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.

Finally another update! Hopefully I'll be able to move this along a bit more quickly now. Thanks to everyone who's been hanging in there waiting!

Chapter Twelve

Aragorn paced the Courtyard slowly, chewing over the report he'd just been given. Mauhar and Galen had arrived with the dawn, with horrifying news. The garrison had already been lost; Boromir had taken what troops he could to attempt to retake it. One bright spot in the gloom; Mauhar had 'interpreted' Boromir's orders about turning the column. A thousand infantry soldiers were still on their way to the garrison to reinforce them.

Faramir had ordered up as many experienced men as remained in the city. They would be ready to march by nightfall; but would they be enough? Sauron's occupation (through Saruman) of Gondor had left many men in no condition to fight.

Had he regained his friend, his companion, only to lose him again so quickly? Had he sent Boromir to his death?

It didn't salve his conscience any that Boromir had gone willingly. Boromir, he knew, would ever offer his life for Gondor; the White City had been his one true love for all of his adult life. His loyalty to Aragorn was absolute.

Aragorn supposed that of the soldiers who could be in this precarious position, he had the two best in place. Boromir would take back the garrison and hold it if any hope prevailed; and Tanathel would watch his back to the exclusion of her own safety. Neither treachery nor overwhelming odds would keep those two down for long.

It was a subtle reassurance to have the brash young woman with Boromir. She was a master strategist in the making; if she could hold her temper long enough for her common sense to speak, she would make an excellent officer. But in the meantime, she would provide a sounding board for Boromir and hopefully not encourage too many headstrong offensives.

With that in mind, he turned his thoughts back to Minas Tirith herself. With Faramir out of the City, he would need to be doubly on his guard. If this were a feint to draw out all the protection from the City, then things could go wrong very quickly. What a pity that Cirin hadn't known the Dwarves still in the City were ready to fight if need be!

Yes, the City would withstand a siege. The Gates had been reworked with Dwarven cunning, and should withstand the most powerful of rams. With the food and supplies from the Shire, they were in excellent shape. Water, too, was no object; there shouldn't even have to be much rationing unless the siege went on for months.

The fact remained that if the Haradrim managed to overcome the garrison, there would be little to stop them before they reached the Pelennor. Faramir's Rangers in southern Ithilien would delay them, but sheer numbers would overwhelm them. Something had to be done!

He firmly pulled his mind back from useless conjecture and turned back inside, his steps heavy as he made his way to the Hall of Kings, where he would conduct his audiences for the rest of the day. Mostly trivial matters, he was certain, but at least they might keep his thoughts far from the devastation that could occur so swiftly. One tiny event, he well knew, could set in motion a chain of events that could quite simply destroy them all.

(South Gondor)

"Get crews to those catapults!" Boromir ordered from his place on the wall. "I want archers evenly spaced along this wall and above the gates. Anyone who can use a bow. Tanathel!"

She came toward him at his summons, her eyes instead on the masses of the enemy nearby. "What are they waiting for?" she demanded. "They should have pressed their attack when we entered the fortress. They're giving us time to prepare for an assault."

Boromir shrugged eloquently. "It isn't typical for them. All the battles I've fought with them in past, they were eager to get to the fight, to revel in the death and destruction of their enemy." He turned to survey the preparations and nodded in satisfaction. Everything appeared to be as ready as they could make it; if the Haradrim came at them now, they could hold. "This waiting is unnerving."

Tanathel gave him a nod of agreement. "It's getting to the men, too. Everyone is stretched taut as a bowstring, waiting for something to happen. It's wearing them down." It was wearing at her, too, but she wouldn't admit it to anyone. "We should take the fight to them," she urged. "We've the range; the catapults would make short work of the mumakil." The great beasts of the Haradrim would be easy prey for the catapults, for they were huge. Easy targets.

"We'd get one volley, no more, before they were on us," Boromir responded acidly. "They move too quickly to aim accurately. We might damage their camp, remove a few threats; but the rest would destroy us. We've not enough strength to go on the offensive." He saw her expression and explained carefully. "For all their size, mumakil move quickly. A catapult isn't like an arrow; you can't adjust the direction you want to fire without a lot of effort. And they take more time to re-arm."

Tanathel looked down for a moment, judging her response. He was obviously feeling the strain as much as everyone else. He didn't usually snap at her over tactics, and she wasn't usually so dense. "I knew that," she said slowly. "I'm just tired of waiting."

"We all are." With those words, he expressed all the pent-up rage and frustration he held inside. "All of us, down to the last man. But there is nothing else for it. Unless we get some reinforcements, we have to be careful. And caution demands patience, on all our parts." He squared his shoulders as he again regarded the enemy campsite. "We have to outlast them."

TBC