AN: Here, again, everything belongs to Tolkien. Before you send the hate mail, purists, although it's greatly appreciated, the queen's line is Alternate Universe only. I understand this.
An hour later Boromir had awakened Merry and gone back to his sleeping bag. Despite her earlier suggestive claims to endless stamina, Tasana had fallen asleep, curled up under the blankets, her hair strewn about her face. Boromir lied down next to the sleeping healer and she snuggled into his warm presence without waking. Boromir pulled her face even with his, kissing her softly. No, he decided, stroking a stray raven curl back from her face as she readjusted her position in her sleep to nuzzle in his warmth, it wouldn't be worth disturbing her innocent, angelic countenance, even to make love to her. Putting his arms around Tasana, Boromir slept more soundly than he had since the Black Tower had first disturbed his dreams. The next morning he was reluctant to leave the bed with their mingled scents.
There had been no further sign of orcs that night; the goblins had abandoned their camps during Boromir's watch and disappeared into the forest. An even more cryptic mystery concerning the orcs than to where they could have possibly disappeared to was hinted at by Legolas's collection in his quiver. The Mirkwood elf often collected arrows, broken and whole, to repair and add to his supply. "Those weren't normal orc arrows." The archer fingered a pair of points in his lap, one from last night and the other from Moria. "Look, the shaft's much thicker than everything I've ever seen used with anything but a Bardstown longbow. And you see how the point's wider on the new one?" The elf handed the arrows to Tasana, who nodded silently, then passed them to her brother. Boromir, who knew next to nothing about the more delicate aspects of fletching, had to assume the elven archer knew what he was talking about. The Steward's heir passed up the proffered arrows, knowing they would mean little to him. Aragorn shrugged, and handed the points to the dwarf instead. Gimli gave them a perfunctory glance, tested a point against his axe, and then tossed them back to Legolas, who caught the projectiles with an automatic grace.
"Then what was it shooting at us last night?" Gimli asked with disbelieving snort at the arrows.
"Orcs, certainly. But they weren't like any I've ever fought before in the South Woods. Did you notice the white marks they wore on their faces?" Tasana asked.
"I was busy noticing their arrows," Gimli responded sarcastically, giving the healer a light cuff on her injured arm. "Some of us could have done a better job to follow my example."
"Hand shaped, almost." Legolas answered Tasana softly in turn. "A different breed, perhaps?"
"A bigger, nastier breed of orcs," Gimli nodded solemnly. "Just what we needed."
"Let's get moving, then," Aragorn shook his head and rose from where he had been crouching in the small huddle to wake the hobbits and start repacking the boats. "We'll have to drag the boats through the forest today and we'll need every hand available. As soon as we get past the rapids, we'll row to the island of kings, Amon Hen. I can hardly wait to see this land of my ancestors." Aragorn added quietly to his sister.
"It's hardly on the way to Minas Tirth, but the men of Gondor do not quickly desert their companions. If you must insist upon continuing toward Mount Doom, Aragorn, I will accompany that far, at least. You will need every sword available there, as the woods are orc infested." Boromir warned. Aragorn nodded, his face grimly set. "Please, Tasana, at least you will surely return home with me? 'Tis not right, that you should have to face Mordor." The Steward's son kissed her gently, but she turned her face away.
"It's a difficult choice, Boromir. Do not rush me into a hasty decision, milord." Tasana returned to formality, knowing she would regret her choice either way, but not recognizing any way to answer without abandoning one of the men she loved to possible death, she could only wait and agonize over whether she would be more useful in Minas Tirth or at the Ring Bearer's side.
"I guess we'll separate at Amon Hen, then." There was a subtle hint of irony in Frodo's voice. The hobbit had come to a decision; one Tasana didn't like the smell of.
"Yes, I suppose we will," she said quietly, brooding over their possible paths and the words of a sorceress.
The portage path was extremely rocky and hilly, overgrown with weeds. Boromir and Strider were the only two able to manhandle their watercraft over the worst places in the old, unused trail. Tasana insisted upon carrying her brother's pack as he helped maneuver the boats through the woods. Determined to make good upon his claims of dwarven strength, Gimli hoisted Boromir's pack next to his own. Legolas took the trailblazing spot, attempting to tame the worst of the underbrush as the men hauled first one, then another, and then finally the last boat through the hilly lands toward the end of Sarn Gebir.
By the time they reached the old rocky landing point downstream, the group was thoroughly exhausted. It had been their second grueling day of portage, and if anything, this was worse than the first. "I don't think I could walk another step," Boromir said, collapsing next to the last boat. "But I'm sure our doughty dwarf would be able to accompany you the rest of the way to Mordor tonight, Strider. Isn't that right, Master Gimli?" He languidly reached over to grab his pack from where Gimli had halfheartedly thrown it at the Steward's son; it had landed a few feet short.
"Stow it, Boromir." The dwarf replied with a groan, too tired to make a comeback as he fell heavily against a tree.
"Best get on your feet then, gentlemen, if we're going to make it to the Black Tower and back by tomorrow." Legolas smiled, rubbing a scratch from the whipping young branches of a thorn tree on his sore left arm as he relaxed against a rocky outcropping.
"Fine, we'll camp here then," Aragorn gave in. "Let's keep two on watch tonight. There's no point in moving about at night with so many orcs around, anyway." Pippin and Strider took first watch.
Tasana wasn't quite ready to let her brother know how far her relationship with Boromir had progressed. Although the fact that they had slept together last night was probably common knowledge around the camp, given Legolas's sharp eyes and loose tongue, it was still a step further than Tasana was yet willing to go to freely admit this to Aragorn. Besides, she still hadn't made up her mind which way to go from Amon Hen, and she couldn't allow either man undue influence until she made her decision. She kissed Boromir and Strider goodnight, and then bedded down beneath one of the scrubby pines as the men shared a mystified look. Boromir's inquiring expression and Aragorn's helpless shrug decried the fickleness of a woman in love more thoroughly than any words.
The company spent a final day in the boats, rowing ever closer to Amon Hen. By early afternoon the forests had reclaimed the rocky shores as thoroughly as they had in Lothlorien, but these were not the ever-golden boughs of the elven wood. While still a long way north of Gondor, these trees extended in patchwork patterns of copses and clearings skirting the Plains of Rohan all the way to Tasana's beloved South Woods, prime hunting grounds as far as the eye could see. While Mithilira had accompanied the healer through the territories of other smaller wolf packs during the gypsy season, the Warg lady had been eager to return to her own lands in time for the spring pups. The wolves would still be in range to help the fellowship now, even if the Wargs had lost their winter wanderlust.
As the boats turned a bend in the river, Tasana became aware of a pair of figures that dwarfed the nearby trees. Two gigantic statues of men with a matching pair of swords in their left hands and a crown upon each armored helm, the figures held their free hands out as if to warn the tiny boats away. "Long have I desired to look upon the faces of my ancestors," Aragorn murmured, gently breaking the group's awed silence. "No friends of Elessar need fear under the shadows of Isildur and his father Elendil, the Kings of Gondor of old." He sat proudly in his boat; Tasana imagined her brother couldn't look more regal in robes of state on a throne. Boromir bowed his head as the shadows of the great statues touched the prow of his boat, silently saluting these heroes of Minas Tirith's direst hour. Sam and the younger two hobbits gaped in awe.
Tasana ducked her head, but before the group could be thoroughly humbled, a small, wry voice came from the middle of Legolas's boat. "Aye… tall, gray eyed, stubborn as a boulder… You're a chip right off the old block, Aragorn." She had pricked the ranger's royal bubble, but he simply leaned into his stroke and smiled good-naturedly.
"We have yet to divide into groups. Let's stop by Amon Hen to divvy up the luggage and finalize our courses." Strider peered toward the wooded isle jutting into the river. "I'd very much like to stand atop the lookout tower there before making any final decisions."
Tasana shook her short black tresses at her brother as she helped Legolas and Gimli bring their boat to shore. "You act like a country boy at his first market day. What's so interesting about this orc-infested place?" she asked in a harsh whisper, grabbing his shoulder.
"It's the northern border of Gondor." Aragorn responded. "Or so it was, back when our ancestors were ruling." He shrugged her off, but put his arm around her shoulder, pointing out a high, crumbling watchtower on the hill. "They say neither man nor beast has stood there since the fall of Isildur."
"There's probably a reason for that," Chev'yahna said cynically. "I've yet to meet an orc archer as good as Legolas, but they're fairly proficient." He nodded soberly as she drew him away from the rest of the group. "Not that I'm unhappy to be back on pack territory, Aragorn, but I'm only half wolf. You're Isildur's heir, the alpha's pup; you're the one they're going to put a collar on."
"A collar?" He snorted, gathering faggots of wood for a fire. Even while attending to his sister's concerns, Strider automatically looked after the group's needs.
Tasana appreciated his selflessness at a subliminal level; but she was fed up with her brother's unflagging sense of responsibility right now. Knocking the wood from his hands, she flared, "You think you'll be able to return to the forest whenever you wish when you are king? You think you'll be able to return at all? I was lucky enough to be vol [1], half-cur and entirely unwanted in court, without royal blood to get in my way."
"Without royal blood perhaps, little sister. But you have imperial blood, and that has bred truer than in most. Did you not know that our mother was the direct descendant of the Numenorean Empire?" Aragorn took her chin in one hand, bringing her glowering face to his. "If you are vol -" the Dunedain paused at the unfamiliar Wargish word. "- Then it is no shame to be such. And as Lady Galadriel said, so long as you are my sister, you are welcomed in court or the forest as you will."
"Many claim to be descendants of Numenor," Tasana murmured, lowering her eyes. She could not meet his face when his gray irises held that calculating look, at once expectant and at the same time beyond all hope of encouragement. She feared she would fail whatever test those eyes would give her; feared it not so much for not being able to measure up to that high standard on a personal level, but because her failure would destroy her brother's last hope. Raised apart, she had never had anything to give him. It was the very least she could do to allow Aragorn to cling to that as yet unvoiced hope by not failing his test, even if the only way to do so was to avoid taking it.
"Aye, but not all can claim a firstborn line to Tar-Miriel herself." Aragorn kissed her cheek, and she gave him a reluctant half-smile.
"Miriel, eh?" Tasana gave an uncaring shrug. "The one who abandoned the throne? There's a wonderful role model for your kingship."
The tall man chuckled, a ray of sunlight passing briefly over his dark and sober features. "Perhaps so. Miriel was not stubborn enough to handle the responsibility of ruling. It gives me hope that not all women in my family are mules."
She butted him playfully, breaking his grip on her chin. "Better a mule than a frightened mouse that must leave the haystack every time the lordly farmer comes for his share of the crop of wealth. And better a Warg than either, for she needs not the farmer and the city at all."
"Aye, but even the wolf must hunt for its family. With power comes responsibility. I accepted that a long time ago," Strider said more seriously. "You'd best accept that as well. If we don't come back from Mordor, you're my heir, Tasana."
"You'll come back," she said fiercely, gripping his arm. "You have to come back."
"We've been extremely lucky so far, Tasana. But you must return to Minas Tirith. The worst is yet to come." He could not coddle her. Surely the children of Gondor knew the dangers of Mordor, probably knew them more thoroughly than any Dunedain clan. Tasana had been born and raised to fight the Black Tower, and she held few illusions of the improbability of returning from Mount Doom alive. Aragorn knew he would have to dispel any remaining fancies his sister held, and for a moment the reality of his own mortality almost overwhelmed him. Not until he stood with his sister in this land of his ancestors, cut off from the rest of his friends by a small patch of forest that suddenly seemed intolerably thick and overgrown, had Strider faced the reality that he probably would die on this quest, ending the last direct father-to-son lineage to Isildur.
Or so his death would have, if he hadn't discovered Tasana. Certainly, she was a woman and had only an indirect relationship to the old ruling house of Gondor, but given time and experience, Chev'yahna would make a just monarch, sympathetic to the needs of her people. She was impetuous and stubborn, and perhaps too emotional for her own good, but with age would come serenity and judgment.
Besides, Strider knew Boromir would remain loyal to her, come what may. For a moment Aragorn saw her as he imagined, a proud young queen, beloved by her people. And very beautiful beneath her scruffy hunter's garb as well, Strider noted. Boromir would have quite a time fighting off fellow suitors. If this queen was to be his legacy, Aragorn expected he could die leaving a much worse impression on his world.
"So I'll come with you." These thoughts had flashed through Aragorn's mind in a matter of seconds, but Tasana had caught the emotions his face briefly betrayed. Proud and stubborn as a mule, and more empathetic than any mother Strider had ever known. Whatever happened to them, Aragorn doubted these things would ever change in his sister.
"I doubt Boromir would appreciate that," he chided her gently with a small, tearful half-smile. "Besides, someone's got to keep him out of trouble."
"We'll bring him along, then. Someone's got to keep you out of trouble as well." Tasana gave him a playful push to stop him from seeing the tears in her own eyes. "In any case, even Boromir admits there is very little we can do for Gondor until the Ring is neutralized."
Strider gave up the argument, knowing he would get no other answer from his sister right now. "Why don't you go hunt something, Chev'yahna? You're too nervous to be much of a help around camp. We could all use a hot meal for once, anyway."
"You're avoiding the subject, Aragorn. How does a ranger become a king?" she asked, her voice breaking in anger, sorrow, and frustration.
"How did a merchant's daughter become a woods-woman?" He asked her in turn, an odd light in his eyes. If only we knew the answers to those, Tasana. And more importantly, how does she become a queen? "Now go get some meat, Tasana; venison would be good, if you can find any deer." The Dunedain tossed his sister a quiver, waving her off. Both would have questions to ponder over dinner.
1. Vol-Wargish for "wanderer," a wolf without a pack.