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 Eleven
Boromir stood on the wall, watching the tree line to the south. Day had given way to night, and still he stood watch. The campfires he could see disturbed him. For all his reassuring words to Tanathel earlier, they were in an extremely vulnerable position.
Alone, a handful of men against an army. If the wall held, they could last indefinitely. Surely enough time for the infantry to catch up with them. But if Mauhar had followed his orders explicitly, there would be no rescue. The column would have been turned, infantry and wagon alike.
Mauhar would reach Minas Tirith in about five days, even on Wind Dancer. That made, what, about ten days before reinforcements could possibly arrive. Could they hold that long? They had enough supplies to last them a month, and fresh water for at least three weeks. There was rubble enough for the catapults, medicines for the wounded… surely they could hold out, if the wall held. Why hadn't the men they were coming to reinforce done so? The question gnawed at him, allowing him no peace.
Nallis stepped up beside him. "I relieve you, sir," he said softly. "You're needed in the Infirmary. I will keep watch here."
Boromir nodded and left the wall, going quickly to the Infirmary. Mithlan met him in the doorway. "I am no healer, sir, nor is anyone else here. Most of the wounds we could tend well enough, but Aron… we tended what we could, but I doubt he will last the night."
Boromir went straight to the lad's bedside, taking in the pallor of the face and the bloodied bandages that lay discarded nearby. Eru, did he have any blood left inside? He sat down next to the boy's bed.
This was the hardest part of his duty. Too often had it been necessary for him to sit deathwatch over those who barely seemed old enough to hold a sword, much less use one in defense of their home. He took the lad's hand in his own, horrified at the coldness there.
"S-sir?" Aron's voice was soft, but still audible.
"Rest easy, Aron, we'll do what we can." Boromir was checking over the wounds carefully; Eru, what a mess! The wound in his belly was a certain death sentence, but all the others were undoubtedly where the pain was coming from. "Rest, now. Sleep."
Aron tightened his grip slightly and Boromir felt his eyes widen. The boy had some strength to him! "You should rest, too," he managed to whisper. "They'll need you tomorrow." He turned his face slightly toward Boromir and the man forced his face to remain calm. "I'm not afraid, sir."
That made things a little easier, but not much. Boromir sighed softly. "Who should I take word to, Aron?" he asked softly.
The boy's eyes began to droop slightly and Boromir knew there was little time left. "My father," Aron breathed. "Fornon, in Lossarnach."
"I will go there myself, Aron, as soon as we are finished here," Boromir promised him, keeping his voice steady and firm. "I promise, your father will know you died with honor, that you fought well. That you were brave and true to the end."
Aron managed a weak nod. "That's… all I ask." His breathing was beginning to labor and his skin had taken on a waxy pallor. Boromir simply held his hand, talking softly to him, giving him reassurance, until he simply drew one last breath and then no more.
Boromir gently closed Aron's eyes and laid a gentle hand against his cheek. "Be at peace," he murmured. Then he rose. "Take him and see him buried properly," he ordered. "Put his possessions into a safe place; I'll see they return to his father."
He would return to the wall; sleep was going to be hard to come by. He could use the time to try and work out a defense against the horde of Haradrim on the southern edge of the plain.