for me.

"Hurry, now!"

A flurry of horns sounded from the Rohirrim soldiers, and my horse tossed her head nervously.

"To Helm's Deep, with all haste!"

Around us, those who had dismounted to walk clambered back onto their horses, and we increased our speed by as much as we were able. "What's going on?" I asked Eowyn, who was exchanging words with her brother in Rohirric.

"An army is approaching from Isengard," she said in answer. "They will be here by nightfall."

The line Bee quotes in this chapter is from Walt Whitman's 'Song of Myself: Part 51':

Do I contradict myself?

Very well, then I contradict myself.

(I am large, I contain multitudes.)