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.
Revolution and Retribution
Chapter 10
(Rohan)
Merry pulled up his pony quickly as he heard the sentry's shout. "Holdwine of the Mark, on an urgent errand to Eomer-king!" he answered, careful to hold himself steady.
The sentry called for him to advance and be recognized, and Merry walked his pony forward until again told to halt. "Time's wasting," he shouted, his voice a bit more strident than usual.
"Sorry, Master Meriadoc, but His Highness has us checking everyone and they are turned away if unrecognized. There's trouble in the south, bad trouble. We're arming for war."
"That's why I'm here, Eoric. I've an urgent message for Eomer-king, and I'll not speak it to anyone else. So pass me through, and we'll talk more when things are a bit less unsettled." Merry didn't even pause for permission, just kicked his pony forward into a gallop. It was only a few more leagues to Edoras.
He pulled up in a hurry, though, when he heard Eoric's shout. And he could have cursed himself for an idiot when he heard the gist of it. Some warrior he was! It was the logical outcome to any war plans; Eomer wouldn't stay at Edoras. It was indefensible. No, he would have made for Helm's Deep as soon as it was obvious war was brewing.
He waved a hand back toward Eoric in acknowledgement and adjusted his path, once more demanding as much speed as the pony could give him. The road to the Deep was longer, and he needed to arrive there as soon as possible.
His mount was tiring, and he was exhausted, but he couldn't afford to slacken his pace. Once the news had been circulated that Aragorn was dead, Eomer would march on Gondor. It was simply a given.
He had to slow the pony, or he'd be on foot. The poor creature was wheezing with the effort and he slowly drew back on the reins, hoping a short rest would mend the problem, but fearing he had broken its spirit. "Only a ways farther, now," he crooned reassuringly. "Only a ways further. Come on now, walk for a few more minutes, then we need to run again."
Once the foam had subsided a bit, he spurred forward once more and the pony responded, surging ahead with renewed speed, covering the distance quickly and without faltering.
A long ride later, he finally saw the shape of the fortress in the dimming light. He charged right up to the gates, throwing himself from the saddle as he neared and shouted a greeting to the guards at the gate.
He was quickly admitted and shown to Eomer's presence deep within the keep. He knelt before the King, properly, and with all trace of his usual effervescence absent. "My lord, I bring word from one who would seek your aid," he said simply.
Eomer simply stared at him for a moment, and Merry felt his heart sink. Had he misjudged? Was Eomer planning, not support for the High King, but to take Gondor while she lay divided? Then he knew he had been right to come here, when he saw the naked relief on his friend's face.
Eomer raised Merry to his feet and gestured toward the bench. "You've had a hard ride, it seems," he explained quietly. "Tell me everything."
(Minas Tirith, in the Dungeons)
Faramir struggled futilely with the chains that bound him to the wall, cursing and spitting furiously, though hoarse. His struggles were in vain, but still he tried.
Grima had dragged Eowyn into the room once more, leaving her a crumpled heap near Faramir's feet, and gone to stand by the wizard. She was weeping, but from pain or fear, Faramir could not tell.
He ached to hold her, to reassure her, to comfort what hurts she had suffered under Grima's care, but he could not. He had no voice even to speak, for the lining of his throat had been inflamed by the screams the wizard had forced from him. He could not even touch her with a toe, and the realization struck him almost a physical blow.
Slowly, Eowyn's head came up, and she caught Faramir's eyes with her own. He read the fury there and thanked the Valar that it was not directed at him. Her hatred of the Worm was common knowledge, but seemed to have risen to new heights.
"Courage, my lord," she said softly as she fought to regain her feet, though her limbs bore witness to a horrible beating. She laid a gentle hand against his face, her face grim. "Revenge will be ours, when Elessar returns. Have courage. That day will come, and perhaps sooner than anyone realizes."
She turned and glared at the Worm, who shrank behind Saruman's robes. "You have no part of me, snake," she spat ruthlessly, hatred in every syllable. "You may beat me, torture me, take me but you have no part of me. You never shall."
Her words rang in the sudden silence until Saruman flicked a hand in her direction. Suddenly she was struck dumb and frozen to the spot.
"You speak of courage, woman, and know not of what you speak. Courage to endure until the King is returned. And I say to you now, the King shall never return. Isildur's Heir has fallen."
He held out his hand to show what it held and Eowyn began to weep, great, long sobs of grief. Faramir felt tears on his own face and cared not that he wept in such company.
They had seen the Evenstar. Their King had indeed fallen. There was no one to save Gondor now.
(Minas Tirith, another part of the Dungeons)
Tanathel could feel very little, and what parts of her she could feel ached abominably. The wizard had been most interested in the tale she had to tell, and had allowed no respite from the pain until he had been certain of the truth of her words.
She raised her head wearily from the floor when she heard the scrape of a boot heel outside the door, but her body simply wouldn't listen to her demands for movement.
The wizard had not harmed her, not physically. But the agony he had poured forth from his spells had been worse than any pain she had ever known, bar none. She had no strength left to resist whatever her visitor might wish to do to her.
The door opened and the boots came closer. She could not see anything higher, for her head had fallen back to the floor and she lacked the strength to lift it again.
They were nice boots, she thought idly. Polished to a high shine, crafted from the finest leather. Sternly she tried to bring her thoughts into focus, but they would not listen. Then the boots moved around where she could not follow them with her eyes and she began to be afraid. Was the wizard ready for her again? Had he found the lie in her words?
Strong arms came around her and lifted her to a seated position, then allowed her to recline back against a strong body. A hand held a cup to her lips, and a man's voice urged her to drink.
She could not fight, could not even move on her own so she did as he demanded, finishing the cup. Water had never tasted so blessed to her.
"Good. I've some broth for you, when you're sure you can hold it down," he explained patiently, and she identified the voice. Boromir. But if he was serving Saruman, why was he helping her, showing her kindness? It made no sense! Her head was reeling again.
Boromir laid her gently on a rough pallet near the wall. She had been unable to reach it when she was brought in; the pain had still been flaring intensely and all she had wanted was to curl in around herself and die. Then he took a kerchief from his robes and gently wiped her face with it.
"Why?" she finally was able to ask. "You have betrayed your King, you have sided with Saruman. You are a traitor to your very blood, yet you show me kindness. Why?"
Boromir held a finger to her lips as steps sounded in the corridor outside, only removing it when the Orc had passed. "Never accept what your eyes tell you on faith," he murmured. "Have some faith in the House of Hurin, woman. I serve Saruman not from choice, and I hold no loyalty to him. My loyalty is to Isildur's Heir, to Aragorn. And I will find a way to turn this mockery of life to Gondor's advantage."
Tanathel simply couldn't process his words into something rational. She knew she was gaping like a fool, and certainly in a fashion unworthy of a Ranger, but she couldn't help it. This revelation from him, it rang true, but she couldn't trust it on faith. At least in that respect he was correct.
She felt her mind begin to clear. If this truly was Boromir… She had to know. He could be a magical construct of Saruman's, neither truly living nor dead, or someone bewitched to appear as Boromir. She had to know the truth.
Her gut feeling was that he was as he said, but she wouldn't believe it without proof. The Boromir she had heard so much of would never have allied himself with Saruman, or Orcs, let alone both. His one true love was the White City, and he would do anything to protect her. This couldn't be the Captain-General.
"How can I trust you?" she snapped, keeping her voice low. "You brought me to Saruman, you let him torture me until he was certain I spoke the truth. You took the Evenstar from me, when it had been entrusted to my keeping upon the King's death. You have betrayed everything that Boromir would hold dear, and you expect me to believe you are he? Never!"
She sat up and scooted as far away from him as the pallet would allow, and he made no move to follow. "What you say is true," he said finally. "It must seem the most bitter betrayal to you. But I swear to you, on my honor as Captain-General of Gondor's armies, as Boromir of the House of Hurin, as one of the Fellowship, that I am Boromir of Gondor, and that my service to Saruman is not of my making. I am compelled by his magic to follow his orders, though my heart bleeds at the treachery I am forced to commit. And I can find no way to break his unholy enchantment."
Tanathel nodded. "I will help you to find the way, if you allow me to escape," she urged softly. His words, the passion he spoke them with, rang true to what she knew of the dashing Captain. She believed him. But her strength was returning, and with it, her desire to do what was necessary to put her King back where he belonged.
He made no answer, merely stared toward the door, and Tanathel followed his gaze. She saw nothing of interest and wondered at his rigid posture. But ever the Ranger, she moved swiftly to take advantage of his inattention.
He had come to her unarmed, so there was nothing for her to use against him. But a well-placed punch with all her weight behind it served her purpose and sent him to the floor, stunned. Not unconscious, she couldn't render him senseless with just the one blow. But she was up and moving, throwing herself out the door and slamming it behind her before he could get to his feet.
First things first, she thought on the fly as she ducked into a nearby alcove. It would hide her long enough for a few minor but necessary alterations to her appearance. A little ash from one of the torches would conceal her face and hands, and the darkness of her clothing would hide the rest of her adequately. Then she scurried further into the shadows to begin putting Aragorn's plans into motion.
