Chapter Sixty
~ Eldarion ~
I knelt beside the body of the Man who had just saved my life, filled with remorse and guilt.
The battle was over now, of course, but I had been tending to one of the groups that had managed to escape the raging army of ghosts that were even now pouring into Minas Tirith, sweeping down any Orc unfortunate enough to have been caught in their path. Few had escaped; the dead were very good at their job. There had been little work left for the rest of us, save to make sure the Orcs really were dead and to search for our own and tend to our injured.
I had just finished off the last fleeing Orc when I had seen a flicker of motion at the edge of my eye and had whirled around just in time to see an injured, mutilated Orc command rise from the nearby pile of dead.
Before I could react, a crossbow bolt had flown at me, quicker than the eye or wind.
Then I heard a shout of rage and Boromir had appeared, jumping at the commander with a snarl on his face and his sword held high.
The bolt hit me then.
Luckily, it left behind only a scratch; the bolt had gone wide and if I had seen it a second earlier and jumped, I would have escaped it completely.
As it was, though, it added just enough force to my already off-balance stance, and I toppled ingloriously into the dirt, frantically rolling away from my sword so as not to plunge the blade into my own heart or arm or leg.
When I rolled to a stop, a foot slammed into my ribcage and knocked the wind out of me.
I heard the wheezing sound of the Orc, and I looked up through watering eyes to see it standing over me, another bolt knocked, slowly taking aim. The slowness was in part due to drawing out the agony as it was to the fresh slash to the creature's arms; it was deep and had to be taking its toll on the thing's ability to hold the crossbow.
Something grabbed the creature at the last minute; it fired reflexively as it whirled around.
There was a strangled gasp, the sound of knees in the dust.
Boromir had taken the arrow.
With an enraged shout, I pushed myself off the ground with unnecessary force and pain rippled through from my bruises. I flew at the Orc with all the speed I could muster, but it was already not enough, for another arrow suddenly flew out to bury itself in Boromir's chest.
I thrust my sword into the creature from behind, and it gave a gargling snarl as it died. I hacked it apart with savage force, determined that it remain dead this time.
I crawled around its corpse to his side, for the many arrows had finally taken their toll this time.
Boromir Denethorion was dying.
As soon as my fingers curled around the shaft of one of the arrows, Boromir's eyes fluttered open, filled with agonizing pain, and his hand shot up to clench mine in a steel grip.
"No," he croaked out.
"There's no other way I can save you," I said desperately. "Let me do it, Boromir; we can heal you! I know we can!"
"No," he repeated.
"Boromir – "
His grip on my hand tightened, and he stared at me with a feverish determination. "Tell her I'm sorry. For everything. Tell your sister I am sorry."
I stared at him. My brain couldn't comprehend what he was talking about. It had to be something big, something that meant something, for he knew he was dying and I could tell by his eyes that this wasn't some pain-induced hallucination gained moments before death as the soul passed into the Halls of Mandos.
But if it would lift his burden, I was willing to promise anything.
"Promise!" he insisted.
"I swear it. I'll tell her."
He relaxed, a sigh escaping his lips. "Then," he murmured, his voice dazed, "it is done."
"Boromir – "
"Let me see Minas Tirith . . . one . . . last . . . time."
I fought back tears as I carefully moved around him so that his view of the gleaming Tower of the Guard, of the City of Kings, of his beloved Minas Tirith was unobstructed. The white city, glowing in the sunlight, was the sight that filled his eyes as I heard his last breath seep out past his lips and as his eyes, content and clear, finally dimmed.
I had never really been good friends with Boromir.
His attempt to steal the Ring, along with whatever wrong he had dealt my sister and his insults to Aragorn in Imladris – they had all convinced me that Boromir was a typical Man swayed by the power of the Ring. I had had little, if any, true respect for him because of that.
But now I was seeing just how wrong I'd been. I shouldn't have been biased against Boromir because of what he had done and what I knew his father, mad with grief, had done. Men had been given the right to choose their destiny by Ilúvatar for that reason; it was a chance to redeem ourselves in our short lifetime, a chance to make mistakes and learn, a chance to prove that we were worthy of the title as the one of the Children of Ilúvatar.
Boromir had taken that chance and did the best he could with it.
And I would be forever grateful to him for that.
~ Aragorn ~
I found Eldarion kneeling by the prone body of Boromir. As I watched, he reached up and reverently closed the Man's eyes and placed his sword hilt into his fist on his chest.
"Eldarion," I murmured.
He lifted his face towards me, his eyes filled with sadness. "He died to save my life," he said without preamble.
A flicker of shock rose in me. Boromir had befriended the Rohirrim and had fought alongside Eldarion – but that didn't mean he and Eldarion had particularly liked each other. Eldarion had been wary and suspicious of Boromir due to his incidents with Frodo and the Ring, and Boromir had been unsure how to mend that gap between them.
And yet Boromir had shown his most selfless side not once, but twice now. He had faced death to protect Merry and Pippin. Now he had died saving Eldarion.
Eldarion, the heir to the throne of Gondor, of Isildur's line, of me.
The heir he had so vehemently denied Gondor even had, much less needed, at the Council of Elrond.
I slowly knelt besides Eldarion, closing my eyes and bowing my head. Then I reached forward, and, as was proper, gave a grave farewell kiss to Boromir's forehead as the King should to a warrior who has fallen in battle and in service to the King and the King's house.
"Rest in peace," I said, "Boromir Denethorion, son of Gondor."
"And rest redeemed," Eldarion added suddenly.
After a momentary pause, I decided not to say anything. The words seemed appropriate, given what Boromir had done.
Finally, I rose. "Come, Eldarion," I said gently.
After one last look at the body of his savior, Eldarion did rise.
"He was a true Man of Gondor," he murmured. "He wanted to die with Minas Tirith being the last thing he saw in this life."
I inclined my head in agreement. "And he will be given a funeral that befits a Man of Gondor, and the Steward's son at that."
"Thank you, Aragorn." He glanced around the battlefield, seeming to return back to the realm of the living on this side of the sea. "How is everyone? Anyone hurt?"
"I don't know. I've seen Legolas, Estel, Gimli, Mithrandir, and now you."
I left out the unspoken implication that all were well, for Estel was definitely not. But I didn't want Eldarion panicking just yet. Estel might have been resting to recover the energy she had lost during the battle, or perhaps the power of the Elessar had overwhelmed her and now she needed rest to deal with that power. It had drained her severely last time as well, after all.
Yes, no need to worry him.
He would find out soon enough.
"And Tinúviel?"
"Not yet, I fear."
When his look transformed into worry, I clapsed his shoulder. "I'm sure she's fine. Her archery far dwarfs yours and mine."
"I – "
Eldarion was interrupted by an agonized scream of denial, pain, and horror. We both whirled around, hands flashing to our swords – but there was nothing to fight. Frantically, we scanned the horizon, looking for Orcs or Mûmakils or anything else that could possibly threaten us.
There was nothing.
Nothing, except the glint of long blonde hair of the figure that Éomer cradled in his arms.
Éowyn.
~ Éomer ~
"Out of the way, out of the way!" a voice said impatiently, brushing past the frozen figures crowded around me. I saw Eldarion and the lady Tinúviel yielded at once to the person, their expression fading into respect, but others parted more reluctantly.
When the woman finally got to my side, I saw that she was the Lady Kiria, the mother of Eldarion, Tinúviel, and Estel.
"Éomer, hold her still," she ordered. Without waiting to see whether or not I did, she closed her eyes and placed her hand on my sister's forehead.
I looked sadly at my sister, wishing with all my might that she had done as my uncle had ordered and stayed behind. I knew I had already lost my uncle; I didn't need to lose my sister as well. It would spell the end of my line if something ever happened to one of my heirs, for now there would be no nephew that would be able to take the throne in the worst case scenario.
And yet I had lost her.
I fiercely reprimanded myself. I should have checked the lines more often to ensure that she would not have been given the chance to sneak into the army.
Lady Kiria's eyes flickered open.
"She's alive," she said. "She's alive! Get her into the houses of healing, immediately."
I stared at her, stunned. My sister was . . . alive?
"Go!" she commanded, and her voice snapped like a whip.
Without even thinking about it, I shot to my feet and started walking as quickly as I could towards the gates of Minas Tirith. I didn't even know where the houses of healing were, but if they could save Éowyn. . .
When I passed through the gates, though, I halted in surprise when I saw dark locks of hair against the greenish clothes of Legolas.
And then I realized what it was.
Estel.
Her face was as pale as Éowyn's, even though she had no physical wounds that I could see.
Shaken to the depths of my very soul, I continued forward and prayed silently to whatever gods there might be out there that, somehow, someway, by some miracle, Éowyn and Estel would come out alive.