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 has 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 at Thanks a bunch!

Also, I have to give a big thank you to Ithil-valon which I quite stupidly overlooked in Chapter 22. Lest anyone think my sudden knowledge of Elvish was a miracle or something; she is to credit for coming up with the Elvish phrases used in that chapter. Thanks again, girlfriend!

Chapter Twenty-Four

Once her duties had been completed – the wounded safely ensconced in the Houses of Healing, the supplies stored away, the horses tended, her men dismissed – Tanathel stepped into the back corridors where she wouldn't be seen and scurried to the Houses of Healing. She wanted to see Faramir and make certain he would heal whole before she even considered talking to Boromir.

Hah. Talk. What she wanted to do was throw her arms around him and just hold on; but she would let him set the tone. He was, after all, not just her commanding officer. He was the Captain-General of Gondor herself. He had far more pressing concerns on his time than one mere Ranger from Ithilien.

She pulled herself back from a near run, stayed in the shadows long enough to smooth her hair and make herself presentable, and stepped out into the corridor to make her way to join the others clustered outside Faramir's room. "Any word?" she asked quietly as she approached.

Aragorn and Boromir nodded in welcome, although Boromir's eyes held hers longer than was strictly necessary. "Not yet," Aragorn said quietly. "Calas believes there may yet be a splinter of the spear's tip in the elbow joint, which is causing the discomfort. He's lucky to still have the arm."

"Indeed." Boromir's gaze was haunted. "If it had been a direct strike, rather than a glancing one, he would have lost the arm completely," he explained. "As it is, there is some question of how much use he will have of it."

Tanathel winced. Not good news, certainly, especially for an archer. If he didn't have full mobility in the arm, he wouldn't be able to use his bow at all, regardless that it wasn't his firing arm that was affected. She placed a hand lightly on Boromir's forearm, noting as she did so that he had not yet changed from his travel gear, indeed, he looked tired and careworn.

She glanced at her King and realized that he, too, bore signs of strain. She knew she would get neither of them to leave this place until they had word of Faramir's condition; but the least she could do was make sure they ate. It was getting on in the evening.

She started to call for a page, but the door opened behind her and she turned instead. Calas stood in the doorway, wreathed in his dignity though he seemed exhausted. "The splinter has been removed," he said softly, his voice also showing his weariness. "About the use of the arm, I have no news as yet. If it heals cleanly, and he strengthens it properly, perhaps he may regain the full use of it. I cannot yet say. There was much damage done to the joint. It is just too soon to say."

Aragorn nodded and Boromir stepped forward. "May I see him?" he asked softly.

"Nay, he still sleeps from the sedative. Perhaps tomorrow. It is not so far away, my lord." Calas gave them a weary bow and departed, his step heavy, to return to his patient.

Aragorn gave Boromir a clasp on the shoulder for support. "Your brother is strong, my friend," he said firmly. "He will weather this, as he has weathered every threat to him thus far. Have faith."

Boromir bowed his head in acknowledgement of his King's words and watched as Aragorn strode away, presumably to a late dinner and perhaps some rest. He stood there, still and silent, his eyes on the door beyond which his brother rested, deep in the throes of the bittersweet herb that had been used to allow him to sleep. His green eyes were haunted with his fear for Faramir.

Tanathel again laid a gentle hand on his arm, turning him to face her, her own face reflecting her concern. Not just for Faramir, but for the man who stood before her. They were so close, the brothers; what one felt, the other invariably also experienced. She did not understand that depth of feeling for another, but she accepted it. An only child, Tanathel had not been close to any save her parents; and not as close to them as she might have liked. "You must rest, also," she said softly as she began to draw him away from this place of misery. "You have not changed, you have not eaten… if you become ill, how will that help Faramir?" She kept her voice soothing, knowing that he was feeling lost and frightened; not emotions she would normally associate with the bear of a man at her side.

She guided him along the corridor, offering him a nudge of encouragement when he faltered and supporting him as his own weariness began to show. Finally she got him into his quarters and settled him on the edge of the bed to undo the fastenings on his armor.

Boromir's hands came down atop hers as she undid the first catch and she looked up at him, startled. "I can manage. Send Corvin down for food, if you would. I know he's lurking about somewhere." He gave her a slight smile. "He's never far from you when you are in the City. He adores you."

"I certainly don't know why," she stated as she stepped back from him. He was getting himself under control; that was an excellent sign. On the other hand, Boromir in control of himself was a daunting prospect. It meant she had to be prepared to talk about what had happened on the border. "I work him hard. And not half as hard as I'll work him once he gets a little more growth on him. He wants to be an archer."

"And so he shall. He has the dedication for it." This was not at all the discussion he had meant to have with her, but perhaps it was better this way. His mind was more than occupied with his brother's condition; Faramir would be devastated if he lost the use of the arm. No, he must face this. She deserved no less. "Food first. Then we must talk, you and I, and not of your would-be archer." A small smile gave softness to the stern words.

Tanathel turned away and did as requested, a flush creeping over her cheeks. Boromir had been correct; she caught Corvin just mounting the steps and sent him for whatever was still in the pot from supper. Then, when he returned with a heavily laden tray, she dismissed him, grateful for the additional time to get her wayward expression under control. It wouldn't do to let Boromir see her discomfiture. She hoped he had had enough time to get himself composed as well.

Boromir had cleared a space on one of the map tables and she set the tray down, grateful to let the weight rest on something other than her own hands. She wondered how Corvin had managed it by himself; there was a lot of food there. He would make a fine archer with that kind of strength in him.

Tanathel had managed to remove her own armor in the corridor. It had been a trial, but she was used to doing for herself, and the beastly stuff was beginning to make her very bones ache. Not that she would ever complain, but it was a relief to have it off. Just the same, the look she caught in Boromir's eyes made her wish she had waited. The extra protection would have been welcome.

She had seen that look before, of course, but never directed at her. Not even the men she worked closely with had been so aware of her as a female. There had been the occasional embarrassing moment, but she had never seen such an expression of… not desire, perhaps, but close. She fought to still the sudden tremble in her fingers and they observed the Standing Silence, then sat down opposite each other and began to eat.

They chatted amiably over the meal, not really discussing anything in particular but comfortable in each other's company, a feat Tanathel had been certain would never happen again, at least not until she had a few tankards of ale in her first. Then Boromir moved back and rose, gesturing for her to follow him out to the balcony. She took up a position next to him at the railing, looking out over the White City. Below them, lights twinkled invitingly, giving the landscape a welcoming air.

Boromir shifted, leaning forward slightly to rest his arms along the balustrade, watching her from the corner of his eye. She seemed in awe of the view and he reminded himself firmly that she probably had never seen the City from this height, unless she had seen it from Aragorn's balcony. No, the angle would have been wrong, he decided as he strangled a totally unjustified burst of jealousy at the thought. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he murmured.

Gods above and below, she was as beautiful to him as his City, long the only love in his heart. Her hair shone in the starlight, though he knew it had been confined under her helm most of the day. It hung in its usual braid, smooth and glossy to just below her waist. Unthinking, he reached out to touch one dark curl that had escaped, twisting it idly in his fingers as she turned to him in surprise. Her eyes, normally so dark, seemed almost black to him in the twilight, the corners slightly up-tilted and giving her an exotic air. He drew himself in abruptly and stepped back, fighting for composure. "Forgive me, Tanathel, I did not mean ---"

"No forgiveness is necessary," she replied, her own voice soft and steady. "Unless you regret it." The words were spoken before she could censor them. Good enough; this needed to be dealt with, for good and all. What had flared between them at the border was still there, unresolved and unquiet. If left unresolved, it could get either of them killed. Or both. And she knew he also understood the risks; he was a consummate tactician, an excellent commander; yes, he knew the risks.

"Regret? No, no regrets." He brushed her cheek with his fingertips and she closed her eyes against the caress. "I am not a man of words, Tana," he said softly as he drew her forward. "No doubt another man would give you poetry, send love letters; and if that is what you wish, then I will try."

"No other man could give me those things, because I would not accept them," she said firmly as she rested a hand on his chest. "I've no need for poetry or love letters. Fancy words, flowery phrases, they say nothing of value and mean even less. Simple words spoken from the heart would mean more to me than all the poetry in Arda. And words spoken from your heart would be dearer than all the treasure ever found." She kissed him lightly on the cheek, wondering at her new-found courage.

He held her close to him, drinking in her nearness, feeling a sudden wave of tenderness overtake him such as he had never experienced. This woman had touched him in ways he had never imagined possible, ways he had sworn would be forever beyond him. He had never looked for more than the occasional companionship of the tavern wenches, more than content to give his heart to his City and never ask for more. Tanathel had changed all of that.

No longer was he content to serve Gondor and return to an empty set of rooms. No, he wanted her with him always. He missed her acutely when she wasn't with him, admired her quick wit, her determination, her strength, her loyalty, her beauty… all the things that made her unique. And yet, those very traits would make for some rough moments. He mustn't coddle her or try to protect her; she was a strong woman. And duty would ever command them both.

Gently he tipped her face to his and kissed her soundly, holding her tightly to him and feeling the ragged edges of his restraint fray even further. Reluctantly he set her back a pace. "We must do this properly," he murmured. "I would not have it said that you were rushed or forced into marriage. I warn you, though," with a grin twisting his lips, "I intend to be most thorough in my courtship." He sighed heavily. "There are things I must attend to on the morrow, as soon as I have seen Faramir. I must go to Fornon, in Lossarnach." His promise to Aron was foremost in his mind.

Tanathel nodded, though she missed the closeness they seemed to have found. He was resolutely putting himself back into command persona, she could see it clearly, and wondered at the change. She would not ask; it was for him to explain or not, as he chose. "And I have duties as well. Safe journey, my heart," she whispered as she pressed another kiss to his lips, and like a quicksilver flame, she was gone to her own rest.