19 / 12 / 17 ~ And in which Eleanor mends a broken bond.

Disclaimer: "The Lord of the Rings" is the property of J. R. R. Tolkien. I only claim ownership over Eleanor Dace, Rávamë (aka "Tink"), and the subsequent plot of their story.

A/N: I won't lie, I'm pretty proud of myself for getting this chapter done so quickly considering how damn busy and exhausted I've been over the past couple of weeks. But more than anything — after the hell of the last chapter — I'm really glad I could get this slightly more hopeful one to you all before Christmas rolls around.

In my usual bumbling fashion, all the "thank you's" to: Magic's My Muse, The Dramatic Muffin, secondbreakfasts, RhysThornbery, sai19, Hana-Lizzie-Chan, lacomtessa, Ely-chan, Gemm13, Kmartz95, Angrypancakegoddess, viserystargaryen, DreamingTraveler, Fictional Quintessence, VanyaNoldo22, Wickedgreene13, Daughter of Gloriana, Imamc, REMdream, The Goonies, Yaulewen, zazanga, AshleyMarieD, RLMz, Arwan, Morietachibana, Concha G, tkhiroshi, Tinkerdo, silverwolfwarrior13, Ruiniel, luna153, N7SpaceHamster, CricketCat, chiaragobb, Scarlet Silvers, JellyBear7, Phygmalion, Ladybrae, GeorgeTobor, moonylxpins, Lucifae, it'slaterthanyouthink, and guests for the literal mountain of joy in the comments (over 50 on one chapter, my God guys). They've been especially wonderful to read these past few weeks while I've been settling into my pretty scary new job. Speaking of, I want to shout out an especially big thank you to my Beta and The-Dramatic-Muffin on Tumblr for listening to my woes following my first kinda hellish week of work (don't worry, it's slightly less hellish now, thank God). The collective support has meant so much, you have no idea. :D

Hope you all enjoy the start of Part II. The next chapter is almost finished and with any luck at all will be up before Christmas Eve. :) x

Part II : Chapter 13

- The Untamed Ones -

"A friend who is far away is sometimes much nearer than one who is at hand." ― Kahlil Gibran

Grass, sun, horse shite, and casual misogyny. That's the simplest way I can describe the walk from Edoras.

I'll let you take a guess at which one was currently irritating me the most.

"You'd think oestrogen was contagious," I muttered irritably, glaring at the long line of migrating people ahead of us. A line that, coincidentally, seemed to have divided itself into exclusively male and female sections — with the occasional exception of families and elderly relatives mingling between the two.

It hadn't happened immediately, but the further the population of Edoras walked, the more they seemed to naturally separate like oil and water, and with it, the more my silent frustration at the sight grew. It was no bloody wonder that soldier hadn't realised what he was doing was wrong until I was raking my nails down his face, if this was truly the unconscious mentality of the population.

It was funny though; in spite of everything that had happened earlier, and the hole I could still feel left in my chest because of it, I was almost glad for the anger and silent raging of my inner feminist.

If I was angry, I didn't have room to be sad.

And if I let myself be sad, I thought of…

Beside me, Sarra just chuckled, having adapted unusually quickly to my comparatively bizarre speech pattern and word choices. If anything, she seemed to enjoy the way I talked, and had taken to laughing frequently and loudly as we hiked side-by-side across the hills together. And her laugh — painfully familiar as it was — was wonderfully contagious.

"You can't blame them," she smiled wickedly at me from the corner of her eye, the shadow of Katie's wit dancing across her features. "They're such delicate creatures, menfolk. We wouldn't want to get too close and scare them so with our talk."

"Oh, aye," I grinned right back at her. "All this talk of babies, birthing, and post-natal preparations, they might start blushing. Some might even swoon."

One of the older women a little way ahead of us tisked loudly, throwing a disapproving glance over her shoulder right at Sarra. She ignored it with all the poise of a queen, raising her chin and walking tall and proud as a mountain — which was no small achievement seeing as we'd been walking for several hours already, and Sarra was carrying a passenger of at least eight pounds in her belly already.

I, on the other hand, didn't ignore it with poise. In fact, I didn't ignore it at all.

I death-glared the back of the woman's head until she felt it, turned, and caught my eye. I had the brief satisfaction of seeing her blink in surprise before turning quickly to face ahead again, ears a bit paler than a moment before.

I'd been distracting myself from my darker thoughts for the past few hours talking to Sarra about her pregnancy, and trying to offer as much of the advice and care she'd been deprived of as I could. She was due in only another week, and though I'd disbelieved it at first, she'd been completely right about healers refusing their help to her.

And it wasn't just limited to the healers.

Not all had turned their noses up, but after climbing a particularly steep hill I'd asked one of the younger women for a swig from her water skin, which — upon seeing my blasted ears — she had offered up generously. However, when I'd passed it to Sarra who'd been all but gasping, the dark look that had passed over the other woman's face could have summoned thunderstorms. She'd snatched the skin from my hand when I passed it back to her, and it had taken the last of my precious self-restraint not to kick her skinny arse back down the hill we'd just climbed.

Like I said, anger was good.

I could work with anger, or annoyance, or silently fanning my feminist temper…

Anything to avoid the temptation to look up, focusing my elf eyes on the largely male section of the convoy ahead. I'd done it a few times already, and every time it was like I'd run straight into someone's fists at full speed and had all the air knocked out of me.

I'd spotted Aragorn a few times since we'd passed each other leaving Edoras, a simple nod to each other as assurance that I wasn't being left behind, but also that I needed some space. He was riding Hasufel and often talking with either Háma or Gamling — the latter I'd learned was one of Theoden's most trusted lieutenants, and Sarra's father.

I hadn't seen any sign of Boromir, but Gimli was easy to spot since he'd spent most of the journey chatting loudly with — or rather, at — Eowyn while she led Arod for him. Lucky for him she'd been willing to walk, lead and listen, since he hadn't been so keen on riding the horse on his own without…

My thoughts caught like a thorn on the name.

I'd seen the occasional flash of familiar braided gold blond hair further up in the crowds ahead, but every time I did my stomach had leapt with… something.

Longing? Dread? Guilt?

I wasn't sure I could even tell the difference between them all anymore.

I'd told Sarra only enough of what had happened between me and my companions for her to know that we needed some space from each other, and I wasn't really in any state to think or talk about them more than that. She hadn't pressed, and when my words had failed me, she just rested a hand gently on my shoulder, and calmly told me one of the filthiest jokes about "sword loving soldiers" I'd ever heard in my life.

I'd laugh-cried until my sides aches.

Since then the only member of the male species who'd deigned to walk — or ride — among us ladies voluntarily was Eothain, and I suspected that was mostly because he didn't want to leave his sister's side longer than necessary. He'd drawn up their horse — Garulf — beside us after recognising me as the one who'd patched them up and told them stories.

I was sorry I didn't have the heart to muster any happy tales for them this time. Freda still seemed to be bearing the weight of being separated from her mother, and could have probably done with the distraction. However with her brother riding behind her on their father's horse for a few hours in the sunshine, she'd lifted in spirits enough to start quietly humming to herself.

I hadn't even really noticed she was doing it at all until the tune changed to something hauntingly familiar. A tune I'd heard when we'd been wandering through Fangorn, and again for that moment in Meduseld when Gandalf had cast out Saruman…

I didn't realise I'd stopped suddenly in my tracks until Sarra almost walked straight into the back of me.

"Eleanor?" she asked, eyeing my sudden reaction with concern. "Are you well?"

I didn't answer her. I'd spun on the spot to find Freda and Eothain riding just a little way behind us. But before I'd even taken a step in their direction one of the older women in the line shot out a weathered hand and grabbed Freda rather roughly by the leg.

"Stop that singing, girl! You want to bring cursed luck down on us all?" she snapped, squeezing her leg until Freda winced. My gaze sharpened on that grip, on Freda's guilty expression, and I suddenly wasn't moving toward them for the song anymore. The woman saw me coming and let go, but not before I'd sent her a look that could have frozen brandy.

"Why don't you let me lead Garulf for a bit, Eothain. You both must be getting tired," I suggested. Eothain gave a halfhearted grumble of protest, insisting he wasn't tired, but one look at Freda took the wind out of his sails.

I took the reins from him, and started walking the old horse at an easy pace.

"What's so bad about that song anyway?" I asked conversationally, despite the rapid fluttering of my heart. I'd intended the question for Eothain but the same woman that had grabbed Freda's leg cut in before he could.

"It's nothing, m'lady elf," she insisted a bit too quickly.

"Just a foolish old wives tale," another added timidly, shooting Freda a warning look that was a little too intense for my tastes.

Maybe it was a little petty, and maybe a little vindictive, but if they were going to draw attention to the fact that I was a bloody elf every time I opened my mouth, I was going to sodding well use it to my advantage. I blinked slowly at both the women, giving them the same imperiously annoyed look I'd seen Glorfindel use on me so many times, one eyebrow elegantly arched.

God strike me dead if it didn't work like a charm. The women looked suddenly uncomfortable and turned back to the road ahead. I turned back to Freda, my face softening again, and gave her a prompting little wink.

"I'd still like to know, if you don't mind."

Freda smiled weakly, shifting uneasily on the back of her father's horse, her gaze shifting from me to the women pointedly not looking, but very obviously listening. She tried to speak, but she seemed unable to find the words. Eothain put a hand on her shoulder.

"It's ok, Fre," he said gently, turning his attention back to me. "It's an old song Da used to sing when Freda and I misbehaved. He said his Ma used to sing it to him when he was disobedient, and her Ma before her. It's about the Hravarim, Untamed Ones."

"Hravarim…?" I repeated, testing the word and finding though it did sound distantly familiar, it didn't ring any bells. "I've never heard of them before."

"Hardly surprising I think," Sarra commented with a dark expression as she fell back into step beside me. "It's not a happy tale, and there are few families who choose to pass it on anymore."

"What do you mean?" I asked, looking between them. "What was so bad about them?"

Sarra's hand drifted down to unconsciously cradle her belly, searching for the right words, but Eothain got there first. He leaned down a little so he could talk in a quiet voice to me, eyes flickering towards the crabby, sour-faced women up ahead.

"They're supposedly an old legend from the east," he told me with the kind of quiet excitement of a kid about to tell an impressive story to an adult audience. "A massive hunting party the size of a small army, all made up of madmen, beasts, and creatures no people have names for anymore. They supposedly roamed the wilds during the First Age, pillaging and tearing down entire cities that had turned wicked, leaving no one and nothing alive behind them but the children. They're gone now, but the legends say one day when the world turns rotten they'll ride again, with their Lady leading the hunt once again. And when they do, Da said they'll come and punish you by stealing away your parents and family if you are wicked, and if you remain wicked they'll eventually come for you when you're grown up and no longer a child."

If Eothain saw the quiet chill his tale had sent through me, he didn't comment. He only excitedly nudged his sister where she sat ahead of him on the horse.

"Sing it for her, Fre. The rest of the song. You know the words better than me."

Freda looked nervously ahead to the women who'd scolded her, then back to me. Despite the chill growing in my gut, I gave her what I hoped was a encouraging smile.

"Please. I'd like to hear it."

Freda bit her lip, nodded, then opened her mouth hesitantly, and began to sing.

The song itself had been unsettling enough the first time, fragmented and sung by an adult woman in the echoes of my memory. But hearing the dark words and haunting tune of the song coming from Freda's young, innocent little voice in the fading sunlight, it sounded nothing short of disturbing.

"Hush little one, fear not the night.

I'll still be here in morning's light.

Hear not the drums that beat they're coming.

Feel not the heartbeats all a thrumming.

Tis not for you to fear or cry,

To see the Lady with wicked eyes.

"Wilder she-wolf, fair and cold,

Eyes aflame with burning gold.

Comes prowling 'neath the howling moon,

Red as blood and heralding croon;

'Taint sweet air,

They'll see Death soon.'

"Hush little one, fear naught at all.

Tis not for you they're coming for.

The raving, screaming demons seek,

The blood of Men at age's peak.

You are safe now, do not fear.

When morning comes, I'll still be here.

"At the head of monsters wild,

Is she, with smile sweet and mild.

With all a gentle love and care,

She'll pluck her bow and pin you there.

That smile will be your final sight.

First your left eye. Then your right.

"Hush little one, please do not cry.

If you do, they'll hear us inside.

The Lady of the hunt will find,

And wring your father from his mind.

Mama will sing you lullabies, see.

Hush little one, let demons be.

"But by the light, when vengeance took,

Not one soul was overlooked;

Not man or woman, nor cattle or sheep.

None but you, who's fast asleep.

All you know, bathed in blood and sun.

Worry not, little one. Your time will come.

"Hush little one. Fear not the night.

Fear what you'll see come morning's light.*"

The silence that was left behind as Freda's song ended was unsettlingly heavy. Every conversation within about ten feet had fallen completely silent, and even the horses had gone oddly quiet.

I had to hand it to Freda's family, if that was the kind of nursery rhyme they'd been brought up on it was small wonder they were so well behaved. Though I suspected my world's Child Services would have had a thing or two to say about it.

'Well… that's not ominous or anything,' Tink murmured inside my head, and she sounded almost as put out as I felt. Something about that song had chilled us before, but now with the words, it had left me with a small pool of ice in my gut.

'You recognise the words at all, Tink?' I asked.

'Not exactly. I don't remember hearing them, but they somehow felt… wrong. Like the taste of something rotten or poisonous on your tongue…'

And for a moment, I could physically feel what she meant, the barrier between us thinning with our shared, silent dread.

"They disappeared, some time in the Second Age, the Hravarim I mean. I don't know exactly when," Eothain was saying, still enthusiastically trying to inject some excitement into the crushing silence. "Some say they grew tired of merely hunting the land and took to the seas instead, raiding ships and sinking entire fleets."

"But as the other women said earlier, it is a very old story, and is probably far from accurate now after so many centuries of being handed down only through songs and tales," Sarra added, not even trying to mask her discomfort as she looked sideways at me.

Freda looked as if she silently agreed, but Eothain came as close to pouting as I'd ever seen a teenage boy do, thrusting out his lower jaw in what I assumed was an attempt to look strong.

"I think it's stupid to fear something so long dead. Even if they were real once, it's just a song now."

Sarra shrugged. "There is no point remembering songs and tales of glory if we fail to remember the ones of loss and fear as well. Only through remembering both can we ever hope to learn from them."

Eothain opened his mouth, then closed it, his gaze flicked to where their few belongings and a sheathed blade were strapped to Grarulf's saddle. Their father's sword I supposed, remembering when he'd mentioned it back in Meduseld.

The rest of the walk passed mostly in silence. No one else in our little travelling party of varying sized misfits felt like breaking the silence, and I didn't feel ready to try and break it with more questions — despite the cold feeling in my gut growing with every thought of that song's haunting words.

We walked all afternoon, and well into the evening, and by the time the entire travelling line finally stopped for a short rest, food, and to water the horses, it was almost dusk. The sky had quickly turned from the blistering azure of the day, to pale pink, to burnt orange, to soft purple. By the time I dropped down onto a grassy bank just a little way from the rest of the rest of the group I was starting to feel the gentle burn the constant sun's light had left on my face.

Sarra headed for the river bank to wash the dust from her face, and Eothain and Freda wandered off in search of some much needed food. I honestly didn't feel like moving, so I stayed there slumped on the slope of a hill, keeping an eye on Garulf who was happily munching at the grass where we'd tethered him to a tree stump.

It can't have been long, but it felt like hours as I sat there on my own, making myself watch as the last of the dying sunlight turned the sky violet and the stars began to peek through. It was actually quite beautiful…

Almost enough to distract me from the tempest of thoughts and feelings from that morning still clamouring for dominance inside me.

They'd dimmed enough to talk and smile during the walk from Edoras, but the moment I was alone with my thoughts, they came back with a vengeance.

I was so focused on keeping my outward composure in place I didn't notice that someone had approached me, until they cast a shadow over me from a nearby campfire. Numbly, I looked up to find a thick red beard half-hiding a gruff but kind face, a heavy metal helm, a heavier brow, and a familiar battle axe slung over his back.

"Gimli?"

"Alright, lass?" His beard twitched in a somewhat awkward smile.

"I…" The automatic response of "I'm fine" died instantly on my tongue. I swallowed and looked away, blinking rapidly. "I'm not sure."

Gimli grunted, as if he'd been expecting that kind of answer.

"Well, you look like you need a stiff drink." Setting his battle-axe against Garulf's stump, he dropped onto the grass beside me, and pulled out his hip flask — which I realised he kept on a cord around his neck under his beard.

No wonder I could never work out where he kept it before.

"Here." He handed it to me.

"Thanks," I said automatically, taking it. I took a swig without bothering to sniff it first, hoping that whatever it was it might be strong enough to quell the churning feeling still torturing my insides. I wasn't quite prepared for it to be that strong though. I almost spat it straight out again, choking as Gimli let out a loud rumbling chuckle.

"W-what is this?" I gasped, eyeing the flask like it had insulted my mother. Gimli's eyes creased with a wider smile at me.

"Erebor Goldwine, from the Lonely Mountain. The best whiskey you'll ever wet your lips with."

"It's definitely the strongest, I'll give you that. And that's coming from an ex-barmaid," I half smiled, taking another smaller swig this time. The burn was more pleasant the second time, though I had to wonder how he'd managed to make it last this long. We hadn't exactly had anywhere to stock up on booze since Lothlórien, let alone Dwarven booze.

"A barmaid, huh?" Gimli grunted, resting his elbows on his knees as he went about filling and lighting his pipe. "Knew there was something I liked about you."

I chuckled through another swig, smiling sideways at him just a little.

"I'm pretty sure you thought me an insolent hot-head when we first met."

"Oh aye," he confirmed with a rumbling chuckle. "Doesn't mean I didn't admire your spirit though."

I laughed again, a little more freely this time, and it eased the twisting in my gut, just a bit. We sat in silence for a few long moments while Gimli puffed his pipe to life, and I stared down at the flask in my hands. I ran my thumb over the dents and nicks absently, my thoughts wandering back to the source of the unease inside me…

"You still think I'm a liar, don't you…" I heard myself say quietly.

Gimli didn't answer instantly. He took a long drag on his pipe, letting the smoke out in a long sighing plume that drifted away on the calm breeze.

"Nah," he said at last, with a simple shrug. "I always thought you were odd, lass. Doesn't make you a liar."

I turned to look at him properly, incredulous.

"Seriously?"

He shrugged again, breathed out another cloud of smoke, and gestured around us with the end of his pipe. "Be pretty pointless for you to lie now, I reckon."

I almost found myself laughing again, with relief, disbelief, or pained agreement, I wasn't entirely sure.

"Yeah. Yeah it really would," I chuckled shakily, taking another swig, deeper this time. It burned with warmth on the way down, but didn't quite banish the lump that was growing in my throat at the thought of… of…

I gripped the flask so hard I thought the metal might actually bend, my voice a harsh whisper.

"He thinks I am."

I didn't dare say his name. I wasn't sure I could without my voice choking on the sound of it.

Gimli, again, didn't immediately reply. For all the flack he got for his dwarf's temper, when he wanted to, he seemed pretty damn good at considering his words carefully before unleashing them upon others. He took another drag, set the pipe down entirely, and turned to me, his expression kind.

"He's a stubborn, hard-headed, proud elf lad. Probably used to dealing with stung pride over decades instead of days," he said seriously, but the hand he used to pat my back was gentle. "Can't say I'm an expert on these things, but my guess would be that he's more hurt than angry right now. He can't stay that way forever, especially at you. Might take him a wee bit longer than most to come around, but he will."

The lump in my throat didn't disappear, but it changed. I had to blink several times and bite my tongue to keep the gratitude at his words from spilling out through my eyes. When I finally did get a hold of myself entirely, my eyes were misty, but dry.

"Thanks Gimli," I smiled fully at him this time, stoppering his beloved flask and offered it back to him. "For the drink, and the talk."

He beamed and took it. "Any time, lass."

Then his smile flickered as something caught his eye somewhere behind me.

"I think there's someone else who has some words for you, too," he murmured, pointing over my shoulder. I looked, and my body went instantly rigid.

Boromir stood not ten feet away.

He looked terrible, hovering near the edge of the soldier's encampment like a hollow, shadow-eyed wraith. He hadn't exactly looked his best lately, but it was like he'd gone through several days of sleep deprivation and exhaustion in the space of a few hours. And he was looking straight at me.

Not with hate. Not with mistrust. Just intent.

And… guilt?

Gimli's warm hand on my shoulder almost made me jump, but when he spoke it was enough to calm my jumping instincts.

"Hear him out. Just for a bit, if you can," he said softly, getting to his feet, taking up his axe, and walking back towards where the soldiers were being served food. A respectable distance, but still close enough for him to hear if I shouted for help…

I didn't move as Gimli left. Neither did Boromir.

He just continued to linger there at the edge of that island of men in chainmail and leather armour. I honestly wasn't sure what I felt, sitting there watching him. Him watching me. The pair of us acutely aware of the significance of whatever was going to happen next, despite that gaping distance between us.

Then finally, ever so slowly, he took a tentative step towards me.

He did it so carefully, so uncertainly, it took me a moment to realise he was moving toward me in the same way one might approach a frightened animal caught in a trap. He'd even divested himself of his scabbard and other weapons, in what I could only assume was an effort to look less threatening.

I was still anxious, and even a little scared, sitting there watching him move towards me.

Yet still, that little gesture made a tiny warm spot begin to blossom beneath my ribcage.

I didn't even notice Sarra had returned from washing her face in the stream until she appeared directly in my line of sight, blocking a startled Boromir from my view almost completely. Despite her shifted centre of gravity, she'd come out of nowhere and planted herself like an exceptionally curvaceous wall between him and me, standing there with hands on her wide hips.

"Are you all soft in the head?" she demanded, glaring straight at the friend I'd told her only passingly about, but she'd seen the sadness in me when I spoke of them, and had clearly decided she wasn't willing to stand by and leave me undefended either. "Can you truly not tell that you and your companions are among the last people she wishes to see right now, let alone speak with?"

Boromir looked genuinely taken aback for a moment as he looked down at Sarra, her wild red hair, freckles and baby-bump doing absolutely nothing to soften the hardened ex-warmaid glare. He'd halted not five feet from me, and seemed unable to do anything but stare at her for a long moment.

Then, without a trace of anger or disdain, he straightened and dipped his head in a respectful bow of apology to her.

"My lady, I am sadly unable to understand how most mortal women's minds work. It will be a good many decades more before I am even able to guess at what an elven maid's wishes are."

Sarra blinked at him, her scrutinising stare losing some of its bite. She regarded him with renewed consideration for a beat, her brown eyes narrowed on his. Then she inclined her chin in an almost regal gesture of acceptance.

"Good answer." Then turned to me with a softer questioning look.

I swallowed nervously but nodded.

"It's ok, Sarra. Really."

She relaxed a little, returning the nod.

"If you should need me, I will be within earshot." And with that, she strode off towards the supply carts with as much grace and dignity as her protruding belly and sore feet would allow.

Hell, I really must have been a wreck and a half if I was getting bodyguard offers from a pregnant woman.

Boromir and I both watched her go, a shared look of curious admiration on each of our faces. Then reality reasserted itself and I remembered our last meeting. I stiffened on instinct, my hands instinctively twitching as if readying to defend myself. He noticed instantly, and his face crumpled. He tried to speak, but seemed completely unable to find his own voice, let alone words. I let him wrestle with his conscience, forcing myself to sit still and be calm. I understood why I was instinctively afraid. I knew it was the rational, sensible thing to feel. But still, as I looked at him, trying to think of what he could possibly say, I couldn't bring myself to flinch away.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he found his voice.

"Words of apology are nothing close to sufficient for the wrong I have done you, but… I'm afraid words are all I am able to offer," he croaked, hands clenched at his sides to keep from moving, and his gaze fixed on the ground at my feet. I forced myself not to react as he pulled in a shaking breath, lifting his gaze to mine — raw, honest, and tormented as it was. "I am truly sorry for what was done to you, Eleanor. For what I did to you. And for every moment of cruelty and pain inflicted on you in my ignorance."

I just looked at him for the longest time.

Only looked, taking in every detail of the man I saw before me now, silently comparing him to the one I'd first met back in Rivendell. The one I'd befriended in Lothlórien. The one I'd saved at Amon Hen. The one who'd almost killed me in his fear just a few hours ago.

I soaked in the sight of his trembling hands, once so steady when he'd helped me pick up my scattered books. The quaver in his voice, once as solid and steady as the ground beneath our feet. The dark, haunted circles beneath his blue eyes, once clear and bright with confidence and silent laughter, and now so broken.

Broken just like I was, I thought.

Then my eyes drifted to his left hand, clenched at his side, around a familiar looking pouch of…

"Is that the last of the dried venison?" I heard myself ask very quietly.

Boromir blinked at me, baffled, his gaze drifting very slowly down to the pouch of dried meat he'd brought from Lothlórien at his side, then back up to me.

"Yes?"

My stomach chose that moment to let out a startlingly loud gurgle. It was only then that I realised exactly how hungry I really was. I had been so weighed down with a torrent of emotion for the past few hours I'd forgotten that I'd tapped into Tink's power and then performed a limifëa without replenishing the fuel reserves it had used up in me.

It was kind of a wonder I was still able to stand up.

"Then I guess then… you do have more than just words to offer me," I said softly, and to my shock, I realised I was smiling.

Broken, tired, but truly smiling.

"I…" The sight seemed to stun him into compliance because he looked down at the pouch in his hand only once before offering the whole thing. "Of course, here."

I took it, opening it up and inhaling the spicy scent of the dried strips of meat inside. It was funny how good simple spices could smell and taste after so long eating unseasoned rabbit, nuts, and dried fruit. Boromir only watched me chewing for an uncomfortably long moment, shifting uncertainly as if the ground might go out from under him at any moment. I made an impatient sound, and thumped the grass beside me for him to sit. Hesitantly, he did, and we sat there in silence for a while as I sated my hunger, relishing the taste and toughness of the cured meat.

Eventually, as my hunger ebbed, my pace slowed, and I turned to face my friend. He was watching me out of the corner of his eye, trying hard to seem unthreatening.

"You really don't need to tread on eggshells around me, Boromir. I won't break."

He didn't look at me immediately, seemingly unconvinced, and when he did, he winced as his eyes drifted over my still bruised throat.

"I…" he croaked, cleared his throat, then tried again. "I hardly know what to say."

"Yeah, I know that feeling," I agreed quietly, feeling my smile turning a bit brittle as I eyed the half-eaten piece of meat in my hand. "I feel like I should be apologising too. None of this would have happened if I'd just told you all the whole truth to begin with."

A wheezing sound exploded out of him, and I realised it was a startled laugh. He shook his head at me in disbelief.

"Stars, you of all people are the last of us who should be apologising, Eleanor. I still cannot quite believe—" He cut himself off, biting down on his tongue but continuing to shake his head, his gaze fixed on me with a bizarre kind of awe. "You must have endured much, to contain… her for so long."

I pulled a face and looked away.

"Not really," I murmured, taking another bite of venison to hide my sudden discomfort. Being looked at like I was some kind of hidden terror was one thing, but being looked at like I was awe inspiring was somehow worse. "Sure she can be scary, and a bit of a pain in the backside at times, and I know now that she has a lot of power to throw around… But she's also been kind, chatty, and in all this time she's only ever used that power to protect me. She's shielded me, kept me… us alive when we might have otherwise fallen."

My thoughts drifted back to the time Tink cut off my breath to keep me from revealing the Watcher beneath the water outside Moria. I'd been so furious at the time I hadn't really thought about why she'd bothered to do it, and why she hadn't done it since. With her kind of strength, I realised now she could have easily bent me to her will if she'd wanted to.

But she hadn't.

"I vaguely remember hearing a strange female voice. It spoke a… well, I think it was a word, back at Amon Hen. As I lay dying, I saw it called up fire on that Uruk that was beating you." Boromir said thoughtfully after a moment, turning a questioning gaze on me. "Was that…?"

I nodded. "That was all her."

"She was… trying to save us?"

"She's got a funny way of helping, but yes. Nearly knocked me unconscious with that stunt." I don't know why, but I chuckled around the words, suddenly feeling the need to defend her. My face fell as I went on. "What you saw earlier today though, that wasn't… That wasn't her. That was me, messing with power I should never have tried to touch."

From the look on his face he didn't quite seem to understand, so I curled an arm around my squirming tummy, chewing on another piece of dried meat.

"What happened back in that alleyway, it… it sparked some unpleasant memories from my human life, ones I'm not fond of reliving. She was trying to help me escape, but her power reacted badly with my heightened emotions. I lost control. If you hadn't stopped me I…" I trailed off, unable to finish the sentence aloud, or look to see the reaction it had garnered from my friend.

He was silent for a long time.

Then ever so hesitantly, I felt the brush of calloused fingers on the back of my hand. I think he expected me to flinch away, but when I didn't, he settled his hand over the back of mine and gave a very gentle squeeze.

"I suppose I too know something of what power and fear can do to a mind. And that combined with your family…" he whispered. I looked up at him, unable to tell if I was more relieved or surprised.

"You believe it then? Where I'm really from?"

"Aragorn told us of what he saw within your mind. Of your home…" His handsome face looked genuinely pained. "I am sorry, Eleanor. Truly. Had I known what you were enduring…"

I put up a hand in the universal sign for silence, despite the pang in my chest.

"It's done. You couldn't have known. Shall we agree that it'll be safer for both of us if we are honest about things like this in future?"

A flicker of his old, warming smile ghosted across his mouth.

"You mean about traumatic shared memories of far-off worlds and of a Maiar spirit being mistaken for a servant of the Enemy?"

"That, yes."

He laughed softly, the sound a bit creaky, like the sound was rusty, but still there.

"I think that would be for the best," he smiled at me.

I smiled back.

Then I put my arms around the broken, complicated, perfectly imperfect man who had somehow become my friend over these past few months, and pulled him into a bone crushing hug. At first he didn't move, seemingly afraid if he did I might change my mind and flee from him. But then, every so slowly, he returned the embrace just as tightly, the warmth and strength of him painfully gentle, as if he might crush me if he wasn't careful.

"I'm glad you're back, Boromir," I said against his shoulder, my voice going a little wobbly, and I heard the trembling smile in his voice even though I couldn't see it.

"As am I."

We released each other easily, and still smiling, he pointedly eyed the meat pouch I still had in my lap.

"Might I steal some of that back, before you finish it all yourself?"

I laughed, the weight in my chest just a little bit lighter now.

"Go right ahead," I said, grinning as I handed him the pouch. I'd gone to town on the meat and there were only a few pieces left, but Boromir seemed content to take whatever was left over. We sat in far easier silence than before, the last of the sunlight dying below the hills, and one by one torches being sparked to life by the soldiers. It was only thanks to the lights that I finally noticed Boromir's and my conversation hadn't gone as unnoticed as I'd thought.

A few of the guardsmen from Meduseld and soldiers were glancing at us both with expressions ranging from curiosity, to contempt, to mild smugness. I narrowed my eyes at the more assertive of them, refusing to look away first until their gazes drifted back to their food, pretending they hadn't been looking at me in the first place.

"I'm really starting to get sick of being stared at. Even the soldiers are at it now," I muttered darkly. Then a sinking thought occurred to me and I turned with wide eyes to Boromir. "Oh crap, did they hear what I did to their—"

He looked past me with a narrowed gaze, but shook his head.

"No. Háma has kept your identity out of it. They probably only stare because you're quite lovely to behold," he shrugged matter of factly, without a trace of sarcasm or flirtation, taking a bite out of the dried venison.

I just gaped at him incredulously.

It took him a moment to notice, glancing up at me with a confused tilt to his head, as if to say: what?

"Pardon?" I sputtered in disbelief.

He swallowed, shrugged, unfazed by my reaction and gestured at the packs of soldiers over my shoulder.

"I have little experience of what the standards of attractiveness are amongst the Elves, but it's plain to the eyes of Men that you are very fair. Yet you have little of the intimidating air about you that other Elves do, which is likely why they look upon you as they do," he explained, a little discomfort at the idea creeping into his tone. "Just an observation."

I eyed him, not sure if I was understanding correctly.

"You're basically saying I'm pretty enough to get noticed, but trashy enough to be approachable?"

He winced.

"I would not have phrased it as such."

"Of course you wouldn't, you're too reflexively chivalrous for that," I shrugged this time, my smile a bit wooden. I risked another quick glance over my shoulder at the soldiers with Boromir's words in mind, and sure enough, several of them were looking at me again — one of them I recognised as my starry-eyed young admirer guard.

Well, crap.

Mary-Sue as it sounded, being the kind of girl who stands out for her looks instead of her barbed tongue and no sense of self-preservation was something I was super unqualified to handle. A childhood as an average human girl with wispy hair, two years in Rivendell as a sub-par elf, and then a month in Lothlórien with Merileth had seen to that.

"Eleanor," Boromir's uneasy tone caught my attention, and I turned back to find him shifting uncomfortably again, wringing the empty pouch between his fingers. "I must tell you something now, for clarity's sake, and because I do not wish for us to have any more misunderstandings."

Nerves settled into the pit of my stomach, suddenly fearful of whatever had turned him so serious.

"Alright…?"

He took a steadying breath and faced me directly, suddenly all business.

"Eleanor, I realise now, in hindsight, that our… closeness may have originally stemmed from something more than mere friendship. You say you were once mortal, and you had been living among the Elves for two years before we met so informally." He gave me what I realised what a kindly pitying look, taking my hand gently in his again. "I understand that must have been… confusing for you. I must apologise both for my ignorance towards your feelings, but also that I cannot return those affections. You are a trusted companion and a dear friend to me, but I… why are you laughing?"

I couldn't help it, I'd started snort-giggling uncontrollably. I just couldn't believe it.

The fool was actually trying to let me down gently.

"Did you just… friend-zone me?" I cackled manically, and the baffled look on his face only sent me into fullon peals of laughter. Some of the watchful soldiers were peering openly at me as if I'd lost my mind, but Boromir's face had split into a wide, relieved grin.

"I take it you are not offended by my rejection then?"

I reined in my giggles and beamed at him, my unease gone.

"Of course I'm not, you idiot. I'll admit the girl who does catch you will be a lucky one, but it was definitely not going to be me."

Boromir's tired features softened at me in the torchlight.

"Indeed not. Especially since it is clear there is another far more suitable contender vying for your affections now," he said plainly. I choked on my giggles and looked at him with wide eyes. He gave me a fond look that made me feel a teeny bit thick. "I was traumatised, Eleanor. Not blind. I see how he looks at you now."

Well, he had me there.

I folded my arms and leaned them on my knees, trying to ignore the blush I could feel rising in my face. And the squirming feelings of embarrassment and sadness deep in my gut.

"Well, what about you? Is there someone waiting for you back in Gondor?" I asked off handedly, and regretted it the moment he didn't immediately answer. I turned to find a far-away look in his eyes, his smile gone. "Boromir?"

He shook his head, as if shaking away unwelcome thoughts, leaning his elbows on his knees too.

"There was… once."

I sat there watching him for a moment, seeing the tired lines deepening at the corners of his eyes, his jaw clenching and unclenching with restrained emotions buried deep. And as I did, the image of an unfamiliar but beloved young face flashed through my mind, one I'd glimpsed in memories that weren't my own as I'd healed a broken man's body…

"The girl I saw… the one with dark hair," I breathed quietly, knowing I'd struck home when I saw his shoulders flinch. But still I asked; "Who was she?"

Boromir didn't speak for several long moment, and I didn't press. Then finally he drew in a shuddering breath, and spoke on the exhale.

"Dhalia…"

"It…" I stumbled over the memory of her hands clasped in mine — in his — and the wave of emotion that had come with it. "It looked as if you cared for her a great deal."

"I did."

"Where is she now?" I really did regret asking the moment the words left my mouth. His face fell even further, but his voice was deliberately stony this time.

"Gone."

I winced.

"I'm sorry."

Silence stretched between us again, but just as I was about to try and awkwardly break it by asking if he wanted some of the food the soldier's were being served, he spoke.

"She was not fully of Gondorian blood. Her mother was one of the Haradrim, from the South, and her father was a merchant from Osgiliath, but she was one of the kindest and wisest people I have ever known," he explained, and something in his voice told me this was the first time he'd ever had the opportunity to talk freely about it. "Her family was lowborn but wealthy nobility for the most part, but because of her mixed blood her parents had… trouble finding her a suitable match when she came of marrying age. When my father heard of their plight, and my… affection for her, he offered to help."

A knot of dread formed in my gut.

"Offered to help how?"

A flash of grief twisted his handsome face.

"I'd made no secret of my wish to marry her. I was eighteen and didn't care where she was from, or whom she was born to. But my father always insisted that I would need to marry a highborn lady, more suited to my station," he spat out the last words as if they were poisonous. "At first I thought he had finally come around to the idea. That at last he could see the bond between us for what it was: one of honest love between equals.

I swallowed, afraid to watch his reaction, but refusing to allow myself to look away.

"Why do I feel like there's a but coming…?"

He chuckled humourlessly.

"He arranged her marriage to one of his advisors; an uncaring man nearly three times her age who'd traded in a favour for a pretty young bride. Because of my father's position her parents couldn't refuse. I watched their wedding day from the top of the Tower of Ecthelion, banned from attending by my father. Faramir tried to console me, but I…" he trailed off, his voice gone hoarse, grieved expression all sharp edges cutting open old wounds.

I hadn't the faintest idea what I could possibly say.

"Your father sounds… unpleasant," I offered feebly.

He sounded like a dick of the first order, but I thought that might not be the best thing to say right then—

"He is among one of the worst men I know of," Boromir said flatly, as if reading my thoughts. Then he sighed, adding; "But he was not always that way."

"Most terrible people aren't," I murmured in agreement, shifting uncomfortably beside him. "What… happened to her? If you can tell me, of course."

He gave me a gently forgiving smile that didn't reach his eyes, before looking out over the night-swept grasslands around us.

"She died attempting to give life to her first child… neither of them survived," he answered finally.

My already bruised heart truly ached for him in that moment, and very gently, ever so slowly, I placed a hand on his shoulders, grateful when he didn't flinch away from my touch.

"I'm so sorry, Boromir."

"Do not be. I am the one who failed her," he said softly.

"You were eighteen, barely more than a boy." I shook my head at him. "What could you have possibly done?"

"Not much," he granted, glancing sideways at me with a bitter smile. "But it still should have been more than nothing."

I wanted to argue with him. To wipe that tortured look from his face and make him see that for all his faults, this wasn't one of them. That I'd seen how much Dhalia had cared for him in that vision. That I'd felt how much he loved her. And that neither of them were responsible for what his father had done to them both because of what they'd felt for each other.

But I didn't. It might be that someday he'd be ready to hear it, but not tonight. I didn't want to see my friend in pain. But I wasn't willing to rip open such a painful wound just so it could heal to my liking.

"Rabbit stew either of you? It's not much, but it's hot."

I jumped a bit as a familiar female voice invaded my thoughts, and I looked up to see Eowyn standing over us, a large pot of steaming broth in one hand and a ladle in the other. The sight looked a bit incongruous. Eowyn looked as if she was more suited to wielding a sword and shield than kitchen utensils.

"Thank you, Lady Eowyn," Boromir said graciously, his previous pain disappearing behind the chivalry I now realised he wore just like armour. "I think we could both use a proper meal."

He was right.

We were both starving, even after finishing the last of the dried venison, and we both took a bowl each without hesitating.

"I must apologise if I was intruding earlier, my lady," Eowyn said sincerely to me, ladling a generous amount of the stew into my bowl. "I did not intend to cause you or your companion more unease with my presence."

I shook my head, ignoring the pang in my chest and forcing my mood to be lifted by the scent of the broth. It had a slightly odd scent to it, but I wasn't about to turn away free food.

"It's alright, Eowyn. Really. You did nothing wrong."

"Even so," she bit her lower lip, filling Boromir's bowl and handing us a pair of wooden spoons. "Please, eat. You both must be hungry."

I lifted a steaming spoonful to my mouth, delighting in the anticipation of a hot meal, and…

And froze the moment it touched my tongue. Beside me I felt Boromir do the same, glancing panicked at each other for a split second, then forced a pair of stiffly grateful smiles up at her through our mouthfuls. Eowyn smiled back and wandered off towards the outer edge of the soldier's camp, making a bee-line for a familiar looking man with a ranger's garb and a pipe sitting off on his own.

The second poor Eowyn's back was turned and out of earshot, both Boromir and I immediately spat our mouthfuls back into our bowls.

"Bloody hell," I choked, staring flabbergasted into my dish. "What parts of the rabbit did she put in this?"

"I didn't know it was possible for a stew to taste like boiled boot soles," Boromir agreed, gingerly lifting what looked suspiciously like an eyeball out of the brew with his spoon. We looked sideways at each other then, and after a brief moment, we both broke into wide easy grins.

As easy as any we'd shared before.

"A shame, I was truly looking forward to a good meal before the rest of the walk," Boromir sighed, looking mournfully down at his bowl before setting it aside.

"You and me both," I agreed, checking quickly over my shoulder before tipping my helping of rabbit bits into a nearby bush.

Just a little way away, I saw Eowyn had handed Aragorn a bowl of the dubious stew, and was talking animatedly at him while the poor man tried very hard not to choke on the first mouthful. I couldn't help the smile that crept onto my lips, turning back to find Boromir had forgone his dodgy meal in favour of inspecting the one weapon he had kept on him when he'd come to talk to me.

The gold hilted throwing dagger — his gift from Lady Galadriel.

He'd taken it from its sheath at his hip and was inspecting it untrustingly, as if it might bite him.

"You tried throwing that thing yet?" I asked, peering at it. It really was a gorgeous weapon, a similar size and shape to my own hunting knife, only far less battered.

"Not yet," he admitted, frowning at the blade. "I must confess, for all my training with a sword, I never proved talented with anything smaller than a dinner knife."

I found myself smiling anew, pointing to the dagger with a questioning look.

"It's pretty straight forward. I could show you, if you want."

He quirked his lip and nodded, handing it to me without pause for pride. I began walking him through the process, demonstrating as I went.

"Hold the knife lightly by it's lighter end; in this case the blade instead of the hilt. Draw it back to just behind your ear, lead the throw with your elbow, and release just above where you're aiming for."

He tried a few times without releasing, before attempting a few throws aiming for a nearby barrel on the back of a cart — the nearest object we could safely use as a target. He allowed me to correct him without complaint whenever the blade went astray. However — despite his novice level aim, and true to Galadriel's promise — the blade struck true every time, sinking point-first into the wood.

"You know," I said dryly, frowning in accusation at the knife after Boromir retrieved it for the twelfth time in ten minutes. "I'd have happily swapped both my gifts for one of yours. That knife is damn flawless."

Boromir chuckled, pointedly sheathing the little blade back on his belt before dropping onto the grass beside me.

"Speaking of, have you worked out the purpose behind your own gift?"

I shrugged, pulling out the little vial of memory poison from where it hung around my neck and fiddled with it. I still had no idea what the riddle on the stopper was supposed to mean, and the only other gift I'd received were the medicinal flowers. I took them out, too, and brushed my fingers over the dried stems. I was still unsure of exactly how they were meant to come in useful. Most of them I knew were only used in minor pain relief, blood replenishment, immune system boosters, and one used primarily in strong sleeping draughts. They were all the kind of remedies used in ongoing treatments, not immediate battle wounds or trauma.

"Not yet," I admitted reluctantly, a thought occurring to me as I looked up, my gaze scanning the darkened camp for Sarra's distinctive red hair. "It's weird though… they all seem like they've been picked out for—"

A sudden, terrible scream pierced the calm of the camp.

For a split second I thought it was an animal's cry, but as it gurgled back into silence I realised it hadn't been a beast's cry. It was the sound of a man.

A man dying in horrific, excruciating pain.

Boromir was on his feet before me, already away and snatching up his sword from where he'd left it by the time I'd staggered upright. All around us the soldiers, children and women had all reacted similarly to the sound — in either panic or sudden alertness — and before I could figure out who had made the noise, Sarra and Gimli both materialised at my side.

"What in the abyss was that?" Sarra demanded, her voice hard with carefully repressed fear.

We got our answer before any of us could so much as draw breath.

"Wargs!" A terrified guardsman hollered from the dark, and a second later he came flying into the camp — what could only be his watch-partner's blood soaking the front of his armour. "We're under attack!"

Credits:

* "Dirge of the Hravarim" — written for Rella's (RealityWarp) Rávamë's Bane series by the amazingly talented Saphrose (Authorqueen)

A/N: He honest, how many of you thought I'd forgotten about the Warg attack? ;D

Btw I've had a couple people comment on how it's seems a little quick of Boromir to get over his terror so quickly, and all I can say to that is words were had between him and the others while Ellie was absent, and a lot of what he's been through over the past few chapters has been mentally draining for them both. Also I toyed with the idea of taking out the whole "I'm just not into you" section, but frankly, the whole chapter was so tense I really wanted to leave in something a lighthearted before things go straight to hell in a hand basket... which they're about to... sorry.

Many thanks to my dearest Momma Bear for standing in for my Beta who is currently drowning in a sea of textbooks and exam dates this week. She'll be back on grammar duty next chapter once her deadlines are past. Speaking of, I realise this chapter was very dialogue heavy but the next one will have (in the words of Elvis Presley): "a little less conversation, and a little more action." Promise. :)

Much love, and until next time,

Rella x