Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.

Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground.  And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.

Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.

To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.

Chapter One

(The King's Chambers)

The King of Gondor sat on his balcony and mourned the loss of his wife.

It was a ritual he had come to practice more and more often of late. He missed her, oh, how he missed her. She had been his light, his heart, his very soul; yet she had been taken from him. Evil had come to Gondor, and she had paid the ultimate price, desperately fighting to either save her children or avenge them.

He could not reconcile himself with her loss. Elves could fade from grief, and for a brief moment, he wished he were one of the Eldar. But he was a mere mortal, of the race of Men, and so could not simply fade from life. Nor would Arwen forgive him for the selfish act of suicide.

His thoughts wandered, as though shying away from the fact that she was no longer by his side. Images crowded through his mind, most of them from the recent past. Boromir, miraculously returned from the dead, at the whim of a mad wizard. The Hobbits, rising to aid him once more, showing true friendship and loyalty. Eomer, Legolas, Gimli… Faramir and his wife, Eowyn… and last, but certainly not least, Tanathel.

Tanathel was another sore spot in his heart. He had met the brash young Ranger when she saved him from death at Amon Sul, and he had come to respect and admire her dedication and loyalty very quickly. That she had been so badly wounded, helping him to regain his throne, did not sit well with him.

Nor did the words he was hearing from the healers. Her leg had been badly torn, just above the knee; she was lucky to still have the use of it. And it remained to be seen whether she would need a cane permanently, or not. Her limp was still quite pronounced, and the healers were beginning to worry about infection. Tanathel had steadfastly refused to return to them, claiming duty during the day and fatigue during the evening. Something would have to be done. She promised faithfully that she was continuing the treatments they had given her, yet she would not return to the Houses of Healing for them to check it. All very strange.

Nothing would be decided at this time of night. He rose and went inside, to his lonely bed, to try and capture what rest he could.

(The Academy Archery Range)

Tanathel drew back again, aiming for the barely visible target in the darkness. She sighted carefully, and let fly.

The arrow thudded home in the heart of the target and she whirled, alerted by a noise behind her, her dagger drawn and ready.

"A bit late for archery practice, isn't it?" Boromir, Captain-General of Gondor's Army, relieved her of her blade quickly and stepped back. "Tanathel, it is after midnight. You should be in bed; your first set of trainees will be here in the morning."

"I couldn't sleep." Even to herself, Tanathel sounded surly. "And it never hurts to practice in adverse conditions. Not all warfare is conducted in bright daylight, Captain-General. Eventually I will have the cadets out here in the middle of the night, learning to aim with no light."

Boromir chuckled softly, and then he became serious once more. He sat down on the nearest bench and regarded her seriously. "Talk with me a moment, if you would," he said quietly. "What is this I hear, that you have decided you need no more healing? That is folly, Lieutenant. You should see them as soon as it is light."

"They can do no more for me." Tanathel's voice was clipped and precise. "I have continued as they said, and exercise the leg daily. I use the salves they provided. What more could they do?"

"That is not for you to decide, Lieutenant," Boromir ordered, rising from the bench in full command mode. "You will report to the Houses of Healing at first light, and no more excuses." He let his voice soften as he took her hand. "You are a good soldier, Tanathel, but you must learn to take care of yourself better. You can better serve Gondor by keeping yourself in one piece."

She jerked her hand away from him quickly and turned away, hoping he couldn't see the hurt and anger in her eyes through the darkness. "Serve Gondor? Do you think I don't know this position is merely to salve my wounded pride? It is the only place I am fit for, now. I can no longer protect my King as I should, can no longer even stand properly at attention. Yes, I can train these boys to shoot well, and they will serve Gondor in my stead. But it is not the same, not the same as riding out and knowing that I am helping to defeat the enemy with my own hands." Her voice broke and she choked back a sob.

He turned her to face him, uncertain of how to comfort her. Had she been a man under his command, his path would have been clear; but she was a woman and he was unused to dealing with those. Oh, he'd done his fair share of wenching in his past! But this was no simple tavern wench, no, indeed. She was a warrior, through and through.

"It is an honorable charge, to train those who will fight and die to protect Gondor, one that you should embrace rather than scorn," he said gently as he tipped her face up. "And perhaps it is not to be your fate for long. If the healers can help you, let them. Do not give up hope."

"If there is hope left, I cannot see it," she murmured as she let her head fall against his shoulder. Shudders wracked her slender frame as she began to cry, though she made no sound.

It only made sense to put his arms around her, so he did. He held her as she wept, bitter tears of frustration and pain. Then he swept her up into his arms as the storm passed and carried her into the building, placed her gently into her bed and doused the lamp, and took his leave.