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 Eighteen

(Minas Tirith)

Aragorn stepped out onto his balcony once more, his mind in turmoil.

Arwen was everywhere he turned, everywhere he went. Her presence was almost tangible at times, so much so that he was certain if he turned quickly enough he would see her. His heart tore anew each time he looked for her and she wasn't there.

Sometimes he wondered if he were going mad. He would feel her touch on his arm, hear her whisper in his ear, once he even felt her presence while he was alone in his study. She haunted him.

Yes, that was the right word. She haunted him, and he had no peace by day or night. The question in his mind was why?

Arwen, who had been so gentle in life, yet so fierce. Arwen, who had embraced life in the way of the Elves, was now tempting him to forget his teachings and throw his own away. Arwen, who had forsaken the immortality of the Elves to remain with him as his wife, was now reminding him of his own mortality by her death.

He leaned against the balustrade, watching the lights of the City beneath him. Life went on apace, it seemed, with little regard for his loss or his torment. Men sat at their hearths now, in the depths of the evening, relaxing while their wives bustled about setting food on the table and seeing to their comforts. Those who had no wives could be found at the pubs, unburdening themselves in their own fashions.

He found himself envying them those simple pleasures. Once, he would have done the same; come home here, to Arwen, and merely been filled with joy to be in her presence. Now, the emptiness was all that he returned to at each day's end.

His mind shied away from the despair the thought held and turned to the matters in the south. No word had yet come from Faramir, and that was a bad sign. Things were obviously getting worse there; if his Steward had no time to send a report, they must be in a terrible situation. Either that, or the garrison had fallen and taken his friends with it.

What manner of creature was he? He offered love, and delivered only death. His friends, his family, those who looked to him for his protection and his heart, he had brought only death to them. Theoden, dying on the Fields of the Pelennor; Boromir, who had fallen first at Amon Hen and even now may be dying in torment; Gandalf had fallen in Moria; Arwen. The list went on, over a long lifetime that was not yet half spent. Tears burned his eyes as he thought of them all, all those he had brought to death from love of him.

Once more he contemplated how easy it would be to simply join Arwen in death. They would be together, together as they should have been in life.

No! Suicide was a selfish, hateful act. He would not tarnish her memory in that fashion! Unfortunately, it brought him full circle. He could almost hear her voice in his ear...

"Amin dele ten' lle."

Madness, this was madness. He had heard her speak those words before; it had to be a memory. A short bark of bitter laughter escaped and became a sob. How could she be worried about him? She wasn't with him, she was gone, gone forever.

His fingers closed about the Evenstar he still wore and abruptly he steadied. Peace settled into his heart, peace such as he had seldom felt in the past few months. He settled onto his chaise, his eyes heavy and his mind calm. And when he dreamed, he dreamed of Arwen.

(South Gondor/Northern Harad)

Faramir's face remained set in hard lines as he watched the trio approach. The setting sun cast a fiery pall over the plain, giving it an unreal quality.

They seemed to be moving under their own power, and he relaxed slightly. They bore the unmistakable signs of abuse, though, he noted as they came closer. Boromir was moving quite stiffly, and though he might not even notice it, one arm was held slightly apart from the rest of him as though pained. And though her face bore liberal bruising and she was also stiff and slow, it was Tanathel's eyes that held his gaze. There was a stillness in them that disturbed him, a sense of overwhelming rage barely controlled.

Boromir turned to Alajahado and nodded slightly. Tanathel merely shouldered by him silently and moved toward the horsemen, moving toward the rear of the formation as if to put as much distance between the Haradrim and herself as possible.

Alajahado spoke again, his voice firm. "As you have asked, so it has been done. They are returned to you, perhaps not in the best of health, but they are returned. Now, we will speak of our futures." There was a thread of steel in the words; Faramir heard it as clearly as he could feel his mount beneath him. "You will have your men stand down. We do not come in surrender. We do come in peace."

Faramir merely held the man's gaze for a moment. His own voice was as strong as he answered. "They will stand down, for now. We are returning to the garrison. We will send a messenger when we are ready to meet with you." He held his enemy's gaze a heartbeat longer. "You have kept your word in this. We will keep ours. We will not attack without provocation; but if you attack us, we will destroy you. That is my vow." He turned his horse and gave the signal to withdraw.

The ride back to the garrison was fairly short, but it afforded him a few moments to be alone with Boromir. Mithlan had taken Tanathel up with him, so he paused long enough to allow Boromir to swing onto the saddle skirt. He heard a muffled curse and a smile finally crossed his face. "That's more like it," he said genially. "You'd been so quiet I wasn't sure they gave me back the right brother," he teased.

Boromir only grunted as he shifted position, trying to get more comfortable. "You were handling things well," he replied evenly. "Very well. I'm impressed."

No small praise, coming from the Captain-General himself, even if the man was also his brother. Faramir allowed himself a moment more to bask in Boromir's approval. "You taught me well." Then he turned matters serious once more. "How badly are you hurt? Tell me true."

Boromir ignored the question and quickly recounted his time in the Haradrim camp. "He kept his word to me, we were unharmed from the moment Manzhanesh came back. They treated our wounds, treated us like honored guests. I don't understand it." He grimaced as he swung down inside the outpost. "I need Tanathel. She can explain it. There wasn't time before."

"You need to let the healers look you over, and then you need to rest." Faramir spoke sternly, as much from duty as from love of his brother. "I haven't turned command back to you, yet. And I want to be certain you're able for it before I do." Going out beyond archery range had been more than foolish, it had been nearly suicidal. He caught his tongue before he mentioned it, though the words hung as clearly between them as the light from the torches along the wall. He needed to know that Boromir was truly in his right mind, that nothing had been done to his mind while he was in the Haradrim camp. He would not relinquish command until then.

Boromir recoiled as though he'd been slapped. His Puss had indeed learned well! A feeling of rage swept him at what seemed to be a calculated insult, followed quickly by a surge of pride for this man he called brother. Puss, indeed; no longer a cub, certainly. He had claws and teeth well suited to war, as well as the cunning and grace of the hunting cats. A Tiger. "Sometimes, brother, it is hard to remember you are a man grown and well capable of commanding an entire army," he said ruefully. "Very well, I will let the leeches have me. See that Tanathel is also tended, would you? She has a tendency to overestimate her strength."

Faramir steered Boromir into the Infirmary, not needing to explain that Mithlan had already escorted Tanathel to the healers. Her curses were audible several steps away.

She lay on her stomach and growled as the man held a damp cloth to the back of her shoulder, but subsided quickly when the cool moisture soaked in. Relief from the stinging pain of the burn caught up with her and she felt like purring.

Most of the damage done to her wouldn't be seen, not by this man. She would talk to Calas on her return to Minas Tirith; him, she trusted. She had been beaten badly, with both whip and fist, but none of the marks would take much tending. The burn on her shoulder was by far the worst, except for… she shied away from it. She supposed she was lucky, in a way. The brand could have been applied to her face, where it would be clearly seen. Instead, they had put in on her back, where a tunic would cover it.

The healer was trying to give her something to drink, but she waved him away. She could see Boromir from where she lay, and knew he was in a worse state. She could see the bloody welts where their captors had been overzealous with the lash; but a jerk of his arm caught her eye and she paled. To mark her so was cruel; but this, this was beyond cruelty. Fury welled up in her, rage such as she had never known. She had thought herself furious before, but now she understood the meaning of towering rage. "How dare they?" she stormed as she came off the cot in a bound, pulling her tunic back into place as she did so. She grabbed Boromir's arm and dragged it into the healer's sight, exposing the raw brand to the watching eyes of all present. The two halves of the broken sword gaped up at them and Boromir frowned.

"What are you on about?" he demanded as he allowed the healer to dress the burn. "A brand. It's of no import."

"Yes, it is," she snarled as she showed him the matching mark on her shoulder. "A brand, yes. To the Haradrim, it is a sign of dishonor. It means you can't be trusted. Don't you see? Even if you want to negotiate with them, they won't talk to you! Alajahado will, because he knows, but the others? They'll demand you leave… and be within their rights. They will not trust you, no matter what you say. If they see that mark, they will turn a deaf ear to your words. You have been marked as vorazhnil."

She took in their shocked expressions and cursed roundly, both in Haradrim and Common. "It means you have no honor."