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 Two

The morning dawned bright and clear, and Aragorn groaned as he rolled over to greet it. It seemed obscene, somehow, that the day should be so beautiful when his thoughts were so dark.

He greeted his esquire with the usual smile and nod, allowed the man to dress him and then shooed him away. It did not help his appetite, which was poor enough already, when Dalan hovered to watch him consume every morsel. It was almost like living in some bizarre form of prison at times, he mused. Watched, day and night, for fear he would perhaps break into a thousand pieces, or simply disappear into thin air.

He supposed it was a natural reaction to his grief. At one point, he had considered trying to join Arwen. Only his innate sense of honor and responsibility had changed his mind. It would be a betrayal of all she had given up so freely for him to suicide, and he couldn't do it.

A tap at his chamber door distracted him from his thoughts and he welcomed the interruption. "Enter," he called as he seated himself.

Peregrin Took stepped into the room, looking dignified and serious in his black and silver livery. "Good morning, Sire," he chirped happily. "I have your list of appointments for the day, courtesy of the Steward, and you're to start with a Council meeting at your convenience."

"Thank you, Pippin," Aragorn replied with a smile. "You are more than a mere page, and Faramir knows this. So why send you? A member of the Tower Guard, carrying messages?"

"Oh, I volunteered." Nothing could keep the Hobbit's good spirits dampened for long, and he gave Aragorn a cheeky grin. "Now, are you going to finish that sausage?"

(Tanathel's Quarters/The Academy Infirmary)

There was a sharp rap at her door, followed quickly by it being flung open and Boromir filling the doorway. "Did I not give you an order, Tanathel?" he began, only to stop in consternation and go immediately to her side.

He touched her brow and swore inventively. "You're burning, Tanathel, couldn't you have listened to them?" He gathered her up from the floor where she had fallen and moved out of the room, shouting orders along the way. "Hirgon, take word to the cadets there will be no archery practice today; have them see the Armsmaster instead. Dervil, run and find Healer Calas, bring him to the Infirmary. Don't take no for an answer. Corvin, you go to the Citadel, give his Highness my apologies but I will not be in Council this day."

He laid her down on the first empty bed he found and got cool water to wash her face with. "Eru, woman, did you have to be so stubborn?" he whispered as he bathed her face and neck, trying to cool the fever. He left the cloth in place on her forehead and with a silent apology, stripped her breeches to look at the wound on her leg. This was no time to be observing proprieties.

The left leg was significantly swollen, just above the knee. The wound itself was seeping, an ugly, viscous fluid that smelled foul to him. He hesitated.

Boromir was no healer, but he knew what had to be done first. He had to clean the wound, and it would not be pleasant for either of them. He drew his knife and quickly opened the still-healing wound, allowing some of the vile poison to flow sluggishly from it, trying to ignore the hoarse cry of pain the action brought forth.

He was applying warm cloths to the swelling when Calas arrived, out of breath and quite flustered. "My lord, what --- oh, no."

Calas hastened to the bedside and took a practiced look at the wound. "This will need all my skill, my lord. If she is to keep the leg, it will need constant supervision." He turned to his apprentice and began naming herbs and instruments that he would need. "You, my lord, will bring me everything she says she has been using on this."

Boromir nodded and hurried away, returning moments later with the small jars of salve and leaving them in the healer's view. "What else can I do?" he asked quietly.

"You may take yourself from the room, my lord; there is nothing else you may do. I will know in a matter of hours whether or not the leg will need to be removed."

Boromir nodded and withdrew, only to place a chair near the doorway and dispatch another page to bring his work to him. He would wait here, until he knew what would happen to his friend. He could do his job as well from a desk in the hall as from his office.