Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth, they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic.
Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.
Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.
Aragorn woke near dawn, uncertain at first where he was. Then memory came flooding back, and with it a storm of raw emotion that left him weak and weary once more.
Tanathel stirred in her bedroll and rose quickly, moving to kneel by his side, flask in hand. "Good morning, Sire," she said quietly as she held the flask toward him. "First, drink this, and then we will decide where we might go to be safest. I do not know the area this far North."
Aragorn quickly swallowed the contents of the flask, grimacing at the bitterness of the draught. "Athelas is indeed much better fresh," he remarked as he handed her the container. "I will find some fresh leaves on the morrow, or perhaps later today." He regarded her steadily as he attempted to gain his feet, only to find himself stuck in a seated position once more. "It appears we will be going nowhere for at least another day," he grumbled. "I am still far too weak to defend myself, and I will lay that burden on no other."
"That burden, as you call it, is no burden at all, my liege," Tanathel replied, her tone crisp. "It is my sworn duty, given to me by my Lord Steward Faramir, from his holdings in Ithilien. I will do my duty until my dying breath, or until my lord releases me from it. And at the moment, my lord, you are in no condition to release me from my oath."
Aragorn merely raised an eyebrow at her, biting down on the retort that had come to mind. She was quite right. In his current condition, he couldn't fight off a fly, much less a determined enemy.
"You say Faramir sent you," he began slowly. He certainly wasn't going to win any prizes at the moment for kingly behavior. Or even intelligence, for that matter. He had accepted every word she had spoken as truth, without any real evidence to back her up. "How did he know where I had fled to? I have not been gone more than seven days, if that. Not enough time to have conducted much of a search."
"I am nothing if not resourceful," Tanathel answered evenly. "However, you should know how I found you. You covered your tracks well, quite well. But the traces remained for someone skilled to read." An impish grin stole over her features, though it was quickly banished. "Lord Faramir had a vision, my King. He saw you here, alone, dying, not two days after the City fell to the rebels. I would have missed all trace of you if he had not headed me in the right direction. I have not the skill necessary to have picked up your trail else."
"You have skill to spare, if you found me here on Amon Sul. Weathertop, the locals call it, but it was once a watchtower. There are many hidden places here, any of which I could have been concealed in. Yet you came directly to my side." He gave her a long, measuring glance. "Either you have knowledge you have not spoken of, or you have a skill you do not know." His hand stole to his dagger, still at his side. "I must have proof that Faramir sent you. What can you offer me?" He kept his voice light and noncommittal, but there was an undercurrent of steel to the words.
Tanathel drew herself up and rose from the ground, her face composed, though her body was held rigid with anger. "If I had wished you dead, Sire, I would have slit your throat as you slept," she spat angrily. "Or just let you be until Death took you, which it almost did despite the draughts I provided. I most certainly would not have brought word to you that your Steward remained loyal and wished you kept safe." She turned away for a moment, then turned a rueful face back toward her King. "He said you would be difficult to convince. The gauntlets you wear, they were Lord Boromir's, yes? You took them as a reminder of your oath to him as he lay dying at Amon Hen."
Aragorn felt his pulse quicken. Indeed, he and Faramir had discussed this very topic as a possible pass-phrase if the worst happened. He gazed into the middle distance, carefully avoiding her too sharp eyes. "I did indeed. Tell me, what passed between Boromir and myself?" Only Faramir had truly known the words passed between Aragorn and Boromir in those final moments, and then, only because he had seen it in a vision, long after the fact, and questioned Aragorn about the truth of the matter.
Flashback:
Boromir had been pierced by many arrows and was dying when Aragorn had knelt by his side. All his strength was being used to get a final message out, a final warning. "They took the little ones."
Aragorn had tried to have him conserve his strength, but Boromir would have none of it. "Frodo. Where is Frodo?"
"I let Frodo go."
"Then you did what I could not." The words were spoken around a rill of blood that had begun to seep from Boromir's mouth, and Aragorn had known there was no more time for Boromir. "I tried to take the Ring from him."
"The Ring is beyond our reach now."
"Forgive me." Again the blood flowed, sluggishly, but still draining away the warrior's life, drop by drop from each wound. "I did not see it. I have failed you all."
"No, Boromir. You fought bravely. You have kept your honor." Aragorn moved to pull one of the arrows from its resting place in Boromir's chest and Boromir's hand stayed his own.
"Leave it," he murmured. "It is over. The world of Men will fall. And all will come to darkness…and my city to ruin."
That had been the breaking point for Aragorn. Tears welled in his eyes at the nobility if the man dying at his side, a man he had only lately become to think of as a friend. "I do not know what strength is in my blood," he began, desperately trying to return hope to the warrior, "but I swear to you, I will not let the White City fall… nor our people fail."
"Our people," he returned, his breathing becoming more labored. "Our people." Boromir looked hopeful again for one brief second as his hand searched for something. Aragorn placed the hilt of his sword in the questing hand, knowing what his friend would wish, now. He had stood firmly behind Aragorn's claim since Lothlorien, though the Ring had attempted to seduce him away from that path, and nearly succeeded.
Boromir's breath began to hitch slightly as he pulled the hilt to his chest and faced Aragorn squarely, knowledge of his death still in his eyes, alongside a new-kindled hope that perhaps, this Ranger from the North would be able to do the impossible and reclaim the throne of Gondor. "I would have followed you, my brother." Words were becoming more and more difficult. "My captain." A swallow to clear his throat. "My King." A few more slight breaths, and he was gone.
Aragorn had wept for the loss of his friend, his brother-in-arms. Pressing a kiss to Boromir's brow had bought him valuable time to compose himself, yet he was still weeping when he spoke the final words. "Be at peace, Son of Gondor."
He had risen, and swiftly he and his companions had arrayed the noble warrior for burial, using one of the Elven boats they had been gifted with, and Aragorn had claimed the vambraces from Boromir's arms before they had sent Boromir over the Falls of Rauros with much reverence. These would serve as a reminder to him what he had promised, and what he owed to his people. It was at that moment that he knew he must return to Gondor. He had wavered a few times afterword, but always the vambraces had reminded him of the debt he owed Boromir, and of his destiny as the King of the West.
Tanathel had recited, word for word, the sequence of events at Amon Hen as Aragorn had given them to Faramir. Aragorn breathed a sigh of relief and smiled slightly. "It affects you as well," he murmured.
Tanathel turned red-rimmed eyes to him. "Aye, my lord, it affects me greatly to know Lord Boromir died with his honor intact. That was always important to him." She stiffened once more, glaring at Aragorn, almost daring him to distrust her further. "Have I satisfied your questions, Sire?"
Aragorn was able to rise, finally, and touched her arm lightly. "You have, Tanathel. You are impertinent, disrespectful, and utterly rude, but I find that refreshing at the moment." He grinned. "All things a Ranger should be. "Come, I will show you where we might make a fire and be more comfortable. Then we have many things to plan."
