The river was perilous after a night storm, and so come the next day the Fellowship hefted the elven boats up to make their way along the forested bank, unwilling to risk the rapids and unseen dangers that lurked below the choppy surface. Boromir and Aeardis carried one, Legolas and Aragorn another, and the last was bore by the four hobbits and Gimli.

The shore was rocky and wet. The rock and sand underfoot unstable. Nearly everyone had already stumbled at least once in attempts to gain a steady footing on the bank. Though Samwise could not regain his balance after stumbling and took a tumble down to the water's edge. Perhaps it would have been laughable if it wasn't for the blood that covered his hands from a deep cut on the sole of his foot. "Sam!" Aeardis darted forward and knelt at the hobbit's side, soaking the edge of her elven cloak to clean away the dirt and debris from around the wound. She looked up at the rest of the Fellowship, "We must stop, Sam's foot needs to be tended to."

"We have not the time," Aragorn replied. Aeardis frowned and dug around in her pack until she found the cordial of Númenor. There was only one drop of the snow-flower juice left within the small vial. She unstoppered it in haste. "Oh no, Miss Aeardis," Sam protested, shaking his head despite the stinging tears that were gathering in his eyes, "I can't take the last bit."

Aeardis gave the hobbit a soft smile, "There is still a long way to go and you'll not be able to keep pace with simple bindings." Gingerly, she tilted up the vial until the last drop slid from the glass and into the center of the cut. The skin knitted itself together, not even scarring. The only indication of the injury was the smeared blood. Sam looked at the bottom of his foot and poked at the flesh, expecting it to be tender, but it wasn't, it was just as calloused as the rest of his foot. "Thank you," he said and she nodded, tucking away the empty vial and returning to help Boromir bear the weight of the elven boat.

They stopped that night and set up camp by the river, a common occurrence as of late. Aeardis turned toward the woods, it was her turn to gather firewood and a few seconds later Boromir had followed her until they reached a clearing. She was both angered and relieved that he had come with her. Their time together had been scarce and tense since leaving the realm of Galadriel. Aeardis knew it was because of the Ring, yet she was powerless to do anything against its treacherous influences. "I see the struggle in your eyes," she whispered, voice low and hoarse.

He turned his back to her and clenched his fists, still angered about the argument that had broken out between him and Strider. Yes, there is weakness. There is frailty. But there is courage also, and honor to be found in Men, he had said with pride and fading hope in his voice.

"The ranger has no care for our people. Nor do the elves. We stand alone in this," he spat. Within the span of a second, it was as if Boromir had been replaced by Denethor. Denethor had spoken words so similar that it made her want to slap him if only to make him see what was happening. "If only Gondor had the enemy's-" he muttered, beginning to pace.

Aeardis stepped into his path and placed her hand on his cheek, "Boromir." He looked down at her and the madness in his eyes was quailed, if only for a second. "Stay with me," she pleaded, "this is not you. This is not who you are." This is not the man I love. Turning away, she began gathering kindling and thick branches alike to bring back to the camp.

Aeardis sat next to Aragorn at the river's edge with tears brimming her eyes. He was sharpening his sword and attaching dark feather fletching to a handful of crude arrows. In the time since leaving Rivendell, she felt that no one in the company was a stranger, not even Legolas, but Aragorn still remained a stranger to her. An enigma that she could not place. It was as if he belonged in the stories that her father had told her from an age long past.

"It was good of you, to heal Sam's foot," he said after a moment, understanding that nothing else in this world could compare to the cordial of Númenor. "It was an invaluable gift." Aragorn looked at Aeardis, tracing over the lines of her face only to find that she was the spitting image of her mother. A dark-haired beauty with eyes that could drown a man if he looked for too long, yet in everything else, she was very much like Ohtar. "How is your father?" Aragorn asked.

She felt her ears twitch and burn with curiosity, "You know of him?"

He nodded, "From many years ago, we fought together."

Aeardis pursed her lips and looked down at her hands, there were some moments where it still seemed impossible to think that her father was dead. It seemed like that had been a lifetime ago now. "He was killed in an orc ambush while traveling back to Minas Tirith. It's been more than two decades since his passing," Her voice had gone impeccably quiet.

"I am sorry to hear it, he was a good man." Aragorn reached for Aeardis's hand, though hesitant at first, she placed her hand in his. The tips of his fingers danced over the blue stone of the elven ring in appreciation and traced down the ancient writing on the band. He knew little of magic rings asides from the most powerful ones that Celebrimbor and Sauron had forged. "The Lady of the Wood has given you a precious gift, a relic of a time long passed." He looked forlorn and even his voice held the same type of hopelessness.

"My father used to tell me that good people were like candles," a brief smile flashed across her features at the memory, "they burn themselves up trying to give others light." It was a metaphor that he had used to describe her mother. Aeardis took Aragorn's calloused hand and gave it a feeble type of reassuring squeeze. "You have given hope to many, Aragorn, at least try to keep an ounce of it for yourself.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The morning came and with it calm and swift currents. After two days at a sluggish pace, it was a welcomed change to watch the forests and white cliffs pass from within the boat. Aeardis halted the rolling motion of her oar when there was a slight tug on her hair. She half expected it to be Boromir, as he had often tormented her as a child, but it was Pippin. The hobbit had begun to weave her hair into a simple plait. When he had finished, she looked over her shoulder to thank him and caught Boromir's lingering gaze and smile. That looked faded into awe when they came around the river bend.

"The Argonath," Boromir breathed, looking up. Above them were two large statues of the Kings of Old. Isildur and Anárion were hewn of stone and stood upon either side of the Anduin, wielding sword and axe with their arms extended forward, marking the northernmost entrance to Nen Hithoel. Aeardis glanced back at the two hobbits who whispered excitements and then to Boromir, who wore a wistful smile. "The northern borders of our realm," he said and she nodded, feeling a swell of some undiscernible emotion well up in her chest. It feels like going home.

It was still early in the day and with the timing they had made since departure at first light, Aragorn waved toward the western shore, where they could take lunch and rest before turning eastward to cross Nen Hithoel. The roar of Rauros-falls could be heard in the distance, its thick mist rose on the horizon.

"Where is Boromir?" Aeardis asked as she turned from the river with heavy leather-skins filled with water. Her gaze had fallen to where his shield was propped up against a tall tree. Gimli glanced around the camp. "Where's Frodo?" the dwarf asked. She felt her heart drop. Aeardis darted to the tree line, but Aragorn stopped her, telling her to remain at the camp with Merry and Pippin. Though reluctant, she agreed.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

He was in disbelief at what he had just done. He was not the man everyone believed him to be, had told him he was. Even Boromir the Brave, Captain of the White Tower, beloved son of Gondor, was not immune to the call of the Ring, no matter how good his intentions were. Like a drunk man, he wandered the hill of Amon Hen.

The fallen leaves rustled under his stumbling feet. Every so often he would call out for Frodo but no hobbit appeared. A sharp metallic clang faintly rang through the forest and Boromir drew his sword and ran back towards the others. Over the crest of a rise, he found Merry and Pippin surrounded by Uruk-hai. Leaping, he landed in front of the hobbits and started to fight.

He stabbed and slashed at the Uruks who approached. The first wave eased and putting the Great Horn to his lips, blew a blast. "Run!" He told Merry and Pippin, as the second wave of Uruks approached. Giving a little ground, he stood firm to allow them to escape. Sweat trickled down his temple as he hacked and blocked their blows.

He noticed a large Uruk who seemed to be in command, but he had not had the opportunity to engage him yet. Where are Aragorn and Legolas? He thought to himself. Another horn blast and he dug his shoulder into a charging Uruk and flipped him over before dispatching him. And then he thought of Aeardis and prayed that she would not come for him, not now.

The war cries of Merry and Pippin invigorated him. "Go!" The Captain commanded before returning his attention to the enemy. He had just finished with one of them when the first arrow hit.

Boromir gasped in surprise at the black shaft which now stuck out of his chest before falling to his knees. What started out as a dull pain, quickly increased. But, the heavy tread of the Uruk-hai kept coming. Swallowing hard, he stood and blocked their attacks and returned with a few fatal blows of his own. He could not fail Merry and Pippin, and he could not leave Aeardis alone in this world, not now.

The blinding pain forced him to fall to his knees as a second arrow protruded from his torso. All air had been knocked out of him and a pounding, like the drums in Moria, started in his head.

Merry and Pippin stared at him and he recognized the fear on their faces. His heart fell and he knew he had failed them. But, not until his last breath would he stop fighting. Struggling to his feet, he blocked the swing of a scimitar, slashing at the orc's stomach. There was a crack and a then blow to the stomach. In that moment, he was truly lost. All strength left him, and he kneeled on the ground, dazed, listening to the yell of his friends as they charged to attack.

The orcs picked them up by their throats as if they were nothing. The hobbits' grunts and gasping filled his ears but he could do nothing but watch as they were carried away, calling to him.

Sorrow mingled with the pain and guilt within him. Thoughts of his brother, soon to be alone and facing the judgment of his father as he takes up the helm as Captain; his father, who will not receive the mighty gift he had requested from his firstborn; and his mother, whose face and smile he would look upon again soon. Though what brought him the most pain was the thought of his sweet sea bride.

Accepting his imminent death, he looked upon the Uruk captain with defiance and resignation. With slow deep breaths, he prepared himself for the final blow from the black arrow before his eyes. Aragorn struck the Uruk as he released, sending the arrow wide. Boromir fell backward against a rise in the ground, struggling to catch his breath and grip on reality.

She ran with his shield in hand, first cursing Merry and Pippin for running off and then fearing that she would not make it in time when she heard the long cry of the Horn of Gondor. But when she came to the small clearing in the woods her fear had come to be a reality. "No!" she screamed. Aragorn shouted for her and for a moment Boromir felt cold fear run through his veins as the large Uruk turned his heinous gaze in her direction.

"Boromir," she cried, falling to her knees at his side, trembling hands cradling his bloodied and pale face. He reached for one of the arrows and wrapped his hand around the thick shaft of it, meaning to pull it out, but she stayed his hands. "Leave it," she pleaded, but he did not wish to seem weak in her eyes, not after the atrocity he had just committed.

Tears had quickly gathered in her eyes as she fumbled to stall the bleeding. Boromir lifted his gloved hand to her cheek and wiped away a single tear with a pained grimace. "Please, my heart, do not cry." It may have been foolish, but she always thought of Boromir as untouchable, unkillable, a great hero of Gondor who would win every battle and live into old age, despite the many times he had come to her bloodied and bruised. She gripped onto his hand and held it against her chest. "How can I not? You're hurt," she said in a hoarse whisper.

"'Tis only a scratch." Even with the tears that streamed down her face, she smiled, but it faded when he coughed and blood gathered at the corner of his lips, falling into the golden stubble on his chin and cheek. "I'm sorry," he said as if those words would be enough to console her.

Aeardis shook her head, "Don't speak like that. Oldulen an edraith agnin." She pulled free the vial of snow-flower cordial, hoping that another drop had settled but every bit had been spent, it was empty. She clutched the empty vial to her chest and bent forward, pressing her cheek against his shoulder and watched for the slow and strained rise and fall of his chest. Please, Ilúvatar, she pleaded, hoping that he would hear her cries in this moment of dire need if there is truly an ounce of elven blood in me let it be used to save him. Do not let Mandos take him from me. I love him.

The words came to her, effortlessly, as if she had been born already knowing them and the power of the chant. "Anor valthen, togo laugas lín nestad enin gûr hen. Ceven dhaer, anno vellas lín enin 'raw hen. Suil Annui, erio thûl lín i faer hen." A pale light engulfed Aeardis. The words flowed from her lips like a song, thrice over until she was trembling and sobbing, but something had occurred, the likes of which the world had not seen in many years. The pallor that had overcome Boromir's skin faded and fresh blood did not spill from his wounds, though he remained unmoving, Aeardis was left cold and trembling.

Translations:

Oldulen an edraith agnin. - I'm here to save you.

Anor valthen, togo laugas lín nestad enin gûr hen. Ceven dhaer, anno vellas lín enin 'raw hen. Suil Annui, erio thûl lín i faer hen. - Golden Sun, may your warmth bring healing to this heart. Great earth, may you give your strength to this body. Western Winds, may your breath lift this spirit.