A/N: It belongs to Tolkien. Enough said. I'll be editing previous chapters as I can, but it may be a long time coming. I'm not ignoring the advice I get; I just have lots of places to improve. I know it's a Sue, but I've promised myself that I'm not going to be the typical Suethor. You want someone to bite back at you for criticism, go lure trolls onto Deleterius. I appreciate snark.

The ride to Helm's Deep had not been easy. Families with small children in tow forced their pace to a crawl, and more than one civilian had fought bitterly to keep some heavy, treasured heirloom upon his person, even though this only slowed the caravan further. After the run that taken them what felt like half the country in a matter of days, this snail's pace was worryingly slow to Aragorn and his companions. Still, the family groups and necessity of keeping the little ones' spirits up gave the journey almost a holiday air, if one could ignore the guards that rode in and out of the group, and the old swords and pikes that made up the majority of the "treasured heirlooms" making their way to the fortress.

Gimli told stories of his father's adventures as a pair of redheaded children gasped in encouragement. It was probably just as well that Legolas had ridden ahead to scout, leaving the dwarf to walk alongside the carts for the hour. The elf would likely be outrageously embarrassed by the dwarf's anecdote concerning how much certain Mirkwood prison guards had drunk, allowing the heroes of the tale to escape. The mother of Gimli's intended audience was not the only one who looked thankfully upon the impromptu storyteller; Lady Eowyn seemed nearly as entranced by the tale as the children.

"Forced to escape from elves? I've heard stories about the witch in the wood, but surely they cannot all be terrible, if you travel with one," she spoke wonderingly to Aragorn. There was a questioning, shyly curious look to her eyes, but the ranger did not think it had to do entirely with the subject of race relations.

"Don't let his stories fool you. I've seen few friends more loyal to one another than Gimli and Legolas, and the dwarves have more to quarrel about with the Firstborn than we ever did. And a wise man would watch his tongue concerning Lady Galadriel about Gimli. He may well let you get away with such things, but I've seen him challenge a pack of armed men for some imagined insult to her honor." Strider held his mount to a steady pace as the blonde woman brought her horse closer to his, but part of him longed to ride out faster now.

She smiled, looking back towards the dwarf and his questioning audience. "So what are your feelings on elves, my lord?" Eowyn asked.

"I was raised by them," he admitted, looking down into his horse's mane. Strider fiddled with an unseen item in his pocket. "After my father died, my mother brought me to Rivendell, where Elrond and his sons took me in and taught me my history. I owe much to them, and to Master Legolas, who took me hunting sometimes as a child."

Eowyn rose in her saddle, peering out towards where Legolas had gone scouting. "Amazing how they never show their age."

"Eighty-seven years and I've seen little change in him," Aragorn agreed, nodding in the elf's direction. His riding companion looked impressed.

"Eighty-seven? Why, here is another one who does not show his age!" the lady smiled gently. Her eyes sparkled out here in the sunlight, giving her a much livelier look than she displayed in her uncle's court.

"Being a Dunedain ranger is not entirely without benefits," Strider said, continuing to look outwards. He ought to keep his mind on the road, watching for threats and slow-moving travelers.

"A Numenorean heritage is something that any man could take pride in," Eowyn said firmly. "I wouldn't mind finding a Numenorean husband, myself."

Aragorn finally composed himself, looking into her eyes. "He will be a lucky man." The ranger kicked his horse, riding off before she had the chance to respond. Eowyn looked taken aback. She glanced wonderingly towards an equally befuddled Gimli before riding after Aragorn with a determined expression.

"Have I offended you somehow, sir?" She trotted her mare slightly behind his gelding, unsure what to make of his sudden cold shoulder. He did not answer in words, but as Eowyn rode closer, she could see his hand tightening around some small, shining object. "I'm sorry, Lord Aragorn, I didn't realize…" She reached to touch his shoulder, though he continued to look away. "Who was she?" the blonde woman asked softly.

"An elf. I don't know if I'll ever see her again." Aragorn struggled to remaster his emotions. "I ought to go with the scouts. You'd best stay here and help Gimli with the stragglers."

Eowyn did her best not to fume as the strange man rode away. She had only been trying to make conversation, after all. There had been no need for him to run away from her or shoot orders at her. She hadn't meant any harm, but once again, she had somehow unthinkingly stepped outside the bounds of civility.

Eowyn hated her cage of social gentility. She could be more diplomatic than her brother had ever been, should the occasion require it, but the lady of Rohan resented her inability to speak her mind freely, as Eomer did. By custom, circumstance, and history, it was up to her to support her uncle's rule, which had been all too unsteady of late, while Eomer and Theodred defended the plains. Nevertheless, Eowyn did not lack a sword, even upon this journey. She thirsted for a chance to use it, to prove herself equal to the lessons her cousin and brother had taught her. Surely riding out against the enemy was a more fitting tribute to Theodred's memory than hiding in a cave with those made helpless by youth, age, or lack of training. Yet she must continue in this caravan, and "guard" the caverns of Helm's Deep, if she was to please her uncle. If only for him, Eowyn would do this.

But what was the story behind this strange dark traveler, she wondered to herself. The Rohirric woman could not deny that he had captured her attention. Men could be frustrating at times, and this one was no exception, but Aragorn had also shown her kindness during her uncle's council meetings. He had listened to her when she had volunteered to ride after her brother, and Eowyn had dared to hope that the ranger had taken her seriously. It was a rare man who did, of late, between the spell of weakness that Wormtongue had cast over her uncle, the necessity for the people – and soon, her kinsmen's lives, thanks to that snake of an advisor, - that Eomer and Theodred remain in the plains, and her own moments of helpless, debilitating fear of being left alone and useless at her uncle's side, unable to halt his sickness or save their country. If there were some way to raise this stranger's spirits, so that he might smile upon her again, the blonde woman would try to do it. It was an odd feeling, these days, to be respected. Eowyn never wanted it to stop.

Biting her tongue, Eowyn turned back to the caravan.

He was ready. Boromir could walk for nearly the whole day without feeling exhausted, and he had gathered his belongings, or what was left of them. Too much, like his sword, his horn, (he still had not found the other pieces of the bell, and was beginning to fear that they had been lost in the river,) and his mind, had been broken: scattered and recollected as best he could. Supplies, outside of what meat the Wargs had provided, were fairly low. Tasana had not had time to prepare much dried food for him. Still, he could ignore his cracked ribs and hunt and gather for himself, if need be. With a broken sword in orc-infested territory, he reminded himself unnecessarily. This plan of his was mad, but Boromir would not be content to sit in the wilds when so many needed him. Half-healed ribs aside, there were more important tasks he could be fulfilling right now than acting as a combination of nanny and chew toy for a bunch of puppies.

The biggest of the litter had crawled towards the opening yesterday, and Boromir had taken it as a sign that he, too, should be turning back to the light outside the den. He had picked the pup up and returned it to its mother before standing, but the little one had not taken to a teat, instead crawling after the man again as he started towards the mouth of the cave. When it did so again this morning, Mithilira had nosed the pup after him. "Name her, Boromir," the Warg had told him.

The captian-general picked up the little tagalong, carrying her outside. The pup blinked her half-blind eyes at the sudden rush of sunlight, and Boromir found himself doing the same. He raised the young wolf to eye level, considering her as she wrinkled her nose at the new scents. She was small enough that he could wrap his hands about her ribcage without too much trouble, but holding an active puppy this way began to strain his arms after a few minutes. Boromir wondered if he would still be strong enough to use his old sword, even if it had remained whole.

The Gondorian had never accounted himself a creative namer. The mare he had ridden to Rivendell had simply been called Wind for her fleetness of foot, and his favorite dog as a boy had been called Huan, which Faramir had informed him translated as "hound," besides being the name of the wolfhound of legends. He supposed he had picked up the trait from his father, as Boromir, son of Denethor, grandson of Ecthelion was not the first by that name in his line. His namesake's father had been a Denethor, as well, as the captain-general recalled. But the alpha female had granted him the honor of naming the pup, so he felt he ought to make it a good one. "Initiative," he muttered, having no idea of the elvish or Wargish alternatives. "You took it, and you gave it to me. I'll call you Hope, then. It's as good a name as any." He adjusted his grip so as to better control the young wolf's wrigglings.

"Ecstel." The Wargish, when sounded by Valenska, reminded him unconsciously of the elvish word from which it had been derived.

"No, that's one of Aragorn's names." Boromir shook his head. "Wouldn't want to curse her with that." He stroked the pup with a finger, which she snapped at playfully, wagging her tail when she caught the Gondorian's finger between her sharp little teeth. He grimaced, and the Warg pup sniffed at his strange expression, licking blood from his hand. "Though from the way you treat me, pup, one would think you want to be cursed."

The black female let her tongue loll in a smile, and the man raised an eyebrow as her tail started wagging uncontrolably. Valenska derived altogether too much good humor from these pups, Boromir decided.

"Paskta'ecsteli, then. Cursed Hope." It was not the voice of the yearling that replied to him.

"A fine name." If Boromir had had a tail, his would have been wagging, too.

The black wolf was in poor shape, and his gurney smelled of bloody, decaying bones. The smaller Warg accompanying him was dragging the homemade stretcher by means of a long strip of fur looped about his chest and tied to two long femurs. Gonaki could barely raise his head from the bed, but his elder daughter moved quickly to greet him and her brothers. Boromir left Valenska to her greetings, for he had his own to make.

Chev'yahna looked tired, half-beaten. Her clothes were covered in mud, ash, and blood, but little of it appeared to be her own. The scratches, cuts, and bite marks about her arms and legs were minimal, and her bruises were more yellowed than purple, though there was an unnerving ring of teeth marks at the base of her neck. Boromir was determined to check all of them. He was no healer, but the soldier at least knew when it was best to take some action concerning a wound. And in Boromir's opinion, any of Tasana's wounds were reason to worry.

The woodswoman took the pup, cradling it gently. "I missed you." He put his arms about her, running his fingers lightly over the circle of scars centered on her spine.

"I'm simply thankful to still be breathing," she said, resting her head against him and examining his own scars with her free hand.

"Is that all you're grateful for?" he asked. Boromir's thoughts wandered back to his gathered supplies. He would have to get more than he had originally planned if she was to accompany him back to Minas Tirith, but it would be a welcome chore.

"Hardly. Gonaki has made it this far, when we feared that he would not be breathing long enough to reach the den. The rest of us suffered minimal injuries, we know the threat we face to the southeast better, if not the numbers quite yet, and the new litter seems to be growing nicely." The woman scratched the puppy in her arms behind its oversized flopping ears. "You look well," she added shyly, as if it were an afterthought, though a not-quite-hidden smile suggested otherwise.

"I feel better than I did without you," Boromir acknowledged. The young Warg wriggled in the woman's arms, and the wounded alpha grumbled from his rough-hewn stretcher, calling them back to reality before things could progress any further.

"I need to find more herbs," Tasana said, handing the pup back to the warrior. "Give me time to get settled, and then I shall try to give you a more proper greeting, my lord." A thin, callused finger ran from the young she-wolf's back to Boromir's arm, and the healer leaned in to kiss her lover softly upon the nose. With that, Tasana was off, leaving as noiselessly as she had appeared.

"Well, little one," Boromir murmured to the puppy, "It seems we all have things we must prepare for." The Gondorian returned the Warg pup to the den, hardly even caring when she and her littermates attempted to gnaw on his fingers. He had supplies to pack, and other pleasures to look forward to, as well. Boromir was at last beginning to feel at home.

Glossary:

Ecstel: Hope

Paskta: to curse, cursed