As Galadriel was questioning her husband and the rest of the Fellowship, Daya met with Faramir, on the battlements over the seventh gate. More open than his proud, stern, brother, they had been close since their childhood, and relaxed in each other's company. The sun was setting as they walked, and in the distance Mordor loomed.

"Have you heard any news?" Faramir asked.

"None," she sighed. "There has been no messenger from the West for some time now. Even the Rohan scouts have been absent from our lands."

"They say that Mordor is building an army."

His tone was bleak, and she turned sharply to him. "You do not plan to venture into Mordor?"

He shrugged. "They grow bold, and the attacks are more frequent. Some believe that they will launch a large attack soon. We must gain whatever knowledge we can. We can only defeat them through knowledge of their plans."

"And your father wants you to gather that knowledge?" she glanced at him, and knew that she had guessed accurately. He noticed her look and laughed.

"I'm expendable in this war, unlike Boromir. Our father still believes that he will return to lead us to victory. I, on the other hand, am to leave to travel to Mordor with my scouts tomorrow."

"I just want Boromir to return." She embraced him warmly, "Come back safely."

"I will, Lady, I will. As my brother will."

They continued walking in companionable silence, and Faramir did not notice the dark look that had slipped onto Daya's face. They had heard no news yet, but it was coming.

***********

Everything came down to the Ring. In the end, it had been the Ring. The Ring would destroy everything, and it had begun with Gandalf, it would destroy him, until it had destroyed all of the Fellowship, all of Middle Earth.

Galadriel had seen the weakness in him. When she had looked deep into his soul, reading his thoughts, speaking to him in his mind, she had seen it. As he had met her blue eyes, he had seen his wife, a cascade of images into his mind, Daya, as he had known her as a child, the day he had first kissed her, and the night she had first come to his bed. Their wedding day and the tear she had shed at their parting. You could have all of this back, the she elf offered him, all of this, turn away now, and return to Gondor, return to your wife. The voice had echoed in his mind, drowning out all other thoughts, but gradually, the Ring had grown to prominence within his troubled musings and the enchantress had seen it there, recognized the desire he had for the ring, and had soothed him. We all desire the Ring, she seemed to be telling him, we just need to find the strength to refuse it.

He hadn't though. The Ring had driven him to attack Frodo, to destroy the Fellowship. He had tried to disguise the desire he felt for the Ring under a façade, wanting the Ring not for himself, and the power it would bring him, but for good, for the good of all mankind and Middle Earth. But Frodo had escaped, and now the Ring was far from him, he felt nothing but remorse and shame. He had not wanted to attack Frodo, and he realized how horrible it had been for the hobbit, to see the man who had sworn to protect him suddenly be brought under the power of the Ring, to be driven to attack one of his oath sworn.

A cry had come from the West, and shouting, Hobbit voices. The others still needed him; he could redeem himself for the attack against Frodo by protecting the others, Merry and Pippin. Drawing out the Horn of Gondor he placed it to his lips, it might be too late for any man to come, but they would come. Gondor did not leave their sons to fight alone.

The first arrow had taken him high in his chest, the pain searing and hot, each breath bringing fresh agony. Lurtz, horrific and evil, merely smiled terribly, and fired a second time as Boromir still fought on. He was weakening with every movement, feeling the foreign objects lodged deep in his flesh, taking as many Urak Hai as he could, still he raised his blade, even as the blackness threatened. Finally he dropped to his knees, each breath drew fresh pain, and Lurtz stood before him, bow raised, arrow drawn back, the sharp tip aimed directly at his throat. The moment of his death had come, almost instantly would he be plunged into blackness as the arrow would tear into the soft flesh of his throat, tearing his jugular, and he would die. An arrow pierced his lung, another in his side, the third in his stomach. He was dying, but death would be speeded by the fourth and final arrow. The terrible figure blurred in front of him, as he thought of Daya. He would never see her again, never return to her as he had promised, never watch her as she slept, and wondering at the contrast between her pale skin and dark hair. He thought again of their wedding day, Daya in white and silver, reciting the age-old passages, pledging herself to him. The private thoughts of a man for his wife, of passion, and desire in the light of the moon, whispered vows and sighs of pleasure. And still he waited for death, for the final arrow.

It never came. Aragorn, Heir of Isildur, came instead, and a bitter fight ensued. Boromir tried to focus, to stand, to assist his friend, but his mind was slipping in and out of blackness. He had crawled to the roots of tree, and collapsed, feeling his life slip away. And then Aragorn was kneeling in front of him, Lurtz sent to his death before his prey.

Feeling the blackness once more descend, like a fog surrounding him, Boromir grasped Aragorn's wrist.

"The Little Ones, they took them," he struggled to say the words, the arrow burning in his lung.

The reassurance he needed came, but Boromir was fading. He stared up at the man who had become his friend, and wondered why he had not seen it before, or if he had seen it, why had he denied it? This man was the Heir of Isildur, and he was worthy of that title. There was still a chance for Middle Earth while this man lived, and he knew it now. His hand groped for his sword, no warrior of Gondor would die without his sword in his hand, and then stared into the other man's eyes.

"My brother," he gasped, "My Captain, My King,"

Aragorn could see the pain in his eyes, and knew that the final moments had arrived. He leaned forward and kissed Boromir's brow, as he leaned back he saw a smile on the proud man's features. His final breath was a sigh, "Daya", and he was gone.

The Captain of Gondor was dead.

Daya entered the Great Hall of Minas Tirith, through the huge stone doors that were opened by the guards who saluted her. Her thick grey robes trailed behind her, her hands folded within her sleeves, a heavy chain around her throat. She walked with all the dignity of her rank. Pausing before the stone steps she inclined her head to the empty throne that lay in wait for the King of Gondor to return, and then walked to Denethor, her Steward. She knelt before him, and kissed the hand that was extended to her. The hand bore a ring in the shape of the Tree of Gondor; there was no escaping the symbol of the country she lived in, the country for which her husband fought.

Denethor whispered to her as she knelt. "The absence of my son shows heavily on your face,"

"And my heart, Lord."

His hand directed her to a carved seat, next to the empty one of Boromir's. As she walked, her steps slowed, and she stopped. Her breathing became faint, the blood drained from her face.

"The Little Ones", she gasped, not knowing where the sentence came from.

Denethor, noticing her pallor half rose.

"Assist her!" he cried, knowing of her power of foresight. A soldier helped to support her, her breathing was ragged, and each breath seemed to cause her pain. There was a terrible pain in her chest, her side, and her stomach, but the heaviness in her heart hurt her more. Somewhere, from very far away, she heard Boromir cry out her name.

'Boromir!' she screamed in reply. As her voice died away, the room stood in stunned silence, shaken to the core by the strange display. Daya fainted.