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.

Again, I would like to thank my reviewers individually; but the powers that be have decided in their wisdom that such a thing just isn't done… so please, if you review, leave an address I can get back to you! Or you are more than welcome to email me directly! Thanks a bunch!

Chapter Twenty-Three

Boromir scanned the walls as the flames died down somewhat, knowing Faramir would have his archers in place almost immediately. The Haradrim were on the run; they had fled before the onslaught of Boromir's Knights and he felt a savage joy within him at the sight. Only a few dared stand against them, and those were being systematically routed. He caught sight of his brother, firing rapidly and with great effect at those in flight, and turned his attention back to the enemy.

Manzhanesh rose up from the scrubby brush, spear in hand, shouting something in his own language as he took aim and let fly. Boromir raised his shield just a fraction too late; the missile hit with just enough force to unhorse him.

He rose quickly, fury foremost in his mind. This man had taken what was his; this fortress, his people, and his woman. It wasn't to be borne. "Are you so brave face to face, Manzhanesh?" he taunted the other man as he brought his sword into play. "Or do you prefer to attack from a distance like the coward you are?"

Manzhanesh parried the strike with his poleaxe and slashed at the Gondorian, his features contorted with rage. "You are brave as well, to hide behind the robes of a man old enough to be your father and more honorable than you could ever hope to be." Another whistling, whirling strike and he was suddenly behind Boromir, the blade of his axe scoring across Boromir's armor but not doing much real damage.

Boromir heard the grating sound and spun, his shield coming up and deflecting the blade, forcing the other man back and bringing his own blade into play, breaking the staff of the enemy's weapon and driving him to the ground. "For taking this outpost, I would have let you live," he snarled. "For killing Alajahado, as well. But for Tanathel… for what you did to my woman, you die." He raised his broadsword and brought it down in a savage arc.

The sounds of battle were fading as he looked around; most of the Haradrim were scattered, in full flight southward toward their home. "Fall back!" he roared. "Let them go! It is over."

One of the Knights returned his horse to him, but he was suddenly too tired to mount. His shoulder throbbed where the spear had hit, but there was no blood that he could see. Wearily he turned his gaze to the outpost and his brow furrowed in concern. Where Faramir had stood, there was emptiness; but a knot of men had formed nearby.

Somehow, he found the strength to mount.

Tanathel snuggled deeply into the warmth of the covers and sighed contentedly. She thought she'd found Paradise, it was so warm and soft and…

…and it wasn't her bed! She came bolt upright in shock. Her message!

Memory flooded back and she groaned. She had delivered the report. She had spoken with the king, had dinner with him, and then…

Why that…that… She couldn't think of something suitably vile. Surely she hadn't been so weary as to fall asleep on him? No… surely not.

"Ah, good, you're awake." Aragorn himself stood at the foot of the great bed, and she scrambled quickly up, straightening her tunic and passing hasty fingers over her stray hair. He laughed softly. "That isn't necessary. I was starting to be concerned. You've slept for nearly two days."

"I rode for three with only one true stop," she confessed as she began to register stiffness and aches from her long trek. "The urgency of my message had been well-impressed on me," she said ruefully as she regarded him with steady eyes. "So what was in the wine? I was not so weary I could not have walked to my quarters."

He laughed in return and gestured for her to precede him into the sitting room. "A small pinch of bloodroot. As it was, I fear I used too much. But you needed rest." He stood for a moment, facing west, to observe the Standing Silence. Then he seated himself across the table from her and indicated the rather large breakfast that had been set out. "You have suffered a loss, Tanathel. I know how hard it would be for you to rest well, once it comes home to you."

Tanathel grimaced slightly. She had hoped to avoid further discussion of Boromir and the others; she had told him all she knew and was painfully aware that it wasn't enough. But there was no way they could have escaped the great burning she had seen from the trail. That it had been visible at all from such a distance made it a more than respectable blaze. It had been a pyre, upon which the Men of Gondor would have burned. "Then you will understand that I couldn't possibly manage all this food," she said, her voice thick with humor as well as sorrow.

"It just so happens I'm a bit peckish myself this morning," he replied with a sad humor of his own. They ate in companionable silence for a time until one of the pages came to the door. "Sire, a message from the Gates. Scouts report an armed column coming up from the south. No banners that can be seen as yet. They travel slowly to accommodate the wagons in their midst; but they will be here by midday."

Aragorn nodded acceptance of the message. "Tell Daethlin I will be on the wall shortly. Tanathel, muster those left in the City. The Gates will hold them; but they will regret nonetheless thinking they can murder my people and march so boldly on this City." His face was grim. "Have your troops at the Gates in an hour, Captain."

Tanathel acknowledged her new rank with a quite proper bow and left, her step purposeful. There were many things to set in place, and little time to do so. And she would not betray Aragorn's trust in her by failing.

By the first hour before midday, her troops were assembled just before the Gates, weapons and armor gleaming in the sun. Knights, Archers, and the few Rangers who had remained in the City ranged behind her, though she gave them no glance to assure they remained in ranks. They either would or would not. She had to trust these men to obey her orders, and it would start with a simple thing like this.

A commotion on the wall caught her attention, but she did not look up. Aragorn would give them their orders soon enough. If the troops approaching were truly the enemy… and they must be… then all too soon the Gates would open and she would ride out to meet them.

Trumpets, trumpets sounding a familiar fanfare penetrated her thoughts and she forced herself to remain still, to give no sign of the fierce exultation that had gripped her; these were Gondor's own, come home alive. Dimly she heard Aragorn's strident call to open the Gate, and Wind Dancer quivered under her, caught by her growing excitement. Still she remained immobile, silent, and focused.

The Gates opened wide, and Aragorn's voice called down to them. "Captain, take your Knights and bring our men home!"

She gave a nod and motioned her riders forward, noting the easy way they fell into formation, though the move had not been practiced with her in the lead. They were good men.

Many of the returning men appeared unscathed, and for that she breathed thanks to whatever gods might listen. Still she searched for the face that would make this homecoming unforgettable.

Horses, golden horses, gleaming in the sun. The brothers rode near the center of the column, not the fore where their rank would place them. She saw one break ranks and move swiftly forward, the stallion covering the ground in an easy lope, the rider loose and comfortable in the saddle with no hint of injury. Then she was able to see the golden hair fanning out in the slight breeze and her heart soared as the trumpets finally discovered what she in her heart should have known; that Boromir and Faramir had indeed come home.

The reason for their position in the column soon became apparent. Wounded were always kept in the middle of any column, the better to defend them if necessary. Tanathel moved her men forward at a smart pace as well, to meet them and take some of the strain from the wagon drivers and wounded. Boromir met them halfway and she ordered her men on, wishing only to get the column into the safety of the City as soon as possible. Faramir looked gray in the bright light and favored his left arm considerably.

She stopped before her Captain-General and held her position, tall and proud in the saddle. "How bad?" she asked simply.

If Boromir was taken aback by her cool greeting, he hid it well. "About a third of our returning troops are wounded, though only about a score badly. The Haradrim have retreated for now." He gazed up at the wall, finding the unmistakable form of Aragorn watching. "Faramir needs to be tended as soon as possible. His arm was wounded badly and we had not the skill to do more than clean it and bind it up." His concern for his brother seemed to overshadow everything else, and Tanathel accepted it. "One or two others are bad enough we weren't sure they'd make the journey, but they still live." He held her gaze for a moment as the column moved past behind them. "You seem to have taken no harm from your journey," he said softly.

"A moment or two of thinking I would be frozen to my horse, but nothing significant," she replied stiffly. "A few moments of stark terror, when I saw the flames behind me. Then back into the saddle and off again." She shrugged, not an easy thing to do in full heavy armor. "The worst part was His Majesty deciding that I needed rest." A small smile touched her face.

Boromir moved his mount closer to her and laid one gloved hand across hers. "We must talk," he said softly.

She nodded in agreement. "When this is done," she replied quietly and moved to flank Faramir's horse as he passed, while Boromir took position on the other side. The Steward did not look at all well. The stiffness with which he held the arm spoke of damage to the joint; which was probably why the journeymen healers at the outpost hadn't tried to correct it. Delicate surgery was not yet their specialty. Battlefield surgery was often rough and consisted of making sure the wounded could travel to better facilities.

"Welcome home, my lord," she said to Faramir with as much cheer as she thought he could handle. She would not touch him, for he seemed to be in much pain; but she could and did give him an encouraging smile before excusing herself and returning to the head of the line, checking the spacing in the column, the positioning of her men to take the strain from the travelers; all the tasks that Boromir had been seeing to since they left the outpost. This was her responsibility now, and she meant to see it done properly. Even within sight of the City, there could be surprises; and these men had been through enough. She would treat them as gently as though they were deep in enemy territory and see them home safe.

TBC