Hey everyone, I hope that you're well! Sorry about the delay with this chapter, I've been rather busy. Thank you so much for the lovely reviews for the last chapter, I hope you enjoy this one and forgive any typos.

Chapter Ninety # Aftermaths #

Frodo looked between Nelly and Sam, a sense of growing dread curling in his stomach. "What? What happened? Where is Sméagol?"

Nelly dropped her gaze to the ground for a moment, but then she took a deep breath and raised her chin strongly. "I'm sorry, Frodo. He's dead."

"Dead?" Frodo cried, wincing with instant regret as his throat burnt with the effort. A choking cough stole his voice, and at one Sam gave him a water skein. A small part of Frodo never wanted to even see a drop of water again after what happened in the tower, but he drank, and his throat relaxed a little.

Of course, it would be water that makes it better, after water tore it apart, he thought bitterly, but only for a moment. The weight of what Nelly was saying hit him a second time, and he shivered, looking back at Nelly as grief for Sméagol welled in his chest. "Are, are you sure?"

"Positive," she said softly, reaching out almost hesitantly before taking Frodo's hand. She squeezed it only for a moment, and then quickly returned her hands to her lap. "I'm sorry. I know that you were fond of him."

"I – I-" Frodo shook his head slightly. "What happened? Was it the spider – the orcs?"

Nelly swallowed, and glanced at Sam, who gave a heavy sigh and a small nod. She raised her eyes to meet Frodo's, and he saw that they were sparkling with tears and with pain, which he had almost expected. What he had not expected to see was the guilt in her gaze, and the grim determination with which she spoke.

"No, Frodo. It was me."

It felt like Frodo had been thrust back into the bucket of iced water. He shook his head again, and again, and Sam reached out towards him but Frodo flinched away.

"Why?" he gasped. "Why, why would you do that?"

"I didn't want to," she whispered, staring beseechingly at him. "Truly, Frodo, I – I didn't have a choice."

She killed him – she killed your friend, the ring crooned. And soon she will kill you – she will kill you, and take everything wrong you, just as she took it from Sméagol. She butchered him, murdered him –

"Why?" Frodo choked again, trying to ignore the anger the ring was stirring in his heart. Or was it his own anger? Did he want to scream at Nelly, did he want to strike her, or was that the Ring? "Why!"

"Shh, Frodo," murmured Sam, his eyes flickering warily towards the mouth of the cave. "We don't want to be too loud, don't want to get caught again now."

"Why?"

"Because he tried to kill us," Nelly said, her lower lip shaking. "He led us into that spider's lair on purpose, Frodo, he knew what was inside-"

"Did he? Do, do you know that?" he demanded, his eyes stinging. "Or did you just want to think that? You never liked Smeagol, never!"

Beside him, Bróin shuffled uncomfortably and opened his mouth, but Nelly spoke before he had the chance, her voice small and sad.

"Do you really think I'd kill someone – anyone – because I didn't like them? I didn't have a choice! The orcs were about to take you, and he'd knocked out Sam with a rock and his hands were around my neck."

Look how she cries, sneered the Ring. Crocodile tears from a treacherous, backstabbing-

Nelly pulled the high collar of the orc's tunic down away from her neck, revealing ugly, dark bruises stretching around her throat, and Frodo's stomach flipped over. "He tried to kill me, Frodo, and I, I didn't want to die. I got him off me, I got the upper hand… and I knew if I let him go, he would come back. He would come back and try to kill us again. I didn't know if Sam was knocked out or dead, I didn't know if I had any chance of getting you and Bróin back – he would have killed all of us, and I couldn't let him try again. I couldn't. So I put my sword in his heart. I did what I had to do. I'm sorry."

Frodo swallowed, staring at the marks on his cousin's neck. Dimly, he could hear Bróin protesting that she had no need to apologise, that she had done nothing wrong at all, but he could not believe that.

"You – you could have tied him up, have subdued him, you – you-"

"Frodo," Sam began, but Frodo shook his head, tears biting their way down his cheeks. Nelly was going very pale, cringing away from him with tears of her own, and Frodo sobbed.

"No! No, you killed him! Is that what you're going to do to me, then? If I'm too much of a threat? You're going to put your sword in my heart?"

Bróin's eyes widened and he reached out to grab Nelly's hand. "Frodo!"

But Frodo did not care. "Because all he did, he did because of the Ring! It wasn't his fault, he was trying, he was trying to make up for what he had done! And now the Ring is mine, and when I start to talk like Sméagol, are you going to stab me too?"

Nelly sobbed, shaking her head and brushing away Sam and Bróin's frightened protests. "You don't understand, Frodo. You don't – you're giving him too much credit. Sméagol had choices, and even before he had owned that thing, he chose wrong. He strangled his cousin just to get his hands on the Ring, he used it to spy on his friends and his family – he used it to steal and lie and kill, and yes, it gained influence over him, and I don't doubt all he did to us was because of the Ring, but he wasn't a good person to begin with. If you were hoping you could save him, you never had a chance. I'm not saying he was wholly evil – I don't think he was. I, I know there was good in him. But I don't think it was enough, Frodo. I killed him to defend myself, and to protect you. But if you can look into my eyes now and tell me that you honestly think I would ever try to kill you, then you can take this, and you can do what you think needs to be done with it."

Nelly leant forward and pressed a knife into Frodo's frozen hands. Bróin whimpered, grabbing her arm and looking at Frodo with a look that could only be described as horror, and Sam was rigid as stone against the wall, staring at them as though he was watching the sky collapse down and crush the earth.

And Frodo stared at Nelly.

Kill her, hissed the Ring. For her disloyalty, her murder, her –

"If this is you," she whispered, "if this anger and hate that you feel is you, and you really think I would hurt you, then I can't help anymore. If this is what you truly believe, then do it."

Kill her, kill her, kill her!

And then Frodo realised what it was she was asking him to do.

The knife fell from his fingers, and clattered against the stone, and Frodo's head fell back against the wall of the cave. The rock was ragged and sharp, and bit deep into his aching skull, but he could not bring himself to care. The stone was no more ragged than his throat as he gasped for air, no sharper than the pain in his heart.

"I – Nelly, I, I'm sorry, I – I didn't – I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" His words choked off as his sobs grew stronger and faster, and stronger and faster still until he could no longer speak, or move, or breathe. He could only cry, and when Nelly moved forward and Bróin tried to hold her back he cried harder, dropping his head onto his knees. He felt a pair of arms wrap around him, felt Nelly pull him close and plant a kiss on his head, and he sobbed.

"I'm sorry, too," she murmured, squeezing him tightly. "I'm sorry."

Desperately, he grabbed onto her arm, though he did not really feel entitled to do so. He felt another pair of arms wrap over him, and then a third, and he whimpered. Guilt was curdling in his gut so strongly he thought he might be sick – if first he did not drown in sorrow or choke on fear. He felt awful for Sméagol, and for the fate he had met, but worse for implying that Nelly was a murderer, for imagining that she would ever turn on him. And he felt even worse imagining Gollum's hands around Nelly's neck, and thinking of the orcs beating Bróin, remembering the moment that they held him underwater until his legs stopped moving.

Every memory he had hurt, every face he brought to mind made his chest feel tighter. He wept at the thought of Bilbo, and Kíli, and Fíli and Dís – he sobbed at the thought of Thorin and Bofur and Balin, he wailed for Merry and Pippin and Gimli. And, though he felt a weakling for it, he cried for himself, too. He cried for his pain and his fear, and for everything that the world seemed to want him to do.

And his friends held him as he cried, cuddling him close until he was too tired to sob anymore. Finally, with a gasping breath, he managed to muster a single sentence.

"I'm sorry!"

"It's alright, now," said Sam. His voice sounded thick, as though he, too, was crying. "It's alright, Frodo."

"We promised," whispered Nelly, curling tighter around him. "We promised not to let you walk the wrong way. We won't let you fall into the darkness. That is why we are here."

"If, if I hurt you-" Frodo gasped, and she shook her head.

"We won't let that happen either," said Bróin, somewhat more weakly than usual. "Don't worry. If you try, we'll conk you on the head and drag you back home by your earlobes."

They peeled off of him, sitting up slowly, and wiping at their cheeks. Bróin leant forward, knocking Frodo's tears gently away from his face.

"Nelly's right," Sam said gently. "You and Sméagol are not the same. If you want to see where you'll be after years of having the Ring, look at Bilbo. His character was not changed, was it? Not much, anyway. You'll be alright, Frodo. We'll make sure of it."

"Unless of course we all get murdered by orcs first," added Bróin.

"No one's getting murdered by orcs," said Nelly sharply, but it was sorrow that flickered in her eyes as she looked over them. "Unless we don't get those wounds cleaned up. Come, sit back, boys. We'll get you all sorted out." She dabbed at her eyes, and then wiped her nose on her sleeve, motioning for Bróin to sit back.

"Very hygienic," he muttered.

"Shh," she tutted, pushing Bróin back against the wall with a wry smile. "Come now, Sam. The faster we heal these two little fools, the sooner we can get on pootling off to that fiery mountain and get this all over and done with."

And, though it was small and weak, Frodo smiled.

The Battle of the Pelennor Fields had an end far swifter and stranger than Boromir could ever have hoped for. With the army of the dead obeying every word that came from Aragorn's lips, it had been unnervingly easy to intercept the fleet of Corsairs' ships travelling up the river towards Osgiliath. Even when the pirates lay dead on the decks and floated face down in the water, Boromir felt uneasy, and certain that there must be some catch, some trick.

But if there was a catch, it had not come to pass on the river. They sailed swiftly, and reached Osgiliath shortly after the Nazgûl arrived on the battlefield. Boromir had only a moment to mourn the sight before him, to despair at the legions of orcs trampling his own lands and cities, and then Aragorn had drawn his sword, and led him into battle.

It had been a bloody fight, but a brief one. Even as Boromir and his companions cut down dozens of orcs, the army of the dead tore through hundreds, swarming through the battlefield to decimate the orcs like a great wave toppling a sandcastle. Less than half an hour after they leapt out of the ship at the port of Osgiliath, the orcs were destroyed, the trolls all vanquished, and the great beasts of the Haradrim lay dead among their lords. The last of the men of Harad had surrendered, and been taken prisoner, and shouts of victory had rose among what was left of the Rohirrim, and the soldiers of Gondor.

And then the shouts of victory had died, as ever they did when men stopped, and looked around, and saw those who lay dead beneath them.

Once, the Pelennor Fields had been beautiful, a rich land of green grass and good earth, but now they were trampled and scorched, and drowning in the blood of the dying. There were so many dead, so many already lifeless and broken on the ground, and more were joining them by the moment. Wailing soldiers held their friends in their laps, and tried to shake life into corpses. Fully armed men begged brokenly for aid or for mercy, and the grief-stricken shrieked curses at the newly captured prisoners of war. It was too soon even for the healers to have reached the battlefield – they would still be in the city, and likely treating many a wounded soldier there, too.

But for once, Boromir's primary concern was not with finding survivors.

It was ensuring that his deadliest allies did not become a threat.

Standing at Aragorn's right-hand side, Boromir stared down the army of the dead. Their king was standing opposite Aragorn, his eyes locked on Isildur's heir, and his hand on his sword. A sense of dread was creeping up Boromir's spine, a fear that these ghosts would betray him, that they would sack his city and slaughter his people. He took a deep breath, and glanced at Aragorn.

The ranger did not flinch.

After a moment, the King of the Dead spoke, his voice the hiss of a cold winter's breeze. "You said you would release us."

With all the majesty of a High King of Númenor, Aragorn bowed his head. "You have my deepest thanks for your service, and have conducted yourselves with true honour. I hold your oaths fulfilled. Go now, and be at peace."

The Ghost King tilted back his head and smiled, and then he began to fade, and Boromir shivered. It took but a moment for the entire army to vanish, and a murmur of fear and confusion rippled throughout those soldiers who still had the wits to notice.

Boromir let out a slow, deep breath, and glanced at Aragorn. "Is that it? Is it over?"

Aragorn nodded slightly. "As far as they are concerned, it is. They have moved on."

"It feels too easy," Boromir murmured. "That we paid too little to gain so much."

"We were not the ones to pay," replied Aragorn, his voice sombre. "They paid in an age of restless wandering in their mountains, and they paid in their service here today."

"Well," grunted Gimli. "Easy or no, it was interesting. Can't say I'm glad to see them gone…"

Boromir nodded in agreement, rubbing his jaw and letting out a low sigh. He glanced down at Gimli, who was nursing a somewhat bruised arm, though it did not seem to be bothering him too much. Nearby stood Legolas, his own arm still bound against his chest, his eyes resting on the corpse of the oliphaunt that he had taken down himself. Gimli had taunted the rather magnificent tumble that the elf had taken down the face of the rampaging beast, but to be utterly fair, if Boromir had been fighting a battle with one arm, he might have lost his balance too. It was a deed to be proud of, tumble or no tumble – but Legolas was gazing at the beast with sorrow, not pride, and Boromir let out a low sigh.

They were alive. It had been a bloody fight, a battle that would go down in history, no doubt, but they were still alive. Further afield, he could see the sons of Elrond already tending to the wounded, and Halbarad was with them. The Ranger limped, and heavily, but he was on his feet.

Boromir wondered at what crazed luck had allowed them this mercy, had enabled his friends to escape death in two great battles in as many weeks.

A pang of grief struck him, and Boromir glanced away. No. His people lay dead around him, and no doubt he had friends among them. He knew that among them was King Théoden, and his doorman Hama, and the old commander Gamling.

And perhaps, whispered a terrified voice in the back of his mind, even Faramir.

"Boromir? Are you alright?"

Boromir jumped, turning back to Aragorn. There was a look of grief and pity carved deep into the other man's face, a look that once, Boromir might have taken for patronisation. Now, he knew so much better. He gave a weak smile, and shook his head slightly.

"This… this is not how I would have returned to my city." He paused, rubbing his chin, and then he looked at Aragorn, and nodded. "But there is something that must be said, before anything else."

Aragorn frowned slightly. "Oh?"

His smile growing a little stronger, Boromir put a hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "Welcome home," he murmured. "My King."

The corner of Aragorn's mouth twitched towards a smile, though it did not hold. "I am not king yet. The city is in the hands of the steward, I will not take it from him."

"You are my king, whatever the letter of the law may say," swore Boromir. "My father will agree. But politics can wait – people here need help."

Aragorn tore his eyes away from the city and nodded, and together the men glanced over those still standing.

"Have either of you seen Merry, yet?" asked Gimli, his voice rather tight.

Boromir winced a little. "Not yet. We will find him, though."

And then the world was torn by apart by a scream.

Boromir whirled around, and his heart seized as he saw Éomer ran forward, throwing aside his shield and sword and crashing down to his knees, dragging a body into his lap. And then he wailed, unleashing a grief so raw it could mean only one thing.

A tumble of blonde hair fell over Éomer's arm, and as the young lord of Rohan threw back his head in despair, Boromir caught sight of Éowyn's lifeless face.

"By the stars," he breathed, feeling tears prick at his eyes.

Grief poured down into his chest, filling his lungs like water, and he closed his eyes. He was bitterly unsurprised that the Éowyn had snuck into the battle, but she had, and now Éomer was alone, and wailing to stars that would not hear him. A yearning to find Faramir swelled desperately within Boromir's heart, even as Aragorn made a small sound of grief and ran to Éomer's side. For the sake of his friends, Boromir made to follow, but then he heard something else – something that froze his blood to splintering ice in his veins.

A howl, high and mournful and afraid, and unlike any howl of men that he had ever heard. A howl that was utterly, unmistakeably, lupine.

Merry.

Horror clenching his heart, Boromir whirled around to find Gimli, but the dwarf had heard it too, and the blood had drained from his face. Without a word, Gimli lurched forward, speeding like an arrow out towards Éomer, unheeding of the voices that called to him. Legolas was on his heels like a shadow, and Boromir raced after them, a desperate prayer hanging on every frantic beat of his heart as they followed the sound of Denahi's howl.

Let him be alive, let him be alive, please let him be alive!

Just beyond Éomer and Éowyn, Boromir saw it – the unmistakeable sight of a wolf draped over a tiny body, and he bit back a sob as Gimli flung himself down beside them with a heart-wrenching howl of his own, and Legolas turned his face away.

"Merry! No, no, no, look at me, Merry look at me, wake up! Wake up, wake up now, come on, Merry, please, please, no!" Gimli sobbed, shaking Merry's shoulders roughly. Denahi growled, but it was a pleading, pitiful sound intercut with a whine, and he made no attempt to stop Gimli. "No, no, no! Please, no, please!"

Boromir collapsed to his knees beside them, his strength stolen by the marble-white of Merry's face, the blood soaking through his side. Frantic, Gimli shook the hobbit again, wrenching him up off the floor, and Merry's head lolled lifelessly back towards Boromir.

And his eyes rolled under their lids.

"Put him down!" Boromir yelped, leaping forward and guiding Gimli's hands back down. "He's alive, he's alive, Gimli, put him down!"

An odd combination of a growl and a whimper left Gimli's lips, but he obeyed, lying Merry flat on the grass and pressing his fingers to the side of the hobbit's neck.

Merry made a small, broken sound, a blend between a moan and a whimper, and his head tilted to the side. His eyes were rolling beneath his eyelids and while he was pale as a corpse, there was a sheen of sweat clinging to his forehead. His elven cape had been bunched up at his side, and bound around his waist with his belt, but it was no longer the green-grey colour of an evening shadow. It was dark, and sodden, and blood dripped from it down onto the ground below. Tentatively, Boromir reached towards it, peeling it a little way away from the hobbit's skin. Merry shuddered, his forehead twitching down towards a frown, but he made no sign of waking, and Boromir lifted the cloak further away.

At once, blood spilt out over Merry's hip, dark at first, and then brighter, fresher. It was not the deathly gushing of an arterial wound, but it was pulsing down his side, a slow, steady flow. It was coming from a long, angry wound just above the hobbit's hip – a deep puncture wound no longer than his wrist was wide, encircled by heavy bruising that could only be courtesy of the hilt of a sword.

It was an injury that Boromir recognised at once.

Merry had been stabbed.

Gimli choked wordlessly, and Boromir swore beneath his breath. Carefully, he lifted Merry up slightly, pulling the cape away from his back and confirming his worst suspicion.

"The blade went right through him," he whispered in horror, glancing at Gimli, who in turn looked up desperately.

"Legolas!" he cried, his voice breaking. "Legolas, help him, please, help him!"

Legolas shook his head slightly, his face pale as the moon and eyes alight with horror. He looked more like a wraith than an elf. "I – I-"

"You're a damn elf, aren't you?" yelled Gimli, looking up frantically. "Help him!"

"I am not a healer," protested Legolas weakly. "I know no more than you do of treating wounds, Gimli, I am sorry. I am so sorry."

Gimli gave a fierce sob and shook his head. "Aragorn – the elven twins – where are they?"

"They are with others," said Legolas, his voice trembling. Now that he had looked back, the elf seemed unable to tear his gaze from Merry's face, and Boromir caught sight of a tear tracing down his cheek. "Others equally injured."

The dwarf gave a wordless howl of fear and frustration, pressing his hand against Merry's cheek. Boromir took a deep breath.

"Then it is up to us. No one will not get here in time. Now I am no healer, but all soldiers of Gondor must learn how to treat injuries on the field. Gimli, put pressure on the wound, try to stop the bleeding. Legolas, see if you can find some cloaks, blankets, something to keep him from going into shock. I will be back in a moment, I promise." He glanced down at Merry and his heart twisted. If he was not breathing when Boromir returned… "Hold on, Merry," he murmured, a lump in his throat. He took a deep breath, and looked to the others. "Wait for me. I'll be back soon."

Without waiting for a reply, he shot to his feet and sprinted towards the city walls, leaping over the corpses of men and orcs alike. Faster than he had ever run in his life, Boromir fixed his eyes on the gate. If he could just get to the city, the guards and errand boys would already be out, and they would have battle boxes. If he could just get a battle box, Merry might stand a chance. His lungs burned and feet screamed at him to slow down, but Boromir refused, bursting through the broken door of his city and letting out a mighty bellow.

"Battle box! I need a battle box, now!"

The nearest soldiers all turned, but then, to Boromir's astonishment they all stopped in their tracks and stared at him. They made no move to fulfil his order, no sign of moving at all – they just stared at him as though staring at a ghost.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. "The battle boxes, where are they?"

"M-my lord, you're alive," stammered one of the captains, and Boromir growled.

"Yes, but unless you give me a damn battle box my friend won't be! Now!"

The soldiers jolted, but it was a young errand lad that finally did what he had asked, racing up with a box in hand.

"Here, my lord!" he breathed, and Boromir took it.

"Thank you," he said, pausing only long enough to send a scathing look at the soldiers. "Pull yourselves together before somebody pays the price for your stupidity!"

He heard one of the soldiers call after him, but he did not stop. Whatever it was they had to say could wait – he finally had the box in his hands, and he would make Merry wait no longer. He tore back through the battlefield, vaulting over the corpses of men and orcs alike. More of his people called his name, but they were all standing, which meant that they could all wait. Merry could not.

He skidded to a halt at Gimli's side, crashing down into the dirt and lowering the box carefully to the ground. "Any change?"

Gimli shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin white line. Legolas had procured several capes to lay over the hobbit, and had also propped his feet up on a broken shield.

"What is that?" the elf asked, his eyes wide with a fear that was almost childlike as they fell on the box.

"It's a battle box," Boromir explained, already rummaging inside it. "Regulation standard – it contains all the basics of battlefield healing. Long have we had them stored in the outer ring of the city, and long have our people taken them to any battle that falls beyond our lands. In war, there are always more wounded than there are healers, so the boxes can buy the injured a little more time. Has the bleeding stopped?"

Gimli shifted his hands, cringing slightly at the sight of the wound beneath them, but keeping his voice steady. "It's slowed right down…"

"Alright," said Boromir, taking a look for himself. A little, dark blood was still oozing down Merry's side, but Gimli was right. It was much slower. "Now, we must clean the wound."

"Here? Shouldn't we move him somewhere cleaner, somewhere safer?" worried Legolas.

Boromir shook his head, gently moving the remnants of Merry's clothes away from the wound. "We don't have time. The Healing Halls are up in the sixth layer of the city and no doubt there're already teeming. We must bind the wound, and quickly, and if we don't try to clean it there is no chance that Merry will escape infection." Though he did not say it aloud, Boromir worried that the chances of Merry escaping infection were slim already. A blade had gone straight through the little one's body, and he doubted that the sword was thoroughly cleansed beforehand. Boromir took a large, stoppered bottle from the bottom of the box, and then took a deep breath.

"What is that?" asked Gimli, his voice raw. "Alcohol?"

"No, but its purpose is similar," said Boromir, sparing as little of the liquid as possible to wash over his hands. "We call it saline – it's nothing more than clean saltwater, but we have found it to be just as effective as alcohol when it comes to cleaning wounds. It is also cheaper, and stings less." He paused, wincing a little as he glanced at Gimli. "Of course, anything touching a wound like this will sting."

Gimli shuddered, and squeezed his eyes shut. With a shaking hand, he brushed Merry's hair away from his forehead, and then he nodded, gently lifting the hobbit's body up a little and holding him steady, so that the exit wound was no longer pressed to the ground. "Do it."

Boromir nodded gravely, and poured the solution over and into the gaping gash in Merry's side. The hobbit jolted and shuddered, but even as he cringed away, he did not wake. His tears tracking down into his beard, Gimli held the young hobbit in place, and Boromir flushed the wound as thoroughly as he could.

Red as a summer rose, the saline began to drain out of the exit wound on Merry's back, and Boromir repressed a shudder of his own. He kept pouring until the bottle of saline was spent, and when it was they waited anxiously until the draining became a dripping, and Merry's violent shudders had dulled to shivers. Finally, finally, it did, and Boromir grabbed the small green pot that he knew to be full of the ointment healers used to ward off infection.

"Hold him steady, Gimli," he said, his voice shaking a little. "This is the most effective salve that we have, but it stings like a hive of bees."

Gimli flinched, but nodded, and Boromir dipped a clean cloth into the ointment. Merry did not move when Boromir wiped clean the area around the wound, but as soon as he reached its edge Merry jolted violently. A whimper tore from the young hobbit's throat and his body twisted away, but Legolas crashed down onto his knees and held him in place.

"Merry, Merry, it's alright!" Gimli promised, but his words came out like broken pleading. "I'm here, Merry, it's alright, I'm here!"

Merry let out a strangled cry, squirming to get away from Boromir's touch, but his eyes remained closed, and he showed no sign that he could hear Gimli's words. No sign that, despite his thrashing and screaming, Merry was any closer to waking.

A lump growing in his throat, Boromir ripped open the sealed bags at the bottom of the battle-box, revealing clean, white dressings. Legolas and Gimli helped him to dress the wounds properly, but he warned against drawing the bandages too tight.

"If he does catch an infection, it will need room to breathe," he warned, and Gimli groaned, dropping his forehead down onto Merry's.

"What've you done to yourself, you stupid little hobbit?" He closed his eyes, murmuring soft words in dwarvish that Boromir could not understand. After a long moment, the dwarf sighed, and raised his eyes. "Thank you, Boromir."

Boromir sighed, and took Merry's cold, clammy hand in his own. "Don't thank me yet. I would still have him seen by a true heal- what is that?"

A cold wave of horror swept over Boromir as he turned the hobbit's arm fully towards him, revealing a series of vivid, black marks across his skin. In shape, they looked like the ragged scars or cuts, but there was no sign that the skin was torn. It was no dirt, either – it did not shift or smudge beneath Boromir's thumb, and something about it struck fear into Merry's heart.

Legolas hissed, and what little colour he had left drained from his cheeks. With a cry that could only be described as despair, he leapt to his feet. "Aragorn! Elladan, Elrohir! I dúath en Nazgûl, i perian baur athae! I dúath en Nazgûl, i taith en Nazgûl – natha-e!"

"What does that mean?" cried Gimli, his voice ringing with fear. "What's going on? Legolas?!"

"Natha-e, natha men!" yelled Legolas, fear in his eyes, and Boromir's heart seized. He may not have paid half as much attention as his brother had during lessons, but he knew what Legolas was calling now.

Help him. Help us.

"What is going on?" begged Gimli, his voice almost a wail. "Legolas-" The dwarf broke off as Aragorn sprinted over, his own eyes tight with fear.

"Where?" he asked Legolas immediately, and the elf pointed to the strange, black marks on the hobbit's arm. Aragorn swore quietly, turning over Merry's arm beneath his fingers.

"Éowyn bares the same marks – I think I understand now."

"Understand what?" demanded the dwarf. "What does this mean, Aragorn, what's wrong with him? Of all the damn times to speak in riddles-"

"It means that Merry and Éowyn took down a Nazgul – but they have paid a heavy price. No blade could strike so foul a creature without shattering, and I fear that is what happened to both their swords. When the shards of Merry's flew back and bit into him, they brought with them the poison of the Nazgul, that even in death the wraith may claim a final victim. We must get him to the Houses of Healing, and quickly. Éowyn, too. They need medicine, herbs that you will find in no battle box. By any luck, some of the healers for Gondor still listen to the Old Lore – there may yet be athelas in the city."

Boromir's heart skipped a beat. "Wait – Éowyn is alive?"

Aragorn looked at him grimly. "For now, but she is very week. She needs healing, she needs athelas. Do you know if they keep it in the Houses of Healing?"

Boromir shook his head. "I don't, I am sorry. But if we want to find out, we must get there, and quickly."

Aragorn paused. "If I go into that city without the leave of your father-"

"Oh, damn the politics," growled Boromir, rising to his feet. "You have my leave, that is enough."

Aragorn nodded, smiling wearily. Then, he gave a sharp whistle, and the silhouettes of six horses emerged from Osgiliath. Unlike the Rohirrim, they had not ridden into the Battle of the Pelennor fields. Aragorn had insisted that they let the horses rest in Osgiliath, when the army of the dead had rid it of orcs, and now Boromir could kiss him for it. Like a pack of eager dogs called for supper, the horses galloped straight to them, dodging the wounded and the corpses with the grace of dancers to bay for Aragorn's attention.

At once, Boromir grabbed Baelfot's reins and pulled him to, mounting the horse in a heartbeat as Gimli and Legolas got to their feet. With great care, Gimli eased Merry into Legolas' arms, and then he held out his hand to Boromir, who pulled him up and onto the horse. As soon as he was settled, Legolas and Aragorn lifted Merry into the dwarf's waiting arms.

When Merry was cradled safely against Gimli's chest, Boromir took the reins around them, and glanced down at Aragorn. "You say we must get to the healers – even if they have this athelas, will they know how to use it?"

"Probably not," he admitted. "But I do. I must help Éomer get his sister onto a horse, but I will be right behind you. Legolas, will you help me?"

Legolas looked at Gimli, and the dwarf gave a gruff smile. "You meet us up there, laddie. Come up with Aragorn."

"It will be a matter of minutes we are parted," Aragorn promised, and Legolas gave a hesitant nod, following Aragorn and the horses away as Boromir urged Baelfot towards the city.

A stuttering, whimpering howl drew Boromir's attention over his shoulder, and he saw Denahi limping behind them, trying to keep up with a desperate sorrow in his voice, but there was no chance of it. Pain shot across Boromir's heart, but then he saw Legolas jog back, and murmur something into the wolf's ear. The howling ceased, and the beast struggled after Legolas, back towards Aragorn.

Biting back tears, Boromir pressed on, making a beeline for the gates of the city. Before he could pass them, however, another horse cantered towards him – a horse with a rider he knew very well.

"Lord Imrahil," he called, slowing Baelfot only a fraction. He saw his uncle's face melt into a look of relief as he drew his horse beside Boromir's, turning to ride back up into the city.

"Boromir," he said. "It is good to see you alive. News of your passing reached the city days ago, through the lies of Gríma Wormtongue."

Gimli growled beneath his breath, and Boromir scowled. "The filth. Well, I am not dead – and we can discuss that later. The politics can wait. My friend is gravely wounded, we need to get to the Houses of Healing."

Imrahil glanced at Merry, his eyes darkening with sombre sorrow. "Very well, but hear me now – news of your death was not taken well by your father. He organised no defence for the city, as the hordes of Mordor closed in. He hid in his rooms, and cursed Mithrandir even as the wizard held our defences."

Confusion almost had Boromir slowing his horse, but resolve pushed him onwards and he shook his head. "No. My father is a great Lord, he would never-"

"He did," said Imrahil gravely. "Boromir, you know I would not tell you this here, like this, except for where you are going. When you reach the Houses of Healing, you will find your brother there."

Boromir froze. The horse kept moving, and Imrahil kept riding beside him, but Boromir's body became still as stone, colder than the ice of the mountains. He knew Imrahil, and he knew the look on his face. He knew that it was not good.

"Why?" he gasped, and Imrahil shook his head.

"Lord Denethor sent him, alone, to bolster the survivors of a defeated battalion in Osgiliath. They were but fifty men, and Denethor ordered them to hold the river. Faramir gave the order to retreat, and rightly so, but he was struck by a poisoned arrow during their flight, and he has lain unconscious for days, now. The last I heard, the other halfling was with him."

Gimli stiffened, and Boromir's voice felt like sandpaper in his throat as he asked, "Pippin? Is he hurt too?"

"No, no, Master Took is fine, so far as I know. But he has been spending a lot of time at Faramir's bedside. Something about a debt he owed to you…"

A sick sense of guilt added to the mess of emotion in Boromir's gut at the thought of Pippin feeling that he owed any debt, but it was quickly washed away by the wave of horror crashing down upon him at Imrahil's words.

"Will he live? My brother, Uncle, will he live?"

"We don't know," said Imrahil softly. "There is hope, but he is very weak. And…" He glanced at Gimli, and then at his own horse. They were moving up through the city as swiftly as they could, while maintaining conversation, and Boromir knew that no one else would overhear them.

"What?" he demanded. "Anything you may say to me you may say before Gimli – he is as true a friend as any I have ever known."

Imrahil sighed. "Boromir, Mithrandir and I heard from the lad who had taken a plea to retreat from Osgiliath to the city – he witnessed Denethor tell your brother – he heard him tell your brother not to come back, if he did not reclaim the river."

"What?" Boromir whispered, pulling the horse to a halt. "Uncle, no, he – he cannot have – he would never have said –"

Imrahil shook his head sadly. "I am sorry, Boromir. I would not tell you this if I thought it was not true."

"Boromir, please," begged Gimli. "Merry-"

"I know," he choked, urging the horse onwards again. "I'm sorry. Quickly now!"

They cantered up through the city without another word, and the moment that they reached the Houses of Healing, Boromir leapt down from the horse before it even had a chance to stop. His knees wobbled, but he ignored them to greet the healer running out to meet them. Only moments later, Aragorn clattered into the courtyard, and the healer nodded.

"One person per patient," she said, glancing at the crowd of them, and Boromir nodded, lifting Gimli and Merry down together.

"Go with Merry," he said, rather needlessly. As if Gimli would let anyone take his cousin from him now. "I will talk to Pippin. And – and find my brother." Gimli nodded, carrying Merry quickly into the Healing Halls. Boromir turned to the healer, gesturing at Aragorn. "This man is a good friend of mine, and has some good ideas on how to heal these people. Trust him, and do as he says, I implore you."

"Of course, my lord," said the healer, curtseying deeply before hurrying to help Éomer and Aragorn carry Éowyn inside. Only then did Legolas dismount, and to Boromir's surprise, the elf carried Denahi down from the back of his horse too.

"He is wounded," said Legolas softly, holding the full-grown wolf as though it was a puppy. "If there is a space, I might try to help him. I know more of animals than man, and if Merry wakes up and finds out anything's happened to Denahi…"

Boromir bowed his head, but his uncle read his face and nodded.

"Of course, Master Elf. Follow me. Your brother is in the seventh chamber on the right-hand side, Boromir," he said, and Boromir nodded.

"Thank you," he breathed, throwing himself straight into the long hall. As he ran down it, he heard every moan, every cry, and counted doors breathlessly until he came to the seventh.

And then he stopped.

His father had told Faramir to reclaim Osgiliath, or die trying. His father knew Osgiliath could not be held with fifty men.

His father had commanded Faramir to die.

In doing so, Denethor had shattered the ground beneath Boromir's feet, brought the sky crashing down upon his head. Too long he had brushed his father's behaviour under the carpet, excused his favouritism with mutterings about grief and stress, but not this.

Boromir could never forgive this. And if Faramir died –

He bit back a sob, and pushed his way into the room.

And he saw Faramir propped up on a couple of pillows, gazing hazily at the side of the bed.

Gazing.

Awake.

Alive.

Boromir's knees gave way beneath him and he crashed to the floor, eliciting a gasp from the small figure beside Faramir's bed.

"Boromir! I told you, I told you, Faramir!" Beaming, Pippin leapt to his feet, hurrying over and throwing his arms around Boromir. Unable to tear his eyes from his brother, Boromir held Pippin close and tried to remember how to breathe.

"Bo'mir," murmured Faramir, his voice weaker than a new-born babe's. "You… came back…"

"Of course I came back," Boromir whispered, letting go of Pippin gently.

"He's been awake for nearly an hour," said Pippin proudly. "Beregond's gone to help the healers, now that Faramir's awake. He didn't believe me, though, Faramir, when I said you were alive."

Boromir rose shakily, staggering across the room to sit on the edge of his brother's bed. Faramir was pale and clammy, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes, but when Boromir took his hand it was warm. Smiling weakly, Boromir held his brother's hand against his heart. "Pippin was right. I am home now, little brother. I love you, so much."

Faramir's lips twitched towards a smile. "I love you, too."

"I know," Boromir murmured, taking a deep breath and turning to the still smiling hobbit. He held out his free hand and squeezed Pippin's shoulder. "Pippin… there's something I need to tell you."

At once, Pippin went very still. "What? What is it?"

Boromir took a deep breath. "It's… it's Merry. He, he has been wounded, Pippin."

"Wounded?" Pippin's eyes widened, and he made to move toward the door. "Where – where is he, I have to go to him-"

"No." Boromir held Pippin's shoulder tightly, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Not yet, Pippin. Gimli is with him, and Aragorn, but we cannot crowd the healers."

"He'll want to see me!" said Pippin angrily, and Boromir felt his tears spill over at last.

"He cannot see anyone, Merry," he whispered. "He is not conscious."

"Why?" cried Pippin, starting to shake. "Why – what happened, where is he? What happened, Boromir, what happened?"

"He was stabbed," Boromir admitted painfully, moving his hand to Pippin's cheek. "He was stabbed, and quite, quite badly."

"Where?"

"Here," Boromir murmured, resting his finger over Pippin's hipbone. "Pippin, the sword went right through him."

Pippin whimpered, and fell towards the door. "Merry!"

"Wait!" Boromir leapt forward, releasing Faramir's hand to grab Pippin around the waist. "Wait, Pippin-"

"Merry!" Pippin wailed, kicking back at Boromir desperately. "Merry! Let me go, let me go, he needs me!"

"He needs you to stay calm, and let the healers work," said Boromir, holding Pippin tightly. "Please, Pippin, do you think I would keep you from him if I did not absolutely have to? It's me."

"He needs me!" whimpered Pippin, and Boromir shook his head.

"I know. I know, but we must be strong for him, now."

Pippin gave a little sob, and fell limp in Boromir's arms. Swallowing, Boromir stepped back onto the edge of Faramir's bed again, cradling Pippin against his chest as though he was just a little child. He thought that the hobbit might protest, but instead Pippin curled into the embrace, wrapping his arms around Boromir's neck and clinging to him desperately.

"I'm sorry, Pippin. I'm so sorry. But the healers are with him, they'll look after him. And Aragorn and Gimli, they will do everything that they can." Resting his head against Pippin's cheek, Boromir looked back at his brother.

Faramir's eyes were still clouded, but they were fixed on Boromir, and a single tear was trailing down his cheek. Boromir reached out and took his brother's hand in his own again. He thought of Merry, and Éowyn, and those fighting for their lives in and around his city. He thought of those who had died for it.

And Boromir bowed his head, and prayed.

I hope you enjoyed that chapter, it's been tricky to finish. I think I'm mostly satisfied with it. Please do let me know what you think, I'd love to know.

I hope to update again next week, but life is really rather busy right now, so I can't make any promises, but until next time, thanks for reading, and take care.