"Boromir."

He moved to his brother's side, taking his warm hand. "I must go back to the battle. Ioreth will tend you."

Faramir nodded, his eyes clear again as he looked up at Boromir. "Your halfling. I met him for a moment out there. He is hurt. He saved me from being killed."

"Merry?" Boromir's voice was small suddenly. "But the guards of the king told me he had not come." A wrenching seized his gut.

"If not him than it was one I've not heard mention of yet. But he called me by your name."

Boromir let go his brother's hand. "I must go."

Faramir nodded.

The field outside was hectic. The delight of victory was thrumming through the city, but there were battles going on still as the stragglers who had not fled were dealt with. Men cheered and men died, and through it all Boromir strode. He had fought with his men at the start of the battle, before chaos and questions led him to seek his father. Now his men rallied at the sight of him, striding through the battle, and cheered even as they fought.

He saw enemies lying where he had left them, beside the broken gate to the first level. He saw men he had lost. He burned with the odd, heated adrenaline of war, while knowing his part wasn't ended. He saw Gandalf on the field, his horse gleaming white. Beside him was a small figure with curly brown hair. He jogged towards them, and three orcs met their end as he passed. The sounds of battle were dying as even the remaining enemies were surrounded and killed.

"Gandalf!" He called as he approached the rider and the hobbit. He could tell it wasn't Merry - Pip was slighter and smaller and carried himself far differently - even at a distance. "Gandalf! We have need of you in the city."

Shadowfax reared and Gandalf turned to him.

Boromir jogged to the horse. "The steward has lost his wits. I left him shouting about our dooms. I don't know what the men will find."

Gandalf looked wild-eyed, but Boromir had seen that look and felt that way many a time himself. Battle infected all men, from least to greatest. "I will go to him. Peregrin Took, will you be safe enough here?"

Pippin nodded unsteadily. "It seems to be over."

"Watch him," Gandalf instructed Boromir, who nodded before he could think about being offended by the order. Watching hobbits was becoming more a habit than a chore.

As Gandalf spurred Shadowfax towards the city, Boromir stooped, serious. "Merry is here."

Pippin gasped, going pale instantly. "Here? Where?"

"I don't know. Faramir has seen him. He's out here..." He trailed off, looking out at the great expanse of the Pellenor fields, the heaps of dead and dying, the wounded man staggering in search of aid. The skirmishes still being fought.

He swallowed.

Pippin nearly stumbled. "He's out here?" His voice was tiny. "Boromir! We have to find him!"

And they set out, Boromir calling to men he knew in question and always receiving a shaken head. There were too many large forms on the ground. If Merry were hurt he would be easily overlooked. If he wasn't hurt...then where was he?

His mind left Pippin and he stopped keeping track of the young hobbit. He would be fine, dressed in the livery of the tower and on a field of a victory. Boromir was concerned with other matters.

And as the minutes ticked by and the field stretched immeasurably wide before him, he grew more frantic. Faramir had said he was wounded. How badly? Dead? Dying? He swallowed down his fears and moved faster, scanning piles of bodies, men he had known who for the moment he didn't think twice about. Foul orcs covered in black blood were nothing but an obstacle, one more thing that might be coming between him and his Merry.

He heard someone call him but he didn't slow down. A horn sounded near the city walls but he couldn't stop, couldn't look back. Somewhere in this chaos was a small, hurt hobbit. His Merry. His.

"Boromir!" The little gasp, horrified, managed to draw his attention where nothing else could.

He turned and found that Pippin had managed to stay near. He was standing shadowed in the collapsed bulk of a fallen mumakil, and he was bending over something. Picking it up.

A cloak. Grey. Elven. Small as Pippin's own.

Boromir moved forward, his confident stride becoming an uncertain stumble. The cloak was lying right beside the fallen beast, and it was stained with blood. Black blood mostly, but some deep red.

Pippin was clutching the thing in his hands, his eyes on the bulk of the enormous skinned-skinned mumakil. "Boromir..."

He shook his head instantly. "He's not there. He's not under there."

Pippin looked at him with dim hope. "How do you know that?"

"Because he can't be. Now keep looking!" Boromir forced himself to turn, to move on past the great beast. If Pippin followed or not he couldn't be sure, but he moved all the same on a driven path.

And then, what might have been minutes or a couple of hours later, he stumbled over the removed head of a helmeted man, and he saw a furry foot sticking out from under the headless body. He drew in a breath, rough and gasping, and was there in an instant. He shoved the dead weight of the body off, and he hit his knees on the blood--saturated ground.

"Merry." His voice was pinched. "Merry?"

There he lay, his arm twisted oddly beside him, his sword nowhere in sight. Blood covered him, but blood from the body that fell on him or his own Boromir couldn't tell.

Only this could he tell - Merry's face was as gray and lifeless as the head he had stumbled on, and his arm, when Boromir touched it, was cold and dead.

"No. " Boromir drew in a breath, grasping first for Merry's hand and then for his arm. Cold. Limp. Dead. "No!"

Pippin must have fallen behind, because for a long moment he was there alone, no others paying him any heed. For a long time he just stared in horror at the pale face and rounded cheeks he had grown so fond of. His hand rose without his willing it, and touched a gray cheek. Cool. Lifeless. Dead.

He bent over the still form, his mind blank, and for a moment he was entirely unsure of what to do. Victory on the fields was now a distant memory in he back of his mind. The madness of his father, the arrival of the new king, Faramir being wounded...it was all a background hum. The only thing his mind showed him clearly was a memory of Merry's face as he rode away from the rubble in front of Orthanc. They hadn't had time to talk, he thought to himself suddenly.

It repeated itself in his mind, stark and lost in the great empty cavern his mind had suddenly become. They hadn't had time to talk. They didn't have time to do anything. All the things he'd thought of since they parted, and al the things he'd figured out. Not to mention the things he couldn't figure out and knew he wouldn't until he talked to Merry again.

It was all gone. No chances now. Too late. Done. A casualty of war.

He shook his head, unable to slow down his jumbled thoughts. He found his hands clenched in the stiff fabric of the livery of Rohan, and his vision was so blurred that the white horse seemed a splash of gray, like a light-colored stain of blood on the already saturated clothing.

His fists loosened at his bidding, and though his thoughts stayed jumbled and confused he managed to hold on to the sudden fierce thought that Merry should not be left on the field for even another minute.

His hands slid beneath the slight form, and with a low groan that had nothing to do with physical effort he lifted Merry and pulled him close to his chest. The weight was almost nothing to a man used to far heavier loads, but he felt bent under the strain. He stumbled forward a step, thoughtless, then turned towards around to look across the wide field at the smoking city. His vision was still failing him, still blurred and unfocused, but he moved a step, and then another.

A small sound near him caught his focus, and he stumbled to a stop as Pip ran up, his face white and horrified under the mop of brown curls so like the limp head cradled on Boromir's chest. "Merry!"

Boromir blinked at the hobbit, opened his mouth, and formed the words with his lips. Dead. He's dead. I think he's dead. But nothing like that would come out. Nothing would admit to being real.

But Merry's limps hung limp from Boromir's arms, and Pippin took hold of the hand that fell near to his face, and he felt the ice-cold arm. His face collapsed, wide eyes crinkling under the force of sudden wetness that condensed there and fell down his cheeks. "Merry! No! Merry!"

Boromir took a step to pass him, to take his precious burden to the houses of healing, or to whatever place of honor they would be putting Theoden. But he stumbled, some unseen helmet or armor under his feet sending him off balance. He fell to his knees, but Merry was clutched gently to him even then, and he sat back on his heels and buried his face against limp brown curls. A shudder ran through him, and another, and he shook.

"Boromir?" Pip sounded scared, somewhere. But he was outside the world of Merry, and so Boromir paid little mind.

Soft hair brushed his mouth, and he pressed a kiss to the cool skin beneath. He was shaking so hard it almost felt as if Merry was stirring. A cruelly false hope.

"--get Gandalf!" he heard somewhere out beyond him. He paid no mind.

He had no idea why he's chosen to feel so strongly towards one of the strange race of hobbits. Only that Merry spoke to him gently and cared for him so obviously, and the sight of that little halfling drove evil from Boromir's mind and replaced it with a simple happiness.

He knew now that they would all die in this war, just as his father had guessed.

No. Not Faramir. Faramir ought to live. But Denethor would be better off dead now, and Boromir knew he would join him soon. Let the gods bring more battles to Pellenor fields, or else send him news of where one could be found. Some impossible battle, where he would die fast and hard but his name might live on after.

"Here now."

The voice invaded his mind with a sharp clarity nothing else had had since he saw his Merry lying so still and cold. He looked up, his vision blurred but focusing on the white form that stood above him.

Gandalf's face was pale, gentle, and sad. He looked to Boromir, then to Merry. A withered hand lay flat against Merry's forehead, and the wizard went more grave. He whispered something under his breath, and then brought his hand to Boromir's shoulder. "Now, my lad, let's get him inside."

Boromir found himself standing again. His attention went back to Merry, to gray skin and colorless lips and eyes that would never open again.

"Hurry, Boromir. To help, bring him in."

Help? Boromir moved where Gandalf led, though he didn't understand. "Help?" he said finally, and his voice was old and worn as if years had passed since he last spoke.

"Merry is living yet."

Boromir stumbled, only a little, and looked down instantly at Merry's face again. Beside him Pippin was jogging to keep up with the long strides of the men, and he reached out at that and clasped a cold hand.

Boromir didn't understand, but where wizards were concerned he rarely understood. Gandalf said hurry, and help, and living, and he followed because under his despair some hope must have remained still.

The houses of healing were overcrowded and burdened with the running around of those helping the healers, of the less injured trying to make room as more and more grave wounds came in from the battles. Gandalf strode through the hectic mass without breaking stride, and Boromir followed. Men saw him and spoke to him, but he moved through without hearing a word.

In the darkened back rooms of the houses, where Boromir himself had lay and Faramir had been placed, there were private rooms. Into one of these rooms strode Gandalf, and Boromir followed. He moved around the wizard when Gandalf stopped, and he lay Merry onto the empty bed. He felt the loss of having Merry close, and for a moment he hovered there. Gandalf took his arm and guided him back, though, and he moved without taking his eyes from Merry.

Pippin came in behind them, breathless and wide-eyed. "Gandalf. Is he really alive?"

Boromir was glad the hobbit asked, because he was in no position to form sentences, yet Merry looked so gray and lifeless that he felt the question in his own mind.

Gandalf murmured some word of comfort, but when he moved to the bedside his face was drawn. "He had been touched by the Black Breath. The lady Eowyn lies under this same spell, as do more from the fields. He received this hurt while striking a blow that few in Middle Earth would have had courage enough to deal out. This little halfling and the lady of Rohan slew the King of the Nazgul."

Boromir drew in a sharp breath, and he looked at Merry with new wonder. He had known his hobbit was brave, but that was a feat he wasn't sure even he could have suffered through.

Gandalf sighed. "He should have been borne back on shields by soldiers of the king, in honor and glory. But the son of Denethor is perhaps a good enough substitute."

"But what can be done for him? Will he get better?"

Gandalf turned back to Pippin and smiled, sad but kind. "I believe there is a way. Aragorn is coming this very moment to the houses of healing, and if they can be saved than he will be their savior." He turned to Boromir suddenly. "This isn't the time to hand you more troubles, I'm sure, but in this hour the city needs its leader."

Boromir nodded stiffly. "And I am its leader."

Gandalf nodded. "I'm sorry."

Boromir looked away from Merry for the first time. "Better he be dead than show himself to our people as mad."

Gandalf made a sound of agreement. "If you'll excuse me, Aragorn should be arriving. Boromir, as Steward it is your place to show him he has not offended by entering this city without leave."

Boromir grimaced. He moved to the bed and leaned to brush his fingers over a cool arm. His eyes went bleakly to Pippin. "Look after him."

Pippin nodded. "Of course. Tell Aragorn to hurry, please. I know there are more important people to be helped, but..."

"He will help." Boromir spoke grimly and followed Gandalf from the room.

Now when his people spoke to him he managed to smile, to ask after them, to check the healers to be sure supplies were adequate. Steward, he thought to himself dully. Leader. It wasn't a thing he particularly felt as if he wanted, especially not right then.

Aragorn moved in, unkempt and haggard in bloodstained rangers clothing. He looked like the Ranger who had first come to Rivendell and introduced himself so gravely to Boromir. Strider, he remembered. That was the name he gave.

Aragorn saw him and moved to his side, looking tired but solemn. "You have my apologies, my lord," he said softly.

Boromir met his eyes, steady. "You will rule this land when the time comes to decree it. For now it is at least yours to move about in as you please."

"Thank you," Aragorn said, and Boromir could see he meant it. He must have had a reservation still about Boromir's pride.

"There is work to be done."

Boromir stopped into the room where Faramir was lying. "Brother."

Faramir was awake, and his color was good. There was a bandage across his stomach, and Boromir felt his hand going to his side in sympathy as his now old wound ached.

Faramir saw the motion and smiled. "It was a sword stroke, and luckily it was deep but not deep enough. I will be mended easily." He studied Boromir's face. "And not the worst hurt to come today."

"No." The word was almost a whisper, and Boromir cleared his throat. "Father is dead."

Faramir nodded. "I knew it would not be long. He changed while you were gone. It is better, in the end."

"Yes."

"Your halfling?"

Boromir looked to the door. "I will go find out. He...seems bad."

Faramir smiled. "Don't waste time on me, then," he said quickly. "There's work for a Steward to do."

Boromir frowned but went to the door. Pausing, he glanced back. "Faramir..."

"Don't make up your mind just yet. There is no time for it now anyway."

Boromir still wondered at times how his brother managed to read his mind so well. He moved through the door and to the next room, and found Gandalf and Aragorn standing over the bed of the Lady Eowyn.

He moved in behind them, quiet. He had never seen her before, though he fought beside her brother. She was beautiful, and had the same dead grayness to her face that Merry had. He let himself take a little hope at that - if this was some infection that others had, perhaps it could be cured.

Aragorn held dried leaves in his hand, and he spoke softly, but Eomer, standing in the corner of the room and looking lost, caught Boromir's attention. Boromir felt a sudden wistful irony - Eomer was now lord of his own land. Another ruler without royal blood, another soldier who was better on the field than in a chamber.

There were interesting times ahead, if the war didn't take them all.

Eomer perked up suddenly, and moved in a stride to the bed. "Eowyn?"

Boromir looked over, and breathed in. The gray was gone from her face, and she looked to be stirring in her sleep.

"Speak to her, Eomer. She loves you more than me."

Boromir caught the words but didn't pay them heed. He had to get this help to Merry, lest he be overlooked in the chaos.

Eowyn's eyes opened, and Boromir moved in to take Aragorn's arm. "Please. There are more."

Aragorn nodded gravely. He moved away and left the brother and sister to each other. Gandalf didn't follow right away.

"Merry is hurt with this curse, whatever it is. Will you go to him?" Boromir asked it fearing to be rejected. As Pippin said, there were men there who might be called more important.

But Aragorn nodded instantly, moving where Boromir led.

In the room Pippin sat on the bed, holding Merry's hand on his and stroking his face and hair, talking softly. He stopped when he saw them come in, and his eyes were sad on Aragorn's. "Is he going to die?"

"No. No." Aragorn moved to the bed, carrying the crushed leaves and a bowl of steaming water. He managed a small smile at Pippin, but took in Merry with grimness. "He is buried under the weight of the black breath. He helped to slay a beast so dark that it can even kill by its own dying. But he will not die."

He crushed a dried leaf into the water, and dipped a rag into it.

Boromir watched them, hardly daring to breathe. It seemed if anything Merry had gotten worse, and fallen deeper into stillness.

Aragorn's hand soothed the cool face, and he spoke softly to him. Boromir caught the words this time, perhaps because his focus was intense.

"Merry. Merry. Come back to us. Your enemy is slain."

Merry didn't stir. The white sheen to his face stayed, clammy and dull and lifeless.

Aragorn frowned. "Merry. " He looked to Pippin suddenly. "Call to him. He needs to hear the voice of one he loves."

Pippin leaned in, clutching Merry's hand tightly. "Merry. Please, Merry wake up. It's all over now, there's no reason to be lazy. The work's all been done. There'll be supper soon. Merry?"

Merry's face seemed to regain some color. A light blush came into the cheeks, but he lay unmoving.

Aragorn frowned. He turned to Gandalf. "It is nothing but that curse on him?"

"Nothing that I know of." Gandalf glanced at Boromir.

Boromir didn't notice, looking at Merry's face in fear.

"There is no reason for a light heart like his to fall so deeply under the influence of the darkness. Unless he wanted to fall so."

Pippin heard that and looked up, tears in his eyes. "No! Merry is strong! He may be just a hobbit but he's strong!" He looked past them to where Boromir stood. "Help! You can bring him back!"

Boromir moved instantly, brushing past Aragorn and Gandalf. He sat hesitantly on the edge of the bed, and his hand went to Merry's face. Warmer, but not warm. He breathed in, and ignored the people around them, and spoke.

"Merry. Come back to me." He stroked the rounded cheek with a hand that looked large and ungainly beside the hobbit. "Merry...it's alright. it's safe. Wake up."

Merry stirred, and his face flushed all over with a sheen like fever. His head tossed, his brow furrowed.

Pip kept hold of his hand. "Please, Merry!"

Merry's face turned towards him, as if listening.

Boromir's fingers brushed up and down his cheek, feeling the warmth returning. His voice was thick in his throat as he spoke. "Merry, we need you here. Come back to us."

His mouth moved, forming a name that didn't get voiced, and his eyes opened suddenly.

Pippin sobbed out a joyful noise. "Merry!" He kissed his cousin's hand.

Merry blinked, his brow furrowed, but managed a smile. "What happened?" His voice was soft.

Boromir felt a tightness in his throat, and he spoke unevenly. "You went to sleep."

Merry's eyes went to him, and he breathed in deeply. "Boromir."

Seeing his confusion, Boromir cleared his throat and spoke. "You saved my brother's life, Merry. I owe you yet again."

"Your..." Merry's eyes widened as he remembered. He sat up slowly and with much help from the two sitting on his bed. "Faramir?"

Boromir nodded, smiling uncontrollably. Merry was looking at him, was confused. Was alive.

"You gave us a scare," Gandalf said from behind him, and Merry looked past them at the others in the room.

"Gandalf! Strider!" He broke into a smile. "You made it! Theoden was worried about you, Aragorn." His smile vanished, but he looked hopeful. "Is Theoden...did I dream it like I dreamed Boromir? Is he alright?"

"Theoden is dead," Gandalf replied gravely.

Merry's face fell, and beside him Pippin squeezed his hand. "What of Eowyn? She brought me here. She's the one who did such brave things."

"She is here. She will be fully recovered in time."

He sighed at that. "Thank you. I'm glad."

Gandalf smiled. "In fact, I believe as I was leaving her room she was ordering her brother to give you special honors for your valiant actions today."

Merry blushed, glancing at Boromir. "I wasn't valiant. I was terrified."

Boromir smiled back unsteadily. "What do you think valiance is? Action in the face of terror. You will be known in these lands for generations because of your deeds today."

"Really?" Merry blinked at that. "Good! Though it's not the best news I've gotten today."

Boromir smiled, this time wide and sincere. "Nor I."

Merry laughed quietly, the happiness in his face a far cry from the pale stillness Boromir had despaired in seeing.

"Boromir. I'm afraid there's little time to sit and be pleased. There is much work to be done out in the city." Aragorn spoke quietly. moving up and resting a hand on Boromir's shoulder. "We have much to do."

Boromir wanted to push him away, to clasp Merry's hand and sit there like Pip and spend at least a little while in talk. They never had any time. But he sighed and nodded. Meeting Merry's eyes, he spoke. "Denethor is dead. The job of the steward is mine. I'm sorry. I'll come back."

Merry nodded, sympathy replacing the rising protest in his eyes. "Of course. I know you will."

He stood and let his fingers fall from Merry's cheek. "We'll get you food sent in, and whatever else you may want. Just ask."

He left Merry sitting beside his grinning cousin, turning from the room with reluctance.

Aragorn moved with him, and Gandalf came behind after a last word or two to the hobbits.

"Odd."

Boromir glanced at Aragorn. "What?"

"It's odd." Aragorn looked back, his brow furrowed. "That Merry should hold to the curse until you spoke." He frowned. "Or perhaps it's not odd at all."

Boromir felt his face warm. "Not odd, no. Though it requires understanding."

Aragorn smiled at that, exhausted but still Strider under all his care. "Indeed." He glanced back, and as Gandalf caught them up he sighed. "But perhaps understanding it isn't as hard as you think."