Okay, this took a little longer than I thought it would, but it's finally here! Here, we're going to see how our old friends are getting on (not so well. You might have guessed), and we're actually - shock horror - going to meet some new ones. Let me know what you think of them! Thank you as always to my lovely supporters: you are all wonderful, and make writing this worth while. And just to squish a rumour: there is nothing going on between Laerhil and Legolas. Nothing. No slash, remember? Please enjoy - sorry it's not as long as my posts tend to be - and please let me know what you think.

Many thanks are owed to Myselfonly, who, once again, listened to my pathetic whines of it's-broken-and-I-don't-know-why, and effectively saved the chapter with her wisdom. Again. Because she's a special brand of awesome. Thank you.

All the best and lots of love,

Ghost

Chapter Nineteen: Last Man Standing

Too many clamouring bodies, too much excitement. Too much noise. Even above the stench of blood and infection, the stink of human fear mingled with their vocalised squawks, a maddening cacophony created by people in the throes of blind panic, and he was finding it infuriatingly distracting. They were there to help him they said, but there was no deficit to his skill sufficient enough for any one of these incompetent curs to take up his slack. Maids milled about the bed, too taken by the tears in their eyes to be of any constructive use. Members of the king's council hovered, surveying the pale young lord lying so still and lifeless and setting his teeth on edge as they whispered in the conspiring language of politics to each other. They were ten or so in number: a level-headed maid was the very pinnacle of his requirement, and there was not even one of those to hand.

Under his deep irritation, he understood why they acted as they did. He understood how the sight of their crown prince so badly hurt and close to death under the chief healer's care wrought such a mighty sense of fear in their hearts…

Birshen understood, but he did not have to sympathise.

"Everyone, leave," he growled, turning on those closest with a snarl like a dog protecting a bone. The noise lapsed at the sound of his command, but too quickly, voices used to being more prominent than his own rose to their former level, dismissive of his request. He was still seen as new here, still the outsider, and they had little cause to respect his authority. This was his domain, damn them!

"Get out!"

Again, he was not heard. Ignored was more like it. His jaw tightened at the shot of disdain the eyes of two conspiring councillors gave at him, dismissive looks that told him he was the outsider, that he had no authority to banish them. And it burned, deep in his throat, in his chest, a white hot rage –

The same two men yelped when the pot smashed against the wall by their heads and showered them with powder -

"GET OUT!"

The girls scattered, all but flinging the pots of herbs and solutions they carried on the work bench. The men were slower to retreat, not willing to openly display their cowardice, but backing away all the same, perhaps starting to understand that this was Birshen's world, and here, he was the presiding lord. The room emptied, his unblinking pale green glare pushing at the backs of the stragglers until they were gone from his sight through the door.

The probability that he had just set himself a reputation as an aggressive madman was not lost on him, but he could not have cared less. If that was what it took to gain some level of respect, no matter how paltry, he would take it.

Birshen drank deeply of the new silence like a fine wine, relishing its sharpness. There would be repercussions for his actions: those retreating eyes had told him so. You did not make enemies of the council, any fool could tell you that. They could rip you limb from limb through nothing more than the spite of their tongues … but Birshen was still a warrior in his heart, and warriors cared little for the petty workings of politicians. What he did care for was laid before him, needing his full attention, and he was prepared to give it to him, no matter how dangerous the means.

Ai, what a mess this is… The story was that he was the only survivor … if this could be pinned with such a loose label as 'surviving'. The smell of river water and horse mingled horribly with blood and the sweet bite of infection and fever sweat. Birshen had seen wounds such as the one Prince Théodred had suffered before, and the men who bore them did not get up again. His educated guess was that it was a spear. It mattered little what had caused it, in the end: it was unlikely that he would live. Even if the damage to his abdomen did not kill him, it was almost certain that the infection that already freely raged within the wound would. Still … Birshen was Healer in Chief, and he would be damned if he would not try.

The bench beside Théodred's bed was a riot of pots and water bowls, most of them brought to him in panic, most of them utterly useless. Irritation climbing again, the healer flung those he deemed irrelevant to his work into the far corner with a growl, caring little that several pots smashed where they landed.

"Your temper is worse than I recall."

Another pot sailed through the air, striking the wall and yet remaining unsatisfyingly intact. "If I recall," Birshen replied with a drop of sardonic acid, "I told everyone to leave." He turned, his eyes lighting on the man sat behind him. "But seeing as you are the prince's cousin, I think I might make an exception."

Éomer did not pick up their edged banter again, the real anxiety he privately housed displaying itself in the way his own shoulders seemed to crowd him. His hair still hung about his face in untidy wet curtains, made rough by riding through foul weather. In his fear for his cousin, he had not even bothered to remove his armour, preferring to stay within its uncomfortable embrace and be with Théodred, then go to his chambers and change. His hands were kept still only by clenching them in front of himself. He was, in all respects, a typical rider of the Mark: without reins or a sword, his hands itched to be doing something, his mind as restless and desperate to be gone as his stabled horse.

It was a longing they both shared, and something neither of them could have.

"If you would stay," Birshen offered with less bite in his tone to his former commander, "I would have your hands helping me here rather than your eyes watching my back." The healer did not grace the Third Marshall with his attention any longer, bringing his focus back to his charge and caring little for what Éomer chose to do or not do. But he could not deny his satisfaction at the pained creak of the chair as the horseman found his feet and came to his side. They worked in silence, Birshen's mind bent to his task, requesting different requirements of the table with no more than a gesture. Words were not necessary, not between two men who had known each other for as long as they had. They had both been here before … in the field, in the Meduseld … it was all the same, in the end.

"How is … your…?" Éomer cleared his throat uneasily, lighting on the subject that neither wanted to speak of, yet had sat between them for nearly a year.

The healer shrugged his shoulder with artificial nonchalance. The truth? It was agony, the leg to which Éomer referred so uncomfortably. The infection had caused such a mess of scarring that he would always be lame, and standing as they were now felt like the best part of his thigh was being torn from the bone.

Orcish spears were things of purest evil.

"It's fine."

He knew the quick glance he was given was disbelieving, but he would not satisfy Éomer's conviction by acknowledging it. Silence dominated between them, devoid of Birshen's will to expand on his condition, and lacking Éomer's courage to push the subject. Birshen knew Éomer burned with guilt at what had happened to him. It was not his fault. It was not anyone's fault, just poor damned luck.

"This is going to change everything."

It was a quiet statement, an offering to the darkness, and Birshen had to think on the words, he was so taken in by his own wretched thoughts. "Everything changed long before today, Éomer. You just haven't seen it until now."

The cloth destined for his asking hand paused mid-air. "I'm not blind, Birshen."

Birshen raised his eyes from the bloodied side of his prince at the challenging tone. "Really, Éomer? When did you last see the king?"

Éomer blinked in the dulled light, bucked from his seat of thought by the turn of the conversation. His head was distracted by what his eyes saw on the bed before him, the blood and sickness of his cousin poisoning his thoughts. He strained to take his mind away from Théodred's too-still form, and even then it took him a moment to level his mind with the healer's… "We rode out on the council's instruction six weeks ago…" A shadow crossed his eyes as his attention turned to his uncle. And there was another worry … King Théoden, a man of such shrewd intelligence, so rapidly slipping away into a vague old man, bereft of the power to make his own decisions without guidance from his advisors…

He shook his head slowly to himself. "I have not seen the king for six weeks or more."

"Do you know when I was last permitted to-"

The pathetic whine of a floorboard in the corridor, and Birshen stilled. He eyed the door with sharp attentiveness, a fox fearing itself caught amongst the hens. Éomer's brow furrowed at the uncharacteristic display of open fear in his friend, and before Birshen could stop him, he marched for the door and openly looked for eavesdroppers. But there was no-one that he could see in the dim hallway, and he shook his head as he returned to his friend's side.

Birshen did not bother to conceal his relief, his shoulders surrendering just a touch of their rigidity. However, when Birshen continued his report to his former commander, his voice dropped for his friend only, wary and on edge. "I have not seen the king for as long as you." His eyes flitted to the door again. "Not for wont of trying: I hear word that the king's mind is slipping, and I cannot get close enough to see the colour of the clothes he wears."

Éomer's countenance paled behind his curtain of dripping hair. "You are Healer in Chief," he whispered back, rising anger colouring his voice. "You are under oath to tend the king!"

"Oaths can be rewritten," Birshen supplied darkly.

"None but the king may change the written laws of these lands-!"

A door banged open to an argument down the corridor, fracturing their conversation:

"-not to go down there!" An aggressive male voice, one Birshen did not recognise. This was something else that was happening: new and strange men, prowling the hallways like starved hunting cats.

"You will take your hand off me!" There was no hysteria in the responding woman's voice, only hissed threat. Birshen could only assume that her demand was met, as quick footfalls resounded, coming closer and closer -

"You will do as my lord bids-"

"Tell your lord I am not his concern!"

Molten sun-gold flowed around the snow of her face and tumbled down tense shoulders, unchecked and free as the wildest river. Spun sprays flew with her flight, mirroring the fire of her anger as they netted the dark glow of a sconce somewhere out of sight. Fury painted colour high on her white cheeks, her eyes flashing with the sharpness of whetted blades.

Éowyn was still as much the fire spirit Birshen had known as a boy, and that was as much her beauty as her curse.

As soon as her foot crossed the threshold of the healing chamber, she quietened. Her eyes were no less harassed, but she set aside her anger immediately and approached her cousin's side with measured grace, each footfall soundless and even. Birshen could only marvel at how completely controlled she was. Here was his level-headed maid.

Éomer and Birshen could be shades on the wall for all the attention she gave them as she looked into Théodred's muddied face. Her fingers stroked a thick strand of fever-soaked hair from his forehead with a tenderness that belied the wild rage they had seen in her mere moments ago.

"Théodred?"

His head turned at the soft venture of her voice. A minute response, really, but more than anyone else had succeeded in pulling from him. Hurt flashed over Éowyn's countenance, peaking in the slight tremble to her lips. She took a breath and steadied herself, regaining her composure and straightening her back…

Before either of them could think to stop her, a long hand moved the cleansing cloth lying forgotten over Théodred's mutilated side. Éowyn blanched at what she saw, closing her eyes momentarily and fighting to maintain the thin net of grace holding her together. For all her foolishness, she was sharp … Birshen did not need to tell her that her cousin was going to die. Another steadying breath, and she quashed any overwhelming emotion that would have taken a weaker woman, and crouched at Théodred's side, silently smoothing his damp forehead in an attempt to offer him some comfort, no matter how paltry it was in the end.

"GET BACK HERE!"

Éowyn's interaction with Théodred had somehow eradicated the means of her arrival from Birshen's memory. When he looked up, it surprised him to see the thin figure of a man framed in the doorway, his lank, thin hair blowing about his face as he huffed. He was tall, this intruder, dark-clothed and with a storming face that reflected a cruel spirit.

"You have no leave to be here," Birshen growled. "Get out."

The only response he received was the despising glare flung at him from beneath that dirty curtain. Contemptuous knowledge was in that look, an expression that labelled him a weakling and dismissed him as a threat. The man strode purposefully across the room, his hand a breath for Éowyn's hair –

"You will do as I say, whore-!"

Éomer cut the distance like a loosed hound, stealth switched for speed. Birshen had never noticed him leave his side and conceal himself in the shadows by the doorway. Clearly, where Birshen's attention had lapsed, Éomer's had taken up the slack. Those hands, so itching for something to do, had found an occupation in grabbing his sister's stalker by the throat and slamming him into the wall, so hard the wind bucked from his chest in a breathy choke.

"Like bullying women, do you?" Éomer hissed into his face, teeth bared like a wolf primed to rip his throat out. "By whose authority do you harass my sister?" The fury in the Third Marshall's voice was enough to have the man transfixed in his terror, suddenly timid and meek in the hold of someone so clearly able to do him harm.

"Éomer, drop him!" Éowyn was at her brother's side, her jaw set in anger. "Drop him!"

"Quiet, Éowyn!" His grip tightened. "Speak!"

"It might help if you let him breathe," Birshen supplied, unable to hide his amusement. "Just a little."

Éomer threw him a filthy look, but heeded his advice, releasing the man just enough to allow him to draw breath. It was little more than a gesture, however, his hand remaining firmly in place and primed to crush the miserable cur's life from him.

But the man – a character Éomer had never seen before, who harassed his sister like it was his born right – dared throw him a loathsome sneer. And it was there, in that glare of hate, that Éomer's understanding of Birshen's words clearly took hold. A cold something snapped in his eyes, a look Birshen had seen come over them only once in their long history. It was no more than a glint, swallowed by his anger before the rat in his hold knew what he had witnessed. But Birshen knew: it was panicked realisation of lost control, and in the very worst place it could occur. The Third Marshall saw that his family's seat of power was toppled, and he was too late to do anything.

"I am not answerable to you," his captive snarled, disdain prickled with a coward's fear. "You – you are no master in this house, no- not anymore-"

"Really?" Éomer twisted his fingers in the contours of flesh, finding the pressure points and wringing an grotesque and guttural gargle from his prisoner-

"Éomer, you're making it worse!"

The Third Marshall paid no mind to his sister, even as her fingers tried to prise his hand from his captive's throat, her nails catching his skin and raking rivulets of blood. The look Éomer gave him was ugly with promise. "Right now, I am the last master you will ever know, and I am losing my patience. You-" he slammed the man back into the wall in emphasis "-will tell me what I ask: to whom do you answer?"

Purple bloomed across the man's cheeks, his eyes bulging and red. Finally, he tried to choke out an answer: "Grí-" A splutter and desperate gasp – "Gríma."

The hand that had been so busy trying to rearrange the throat in its grasp suddenly let go. Éomer's new informant crumpled into a mess of limbs and choking fits at his feet. He was done with the thing on the floor now, taking himself back like he stood near diseased carrion. Each breath the horseman took was drawn in deep and steadying, preparing…

A stone of dread dropped in Birshen's gut when his former commander – his friend – turned his dark eyes on him. Their conveyed message of his intentions was clear enough for Birshen to read ... clear enough to set a hot iron of fear in his mind.

Birshen shook his head, numb and panicked. "Éomer … don't."

But Éomer only offered him a shallow smile, a warrior's resolve banishing any sway his childhood friend might have over him. "Take care of her for me."

Without so much as a glance at his sister, the Third Marshall of the Riddermark reclaimed the orcish helm he had brought in with him and left the room, determination in his step as he went to fight what Birshen feared would be his last battle.

-(())-

Aragorn moved through the camp with all the cat-like stealth of one of his brothers. As an elf could pass through the thickest leaf litter without a sound, so could he, and he employed his learned skill with an aptitude that would almost pass as elven in the eyes of one of the Eldar. The first whispering touch of daylight stroked the high boughs of the trees, but did not yet confidently reach into the scoop of land their camp was nestled in. It breathed amber and gold through the mist that shrouded the trees, great shafts of light that were really quite beautiful … but Aragorn could not find it in himself to appreciate the quiet majesty of the morning.

The sleep he had managed to snatch had been fitful, filled with dreams that were not his own and coloured with an underlying fear he could not shake. At some point in the night, he had been forced to lay Legolas back down at the bole of the tree in guarded respect of the alarming elevation of his temperature. Aragorn had not settled to sleep again after that, taking a seat on Gimli's log and watching his friend wrestle through dreams and fever in the fading firelight.

A careful stoke, and the embers of the camp fire roused themselves groggily. Busying himself with rekindling the fire was a good distraction, and Aragorn took his time bringing it back to serviceable life. He had designs on brewing a fever tea with the hope that it might cool Legolas to a more acceptable temperature. Aragorn did not concern himself with how woefully low his supplies were getting. He utterly despised how helpless he felt, how helpless he knew he was: Legolas needed the medicines and skills of his own kind, and he needed shelter … three things Aragorn was unable to offer him.

Something changed. Aragorn paused in his ministrations to the fire, listening to the sudden stillness…

"So you've finally decided to wake," he called behind him as way of greeting

Silence met his greeting initially, before: "How'd y'know I'm awake?"

Despite the weight in his chest, Aragorn grinned. "By deducing that the forest no longer shaking under my feet either meant I was dead, or you were awake. One of the two."

The dwarf swore and spluttered indignantly at him as he fought to sit upright, scrubbing at his face and beard with both hands and blearily taking in his surroundings. A stretch that resulted in some joint or other rending the still air with a loud crack, followed by more swearing, and Gimli seemed more himself. Beetling eyes, quick despite the heavy shroud of sleep the dwarf tried to shake off, settled unerringly on the still-sleeping archer. Aragorn knew his attention lingered on their friend, but he could not stand to follow Gimli's suit, occupying himself again with the fire. Stillness in Legolas was not something new to him: it was the elvish way, and Legolas seemed able to embody the live motion of the trees, utterly unmoving save for the gentle push of the wind through his hair, stirring it in the same way it might stroke long grass. But this, this was an unnatural stillness. Legolas was trapped, a wild bird encaged, and he could not stomach it.

The dwarf was apparently oblivious to his mannish companion's thinly veiled distress. He stretched again and slumped gracelessly on his seat, poking absently at his teeth with the tip of his tongue. "He moved?"

"Moved? He has barely breathed." The ranger shook his head to himself, occupying his mind with mixing a small dose of calamint into a tin and setting it to steep at the fire's edge. Sluggish as the fire was, it would take some time for the water to heat and the dried herb to release its full potential. That was fine … there were other matters they must attend to. The ranger rose to his feet, turning his eyes behind their camp…

"So," began the dwarf with a conversational air that blanketed the concern in his eyes, as he proceeded with stuffing his pipe. "Am I correct in assuming that the dark hours of the night told you what in the name of Arda we are meant to do?" The look Aragorn was given over the pipe was frank and knowing, a look that told him his lack of sleep had not gone unnoticed and daring him to attempt denial.

It should not have surprised Aragorn that Gimli was so astute. Mind, he imagined that the pull of tiredness he could feel under his eyes was so visible he could have had weights attached to his skin. The mood that possessed the ranger had no energy to argue, and met the shrewd and clever stare of his counterpart with little apology. "We have to go. This morning."

A gloved hand extended for a slow-glowing brand at the edge of the fire. But as soon as he picked it up, Gimli caught sight of the meaningful stare his companion was giving him. When he frowned in askance, Aragorn merely inclined his head in Legolas' direction, an apologetic smile angling his rough beard. Gimli rolled his eyes and tapped the weed back into its pouch. Of course. How could he forget?

"Can he be moved yet?"

Aragorn shook his head, reluctant to voice the answer to a question he had fought with himself over for almost the entire night. "No. But he cannot stay here either, and I will not abandon the hobbits…" There was something else that had plagued him through the night: the chances of catching up with the Uruk-hai, after this period of time and on-foot, were desperately slim. Carrying someone in such a critical condition as Legolas heightened the danger to him, and virtually severed the likelihood of getting the hobbits back. But staying and doing nothing was not an option.

"I'll get Legolas to take the tea, and I'll get him ready," Aragorn stated, more in affirmation to himself than to Gimli. "We'll carry him between us, that's going to be the best way." They had to keep him as level as possible. If Aragorn carried at the front, he could better control their speed for Legolas' sake, and track the passage of the hated beasts that had robbed them of so much…

Gimli peaked his brows and took a breath. "If that's the way you'd like to play it…"

"You don't agree?"

"I can't see success at the end of it," Gimli put across frankly, giving Aragorn an honest and level stare. "We've lost too much already: where there were nine, there are three – well, really two. And I don't want you to think that we have every chance of getting them back … but neither can I offer you another way round." He sighed, a great depressed huff of air that fogged briefly before his face and was gone. "We've about as many options as a stuck pig."

The sunlight knifing through the trees finally lighted on their camp. The silvered flanks of the beech trees became embellished with bright light and given the deceptive glow of soft heat. It caught on axe and sword alike as they lay together and accented their readiness for battle, glimmering sharp threat at the retreating darkness. Beside them, it bestowed its wealth of gold across the face of the sleeping archer, a gift of light that called to him to welcome the new day. It painted a lie of health across his face, dying the pallor of his skin to something rich and full. But the brilliant gleam of daylight failed to rouse him. There had never been a day that Legolas had missed the rising of the sun…

Aragorn forced himself to look away, heartsick and so impossiblytired. "We have a companion we must bid farewell."

Sadness waved over Gimli's strong gaze. "Aye, we do that." They both surreptitiously threw their attention over to the right of the camp, to where they knew a fallen warrior rested under a shroud of gossamer mist. Events had not been kind over the past evening, and thoughts of Boromir – through no fault of their own – had been harried to the backs of their minds. Now that he was at the fore, the two friends jointly felt the sharp lash of shame: he had not been tended, not prepared for burial. They had not even thought of how they were to bury him, not until the lonely hours of the night when Aragorn had found himself thinking of little else.

As one, Aragorn and Gimli moved over to where Boromir lay, Aragorn with water and Gimli with one of the few cloths they could spare. Wordlessly they set about tending their fallen friend, preparing him for his final journey.

"It's strange," the dwarf remarked as he wiped flecks of dirt from Boromir's countenance. "Looking at him now … there's not a mark on him. I never noticed yesterday, but he looks … fine." Gimli paused in speech and in action, as though he debated with himself that Boromir really was dead. "Do you see what I mean?"

Aragorn did see what he meant, though he did not confirm it for Gimli's ears. His healer's mind told him that was how men whom had been dealt such a killing blow looked: near pristine, rarely with so much as a flicker of pain on their faces. That was the skill behind such a strike as had felled Boromir: quick to afflict, very fast to kill. It agonised him no end that one so mighty had had to be felled in such a way…

"I never thought orcs could kill so cleanly."

Surprise rocked the ranger where he crouched. Stunned, his eyes fixed on Gimli. The dwarf was unaware that he was being watched, his own attention consumed by examining the entry wound just below the arch of Boromir's chest. He does not know. It had been Aragorn's assumption that Gimli knew Legolas had been the one to kill Boromir. Never had it crossed his mind to discuss it with him … now he thought on it, it now struck him that Gimli had not challenged Legolas' merit to slay their companion before.

"It's just so neat," the dwarf continued, oblivious to the fact that Aragorn had stilled. His finger gently pulled at the clean edges of the punctured leather. As though in a daze, he pulled his hand back, a frown warping his brow… "Did Legolas do this?"

The question was sharp, hedged with mixed disbelief and dismay. The glass-brittle edge to his eyes, the slight gape of his lips, said he already knew the answer.

"Yes."

Gimli sat back on his haunches but stayed over the body of their fallen companion, guarding almost. The look Aragorn was pinned with was spearing, accusing. "You knew?"

Aragorn returned Gimli's stare levelly. "I ordered it."

"What do you mean, you ordered it?" Upset was mounting in Gimli's voice, his head clearly flying with all manner of confused theories of betrayal and murder. Anger raised his voice. "You ordered it?"

"Do you remember nearly a week ago when we rested by the river?" Aragorn queried quietly, keeping his voice as level and calm as he could to counter Gimli's heightening fury. "When I left to hunt and lost the meat?"

The question threw Gimli's anger. He frowned, struggling to remember the incident over the events of the past few days. It seemed like an age to Aragorn since that night, so much had happened between, and he could not fault Gimli for straining to recall. "Aye," he ceded eventually, suspicion in his slow confirmation. "They had a spat. What of it?"

"That was the beginning of the end." It was funny, but it had not crossed Aragorn's mind until that moment that that was exactly what it had been. An incident that at the time had been pinned on warriors of such contrasting ilk being forced together for too long showed itself in a different light altogether. In the correct light… "They fought because the Ring took Boromir from us that night. I did not see it at the time, but Legolas did." He paused, his memories of the private conversation between Legolas and himself afterwards coming back to him, sharp as the cold surrounding them. "We both saw the potential threat Boromir posed to the quest, and I ordered Legolas to do what was necessary to protect it." He shook his head to himself, saddened and deflated. "I see now that he was always set to betray us-"

But Gimli's head shook in denial, a heavy hand landing on Boromir's shoulder and staying there, firm and defensive. "No. No, this was a good man. I refuse to believe that his heart was against us!"

Aragorn moved to counter Gimli's argument, but the dwarf cut him off: "You cannot tell me that he was never ours! I don't believe it! I won't believe it! And for you to sit there by his corpse and tell me you knew he would betray us, that you commanded the elf to-"

"Gimli!" Aragorn barked, the mark of his own upset turning his voice sharp. "Will you just listen to me?" He needed Gimli to see, he needed him on side, and he certainly did not want him to turn on Legolas for something he had been forced to do. "Neither of us wanted this. Legolas would sooner die himself than kill a comrade, as would I… But Boromir must have presented a real threat to Frodo and the Ring for Legolas to have acted as he did. Do you not see?"

It was clear in the dark set of Gimli's eyes that he did not align with Aragorn's way of thinking. The ranger pulled an aggravated hand through his hair and sighed heavily. "Look at the state of Legolas, Gimli. Think about last night-" the dwarf gave a visible shudder at the memory, Aragorn fighting his own body hard to not mirror the action himself. "Do you honestly think he would have actively sought to take on someone as strong as Boromir in his condition?"

Somewhere beneath the hurt and the anger, some part of Gimli heard Aragorn's reasoning, the blackness in his stare losing its intensity.

"This was desperation, Gimli," he pressed, driving home what his friend fought to accept. "Please, my friend. See it for what it is. This was the Ring's doing: not Legolas', not Boromir's." He reached a hand for Gimli's shoulder, and was silently relieved when he did not shy from his touch. "Please say you understand."

There was no immediate answer. Gimli's eyes drifted back to the body before him, surveying the cold face with new sight. "This should never have had to happen." He sighed as he slumped sadly, the forgotten damp cloth creating a dark patch on his leg. When his eyes returned to Aragorn's, there was an almost frightening ferocity kindling in their dark depths. For a moment Aragorn though the douty warrior was going to turn on him, they were so intense. But: "We make them pay," he commanded vehemently. "We make them pay. Not just for them, but for everything. For everyone."

The hand on Gimli's shoulder gripped briefly, an affirmation that their sentiments were joined. By the Valar, Aragorn would go to the ends of the world to ensure Gimli's desire was met. There was nothing he wished for more, and there were few he could honestly say he wanted more at his side. He would gladly pass up the offering of an entire host if it meant he could have his indomitable friend. "For everyone. Together."

A hand landed on his own shoulder, heavy as a hammer and with twice the strength. The smile that dominated Gimli's countenance was driven by an ire the like of which Aragorn had never witnessed in him, an expression oddly frightening and dark. "'Til Arda burns and our bones are dust, we are Fellowship," he declared, his oath typically dwarven. He paused, considering. "Even the Elf."

Aragorn's breath bucked with a chuckle. "Even the Elf."

Gravity took them again as they resumed their task … but the air between them was not marred with unspoken truths and barriers of understanding. They worked in complete silence, and it did not take them long to have Boromir ready for his final journey into his homeland and beyond.

Having not the time or tools to bury him properly, their choices were cut down to the boats Frodo and Sam had discovered the day before. Dubbing them 'barely serviceable' was possibly too generous, but the one boat remaining to them that was not crippled by the brutal hand of age was all they had to offer their fallen friend. Clods of silt and decayed leaves were shovelled out as best as they were able. Not for the first time, Aragorn lamented the loss of the elven boats … not just for their perfect reliability, but for the craftsmanship that made them so strikingly beautiful. It almost felt like a slight to be laying a man of Boromir's standing to rest in such an ordinary vessel. A bed of pliable young branches covered the bottom of the boat and made it even, that Boromir could lie straight and proud on his final journey, as he had been in life.

When it was as ready as they could make it, man and dwarf carried him to the river shore together in silence, baring the load of not just his weight, but his death, together. They placed him on the mattress of branches with as much care as if he were merely sleeping, the Horn of Gondor placed carefully under his folded hands over his bloodied chest.

The boat bit deep and grating into the shingle, carving the memory of Boromir's passing into the shoreline. The water skipped about the prow at first, touching the hull and seeming to decide on its worthiness. Aragorn and Gimli followed the boat into the river, their boots filling with sharp cold and the water coming up their legs before it finally decided to accept their charge from them, taking the responsibility of carrying Boromir into his homeland with a gentle lift.

Aragorn did not move from the water as he watched the boat drift with an almost lazy steadiness from them. It reached a point out in the water where it caught at the edge of the current and spun slowly, as a curled leaf might. As it was coming out of the first full turn, the boat threw a quick buck, and the action was enough to push it into the faster channel of water heading for the falls, and it was not long before their last view of their friend was swallowed by the mist shrouding the water.

Somewhere in the treeline at their backs, a robin threatened the new morning brightly, a perfect thrill of sound that became thin in the open air. The mist hanging in such a great still swath over the expanse of water netted the young sunlight, like the golden dust of batted summer grasses suspended seemingly forever.

"This is a beautiful place."

Gimli made a rough sound in the back of his throat, a noise course and stark against the stunning majesty of their surroundings. "It is that. And I never want to see it again." Gimli turned his back on the Anduin, done with a place he knew his foulest dreams would force him to walk. "Come on, Aragorn," he beseeched of his tall friend. "Let's go."

Neither said a word as they waded from the water, set to return to the side of their other companion, hearts heavy with the thought that this might not be the only time they would have to say farewell to a friend all too prominent in their minds.

-(())-

They were watching her, unblinking, unashamed. Staring from the alcoves, hanging in the shadows like great spiders. The touch of their eyes made her skin crawl as she passed them, each footfall a lie of calm. She would not run, or show the panic beneath her calm exterior. Not in front of Gríma's snivelling dogs.

None of them were brazen enough to approach her. There was too much fear of the men closest to her for them to dare. But it was there in their eyes, that knowledge that said they knew just how alone she was soon to be, those steadfast pillars she built her life around crumbling to dust and leaving her bare.

Between Éomer and Théodred, it was before Éomer that these cockroach-like men scattered. He was the true strength of the family, the one who offered no quarter to those careless enough to cross him. Éomer was strong, and brave, a master horseman and a leader with the same high qualities of their proud ancestry. But in the few weeks he had been away, worms had eaten so deeply into the structure of the Meduseld, he had no idea how precariously the shift of power teetered. If he fell, if they won, the kingdom was lost.

A voice reached through the endless corridor to her, a voice pitched livid and demanding. And against Éomer's anger, a poisoned honey tone, meeting fury with calm…

Éowyn's heart-rate quickened, her chest tight with the need to fly and her stomach sick with the knowledge that she could do no such thing.

A coward's yelp and hard thud, and her feet were running now, mindless of the eyes -

The corridor opened out to the throne room. Across the impossible width of the chamber, her eyes found her brother hanging in the arms of Gríma's guards, the king's manipulator leering over him like a puppet master. The king himself was swallowed in the same stale furs he had been in for weeks, those same blank eyes staring unseeingly at the flags as her brother was beaten. Her beloved, stupid brother -

"Éo-!"

A hand locked over her mouth and a trapping arm around her waist-

Éowyn's heart almost gave out. Her head reared against the control, but she was held against her captor's shoulder, pinned tight to him. And above the frantic clamour of her heart, she could hear Éomer's struggles against his own set of foes, dragging him, hitting him –

Éowyn redoubled her efforts, thrashing madly and even hauling her feet in the air to make him take her entire weight off balance. She kicked hard at his legs and was satisfied to hear a pained grunt … but she did not expect the voice in her ear, heavy and straining through her fight: "Éowyn-! Still yourself!"

Without her full consent, her body stopped resisting, going limp with surprise. At her sudden calm, the hands that held her so tightly relinquished the intensity of their hold, the one at her mouth dropping away and holding the top of her arm. In shock, Éowyn turned to see Birshen over her shoulder, his pale green eyes strangely apologetic and saddened. His jaw was tight under his short red beard, his breath coming quick and controlled through his nose. There had been no tell-tale clip of the stick he used these days, and she realised he had come after her without it, a fine mist of sweat across his brow telling her it had hurt him to do so…

Éowyn did not care.

"Help him," she implored, horrified that Birshen was with her and not rushing to the aid of his former captain and childhood friend. Éowyn's eyes searched the healer's, trying to find an ally in him … but when he shook his head at her and looked away, dismay was the only thing she gained from him.

Fight snapped back into her limbs, merciless of his pain.

"Let me go-!"

Birshen's hold on her became rock, and she knew the bruising would be vivid. Desperation turned her body into a thing numbed against pain. But above her struggles and cries for release, she heard the words that destroyed her world, the words that allowed tears to fall unchecked and grief to find the weakness in her cold armour. Her body bowed with pain in Birshen's grip, and she found herself no longer held in restraint, but cradled to his chest…

"You are banished forthwith from the Kingdom of Rohan and all its domains under pain of death."