Boromir awoke to the familiar confusion that he always had when waking up in a soft bed rather than a sleeping roll on the hard ground. This time, however, the confusion took a very long time to fade.

The bed was certainly of elven-make; it rivaled the softness of the one he'd slept on in Rivendell. He felt well-rested, like waking up in the late morning in his own chambers after a long-awaited homecoming. He could almost catch the aroma of freshly baked bread wafting through his window from the kitchens just below his chambers.

He sat up slowly, feeling the cool swish of cloth against his skin. Glancing at the sleeves on his arms, he noticed that he wore a silken sleeping shirt, the sort of garment he had never owned nor had a use for. Upon further inspection, he discovered that his hands were clean of the grime and dust of the road—no, not just his hands. His whole body had been washed.

That was…fine, he supposed. Modesty was a trait generally trained out of Gondorian soldiers after a week or less of living in the unbearably close quarters their war camps afforded.

He looked around the room, seeing an elegant, square table laid out with a water pitcher, bowl and towel for washing, a separate pitcher and pair of crystal cups for drinking. A platter next to them held fruits, nuts, and bread.

Clearly not a prison. He was a guest in this place, wherever it was.

He made to stand up, but paused when he felt a painful tug at his side. He reached beneath his shirt and discovered the soft bandages that had been neatly wrapped around his middle.

Everything came back in a rush.

Moria. He'd been wounded in Moria. The wizard had died providing them an escape. And the elf—

"Legolas," Boromir murmured.

The elf had been in labor.

The journey from the mountain exit to the edge of the forest was still a hazy blur of pain and fatigue, but he distinctly remembered them making camp, Aragorn treating his wound. Gimli had looked after him, giving him both food and water, covering him with a blanket to keep out the winter chill. He had heard the elf crying out in pain and—

And that was the last thing he remembered.

Were Legolas and his child all right? The elf had already been in labor for many hours, and Aragorn had been gravely worried for them.

As if in response to his racing thoughts, Boromir heard sudden cries from somewhere near to his room. The noise quickly gained volume, and Boromir was sure it must be a baby, its wails fresh and healthy.

Please, let it be his little one, he silently prayed.

Aragorn's heart was pounding, his breath quickening.

Selfish and shortsighted, Thranduil had called him. A poison to Legolas.

He was killing his love. To rescue him from this fate Thranduil spoke of, Aragorn would need to give him up—would need to break his heart. And sooner rather than later.

"Let her be your parting gift to him."

Aragorn looked down at his daughter, realizing that his time with her was now limited. How long did he have? Days, perhaps a week before he had no choice but to leave her behind, never to see her again?

Aragorn's mouth felt dry, and he remembered with regret the full waterskin he had left on the bench in the waiting area when Rúmil had come to take him to Legolas.

"Legolas." The name came as hardly a whisper on Aragorn's cracked lips as his breath continued to quicken.

He had left his lover all alone.

Perhaps better off alone.

"No!" Aragorn gasped in response to that traitorous voice.

Legolas had just barely survived his ordeal, and not unscathed. He would need someone who loved him at his side when he awoke—and Thranduil had made it clear it should be Aragorn.

Aragorn stood up quickly only to be struck by a wave of dizziness. He staggered back, knocking the chair over. His legs felt suddenly weak as the room continued to spin, the nausea refusing to fade. Fearing he might fall and hurt his daughter, he dropped heavily to his knees, grunting in pain at the impact. The elfling began to fuss in his hands, no doubt upset at being jostled from her peaceful rest.

Shh, it's all right, he wanted to say, but he couldn't find the breath to speak, couldn't even properly fill his lungs. He was gasping for air now, his vision blurring with tears as his panic increased.

How had he ever believed he could be a worthy partner to an elven prince? He was only a man after all; feeble in both body and will compared to the race of elves. He shouldn't have been surprised his strength was failing him now.

Gasping, sobbing, and unable to even speak to soothe the crying child, he began to rock back and forth, hoping the motion would help. Her cries only became louder.

That same voice from within continued to torment him, always speaking the harshest truth.

"You'll lose them both."

Perhaps it had been right all along.

Boromir quickly pulled his boots on and, keeping one hand pressed against his side, he stood and wandered from the room, following the sounds of the crying baby. It didn't take long; just a few doors down the abandoned hallway he found a door cracked open, and he gave it a light push.

At first, he hardly knew what to make of the sight before him. Boromir knew that face, but he had never seen it so contorted in anguish.

It was Aragorn.

The man was rocking back and forth on his knees in the center of the room, his breath coming far too quickly in sharp, staccato gasps. He held the screaming infant over his lap in clenched and trembling hands.

He was in a fit of terror, the kind of fit Boromir had seen many times both on and off the battlefield. Though Boromir had never experienced one himself, he had helped his brother through enough of them to recognize the symptoms. Faramir had once described that feeling of sheer panic to him—the way it made his breath quicken, his heart pound, and his blood freeze.

Their father had called such fits a sign of blood weakness, and Boromir had been inclined to agree with him—until it began to happen to his own brother. Boromir was proud of the man Faramir had become, and it was well-known throughout the war camps that any who called the steward's second son weak of blood or will could expect a swift and decisive thrashing from his much older brother. The way Boromir saw it, any man who could live through such deathly terror and carry on fighting was far braver than he.

Boromir stepped slowly toward Aragorn, purposefully scuffing his boots against the floor so as not to surprise him. He then lowered himself down next to him, holding back a hiss of pain as he felt the motion pull at his stitches.

Aragorn didn't acknowledge him, or perhaps hadn't even noticed him, and Boromir had to wonder how aware Aragorn was of the crying child in his tensed and shaking hands.

Right then, Boromir thought. First things first. He had to make sure it was safe.

"I need you to hand the baby to me." He spoke gently, his hands reaching for the screaming infant still held over Aragorn's bent knees.

Aragorn hunched forward in response, shifting to the side so that his shoulder came between Boromir and the child. Dark, damp hair fell over his face like a curtain.

So he was aware, at least to a certain extent. Surely he was in enough control not to hurt his own child?

But Boromir shook his head, gritting his teeth. It simply wasn't worth the risk. He could apologize later.

He reached out and took a firm hold of Aragorn's shoulder, and Aragorn flinched at the touch.

"Give me the baby, Aragorn. Now."

He spoke with the same commanding tone he used with his own men, as if Aragorn were some fresh-faced recruit and not a man more than twice his age—and Isildur's heir besides. But something in Boromir's voice must have awakened old memories of commanders long past, because Aragorn straightened slightly, and he raised his head to him, a flicker of recognition in his reddened eyes.

"Boromir." Aragorn spoke the name in a sharp exhalation. He uncurled, straightening even more, and Boromir took that as permission enough, reaching out with both hands and gathering up the child. Aragorn offered no resistance, dropping his face into his now empty hands.

Cradling the child in his arms, Boromir was immediately reminded of another dark-haired and wailing infant he had first held twenty-eight years before—the night his mother had died.

Faramir had been a sickly child whose wet nurse would often leave him to cry for hours at a time. It was during those many long months that Boromir—only twelve years old himself—had learned how to calm a fussing baby, often sneaking into his brother's nursery to hold him when it became clear he would receive no physical affection otherwise.

Boromir lifted the crying baby to his shoulder, patting it firmly on the back while keeping his eyes on Aragorn.

"Are you injured?" he asked. His tone was softer, yet still commanding. Aragorn shook his head in response, his face still buried in his hands.

"All right," Boromir said, more gently now. The infant at his shoulder was starting to calm as he continued patting its back. "Is it a girl?"

Aragorn lowered his hands, meeting Boromir's eyes again and offering a stiff nod, his throat bobbing.

"Thought she might be," Boromir said. "If not for that hair, I would have thought her too pretty to be yours."

He spoke with a smile, hoping the light jibe would help break some of the tension in Aragorn's body and mind. But Aragorn's eyes squeezed shut again, his mouth opening and closing as he fought to speak through the spasms of his chest and throat.

"I'll lose—" Aragorn swallowed with effort and tried again, his next several words broken up by gasping sobs that still hadn't ceased.

"I'll lose them both," he finally managed to say, one hand now clutching at his chest.

Boromir's stomach clenched with sudden dread. Lose them both? Had Legolas—?

The thought that their most fearless and lighthearted companion had died in the agony of childbirth was too painful to consider. And yet, the child was here, and Legolas was not.

He opened his mouth to ask where the elf was, but bit his tongue when he realized that such a question might make matters worse than they already were. At least the little one seemed healthy enough; she certainly had a strong set of lungs.

"I know it may feel like you're dying, or like your daughter is dying, but that's not true. The feeling will pass."

Aragorn shook his head, his breaths still coming short and sharp.

"You don't…under…s-stand."

All right, not helping, Boromir thought. He moved on to his next tactic.

"I want you to try to slow your breathing. In for three seconds, then hold another three."

Aragorn gave him a questioning glance, but it looked like he was trying to obey.

"That's it, just like that," Boromir murmured as Aragorn took a slightly longer breath, releasing it in a quick rush. "Even slower now; three seconds if you can. In…hold…and slow release this time."

Aragorn continued to do as told, gradually regaining control of his breathing. Boromir stayed on the floor by his side, reaching out to place a comforting hand on his back as the symptoms of terror began to slowly wane.

"What happened?" Boromir eventually asked, unable to wait a moment longer now that the worst of the fit had passed. "Where are the others? Is the ring safe?"

"They're all right. It's safe here—we're all safe here," Aragorn said, hoarsely.

"…and Legolas?" Boromir pressed. "What became of him?"

Aragorn sniffed softly, wiping at his face with his sleeve.

"He lost so much blood, Boromir—there was nothing I could do to help him. He would have died if the Galadhrim hadn't—"

"Would have?" Boromir interrupted, his heart leaping with unexpected hope.

Aragorn gave him a confused look, but nodded.

"Yes, he would have. His brethren were able to save him, though it was a close thing."

"Thank the Valar! The way you spoke of him a moment ago, I had feared him dead!" Boromir said, running his free hand through his hair with a relieved laugh.

"No, not dead," Aragorn said, though his tone was grave. "I saw him only minutes ago. His father brought me here to…to discuss his condition. He is alone now—I must go to him."

Aragorn pushed himself to his feet, but immediately began to sway, flinging one arm out to brace himself against the nearest wall, cursing softly

"Slow down, you'll hurt yourself," Boromir said, sharply. "When did you last sleep?"

"I—I don't know," Aragorn admitted.

"Have you drunk any water this morning?"

Aragorn shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut in discomfort.

"H-haven't since Moria."

Boromir had to force himself to close his mouth, biting back the stern rebuke Aragorn would have received if he were under Boromir's command and not the other way around. It had been nearly a whole day since they had escaped the mountain. How could a leader of his age and rank have made such a foolish mistake?

No, not foolish, Boromir thought. Distracted. Worried. Grieving.

"I'll be right back," Boromir said, standing stiffly and shifting the baby from his shoulder to the crook of his arm. Aragorn's hand shot out, grabbing onto the fabric of Boromir's sleeve.

"Don't go. Please."

"You'll feel better once you've had some water and something to eat," he assured Aragorn. He waited for Aragorn's hand to release him, but it remained there, clinging to his arm.

"All right. Together then," Boromir conceded. It was lucky that Aragorn was the taller man. "Take hold of my shoulder and lean against me. I'll help you keep your balance."

"You are yet wounded," Aragorn reminded him quietly, though he was already shifting his grip from Boromir's sleeve to the firm muscles of his shoulder.

"Rest assured, my insides have remained just that. Your needlework has held firm," Boromir said with a reassuring smile. "So long as you remain awake with your feet beneath you, we'll be all right."

"And if my strength fails?" Aragorn asked, barely above a whisper.

"You've made it this far, my brother. I am certain you can manage a few more steps," Boromir said.

He began to lead Aragorn slowly from the room.