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.
A Special Note of Thanks to Ithil-valon for her tireless research into Elvish words and phrases. I absolutely could NOT have done this one without you, mellon-nin. Thank you so much!
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.
A Note: has asked that we no longer give individual reviewer responses in our stories or risk being deleted. So, if you'd like to hear from me, please remember to include an email address in your review so I can respond to it. Thanks bunches!
Chapter Twenty-Two
(Southern Gondor)
Boromir and Faramir had taken hurried positions on the wall to watch the Haradrim advance. The gates were secure, the walls mended and reinforced; there was little to do now but wait.
The enemy halted mere yards from the fortress walls and held position as Manzhanesh stepped forward. "Alajahado no longer leads my people," he announced, his voice thick with hatred. "And now we will have vengeance for those who have died at the hands of you butchers, you slayers of children. You have one choice: send out your Captain-General and your Prince, and we will leave this place untouched. Refuse, and we will burn this place to the ground, and you along with it."
"They could just as well demand we all surrender, for the satisfaction we will give them," he said softly.
"They will regret their decision to attack," Faramir agreed quietly. "Everything is ready." He stepped forward, stopping just short of the edge. "Everyone down from the walls. Nallis, are you ready?" He received a nod from the soldier. "This is it, then. Boromir, just as we discussed." Boromir gave him a brazen wink and left the wall, and Faramir turned his attention back to the Haradrim. "Your terms are rejected," he thundered. "You will not win this fortress from us. We will die to the last man before you claim one inch of Gondor as your own." He turned his head slightly to Nallis. "Fire it."
Nallis touched the torch he held to the rock at their feet and flames raced along the stone, catching and consuming the fuel that had been spread there. They reached the heights and spread swiftly, quickly obscuring the Haradrim from sight as Faramir stepped back, his face hard and unforgiving. "Do as you will; we will not allow you to claim one portion of our lands! Boromir!"
The gates flew open and out of the smoke and destruction sprang the Knights of Gondor, their faces fierce under their helms and their voices rough with rage. One among them stood out; Boromir, his golden head bared as always for the men to rally to. "Ride them down!" he roared as he spurred forward, his blade already meeting the enemy ranks. "No mercy!"
And the battle was joined…
Tanathel was weary to her bones, but she forced herself onward. Tesoro, too, was flagging; but the Gates of the City were in sight now and the sooner it was reached, the sooner they both could rest.
It was midafternoon on the third day of her journey, and she desperately needed rest, water, and food. She had chosen to press on, sleeping some in the saddle while Tesoro put leagues under them, slowly when he needed a rest, then picking up the pace again. Her bag of supplies had been abandoned at that first stop, where she had intended to make a camp. But the urgency of her mission had tormented her, allowing her no sleep, and the flames in the southern sky had urged her forward without much respite. Her blade, bow, and quiver had remained at a deserted farmhold she had seen along the way; she would reclaim them later. Even the thick heavy cloak she had begun the journey with had been discarded in the name of haste. All she carried with her were the clothes on her back and a small waterskin, which was now empty.
Her heart burned with the loss of the outpost. For what else could such an inferno signify? Boromir, Faramir, all the men left behind her were remembered with fondness; but it was the loss of Boromir she felt most keenly.
When she had learned to love him, she didn't know. But she had grown accustomed to having his presence near, to being able to draw support from the big oaf whenever she needed it, to knowing there was nothing she could not discuss with him, from arms to tactics to the quality of the ale at the local pubs. She was comfortable with him, more so than the other men she had been assigned with. With them, there was camaraderie, yes; but also the knowledge that she was female to their male, and it had made for a few embarrassing moments before it had been established that she was just 'one of their own.'
Boromir was different. To him, she was a soldier true, it mattered not her gender. Or at least, it hadn't mattered to him until they had kissed; then, she imagined, it had mattered very much. She grieved, but she would not weep. There wasn't time.
The Gates stood open as though in welcome and she saw the guards ready their weapons as she approached. For a moment, she wondered why; surely they would recognize her? Then she realized she would hardly appear the usual way to them. For one thing, Tesoro's coat shone burnished gold in the afternoon sun, for another she wore no armor. Her leathers had been all the protection she had retained.
She drew her laboring mount to a stop at their call, and waited to be recognized. Luck was with her; Daethlin was on Gate duty and he motioned her through quickly. "What word, Tanathel?" he asked as she drew near.
"I cannot say," she replied as she moved Tesoro forward. "I must see the King."
"You'll find him in the Hall, Tan. You'll be down at the Trumpet later? We'll catch up then."
She nodded her thanks and let her weary mount slow his pace again. He had been swift, as swift as Wind Dancer had ever been, and showed just as much heart. She patted his neck as they plodded upward, promising him warm mash and many, many apples for his endurance, and finally she was able to swing down and leave him in the care of the Stablemaster, who promised to make much of the stallion for her.
Purposefully she strode toward the Hall of Kings. Though she was beyond weary, she kept her step firm and her back straight; she would not disgrace herself or her commission by allowing her weakness to be seen.
She barged her way through to the forefront of those awaiting audiences and gave the Chamberlain a glare that would have frozen the Bay of Belfalas solid, as though daring him to impede her progress. Instead, he gave her a courtly bow and waved her inside.
She schooled her expression at the first sight of her lord, but his appearance was a shock. He had lost weight he could ill afford to lose, and there were smudges under his eyes that spoke of many nights without rest. What had happened here? Boromir had been right, something was indeed wrong. She carried herself forward to the foot of the throne and knelt there. "I bring a message, Your Highness, from the southern border."
Aragorn rose from his seat and came down the steps to her, raising her to her feet and giving her a critical glance in the process. "You're half frozen and exhausted. Gentlemen, nothing further today," he announced firmly as he took her by the arm. "Come, we'll go somewhere we can talk and you can warm up."
Aragorn listened to Tanathel's report, silently commending her on her sense of duty. She never faltered in her recitation, and her words were clear and concise, conveying none of the discomfort he knew she felt. He searched her words for signs of omission and deception and found none; though the news she brought was far from good, it could have been worse. He might not have known at all.
"I've sent a page for clean clothes for you. Into the bath, Lieutenant; you're still a little blue from cold." He caught her expression and chuckled softly. "I promise I won't look."
He watched her face as she realized he was teasing and gave him a weary smile. "Then I promise to be quick."
He allowed a small smile to emerge as he signaled his esquire. "Bring food for two, and then you are dismissed." Wine, he mused. She would sense nothing amiss. Perhaps the wine would be enough, but he doubted it. He had seen the grief in her dark eyes, grief to match his own; she would need help sleeping. He dropped a pinch of powdered bloodroot into the wine and mixed it well, setting it down quickly when he heard signs of her returning. Dalan set out the meal, bowed, and withdrew, leaving them alone again.
He greeted her and motioned that she take the seat opposite. They made a companionable meal together, though he ate little and noticed she marked the occurrence, and then he suggested perhaps some air before she returned to her quarters. She agreed and he took her out onto his balcony. He peppered her with questions about her report, her journey, why she was so certain the outpost was lost. He kept a wary eye on her face, watching for the telltale signs, and stepped forward to catch her up neatly when she folded midword.
He placed her gently into his own bed, knowing that perhaps a rumor or two would start making the rounds almost immediately, and completely unconcerned. She needed rest, and he wanted to be certain she got some. Besides, he almost never slept here himself any longer. He covered her warmly against the chill that still managed to invade his chambers and stepped back out onto the balcony.
Perhaps it was the sight of the young woman now sleeping snugly in his bed; perhaps it was the news that perhaps his two closest friends were most likely dead; perhaps it was a combination of several factors but Arwen seemed particularly close this night and the pain of her loss was a dagger to his heart. He went to his knees, his grief overwhelming him once more, tears for his lost love, for Boromir, for Faramir whom he had loved like his own son these months past came spilling down his cheeks. "No more," he whispered. "I can bear no more." He had brought death to all he loved; would Tanathel be any different? She had been a staunch friend, a loyal soldier, and as such, she would be a target for this curse he was certain had been placed upon him. He had not been able to protect Arwen, even here in his own chambers. What made him think he could protect Tanathel? He was alone, as he was always alone, as he was always meant to be alone.
He cried his grief and despair to the skies, no longer caring who might hear. He was alone, that was all he could think, he was alone again. Always alone. "Arwen, u-awartha nin si erui!"
His hands once more found the Evenstar at his breast and he clutched at it, his sobs no less violent for all he had muted them once more. His grief was so sharp, so bitter, that it seemed likely to tear his very spirit asunder. The shards of his broken heart would never mend; the pieces were too sharp to put back together. "Arwen, U-awartha nin si erui," he whispered again, all his strength gone. "Do not leave me alone here." Death would be a mercy for him, how had he not seen that? Not a betrayal of his love; a mercy for those he still loved. His people, his friends… they would finally have peace with his death, peace in knowing he had at last joined his beloved.
The Evenstar in his grasp warmed to his touch and he unclenched his fingers in surprise and a little alarm. The charm glowed brightly, its light somehow restored.
He could hear Arwen, hear her as though she stood next to him. "Renech i beth i pennen? Ae ú-esteliach nad, estelio han, Estelio amen. Ónen i-Estel, Meleth- nín." The words she had spoken to him, long ago, before the Quest, before the Ring. "Do you remember what I told you? If you trust nothing else, trust this, trust us. I give hope, my love."
"Arwen," he breathed. He could hear her, see the light of the bright gem he held so reverently in his hands… but he could not see her. He felt her presence all around him, like a welcoming warmth in the depths of winter. "Arwen, tua amin!"
"Amin khiluva tua lle," came the soft response. Aragorn felt a weight leave him, yet he still could not credit his ears. "I will help you."
"I cannot fight this darkness, this despair," he murmured, tears still falling unheeded down his gaunt cheeks. "You are my light, my heart, my strength. I cannot bear your loss, not again. Do not ask it of me, I beg you."
"I am always with you, meleth-nin. The light of the Evenstar does not wax or wane; it is mine to give to whom I will. Like my heart." Peace crept through him, easing the pain in his heart, the turmoil in his mind. She would always be with him; could he have doubted that? Had he not known? What foul thing had placed this doubt inside him? He knew not; but he would find out. He surrendered to sleep, a small smile evident and the glow of the Evenstar steady against his chest.