hi friends! hope you love this chapter!

to all the Boromir fans out there: this one's for you!

peace out!

ARAGORN

The library of Long Cleeve was illuminated by a single shaft of dim light, silvered by the clouds that had covered the sun in the hours since the bestowing. Aragorn wondered if Ilúvatar had sent the storm as a sign, a warning of the danger that awaited Middle-earth now that the Ring had passed to its new bearer.

He sat at a small table underneath the opening to the sky, a vast, leather-bound tome open in front of him. The title embossed upon its cover was The Rules of Reena-domë, and its dusty pages were open to a section labeled Winyanost. The text was written in Sindarin, the characters beautifully inked onto the pages. Aragorn wondered how such a lovely thing could speak of such dark power.

Winyanost. The word in the Common Speech was translated as new birth, and Aragorn knew that it was this for which he searched. He lowered his gaze to the page and began to read, hoping to commit the words to memory. He did not wish to take the book from the library, and he was not sure the queen would grant permission for him to do so.

The winyanost, or the Risen, is a being given new life by Reena-domë after an untimely passing. This is done through another willing being, one who wishes to give up a part of their soul for one dear to them. There are, of course, certain conditions to be met, and the dangers of giving life to the dead may far outweigh the lessening of grief.

Aragorn took a sheaf of thick, well-made paper from the corner of the desk, with a long white-and-gold quill to write upon it. He dipped the tip of the feather into the inkwell, transcribing the words in hopes that he could take them with him, for he knew they would be critical for the quest; or, at least, for Aragorn…

Very seldom do any give their soul to the Ring; it has been done only thrice in the history of Long Cleeve. The first occurrence was the raising of consort Vigil Riverflame in S.A. 1019, and the second took place in the Third Age in the year 628. The last known soul-giving was performed by Queen Honor Soulreaper in T.A. 3011 for the raising of her crown princess, Diamond Firebringer. All soul-givings were carried out by the current bearer of Reena-domë, and all resulted in blood-soaked vengeance from the Ring, which drove each queen to madness so that they slew much of the royal family.

Many have studied the Ring, and many have failed to prevent the madness that comes with rending one's soul. Fallanae, who cannot be swayed by the instrument of darkness, theorize that perhaps the soul-givers' proximity to the Ring may have contributed to their reliance upon it; however, none have yet been willing to take it upon themselves for fear of breaking the line of succession.

The rending of one's soul, if carried out, is immensely painful, as the soul-giver is tearing a piece of herself from the whole and giving it forcibly to another. The soul-giver shall take upon herself the scars of the dead, and though the wounds shall not harm her, she shall carry the scars for the remainder of her days.

The winyanost's life force, once risen, is tied to the Ring and to their soul-giver. When either of these are destroyed, the winyanost shall pass also, often within moments. It is a terrible, painful end, and one that should not be thrust upon any creature in Middle-earth. Nothing is known of the fate that befalls the soul-giver if the Ring is destroyed, though one might assume that the soul-giver shall perish also, as the Ring has command over half her soul.

But if the giving of life-breath is still desired, then the soul-giver shall speak these words by moonlight and take life itself into her hands: She shall speak her name, and that of her mother, and offer her soul to Reena-domë. She shall utter the name of the dead and that of her mother, and take upon herself the scars of the dead, and give to her new life-breath. This oath she shall seal with blood, and the dead shall return, clothed in white and alive as she ever was.

Beware of this fearsome, dangerous magic; it shall rend your soul until nothing remains, and you shall lose yourself in the darkness of the Ring, from whence none can return…

Aragorn drove the quill across the paper with a flourish, and he took the paper in his hand and rolled it into a scroll, stowing it safely inside his cloak. This was all he needed.

Soon, Boromir would live again.

Aragorn took the athelas from his pouch; he held it up so that Pippin could see. "Athelas, Pippin. It is the most versatile of the healing plants of Middle-earth and can also be eaten in times of little sustenance. It is this I used on Merry's wound."

He put the leaves into his mouth and chewed it, his gaze flicking around the healing chamber of Long Cleeve as he did so. Aragorn knelt beside Merry's bed, which was small, soft, and white, and several other beds with the same coverings stood at regular intervals against the wall. The skylights had sheer, pale green cloth hung beneath them, so that the clouded light that streamed through the openings was tinted and soothing. Valor sat in a great chair on the far side of the room, sorting herbs and placing them in baskets; Aragorn could feel the fallan's gaze on him as both worked.

"If there should be a time when I cannot provide you with healing, Pippin," said Aragorn around the leaves, "you must learn how to use athelas."

He took the leaves from his mouth and dabbed the pulp gently upon Merry's uncovered wound. The gash looked much better; the infection at least seemed to be gone, for it was no longer scarlet at the edges, nor was there any discharge to be seen. Still the wound was wide and gaping, and Aragorn applied the salve liberally, then bound the wound with a bandage of white cloth.

"I have discovered a strange thing about athelas in the course of my travels," Aragorn said, almost to himself. "The leaf, when chewed, seems to become more potent with the lifespan of the healer making it. That is to say that salve made by an elf would be stronger than that made by a man, with the salve of a Dúnedain or a dwarf falling somewhere between them. I do not understand it, but it is certainly useful to remember."

"Can you eat the roots, Strider?" Pippin asked. "Like taters, I suppose? For it should be disappointing if all of athelas you could eat were the leaves."

"You can certainly eat the roots," Aragorn told him. "I have found that they make a remarkably good stew, especially when simmered with rabbit. I shall have to make it for you sometime."

"Can you use all of the shoot?" Merry inquired. "So far we know of the leaves and of the roots, but what of the stalk? And the flowers; I know that they bloom in the spring."

"The stalk I often cut for eating," said Aragorn. "But the aloe inside can be used for a sort of ointment; it does wonders for small burns. I am glad that you asked about the flowers, Merry, for they are the most potent part of athelas. The nectar is used for strong tea which can help heal many internal wounds, and the petals are all that will work on those burns which turn the flesh black and white. They are considered a delicacy to the elves, which astounds me, for they are so hard to come by that I believe they should be harvested only for medicine. Nevertheless I shall admit to having baked pastries that include the flowers, usually for Elrond."

"What sort of pastries?" Pippin's eyes twinkled.

"Chocolate squares, Pippin, those soft brown ones, and I drizzle them with the nectar of the athelas flower."

"When this is all over I should like you to make those," said Pippin. "Even being the son of the Thain of the Shire I have only had them once or twice in my life. At home we call them brownies; they sound like they would be marvelous with athelas nectar."

"Brownies." The word felt foreign and warm on Aragorn's tongue. "What a peculiar name. Although I suppose it is to be expected; hobbits seem to have the strangest and yet most lovely names for things. I wish I were more learned in the ways of hobbitry."

"They can be learned," said Merry, and sitting up he smiled at Aragorn. "Boromir knew much of our ways; he looked forward to the time when he could come to the Shire and see it all play out." A shadow of sorrow crossed his face. "It saddens me to think that he shall never see it."

Both Merry and Pippin hung their heads, gazing at the ground, and Aragorn's heart seemed to break a little at the sight of their sorrow.

"We shall offer a tribute to him," he said. "It is the least we can do, especially when we consider that you were not there to bid him farewell when we gave him to Anduin. Come, my friends; we shall fetch Legolas and Gimli and go down to the elenorn."

The hobbits got to their feet, their footsteps pattering behind Aragorn as he led them out of the healing chamber. He looked back to see Valor's gaze upon them, filled with some unreadable emotion, and wondered if the fallan saw beyond, saw what Aragorn wished to do for Boromir…but no, surely not even Valor's Gazing Eye was so powerful as to see that specific future…

A light rain fell outside the palace, and Aragorn saw Legolas and Gimli underneath a tree wreathed in a haze of green. He beckoned the elf and the dwarf, and they stood. Legolas cocked his head questioningly, and Aragorn said, "We go to let the hobbits pay their respects to Boromir. I hope it shall lessen a portion of their grief."

Legolas nodded, and together they walked silently over the crest of the hill and down to the elenorn. The bank of the creek was soft and muddy under Aragorn's boots, and shoots of new grass peeked through the earth. He knelt down upon the bank, looking into the water and imagining for a moment that he saw Boromir's face therein.

Pippin reached up and plucked a white blossom from the elenorn; he took one then for Merry and passed another to Aragorn. Legolas took one for himself and for Gimli, and Aragorn watched as the hobbits placed the blossoms into the creek. The water did not move swiftly, and so the snowy clusters of petals went slowly away from them. Aragorn tipped his blossom into the water; he watched it float serenely away, followed by those of Legolas and Gimli.

"Shall we sing for him?" Legolas asked. "As we did when we let him go?"

"We must," said Aragorn. "I pray that we shall remember the words."

He drew Pippin and Merry both against his sides, hoping to comfort them as Legolas began to sing.

"Through Rohan over fen and field where the long grass grows,
The West Wind comes walking, and about the walls it goes.
'What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you bring to me tonight?
Have you seen Boromir the Tall by moon or by starlight?'
'I saw him ride over seven streams, over waters wide and grey.
I saw him walk in empty lands, until he passed away
Into the shadows of the North. I saw him then no more.
The North Wind may have heard the horn of the son of Denethor.'
'O Boromir! From the high walls westward I looked afar,
But you came not from the empty lands where no men are.'"

Aragorn took up the song now, his voice lilting through the mournful tune as his eyes began suddenly to burn with tears.

"From the mouths of the sea the South Wind flies, from the sandhills and the stones;
The wailing of the gulls it hears, and at the gate it moans.
'What news from the South, O sighing wind, do you bring to me at eve?
Where now is Boromir the fair? He tarries and I grieve!'
'Ask me not of where he doth dwell—so many bones there lie
On the white shores and the dark shores under the stormy sky;
So many have passed down Anduin to find the flowing Sea.
Ask of the North Wind news of them the North Wind sends to me!'
'O Boromir! Beyond the gate the seaward road runs south,
But you came not with the wailing gulls from the grey sea's mouth.'"

Legolas sang now again, and Aragorn tightened his arm around Pippin as the young hobbit began to cry, silent tears dampening Aragorn's tunic.

"From the Gate of Kings the North Wind rides, and past the roaring falls;
And clear and cold about the tower its loud horn calls.
'What news from the North, O mighty wind, do you bring to me today?
What news of Boromir the Bold? For he is long away.'
'Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he fought.
His cloven shield, his broken sword, they to the water brought.
His head so proud, his face so fair, his limbs they laid to rest;
And Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, bore him upon its breast.'
'O Boromir! The Tower of Guard shall ever northward gaze
To Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days."

They had ended the song there, and Aragorn was fully prepared to let the tune fade into the rainy sky. Yet some inner light seemed to have kindled within him, as it had the day they gave Boromir to Anduin, and so he sang a final verse.

"The East Wind cried a mournful tune; she sang as she passed by,
And stirred the river so it leaped against the dawning sky,
Great Anduin bore him long away, his heart and breath were stilled,
And sorrow took the hearts of men, and crevices it filled.
Forget him not, O little ones, though grief your souls may rend,
Ilúvatar doth see your trial, and all things shall he mend.
'Fair Boromir was strong and true, and clear and swift of mind,'
The East Wind sang to all his kin and those he left behind.
For he was Boromir the Kind, until the bitter end,
And he shall watch through end of days until we meet again."

He wept now, for all that was, for all that could have been, and vowed that he would not let any of them suffer any longer. Once they had departed, once the quest was underway, he would give to Boromir new life-breath.

Aragorn knew the danger. He knew the pain it would cause him.

And he cared not.

For there were some for whom he would give up his soul, and Boromir son of Denethor was one of them.

PEREGRIN

Pippin lay curled in his bed, reveling in the softness of the pillow. His sleeping chamber was small, hobbit sized of course, but it was beautifully decorated and very warm. He pulled the blankets up to his chin and drew his knees into his chest, closing his eyes.

He dreamed of white blossoms drifting down the stream, the spray it threw up sparkling in the moonlight. A song floated on the wind, the tones of the lament for Boromir hanging, ethereal, in the darkened sky. The night was lovely and sad, and Pippin felt the weight of grief in his chest.

He seemed to be walking now, though he was still deep in the trance of slumber. Where did his feet carry him now? Pippin did not often sleepwalk. He knew something tugged at him, at his sleeping mind, but he could not fathom what it might be…

The door, whichever door it might be, was unlocked; Pippin put his hand upon the knob and it turned. In the pack on the little table was a gleam of darkened glory, and Pippin took the stone into his hands and cradled it, basking in the warmth that should have seared his palm but instead filled him with a pleasant light.

But the light turned sharply and fiercely to shadow, and Pippin saw the stream run red as the sun rose over a blackened land. The sky was a pale reddish-brown, and the wind blew through brittle trees and stirred dust up into little swirls. In the west stood a great black tower, and Pippin shivered as he saw that it was Orthanc.

He felt again iron bands upon his hands and feet, and he knew that he stood in a line of hobbits bound just as he was, strung together with chains and marching forlornly toward Orthanc. Merry was in front of Pippin, his chin thrust out bravely, but Pippin saw his cousin's hands trembling.

"Now you see!" shouted the old man from Pippin's first vision. "Now you see the futility of standing against the might of Sauron, you see what trust you placed in a doomed king!"

To his horror Pippin saw Aragorn beside the old man, and about his neck was a dark iron collar. His hair whipped about his bloody face, and his hands were bound with coarse rope. This alone broke Pippin's heart, and then he saw Boromir and his brother Faramir standing behind Aragorn. They too had iron bands about their necks, with chains running from them. The old man held these chains, keeping them cruelly taut, and Faramir began to gasp for breath.

"Father!" Boromir begged, grasping his brother's chain and pulling it in the opposite direction to ease the pressure on Faramir's throat. "He has not angered you!"

The old man only laughed, and he took the chain of Boromir and pulled it sharply towards him. Boromir fell, and Aragorn moved as if to help, but his chain was held by the servant of Saruman, and he could only say, "My Lord Denethor, they are your sons—"

Wormtongue drove his boot into the back of Aragorn's knee, and the king fell also as Wormtongue spoke. "He has ceased to call them his sons, fool; they would do well to know their place. As would you."

"Father," cried Boromir as Faramir fought for breath. "Stop it, I beg of you; Faramir cannot remain like this—"

"You are no son of mine, boy," Denethor laughed, and he let go of the chain. Boromir crawled to his younger brother's side, holding Faramir tightly as the old man hissed, "I know not what you think calling me Father shall do, for it shall not sway my heart; I have cast you off and no longer call myself your sire."

"Even so I thought you might find some sort of human kindness," Boromir spat, and standing he pulled Faramir up beside him. "You will never be king, you foul beast, and you will not take from Aragorn what is his! The king of Gondor shall rise again; this I know, and you will be nothing before him—"

Denethor moved suddenly, and with his free hand he struck Boromir hard across the face. Boromir flinched; his face screwed up into a grimace of pain, but he did not stumble, nor did he fall, and though his cheek turned swiftly scarlet he looked on Denethor with an expression of utmost contempt.

"It is you," said Denethor, "who are nothing."

He took up the chains again, and thrusting them into Wormtongue's hands he snapped, "Give to me Strider's chain; I wish to show the usurper to Sauron myself."

Wormtongue handed the chain to the old man, and Faramir said fiercely, "You will not speak of Aragorn that way, Denethor. Our family are the usurpers; we have taken the stewardship from the High Kings of Númenor, and the time has come to return it to Isildur's heir."

"You are an insignificant fool, second-born," Denethor snapped. "We did not take the stewardship, we saved it when all would have fallen into ruin, and the throne is mine not by blood but by honor where the Númenorean kings had none. It is mine and mine alone; I had hoped it would be Boromir's one day, but it seems that shall not come to pass."

He jerked the end of Aragorn's chain, and the Ranger stumbled forward. With a thrust of his chin Denethor beckoned the hobbits forward, and Pippin stumbled, nearly falling as the great throng surged around him. He was aware of his feet aching, and he wondered how long the hobbits had marched and where they were going.

Then suddenly the scene changed, and Pippin saw the white city again, only now it was crumbling before his eyes, great chunks of stone plummeting down into the streets as flame licked at the ivory towers. Pippin felt sharp rocky edges digging into his shoulders and back, and something warm and wet trickled over his brow. Was he bleeding? What had happened to the white city?

"Pippin!" called a voice. "Pippin, can you hear me?"

He could not let go of the stone. When had he started holding it? When had he taken the globe of light into his hands?

"Pippin, give me the stone!"

Aragorn. He was afraid; Pippin could hear it in his voice. Why was Aragorn afraid? Surely it was not the fault of the stone; it was such a pretty bright thing...

Then the shadow lunged, and Pippin cried out, a jolt of fear shooting through his heart. Always the shadow came from nothing, seizing him and sinking its horrible teeth into his soul. Pippin wanted it to go away; he wanted Aragorn to rip it from him—

Suddenly, the stone was pulled from his grasp, and Pippin's knees went weak. He fell to the earthen floor of the chamber he now realized was Aragorn's, his head swimming as several voices began to speak.

Aragorn leaned over Pippin, his face worried. He held the stone wrapped in a blanket, and his hair was mussed from sleep. Valor was beside him, looking stunned, and to Pippin's surprise, Malin clung to his father's leg, trembling.

Valor sighed. "I feared it was so."

Pippin sat upon a soft armchair in a small circular room, watching Valor pull large, heavy leather-bound tomes from the walls. He wondered if this was the consort's personal study; it certainly seemed sized for the work of one hobbit.

Upon a round table in the center of the room sat the stone, with a white cloth cast over it to hide its dark glass. Pippin saw Valor's gaze flick toward it and found it hard to keep his own away from the spherical swell in the cloth.

Aragorn knelt beside the fire, tending to the athelas leaves which steeped in a little cauldron. Malin curled on the chair beside Pippin, still shaking. Pippin put an arm about him, and the younger hobbit buried his face in Pippin's nightclothes.

"If you would bring the tea, Strider," said Valor softly as he sat at the table. Aragorn dipped his head, taking four clay cups from the mantel and ladling a pale green liquid into them. Gently he pushed one into Pippin's hands and another into Malin's, then set the third in front of Valor and sat beside the fire with his own.

"As I said," Valor began, nodding to Aragorn in thanks, "this is a thing that I feared. I felt the presence of the stone when you arrived, but I shall confess that I did not believe that you could possibly have it in your possession; after all the palantíri have been lost for many years. Still I could feel it calling to me, though I had hoped it would not pull me to it as it did tonight."

"But what is it?" Pippin asked, and he took a sip of his tea. He found the drink pleasantly warm and calming, and it soothed his troubled mind as he looked at Valor with a slight tilt to his head.

"This, Master Pippin, is a palantír," said Valor. "It is a seeing-stone; it shows a select few of us the clouded paths of the future. Most especially it calls to those of us who have the Gazing Eye, including myself and Malin. I am glad that the other fallanae do not possess the sight that we do, or it would have called many more of us to Strider's chamber."

"Then is it not required to have the Gazing Eye to become a fallan?" Aragorn asked.

"No, Strider," said Valor. "In fact most of us do not have it; it is such a rare gift and tends to run in certain lines. Even when there are twinlings or neldlings born only one of them will have the Gaze. Of course, that was proven untrue when Queen Glory Blademoon discovered that both I and my brother had been blessed with the gift. But rest assured that you need not have the Gaze to become a healer of our people. You would still make a wonderful fallan, Strider."

"But I do not have the Gazing Eye," Pippin insisted. "Not that I know of at least; I never got any visions before I had the stone. Why then does it tempt me so?"

"I have my suspicions." Valor folded his hands, and he looked at Pippin with his dusk-colored gaze. "But first I shall need to know how you came by the palantír."

"When we departed Orthanc and battled Saruman," said Aragorn, "his servant threw the stone down from the tower. He meant the blow for me, but Pippin thrust it out of the way. Saruman was afraid, though I knew not why, and after Diamond slit the wizard's throat Pippin picked up the stone. Ever since it has called to him and shown him frightful visions. None of our company save Pippin can touch the stone; it burns all who come into contact with it."

Valor's eyes seemed full of ancient fear. "Does it speak to you, Pippin?"

"It does," Pippin said. "It talks to me of embracing the shadow and of all the things I could do if only I accepted it. Why does the stone do this, Valor? It frightens me."

Valor sighed heavily, looking down at the tome beneath him as he opened it with a cloud of dust to a long-forgotten page. "I do not wish to frighten you further, my boy, but it appears that this is more serious than I had thought. I had believed that perhaps you possessed an undiscovered Gazing Eye, one that was awakened by the presence of such a powerful magical object, but it seems that this is of a…a different nature, shall we say."

He ran a finger over the page, scanning the Elvish words that Pippin could not read. "Pippin, I am afraid that the palantír has claimed you."

"Claimed him?" asked Aragorn even as Pippin felt a pang of fear run through him. "How do you mean, Valor? How can the stone—the palantír have claimed him?"

"He was the first to lay hands on it after its previous bearer had been slain," said Valor. "The burning of all others who touch it is a sure sign that Pippin is the only one who is meant to hold the seeing-stone. As one who has the Gaze, I may also touch the palantíri, but they have a much more powerful hold on me than they would on one who does not have that gift. I shall confess that more often than not I consider the Gaze a curse…but you need not be concerned with that now. My point is that, as Pippin is the only one who may touch the palantír, the stone has claimed him as its guardian: its vahka 'en heledh."

He looked on Pippin with something like sorrow in his eyes. "Pippin, the guardian has two choices when faced with a claim. You cannot cast it aside or give up the responsibility; you must either give into its power and serve the shadow, or you must destroy it."

"That can be arranged," said Aragorn before Pippin could even register the shock of Valor's words. "We are traveling to the Secret Fire; let that suffice for the destruction of the palantír."

"It will suffice," Valor agreed. "But it is a dangerous undertaking, for although I am not certain, I would hazard a guess at the fact that Sauron himself sees through the palantír. For that seems to me the only reason he would leave the seeing-stone with Saruman."

"Oh, Valar!" cried Pippin suddenly, springing up from the armchair. Malin had fallen asleep and so slumped onto the cushion, still peacefully unaware as Pippin turned to face Aragorn. "Strider, the stone was in the room when Saruman—when he asked me about Frodo and Sam! And I told him; I told him everything and now Sauron shall know all that I do, and I have touched the stone and he has seen me—"

"We must leave Long Cleeve at once!" exclaimed Aragorn, and he too stood swiftly, but Valor's steadfast voice cut through the panic.

"Strider," said the consort. "You need not fear. I assure you that you are well protected here; the army of Long Cleeve shall fight to defend you to the death, for that is the order that Honor has given them. And I understand that you have confessed to Saruman, Pippin, but surely if Sauron knew all that you had told the wizard he would have been here already. Diamond has told me of your cousin's quest with the One Ring, and if Sauron knew of that also he would have slain much of Middle-earth by now. I think we can safely assume that the Dark Lord does not know of anything that you spoke of in the presence of Saruman."

"And yet while we stay we bring danger upon your people," Aragorn argued. "We must not remain here any longer now that Sauron has seen into Long Cleeve. Please, Valor, wake the queen; I shall go to warn my company. We must depart."

Valor nodded. "I understand your haste. I shall go and wake Honor and the children, and I will consult the stars before you depart. It is earlier than I should have liked; after all some of you are still healing, but I shall send you with medicine."

He shook Malin gently, waking the little hobbit, and taking his son's hand Valor slipped through the door and hurried away down the corridor. Pippin followed them, and Aragorn took up the palantír, carrying it swiftly back toward his sleeping chamber.

Pippin burst into his own quarters and gathered his few things, putting his day clothes on and putting his combs and kerchief into his pockets. He clasped the brooch of his cloak, hoisted his pack onto his shoulders, and hurried out of the bedchamber. His steps took him to the entrance hall of the palace, where Malin and Luin stood, identical little pouts on their faces. Pippin nearly laughed; clearly the twinlings had not expected the company to leave so soon.

After some time the others arrived; Aragorn led Legolas, Gimli, and Merry into the hall, and then Queen Honor swept in behind them, Valor hurrying in her wake with several parcels. Diamond followed, the Ring glowing golden against her cloak, and Ruby and Majesty came also in their livery.

"Fellowship of Reena-domë," said Honor, her voice echoing in the hall. "I regret that you must depart so quickly. It has been my privilege to meet you, and I wish that our time together had not been so short. Still I wish you the best in your travels, and I pledge to offer you help whenever you stand in need of it. Send a messenger, wherever in Middle-earth you may be, and Long Cleeve shall answer."

She clasped a fist and laid it over her heart. "I pray that we shall meet again."

Then Honor went forth and embraced Diamond, and Valor joined her after a few moments. Pippin could see that the consort wept, his eyes fearful. Next Diamond's siblings said their goodbyes, and it tore at Pippin's heart to see the sorrowing twinlings, who flung their arms about Diamond's waist and refused to let go.

Pippin thanked the queen for her hospitality and then ruffled the hair of both twinlings, assuring them that he would return to see them after the war was through, though he hoped it would be sooner. After this he found himself facing Valor, who to Pippin's surprise embraced him.

"Do not fear the shadow," Valor whispered. "There is more light in your soul than you know, much more so than the darkness…You need not fear your path."

"How do you know?" asked Pippin; his voice sounded small and childish.

Valor pulled back, and he smiled, the weight of a thousand years contained in his face. "There are things I see, my boy, that you do not, and the goodness of your soul is one of them."

He placed a fist upon his chest. "Take care of my daughter, Pippin, though she will not thank you for it. She will need more protection from the Ring than she knows, and I have seen your paths intertwined in the stars."

Pippin returned the salute, mustering a smile. "On my honor, my lord."

All of his goodbyes were now said, and Pippin moved to stand beside Merry as Valor spoke to Aragorn in a hushed whisper. Pippin strained to listen, wondering if Valor had seen more in the stars than he had said.

"Guard your soul, Strider," said Valor. "Do not let the shadow claim it, for your path is shrouded in the mists of Reena-domë."

"Then is this not right?" Aragorn asked, his tone hushed.

"Right, Strider? Your choice may yet save Middle-earth," Valor said. "You have much to fear, and yet I believe that there shall be a light at the end of your road. Be cautious, Strider, but be strong, and when we meet again you shall be king."

Then the hobbit embraced Aragorn, and when they both pulled back Pippin thought he saw tears shining in the Ranger's eyes, but the gleam of emotion was gone as Aragorn turned and stepped through the circular door. Pippin followed, falling into step beside Merry, and the moon shone silver upon the grass of Long Cleeve as the company set out.

So it was that the Fellowship departed from Long Cleeve, and a greater quest than they had ever known began.

ARAGORN

Aragorn lay on his back on the earth, gazing into the sky. Stars flamed silver beyond the dark branches of the trees, and the crescent moon swung low on the horizon, a great sickle reaping the dust of stars. The rest of the Fellowship lay asleep, and Aragorn decided that the time had come.

He rose, heart suddenly thumping so quickly that he thought it might burst forth from his chest. His pack he slung over his shoulders, not wanting to leave it with the sleeping Pippin. Aragorn did not wish to think of what might happen if the palantír called Pippin to it in the middle of the summoning.

Diamond lay near Merry and Pippin, her breathing even and deep. The Ring shone golden even in the moonlight, it and the fine chain it rested on gleaming enticingly. As Aragorn stepped softly toward her he told himself that he did not wish to have the Ring; he only wished to hold it for as long as it took to complete the summoning, only to save his people…

No, whispered his conscience. You wish it to quench your sorrow…

Aragorn knelt beside Diamond, and reaching for the chain, much of which lay upon the ground, he unclasped it and lifted the Ring. Though it knew no fire it shone with glowing Elvish letters, and Aragorn read them, having never been close enough to do so before.

er korma a' tela sen ilya

One Ring to end them all.

Perhaps the One Ring could rule all of Middle-earth, but the Ring of Melkor could end it and all that the people of the land knew. This Ring was more powerful than any other object in Middle-earth, and here it hung, twinkling in the moonlight in Aragorn's hand.

He held the chain in trembling fingers, somehow unwilling to touch Reena-domë itself. He supposed that was a good thing, not to want it…and yet Boromir too had only wanted the One Ring for a little while…

Aragorn steered his mind away from these thoughts, striding quietly into the trees. He would need to be far away from the camp; he did not wish to endanger the company should the summoning go badly.

He walked for perhaps a quarter of an hour, then stopped and looked back; he could not see the camp anymore and so thought he had gone far enough. Aragorn now stood in a wide clearing; the moon was bright, though the shadows were deep. The paper with the words of the ritual he took from his pouch, and he read them, hoping not to stumble over them for fear that he would not succeed. He was shaking violently now, and he lifted the Ring, his lips moving in a swift, silent prayer to Ilúvatar.

Then, his voice trembling but his heart certain, Aragorn spoke.

"I, Aragorn, son of Gilraen and High King Elessar of Gondor, call upon the spirit of Boromir, son of Finduilas, and bid that life-breath return to him. For this I give my soul and take upon myself his scars, that he might live again."

He breathed deeply, tremulously, and then Aragorn put on the Ring.

All at once golden light struck him, but it was shot through with scarlet, and he was drowning in the blood of Boromir, and he heard the terrified wails of Merry and Pippin and the dark growling of the Uruk-hai. Aragorn saw it too; the horn of Gondor shone white and gold in the late afternoon, and it resonated with a deep, blaring call as Boromir blew into it.

He saw the flight of the arrows, three wicked black projectiles, and then a pain more horrible than anything he had ever felt pierced Aragorn's chest. Three searing, fiery wounds penetrated the skin, struck his heart, and Aragorn dropped to his knees, though he knew they were not real, and wondered how Boromir had borne this even for a few final moments…

Then suddenly, he saw things that he remembered from his service in Gondor thirty years ago: a pale-haired infant, wrapped in a soft white blanket, with his small face screwed up in a wail. Aragorn watched his younger self take the infant Boromir into his arms—how old had he been, thirty years ago? Fifty-seven; no, fifty-eight, still very young in the reckoning of the Dúnedain. Denethor had nearly cried with joy at the sight of his newborn son, and after she and her husband had time with him the lady Finduilas had given Boromir to Aragorn to hold. He had marveled at the baby's tiny hands, which clutched Aragorn's finger as though it were all that mattered in the world, and the wide gray eyes that eventually opened and woke some paternal instinct in Aragorn's heart, one that he had not known he had.

Now the infant was a small child, toddling down the corridors of the Citadel, and Aragorn saw himself again, looking more well-groomed than he ever did now. He swept the young Boromir onto his shoulders, and the boy laughed, wrapping his arms around the crown of Aragorn's head.

The scene shifted again, and Boromir was no longer a toddler, but still a child with his oversized tunic and slender frame. He clasped the hand of a much smaller boy, one with lighter hair and rain-colored eyes, and Aragorn knew that this was Faramir. A look of pure and sudden sorrow had overtaken Boromir's youthful features as he and Faramir ran across the grounds outside the Citadel while a mournful bell tolled somewhere nearby. Was this the death of Finduilas? Aragorn had not been there when it happened; he had departed for Rivendell, but he knew that he felt Boromir's pain now, for the wounds in his chest seared with white-hot light. Aragorn cried out and shrank from the pain, his chest caving in as the visions came harder, faster…

Boromir, a young man now, was shouting at his father, and Faramir cowered behind him, shaking and bleeding from his brow. Denethor pushed his older son aside and stormed from the room, and Aragorn watched as Boromir took Faramir into his arms, holding his brother tightly.

Now Boromir looked as he had when Aragorn had known him, and he rode across a wild moor, rain lashing against his face. Perhaps this was when had left for Rivendell.

Boromir now swung his sword, and Merry and Pippin shouted in delight and parried his thrusts. He let the hobbits push him to the ground, laughing with them…and now he carried them through the snow on Caradhras, shivering yet steadfast…now he leapt over the abyss in Moria, determination etched upon his dust-streaked face, and landed hard and painfully, but it mattered not, for the little ones were safe…

And now the Fellowship stood in Lothlorien, and Galadriel looked upon Boromir with sorrow and grave premonition. Suddenly the pain consumed Aragorn as Boromir was overwhelmed with guilt and grief, and he cried out again, blinded by the horrible agony of the wounds…he would not survive the summoning, that much was clear…

But suddenly the pain left him; Aragorn was left hunched over, tremors running through his body, and he wrenched the Ring from his finger, dropping it with shaking hands onto the ground. For a few moments he was unable to do more than breathe deeply and try not to sob with the lingering agony, and then Aragorn felt them: two hands upon his shoulders, and a voice that cried, "Aragorn! Whatever is the matter? Why are you so frightened?"

He looked up, and there was the face he had longed to see more than any other: strong jaw, dark golden hair and beard, wide, searching storm-colored eyes. The winyanost was dressed in a flowing tunic of pure white, and his expression was worried and kind, exactly as it had been before he had departed the earth.

"Boromir," Aragorn choked, and now all he could do was weep. He clasped his arms around Boromir's shoulders, his fingers bunching the fabric of the white tunic, and Boromir returned the embrace, clutching Aragorn just as he had Faramir. Suddenly the pain did not matter, though Aragorn knew that he would have scars now; all that mattered was that Boromir had returned.

"I shall never let you go again," Aragorn whispered, his face still buried in Boromir's shoulder. "We missed you so, my friend; all has felt shadowed and dim without you. Now I feel more joy than I can say, for I feared that I should never behold your face again, but we are here and you have returned."

"I hardly believe it myself," said Boromir. "I remember but a little of what it was like to be a spirit. All I know is that I was compelled to come to you twice: once when Pippin was nearly pulled into the shadow and once when you would have perished in the Entwash."

"It was you?" Aragorn cried. "I knew someone had pulled me from the water, but I saw no one. Now I understand, and I thank you for it, for I surely would have perished, and nothing would have gone as well as it has."

He retreated from the embrace and took Boromir's face in his hands, leaning his forehead against the younger man's. "All seems right in Middle-earth tonight, my friend. I feel as though our Fellowship could accomplish anything."

"I am sorry I did not call for you in time," said Boromir, and his voice broke. "If I had wound the horn earlier Merry and Pippin might have been saved from the wrath of Saruman. I know that they are safe now, but surely they must have suffered greatly at the wizard's hands."

"All are safe and well, Boromir," Aragorn reassured him. "And there are some that you have yet to meet; we have begun a new quest, and it is only through it that you have returned."

Boromir sitting back tilted his head. "What is this new quest? And you shall have to tell me how it is that I have come back; all I remember is some conviction that I had not departed Middle-earth forever. I must confess that I am utterly in the dark about all you have done."

Aragorn laughed, and it felt as if it were the first true sound of joy that issued from his mouth since Boromir's death. "Oh, Boromir, my friend, we have much to speak about."

Boromir smiled. "Very well, then, my king. Speak, and I shall listen."