That night in camp Elboron seemed to be feeling a little less downhearted, much to the relief of all. He felt confident now that he would be able to tame his feelings and he was glad that his family no longer seemed quite as worried about him.

However, as Gondor's four most important men bedded down for the night under the legendary beacon's hill, Elboron could see the light from the City in the distance. With it came the reminder of what he was leaving there and again his heart felt heavy – he just could not shake that sense that he was making a dreadful mistake. He wrapped his cloak about himself and tried to put it out of his mind enough to allow himself the sleep he so needed.

Elboron slept quite well enough, even if his dreams consisted of naught but Harma's hands, lips, and eyes that whole night. He still could hear echoes of Harma speaking his name, and the way his voice sounded when he'd admitted that he loved him the night before up on the High Hallow. He could near Harma whimpering and it stabbed at his heart even in his dream. Elboron's heart still weighed when he woke, but he did his best to ignore it. The sooner he and his family were out of the sight of Minas Tirith, the sooner he felt he could begin a new path.

--

As Harma hurried away from the rampart, unable to bear to watch Elboron's departure, he found himself looking around and only being reminded of what he was losing with every sight. Everything about the city made him think of Elboron in some way, for the Steward's son was so involved in every aspect of it.

Deciding that the best place to go would be a quiet, familiar place, Harma made his way up to the stables. Sitting on a bale of hay in one of the unused stalls, he was left alone for quite some while with only an occasional nicker of some bored horse to break the silence. This place, most of all, reminded Harma of Elboron, and though it hurt to think of him now, it was still something of a comfort. At least one person had found him good enough, if only for a while.

Naturally Elboron had made it seem as though it was none of Harma's fault that things had to end as they did, 'Bori had a tendency to take blame for things he should not have when it could spare someone else. Harma knew, though, that it was he who was not good enough, was not what Elboron needed him to be. Taking a deep sigh he told himself that Elboron would be away for some time, maybe half the year, and that that was plenty of time for him to set aside his feelings and move on. Maybe, he thought, if he put his energies into changing he could find a way to become something his father approved of.

Ah, but that thought only added to the anguish Harma was already in, and once again he was pushed beyond the edge, breaking down into bitter tears. His head buried in his arms effectively muffled Harma's sobs of "I love you, Bori'," as agony shot through him.

Harma sat there in the stables undisturbed for the better part of the day until men began to return from their errands with their horses to be stabled for the night. By then his facial muscles actually ached from crying and his voice was rough. He stood though, and tended to his duties.

Years earlier, Harma's father had pushed him to go into Gondor's military forces and expected that his son would make the Citadel guard, but Harma had never wanted it. His trainers and captains could see that plainly and took pity on him, seeing that he was assigned to a civilian position that he would enjoy. It was clear that Harma had quite a gift when it came to horses and so he was given charge of the stables on the sixth level.

At first Harma had been terribly ashamed that he hadn't lived up to his father's expectations, and had nearly pled with Captain Bergil to allow him to prove himself, but that was before he'd seen their kindness for what it was. He knew he would have been miserable as a guard, continuously judged and weighed up, but horses did not behave as men did and the only judgment they made was whether one cared for them well or poorly.

Harma's father had not seen it the same way. Nor had many of his peers.

Elboron was the exception. He, too, had taken the training, but simply because he'd wanted to "see what they knew," for his father and grandfather had taught him better than anyone else in Minas Tirith could have when it came to the sword and bow. After his training was "complete," however, Elboron had gone straight back to working with his ada and daerada in whatever capacity he was needed. So Elboron had not thought poorly of Harma in the slightest, for he too had no desire to be in Gondor's illustrious militia.

With his duties complete for the night and utterly no wish to go back home any time soon, Harma decided to just drown his sorrows and forget until morning. For that he proceeded to the infamous Merry Widow, an establishment in the fourth of Minas Tirith's seven levels within which few of the moralities held by the majority of the City by day were any consideration.

That's not to say that it was unhygienic in any way, the Merry Widow was, in actual fact, one of Minas Tirith's highest quality inns. It was just that within the confines of that particular building, nothing was prohibited and one checked ones established social values at the door. That was simply as it was and it was not protested - no ill thing ever came from the presence of the establishment, and it was generally thought that it was for the better that there was a sanctioned environment for people of certain indulgences to slake their needs. In the dark years before the King returned to the throne, the Merry Widow was patronized almost exclusively by soldiers seeking reprieve from their increasingly dangerous livelihoods. Furthermore, many were those who visited the Widow simply because it boasted Minas Tirith's finest ale available to the public.

So there Harma found himself losing himself in tall, frothy mug after tall, frothy mug. About the time he was just starting to forget all that had gone on the last few days, one of the waitresses came over to take the most recently emptied mug from Harma's table.

"Harma," Níniel said softly, sitting next to him, "do you think you could escort me home?" She had been concerned for him, he had seemed so downhearted when he came in and now he had nearly drunken himself to oblivion. It was not like Harma at all, for he rarely came in for anything more potent than fresh water. Yet he was well known to the women who worked in the tavern, for he would often escort them back to their homes at the end of the night so that they would not have to walk alone.

Harma did not respond for a few moments, worrying Níniel all the more. He seemed completely absorbed in his thoughts. "Harma, are you all right? I need someone to walk me home now." She knew he'd had too much ale and wanted to get him to leave the tavern before he fell ill.

"'M fine, 'cell'n't," he mumbled incoherently. "Sum'n else'll take y'… don' wandt t'go 'ome t'night."

"No, Harma, I mean my home, not yours."

"Nod in'est'ed 'n 'at," Harma said with something that nearly resembled indignity as he stood up and almost fell over the table as he stumbled his way out into the street.

He was followed out by several men, one of whom took him roughly by the shoulder and gave him a shove to the ground, eliciting hoots of laughter from the rest of them. Harma staggered to feet again and rounded on the man who was a good deal bigger than he was. But Harma's judgment was severely impaired and now he was angry, and he landed a punch harder than was expected by either man.

The bigger man's eyes flashed dangerously as he saw the red on his fingers where he'd touched his lip. The other men moved to block Harma's retreat. "Not wise, runt," the other man growled. "We weren't going to hurt you, much, but now I guess we have to."

Harma was ready to fight but was suddenly pushed back into the other men, who grabbed him and held him fast. Harma choked on a filthy rag that was stuffed into his mouth as they dragged him down a nearby alley. "Me an' these boys been thinking…" the forceful man snarled in his ear. Harma would have made an ill-advised comment about that, had he not been gagged and had the combination of the gag and the man's breath reeking of alcohol not been making him physically sick. He was far too inebriated to realize the situation he was in until he was shoved against a wall with such force that he could feel his nose bleeding from the impact. "We don't want you anywhere near any of our horses anymore… 'fact, we don't want you in the stables at all anymore."

Harma tried hard to fight back when he felt a forceful hand running over him but he found that he was suddenly lightheaded and sick and couldn't coordinate his movements. It only worsened a moment later.

Finally he gathered his strength and tried to scream for help but only choked further on the gag and vomited, much to the amusement of his assailants. The gag had fallen to the ground but they had done their worst by then and threw Harma to the ground, spitting on him and quickly fleeing the scene. It wouldn't have mattered, for he could not speak and only gasped for air after the last man had taken an iron hold of his throat.

Laying there on the cold, hard, dark, deserted back way, hot tears of pain and shame slipped out and burned their tracks down Harma's face. He tried to get up and not think of what had just happened, but he could not, and falling back down heavily he was sick again and could only whimper, "Elboron!" before he lost all consciousness.