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.

A special thank you is in order, to Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless encouragement. Thanks so much for being a sounding board, hon, I really appreciate it!

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.

Chapter Twenty Five

(The Houses of Healing)

Tanathel slowly swam back to wakefulness, forcing herself to remain calm as she registered each individual ache and actual pain. Her throat burned like she had swallowed hot coals, her arms ached up into her shoulders, and one leg felt like it had been nearly sliced off completely. A raspy groan left her throat and one hand went to it reflexively, trying to cool the burning sensation.

"The Healers say you shouldn't try to talk just yet," a soft voice said from somewhere near her left eyebrow. "You're lucky, at that. They were afraid there'd be lasting damage to your throat." She knew that voice, but her head was spinning so she couldn't quite place it. Soft, mellow, and quite pleasant to hear, actually. "If you're feeling up to it, a bit of water would do ye good."

A small hand moved to support the back of her head so she could drink and she finally caught the name that had eluded her. Pippin. The Hobbit had come to sit with her. Had she truly been so badly injured? A quick rundown of her aches and pains seemed to agree with that notion and she fought not to groan aloud again. How to ask him all the questions that burned in her mind? Was Sauron defeated? Did the King still live? And Boromir, what had become of him? She closed her eyes against a wave of dizziness.

"It's all right, you know. You're allowed to be lazy for a few days." There was laughter in the Halfling's voice and if she could have moved, she would have throttled him where he sat. Then he placed a cool cloth on her forehead and she forgave him the sin of cheerfulness. "You're to stay abed for at least three days more. The Healers want to be sure there's no lasting harm done."

Tanathel could have screamed from frustration if she'd been able. Surely his being here meant that everything had turned out right in the end, but there was so much she didn't know! How was she to ask him her questions? She had to know, surely he could understand that! She turned her dark eyes to him, trying to convey her curiosity without the aid of her voice, and feeling like she was failing miserably.

"Easy, now," Pippin said softly as he replaced the cloth with a fresh one. "Faramir's fine, Aragorn's fine, and Boromir is as grouchy a patient as he ever was," he said flippantly. "He's no worse off than you, but you both look like you'd seen one too many hearty celebrations lately. Sauron's been defeated, did you remember that? Faramir put an arrow in his gullet and Aragorn finished him off. He's gone, for now."

Tanathel released the breath she hadn't even known she was holding. She took his little hand in hers, trying to convey her thanks to him without words.

(The Council Chambers)

"These people have lost everything. I will not ask them for more!" Aragorn's voice rang out in fury and those gathered in the room took a collective step backward. "Nor will I beg for aid from those who have proven their loyalty with their own heart's blood."

Not a sound was audible, not even a cricket chirped in the silence that followed. Aragorn turned his steely gaze on those present, "Now that we have established our limitations, Faramir, what is available for barter? Have we anything in our coffers to pay for tradesmen to rebuild?"

"Now wait just a minute there, laddie," Gimli began firmly. "We're not having any o' that, and that's final. My people will be more than willing to help you rebuild. You've shed more than enough blood over Middle Earth; now, let Middle Earth do for you. And after all, we Dwarves are the best stonemasons in the world. We'll have this place to rights in no time at all."

"And we Elves will bring birds and flowers back to live here, as we have done before," Legolas stated firmly. "We will make this city a bright and happy place once more."

"And your army will need mounts, which we will supply, in return for some small considerations." Eomer spoke up with a small smile. "Nothing that you can't grant, do not fear. We treasure our horses as dear as our kin, and I merely wish to be assured of their good treatment. Your men would need to understand this."

"My friends." Aragorn's eyes were full, his voice husky with unvoiced emotion. "This is beyond my wildest hopes. What can I give you in exchange for such kindness, such loyalty?" He sank back into his seat, looking thunderstruck.

Faramir rose and cleared his throat, carefully regarding Aragorn. "If I may say so, Sire, you have already given too much. To have defeated Sauron not just once, but twice, and at such a cost! These people, they are your friends, your brothers; they seek only to ease your way. Leave everything with me, and we will finalize the agreements to everyone's satisfaction. Go, my lord. You need rest, as much if not more than your companions. Now is not the time for you to be making life-shaping decisions." He brought himself then to kneel before the man he had come to respect and love, his king, his friend, his brother in arms. "You have endured much, my friend, much more than any man should have to bear. Go, and rest your weary heart. Make no decisions now. Take time to listen to your heart, and let it guide you." He placed his fingers gently under Aragorn's chin and tipped his face up. "You have come to be more a father to me than Denethor ever was, as much as Boromir tried to be. And it is with a son's love that I tell you these things. Go and rest, and leave the daily strife for a time. None would gainsay you this. And if they do, then I shall deal with them accordingly, because I love you and would not be parted from you before it is time. But you must rest."

Aragorn nodded, for a moment looking very frail. "Then see me to my rest, Faramir, and I will do as you ask. Gentlemen, we will meet again in two days' time." He allowed Faramir to lead him to his rooms, his heart heavy with grief. To see these places again, without Arwen in them, he was not certain he could bear it. Best to have this man, who had in truth become like a son to him, nearby.

Faramir stepped between Aragorn and the doors and opened them slowly, keeping himself between the room and his king until he was certain things had been cleaned and replaced properly. Then he threw them wide and stepped aside, allowing Aragorn to enter the room.

The sitting room was bright in the sunshine, airy, yet somehow seemed empty to Aragorn. He could feel the lack of Arwen's presence as keenly as he felt the warmth of the sun; she had spent much time here, engaged in reading, her correspondence, and just enjoying the openness of the place.

He felt tears on his face once more and struggled to control his emotions. He had thought his grief spent. Clearly he had been mistaken.

He moved further into the room, idly touching this chair, that pillow, each and every item that Arwen had used to make the room comfortable and gracious. His eyes burned, but he would not allow the tears to fall. He noted that Faramir was waiting just inside the door and silently blessed the man for his perception. This was hard enough to do now; it would surely have been near to impossible, had he been alone.

His fingers found the doorway to his bedchamber and he paled visibly. His eyes were once more haunted with grief, and his hands trembled as they slowly drew open the doors. Inside, all was as it should be. His things on his side of the room, Arwen's still gracing the other. Even the floor had been scrubbed to a high shine, and he swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. No trace remained of that night, no indication that Arwen was gone, the children dead, everything in this room seemed to say the whole thing had been some terrible nightmare; but in his heart, he knew the truth.

Faramir cleared his throat and Aragorn turned to regard him, sorrow deadening his grey-blue eyes and adding years to his face. "You should sleep, my lord," Faramir suggested softly as he steered his king toward the bed. "Time alone will ease your pain; there are no herbs or brews to cure grief. There are some, however, that will help you to sleep." He indicated the goblet on the bedside table. "And sleep you must, to regain your strength."

Aragorn drained the cup, then composed himself upon the coverlet, his fingers digging deeply into the softness he found there. Faramir remained only until he heard the king's breathing deepen into sleep, and then silently took his leave.

(The Houses of Healing)

"I am not going to lie abed for days, man!" came a snarl from within the room and the women in the hallways quickly found other places to be. The Captain-General's temper was legendary and they had no desire to witness it firsthand.

"I am sorry, Lord Boromir, but until we are certain you took no lasting harm, you must rest here," the Healer was responding firmly. Boromir thought he must look like a petulant child, and relented.

"It is no matter, Calas," he snapped. "I am hale and whole, except for a few sword strikes, and they are minor. I have no burns to treat, no wounds to stitch, no illness to purge. Leave off, and let me be."

"Nevertheless, my lord, you will bide here on my order. Three days, no less. And on that fourth morning, I shall rejoice to see the back of you once more." A twinkle of humor in the man's green eyes belied the insult, and Boromir subsided slightly.

"At least fetch one of my friends to me, that I might have some company," he wheedled as he flopped back against the pillows. Truthfully, he was bone-weary, but to let the healer know that would keep him here longer. And he was well aware that the weariness would be cured by a day's rest. He'd soldiered long enough to know.

And companionship would stop the endless questions in his mind, at least for a time. He was returned from the dead. A frightening fact, that. Almost unbelievable, save for the fact that he was here, breathing and thinking.

What could he do here? He had been trained from birth to take the Stewardship when his father passed over; but in truth, he'd had no desire for it. Faramir had been the wiser choice, though Denethor would never have admitted it. No, Boromir had no desire to take the Stewardship from his brother.

What of his soldiery? Surely there had been another Captain-General appointed in his place! High Warden of the White Tower, as well.

The military life was the only one he knew. He was no statesman, certainly. His father had remarked at one point that if it fell to Boromir to be diplomatic, the war was as good as lost. No, he would have to find a niche somewhere in Gondor's army.

He puzzled again over his good fortune. Returned from death itself! It had been a gift to him, though he had not seen it that way at the time. Saruman had given him life, and in that life, he could undo some of the wrong he had done before his death. He had a chance to atone for his mistakes, to live his life the way it was meant, not as the arrogant, over-confident, swaggering boor he had been when the Quest began. Still he heard his words, "Gondor has no King. Gondor needs no King." They made him blush with shame.

He had finally learned humility, on the slopes of Amon Hen. He had accepted the truth of what Aragorn was, he had come to terms with the fact that the way of life he had known all his years was coming to an end. The King was indeed returning to Gondor, and he would not be alive to see it. He had given Aragorn his oath, nonetheless, and meant every word. He had regretted that his life was ending, that he would have no chance to actually serve his King.

Now, he had that chance. And he had already proved his worth, by helping Aragorn oust the wizard and Sauron from Minas Tirith. But, by Eru's Blood, he would not stop there. No, his King still had need of him. Comforted by the thought, he slept.