Hi all! Thank you so much for the fantastic response to the last few chapters! Sorry for the wait - this chapter's been hell to write, and then it's part two became longer and longer until it demanded a chapter of its own, so it's another two-fer for you. I hope that you enjoy them all the same!

Chapter One Hundred and Seven: The Price of Victory

A deep and smoke-filled darkness had engulfed the entirety of the world, and Boromir prayed with all the strength he had that this was not death. If this was all that there was – if he was doomed to spend the rest of eternity in a darkness without end, severed from his brother and his kin and all that he loved –

He did not know how he could bear it.

But what else could this be, if it was not death? There was nothing there, nothing at all, and Boromir could not move, or speak, or even breathe. He was not even sure that he could feel his body – there was nothing, and he was nothing. All he could do was stare, straight into the blackness of the smoke, and if time was passing it was going so slowly that he could not see it.

After an entire age bound up in a single moment, the smoke began to shift, spiralling and loosening around something pale, something so pale it seemed to glow. The smoke twisted, and the glow became a shape, and it became solid and real – it became a face.

And Boromir felt something – a clenching twist where his heart should be, and he wanted to scream so desperately, but he could not move or make a sound, but he could see the face before him so clearly, and he knew it so well.

Faramir.

He looked young, young enough to be a child, but then his eyes opened and as Boromir watched he aged, growing older and older by the heartbeat. As he aged, he grew paler, and sicker, until his cheeks were hollow, and the bags below his eyes were dark and grey. He looked how he had when Boromir had left Minas Tirith – injured and weak, and his terrified eyes stared beseechingly at Boromir.

"Please," Faramir choked, his voice weak as a whimper, "Please, Boromir!"

As his brother spoke, something else pried at the edges of Boromir's consciousness – something hot and sharp, almost like pain.

"Please, Boromir, please," Faramir begged, and Boromir became aware of his body, and the sensation on the side of his face changed from heat to pain – raw and throbbing and so intense that his stomach churned. "Wake up, Boromir – wake up!"

With a great effort, Boromir curled his toes, feeling the wool of his socks curl against the soles of his boots, and the pain performed a crescendo, until it grew so intense that he wished for the nothingness of before –

"Wake up!"

Dimly, he became aware of other noises – murmured voices, far away, but nearing – getting closer, and closer. He tried to reach out, his fingers trembling as they stretched into the darkness, and then he felt a hand on his, and a gentle pressure.

"Boromir?" The voice was not his brothers, but it was a voice that he knew all the same, and he fought to open his eyes, but it felt as though his lids were made of stone. "He's stirring!"

The pain was shrieking at him now, exploding in his left eye socket worst of all, and he let out a moan of pain, but the hand around his squeezed a little tighter.

"Hold on, my friend. Hold on."

Boromir shifted his fingers, curling them around the other hand, and he held on as tightly as he could. Slowly, the voices around him came more into focus, and his eyes opened a crack, to reveal a night as dark as the nothingness that he had woken from.

At once, a flask was pressed up to his lips.

"Drink," said the voice quickly. "It will help with the pain."

Boromir obeyed, his eyes sealing shut again as a warm, sweet liquid seared down his throat. He shuddered. The hand around his grew tighter.

Slowly, so achingly slowly that at first he could not even notice it, the pain began to ease, until it became an burning throb that – while agonising – was sufferable. He shifted his grip on the hand that held his, and pulled his eyes open once more.

At first the shapes that bloomed before his vision were too blurred to make out, but he blinked, and blinked again, until the blotched colours and features of a face became clearer. He narrowed his eyes, but that shot a dagger of pain straight through his left eye and he shut them entirely.

He took a deep breath, and the hand around his squeezed, and he opened his eyes again.

"Slowly," the voice murmured, and Boromir obeyed, blinking as slowly as he could bear it. There was definitely something wrong with his eyes, most definitely something wrong, but through the haze he caught the line of a nose, the dark of a pair of eyes, and when he blinked again, he could see the outline of the face. He blinked again, and it became almost clear – as though he was gazing at it through a fogged over window.

Aragorn.

He blinked again, shifting his gaze and catching sight of Legolas behind Aragorn's shoulder. Behind them, all he could see was darkness, and fear clenched tight in his gut. There was only one thing that he could think of that would be worse than death, worse than the nothingness that had just threatened him.

"Did…" he rasped, his voice catching painfully in his throat. "Did we lose? Are we captured?"

"No, Boromir, we are not captured," Aragorn said softly, stroking Boromir's hair back. "We won."

"Won?" That did not make sense – Boromir could remember the battle, the innumerable hordes of orcs before them, the incalculable odds – the certainty that he was going to lay down his life, that it was all that he could do now to help – he remembered it all. "How?"

"They did it," Aragorn said, tears welling in his eyes even as a proud smile tugged at his lips. "They did it, Boromir. Barad-dur has fallen – and as it fell the armies of Mordor fled. They fled, Boromir, Sauron is gone. Look."

He pointed across a dark, barren land before them, and to Boromir's astonishment, even through the haze of his vision he could see the silhouette of Mount Doom glowing crimson against the sky. Where once, Boromir was sure that he had seen the looming, conical shape of the mountain, now its silhouette was that of a ragged crater, and there was no sign of the great tower that had haunted his mind and gaze since the black gates opened.

He shook his head slightly, trying to focus his vision better. It could not be true – he had to be seeing things. There was too much cloud before his eyes, he could see nothing past the left side of his nose, it had to be a that – but that would not explain the words that Aragorn had spoken. If he took the words from Aragorn and the proof of his own, albeit struggling, eyes, there was only one explanation.

"They… they did it?" he breathed, his heart soaring. "Frodo – the others, they-"

"Somebody must have done," said Aragorn, but his eyes dropped down towards his lap and his face sank into sorrow.

Boromir's heart plummeted. "Where are they?"

"Gandalf is looking," Aragorn said, his voice low. "He's been out all night with the eagles. If they are out there, he will bring them back."

"But… but he's been gone for hours, now," mourned a small voice on his left, and Boromir craned his neck with a painful effort to see Pippin huddled up beside him, tucked under Gimli's mindful arm. The young hobbit's face and chest were dark with bruises, and he was shivering, but Boromir could see no blood.

"Are you hurt, Pippin?" he asked, glancing at the others. "Are any of you hurt?"

"No. We're fine," said Pippin, his voice growing smaller. "Gimli, he's been gone for so long."

"He'll find them," Gimli promised, but his voice was gruff, and hid his fear from no one.

"How are you feeling?" Pippin asked, his gaze pinching in pain and pity as he stared at Boromir's face.

"I've been better," Boromir groaned, his hand moving up towards where it hurt the most, but Aragorn caught his wrist, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly for a moment.

"Don't – I am so sorry, Boromir, but…" Aragorn paused, closing his eyes. "I wish there were a better way to say it, something more we could do, but… we could not save your eye."

An icy fear ran down Boromir's spine, and he swallowed, looking up at Aragorn. "My… my eye?"

In the darkness to Boromir's left, Pippin gave a sob, and Aragorn nodded. "I am sorry," he murmured again.

Automatically, Boromir tried to raise his hand again, but Aragorn held his wrist firm.

"You do not want to touch it, my friend. Not yet."

Boromir's head reeled, and he flung himself back through his memories, trying to remember anything, any sort of injury that might cost him an eye, but the last thing he remembered was raising his sword to strike a foe, and then a blistering pain in his temple.

"How?" he breathed. "How did… what happened?"

"You took a blow to the head," said Pippin quietly. "I - I heard you yell, and then you went down and… you were out cold. The orc had his teeth round your neck, and you were out cold, and I – I thought I was too late." He shuddered, curling in even tighter to himself and burying his face in his knees.

"But you weren't," Gimli said gruffly, pulling Pippin closer and looking up to meet Boromir's eye. "He got the bastard off of you alright, and stood his ground as best he could, but I couldn't reach either of you – the battle was too dense, there were so many of the buggers and… and then Pippin got himself pinned under a troll." Boromir's eyes widened in horror, but Gimli needed no prompt to elaborate. "Thank Mahal Legolas is accustomed to the sight of hobbit's foot by now. By the time I got there he was already lifting the damn thing up. Our little warrior was bruised to kingdom come, but by some mercy he'd only fainted – there's nothing else wrong with him, nothing at all."

"Fili used to faint all the time," Pippin mumbled into his knees.

"Aye, he did," Gimli murmured, pressing his forehead against Pippin's hair for a moment. "There's no shame in it, laddie. No shame at all." He sighed heavily, looking up at Boromir with mournful eyes. "We don't know how it happened, your eye. Pippin doesn't think that wound was there when he found you, but it all happened so quickly."

"Our best guess is that it was one of the trolls," said Aragorn. "Even as they fled, they tried to hack at the bodies of the dead. We think it was an axe blow, that it struck you at an angle… but we don't know. All we know is that the wound is severe, and there was no way to salvage your eye. I'm sorry."

Boromir nodded slowly, ignoring the stabbing pain that it sent juddering down his spine, and the curl of nausea in his stomach. He reached to his waist, but even as he pawed at his belt, Aragorn placed the hilt of his sword in his hand. With a mutter of thanks, Boromir eased it up, peering at his reflection in the blood-smeared metal. A great wad of bandages had been bound around the left side of his face, covering his eye and cheek, and he looked even paler than Pippin.

"Well…" he sighed letting the sword drop to the floor. "It could be worse. Ladies like a man with a good scar, after all."

Aragorn grinned wryly, and Gimli gave a half-hearted snort of laughter. "Good luck with that, laddie. You don't even have a beard."

Boromir smiled slightly, but even as he did he heard a cry of despair from a few hundred yards behind him, and he closed his eyes. His eye.

"The casualties were heavy," he murmured. He knew it was not a question.

"They were," said Aragorn softly. "Halbarad was among them, and many others. Many, many others. But we won."

"I am sorry," Boromir said, a fresh pang of pain hitting his heart at the thought of the friendly young ranger, and Aragorn's clear love for him.

Aragorn gave a sad smile. "Only be sorry for making me fear that you would join the fallen. There was a moment where we were not sure you would make it."

Pippin gave another shuddering sob, and Boromir turned his head to look at him, reaching out and patting the little hobbit's shoulder. Pippin looked up, his pale face drawn tight with worry, and in his eyes, Boromir saw the heart-breaking haunting of a boy after his first battle. It hit him with a force like a battering ram, and he was reminded again just how young Pippin was. Tears rose hot in Boromir's own eyes, and Pippin sniffed, the corner of his mouth twitching up ever so slightly in the shadow of a smile. One of his hands unwound from around his knees, winding his fingers around Boromir's, but then his lower lip wobbled, and Pippin hid his face in his knees once more.

He kept his hold on Boromir's hand.

He did not know how much time had passed, but after a while, Boromir heard a screech on the air, and he set his limited eyesight upon an eagle sailing towards them. There was more than one, in fact – near a dozen, and his heart skipped a beat.

"They're coming!" Gimli choked, and Pippin looked up sharply.

"Are, are they there? Legolas, are they… are they there?"

Legolas said nothing, but he turned his face away, and that told Boromir all he needed to know. His stomach dropped, and Pippin began to shake so violently that Boromir was worried that he might explode.

The eagles swept down, closer and closer until even Boromir could see Gandalf sitting astride one of them, with bent shoulders and a head hung low.

He was alone.

The eagle bearing the wizard landed, and Legolas hurried to offer his arm to help Gandalf down. While in the heat of battle, Boromir would have laughed at the idea of Mithrandir requiring any aid, now the wizard looked old, and frail, and wont to break at any moment.

"We searched all night and all day," he said softly. "There was no sign of them. The eruption razed Barad-dur to the ground, and the mountain… there is little left of it. I could not find them."

Pippin let out a low, keening whine like an injured animal, his knuckles going white as he gripped and pulled at his hair, and clung to Boromir's hand. Gimli curled tighter around him, but Boromir could see the dwarf shaking with quiet sobs.

"Are you sure?" asked Aragorn, tears breaking free from his eyes. "Gandalf, if they managed to reach higher ground, if they found shelter…"

"I will not stop looking," the wizard swore, his voice trembling. "But many of the eagles are wounded – after such a fight they must rest before they can fly again. When we have rested a moment, and seen to the wounds of the eagles, with the will of Gwaihir, I will return to the skies. I... I believe it will now be only to see if we can bring their – bring them home."

Boromir closed his eye, but tears swelled like a sea beneath his eyelids, and he pursed his lips tightly to keep from crying aloud.

"It is good to see that this war has not claimed you, too, Boromir," murmured Gandalf. "What will you do now, Aragorn? I would know, before I search again."

"I-" Aragorn hesitated, shaking his head slightly. His mouth hung ajar, and there were tears sparkling in his eyes, and he looked like a man in shock. He closed his eyes, and then nodded his head. "There… there can be no healing, not here. We will make for Ithilien. There we can let the wounded rest somewhere they may have a chance to heal. When the wounded and the weary are well enough for the journey, we will return to Minas Tirith. I have already sent riders to Gondor and Rohan, and one of Éomer's men agreed to make the journey to Dale and Erebor. The news of our victory will spread." His voice broke on the last word, and Aragorn bowed his head low.

Gandalf bowed in silent reply, tears streaming down his cheeks to his beard, and Gimli began to sob haggard sobs, and Pippin wept soundlessly at his side. Boromir closed his eye.

It seemed so small a price to pay, an eye. Around him, men were grieving their fallen brothers and brothers-in-arms, and in his city were the widows and widowers of hundreds of martyrs. Children as cheerful as Pippin had had their innocence torn away, and others like Faramir's friend Rian clung to life by their fingertips. And Boromir, who had almost ruined them all by the falls of Rauros, paid only with an eye.

Frodo, Sam, Nelly, and Bróin had saved the entire world, and it seemed impossible that any of the four had not paid with their lives. Boromir had paid with an eye.

"Is there, is there any chance, Gandalf?" Pippin whimpered, and Boromir heard the wizard sigh heavily.

"I would never say that there is no hope," Gandalf replied, his voice a cracking whisper. "But I fear only a mircale could return them to us now."