Chapter 17

It was dark. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Boromir knew he must be asleep, that he had to be dreaming. But there were no images, only sounds, voices in the dark, murmuring in tones that became more and more heated as the words became clearer to him.

"... a mistake that must be remedied!" a man called out, with a voice deep and rolling like thunder.

"How can you call it a mistake?" a woman cried, a voice he recognized, only now it was high-pitched like a gale wind blowing through a creaking forest, "How can you look at him and call this a mistake? How can you look at HER and call it a mistake?!"

"This is not how the song was sung, Yavanna," another male voice, decisive and steady, "You know this. We understand your feelings for the girl, but Mandos is correct. This must be put right."

Boromir shuddered despite himself. Mandos, keeper of the Halls of the Dead. Yavanna, a name he was becoming increasingly familiar with. What manner of conversation was he being made privy to? To what end had the Valar had been called together?

"My lord, Manwe-"

The name and Yavanna's deferent tone made Boromir's breath catch in his throat.

"-with all due respect, I don't believe that you do understand. He saved her life. How can I not grant him the same?"

"You have promised that which you do not have the power to grant!" The booming voice of Mandos proclaimed, "It is not your place to give life to those who have no right to it!"

"Peace, my lord," another woman's voice murmured, but her quiet tone held enough power to silence the angry Valar, "Yavanna did as her heart led her. I do not doubt that we would all do the same if our places were exchanged. Love sometimes forgets previously familiar boundaries."

"Well spoken, my love," Manwe said, "But the problem persists."

There was a long pause, and then a heavy sigh.

"The world remains unbalanced, so long as Boromir, the Son of Gondor, lives."

Boromir woke with a start. He pushed himself upright and threw off his furs, putting his feet flat on the cold, stone floor, trying to orient himself, to put distance between the dream and his waking world. His heart was pounding and his stomach felt clenched in a knot. He ran a hand through his hair and discovered he was damp with sweat. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, assuring himself that he was indeed awake. But the words of the dream echoed in his mind even now.

The world remains unbalanced so long as Boromir, the Son of Gondor, lives…

They were harsh words. Even though he knew that in some way Melody had saved his life, that he shouldn't be living, he had never thought it would be a matter to bring the Valar into conference, or be the topic of such heated discussion. They were fighting over his very life. He felt a wave of indignant outrage. Did he have no say in the matter? Should he not have at least a few words in his own defense, to state his own case? It was clear that Yavanna was pleading valiantly on his behalf, but would that be enough? Should they not hear what he had to say?

And what would I say? He wondered dejectedly. What reason could I give them that I should continue to live my meager existence? I have betrayed my country, my father, those that I love most. What reason do I have to keep living?

As if in answer, Melody's face floated out of the blackness of his mind and wavered before him in his mind's eye. Where would she go if something were to happen to him? How would she survive in this world that was still so strange to her even now, after many months of living among them? Who would look after her if he were not there, with all her other friends fighting their own battles? How could they rip him away from her now?

He sighed and stood, softly making his way across the room until he reached the closed door. He pressed his hand against it, knowing that through thick wooden planks and roughly ten feet of open space lay his savior, the woman who had been through unimaginable torment and grief, all to save his pathetic life. And still, despite everything, she could find it in her heart to say that she thought he was a good man. He leaned his forehead against the door and closed his eyes. How could the Valar throw all of that away? Did it truly mean nothing to them?

He heard a bell begin to toll out the time. It was just an hour until dawn.

Then Melody screamed.

It was cold. And it was black. Mel started to shake. She strained her eyes, but there was nothing to see. She strained her ears but there was nothing to hear. Then, out of the darkness came a distant clanging. She went rigid. What was this? Where was she?

Suddenly the darkness lifted and she was in the little round room. Her prison, in Orthanc. She gasped and tried to run, but she was yanked back by the chains that held her to the damp, stone wall. The clanging continued, drawing steadily closer. She whirled in a panic, trying to find the source of the noise, but she already knew the source, she had always known it, there was nothing else. Saruman was here, he was coming, he was going to take it from her, she was going to die!

She struggled against her shackles, but they held her fast. There had to be a way, she had to get loose, she had to get away! The clanging was right on top of her now, slow and rolling. Whatever it was, it was coming for her, she knew it, it was some kind of device meant to torture her, to kill her, to take the Yavannacor away once and for all. Finally, the door swung open. Light flooded the tiny room. And she could see the cloaked figure of the White Wizard silhouetted in the doorway.

She screamed…

Mel shot out of bed and flew across the room, running blindly, still screaming. She was trapped, she was cornered, she needed to get out! She could still hear the distant clanging. Her door was flung open and she ran straight into someone blocking her way. She backpedaled and struggled, trying to wrench herself free of her captor's grasp, but he held her tightly around the shoulders and she couldn't break loose.

"Let me go! Please, please, don't hurt me, just let me go!" she screamed, still struggling uselessly.

Then she heard his voice, Boromir's voice.

"Melody! Melody, what's wrong? What's happened?"

It was like a spell had been broken and the remnants of her dream faded, chased away by the concern and kindness in his voice. A sob escaped her as she buried her face in his chest, not particularly caring right then who saw them or what polite society dictated she should do in this situation. She just clung to him, her heart pounding and her body shaking violently, trying to gasp for air. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly, rubbing her back and making soothing noises.

"It's alright, Melody. It's going to be alright. No one is going to hurt you, I promise, I won't let anyone hurt you."

After what felt like an eternity (but was probably only a few minutes), she was finally able to catch her breath and stop shivering. She managed to push herself back, feeling more than a little bit embarrassed. After all, it was just a stupid dream. She had obviously worried Boromir for no reason at all. She sniffed and rubbed her eyes, trying to avoid looking at him.

"Sorry, I guess I had a nightmare" she muttered stupidly, kicking herself even as the words fell out of her mouth, "I didn't mean to wake you up."

"I was already awake."

Mel caught a glimpse of him (tousled hair, naked chest, and bare feet) and decided that she seriously doubted that. But while she was making that assumption, he gently took her face in his hands and forced her to look up at him. As she stared into his soft, gray eyes her heart started stuttering and her breath got shallow, even as she reprimanded herself for being such an overreacting, hopelessly silly romantic.

"Melody," he murmured and her heart skipped an entire beat, "I had a..."

"Oh gracious!"

Mel recognized Hildwyn's sharp voice and she stumbled out of Boromir's touch, her face burning. The serving woman was standing just outside the door, her face as red as Mel's face felt. God, this must look as awful as she imagined it looked. Here she was, standing with a half-naked man that she was traveling with alone! She imagined that tongues were already flapping in all corners of Edoras and now this! It didn't matter that nothing had happened, that in all probability nothing was ever going to happen. What mattered was that it looked like something had happened, and god, she just wished that the floor would open up and swallow her…

After half a moment of shocked silence, Hildwyn recovered herself enough to start stuttering out excuses.

"Begging your pardon, I was just bringing some things, but I can come back in a moment, I have other matters I can see to..."

"That won't be necessary."

Mel stared up at Boromir. His face was smooth and his voice was calm and level, as if Hildwyn had stumbled onto nothing unusual at all, as if he and Mel were simply having a mundane, unimportant conversation that had been unexpectedly interrupted. Mel was in awe.

"I was simply making certain that Lady Melody was awake. We have a long journey ahead of us and I wish to be off as soon as possible."

Mel glanced at Hildwyn and it was easy to see that she wasn't buying it. She might be a simple woman, but she wasn't stupid. Mel guessed that was also why she simply nodded her head at Boromir.

"Very well, my lord, forgive my intrusion, but I have a few things that the Lady Melody might find helpful for the journey. If you'll excuse us."

With that, Hildwyn bustled herself into the room, forcing Boromir to take a few steps back to allow her in, and then promptly shut the door in his face.

Mel just stood there staring, dumbfounded, and not quite sure what to do with herself. But Hildwyn seemed to have put the whole situation out of her mind and hurried right on past her, tossing an armful of things onto the bed.

"Now then, I've been sent to provide you some things you'll be sorely needing in the days ahead, I'll wager. These are treacherous times and one can't be too prepared I always say. I've brought you some decent clothes to ride around the countryside in, simple but they do the job."

Mel took a few tentative steps forward and peeked over Hildwyn's shoulder as the woman spread a white shirt and a pair of brown leggings over the bed. Hildwyn just carried on chattering.

"You can keep the dress you've got if you like, it's not much, but you never know when you might need a good, sturdy dress in polite company. You've got yourself a decent pair of boots there, but there's an extra pair just in case, in that little pack you came with, thought about replacing that too, but I let it be, to each their own and all that. Ah!"

Mel jumped back a little when Hildwyn suddenly cried out triumphantly and whipped around to face her, looking terribly pleased with herself.

"By special request of the Lady herself."

She held a rough leather belt in her hand, which was attached to a sword. The sheath was plain like the belt and the hilt of the sword wasn't elaborate, just plain gold with some kind of woven pattern on the grip. Mel remembered, with a sudden lurch of guilt, Elladan's gift to her, the beautiful elven sword that was now lost god-only-knew-where. She hadn't seen hide nor hair of it since Amon Hen. She had lost her friend's gift, with no way of getting back. Mel swallowed another wave of guilt. Hildwyn didn't seem to notice. She unsheathed the sword in one fluid motion and held it out to Mel.

"Do you know how to use this, girly?"

Mel nodded and took the hilt, weighing it carefully before she gave it a few practice swings.

"It's a bit heavier than what you might be used to in Rivendell, all that elvish nonsense," Hildwyn said, watching her with sharp eyes, hands on her hips, "But it's good craftsmanship, won't notch easy, and it serves it's purpose. Lady Eowyn insisted that you have one and I firmly agree. There's all kinds of beasties and goblins out there, a woman needs to be able to defend herself."

Mel continued to work the sword, twisting and slicing through the air, trying to get acquainted with the blade. Hildwyn was right, it was much heavier than her other sword had been. Her movements were clumsy and slow. She felt shamefully out of practice. Of course the last time she had gripped a sword she had been thinking less about proper form and more about staying alive. The unbidden image of orcs charging down the forested hill made her shudder and she nearly dropped the sword. She swallowed and took the belt from Hildwyn, sheathing the blade before she could embarrass herself any more.

"Thank you, Hildwyn. And thank the Lady Eowyn for me. The kindness of you both has been more than I could have imagined."

Hildwyn snorted, "Thank the Lady yourself, I'm sure she'll see you off. Now, if you'll excuse me there's packing still to be done and we leave in a scant hour."

Without another word, Hildwyn strutted out the door, shutting it firmly behind her. As soon as she was gone, an anxious energy set Mel's nerves tingling. For lack of anything else to do with herself, she walked to a small washbasin and splashed cold water on her face to try to settle herself. When that didn't work, she quickly dressed and worked at packing away the rest of her things in her bag, including the dress. Even though Hildwyn had worded it at optional, Mel felt that it might be rude to leave it behind. Besides, she did like it. It was comfortable and simple, easy to maintain. And Hildwyn was right, you really never knew when you might need a good dress around here. She ran a hand through her hair, forcing away the sick feeling in her stomach when her fingers only combed to her jawline. She buckled the sword around her waist and finally clasped on her cloak, the same cloak that had survived hell with her and kept coming back for more. She reminded herself to thoroughly question Elrohir about it when she made it back to Rivendell.

She glanced at herself in the mirror. The clothes looked as if they'd actually been tailored to fit a woman, not baggy and shapeless like the others had. All in all, she looked ready to face the world again. But as much as she tried to ignore it, her eyes kept straying to the dark reddish-purple mark on her forehead. If even her eyes were drawn there, others would be drawn there as well. The last thing she wanted was for some idiot to ask her, 'Hey, how'd you get that scar?' smiling like a drunken moron expecting a good story. She wasn't ready to tell that story yet. She wasn't sure she'd ever be ready to tell it. Unconsciously, her hand strayed to the Yavannacor, twisting it around and around on her finger until she realized what she was doing and clasped her hands together like a little girl who'd been caught biting her nails. She sighed and straightened the clasp on her cloak, even though it hadn't needed it, and gave herself a pep talk.

"Alright, Mel, listen up. You've been through hell, there's no use denying it. But it's time to suck it up now. You have more important things to worry about, your stupid vanity is gonna have to take a back seat. You got that? Okay, you can do this. You can totally do this. So let's get it over with."

With that, she slung her pack over her shoulders, marched over to her door, yanked it open, and froze. Boromir was standing in the hall, now fully dressed, as if he had been waiting on her. Mel felt herself blush. God, had he heard her little pep talk just now?

But his face remained passive and his tone all business.

"Good, I was just coming to fetch you. I'm glad to see that you are prepared."

He gestured to her waist and Mel put a hand on the hilt of the sword.

"I had thought to ask the Lady Eowyn about that," he said, "But it seems she had the same thought."

Mel felt her heart sink a little as she heard that touch of admiration in his voice again. But she yanked herself back up again as quickly as she could and managed a convincing smile. Boromir returned it and gestured toward the dark hallway.

"Come, it's nearly dawn. We'll walk to the stables."

He strode forward and once again Mel found herself hurrying to keep up with his long stride. Apparently, when the dress was gone so was the need for formality because they simply walked side by side, not arm in arm. Mel tried to think of as a good thing. They should start setting boundaries after all. Mel didn't know exactly what to expect in Minas Tirith, but she had a sneaking suspicion that the code of conduct would err more on the side of caution than not, especially if it concerned the first born son of the Steward. She needed to get used to keeping her distance. Maybe it wouldn't be such a shock to her system when they got there. Maybe it would help her be more realistic.

She wanted to pause and have a look at the tapestry of Helm Hammerhand one more time, but Boromir blew right past it without even a glance. Mel caught a glimpse of gray, white and gold and then it was gone, lost behind her in the dim, pre-dawn corridor. It was then that she realized she was really leaving Edoras. Most likely she would never come here again. And she had seen so very little of it. She felt a deep burning hole of regret in her stomach that made her eyes tear up. She brushed furiously at the wetness, but the burning still remained. She had missed so much and now it was too late. There was nothing she could do.

They rushed through the dark and empty Golden Hall, not even a coal burning in the hearth before the throne, and out into the brisk morning air. The sky was gray and Mel could still see a faint glimmering of stars on the western horizon even as the east began to glow deep purple, the sun not far from rising. There was a lot of clatter and shouting and rushing about as the Rohirrim loaded up the last of their belongings and prepared to move out, heading for Dunharrow where they would await the return of the men from Helm's Deep. Mel didn't know how long it would take for word to reach them that the battle had been won. She hoped it was not too long. She knew that the king would first visit Isengard before making his way homewards. Aragorn would reach the people first, but that would be days from now. Surely they would send messengers so that no one would be stuck worrying needlessly. Surely...

Boromir strode purposefully down the main road, Mel following close on his heels. He hadn't been kidding when he had assured Eowyn that he knew his way. He had clearly been here before. Mel could see people watching them pass out of the corner of her eye, some of them turning to neighbors, gesturing and pointing. Mel wondered what they were saying.

Oh look there goes that crazy woman who dresses like a man… She was sure a sight when they came in last night… She's lucky the Steward's son takes pity on her… It's not proper that they should be riding together...

Mel didn't let her thoughts stray any further than that and spent the remainder of the walk pointedly ignoring the people on the side of the road, concentrating only on the dirt in front of her.

There was a great cluster of activity up ahead. They had reached the stables. Men and women hurried back and forth, tacking up horses and loading them with saddlebags or whatever they could carry before they were led away. It felt a little like gearing up at rodeo only much less buoyant, with a taste of something almost like panic in the air. Mel made sure to keep her eyes locked on Boromir's back as he expertly maneuvered through the crowd, but still she was struggling to keep up. Finally he glanced back and, without a word, took her hand in a firm grip and tugged her forward, headed toward a large open doorway. Mel dropped her eyes to the ground, grateful for the help, but at the same time scared of seeing any odd or accusing looks that might be thrown her way. And still a tiny part of her reveled in the warm tingling that crept into her hand at his touch.

Effortlessly they slipped into the stable and Mel's nose was suddenly flooded with familiar scents, leather, sweat and fresh hay. She took a deep breath as they walked, remembering summers riding with her uncle, her sisters racing their horses pell-mell across the pastures, chasing rabbits. She felt a twinge of homesickness that she quickly shoved aside. Boromir led her to the back of the stable, winding through the crowd that got thinner the farther in they went, until it was reduced to only a scattering of stable-hands.

They approached one of the hands just finishing saddling up a huge black horse. The black fidgeted, tossing his head and stepping away from the patient fingers of his handler. The young man glanced up and straightened at their approach.

"He's almost ready, my lord."

"I see," Boromir said, rubbing the giant's soft nose with his free hand, "Well met again, Deor."

The horse snorted and leaned into Boromir's hand. Mel gaped.

"My god," she whispered, "He's beautiful."

And he was. He had to be almost seventeen hands high, broad and strong with the most beautiful pure black coat Mel had ever seen. Boromir smiled and pulled her forward.

"Forgive me, I believe introductions are in order. Lady Melody, may I present Deor, a lord among horses."

"I believe it," Mel said, holding out her hand for Deor to sniff before she reached up to run her fingers through his silky forelock.

"He has seen me through many trials." Boromir murmured.

There was a pause. Finally the stable-hand cleared his throat.

"Would the lady care to see her own steed?"

Mel grinned, "I'd love to."

She gave Deor a final scratch and followed the man to a stall across the aisle. He gestured inside.

"This is Lady Brytta."

A beautiful gray mare stuck her head over the door and peered at Mel intensely. She was not as tall or broad as Deor (which was probably good because he was a monster), but she seemed just as energetic. She shook her silver head and snorted, then did a full turn in her stall as if letting Mel take a good look at her. Then she poked her head back over the door and eyed Mel as if to say, "Your turn."

Mel smiled and held up her hand. Brytta sniffed it delicately, and then nudged it with her nose, nickering softly, a gesture that Mel assumed was approval. She reached up and stroked the faint white star in the center of the mare's forehead.

"I was certain she would take to you."

Mel turned and saw Lady Eowyn standing behind her, hands on her hips, a small smile tugging on the corners her lips. She wore a plain brown dress much like the one she'd had on last night, which made Mel wonder if it was in fact the same dress. Had the White Lady slept at all? If she hadn't, her expression wasn't giving her away. Her eyes flicked from the gray horse back to Mel, her smile widening when Brytta nudged Mel's shoulder gently.

"I had a good feeling," Lady Eowyn said, "I am pleased to see that I was correct." She turned to Boromir, "I trust you've found Deor to your liking, my lord."

Boromir inclined his head, "Of course, Lady Eowyn. I would expect nothing less of the horse-lords."

"I've instructed the cooks to load your saddlebags with enough provisions for a week's journey, should you have need of it."

"You are too kind."

That ghost of a smile threatened once again to appear on Eowyn's lips.

"I simply take care of my guests," she said, inclining her head politely, "I must go. Safe journey to you both. I hope you find your home in a better state than ours."

Before either Mel or Boromir could respond, Eowyn turned on her heel and strode away, the crowd parting reverently before her. Mel stared after her, appropriately awestruck.

"Well," said the stable-hand, breaking the silence with a clap of his hands and rubbing them together, "Let's get you on your way then."

He reached across Mel and unlatched the stall door, leading Brytta out to stand alongside Deor before handing her reins to Mel. The mare was already fully tacked, but Mel took a minute to check her over and make sure nothing had slipped loose. She was keenly aware of Boromir watching her the entire time, a tiny smile on his face. It made her a little nervous. She had seen him go over Deor a moment ago, so she knew that she wasn't committing some kind of social faux pas. So why did he look so damn amused?

The stable-hand stayed just long enough to make sure he was no longer needed, before scurrying away with a quick wish for a safe journey. Mel finished checking Brytta over before she whirled on Boromir, hands on her hips, trying to look annoyed.

"What exactly do you think is so funny?"

He shook his head, the smile still on his lips.

"Nothing, it's nothing."

Mel continued to give him her best 'I'm not buying it' look. He turned away, needlessly adjusting a strap on Deor's bridle.

"I am… simply pleased to see that not all our ways are unfamiliar to you."

She huffed and turned back to her horse, "Like I said, I'm not totally useless."

"I never said you were anything of the sort."

Mel kept her eyes firmly on Brytta, running a hand down the mare's smooth neck. She had imagined just a hint of tenderness in the way he said that and she had to take a moment to get a hold of herself, to remind herself that she was being an idiot. She grabbed Brytta's reins and, without waiting, led her through the dwindling throng into the stable yard. She also didn't wait for Boromir before she mounted up. She was astride Brytta and waiting patiently when he appeared out of the crowd, leading an overly excited Deor. The black tossed his head and pawed the ground impatiently.

"I know, my lord, we are going," Boromir said in amused annoyance, swinging into the saddle and holding the reins in tightly, "Can't let you go yet, you'll run someone down."

Deor tossed his head and snorted, as if to say that he didn't care in the least if he ran someone down. Brytta turned her head to stare at the giant fidgeting stallion. Then she let out a delicate huff and turned away from him, standing perfectly still, prim and proper, like a lady. Mel smiled and patted her neck.

"Atta girl. You show those rude boys how it's done."

"He isn't rude, he's simply impatient." Boromir said, but his eyes stayed on the stallion.

Mel smirked, "Patience is a virtue."

"One that neither he nor I seem to have much of," Boromir said, finally getting a firm hold on the horse, "Shall we, my lady?"

"I'm waiting on you," Mel said, still smirking, "You're the one who knows the way out of here."

Boromir laughed and took the lead, winding through the people gathering along the dirt road of the nearly deserted city. They passed through a small gate guarded only by a pair of sentries and, with a final salute, Boromir and Mel trotted out of Edoras and onto the open plains just as the sun peeked over the horizon.

"Victory! Victory!"

The king's cry echoed in Legolas' ears as he rode with the men of Rohan, thundering down the valley as they routed the enemy into the Deeping Coomb, his arrows flying as fast as he could string them, his horse riding down those that were too slow to get out of his way. But suddenly there was another shout and the company slid to a halt.

"Stay out of the forest!" Eomer was still shouting, cutting his horse in front of the men frantically, "Keep away from the trees!"

Legolas' mind started to race almost as fast as his heart.

There are no trees in Deeping Coomb…

He forced Arod forward, shoving between the men who shuffled and made room for him until he was on top of the ridge looking down into the valley. There it was. A sea of trees where none had been before. His heart skipped a wild beat and he could not help the wide smile that burst onto to his face.

"Mel!" he shouted, kicking Arod forward, determined to find her, to make sure that she was safe…

A hand on his arm pulled him up short.

"You will not find her there, Legolas," Gandalf said, his voice kind, but firm, "She is no more the cause of this than I."

"But the trees!" Legolas said, gesturing toward the forest that the dim morning light seemed reluctant to touch, "Surely…"

"I warned you to leave your feelings behind you in Fangorn, Prince of Mirkwood," Gandalf said, keeping a hold on his arm, "I would give you the same advice again. Melody Bernston is no longer your concern."

"She will always be my concern."

The words tumbled out of his mouth without thought or permission, but the truth in them shook him down to his bones. He pressed his lips together in a thin line and said no more. The wizard was studying him with a careful precision, his blue eyes piercing to his very soul. Then Gandalf smiled, but the expression was without cheer and that frightened Legolas more than any frown or angry words.

"That is what I feared," Gandalf murmured, squeezing his arm in a gesture reminiscent of comfort, "You have my sympathies, son of Thranduil. I fear that great sorrow lies in wait for you, sorrow the likes of which you have never known before."

Legolas felt as if he couldn't move, could barely breathe, paralyzed by the fear that was growing inside him. What did he mean? Had something happened to Mel? Would something happen to her?

Abruptly, Gandalf whirled Shadowfax and melted back into the army of men, leaving Legolas reeling and terrified.