Boromir choked back the ragged sob that threated to escape his throat, his chest heaving as he blindly ran through the halls of the citadel. Tears streamed down his face and he thought them poison as he angrily rubbed the sleeve of tunic against his face, though nothing would stop the torrent as the world streamed around him, flashes of white and blue and grey as he made his way deeper and deeper into the vaults of the library.

He tore through the occasional spiderweb with a wave of his hand, the ancient tunnels silent save for his footfalls. Boromir tried desperately to erase the images of his mother from his mind as his father had wept at her side, how his shoulders had shaken as he locked his fingers with her pale, cold own. The faint, small smile that had often pressed into his hair, the soft voice that reminded him to do his chores and not to bother the guardsman…all of it was gone.

And it was not fair.

In his grief, his father had roared for Boromir and Faramir to leave as he had knelt at her unmoving side, her hair fanned about her head as she had laid so perfectly still that Boromir had at first thought her to be sleeping. Faramir had been motionless, his eyes wide with disbelief as he watched his father grieve, stepping forward slowly as if unsure of what was truly happening. Boromir trembled, his throat and eyes burning with a renewed intensity as he fled farther and farther away from the familiar halls and deeper into the tunnels, wishing to escape everything as he remembered how his father had lashed out at his younger brother, a blind rage in his eyes as he spat for Faramir to leave, to be gone.

Faramir had trembled at this, his small lip quivering as Boromir had wrapped his arms around him, wishing nothing more than to shelter him from the pain as they ran from the room. He had felt the delicate bones of his brother shake as he had sobbed into Boromir's shoulder and had been strong, had bitten back the cries that threated to pour from his own throat so that Faramir might have one thing to hold onto in his grief and pain, might have one security in all this.

Faramir had eventually fallen asleep out of sheer exhaustion, his little body unable to take the weight of grief any longer, and Boromir had carefully carried him back to his room and tucked him beneath the silk sheets. He had watched his brother curl into a small ball, his brown curls falling over his tear-streaked face as he had nuzzled into the pillow. It was then that he allowed himself to feel the pain of his mother's death, to unlock the grief he had kept within his heart for the sake of his brother.

And so it was that he had blindly run to a place where no one would search for him, had sought refuge in the dusty tunnels of the library amidst the cobwebs and flickering torchlight. The hall before him swam through his weeping eyes as he gave into his pain and hurt, turning a corner and falling against the wall as he sobbed openly. He closed his eyes, resting his head against the dusty marble as his shoulders heaving as his weeping broke the peace in the silent corridors around him. He stumbled forward, his weight uneven as his head pounded with the intensity of his grief, and blinked in confusion as he saw a dusty statue at the end of the hallway, its features obscured beneath a thick layer of dust and webs as it flickered in the torchlight.

Confused, he looked over his shoulder and moved forward, desperate from something to help him ignore everything for but a moment. Boromir had rarely entered the library to begin with, for he found the smell of books rather disagreeable and much preferred the musk of leather and steel, but realized he had never been down this passage before. Roughly brushing away his tears, he approached the statue and looked up at it, brushing away the layers and layers of cobwebs as his tears slowed momentarily. A few minutes later and, to his surprise, he found himself staring into the marble face of a young woman.

Minas Tirith was adorned with hundreds of intricate sculptures, but women were rarely cast into marble and even amongst those, he had never seen such a detailed creation as the one that stood before him, rivaling even the ancient kings that lined the throne room from atop their pedestals. She was younger than his mother, but just as fair; waves of hair falling over delicate shoulders captured within marble. A faint smile covered her beautiful features, her hands turned out as if in greeting as they rested by her slender hips. His eyes trailed the intricate swirls of her gown down to her unclad feet, then searched once more to her face as if he might find some clue to her identity. He searched the base of the statue for some mark or title, but found none.

It then occurred to him, in the back of his mind, that perhaps this had been the woman his mother had regaled Faramir with tales of, much to Boromir's embarrassment as he had turned on his side and buried his head in the pillow, for real men of Gondor did not need tales of women before their bedtimes. At this thought, the fresh grief welled up once more inside him, furious with himself for the times he had told his mother that he was too old for such stories, that he need not be bothered with her.

And now, he would give anything just to hear her soft voice once more, would do anything for one last tale as she ran her fingers through his hair and whispered her love.

He had not the strength to hold back his tears and fell to his knees, resting his face against the base of the statue as he wept emptily, calling out for his mother with reckless abandon as his broken voice rang through the abandoned halls. However, even in his sorrow, he felt some strange comfort as his hand reached to brush with that of the statue's, sensing some pity in the marble eyes of the maiden before him, some hope in her faint smile.

He was certain that his eyes deceived him, for the torchlight cast flickering shadows that danced across the swirled marble of the statue's serene features, but for a moment he thought he saw something like tears course down her face. He imagined as he wept, his fingers clutching her cold feet, that the maiden also wept for what had been taken from him, for the small light that had been too soon extinguished.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Boromir blinked slowly, surprised by the morning rays that streamed down upon him as he shifted to look down at Amera. It seemed only a few hours ago that he had carried her fragile form into the keep and managed to find an empty corner to rest in for the remainder of the night as sounds of the tempest echoed through the narrow halls. Not surprisingly, she had been asleep by the time he carefully laid her down, having passed the point of exhaustion long ago, but his heart had swelled as she had rested her head upon his chest as he lay beside her, curling up beside him even as she slumbered, as if it were some sort of instinct while he lifted his cloak to cover them both.

But now, the sun had already risen into the sky and he wished nothing more than continue to lay beside her, to feel the welcome weight of her head rise and fall with his chest, but much needed to be attended to as the great shadow of battle loomed ever closer over the copper plains. He ran his fingers absently through Amera's hair as he looked down at her, watching her dark lashes tremble briefly at the movement, and he knew that she would persevere. It would be difficult, for while the weight of grief was nearly too great to bear even for him, it was certainly more so for Amera. Yet, he gently pressed his lips into her tousled curls, Amera would fight on as ever she had against pain she should never have known.

With a quiet sigh, he shifted and slipped his hands beneath Amera's delicate form as he maneuvered her as gently as he could, smiling with relief and contentment as she did stir as he rose. He straightened his robe, which he noted glumly was still yet damp in a few spots, and looked down upon her once more with a faint smile as he watched her shift absently, murmured words escaping from her mouth as she pulled his cloak tightly around her. She looked so profoundly peaceful, almost childlike as her tangled curls fell around her pale features that he was finally content to leave her, assured that she would be alright when she awoke.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

"How are we supposed to train soldiers, Gimli," Boromir growled, his jaw set as he sighed deeply, "When all I see before me are nervous children and weary elders?"

Gimli looked down at this, clearly equally frustrated as he ran a hand through his beard and leaned against the wall, "Just show them the basics, lad, they're not askin' for much."

"The basics?" He snorted at this, "If by basics you mean how to so much as grip a sword, then I have to agree." He then winced as a bit of pain flared up in his cheek along the three jagged lines that now moved along his cheekbone, holding a hand up as he grimaced. The wound had been cleaned and had been less severe than he had first thought, for the warg's rough claws had dealt him an incredible amount of pain as it has slashed out at him, but nonetheless he would be marked with scars.

An alarming number of Theoden's finest had perished during the skirmish on the plains or were too wounded to be of any use and Eomer's riders could be scattered anywhere across Rohan, he knew. Boromir had nonetheless assumed, when a nervous looking captain had asked him to help inspect the soldiers yesterday, that there were be a decent amount of those prepared for the battle. Instead, his spirits had plunged as his eyes had wandered over the rows of the feeble and terrified, some clad in battered steel no doubt handed down by their fathers and others clad in weathered leather.

As he had looked over them, Boromir had struggled to keep the growing despair out of his eyes as his gaze fell upon their crude swords, rusted and worn to the point where he genuinely doubted their very ability to cut through parchment, much less pierce the heavy armor of Saruman's army. He had known that the Rohirrim would not even compare to the seasoned veterans he had commanded in Gondor, their swords shining proudly in the light as the banners emblazoned with the White Tree had swirled above their heads as they charged forth, nothing could have prepared him for the absolute despair that washed over him as he realized how profoundly doomed the men of Rohan were. He all too well known the might of the Uruk-Hai, knew the strengths of their blows and the merciless frenzy of their battle and against such, the people of Rohan had no hope.

Boromir then glanced towards Legolas, who had been silent this entire time, his focus seemingly entirely on his bow as he ran slender fingers along the intricate swirls engraved into the wood. Rather angered by the elf's perceived lack of interest, he tilted his chin and said roughly, "And you, Legolas, have you nothing to say on the matter?" Legolas simply stared and Boromir's lip curled as he slammed his hands against the wall, his voice rising, "Care you nothing for the plight of us mortals?"

Legolas' pale eyes briefly flickered with anger and went to stride towards Boromir, but Gimli quickly jumped between the two, holding his hands up as he intoned, "Calm yourselves, friends. Now's not the time for such disagreements."

Boromir sighed angrily and ran a hand through his hair, looking away as he bit the corner of his lip and replied lowly, "Forgive me, Legolas. I meant not my words." Before the elf could reply, Boromir turned and strode away, desperate for fresh air and a moment to clear his head.

He walked out of the hall and up the stone stairs, breathing in the afternoon air as he reached the final tier of the fortress and looked out over the plains with a deep exhale. He rested his hands against the stone wall, his heart yearning for what lay in the distance amidst the proud mountains, their white peaks glistening beneath the bright sun. Boromir wondered what had become of the men he had led into battle, their dirtied faces looking up to him with the dark gleam of battle in the eyes, and of his father, and of Faramir…

He blinked as he heard quiet footsteps, glancing over his shoulder as he searched for its source. Much to his surprise, his gaze fell upon a young girl who appeared to be reaching the brink of adolescence, wide green eyes staring nervously up at him as flaxen hair tumbled over her shoulders. Her fair face was smudged with dirt and he detected a small bruise on her cheek, but perked a brow as he noticed the battered sword she held out to him with trembling hands that struggled to keep the weight.

Boromir immediately knelt and helped her steady the blade, tilting his head as he questioned, "You need to be careful, little one, a sword is not a toy."

"I…I wanted to ask you something, my lord." She whispered, then lowered her gaze as she gnawed the corner of her lip, clearly nervous as her gaze fell to the floor.

He smiled gently at this, taking her chin into his hand as he guided her gaze towards his own. "What's your name, dear?"

"Taryneth, my lord," She nodded proudly, tilting her chin up as she feigned confidence, "Daughter of Durnston."

"Well, Taryneth," He grinned a bit, nodding to the sword as he carefully took it from her hands, "I believe you need to return this to your brothers or your father."

She lowered her gaze once again and he saw a deep sadness in her vibrant eyes as she whispered, "My father and brothers are dead, my lord." He watched as she swallowed hard, lifting her gaze to meet his as she nodded, "That's why I need your help."

"I…I fear do I do not understand, Taryneth."

Her quiet voice rose slightly, trembling with anger as she stated, "The men won't let me train with them. How am I to protect my mother and sister if no one will help?"

Boromir was quiet for a long moment, touched by the quiet determination of the girl as she continued, "And I've seen you with the Aeliniel," She nodded furiously, a little grin appearing across her face, "I figured since you know her, so you can teach me!"

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Amera smiled softly as she leaned against the pillar, watching as Boromir looked around cautiously, then helped the girl wrap her hands around the hilt of the blade. She wavered, unused to the sudden weight and he laughed as he helped to steady her, kneeling beside her as he helped her through the motions of parrying and thrusting. The girl grinned up at him, her eyes wide as she watched the sword shine in the light, both nervous and thrilled as she no doubt learned what the others had refused to teach her.

It was out of suffering, she knew then, that such hope was born.