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!

Chapter Twenty-Five

Tanathel woke to a subdued knock on her door. "Come," she called softly, mindful of the early hour. She sat up in her bed, running weary fingers through her unbound hair and squinting through the light of the lamp her visitor held.

She instantly came to her feet, adjusting her tunic hastily before kneeling quite properly. "Forgive me, Sire, I had not known…"

Aragorn drew her to her feet quickly as he snaked out one foot and kicked the door closed. "Not at all a proper visit, Captain, so you need not kneel," he said quietly, though the force of the words remained with her. "I know it is late, and that you have need of your rest, but I have a duty for you, one that I do not wish to become public knowledge."

Once more he seemed haggard and drawn, not at all the man who had greeted her on her awakening the day before. She was swiftly putting herself together, binding her hair, slipping her mail over her tunic, drawing on her boots; his urgency was conveying itself to her quite well without further speech. "What would you have of me, my lord?" she asked quietly as she faced him again.

The change in him went deeper than she had initially assessed; his face was drawn and pale, as though he battled with some inner demon, and his hair lay lank against his head with perspiration. And the Evenstar lay yet against his chest, but now the stone glittered with new life, and she felt herself gaping at it. She had thought the metal dull and tarnished with the passing of the Queen; what lay before her eyes now was the true splendor of the stone, such as she had never seen.

"Something dark lies within the Citadel, my friend," he replied quietly as he settled himself on her one chair. "I need your help to flush it out."

Tanathel nodded quickly, put on her guard by his words. "Of course, my lord, whatever you ask. But---"

"You wonder at the change in the Evenstar? It is all part of the same design, my friend, and I will tell you the whole of it before we begin." Aragorn paused as though collecting his thoughts. Then he began the tale, sparing himself nothing in the telling, giving her the accounts of his grief, his sleepless nights, his thoughts of suicide, and his belief that some outside force was attempting to drive him into madness or death. "But it is clear, whatever else may happen, that this adversary wields great power," he said softly as he passed a weary hand over his eyes. "Else Arwen would not have felt the need to aid me as she has."

"My lord," Tanathel began slowly, feeling her way cautiously. "I don't understand. How can the Queen be helping you now?" Caution was discarded quickly at the light in his eyes. She had to know if her King had indeed been driven mad by his grief.

Aragorn touched the Evenstar lightly and there was no mistaking the momentary brightening of its light. "Shades may linger when their need is great," he murmured.

Thoughts and memories began to crowd Tanathel's mind. The Army of the Dead. Boromir's miraculous return. Her knowledge, shared with Boromir, that something had gone wrong at the outpost before they were even a day's ride from the City. Faramir's visions. She dismissed her doubts firmly in the face of such evidence and returned her steady gaze to meet his. "What are your orders, Sire?"

Faramir was adrift in the darkness, the pain in his arm forgotten as he moved slowly toward some elusive destination. He recognized none of his surroundings; the darkness was total. Then light flared in the blackness and he turned toward it.

Again he regarded the image of his brother in state. This time, he saw more details, though it was still incomprehensible to him. The Haradrim had all but sworn a blood war against Boromir. Why now would they mourn his loss? Yet what seemed an endless tide of them flowed past the bier, each one leaving a token of affection, the pale desert flowers they favored. The floor was blanketed with them, the pale pink of the petals still fresh. And Boromir seemed older, not frail, but definitely past his prime. What was this telling him? That peace with the Haradrim was possible, and his brother would be the key? What was he to think of this?

A cool cloth was placed against his forehead and he woke abruptly, steadying when he realized Eowyn had come to tend him. She had been weeping and the vision was quickly pushed aside in favor of reassuring his wife. He raised his right hand to touch her cheek. "You mustn't weep, Wyn," he murmured, his voice thick from the drug. "I yet live, and the outlook is not so grim."

"Yet so close you came to death, and I would not have known until it was far too late," she whispered as she held his hand against her face, nuzzling it softly. "T'would seem my fate is to always remain behind while others risk their lives in our defense. Truly, I thought the messenger was bringing me news of your death." She regarded him seriously, the gravity of her words belied by her soft smile. "Do not distress me so again, husband, please." There was a brittle light in her eyes that he didn't care much for; it reminded him far too vividly of the despair she had been suffering when they first met.

He ached to hold her, and yet he was too weak to rise from his pallet. "I will promise to try, Eowyn, but ever duty will call me away. As it has you, on occasion." He kept his voice gentle, though he meant to also chide her slightly. "What of the children? Are they well?"

"Elboron is going to be the death of me, as you well know," Eowyn replied softly, laughter running through the words. "This time, he has brought home a puppy, although it promises to become one of the largest hounds I have ever seen! But unless you are there to make the final decision, there is no stopping him, and well you know it. And this time, I believe he had no choice; such a tender heart could not have withstood the agonies of the beast." Eowyn's face turned hard for a moment. "Justice has been served, however. The mongrel's former keeper has been turned out. I will have no one on our lands who will treat animals so cruelly."

Faramir, who had also been accused of a tender heart where animals were concerned, let a frown crease his brow for a moment. "What exactly ailed the animal, and who is now adrift and landless?" he asked sharply. "And the twins, what of them? What mischief have they been up to? I know you too well, Wyn, and when you start with Elboron, it is often to conceal some prank the girls have perpetrated." His eyes were dancing with suppressed mirth; neither one of them had been a very harsh taskmaster with any of the children. However, the mischief managed had been well within the bounds of common sense to this date, causing no harm to others or their property.

"Lian of Hellengate, and his lands now revert to your control, my lord," Eowyn stated flatly as she regarded him with some suspicion. "Are you certain you are not feverish? Let me see." She laid a hand against his forehead and he brushed it off impatiently with a small laugh.

"None of that, if you please," he shot back smoothly, her fingers now trapped within his own. "The truth, Eowyn, and right now. What have they done this time?"

Eowyn sighed. "I should know better than to try this with you," she said, appearing dejected. "Very well. In the order you requested: the hound, whom Elboron has named Quelmarth, by the way, was suffering greatly under his former master's care. He was underfed, so bony he appeared to have nothing to him but hide stretched over a too large set of bones, and had been whipped most brutally in the bargain. Many of the welts were infected by the time our son found him." She took a deep breath; the distress of the animal had clearly distressed her, as well. "He may yet live, however. Elboron has been devoted to his nursing of the brute. And I took Lian to task over it, and that was that. He stated he would rather live a free man than live where he could not discipline his hounds as he saw fit and left the Keep. No one has seen him since. And the twins have taken up war play in their spare time, though it's fists they fight with and I've taken care to keep the weapons blunted. They have decided they are to be Shieldmaidens like their mother. And they are actually quite good at fighting, neither of them will give an inch to the other until they are both so weary they can't stand. Stubborn, willful… I have no idea where they could possibly have come by those traits." She quirked an eyebrow in his direction.

Faramir chuckled softly, his mind conjuring the image of his little darlings engaged in battle. "At least they're doing no harm to others with their practice," he said firmly when he had regained control. "As for stubborn, I imagine they received a healthy dose of mulish behavior from the both of us." He would have added more, but his injury took that moment to remind him most forcefully of its existence and he drew a hissing breath between his teeth.

Eowyn immediately rose and motioned for a page, sending him for Calas. "Rest now, love, we will have you to rights soon," she crooned as she returned to Faramir and stroked his hair. "It will pass. Think of the girls and the little wooden swords I am certain you will want to give them."

"Not for a few years yet," Faramir gasped. Eowyn's hands were cool and soothing, but they couldn't ease the pain enough.

Calas settled next to him, examining the arm with practiced ease, lines of weariness creasing his face as he took in the swollen joint. "Some pain is to be expected, unfortunately," he said slowly. "I will prepare a potion for you to use when it is severe. The swelling should recede within a day or two, and then we will better be able to judge the extent of the damage."

Eowyn nodded her understanding, her hands still busy trying to soothe her husband's pain. She had some experience in healing, but nothing that would help her with this devastating wound. So she listened carefully to Calas' instructions and promised to summon him at the first sign of anything amiss and kept watch over Faramir as he drifted back into slumber, aided by the drug.

Boromir rode into Lossarnach just before midday, his heart heavy at the message he must give. Of all his duties as Captain-General, this was surely the one he disliked most, bearing tidings of the fallen to their families.

He had delegated others to carry the news of the dead to the families in the City, but this one, this one he would deliver personally. He had given his word to do so. Even so, he had not neglected to check upon his wounded brother; Faramir was still deep in the throes of his drugged sleep when Boromir had departed the City.

The arrival of the Captain-General had not gone unnoticed; people crowded in close, all wanting a chance to greet Boromir or perhaps simply touch his horse. Ohtar took the crowd in stride; the big warhorse was used to noise and commotion and would not harm anyone without a direct command from his rider.

Boromir inquired of the first person he could collar where he might find Fornon and was directed up to the smithy. With a smile and a wave for the gathered throng, he moved Ohtar out smartly, covering the distance quickly and swinging down, taking a moment to compose himself before entering the forge.

"Here, now, you shouldn't be in here, sir," a man's voice sounded from behind the anvil where he worked. "Such as you should come in through the shop. Teela'll be more'n happy to display our blades." He came out from behind the anvil, his leather apron well-used, though also well-kept, and his face seamed with his years. Strength still radiated from his frame, though, and a sense that he had weathered more than most. Boromir watched as comprehension flashed through his dark eyes and his face fell. "Like that, is it, my lord?" he said softly. "Well, come inside then. My Teela will fetch us something cool to drink."

Fornon led the way from his forge into their small dwelling, negligently waving Boromir to a seat in a comfortable armchair near the fire. "Been so long in the forge, I'm used to the heat. Keep that going even in the height of summer, now. But I'm sure you'll be glad of it today. Bit nippy still, though spring isn't that far off."

Boromir nodded his thanks as Teela moved forward from the back with cool water in spotlessly clean cups. His estimation of these people rose a notch; for though cleanliness was encouraged, it wasn't always widely practiced. He took an appreciative sip, needing the time to compose himself once more.

He took in the stricken look on Teela's face, the resignation on Fornon's, and decided he could wait no longer. No sense drawing out the agony of what they already suspected. "Your Aron fought bravely," he said slowly. "He helped hold the line with the archers against the mumakil. He was valiant, and held till the last. He was not afraid of death; only that you would not hear of his bravery. His last words to me were of you. I only wish I had more to offer you than words of comfort, and his possessions; he deserved so much more."

Teela smothered a sob with one hand and fled to the back of the small home, where she wept for her lost son. Boromir gave her credit that she attempted to keep her weeping quiet so the men could talk; but he ached to be the one to cause such pain. He turned his eyes to Fornon when the old man began to speak.

"Words are all you can offer when times are so unsettled, my lord. Rest easy; his death was neither unexpected nor unappreciated. He was always a brave lad; he used to defend the girls of our village from all comers. Ah, he was a handsome lad." He gave Boromir a direct gaze, his dark eyes clear, though they glistened with unshed tears. "He was a good son, he was, and I'm grateful to hear he carried that into his soldiering. Means he took his lessons to heart." He rose from his perch on the hearth and took Boromir's hand. "You're a good man, a good commander, my lord, to take time to bring us word personally. Aron always liked serving with you. I'm glad he was with you when it happened. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd best tend to my wife." He nodded and withdrew, leaving Boromir to find his way out. Not discourteous in the least, not to Boromir's mind; they must be nearly mad with grief.

Aron had been well-loved in this home, of that Boromir was certain. And he would be well and truly missed.

Suddenly he needed to see Tanathel, even more than he needed to see Faramir. He needed her closeness, needed her comfort after this harrowing day. His heart was bleeding, and only she could mend it. He waited only until they were a proper distance from the gates and kicked Ohtar into a run.