[Lebennin province, northern region, T.A. 3009]

The region of Lebennin at the headwaters of the River Gilrain was beginning to show the first flush of spring's green as the warm coastal air swept inland. Remnants of chill winter continued to tumble down the mountains but the tide of battle had already begun to turn and spring would be declared victor once more. Though the balmy salt-laden scent from the coast never traveled this far north, those inhabitants who were most relieved at winter's end declared that the fragrance was indeed upon the air.

"The grasslands are recovering quickly from this long winter," Gorhend, son of Osmor, said in pleased tones. Standing in his stirrups, he surveyed his sizeable herd of horses, bred for the armies of Gondor, and nodded in satisfaction. "They have weathered it well."

"Already we have a dozen foals," Cirien, his most experienced herder, told him. "We could get another one out of each of those mares. Gondor is in sore need of mounts. It is as though they are cut out from under their riders before they have taken a single step."

Gorhend sighed. "Horses. . .men. . .weapons. Gondor has need of them all." He looked down at his gnarled hands and shifted in the saddle. "Sixty-six winters have I endured, all in the service of Gondor." He turned to Cirien. "You would not think me a mighty warrior, bent as I am, but I was." He grinned. "I have split many orc heads beneath my sword, back in the days of my youth. Would that I was assured of never having to do such again."

Cirien pointed to the mountains looming before them. He noticed that his own hands were weathered, the long and dexterous fingers beginning to twist in the manner of an old man. Gorhend's observation about his own age had reminded him once more that he was not a young man himself. Better not to dwell on such things, he thought. If fear of old age sets in, maladies will certainly follow.

"There, sir," Cirien continued, gesturing to the mountains. "I have long wondered if we are in an unfortunate position, being as we are between these mountains."

Gorhend looked to his left and right at the spurs from the Ered Nimrais that jutted into the province like two long fingers on either side of the Gilrain. Knobby fingers, not unlike his own, he noted in grim amusement.

"Unfortunate or not, we are here," he said simply. "I have spent too many years on this land and should danger come, I will not leave." He turned to Cirien, the wind from the mountains stirring his unkempt steel-grey locks. "There is no place in Middle Earth safe from harm and evil, Cirien," he said, unable to prevent a weary note entering his tone. "We could retreat westward, but that would only move the line of resistance further inland. They will come regardless." He shook his head. "No, the peace that previous generations fooled themselves into thinking was possible is just a dream. Danger has always been looming on the horizon and reports from Minas Tirith are indicating that it is increasing evermore. Orcs and the foul vermin from the South, those barbarian Haradrim, will come. They will come."

A chill swept over Cirien and he knew that it was not from the mountains. This chill was settling deeper than anything a mere breeze over snow could achieve. He looked at the mountain spurs warily, almost sure he could detect movement among the rocks. Almost ashamed, he shook his head. The Valar preserve him, he was as scared as a child at bedtime! He straightened in his saddle, hoping that Gorhend had not seen this moment of weakness. If his master could not rely on the fortitude of his hired men, then danger would surely come and move swiftly.

Gorhend grinned again. "Ah, I see you mirror my thoughts. You are seeing a swarm of orcs pouring down over the mountainside and setting upon on us mercilessly."

"No, sir!" Cirien began to protest.

"You lie poorly!" Gorhend laughed, shaking his head. "You have every right to worry about what might happen in the future. As I said, it will happen. Perhaps not this month, or this year, but in the next or the next after that, it would be wise to be on your guard every waking moment." He gently squeezed the reins and turned his mount southward, towards home. "We will come back for the night watch," he said, "but now we must eat. Laenilas, as you know, is easy to anger if she cooks a meal for naught."

Cirien chuckled at the thought of Gorhend's wife throwing her heavy wooden ladle, as she was wont to do when her husband strayed from her table. "If it is well with you, I will stay with the men and watch the herd. I will not deny that your words have had an effect on me. My hunger has disappeared. The more eyes we have, the better."

Gorhend clapped his second-in-command on the shoulder. "It does my heart good and eases my mind to know that you are vigilant," he smiled in true affection. Though Cirien's winters numbered over forty-five, Gorhend felt unto him as he would to a son. Cirien was not unaware of these feelings and they had increased over the past several years, ever since Gorhend's own son had met his death.

The sun was setting rapidly and Cirien watched the horizon acquire such colors as dazzled the eyes. Only to the east was the splendor dimmed, for a dark pall constantly hung in the sky, obliterating any brilliance that might meet it. He had heard that sunrises were once a wonder to behold, but he could never remember seeing such a thing with his own eyes. Perhaps in his youth when he took no notice of such things, there had been a radiant summer sunrise. Now that he was aged and welcomed visions of beauty, they were not to be his. He saw the beautiful yet sad death of the day, but he would never see its glorious and hopeful birth each morning.

He watched Gorhend disappear into the fading daylight as he journeyed across the narrow plain. At the bend of the river three leagues to the south lay a small house, a haven from the troubles that lay outside. Perhaps not a true haven, but an illusion would serve at the end of a long day.

Gorhend watched his small home grow larger as he approached.  The thatched roof and papered windows were becoming an even more welcome sight as daylight dimmed.  He shifted again in his saddle and grimaced.  He did not mind aging, but the discomfort he increasingly experienced in the saddle was most irritating.  His body was slowing quickly after more than six decades of vigorous good health, declining at a time when he needed vigor more than ever.  Running a hand over his eyes, he was astonished to feel the fingers come away damp.

“I weep like an old woman,” he grumbled to himself.  “What can tears accomplish, mourning what cannot be regained?”  It was a lesson he had learned over the body of his son, when all the tears and railing at fate failed to resurrect the one thing he loved most in this world.  That his son should die from mere chance while his daughter lived...

A sudden shame at these melancholy thoughts made his cheeks flush a deep red.  Larhend was dead; Myrhil was alive.  He needed to accept that and make the best of it.  So far he had, as much as he was able.  Myrhil was not as strong as her brother, but her spirit matched his, as did her temper.  This latter trait worried him most, as it had been Larhend’s temper that led to his demise.  Her skill with a sword at nineteen years of age matched Larhend’s at fifteen and that comforted him.  The danger he spoke of to Cirien was always in the back of his mind and should it indeed come, he would need all of his men, and Myrhil too, to defend his herd and his land.  Already she had exceeded Larhend’s age by two years and it was a father’s hope that she would surpass that by many more.  His name perhaps would not live on, but his blood would when Myrhil found a mate.

His matrimonial musings were sparked when he drew up to the stables and saw a horse covered in a blanket with an unmistakable emblem embroidered into the rough material.  The horse itself was familiar, as it was one of his own, sold to a friend six years ago when he last visited and broke bread.

The stable master was out with the other men guarding the herd, so Gorhend untacked his mount and curried him smooth before leading him into his stall.  He threw the eager stallion some straw, remnants from last summer’s harvest, and soon the stable was filled with the sounds of happy mastication.  As he walked past the visitor’s horse, he soundly patted the beast on the rump and whistled a soft tune.  The equine’s ears swiveled and he nodded his head up and down.

Gorhend chuckled.  “So, you remember that little lullaby, do you?  You should, you rascal!  You gave me quite a scare for two weeks after your dam birthed you!  I remember the number of hours I spent nursing you to health.  I hope you have not been giving your master any trouble.”

He received a nicker in response and, after scratching the stallion’s soft nose, Gorhend proceeded to the house.  More candles had been lit as darkness deepened and all the windows were aglow.  Periodically through the oiled paper he saw a shadowy figure move back and forth in the main room and the clatter of clay dishes met his ears.  Myrhil was setting the table, no doubt resentful that she was forced to do her customary chores when the excitement of a visitor exceeded routine in importance.

“Myrhil!” he called out, slowly closing the distance between stable and house.  “Who is joining us tonight?”

He heard the dishes clink on the table and soon the front door was thrown open.  It was dark enough so that he could not see the figure’s features, but the voice told him that it was indeed his daughter.  “An old friend!” came the eager cry.  “He has been on the road for five days!”

Gorhend received his daughter’s embrace with a sharp exhalation as he felt his breath knocked from his body.  “Please, daughter!” he managed once he recovered.  “Your father is an old man.  I would like to keep some air in these withered lungs.”  At this display of affection, he regretted his selfish thoughts during his way home.  Myrhil lacked nothing Larhend had possessed, except the virtue of his sex.  The difficulties he and Myrhil encountered from time to time seemed of no consequence during moments such as this.

He ruffled the dark chestnut curls, as unkempt as his own, and said, “You should be more presentable, daughter.”

“Whatever for?” Myrhil asked, self-consciously bringing a hand to her head.  “My hair?  I washed it last Sunday.  It has only been three days yet.”  Then she smiled, and Gorhend could hear the knowing tone.  “Ah, I understand.  If I had but known that we would be entertaining, I would have taken greater pains.  He only arrived an hour ago and Mother would as soon cut off my head than have me leave her to do all the cooking while I primped before a mirror like a palace rose.”

“Still, I have high hopes for you, girl,” Gorhend whispered into Myrhil’s ear.  “He is not one to let friendship go unrewarded.  He has not seen you in six years.  You have grown up pleasingly.”

“Father!” Myrhil exclaimed.  “I do not think that he would be impressed by a horse breeder’s daughter, strong though the bonds of friendship might be.”

Gorhend slapped her on the rump.  “Not all of my mares are of the four-legged kind, but they all fetch a good price.”

“I do wish you would leave that horse language behind on the plains,” Myrhil said ruefully.  “If Mother heard you, that ladle would fly right to your head, sure as an Elven arrow!”

“I can catch and duck ladles better than anyone in Gondor, Rohan, and all points north, south, east and west!  That is a skill I have become adept at over our thirty years together.”

Myrhil squeezed her father’s arm in silent mirth.  She so loved these times when they could laugh together and put differences aside.  Giving his weathered cheek a quick kiss, she dashed on ahead of him and disappeared into the house.  Outside the door, Gorhend knocked the mud from his boots and shook the dust and horsehair from his cloak.  Now that night had indeed come, the land was blanketed in a chill that pierced skin and bone and it came raw and painful through the nose and mouth.  He shivered as he passed through the doorway and shut it firmly behind him.

“How fare you, Gorhend?” came a deep and pleasant voice from the corner by the cooking fire.

Removing his heavy boots and donning more comfortable slippers made of supple leather, Gorhend advanced into the room and met his visitor in a firm embrace.  The dancing flames illuminated two pleased grins as their hands gripped each other’s arms in greeting.

“Gorhend, my old friend!  It does me good to see you in such health.”

“Boromir, you young lad!  It does you good?  It warms the heart of an old man to see that he is not forgotten.”

Myrhil looked up at their guest as she placed the last dish on the table.  “Pay him no mind, Boromir,” she said.  “He has been morose about his age of late.  One would think his grave was already dug and all that needed to be done was push him into it.”

This comment was met with a shake of the head from the old man in question and he pointed to the small room adjoining the one they now occupied.  “Go help your mother.  You are belittling me.”

Myrhil quirked her lips and wiped her hands on her apron.  She presented a strange appearance since she wore one of his old shirts, breeches and boots beneath it.  Gorhend had not noticed her raiment outside in the encroaching darkness and wished that the foolish girl had at least changed into something more befitting her sex.  Friend Boromir may be, but it would be much to ask him to overlook such eccentricities.

With a quick bow to Boromir, Myrhil disappeared into the kitchen where Laenilas was speaking loudly to the serving girl, Cardhel, that the potatoes needed to be mashed more.  “There are still chunks large enough to choke a Mumak!” came an exasperated voice.  “Here, take this and beat those tubers as hard as you undoubtedly itch to hit me right now!”

Boromir chuckled and turned back to Gorhend.  “She gets more fiery with age,” he said.  “As soon as I entered, she made little effort to let me know that I had arrived at a most inconvenient time.”

Gorhend brought a hand to his eyes and groaned in embarrassment.  “I hope you can forgive the uproar that constantly infests my house.  I tell her that we have enough to worry about with Mordor instead of adding to the problem with ridiculous complaints about potatoes and unexpected surprises.”  He looked at Boromir.  “Unexpected pleasant surprises,” he said pointedly.

“It was indeed a pleasure to make the journey westward, away from the threat to the east, if only for a little while,” Boromir said, sitting down again when Gorhend gestured towards a rough-hewn chair.  “I leave the White City somewhat secure, although it can never be said that it is completely so.”  He waved away this thought, as though impatient of his own somberness.  “But you know that as well as I.  My brother is acting in my stead for the duration of my journey, though he does have many able men to assist him.”

“Ah, how is Faramir?” Gorhend asked, settling in his own chair and leaning forward in avid interest.  “Still skulking about the dusty corners of the library?”

Boromir shrugged his shoulders.  “No more than usual, although he has been fast learning the art of war through a sword rather than reading about battles past.  It is a heartening development to both Father and myself.”

“What prodded him out of wallowing in scrolls and fireside talks with that shifty Gandalf, or Mithrandir...whatever his name is?”

Chuckling, Boromir shook his finger.  “You sound like Father.  He is as relieved to hear of that old wizard’s departures from the city as he is to hear about a successful skirmish with the Enemy.”

Gorhend stretched out his legs and propped them up on a short wooden stool.  “Well, I never believed in trucking with magicdoers.  They cannot be trusted, to my mind.  Sometimes they know what is in your mind before you know yourself.  Charlatans, all of them.”

 “Faramir admires him.  Perhaps he sees something which we practical warriors do not.”  He shook his head and scratched at his beard in thought.  “Anyhow, I think the war drums to the east finally pierced that scholarly shell he had put about himself.  He will see his twenty-sixth summer this year and while he was not unaware of the existence of orcs, I believe he now realizes that they are closer than he thought.”  He sighed.  “But I do an injustice to my brother.  I should not speak of him so.”

“’Tis natural for an elder brother to derive perverse fun at the expense of a younger sibling,” Gorhend offered, thinking of Larhend’s torments of Myrhil as he said it.

“I am pleased that he is showing the strength, skill, and fortitude that a soldier of Gondor must needs possess in these times,” Boromir continued.  “If we had an army of men like you...”

“Curse you, boy!” Gorhend laughed.  “You flatter as well as those prancing courtiers.”

Boromir stood and laid his hand on the hilt of his sword.  In his dark red tunic and surcoat, he looked every inch Denethor’s son.  “Do you call me names, Gorhend?”  His eyes flashed in amusement.

“Aye!” Gorhend retorted.  “Without me to whip you in line, you have gone soft with court life.”  He likewise got to his feet and seized the knobby walking stick that rested against the wall behind him. Prodding Boromir’s midsection with the end, he contemplated his former comrade-in-arms.  “I fancy you have added a stone or two since I saw you last.  Too many puddings and sweetmeats, no doubt.  Have you been spending your drill sessions at the feet of some court wench while she fed you by hand?”

This provoked a loud guffaw from Denethor’s son.  “Gorhend, you have not lost your sense of the ridiculous!” he laughed.  “Me at the feet of a lady!  That will have me laughing the entire trip back to Minas Tirith.”  His mirth subsided and he pushed the end of the cane away.  “I am no pig to be inspected for the density of its fat, Gorhend.  Nor am I some prize to be given away to a mincing fool with no sense, which is what those cooing court pigeons, as a breed, tend to be.”

Gorhend smiled to himself as he returned the stick to its position and reached over to the mantle, retrieving a pipe and small leather pouch.  He held both up in invitation.  Boromir refused politely with a wave of the hand.  With a sigh, Gorhend sat back down and proceeded to fill his pipe with some dry, aged weed.

“You still smoke that?” Boromir asked.  “I do not deny its benefits in the cold and damp, but it is very warm in here already.”

“Simply an old man’s indulgence,” Gorhend offered in excuse.  “It eases my aches and pains.”  He cinched the small pouch.  “Truth be told, I rarely open this.  I have had it for nearly ten years now and it is still half full.  Yet lately age has caught up with me and I find need for its medicinal properties.”

Boromir smiled.  “I would instead think that any healing it might do is all inside the head of an old man.”

Gorhend inclined his head in agreement.  “Quite possibly.  But as I said, this is an old man’s indulgence.  It cannot kill me, as I have nearly reached the end of my life as it is.”

“Myrhil was right in her observation that you have become unnaturally morose,” Boromir said, his tone softening in concern.  “Hardened warriors do not die in their beds.  At least they should never meet such an end.  I do not think that will be your fate.”

“Yes, that was the widely-held belief of Gondor’s soldiers when I was just a lad.  Not one of us would die a quiet death.”  Gorhend’s eyes became slightly misty.  “I taught that to my son when he still lived.”

Boromir looked down at his hands.  “I was saddened to hear of Larhend’s accident,” he began.  “The news overtook me as I rode back eastward from my last visit here.  At an inn in Pelargir, I heard that Gorhend’s son had allowed rage to overcome caution and he set about trying to break a young stallion.  He did seem...intemperate the day I left.  That I was barely beyond the horizon when it happened...”  He lifted his eyes to Gorhend’s wrinkled face and suddenly saw an older man.  “No words can express the sorrow I felt.”

Nodding in gratitude at Boromir’s words, but distrustful of the strength of his voice, Gorhend gnawed the end of his pipe.  Finally when he was certain he had gained control of himself, he murmured, “Larhend admired you immensely, Boromir.  You could not help feeling the adoration.  You were already a seasoned soldier at twenty-five and he was beginning to answer the stirrings of bloodlust in his breast.  He wanted to follow you, my boy.  Barely had you mounted up and set off down the road before Larhend was arguing that he was of age to join the army.”  Bringing a hand to his eyes, he said, “I should have let him go.  Instead he tried to prove that he was strong when I already knew him to be so.”

Boromir remained motionless in his chair, unsure of whether he should stop his old friend from reopening a painful wound or let him continue.

“If I had let him leave with you, perhaps he might have met his death at the end of an orc blade or he would still be alive,” Gorhend went on.  “Or mayhap a fall from a stubborn horse was his chosen fate.”  He shook his head.  “There is no way to know.  I thought I had come to terms with it, accepted the way things unfolded, but I see that time does little to heal deep wounds.  I was given two children and he was the one taken away.”

“It is indeed unfair that every man is not given two sons to prevent a loss in circumstances such as those you have suffered,” Boromir said.

Gorhend looked up in alarm.  He cursed himself for his sentimental ramblings.  By voicing his inner feelings he had placed Myrhil in a distasteful light, that of the undeserving survivor.  Though he struggled with those feelings himself, he did not want Boromir to share them.  He had foolishly colored Boromir’s perception with a dark brush.

Not wanting to seem too vehement in his retraction, he said, “Unfair?  Perhaps in some instances it would be deemed so.  I do lament Larhend’s passing.  What father would not?  But I have been blessed with a strong daughter who shows promise in the area of arms, though it is my hope she will never find herself forced to put her skills to use.”

“Myrhil?”  Boromir could not hide his surprise and amusement at Gorhend’s statement.  “She is naught but a slip of a thing.”

Gorhend allowed a smile to further crease his craggy features.  “Six years is a long time, Boromir.  The difference between thirteen and nineteen full turns of the year is great and it is a fool who does not recognize it.”  He heard Myrhil and Laenilas approach, discussing the food they were bringing to the table.  Hurriedly he got to his feet and took Boromir by the arm.

Boromir rose with the insistent hand and followed him over to the table.  “My daughter is no court lady,” Gorhend continued in hushed tones.  “If you accused her of such, you would likely receive a derisive laugh at your stupidity.”

“Then she certainly has not changed much since I was here last,” Boromir replied, “for she was very forward with retorts when she was a mere child.”

Gorhend was about to say more but his wife and daughter entered the room, their arms laden with bowls and platters of meat, freshly baked bread, and vegetables, including the controversial potatoes.  Cardhel followed behind them with a large wooden pitcher of ale and four tankards that she placed before each plate.  Setting the pitcher in the center of the table, she proceeded to help Myrhil with the platter of roasted meat so that it would not tip and spill grease over the table.

“Cardhel, please get the bread knife,” Laenilas instructed.  “And the fresh butter from this morning.”

The girl disappeared from the room and Laenilas gave the table one last inspection before turning to Boromir, hands on her hips in satisfaction.  “I believe that I have set a table worthy of a Steward’s heir,” she said briskly, “especially at such short notice.”

Boromir’s first instinct was to be intimidated, for this woman did indeed disconcert him.  He would never tell Gorhend so, but his wife was a formidable force.  He despised weakness in females, but neither did he particularly admire great strength.  Her lineage made such a strong personality natural, but it was still something that he was ill at ease with, kin or no kin of Rohan’s ruling family.

He managed a curt bow.  “Lady Laenilas,” he said, “I thank you for your generosity and hospitality.”

Laenilas wiped her hands on her apron and brushed stray locks of fair golden-red hair from her sweaty brow.  “Lady,” she repeated.  “It is strange to hear myself called that.  I suppose that would be my title in gentler circles, but I do not inhabit such a place.”

“Your speech belies it,” Boromir said, wishing he were more skilled in pleasantries with females so that this short conversation was not so painful.  An amusing thought ambled through his mind that if Laenilas were an orc and he had to kill her, he would not hesitate or fumble.  Yet idle chatter was something beyond his abilities.

Taking Gorhend’s plate, Laenilas began to heap it with steaming, succulent slices of roasted beef and a generous helping of potatoes.  “My speech,” she muttered.  “I suppose it is something passed from father to son and mother to daughter, something that is never forgotten, even should the living circumstances change.”  She set down the plate and gestured at the clean, but very rustic, structure around her.  “No great hall of Meduseld is this,” she said, “but I am glad of that.  I should hate to have such a burden on my time, as did the wife of my father’s cousin, Théoden King.  It is my opinion that if childbirth had not killed Elfhild, the rigors of housekeeping surely would have.”

Boromir sat down on the long bench on one side of the table and watched Laenilas fill his plate with some of the most aromatic food he had ever had the good luck to encounter.  Opinionated she might be, forthright she might be...but Laenilas’ skill in the kitchen compensated for those faults.  The urge to spear a juicy hunk of meat onto his knife and devour it like the hungriest orc was almost unbearable.

He watched Myrhil fill her own plate and take a seat on the bench directly opposite him.  His appetite was immense, but he could not help but remember Gorhend’s whispered comments about his daughter.  He had indeed noticed her when he arrived.  He had seen the same unkempt hair, cropped much shorter than the long and elaborate court styles he was accustomed to.  He had seen the smudged face from laboring in the stables and the kitchen.  He had seen the angular body that was now covered in manly attire rather than the dresses of youth.  His comment to Gorhend about the girl being “forward with retorts” had been prompted by her greeting to him as he dismounted in front of their door.  When he was unable to hide his amusement at seeing her attired in breeches and a shirt sadly in need of washing, the first words out of her mouth had been, “No doubt you think I am still the dirty little brat you last saw, Boromir of Gondor?”  No malice, no challenge, no anger...just the same tart tongue that her mother possessed, although tempered with the humor of youth.

Now he studied her in the flickering candlelight shining down upon them from the lantern fixtures hanging above and began to see this other Myrhil that Gorhend had spoken of.  In some ways, she did seem like the young child of six years ago, but in others, the changes were marked.  No doubt he would not have seen them if it had not been suggested to him that they were there.  No, she was not a child, nor a slip of a thing.  The skinny body of the child had not fleshed out in the manner of the court women, rosy and encased in velvets and brocades, but it was now hard and lean, even disciplined.  The hands that gripped the small wooden spoon bringing food to her mouth were rough and beginning to show the effects of plains life.  A small drop of fresh blood was congealing where the dry skin over a knuckle had cracked from the dry, wintry elements.  The fingernails held remnants of dirt and a furtive look at his own hands revealed that they were not dissimilar in that respect.  He was curious to witness her skill with a sword, for Gorhend had hinted that she was showing promise.

Myrhil looked up from her plate and noticed that Boromir was watching her with some interest.  Wiping the grease from her mouth with the back of her hand, she asked, “Dare I assume that you have changed your opinion about me being a dirty little brat?”

“Not after dragging your sleeve across your face just now,” he said, grinning.

Laenilas turned to Myrhil and whacked her shoulder smartly.  “Here,” she said, giving her the square of cloth by her own plate.  “Use this if you need to do that.”

Myrhil took it with a wink to Boromir and dabbed delicately at her lips.  “That better?”

Laenilas closed her eyes and shook her head.  Gorhend took the opportunity and delivered a sharp kick to Myrhil’s shin under the table.  Myrhil jumped and looked at her father, wide-eyed.  Seeing the storm cloud gathering over his gnarled brows, she told Boromir, “Your pardon.  Mother and Father despair of me.”

Hazarding a glance at Gorhend, Boromir saw that his old friend was visibly agitated at his daughter’s unruly behavior.  While Boromir did not heartily approve of such unseemly conduct, neither did it offend him.  “High spirits,” he said lightly.  “Nothing more.  With age will come duty so best to enjoy it while you can.”

Myrhil smiled.  “That is how I feel,” she said.  “For duty will come soon, should a husband be found for me.”  She looked pointedly at her father, then back at Boromir.  “You have always shouldered duty, have you not?”

Brow furrowing deeply for a man of only thirty-one, Boromir nodded.  “Yes, but our unenviable position in this land has made that necessary.  Everyone in Minas Tirith has learned that the pleasures of city life must be paid for in another way.  In exchange for convenience and a fortified home, the danger of siege and an Enemy all too near looms.  I have been bearing arms for my city before the first whisker appeared on my face.”  He scratched his beard and added, amused, “I suppose I have killed an orc for every whisker that I now have.”

Laenilas set down her spoon.  “I do not wish to interrupt you, my lord, but could we please refrain from mentioning orcs and other foul beasts at the table?  Gorhend and I have feared that they will appear in these lands and they are constantly in our thoughts.  However I dislike discussing them outright.”

Boromir bowed his head.  “I am indeed sorry.  Foul as they are, they have become a part of my life.  An unwelcome part, but one that I must constantly struggle with.”

The rest of the meal fell to silence, the pall brought by the talk of orcs lingering unpleasantly over the table.  All that could be heard were the sounds of Cardhel cleaning the kitchen.

To be continued. . .

"'Tis getting late," Gorhend announced as Cardhel began to remove the crockery from the table. He inhaled the last remnant of smoke the weed in his pipe had to offer and stretched first one leg out, then the other. Rubbing the knees with a sharp grunt, he muttered, "These night watches become more distasteful with age. On cold nights such as this, it is all I can do to unbend my legs when it is time to dismount."

"Let me take your watch, Father," Myrhil offered, beginning to rise from her seat. "You and Boromir may rest and talk over old times. Mother and Cardhel have the kitchen under control and you cannot deny that I am dressed properly to ride a horse."

Gorhend gave his daughter's manly garb a dour look, but softened. She was right about that, and the allure of passing the chill evening by the warm fireside in the young soldier's company bordered on irresistible, but such an indulgence couldn't be countenanced when his herd was involved. Duty brooked no argument from Age.

He reached out and patted her hand affectionately. "Not necessary. Boromir and I can still talk over old times on horseback." He turned to his guest with a questioning look. "That is, unless you have some objection to a nighttime amble up the Gilrain?"

"Nothing could be more pleasant," Boromir assured him, leaning backwards so Cardhel could remove his plate with greater ease. He smiled in thanks and Myrhil noted with great amusement that the girl's wan features flushed brightly under his attention. The warm and rosy lantern light enhanced the red spot suddenly appearing on each cheek.

As Cardhel hastily turned, skirts swishing and head bent in abashed silence, Myrhil looked askance at Boromir with an expression of amused reproach. She pressed her lips together hard to refrain from laughing when Boromir risked a casual look over his shoulder towards the kitchen to glimpse Cardhel's shapely figure retreat from the room.

Gorhend had not witnessed his guest's interest in the serving girl, but continued to complain good-naturedly as he got to his feet and returned his pipe to the mantle after emptying the ashes out of the bowl onto the crackling fire. "Boromir and I have business to discuss, no doubt," he continued, speaking to his daughter. "Most likely of the horse-peddling variety. Is that correct, my friend?"

"Yes, as usual," Boromir replied, also rising. "I am certain you knew the purpose of my visit from the moment you saw me."

"I did indeed. It has been a mere fourteen months since men from Gondor's army bought several dozen members of my herd. Every time you have come here yourself, it has always been for horseflesh." He sighed and ran a hand over his eyes. "I do not deny it is an honor that my stock meets with such approval, but I do lament their popularity and short lives against the host of Mordor and its allies. If I am not granted a respite -- if my mares are not granted a respite -- I will have to learn how to make horses come out of the ground rather than the natural way."

Boromir lifted his chin and spoke firmly, "It saddens me as it does you, Gorhend. I despise seeing the corpses of horses on the battlefield as much as I loathe the sight of dead and dying men. Yet in times of need such as this, our supplies must be as endless as we can make them."

"A miraculous feat, that," Gorhend commented dryly. "I am but a simple soldier, Boromir. Do not trust in me to do that which lies in the craft of wizards." He sighed. "You are speaking as a Steward's son, the one who carries the future of Gondor in his thoughts. I understand your predicament and you speak rightly about it. I will do my utmost. You know that."

Boromir walked over to the old man and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it in encouragement. "I do know, Gorhend my friend. I appreciate it, as do the men who have the fine fortune to be assigned one of your sturdy steeds. The feet of Mordor's minions are swift but when a Gondor warrior has one beneath him and his wits are sharp, escape is often assured. Do not despair! We will see these dark times through to the end, for good or ill."

He was heartened to see that his words had an effect on his old friend. Gorhend's aging frame noticeably straightened and in the flickering firelight the steel grey eyes that so matched his hair grew flinty and stolid as in past years. Boromir had seen this expression of strength and resolve numerous times before a battle or skirmish. There was none of the eager and bloodthirsty flame so common in the eyes of a raw recruit or newly blooded warrior. Boromir had never seen Gorhend thus for the old man had already become a grim and placid soldier when Boromir was still pulling at his mother's breast.

As long as Boromir had been privileged to know him, Gorhend always viewed an impending fight with the sure and unflappable confidence of the seasoned veteran who saw the enemy as a mess that had to be cleaned up, an obstacle to be surmounted with relentless persistence. Through countless battles Gorhend had slain a likewise countless number of foes with unwavering strength. Thirty orcs to one man were of no consequence to him and Boromir had adopted that same attitude as soon as his own fears were conquered and the stench and roar of the battlefield had seeped into his mind and body as well. Gorhend had placed the first real sword in his hands as a child and his stern encouragement in matters of weaponry and all the skills a soldier needed to survive had been as vital to him as his mother's milk. Though he never doubted his own father held great affection for him, Boromir preferred to hear Gorhend's words of approval. Under the battle-scarred soldier's eye, he need only be a skilled warrior while his father expected many other accomplishments: political caginess and the perpetuation of his blood, among others. Boromir knew he was a fine soldier, but he was not so confident about his ability as a politician or as a husband and father. He would practice for hours in the armory or on the plains outside the city with his comrades to earn a nod and an encouraging slap on the back from the greying sergeant. When Gorhend had finally left Gondor's service to return permanently to his wife and children, Boromir was pressed to focus his attention onto learning the political aspects of warfare and stewardship. Yet he still held his departed mentor in the highest respect and regard and so it was with some alarm that he heard Gorhend's despairing words and the urge to restore the resolve of old was immediate. The sense of relief he felt at Gorhend's reversion to his old self made him practically heave a heavy and happy sigh.

"A soldier always knows his duty, Boromir," Gorhend said, his brow furrowed and the gnarled eyebrows bristling as he spoke. "We old ones most of all. It is weariness that makes us forget it from time to time." His face softened into an apologetic smile. "When you can lay claim to as many years as I, you will understand what I mean. Despair and resignation can burrow in like a nasty bout of the ague when so few years are left to a man's life that all woes are but a temporary nuisance."

Instinctively he looked over at Myrhil who returned his gaze. His mind was assaulted by many score of thoughts as he looked upon his surviving child's young and untried face. His woes. They would end for him once he passed out of this world and began to tread the path of the next. Yet what woes were in store for Myrhil? Would she be able to go out and meet them, whatever they might be, and come back from the battle, beaten, bloody, and bruised, but still on her feet? Did she have what was needed to live in this increasingly cruel and uncertain world? Had Larhend even possessed it? His own early death before he had been tried and tested left a gaping hole of doubt within his peace of mind. Instinct told him that Myrhil was not able to stand alone, though she would be the first to tell him he was mistaken. A husband. . .a husband must be found for her.

He was well aware of Boromir's apathy towards matrimony. For years he had been of the same mind until he met Laenilas. But perhaps Boromir's opinion could be reversed as his had been. Myrhil was no court conniver on the prowl, yet she had faults elsewhere which no doubt would dim any attraction she might hold for Gondor's heir. Maybe Myrhil was right and he should abandon this mad scheme. The Heir of Stewards would be given a bride suitable to his blood. Yet Myrhil did possess Rohirric royal blood through Laenilas, so it was not completely impossible. . .

"Father, please let me go with you."

Gorhend's thoughts were interrupted by his daughter's voice, so deep in contemplation had he been. "What, Myrhil?" he asked.

"May I go with you and Boromir?" she asked again, drawing out the words slowly as if to insure that he heard her. "As I said earlier, I am dressed for the ride. Another pair of eyes can only be an advantage. We have just five men working here now, and the herd finds it simple to cause trouble and not stay together."

Gorhend lowered his chin and looked at his daughter over the top of non- existent eyeglasses. "Does this have something to do with Belaród?" he asked. "Of all the men, he is the most insistent on you becoming a full- fledged herdsman."

Myrhil slapped the table with her hand, causing the few remaining utensils to jump with the force of the blow. "No, it has nothing to do with Belaród!" she shot back. "He only sees that which you do not!"

Boromir tensed at the exchange of words and leaned over to Gorhend. "I will go to the stable and ready the horses." He felt making a hasty exit would be the most prudent course of action. He ventured a look at Myrhil and saw that she had lowered her challenging gaze but her frame was still rigid with anger. One hand was clenched into a fist, the sinews of her bare forearm standing out in stark relief; the other was burrowed in her hair, fingers tugging at the curls in silent fury. Though no stranger to confrontations with his own father, he did not feel he should witness strife within other families. He was a friend, but this did not concern him.

"What was that, Boromir?" Gorhend asked, distracted. "Oh, yes. . .if you would. I will be along shortly."

Boromir readied himself and left the house, relieved at the rush of bracing air against his face after the sudden heat and closeness inside. He exhaled sharply and with a final glance at the lantern glow through the papered window, he strode to the stables.

"Please forgive my daughter's temper," he said with a sigh, taking his horse's reins and leading him outside. "Unfortunately she is much like Larhend in that respect, which is why I refuse to allow her to ride when I feel she should not. Full of piss and vinegar, she is," he finished sourly.

Boromir murmured something unintelligible as he followed with his own mount. Once outside, they swung themselves into the saddle and began to proceed north at a leisurely gait, side by side. "It is natural for her to want to come along," Boromir finally ventured. "Yet such is not her place, as she should well know."

Gorhend shook his head. "Perhaps I am at fault. After Larhend's death, she did take his place in many ways out of necessity. There was no need for another woman in the house. Cardhel and Laenilas were more than capable of handling all those matters. I had enough men at the time to manage the horses out on the plains, but there were duties here that she could undertake. She always helped the mares with the foaling and she and I handfed any sickly ones that happened along, but she also started taking care of the accounting books when I had little time for them." He turned to Boromir. "Have you noticed what a sturdy creature she is?"

I did indeed, Boromir thought, remembering Myrhil's wiry appearance at the dinner table. But he shrugged and said, "Not particularly."

"I lost my blacksmith to the war about four years ago when Minas Tirith called for more recruits and was unable to replace him," he went on. "Myrhil had helped him in the past, running the furnace and holding the horses while he shod them. So I told her that all of that was now her responsibility. She's very adept at it and I have been remiss in finding another smith. Now it has been four years and with that and the stewardship of the books, so to speak, she feels she is entitled to do more." He slapped his thigh in frustration. "'Tis all my fault," he said again.

"Do not blame yourself," Boromir told him. "You made decisions necessary at the time which can now be reversed."

"Reversed?" came the surprised reply. "I am an old man and I have little desire to end my days fighting with my daughter. Larhend and I parted on ill terms. Not only that, but I have no one to replace her with. If men were scarce four years ago, they are even more so now. I would find a husband for her, but that has been a hard task to accomplish."

"What of this Belaród?" Boromir asked. Choosing his words carefully, he continued. "If he supports Myrhil so, then a match should be easily won."

Gorhend swayed with his horse's gait for several long seconds and just when Boromir felt he would not reply, he said, "Belaród is a clever man and he knows how the bread is buttered. He has always been friendly to her and telling her how she is entitled to this or that. That is how this strife began."

"Why do you not send him packing?" Boromir asked. "Matters would soon settle when he is gone."

"Lack of men, my boy," Gorhend sighed. "It all comes back to that. No, as soon as I find a husband for Myrhil, I will take great pleasure in escorting Master Belaród to the boundary of my land and kicking his troublemaking hide down the road." He laughed wickedly at the prospect.

Boromir joined him and said, "I assume I will soon be meeting this wretch?"

"Most assuredly."

"Shall I be civil?"

"If you would. Perhaps that will compensate for my less-than-gracious behavior." He sighed. "As you can see, I am cast between a rock and an orc. I wish him gone, but I cannot afford to have him leave." He turned to Boromir. "You would not want to give up the soldier's life and become a horse breeder, would you?" There, it was said. He had spoken more bluntly than intended, but he had discovered he possessed little talent for subtlety.

Boromir could barely conceal his shock at the sudden turn in the conversation. "I?" he managed. Choking back a disbelieving laugh, he reached over and gripped Gorhend by the shoulder. "Did I hear you aright? You wish for me to wed your daughter?"

"I do indeed, though now that I have spoken it aloud, it is a mad idea and makes no sense."

Boromir thought for a moment. "I see why you would wish for me to form a bond with your house. It is our friendship, is it not?"

Gorhend nodded. "Yes, that and also I think you and Myrhil are a better- suited match than she and that miserable Belaród. It is an instinct I have had ever since I was in the army and had to sum up a man's worth with a glance and a brief inspection of his skills. I find Belaród sorely lacking in both. But you, my friend. . .I could not approve of you more."

"Much as I would like to seal our friendship in yet another way, I beg your pardon if I refuse. It is simply not feasible."

"I feared as much. No matter! I will find a suitable mate for my strong- willed mare one day." Gorhend affected a cheerful expression, though it took great effort to mask his disappointment.

"The reasons why I refrain from taking a wife are many," Boromir offered by way of explanation. "I do not like the company of females at great length and the responsibilities that come with a wife and children are not suitable to me. As a soldier, my first responsibility is for the lives of my men and then for my own."

"And I am wondering if you also would not like to be in the position I am in now: seeking a husband for your own child."

Boromir grinned. "The reasons have increased by one as you say that."

"You cannot blame me for trying," Gorhend said, a smile creasing his face. "I tried the frontal assault, but I doubt that if I had flanked you it would have been any more successful." He sighed. "Myrhil is not the type to beg to feed you sweetmeats and plead for you to dance attendance on her. I thought she would be more suited to your tastes than the type you see at court."

"She is," Boromir said honestly. "With a bit of guidance, I would not worry about her when I went to battle. Still, it is more than what I would like to handle presently." He nudged Gorhend. "Rather than a wife, serving girls and other 'ladies' will do."

Gorhend chuckled. "That is where you and Faramir differ! I cannot imagine him in a brothel under any circumstances unless he is so drunk he had no idea where he is. Speaking of which. . ." He pulled a flask out of his tunic and held it up. "Before I escaped from my irate child, I managed to grab some warm spirits to make the journey more pleasant." He took a brief draught and handed it to Boromir, who gratefully let the fiery liquid course down his throat. "A bit more of this, and we will find outselves heading to Pelargir for good times in the arms of some loving ladies."

Boromir began to laugh, but found himself coughing as the spirits surged back into his throat. "Gorhend, it was a sad day when you left Minas Tirith for the final time!" he laughed ruefully. "I took Faramir to one of the city's rowdiest establishments for his sixteenth birthday just as you did on mine. The lady was patient for just so long, and it was a disaster in the end. He all but threw up on himself."

"It was nearly a disaster when I took you, but the battle occurred when I got home. If that perfumed tart hadn't hung herself all over me, Laenilas would have been none the wiser."

The sound of deep, earthy laughter floated over the plains and blended oddly with the soft gurgling and lapping of the Gilrain. The night was illuminated by soft moonlight emanating from a sliver placed high in the sky and with the scent of spring hanging on the air with tantalizing promise, all anxiety and fear welcomed the beauty and aura of peace so that tension could ease, if only momentarily. Only to the east could worry intrude, but the sky had been dim and the soft rumble persistent for so long with no cause for alarm this far westward that it was easy to dismiss them. In this night of reunited friends and fond memories, thoughts of the Enemy were gladly set aside.

The door closed firmly behind Gorhend, leaving Myrhil alone at the table. She had not moved during the entire argument, afraid that she would not be able to stay on her feet if she was unsupported under the brunt of her father's wrath. She wanted to maintain a strong front in the face of his anger. She would not yield to him. He could refuse to allow her to ride tonight, but the next time she had the opportunity to take the night watch, she would ask again. And when he refused, she would argue. Of the stories he had told her and Larhend when they were children, many were recounts of battles where sheer will and persistent assaults conquered the enemy and turned the tide. She did not merely hear the stories. She listened to them and learned a basic strategy that he had employed in the deafening world of combat.

Laenilas found her still rigid and motionless when she appeared from the kitchen, apron dangling from her hand by the strings. "Myrhil, stop sulking," she sighed, tossing the greasy garment onto the table. She walked to the hearth and stirred the coals with a heavy poker. "I heard everything. There is very little you can do. It is not your place yet."

"With Larhend dead, it is my place," Myrhil insisted. "Now is the time when I can take what should be mine."

Laenilas straightened in alarm and looked upon her daughter with an ill- concealed expression of shock. "'Take what should be mine,' did you say? Your father is not dead yet, my girl! When he is gone and if you are not wed by that unhappy day" -- she pointed the poker at her in emphasis -- "then you can take what is yours, but not a day sooner!" She returned to the fire and grasped the mantle in one hand and stabbed at the glowing embers with the other.

"'What should be mine,'" she repeated, muttering sharply under her breath. "You never talked like this until that wretched creature Belaród came here." She tossed the poker onto the hearth with a resounding clang and turned around, clapping her hands free of ash from the handle. "Belaród. . .Belaród. . ." she chanted, drawing near the table. The name rolled on her tongue like a spell as every syllable was given great emphasis, her tone reproachful. She settled onto the bench opposite Myrhil and cupped her chin in her hand. Her gaze was level, unwavering. . .and Myrhil soon was discomfited by it. Her mother had always had that effect on her. Those pale blue looking at her so intently, so.piercing.

"Do not call him wretched," Myrhil managed. "He talks sense and it is a balm to my wounded pride that someone esteems my abilities to the degree that I hold them myself."

Laenilas chuckled. "Girl. . .girl. . . I do not deny that you have talent for a great many things. Larhend's sword fits well in your hands and the shoes are nailed on the horses' hooves as straight and tight as they ever were. But what you can do has no bearing on what you should do." She reached across the table and seized Myrhil's hands between her own work- worn ones. "At least not now," she whispered, stroking her daughter's callused fingers with her thumbs. "Just wait for it to come to you. It will be yours someday if you are prudent, rest assured of that."

"Should I have a husband, it will be mine in name only," Myrhil retorted.

"And is that so terrible? Do you want to toil all day as your father does?" Laenilas demanded. "If so, then you can expect these hands of yours to worsen with every winter's day as the cold bites through leather and wool during the long hours spent outside in the elements." She grasped Myrhil's hands and shook them in emphasis. "There is very little of my Rohirric blood visible in you, and should you follow your father's path, you will look even less so. 'A descendant of a king's daughter?' people will say. 'Nay! A mean soldier's daughter and naught else!'"

"My hands can be weathered on the plains or they can be submerged in a tub of hot water, washing dishes and clothes," Myrhil replied levelly. "Year in and out, scrubbing and washing. I would rather they were burned in the forge or frozen around a set of reins, than dried and chapped from mean kitchen work."

Laenilas surprised her daughter by not getting angry at this insult. She only smiled ruefully and shook her head. "Perhaps it will be for the best if you never find a husband, girl," she said, bringing a hand to her brow and smoothing back the loose strands of hair that fell about her face. "If my line ends with you, then there will be no more bull-headed fools."

"You are including yourself as one?" Myrhil asked, unable to hide a smile.

"Without hesitation," she sighed. "Willfulness is a Rohirric trait, but especially so in our blighted little family. That is how we are here."

Mother and daughter shared a smile over unspoken thoughts and memories. Myrhil had often heard the tale from her mother of Thengel's decision to leave Rohan when he came of age, fleeing a tyrannical, greedy, and mean- spirited father, Fengel King, who sat upon the throne. Following behind Thengel was his sister Théda, likewise eager to flee a hateful home and arranged marriage. Both found spouses and contented futures in Lossernach. Thengel took Morwen to wife and Théda bound herself to Irendir, a local lord. Twin sons were born to them, Thédan and Thédor. The youngest, Thédor, grew to manhood and was offered a post at the royal court of Meduseld in Edoras by his uncle Thengel. The bitter old king was now dead and his heir had reluctantly ended his self-imposed exile to become King of the Rohirrim.

But Thédor refused his uncle's generous gesture, preferring to remain in the only land he knew. He had taken the fair Laedilas to wife and their household already had increased by one with the arrival of the babe Laenilas. So this branch of Rohirric royal blood had chosen to live out its life in the flat terrain of the south and in the seaward-facing foothills of the White Mountains.

"I have not spoken of this to anyone, but many thoughts keep me company throughout the long days," Laenilas began, rubbing her hands together in a meditative way. The dry palms hissed against each other as she did so. "I should greatly desire to look upon Rohan for once in my life." She bit her lip and tried to smile, but her reddening eyes and a slight quiver of the nostrils bespoke of other emotions. "You are not the only one with unrealized dreams, daughter. . ."

"To Rohan?" Myrhil asked, astonished at this confession. "You could not possibly. . ."

"Did I not say it was an unrealized dream?" her mother reminded her. "Half of my life has been spent here on this land, a wife and mother. I have endured the long, agonizing wait of a soldier's wife after every battle. Battles that I knew not took place. Whenever he was gone, he could likely be dead. That is what I lived with for more years than I care to remember." She swallowed and continued, her voice low. "Before Larhend was born, your father left me for three whole years with no word of his safety. We had not horses then. This was nothing but a small farm. But I remained, waiting until he came back." She tapped the table with a finger in thought. "It was a happy day when he returned, but all that empty time had been filled with worries and fears, thoughts and dreams. I dreamed of Rohan, the land of my grandmother, the land of my father's uncle, the King." Her eyes glittered in the lantern and firelight as she spoke of her kin. Those pale blue eyes were complemented by reddish gold hair that her husband had often affectionately referred to as his copper treasure none could steal. At this moment, had she known, she looked every inch the kin that she yearned to know. Laenilas had never seen Rohan, never known her ancestress Théda, yet the lure of the rolling plains and hills to the north sang in her veins, filling her heart that loved it, her mind that imagined it, her body that could bring her there and sense all its riches.

"I remember those long evenings of the endless months and years when I waited for his return," Laenilas continued, her voice lowering to a dazed reverie. "I would feed the few men we had here, but eat little myself. Then I left this small place and walked about the plains, uncaring of what might stumble across me. I looked eastward first. Always eastward, sending a murmured plea to Gorhend to remain safe. Then I looked north and saw those mountains. Those tall, forbidding mountains. . ."

Myrhil listened to her mother, awed at this long-held secret unfolding before her. Laenilas stared at the flames leaping in the fireplace, her mouth parted in rapture at distant memory that had been vividly brought back to life through the power of words.

"Those beautiful mountains. . ." Laenilas breathed. "The autumn moonlight on the snowy peaks was a sight so peaceful that the treacherous journey through them seemed like the foolish warnings of a coward." She closed her eyes, her transport to the memory complete. "A gateway to the land of my kindred, unknown to me and so mysterious, but praised for its beauty. Those mountains and Rohan begged to have me discover them. So I walked and walked, all the while seeing these sentries loom ever closer. Every night I walked farther than the evening before, until. . ."

Myrhil leaned forward expectantly, her gaze fixed on her mother. Laenilas had raised her hand in her reverie, holding it out in front of her, the chapped fingers with rough, uneven nails stretched in imprecation to the unswerving force of the mountains. "Until, Mother?"

"They were no sentries! It was no gate!" Laenilas cried, opening her eyes and staring upwards at the ceiling as though the glacial summits hovered above her. "It was a wall, a barrier!" Her face twisted in anger. "I could not walk through them, yet they had tempted me so, knowing I could do nothing once I reached them," she spat. She looked back at Myrhil and her eyes no longer glittered as they had during her recollection. Once more they were a pale blue, but soft and. . .dull. "So I returned here, to live out my life," she finished with a wry smile.

"Does Father know of this?" Myrhil asked. "Does he know how you desire to look upon Rohan?"

"Nay, not at all. And what could it accomplish if he did?" Laenilas replied. "He loves Gondor as much as I. This is the land of our birth, our life. We have duties here and this wish of mine to see Rohan is akin to a person standing at the edge of the sea and wondering what lies across the water. It is a call, nothing more. And we will not die if it is not obeyed."

Myrhil tried to hide the skepticism she felt at those words. This reverie had been a blow to her heart, seeing her strong-willed mother realize she lived in a virtual prison. To the south lay the sea and Harad, an exotic land with folk equally mysterious, the east held Mordor, and the jagged peaks of the Ered Nimrais to the north formed a three-sided room of gigantic proportions. To the west lay army outposts and a vast sea. But just over the mountains, a bird's flight away, laid Laenilas' unrealized dream.

"It will come to you someday," Myrhil said, repeating her mother. She was at a loss as to what she could say. Never had Laenilas spoken so openly to her about anything. She stood up and looked down at the older woman.

Laenilas was starting thoughtfully into the flames, her chin cupped in one hand again. "My family never understood why I married Gorhend," she said slowly. "'A sergeant?'' my father yelled. 'He will never improve his rank with that blood, and you will regret hitching your cart to such a horse.'" She laughed. "He actually said that. I do not know if his opinion changed when my husband's unworthy blood was rarely shed on the battlefield while other, finer men fell under the enemy host." She shrugged and straightened. "No matter. Your father is a good man, Myrhil, and he has lived through much. Do not make the end of his days be another battle. A victory over his own child is still a defeat. He has already been defeated once."

Myrhil turned around when she felt the tears begin to sting her eyes. No weakness, she told herself. Larhend had never been weak. Larhend had never wept over anything. Larhend had known what he wanted and fought for it. . .and had died not yet having gained it. She closed her eyes to shut out the memory of her dear brother lying on the ground in a lifeless heap, his head at an unnatural angle. His pale blue eyes, inherited from Laenilas, staring sightlessly into the sun and the crown of reddish-gold locks marred by the stain of blood. . .

"He looked so much like you," Myrhil heard herself saying. "And I. . .I am the image of Father." She turned after wiping away the traitorous tears that escaped her control. "Does he regret that? That the son should be so like the mother and the daughter be like him?" She walked over to Gorhend's chair and slowly sank into it. "He looks at me and I see so many thoughts flit across his face, emotions in his eyes. He sometimes looks upon me and smiles or slaps me on the back as he did with Larhend. I am happiest then, for I see him in myself and myself in him."

"You are just as I imagine him to have looked long before I met him," Laenilas told her. "War is never kind on a man and he has aged much, not completely at the hands of Time. But you are the female likeness of that youth who eventually became my husband."

Myrhil took little comfort in these words for her thoughts continued to trouble her. "Then there are times when I try to do a task that Larhend did and Father's expression tells me I have no business to even consider it. That somehow I am incapable." She took a deep breath and her fingers gripped the arms of the chair so tightly the joints creaked in alarm. "And then the times I hate most of all. . .when I practice with Larhend's sword." She exhaled sharply, emitting a strangled cry. "I see his face and he is thinking that the wrong person is holding that sword!" Her face contorted when she was unable to keep the agony contained within her. "And I wonder that if he had control of which child had to die, he would sacrifice me!"

Laenilas looked at her surviving child, speechless. She could find no words, not because Myrhil's confession surprised her, but that her daughter's fears were true. For months after Larhend's death, she had seen Gorhend struggle with his feelings of the injustice done him. Finally he had confessed to her and it had been she who suggested that Myrhil was not utterly lacking in the skill and strength he required of an heir. The shortage of men for hired work made this suggestion sensible. That Myrhil had proven herself an able successor had been a source of pride for her, although she did not dispense her praise freely. That would have created a prideful creature, but Belaród's appearance had brought that about regardless.

"Your father is proud of you, girl," she finally ventured, "but you have become too insistent of late. That Belaród had been using you to force his hand and the real master of this place naturally balks. In a way, you yourself have undone much that you toiled to build."

"No. . ." Myrhil whispered. "I could not have. . ." Laenilas' sympathetic expression made her unable to finish. "No!" she cried desperately. "Why did you never say to me that I was being foolish?"

Laenilas' gaze was unwavering. "Would you have believed me if I had?" she asked. "Or would you have instead heeded whatever Belaród told you? When a girl reaches a certain age, her mother, who was once so wise, becomes ignorant and blind. Others are deemed more knowledgeable, whether they are or not."

"I never thought you ignorant," Myrhil said in defense, voice low. "Only reluctant."

She rose from the chair and grabbed Larhend's sword and her cloak from their places beside the door. The leather belt that held the scabbard was hung up on the peg and Myrhil jerked at it impatiently when it caught briefly.

"Where are you going?" Laenilas asked, suddenly afraid. "Why are you taking a sword?"

"Protection," she responded curtly, cinching the belt around her waist. She fastened the heavy cloak around her neck and lifted the latch on the heavy oaken door. "I need to think, Mother," she sighed. "I need to plan how to rebuild what I have stupidly torn down." She looked over her shoulder and smiled bitterly. "I thank you for informing me of what I was doing before I found myself under a pile of rubble." Without another word, she left.

Laenilas walked over to the door and quietly opened it. The pale moonlight did not illuminate the landscape clearly, but the sound of several greeting nickers from the stable told her where her daughter had gone. She should not ride in such a fury, she told herself. Disaster will come of this.

She took a step, then hesitated. No, I will not stop her this time, she decided. I will let her have free rein to redeem herself. Then we shall all know of what she is made.

She retreated inside and latched the door, leaning against it in exhaustion. But she could not rest. Too much of the evening had passed already. Bricks had to be heated for the beds, more wood brought to the hearth for tomorrow's cooking, and the kitchen made ready for breakfast.

"Myrhil," she whispered, "what will your fate be, I wonder? If there is any justice, may it never be like mine."

To be continued...

Notes: Thengel's sister Théda and all of her descendants are of my imagination.

By the time Boromir and Gorhend reached the nascent waters of the Gilrain, swelling with the rapidly melting snows from the mountains above, only a few dregs remained in the shrunken wine flask. The last leg of the journey had been extremely pleasant as the two men recalled a ribald song used in Gorhend's old unit to march in cadence and they had sung it for the benefit of the snakes and rodents that crept about the plains after darkness fell.

Soon the dim glow of a small fire appeared and Boromir could hear the low tones of men's voices. "That must be they," Gorhend told him. "Warm wine to a warm fire. All the comforts of home, eh?"

They approached at a leisurely pace and a figure advanced to meet them, a silhouette in the firelight. A sword scraped as it was drawn from its scabbard and a voice with an accent from the southernmost reaches of Gondor called out, "Who approaches?"

"'Tis I, Cirien," Gorhend replied. "Who else did you expect?"

"I heard two horses advancing from a distance and was only anticipating one."

Gorhend looked over at Boromir, a pleased smile on his lips. "My best man. Has ears like an Elf, he does."

Cirien awkwardly accepted the praise with a quick, embarrassed nod of the head and sheathed his sword. "Lord Boromir," he said, bringing a hand to his chest in salute, "it is an honor to see you again."

Boromir normally disliked flattery, deeming it meaningless, but he had enjoyed Cirien's company immensely during his last ill-fated visit. He was a simple man who had spent several years at an outpost on the South Road. He had fought no battles, but survived numerous skirmishes with enemies bold enough to venture across the Anduin from South Ithilien. Despite his experience, he was no career soldier as Gorhend had been and readily confessed that he found the vast plains and herding more suited to his nature. As Boromir looked upon him now, he noticed the kindly features, already beginning to grow rough and ruddy with the rigors of his duties. Gorhend's affection for him was evident from his praise, a gift he never gave lightly, and Boromir briefly wondered if he was perhaps looking at Gorhend's other preferred choice of a mate for his daughter. The idea was absurd and shrewd at the same time. Cirien was old, but he was a man Gorhend trusted.

Cirien's voice intruded on his thoughts. "The herd has been restless tonight," he was saying, "so we have kept them moving in the hope weariness will soon come upon them and they will settle." He looked puzzled. "The grass is plentiful so one would think they shouldn't like to stray."

Gorhend stiffened in his saddle. "Is that so? There have been no signs of what might be disturbing them?"

"None, sir." He gestured to the fire. "We were about to douse it and move on to overtake the others."

"Who else is with you?" Gorhend asked, peering towards the other figure that remained motionless by the fire.

"Belaród, sir."

Gorhend grunted at the news. "How much further ahead are they?"

"No more than three miles, perhaps four," Cirien replied with an uneasy glance at his companion who had still not ventured from the fire. He was all too aware of the tension that existed between the two men, although he did his best to avoid entanglement. He was not on overly friendly terms with Belaród himself. The man was too opinionated for a simple herdsman.

"Do you wish to go on, sir?" he asked. "It will take but a moment to kill the fire and saddle the horses, then Belaród and I can hasten to join you and Lord Boromir."

Gorhend looked over at Boromir and shrugged. "We have been riding for a distance, and none too steadily." He grinned and patted the empty wine flask. "What say you, my friend? Does the idea of a leg stretch by the fire sound in order?"

"It does at that," Boromir agreed, quickly dismounting. The ground was soft and sprung beneath his feet, the type of terrain that soon became a morass under the boots of an army. There was never a good season to wage war, for each one held elements that made it difficult, but he particularly detested the wet greening months.

"Go on to the fire," Gorhend said pointedly. "See if there is any wine to be had." He followed suit and dismounted, wincing at the pain that stung his bones when his feet jarred on the earth. Boromir's face creased in concern and he reached out a hand to steady him, but he was waved away with a muttered oath that he needed no assistance. Cirien quickly took his horse and held it as Gorhend recovered from the final tingling remnants of his infirmity. The thought of Belaród, no doubt smirking at this mighty warrior's aged weakness, fanned the stubborn fire within him that refused to bend to the demands of Time. Old he may be, and he was willing to admit that, but he would never become feeble.

Cirien held out his hand to Boromir for the reins. "Your horse, sir. I will secure them so they shall not run. There is wine by the fire."

Gorhend's order came low and swift. "Take stock of this whelp, Captain of Gondor."

Boromir nodded and advanced to the fire while Gorhend remained behind with his chief herdsman. The shadowy, immobile figure was perhaps one hundred feet distant and Boromir wondered if the man's brains were as stolid as his stance. Obviously not, for he had succeeded in manipulating his old mentor's home into a struggle between father and daughter. And here was the troublemaker himself, standing placidly nearby, watching all that transpired with what he imagined was a sharp eye.

But neither will I betray my true feelings until it is time, Boromir mused. It was a skill in which he had caused his tutors and father no small degree of frustration. Such lessons in political deceit had never interested him, as he preferred the blunt and honest exchange of the blade. Faramir was more adept at such machinations than he. Yet it was a distasteful task he would willingly endure to assist Gorhend and his sense of loyalty made success imperative.

"Good evening to you," he said, lifting an arm in greeting. "Belaród, is it?"

"Yes," came the curt answer, to be amended by "Yes, sire" when Boromir drew closer and the White Tree of Gondor, stitched on the front of his travel- worn tunic in dulling silver thread, became blazingly visible in the firelight. "Yes, sire," he said again. "I have the honor of addressing. . .?"

"Lord Boromir," came the reply, "but do not stand on ceremony. Cirien said you have wine?" With a sly sense of pleasure, he had noticed the change in Belaród's tone. So he had disconcerted the young schemer. All to the good.

Belaród bent and retrieved a wine bag that lay close to the flames for the sole purpose of keeping the contents warm. He handed it to Boromir silently and watched with reserved interest as the nobleman took it and swallowed a bracing draught of the vintage.

"I am told you are the newest man here," Boromir said, settling onto an old log that served as a makeshift bench. It was an aged inhabitant of the plains for it was slick with moss and moisture, emitting a fetid aroma from the numerous pockmarks and pits created by hungry insects and worms.

Belaród briefly contemplated Boromir's unspoken invitation to join him and took a seat at a wary distance without betraying his trepidation.

"You have nothing to fear, boy," Boromir prodded, unable to resist a sparring remark. "I will not hew off your head."

Belaród's eyes glinted at the patronizing humor. "No, for a sword is your weapon."

Boromir chuckled. "Then I shall not cut off your head with any means." As Belaród continued to study him with a guarded expression, Boromir began to take stock of this young man. For he was indeed young, perhaps the same age as Faramir or a little older. The dancing flames of the fire gave his face a lean and shadowed appearance, but Boromir could discern a tightened jaw, clean-shaven and determined. Pride and self-confidence this man had, and his eyes appeared to be of a strangely compelling shade of the deepest blue.

It did not take Boromir long to conclude just how matters had come to such a pass in Gorhend's household. Belaród was a handsome youth. . .and Myrhil was a young woman among old men. This Belaród would remain handsome for a good many years and unless Gorhend sacrificed his need for men in exchange for peace, Boromir feared there would be no end of hardship.

Boromir took another warming draught from the skin and asked conversationally, "Why are you not in Gondor's army? You look to be the type we need. It is surprising that our recruiters have overlooked you." Despite Belaród's virile appearance, Boromir wondered if the boy was actually a sheep hiding under the guise of a wolf. But if not, then Gondor could certainly use his services and perhaps he would be leaving Lebennin with another man to fill Gondor's thinning ranks.

"I look to my own interests," Belaród stated baldly, "and coughing up blood with an orc blade in my gut will not further them."

"You are so sure you would die?" Boromir rejoined. "I have been putting my blade in their guts for nigh fifteen years, which is to say, half of my life."

At this slight to his mettle, the young man responded stiffly, "Brave and able men die as well, and for no deserved reason. No doubt you have witnessed that truth yourself many times over."

"Agreed. Fate does play her part with no regard for ability or skill."

"Then I shall not entrust my life to so unfair a judge," Belaród snapped. "I prefer to do that at which I am most adept with no fear of suffering the vagaries of Fate."

"Better to victimize others than be one yourself," Boromir said casually, not looking at the man, as though stating a plain fact.

Belaród shot to his feet, glaring down at the seated warrior. "What are you accusing me of?" he demanded.

"That which is obvious," Boromir continued calmly, still not giving Belaród the respect of speaking to his face. "It is a poor man who connives through the romantic notions of an unschooled girl." Only now did he look up, his own eyes meeting Belaród's, and he saw the herdsman was livid with rage.

"I have not touched Myrhil. That you would accuse me of using her in that way--"

Boromir held up his hands as if to ward off the outraged denial. "I did not imply that you had extended your hold over her through those means," he said, trying to keep his voice calm. He would prefer not to dwell on the possibility that Gorhend -- and Myrhil -- had been dishonored so. "I only meant that insinuating yourself into this household through manipulation of an easily-led girl, playing upon her own desires, is not what I would call. . .admirable behavior."

"The symbol on your tunic does not give you leave to hurl base insults," Belaród retorted.

This one was a tough nut to crack, Boromir thought angrily, seeing Belaród's stance grow steely as his resolve stiffened. He knew that Faramir would have been subtler in his maneuvers, but he was not his brother. Perhaps his chances of success had slipped away long ago and the familiar tactics of the battlefield were needed.

Boromir rose slowly. "I am not speaking as the Captain of Gondor, or Denethor's son, or even a mean soldier," he said, his voice a low growl. "I am speaking as a boon companion of the man you are plotting against. And I say to you now, act honorably or you will find yourself facing Orcs in the loneliest outpost on the borders of Ithilien so fast you will wonder how you got there." He advanced on Belaród until his prey took an involuntary step backwards. "It is your choice, my friend. Call this a threat if you like, for you would be utterly correct in that assumption."

Belaród had not time to answer as a rending scream of pain and alarm in the distance reverberated wildly off the stony mountainsides and shattered the peace of the plains.

Where her father's pace had been slow, Myrhil's was frantic. She drove her dappled mare relentlessly, avoiding the depressions and gullies that pocked the weary land from eons of growth and use. Nineteen years of childish explorings and curious wanderings had imprinted the landscape indelibly in her mind and, using only the waning silvery lunar glow from above, she navigated a safe path despite her reckless speed. Reins firmly gripped between frozen fingers, she cursed the haste that made her forget her gauntlets. The desperate chill clung to her body as if seeking warmth, unknowing that it stole every heated throb as soon as it quivered with life.

An exhausted gasp sucked the rapacious cold into lungs already convulsed with spasms that made breathing a labor. Her chest burned with an unseen fire. Doubling over at the shock, Myrhil brought the mare to an abrupt halt and bent over the sweaty neck, coughing violently. Her face ached, the searing rush of air against her cheeks making them feel as though split with the tip of a red-hot knife. She shivered from the icy heat that worked its way through every extremity and unprotected area of skin.

With a numb hand, she reached up to rub her cheeks and felt her fingers freeze even more as they came away damp. Crying! she thought. I did not even know. . . Grasping the edge of her cloak, she wiped away the tears and scrubbed her face vigorously, hoping that it would restore some wisp of sensation.

She remained motionless for a while, her hands resting against the pommel of the saddle, head bent against the light breeze. Her lungs tentatively accepted more air with only a brief spasm when they rebelled at a deep inhalation. So cold. . .so cold. . .she thought, her mind unable to grasp anything beyond the elements that surrounded her. On the gentle currents that swirled about her came the scent of snow and she lifted her head, aware that she was nearing the eternally snowcapped mountains. She glanced at the sky and located the one star she knew, the trusty guide of all travelers. She was indeed heading north and directly ahead were those mountains, the bane of her mother's dreams. In their shadows, her father now stood with their herd.

The desire to see him -- to tell him that she had been foolish, but that Larhend's death had not been in vain -- tugged at her. Yet, at the same time, the prospect made her shrink into her cloak, dreading another confrontation this eve. She felt like a prisoner, trapped in a windowless room, flailing about in search of sunlight, a direction in which to escape, but desiring the comfort of returning to the shadows.

Then why did you leave? she asked herself. Why did you leave, if not to mend all that you have broken in your ignorance? You took Larhend's sword and left in a fury. Why? She pounded a clenched fist into her thigh at every question, as though trying to force an answer from herself.

She laid a hand on the plain hilt of her brother's sword, the scuffed metal frigid despite its position against her waist. Gripping it tightly, the unfeeling steel burned into her flesh as she recalled words spoken to her not so long ago, words that seemed like a memory from the distant past. . .the type of memory that did not have a place or a time, but rather a meaning of such importance that it forever lingered in the mind, a point to which one always returned for an answer.

"I think it a tragedy that Larhend's death should make your life a struggle."

Belaród. Those words coming from his lips, speaking that which she had long felt. . .they had started all this.

What a day that had been! She was practicing with her brother's sword, a gift from her father on the day she reached her sixteenth year, Larhend's age when he last drew breath.

The significance was not lost upon her. She knew not the real reason why her father had bestowed such a gift upon her and she would not curse her fortune by asking. Gorhend's grief had been tangible and deep, his glances at the surviving child veiled with reproach and regret. She had seen them, willed herself to not believe the doubts that lingered in her mind. But they persisted, through the days and through the nights, for what seemed like countless years.

She received the sword with proper solemnity and when Gorhend announced that he would instruct her in swordsmanship, she wondered if her labors to prove a worthy heir had bore fruit. If she could connive to do anything that Larhend had done or would have done, she campaigned to win for herself: the ledgers, the forge, even assisting in the supply route undertaken every other month.

But the final acceptance would not come. Her attempts to completely replace Larhend, to do that which necessity demanded, fell on deaf ears and a reluctant heart. And then that day, in the middle of her drills behind the blacksmith shed, she heard another voice echo her thoughts, those angry and outraged thoughts that pounded in her head with each strike of the hammer on a glowing shoe, every tap of the nail into a soft and yielding hoof, every scrape of the quill against the ledger parchment.

And now someone else shared these sentiments of the injustice done her.

Pride reinforced by this new courage, she sought for more, much more than was being offered. Thus began the strife that would have robbed her of all she had if her mother had not opened her eyes this night.

She gripped the hilt again and thought of Belaród, the urge to drive the blade through his throat playing at the fringes of her mind. He had known what he was doing. . .he must have! she thought. He knew I was proud and used it to set daughter against father, carving out a place for himself when the old man, his one obstacle, passed from the scene. My weakness is my impatience, she thought miserably. I wanted what I felt was mine before I had the right to claim it. It would have come to me, just as Mother said.

Angrily, she realized her cheeks were again awash and had just dragged her sleeve across her eyes when she heard a scream from the mountains, crystalline and horrific. Her mount jumped in alarm. Dread and panic seized her every fiber, but she spurred her mare into a canter due north.

Without hesitation, Boromir turned from Belaród and ran over to Cirien who had only just finished hobbling the horses and was now frantically undoing his efforts. "How many men are ahead?" he asked the chief herdsman.

"Only three," Cirien replied. "If it is as I fear, we may be too late. . ."

His horse unimpeded, Boromir sprang into the saddle and gathered up the reins. Gorhend and the others followed suit and Boromir was pleased to see that Belaród was showing no signs of lingering behind. Of course he would not, he told himself. Should anything happen to that herd, he has lost his longed-for prize.

No further sound came forth from the plains and, in one motion, the four men surged from the ring of rosy firelight and entered the darkness beyond. The moonlight reached their eyes after a several prolonged moments and their pace quickened. The distance passed swiftly beneath the thundering hooves and Boromir gauged that Cirien's guess had been correct as to how much further ahead the others had traveled. One mile. . .two miles. . .and a half-mile more. . . The horses had been rested so they reveled in the free rein that their riders were willing -- and eager -- to give them.

Gorhend felt his stomach lurch with a measureless fear when he began to hear the frantic and terrified screams and whinnies of many horses. "They have come, Cirien!" he cried. "They are setting upon my horses like sheep to be slaughtered!"

A sickening dread enveloped Cirien as he remembered looking upon the mountains only hours earlier, wondering if he could see the threat Gorhend had spoken of. He had not seen it. But it had come all the same. No amount of preparation was enough for the actual moment itself. It felt like a fist slammed into one's chest, followed by other blows less painful but no less vicious as the numbing horror killed one's ability to fully feel each strike.

The sounds of carnage grew louder. A steady tattoo of hoof beats came towards them and on either side of the riders passed three horses with eyes rolling nearly white in stark terror. Black as night they were, and they faded into the darkness that enclosed the plains.

"Black. . ." Gorhend shook his head angrily. "They have come for the black ones. Those have escaped, but the others. . ." Such had been the practice in other raids he had heard about. In Rohan, the black steeds, suiting the dark demeanor of the Enemy, were often culled from the herd and the remaining unfortunates were mercilessly slaughtered.

A crimson glow appeared ahead, an aura around one of the outreaching foothills. Gorhend felt his chest receive a blow of such force that he almost lost control of his mount. Fire. They had fire. An acrid cloud masked the scarlet aura with a fell stench and Gorhend nearly wept at its dreadful portent.

The riders wheeled around and drew their swords. The two battle-hardened soldiers surveyed the scene, weighing the best course of action and tallying the opposition. The silhouettes against an already blazing pyre of equine carcasses were those of orcs, the bent and sneaking postures going about their cruelty with bloodthirsty delight. No figures of Men could be seen in the firelight, on horse or afoot. Those three worthy Men had all fallen. Gorhend felt the first stirrings of old battle-rage burn deep within his breast.

"There is over a score of the foul beasts," Boromir said. "Belaród, you go to the right. Cirien, the left. We shall attack the middle. Strike hard and do not let your strength fail you!" With a Gondorian battle cry, they bolted forward and charged into the midst of the Enemy.

Belaród felt a moment's hesitation, but he could do little as his mount followed the others into the fray. He had said he did not wish to die with an orc blade in his gut, yet that fate was before him should his fortune and courage fail. He gripped the hilt of his sword and drew it from the scabbard, swinging it over his head. Before him, to the right as Boromir had commanded, stood his opponents, his potential murderers. They had heard the battle cry and were ready, six bloody blades drawn and dripping with evidence of their foul deeds. They had been guarding the ebony prizes of their raid but with the impending assault, they set them loose for later collection. I am only one man, Belaród thought, disheartened. Their booty will not have run far by the time they have finished with me.

This desperation lent him strength he did not know he possessed, for he leapt into their small ranks and set upon them with his sword. He accepted the danger, knowing there was no alternative at such a pass. His gelding proved stalwart as well, taking blows on its neck and flanks while pivoting at his command in order to rain blows on all those gathered around him.

He cried out in anger as he felt a blow delivered to his leg at the knee, bone crunching and twisting in the harsh bite of the blade. Bloody rage came upon him and he hacked with renewed vigor, knowing neither pain nor fear. He fought for the herd; he fought for Myrhil. For surely if these creatures were not stilled here, the small home to the south would suffer attack.

He crowed at the soft crunch of bone beneath his enraged strokes, at the spray of coal-black blood that clung to him, each drop of the stinking liquid a trophy. One orc, then two, fell beneath his mount's wheeling hooves. Three. . .four. . . The hideous faces were cloven in two as his sword cut through flesh, bone and brain. Then leathery hands, tipped with black claws, grasped at his legs, dragging him down to the ground where his mangled limb would do him little service. A blinding white pain clouded his vision as fingers dug maliciously into the wound, spreading the misery throughout his body. His sword fell from his hand, unable to hold it while being assailed by such agony, and the two remaining orcs pulled him down into their fell company.

Boromir drew his stallion up short and dismounted. With a slap, he sent his steed away to a safe distance. He preferred to fight on foot and, with his long sword in hand; he also drew forth a shorter blade. He swung them in his hand with a flick of the wrists in invitation, and then charged at them with a roar.

Blocking blows and dodging assaults, Boromir twisted and turned as he let no opening pass to inflict a wound on the screeching beasts. He sunk his swords into necks and groins, guts and backs. As the short sword rang and scraped, parrying thrusts from the dusky blades of Mordor, the long sword slipped past armor and leather to plunge into the stinking bodies. He felt enormous satisfaction when he hacked off a limb and gave the still- twitching refuse a contemptuous kick before advancing to the next opponent. As experienced as these orcs were, their prowess was outclassed by the Captain of Gondor. After long minutes of relentless battle, all five lay dead or bleeding at his feet and he finished off the writhing survivors with an unforgiving stab through the throat.

His work done, he turned toward where Gorhend had charged and gave a strangled cry when he saw the old man arch in agony as an orc brought his sword down across his back.

If Father had let me take his watch, I would be here anyway, she told herself. And now I have come despite his refusal. I have only one choice -- the right one.

She drew Larhend's sword and cautiously advanced, rounding her path to approach the fray directly from the west. A pyre of belching flames and smoke was positioned at the back of a V formed by the mountain walls. The poor beasts had been herded into this fatal juncture, penned in a stony prison. Those that did not escape had fallen beneath the crushing hand of Mordor. Mares she had raised since foals, stallions that her father had broken with his sure and steady hand, yearlings who had not yet felt a saddle and bit. . .

Against the canvas of crimson and disintegrating carcasses under the conflagration's voracious appetite, Myrhil saw orcs and Men fighting. She could not distinguish who the Men were -- Boromir, her father, or any of the others who worked for them. But some yet lived, and they were valiantly pressing on.

The hesitation she thought she would always feel should impending battle come before her gripped her little. "All raw recruits think they will turn and run," she remembered her father once saying, "yet when they see what has to be done, most will do what they must. Naturally they are afraid, but duty will prevail."

Whispering encouraging words to the uneasy equine beneath her, she lurched forward. Her throat clenched until she thought it would strangle her. But the sword felt right in her hand, her target was chosen. A man was being set upon by two orcs to the right and she would do what she could to turn the tide.

He began to bend beneath another attack and the orc seized the advantage. Swinging his sword up over his head to deliver the killing strike, the orc squealed in alarm and outrage as Cirien summoned his brawn to slice his blade across the creature's middle. Guts spilled forth and the putrid odor met Cirien's nostrils. Gods above, they smelled like rotten corpses even when alive!

The orc pitched forward at his feet and Cirien looked up, squinting through the haze of blood that was increasingly clouding his vision. He expected to see another orc take his place but what he saw was even more alarming. In the light from the fire he saw another figure advancing on horseback, finer-featured than any of the herders and riding a dappled mare. . .

"Myrhil!" he cried, followed by an agonized groan as a blade cut into his upper arm. He bent and, willing himself to move onwards, he scurried out from under further attack and made his way across the narrow juncture.

With horror, Myrhil saw that the man she had decided to assist was none other than Belaród. He was being yanked brutally from his saddle and she frantically spurred her mare. The distance suddenly seemed too great to close before she could save him. One orc held him tightly, pinning his arms behind his back while the other flashed his sword. A hoarse cry rose up in her throat when the blade thrust through Belaród's tunic.

The orcs were not expecting another foe to enter the fight and she managed to swing her sword down with as much force she could muster on the one who held the wilting Belaród. Both crumpled to the ground and Myrhil wheeled to make another pass, sword at the ready.

The other orc was more prepared after the shock of the unexpected attack. With a snarl, he grabbed her leg at the ankle and jerked her from her mount before she could strike away the offending arm. She landed on her back with a thud, though the corpse of an orc somewhat cushioned the impact. Her sword flew from her hand and she gasped as her lungs labored to recover. The metal of the armor beneath her bit through her cloak and she rolled to one side, kicking out defensively with her legs when she felt the hand refuse to relinquish its grip on her boot.

A well-delivered kick connected with an unguarded shin and the orc, a slighter creature than his fellow fighters, fell to his knees. He glared at her with bald hatred and before she could scuttle away, he flew at her, sending her backwards once more. They tangled in an unfettered battle of kicks and blows and Myrhil's head rang as her face received stinging punches from a metal-encrusted gauntlet.

She tried to drive her knees up into his stomach and groin and she had the satisfaction of hearing him grunt several times as his internals absorbed the brunt. But her sense of victory was short-lived when fetid breath scoured her cheek and she felt spiked fire bury into her neck. The jagged teeth sank into the flesh of her neck and shoulder and she screamed in panic.

Belaród flailed about in the arms of the groaning orc that lay partly across him. Each movement of his leg sent the white fire through his entire body and left him nearly paralyzed from the agony. His gut was ablaze. He had seen Myrhil thundering towards him and almost could not believe the sight. Now she was fighting hand-to-hand with one of the vile monsters. Should the beast ever discover who it was opposite him, Myrhil's peril would increase doubly. She would have more to fear than a cold blade to the heart.

With her fists, Myrhil battered on the orc's helm, hoping that it would disarm him briefly enough so she could slip away and to her feet. Her right arm began to throb from the damage the orc inflicted upon it. She knew she would lose all use of it if she could not escape. Placing trembling hands on either side of the creature's head, she tried to twist it with all her might. If she could not break his neck, perhaps he would leap away from the maneuver. But the helm only twisted in her hands and grasping it at the edge, she yanked it off from his head. Gripping it by the nose guard, she slammed it against the greasy and hairless skull with a resurgence of strength.

A screech of alarm and pain pierced her ears as the orc fell backwards onto his haunches and scrabbling to her feet, Myrhil took up the nearest sword and swung it at the creature's neck. His head sprang from the gushing stump and rolled in the beaten and bloody grass. Her strength utterly spent, she collapsed to her knees, using the sword to hold herself up. She looked over at Belaród who had managed to disentangle himself from his captor. One hand clenching his stomach, he was straddled across the chest of the pinned orc, and had just drawn a long knife across the ashen gullet.

Sinking off the corpse and falling onto his side, he looked up at Myrhil. "Thank you," he gasped, an exhausted smile on his lips.
        

Cirien watched the struggle on the far side of the battle, saw Myrhil unhorsed and disappear from his view. He staggered onwards and chanced to look to the left just as Gorhend took a savage blow. He blinked through the blood in disbelief and saw Boromir cry out as the sight met his eyes as well. The Captain of Gondor rushed towards the pyre, swords encased in gore but still thirsty.

There were still two orcs behind him that needed to feel the sting of a blade and he could not lead them to where Myrhil and Belaród undoubtedly were struggling for their lives, if they still breathed. The agony this decision caused him nearly split him in two, but with desperation driving him on, he stumbled towards the raging fire. Perhaps he and Boromir could defeat the remaining brutes together. His legs felt like they no longer belonged to him for he knew that he could not take another step in any direction, but he continued to move onward, closer to the conclusion of this battle, whether to victory or defeat.

Gorhend was still on his feet, but his figure was folded over as the wound on his back pressed him down. He would fall soon. Cirien drew up to him and intercepted a blow that was aimed at the old soldier's skull. He shoved Gorhend to the ground so his blade could swing wildly and the orc soon joined his dead companions at the base of the pyre. The heat blistered Cirien's skin and baked the blood onto his face. He stumbled away from it and with a quick swipe of his hand removed any damp remnants from his eyes.

Boromir heard screams from behind and Cirien saw his two pursuers running towards them, swords above their heads and faces twisted in fury. Another orc remained from Gorhend's share and Boromir knew he could not withstand an assault from all three. His arms bore gashes, the tunics slashed and ripped, soaking up the blood that flowed from the wounds. Cirien looked at Boromir with a dejected air. He knew he could not fend off much more himself, but he lifted his own blade with what strength remained and send it slicing through the air into the first creature that met him, cleaving into his waist.

The orc bent to the side in the direction of the blow and Cirien delivered another swing of the sword across the beast's lower back. He knew he could not kill it with such a move, but it did launch the orc towards the fire. Cirien shoved a foot against its backside, sending it the final distance into the pyre itself where the skin began to sizzle and burst into flames. Screeching and screaming, claws digging at his melting face, the orc writhed on the ground until death claimed him. Boromir hacked the leg off the orc that advanced on him and taking a cue from Cirien, kicked the creature's stomach to send him into the fire alongside his companion.

Only one orc remained and they could now face him together, but a piercing scream, high and feminine, burst forth. Boromir turned to Cirien in alarm.

"It is Myrhil!" Cirien shouted. "Let us finish this. We cannot leave this one!"

It took Boromir bare moments to recover. He and Cirien rushed at the orc, who had resigned himself to suicide and met their blades with all that he could summon to defend himself. He blocked many lethal blows and managed to graze Boromir's side, but it was not enough. Cirien's sword crunched into neck and shoulder and Boromir delivered a killing thrust through its vitals. Without pausing, they ran to Gorhend and dragged the unconscious man a safe distance from the shimmering heat of the blazing pyre.

"Does he live?" Cirien asked.

"It is in his hands, for I can do nothing now to help him," Boromir said, the words catching in his throat as he spoke them. He gripped Cirien by the arm and hauled him to his feet. "Come!"

Cirien followed Boromir at a bobbing run towards the far side of the juncture, dread hanging about him. There had been no other scream, no other sound from Myrhil. Belaród's and Myrhil's horses still stood, shielding the scene that lay behind them. As the bloodied men rounded the nervous steeds, they met the tear-filled eyes of Gorhend's daughter as she cradled Belaród's fading body against her bloody chest.

"Where is Father?" Myrhil asked from her position on the ground. Belaród reclined against her, cheek resting on her shoulder, and she felt his breathing come rapid and shallow. Absently, she brought a hand to his brow and stroked his hair as she looked up at Boromir.

Cirien turned and jumped over a dead orc, returning to where Gorhend lay. He collapsed beside the prone form and placed an ear over the slightly parted lips. He felt a warm breath tickle his skin and he grinned tiredly. "Lord Boromir!" he called. "He still lives!"

Boromir turned at Cirien's joyous exclamation, then looked back down at Myrhil. "Do you wish to see your father?"

"Go see him, Myrhil," Belaród murmured, his eyes closed against the pain. "I understand."

Myrhil gazed at the pallid and sweaty face resting against her and found herself unwilling to move. She felt tears sting her eyes anew and she looked up at Boromir. "Could you and Cirien bring him here?" she asked stiffly, her throat scraped raw from the hideous stench and smoke. "Then we can all be close to care for each other."

Boromir left and Belaród shook his head slightly. "You should not forsake your father for me," he coughed.

"I am not forsaking him. He will be here as well. I cannot run between both of you and do any good for either."

"I thought you were lost with that orc," he said, after drawing a cautious breath. "If he had discovered you were a woman. . ."

Myrhil placed a kiss on the top of his head. "The time is long past to fear for my virtue, Belaród," she said in an attempt at humor. "You have already seen to that yourself."

"I should hope there is a difference between me and that creature," he croaked before being seized by another fit of coughing.

Myrhil flinched when flecks of blood flew from between his lips and spattered her cheek. She squeezed her eyes shut and snaked her arms around him, holding him closer. She placed a hand over his stomach wound and pressed against it to staunch the flow. Belaród arched in her embrace, hissing through gritted teeth. "Forgive me," she cried softly.

"For what?" he gasped. "Shoving your hand into my guts?"

Myrhil felt an insane urge to laugh at his words. Pain made men do -- and say -- the oddest things. "No," she replied. "I am only sorry that I did not arrive moments sooner."

"I would not be enjoying your attentions like this if you had," he managed with a crooked smile.

Myrhil recalled her desire earlier in the evening to run a sword through his throat. No, indeed he would not be wrapped in her arms if she had come sooner. She could never have killed him, but a few well-aimed kicks and punches would not have been remiss. Yet seeing him thus, contorting in pain and misery, she wished she had never let such thoughts enter her mind. "And I should hope that you would prefer my attentions in another place rather than surrounded by stinking orc corpses," she replied, lacing her fingers through his and giving his bloody hand a firm squeeze.

"Aye, that I do," he replied.

Boromir and Cirien reappeared with Gorhend's body in a sling made from Boromir's cloak. They set him down gingerly and Myrhil gently lowered Belaród onto his back with a murmured promise to return soon. As she crawled over to her father, she wanted to collapse in her path, sobbing and screaming with exhaustion and the unbearable agony that shot through her body. She could still feel the orc's weight pinning her down, the bite of his rotten fangs in her neck. At some point she would have to look to her own wounds, but now they were of little consequence. The aftermath of battle, the caring of the wounded, was as difficult as the fighting itself. She never would have thought it true.

"How was he injured?" she asked once she reached Boromir, crouching beside him as he removed Gorhend's cloak.

"I saw him receive one injury myself. A sword across his back." Boromir turned Gorhend onto his side, and an ugly, deep gash came into view, a jumble of flesh and splintered bone. He tried to shield the injury with the edge of the cloak when he saw the gruesome sight. Myrhil should not witness her father thusly, but a sure hand gripped his wrist. Perhaps not so sure, for he could feel the barely suppressed trembling flow through her fingers past his worn bracer.

"You cannot spare me this," she said. "I will see it eventually."

He observed her resigned weariness and removed the cloak. Myrhil's intake of breath bespoke her shock. Boromir said nothing, and continued to look Gorhend over. "A head wound," he noted, his hand on the man's bloody hair, fingers running over the scalp. "Crushed. He must have taken the blow sometime in the battle and sleep finally claimed him. It is serious, else he would have woken." He finished his inspection with haste. "I can see naught else."

"We must return quickly," Myrhil said, rising to her feet none too steadily.

For the first time, Boromir saw the raw, open wound at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. "You are injured yourself, Myrhil!" he exclaimed. "How. . .?"

"An orc bit me," she said flatly. Lifting a limp hand to rub at her forehead, she stared at the ground and laughed, the sound rueful and hollow. "The war stories we can now share, Boromir." She looked past him at Cirien. "Have we enough horses for all?"

Cirien nodded. "I believe so, Myrhil. I do not think any of us will have to go on foot."

Boromir tucked the cloak around Gorhend's still body and crawled over to where Belaród lay. "What are you suffering, my lad?" His gaze went to the blood-soaked fingers that Belaród clenched against his stomach and instinctively he looked over his shoulder at Myrhil. The same sorrowful acceptance glimmered in her eyes and she turned away abruptly. Taking Cirien by the arm, they went to collect any horses that might be found lingering nearby.

"I think it is mortal," Belaród choked. "An orc blade in the gut, just as I told you. . ."

Boromir felt a stab of remorse at this reminder of their heated confrontation. The young man's eyes were still bright, but the luster was from pain rather than indignant anger. "Come now," he said. "So what if they did slip one past you? 'Tis nothing compared to what you slipped past them." He reached out and hit a fallen orc in triumph, smiling. "How many did you kill, lad?"

Belaród managed a weak grin. "Five." Another fit of coughing racked his body and he twisted onto his side, bent double from the force of it. With a groan, he slowly relaxed, but his hands did not leave the wound.

"Good boy. . .good lad," the elder warrior whispered, putting a hand on the herdsman's shoulder and squeezing it firmly. He turned away before his tears could be seen. "You did well."

The reply was pleased. "Thank you. . .Captain."

After Boromir and Myrhil created bandages from any spare strip of cloth their garments could offer, they bound Belaród's and Gorhend's wounds as best they could and wrapped them tightly in their cloaks. Then they quickly surveyed the small battleground, but could find none of the missing herdsmen.

"They would not have deserted," Myrhil maintained. "They were loyal and brave men."

Boromir looked at the hissing and spitting blaze, the flames lurching crazily when they found an untouched morsel on which to feed and give them a brief moment of renewed life. "I fear they have joined those they died defending," he said. "We will find no trace of them."

"It seems a dishonor to have their bones and those of orcs rest together, but these creatures must be destroyed. I will not have them rotting on the plains and fouling the land." She bent over a dead orc, grabbed his feet, and began to drag him towards the fire. "They started the flames and now they shall feed them."

Boromir watched her silently, then advanced and relieved her of one leg. Together they made fast progress as the orcs were thrown onto the resurgent blaze. Myrhil's right arm began to throb unbearably with the strain she put on it, and as they swung a corpse between them, she cried out in alarm. The orc's arm slipped from her grasp and she fell to her knees.

"Myrhil, you need attention as well," Boromir said, kneeling by her and surveying the ugly wound. "Let the others rot. Only three are left. They can give the crows something to feast on."

"If they would even eat such meat," Myrhil said in disgust, bringing a hand to her neck. An angry groan issued from her tightly clenched jaw. "It burns!" she ground out. "Father said they poisoned their blades, not their teeth!"

Boromir smiled grimly as he prodded the wound lightly with his fingertips. "He did not take a large bite out of you, but you will need some stitches. I hope your mother has plenty of thread."

"Ai, my mother. . ." Myrhil hissed as Boromir's touch disturbed an angry nerve. "She will not be pleased with me, running out and nearly getting myself killed."

Boromir said nothing but he too was thoughtful of his impending meeting with Gorhend's wife. The last time he had come, her son had been killed, and now he was bearing home the unconscious and battered body of her husband. He was a curse to this family and, apart from his own kin, he would sooner cut off his hand than bring them grief.

Myrhil brought a hand to her cheek and rubbed it roughly, wincing. She inspected the red streaks on her palm with a dour expression. She turned her head to Boromir for inspection. "What do you see?"

Squinting, Boromir cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her face towards the flickering light behind them. "Gouges. . .and blood, naturally," he said.

"I know not what that orc's gauntlet was made of, but it felt like a brick outfitted with iron spikes." She continued to rub the raw and bleeding skin, trying to make the burning cease.

Boromir took hold of her wrist and forcibly drew it away from her face. "Do not touch it. You will have scars as it is. Everything they carry or even wear is a weapon."

"Even their breath is a weapon," Myrhil shuddered.

"Aye," Boromir grinned. "They have rotten flesh of their own kind stuck between their fangs. I have fought with them enough at close quarters to know the stench they carry."

Myrhil did not reply, but remained kneeling where she had fallen. Her chin rested on her chest and her eyes were closed. Boromir noted the steady rise and fall of her breathing, a peaceful rhythm rather than the erratic gasps and movement earlier when the desire to destroy the dead bodies first took hold of her. Whether this change came from a calm acceptance of all that had occurred this night, or simply sheer exhaustion, he could not tell.

"Come," he said, reaching out a hand and shaking her by the arm. "You must not rest until we are safely back at your home. We still have much ahead of us." His tone was gruffer than he intended, but the matter was urgent.

A small sigh escaped her and she grasped his arm tightly as he hauled her to her feet. "I am tired, Boromir." She did not remove her hand, but only gripped him tighter, and her voice shook. "I am so tired!" She looked up at him and was about to say more, but instead turned and left. On uncertain legs, she made her way towards Cirien as the herdsman was making final adjustments to the saddles on two horses to bear their limp burdens.

Boromir followed her, the expression he had seen in her eyes and face imprinted in his mind. He knew what she was thinking; he knew how she felt. The look on her face spoke of one question: Why? He knew not the answer for he had asked that question of himself after his first battle when several comrades lay bleeding in the dust. Why them? Why now? Why this constant struggle against a foe bent on evil? There was no answer that a mere Man could conjure and have it ring true. It just was. It had to be accepted that such was the way of things and all that one could do was fight with all his strength and cunning. Somehow he doubted that Myrhil would accept such an explanation, and until she asked him, he would not utter his unsatisfying answer.

As he drew up to the rest, Myrhil was bending over Belaród and arranging his cloak around him. "Can you ride?" she asked. "Will you be able to stay mounted without being tied?"

Belaród had begun to shiver uncontrollably and he managed to grind out an emphatic no between chattering teeth. Boromir took Myrhil by the arm and said, "Get on your horse. Cirien and I will lift him up to you."

They secured Gorhend's unconscious form to his horse and Myrhil mounted her mare after two attempts to raise herself in the stirrup. Her muscles screamed and felt like they were ripping with every move she made. Dragging a leg over her horse's rump, she finally righted herself in the saddle and slid back to allow room for Belaród as Boromir and Cirien raised the groaning man and positioned him in front of her. Gathering the reins in one hand, she turned her mare southward and waited for the others to join her. Her other arm was hooked around Belaród's waist and she felt his own hands clenched against the leaking wound. He had only let go of it when he was bandaged, but all attempts to staunch the flow were in vain. His shirt and breeches were soaked in blood.

She knew he would not -- could not -- survive. Her father had often told her of mortal wounds and those in the stomach were usually fatal. But a part of her would not accept that fate. Certainly such an end for him was not right, not what was intended. Pressing her face against the back of his neck, she gave the dirty and sweaty skin a kiss and closed her eyes in silent imprecation. Her father. . .Belaród. . .the other three men. . .all those horses. . . Could Death be satisfied with only some and leave the rest to the living? Must It engulf everything this night?

Belaród seemed senseless to her caress or her thoughts. He reclined against her as he did earlier, head resting on her shoulder as she nudged her mare forward. Boromir and Cirien drew up beside her. Cirien led the horse bearing Gorhend in one hand and a torch from the pyre in the other to light their way. Boromir held two leads with four horses apiece, all that remained of the once magnificent herd. She offered to take one rope from him, but he shook his head and sat straight and alert in his saddle. Cheek resting on Belaród's shoulder, she continued to look at Boromir and understood why her father loved him so, why they had been such devoted friends. Despite all that had happened in the past nightmarish hours, he was still as a soldier ought to be: strong, clear-headed, and reliable. She wondered if Larhend would have ever shown such strength. Would she? She did not have an answer.

Myrhil shifted sleepily against Belaród, gritting her teeth as her tired arms ached from the stiff hold she had kept on him. His breathing had lessened to an alarming degree and it was with great relief that she finally saw her home not far away. He needed to lie down; rest for herself was not far from her mind, either. She could practically feel the rough fabric of her blankets as she rubbed Belaród's arms in an effort to keep him warm. Her eyes burned with the need to sleep.

The windows were dark as they neared, but after several minutes a dim light flared inside and moved towards the door. As the door opened, a shaft of light from a lantern shone into their eyes.

"What is it?" came a voice, fearful. "Myrhil, is that you?"

Myrhil's voice came thick and dry after not having spoken for so long. "Yes, Mother. I am here." She peered blearily over Belaród's shoulder at the figure before her, swathed in a nightdress and wool shawl.

When Laenilas' eyes adjusted to the half-lit darkness and saw the bedraggled group, her fingers tightened around the wire handle of the lantern. "Gorhend!" she cried, running over to Myrhil. "Where is he?"

"He is here, my lady," Cirien said, dismounting. Snuffing his torch in the dust, he went to Gorhend's horse, Laenilas close behind him.

Boromir closed his eyes at the horrified wail that soon tore from Laenilas' throat. "What happened?" she cried. Cirien's reply was low, but it seemed to effect a change on the shocked woman, for she set the lantern down and helped free her husband from the rope that held him snugly on his mount.

Myrhil remained on her horse, holding Belaród against her. She was beginning to experience the strange sensation that they were of the same body, as though neither of them had the strength to withstand absorbing each other. Everything around her felt distant -- her mother's voice, Cirien's labors to untie Gorhend -- all felt far removed from what she perceived as her surroundings. The last shred of her consciousness was only aware of Belaród's sagging body in her arms and the horse beneath her.

How fast -- or slow -- time passed, she did not know. Belaród grew heavier and heavier in the safe and comforting embrace that surrounded him and in her tired brain, Myrhil believed that a similar paradise awaited her if she would only surrender to it, only let herself sink backwards. . .

All that enveloped her was air, unresisting and invisible. She and Belaród landed in a tangled heap on the muddy ground, completely insensible and wrapped in darkness.

Boromir nodded, unsure how to proceed. He had not yet detected any bitterness or recrimination in her words or tone that his appearance had resulted in yet another catastrophe. Even if Laenilas did not dredge up these memories, he found it all too difficult to put them from his mind. But this evening had already been fraught with misery and he did not wish to add old wounds to those newly bleeding.

"My only regret is that I did not return with them unscathed," he replied after a moment's consideration.

They stood by the bed Laenilas and Gorhend shared. The linen had been quickly stripped and replaced with old blankets, which now were soaking up blood from Gorhend's and Belaród's wounds. The bandages were proving useless. The gashes and gaping cuts, hastily closed with Laenilas' needle, still flowed with no sign of ceasing. She and Boromir had changed them twice already, and when they had bled through again, Laenilas grabbed the discarded linen and tore long strips to wrap around the fading men.

Laenilas sat down on the edge of the bed beside Gorhend and lay a hand on his damp brow, contemplating him silently for several long moments. In the lantern light, Boromir saw that her expression was a pained combination of sorrow and. . .wistfulness? A small smile curved her lips and she murmured something to him, but Boromir could not understand it all. He could only detect a few words and endearments.

He bowed his head and moved to the door. This was another domestic moment that he had no business intruding on and he would be more comfortable if he could find something useful to do. There was little else he could offer to make this evening's path less painful to tread. For Belaród and Gorhend, their lives had only brief moments left -- and from Laenilas' accepting mien, he knew that she was all too aware that by dawn she would most likely be a widow.

Laenilas leaned over Gorhend and kissed his lips gently. "Rest, my love," she said, caressing his weathered cheek with her fingertips.

When Boromir lifted the latch on the door, she turned at the sound. "Please do not go yet."

"I would like to see how Myrhil is faring," he said.

"Cirien and Cardhel are tending her admirably, I am certain. Please. . .sit down."

Boromir returned to the bedside and lowered himself into a smoothly carved and elegant chair that Laenilas gestured towards. He had not noticed it before and it was a sharp contrast to the rough and rustic home. No doubt it was an heirloom from her family, perhaps part of her dowry or a bridal gift. He perched on the edge uncertainly, aware that he was bleeding himself and worried that the velvet-clad cushions would suffer from his injuries.

"Do not trouble yourself over the furnishings, my lord," she said, having noticed his stiff posture. "There is nothing in this house that I would consider priceless except the people within it."

Boromir visibly relaxed, his body slumping backwards into the chair, but his face was still tense, his jaw rigid in anxious expectation. Every muscle ached and his head throbbed from the strain.

"You have told me it was an orc attack," Laenilas began, "and I confess that I think it eerie that we were only discussing the possibility of such at dinner. It makes one feel that so many things should be left unsaid to prevent their occurrence. A foolish notion, no doubt." She sighed and took a deep breath, turning on her hip to look at the young man who rested fitfully beside her husband. "You have told me how my husband was injured, but you have not mentioned Belaród. I would know how he acquitted himself since he gave cause for Gorhend and I to question his motives and his mettle."

Boromir cleared his throat as he recalled the boy's proud claim of five kills. "He would have made an excellent warrior had he not been tested so unfairly," he said. "For a green lad, fear and rage apparently gave him unknown strength. Yet in a just world he would have been better trained before facing such odds." He smiled. "He killed five out of six. I wish that I could bring him to Minas Tirith. Gondor needs soldiers like him."

"Then you think he will die." It was not a question, but a stated fact.

Boromir nodded. "I have seen too many men wounded like this. If they did not die on the field, they succumbed eventually. His leg, too, will either gangrene or heal so poorly that he will never walk without a stick -- if he should live."

"You have seen much for such a youth," Laenilas whispered. Sadness washed over her as she looked upon this young man before her who was already beginning to show the creases of worry and battle-weariness on his fair face. "While I remained here as Gorhend fought unseen wars, I only imagined what he endured. I never saw him immediately afterwards, bloody from the field and still reeking from grisly deeds. I worried for him from afar, but my concerns and toil always seemed more real. That is, until tonight."

Boromir lowered his eyes at her speech, afraid that his emotions were visible. He did not wish to remind this woman of her husband from years past when he was hale and very much alive. He wanted to leave her presence and collect his own raging thoughts, even if it was only to stare up at the stars and try to make sense of their brilliance on such a dark night. The room was becoming close and the odor from the sickbed filled his nostrils. Nausea crept into his stomach and he closed his eyes in an effort to quench it by putting all smells and images from his mind.

"It is not a just world, is it?" she continued. "It never has been." She bowed her head and brought a hand to her eyes. "Odd that I was thinking of injustice as Myrhil rode away in a fury. This night has been full of omens and coincidences. The horrible thought that it was all meant to be has been growing in my mind." She removed her hand and looked steadily at Boromir. "But tell me, for you have not yet, what did Myrhil do? Was she brave?"

Boromir was silent as he smothered the last remnants of nausea that threatened his ability to speak. "Forgive me if I am not eloquent," he began. "I have rarely been called upon to discuss the courage of women."

"What of your mother?" Laenilas asked. "She was a fair and strong creature, if the rumors and stories are true."

"Not in the field of arms," Boromir replied, mastering his voice before it caught at the memory of Finduilas, her life extinguished nearly twenty-one years past. "But she was indeed fair, even beautiful, and she withstood the pain of separation from her family and childhood home without complaint or an ill word. Dol Amroth was always in her thoughts for she told Faramir and I of its beauty when we were children, always with a wrenching sadness."

Laenilas smiled bitterly as the images of Rohan returned to her mind, fanciful and dreamlike visions crafted by the stories and tales that she had eagerly devoured at the feet of her grandmother, Théda. How long had she yearned to see that land? Not having known it, as Finduilas had Dol Amroth, that fair seaside city, the longing was not so acute or crushing, but it was still there, ever present, ever beautiful. . .

"Every man, or woman, has a limit to their endurance and my mother was pushed beyond hers," Boromir finished, breathless from trying to maintain an even tone though it threatened to shatter. He knew not why he was speaking thus to her. His memories of his mother had long been kept hidden in his heart, revealed only when in Faramir's company. Though both women seemed to be unlike each other as night from day, some vague similarities drifted about his mind. They were both fair, though in different ways. Finduilas, in his childish memories, was sad and gently beautiful, the melancholy mood of the sea deep in her eyes. Laenilas bore the features of Rohan, that vibrant and fierce land of the Horse Lords, warriors with golden hair and blue eyes, tamers of horses and sturdy as the rolling hills that housed their herds. Finduilas' strength and will had always reminded him of a fortress or tower, calm and guarded, but not invincible to persistent attacks or the relentless assault of the elements. Laenilas, from his brief knowledge of her, seemed more unto the land, for that is what she had worked for many years. Land was never defeated; it changed hands, it suffered indignities, but it still endured when all the fortresses and castles had long been reduced to rubble.

"She found herself unable to further endure," he repeated, "as surely will we all, in one way or another."

"I am pleased that Myrhil was not bested, that she can withstand much more," Laenilas said.

Boromir returned from contemplation of his mother at these words, reminded that he had been asked to recall Myrhil's deeds. "I did not see her fight," he said, glad to be on another subject after the bittersweet memories of his mother. "I heard her scream, which is when she must have received that wound from the orc's teeth. She did behead him when she freed herself."

Laenilas' eyes glittered. "Did she really?" she asked, her pleasure undisguised. "My girl did that?" At Boromir's nod, she turned to Gorhend. "You need not ever fear for her," she told her sleeping husband. "You always wanted to know if she was strong." She returned her gaze to Boromir, smiling. "Did he see it?"

"I fear not. She and Belaród were on the far side of the battle, at a distance from the rest of us. Only they saw each other's valor, which I believe was considerable."

Laenilas' smile faded somewhat at the news that her husband did not see that which he had so long wondered about. "That is a pity," she said, swallowing visibly and blinking back the angry tears that burned her eyes. "He lamented in the depths of his heart that his only surviving blood was female. Any man would, I am certain." She looked steadily at Boromir. "Your father must be pleased that he has two sons."

Boromir looked pained at her words, but he replied, "Yes, I believe he feels blessed to have us both."

"I knew it mattered not that Myrhil was the survivor," Laenilas continued. "She would be tested in time and ability comes in all forms, but it troubled him. Now he may never know that his fears were groundless." She bit her lip and looked upwards, then closed her eyes tightly. "One should never die uncertain or unknowing. The next life in death, whatever that might be, will carry the troubles of the first. How wonderful it would be to have everything resolved and sure before passing beyond."

She fell silent and Boromir remained motionless in the chair, staring at the knotty and worn planks of the floor. The shallow wounds he had received began to throb, but he still jumped in alarm when he felt a warm hand caress his bearded cheek. He looked up into Laenilas' brilliant blue eyes that were made all the sharper by the tears that shimmered over them. "Thank you, my lord Boromir," she whispered hoarsely. "Thank you for being with us this night."

The fire was kept stoked throughout the night to have hot water on hand for bathing wounds and perspiring bodies. Myrhil's room had been deemed too dark and her bed too small and low for easy work, so she was instead laid out full on the table. While Laenilas and Boromir tended to Gorhend and Belaród, Cardhel and Cirien washed Myrhil's neck and shoulder, trying to cleanse the wound as best they could. Afterwards, Cardhel pressed a thick clean cloth against the ragged gouge as Cirien turned his attention to his own injuries.

"Where are you hurt?" Cardhel asked timidly.

"Every last bit of me, girl," he replied with a groan as he lowered himself onto a bench. "This is how the land must feel after an army marches over it." He lifted a hand to his collar and grasped it with fumbling fingers as he felt his entire frame begin to shake. Biting his lips, he willed himself to defeat this new enemy that attacked him from within and managed to fill his fist with the soiled and bloody material.

When Cardhel saw him struggling with his clothing, she left the cloth on Myrhil's wound and hastily walked around the table to where Cirien sat. "Here," she whispered, taking hold of his outer tunic and slowly drawing it over his head. His shirt followed and she put the ruined garments on the bench beside him.

"Thank you," he hissed as he rested his injured arm in his lap. It felt aflame and his head throbbed such that every beat of his heart was as a blinding flash of white agony behind his eyes. He reached up to his scalp with his uninjured arm and prodded it tentatively with his fingers, trying to locate the wound he knew was there.

Cardhel smiled faintly and reached over to retrieve a clean cloth. She soaked it in the bowl of warm water and wrung it out. Cirien made to take the cloth from her, but she held it to her chest. "No," she said. "Let me."

"I will tend to my own," he said. "Myrhil still needs attention."

"Then let me at least bathe your head wound," she replied. "You will not be able to do it properly." He opened his mouth to refuse, but she ignored his protest and parted his dull greying locks to find the source of the bleeding.

Against his will, his eyes closed as the girl's fingers combed through his hair, searching for the wound and dabbing at the coagulated blood with the damp cloth. His head felt heavy, the effort of holding it erect making the drumming in his skull all the more agonizing. Slowly, he let his head droop, unable to fight the exhaustion any longer.

A hand cupped his chin in a firm but kindly manner and held up his weary head. He slowly opened his eyes. Though his vision was blurred and made worse in the dim lantern light, he perceived the concerned and gentle expression on the serving girl's face. Though his sight was veiled with fog, he could see her lips moving but his ears only heard indistinct and muffled sounds. Even so, he believed -- or wanted to believe -- he heard the words, "Rest. . .sleep. . .I will heal you. . ." The relief he felt at those words prompted him to gladly abandon himself to her care.

Poking. . . insistent sharp pricks. . .a soft hiss by her ear. . . It accelerated into a rhythm before the pain became impossible to ignore and forced her into consciousness. Her body became independent of her tired mind and, even knowing that all movement would bring agony, tried to arch away from the source of pain, but she immediately felt several shackles clamping themselves around her arms and legs. A weight joined them on her chest.

"Hold her tight, Boromir," Laenilas said through clenched teeth. "I am nearly done." She bent her head to the needle and increased the pace of her stitches. "Be still, girl," she muttered to herself, "else you will rip yourself a new wound."

Poke. . .prick. . .hiss. . . Over and over it played in Myrhil's head until it felt like a constant whir in her ears. She wanted to move, wanted to get away from whatever it was that trapped her, but every move she made - however minute - only increased the tight hold around her wrists and ankles and the pressure on her chest.

Gradually the pain that had prodded her from dark sleep no longer seemed so unbearable. New woes attacked her until she wondered if there was a single part of her body that did not ache. Her head was bearing the brunt of every heartbeat, the blood pulsing through her veins like sharp claps of thunder. Her face felt like it was aflame and she twisted her head this way and that in an effort to escape this tenacious enemy, but it would not be eluded. The weight on her chest moved to her forehead, keeping her immobile and, at the same time, leashing the mad rush of blood that raged around her skull. Defeated, she slumped under this unceasing hold and instead devoted all her strength to opening her eyes, a simple act that was proving difficult.

One eye opened slowly, the lid parting unwillingly. The shape before it was cloudy and vaporous. All that she could discern was reddish-gold hair.

"Mother?" she asked, her voice a mere croak.

"Yes, it is I," came the familiar brisk tone. "Lie still. Boromir cannot waste his strength holding you down. You writhe like an animal with its tail in a trap!"

The pricking and hissing continued and Myrhil flinched at each new cycle of it. "What are you doing?" she demanded thickly.

"Patching you up like a pair of worn socks," Laenilas replied, her tone containing only the barest trace of humor. "Your skin is certainly frayed like old wool. You are testing my skill with needle and thread, but now that you are awake and hopefully not thrashing around, I should be able to keep the stitches small."

"Why can I not see out of my other eye?" she asked, trying to force it open.

"You will not be looking out of that eye for some time," she heard Boromir say from above. "Girl, hand me a cold cloth."

An agonized sigh escaped Myrhil's lips as a cool wetness was pressed gingerly against her face. "Why does it hurt so?" she moaned.

"Remember the orc's gauntlet?" came the gentle reminder. "I daresay you will not wish to look upon a mirror for awhile."

Myrhil managed a nod and then remained still under Boromir's hands. Soon the hold on her ankles vanished and through the narrowed slit of her one good eye she saw a figure with greying hair appear, but the rest of his features were indistinct.

"Father?" she asked, attempting to rise.

"It is Cirien," the herder replied, moving closer until he stood directly behind where Laenilas sat at the table. "How are you feeling, lass?"

"Horrible," Myrhil groaned, licking her dry lips. "How are the others? Father? Belaród?"

A brief pause before Laenilas responded, "They are resting." Forcing a smile in case Myrhil's vision was clearing, she continued, "Despite how you feel, they were injured far worse. We have already tended them."

"I want to see them when you finish with me."

Laenilas paused in mid-stitch, any words she might speak stubbornly caught in her throat. She felt her lips trembling and forced them into a grim line. "Of course," she said, voice tight. "But there is no need for haste."

"If you sat up now, I am willing to wager my horse and sword that you would either faint or lose every last bit of food in your stomach," Boromir told her. He removed the cloth, asked Cardhel to soak it again, and then returned it to her swollen face. "I would advise that you try not to disprove me."

"I trust you," she replied, then tried to give a soft laugh but even so small a thing pulled at muscles and nerves she did not know were sore. Instead she settled for an amused grunt and reveled in the cool cloth that Boromir held against her throbbing face.

Laenilas looked up at Boromir, a grateful smile flitting briefly on her lips. He averted his eyes, but nodded almost imperceptibly in acknowledgement. I have not lied, I have betrayed nothing, he told himself. All will be revealed in good time, she had said. How I dislike such deceit! Why should she not know now, instead of prolonging the inevitable?

But what if it were your father? he asked himself. Would you want to know as you lay weak and faint, unable to rush to his side? And for what purpose? What help could you possibly offer for one who is beyond need or desire for it? Would you not prefer that such a terrible moment be thrust upon you when you were strong enough to withstand it?

He did not need to further ponder upon it. The answer was clear.

When Laenilas knotted her thread after the final stitch, she scrutinized her workmanship and then looked up at the first glow of dawn that pierced the oiled paper windows. "A new day," she murmured. On the heels of that came a thought she left unspoken: a new life.

Cirien had left moments earlier for the stables to give morning feed to all that was left of her husband's life work. From the kitchen came sounds of Cardhel readying the breakfast meal. Only Boromir remained beside the table. He had taken a seat but continued to apply and reapply cold compresses to Myrhil's bruises and gouges.

Laenilas reached over and stroked her daughter's hair. "You are all sewn up," she told her. "Your face will heal gradually. There are only small cuts and nicks on your cheek, but for the sake of the Valar, keep yourself clean and do not scratch at them! It is mostly bruising and swelling that will fade of its own accord." She took Myrhil's hand and squeezed it in reassurance. "You will be up and about soon. For now, just rest. But you cannot do it here! Boromir, would you help me carry her to her room?"

Boromir stood up and set the cloth on Myrhil's stomach. He flexed his arms and felt his side and the bandage around it. There was little pain, at least no more than he was accustomed to from all his other injuries won on the battlefield. "I can carry her myself, Lady Laenilas," he replied.

"I would prefer to walk," came a voice from the table.

Laenilas ignored her. "Thank you, Boromir. I will see to Cardhel and then to those. . .other matters."

Boromir slipped an arm under Myrhil's back and the other under her knees. With a grunt, he hauled her slack form to his chest and followed Laenilas as she led them from the main room. They passed the tightly latched door of her and Gorhend's room and entered the small, undecorated bower that was Myrhil's. He laid her on the bed and picked up the compress, but it had lost its chill. He turned to Laenilas to ask for another one, but found that she had already left.

"I will soak the cloth again," he told Myrhil, rising to leave.

"Do not bother yourself," she said. "If I truly look as you say I do, then only Time will heal it. No doubt I must look frightful."

"Does that trouble you?"

Myrhil smiled, but the enlarged planes of her face instead created a bizarre grimace. "I would not mind if it didn't pain me so much to do the simplest things, like blinking my eyes or smiling."

"Even so, cold rags will help the swelling diminish," Boromir said, going to the door.

"Will nothing else relieve the pain?" she asked. "I have heard of the Houses of Healing in the White City. It is said that the healers there can cure all ailments, save death."

Boromir smiled. "You have been listening to tales. Their skill is great, but there is much still beyond their knowledge."

"Do you know some of their secrets?"

"I have spent time there, but under a healer's hands, rather than possessing them myself or allowed to read their scrolls. This is the injury I am acquainted with most and it is one that I know how to treat. I would recommend plunging into the waters of Henneth Annûn, but we are nowhere near there. So cold rags and pressure will have to suffice, I am afraid."

Myrhil closed her eyes and sighed, imagining the crisp and clear waters. "I would so dearly love to be clean again," she murmured, having realized that only a slight movement of her lips allowed her to talk with less pain. "But there is no use thinking upon it now. There is still much to do."

"Indeed," Boromir replied, looking down at the warm cloth clenched in his fingers. He left the room and returned to the kitchen, casting an uneasy glance at the closed door behind which Gorhend and Belaród lay.

Boromir returned with a refreshed compress, then left again without a word. Myrhil held it against her face, the battered flesh radiating a heat of its own. She thought that nothing could ever hurt as much as the bruises she earned from her first horse ride without her father behind her on the saddle. She had ached for three weeks and was unable to sit for one of them. A single buck and the mare had sent her through the air to land on her seat in the hardened summer earth of the training ring. This pain was entirely different. It ached all the more because it was inflicted with such violence and hatred by a vile creature, no better than a raging beast.

She drifted into sleep and spent she knew not how long in the world of dreams, reliving her struggle with the orc, but from the detached distance of an observer. She could not feel the pain as she landed on the ground after being yanked from her saddle, or the sharp agony as the monster's teeth sank into her flesh. She stood and watched dispassionately as she saw herself thrown and beaten. All the while she was aware that she was only dreaming, but could not seem to influence its course.

It was with great relief when Laenilas' entrance with a plate of food and a small glass of ale jarred her from her troubled sleep.

"You look frightened," her mother said, alarmed. "What is it?"

"Ju-just a nightmare," she stammered, bringing a hand to her face to wipe it clean of the sweat that had cast a sheen over her skin. "I was. . .watching myself being beaten. Yet I did nothing."

Laenilas looked at her in concern. "You will no doubt have dreams about last night for a long while. But here, try to eat something," she said, setting the tray on the floor. "Try to eat and try to keep it down." She grasped her daughter about the waist and together they struggled to get Myrhil into a sitting position, leaning against the wall. Laenilas grabbed a small pillow and shoved it behind her back. Myrhil hissed as her mother's efficient gesture jarred her body that demanded to be treated gently.

With the tray laid across her legs, Myrhil obeyed her mother's order and scooped some scrambled eggs into her spoon and brought them to her mouth. "Thank you," she said as she chewed the soft, delicious food, the taste clinging sweetly to her tongue where blood and dirt still lingered. Any enjoyment she might have felt at this welcome meal was smothered at the thought of her father and Belaród wounded.

Laenilas sat on the edge of the narrow bed, slipping her hands into the folds of her apron. "I will wait here until you finish," she said.

"Where are they?" Myrhil asked softly, looking down at her plate. "Are they well?" She put another spoonful of egg in her mouth and lifted her eyes to her mother.

"They are in our room. They are well," Laenilas responded levelly.

Her questions continued. "Are they suffering? Have they spoken?"

Laenilas' jaw tightened. Why must you ask when you know the answer! she wanted to yell. Surely you must know that they are! You cannot be so stupid! She turned away as these terrible words passed through her mind. She was weary. She was tired. She needed rest. She had not slept for more hours than was safe. But absolutely nothing would make her lose her sanity to an extent that hateful things such as those would pass her lips. She would not mean them and Myrhil would not understand what evil forced her to say them -- the evil of losing your husband of many years and the entirety of a life's work in one fell stroke.

Myrhil watched her mother and felt the food rise in her throat. "No. . ." she choked. She let the spoon fall onto the plate and brought her hands to her eyes, the heels of her palms digging into the bruised flesh. She did not care about the pain. Perhaps it could blunt this other one that now gripped her. For so many hours, one pain had supplanted another. Would there be a time when all would simply disappear?

"Did you believe they would survive?" Laenilas asked, reaching out a hand and resting it on Myrhil's uninjured shoulder. "After all that your father told you and Larhend about battles and wounds, did you really believe that he and Belaród would survive, broken as they were?"

"Yes," Myrhil lied. "Yes." She smeared tears that were squeezed from between her purpled eyelids across her face. Her eyes were tightly closed and she had tucked her head against her chest.

Laenilas stroked her cheek with a palm. "Cry all you like for that will help you accept it. You will never know that peace if you do not shed a tear."

Myrhil looked up at her. "Then why are your eyes dry?" she asked, swallowing another sob.

"I shed my tears over unknown battles years ago," was the reply. "I have already lived this day, over and over." She moved closer and returned the tray to the floor. Then she enveloped Myrhil in her arms and held her daughter's head against her neck. "Now your mother is here beside you, able to help you as a mother should, instead of useless with grief."

As Myrhil pressed herself further into Laenilas' arms, she was selfishly glad that she was allowed to be weak, that someone else was willing to put aside their own sorrow so that she could give vent to hers. She knew she should feel shame for feeling so -- she wanted to feel shame-- but her beaten body would not allow another intruder.

Her tolerance broke and with no care to what hurts she would inflict on herself by moving, she struggled until she had twisted half of her body over the edge of her low bed, her palms flat against the floor. She pulled herself along inch by inch, her teeth gnashed together as the wound on her shoulder pulled at its stitches with each movement of the skin over bones. Her arms could no longer support her weight as most of her body was now suspended above the floor and she collapsed onto her elbows, the side of her face smashing against the wood. Stifling a groan, she lay there only briefly, not wanting to be found in this position.

"Get up," she muttered. As she spoke, she felt one of her teeth shift and she closed her eyes with a whimper. It would have to be pulled if it became any looser. She curled her knees up to her waist and, still propped on her elbows, slid her legs underneath her so that she could raise her body into a kneeling position. Halfway there, she thought triumphantly.

She could not believe how much she ached all over. Why had her mother forced her to lie abed when lying still was the worst thing for a sore body? Father had always said to move around and never let the aches burrow in. Sound advice, and never wiser than now.

Soon she made it to her feet and stumbled forward to brace herself against the wall. Lifting the latch of her door, she edged into the short corridor and with one hand on either side of her against the walls, she made her way to her parents' room. Perhaps they had not been moved yet. The graves were still being dug and she thought she had heard no one outside her door as she lay awake and frustrated with her helplessness. Her mother would be angry with her for disobeying, but. . .she was no longer who she had been at this time yesterday. Everything had changed.

She took a deep breath and opened the door. Her breakfast rose in her throat when she heard the soft buzzing of a few flies startled at the disturbance. The odor that met her nostrils was strangely sweet, but revolting nonetheless - the stench of death mixed with the waxy scent of candles burned to mask the budding decay. She looked at the bed, but no one was there. The flies were only lingering over the blood stained blankets.

Myrhil felt a mixture of disappointment and relief. At least the flies were not feasting on them in her father's bed. She had wanted to say her farewells, now that she had wept her tears. They still burned her eyes, but would not spill forth anymore. For that she was grateful. She could barely see through her swollen eyes and if she cried more, she feared she would lose her sight completely. It had taken almost all of her strength to make it this far, and her search was not over. But she would look upon them again, even if she had to crawl the distance. I will not simply look upon a grave marker, she thought.

"Cardhel?" she called out, having to clear her throat twice before her voice would obey her. "Are you here?"

"Miss?" came the reply from the kitchen. "Mistress Myrhil?" Hurried footsteps approached and when the woman appeared before her, Myrhil realized how horrific her appearance must be when Cardhel's hands flew to her mouth. "Ai!" she gasped. "By my eyes, in the light you look like you have been trampled underfoot!"

Myrhil found herself smiling at Cardhel's reaction, another grimace contorting her lips. "I assure you I feel the same," she said, her voice sounding strange even to her ears. "Where are they?"

"They?"

"My father and Belaród."

"Lord Boromir and milady are out by the barn, digging the. . ." Her voice faded. "They are putting them to rest."

Myrhil propelled herself forward, hands on the walls again. "I want to see them before I am no longer able. Help me get out there." She wanted to weep. Would her mother hide them from her forever without a final farewell? Anger began to seethe inside her and reaching out a hand, she gripped Cardhel's shoulder so tightly the woman cried out softly. "Help me!" Myrhil pleaded. "Hold me up!"

Cardhel put an arm around Myrhil's waist and grasped one of her arms. Together they passed through the main room and out through the door into the crisp spring air. The scent of emergent life filled Myrhil's lungs and she paused briefly to savor it, unable to withstand the pure sweetness. The birth of the growing season is sweet, she thought, but then so is the smell of withered grass and dead men. She shivered at the comparison coming unbidden to her mind. With a word of encouragement to Cardhel, they staggered over towards the barn where she could see Boromir and Cirien working on the earth to provide the final resting places for the enshrouded forms Laenilas watched over.

Myrhil tried not to let her anger rise. "Unless the Valar lay their hands on me, I do not think anything could heal me quickly. I had to leave my bed." Her voice was drawn tight as she fought the pain that had not lessened and leaned against Cardhel for greater support. "I am following Father's advice instead. He never spent a day abed in his life, other than the day he was born."

Laenilas was silent, startled by her daughter's vehemence. Then her eyes softened and she held out her hand. "Come," she said.

Cardhel slipped out from under Myrhil as soon as Laenilas had taken her place. They walked the few steps to where Belaród and Gorhend lay wrapped in linen. Cirien straightened from his bent posture and nodded to Myrhil in sad greeting. She returned the gesture, managing a feeble smile, and asked her mother to help lower her to her knees beside her father.

Boromir paused and watched as Myrhil peeled the linen away from Gorhend's face and contemplated him silently. When she bent her head and brought a hand to her face, he swallowed and returned to his task at an increased pace.

As he dug, he recalled the short time he had spent alone the night before, a bare few minutes outside that small home, made all the smaller by the sense of death that crushed the air and robbed it from the living. Myrhil had lain insensible on the table, the servant had been preoccupied with assisting one person or another, and Cirien had enjoyed the solitude of the barn for part of the evening, but Laenilas had remained by that bedside for the entire night. She had been there when both had pulled their last breath and readied them for burial. She bathed them, dressed them in clean clothes, and then wrapped them in clean linen shrouds. All night she had been in contact with dying and death and bore it as a soldier should. Yet he, a soldier, had sought relief from it, if only for a little while.

He was not a little ashamed, and hoped that it was not the birth of a weakness. Perhaps he had seen a little too much of this distasteful aspect of life, had seen too many lives come to an end. He had many years left to him should his life be lived to the full. Would this disgust increase as he aged? When he was Steward and had seen even more of life and death, would he find even slight wounds too much to bear? Gondor's troubles would only increase as time passed if a decisive victory did not come soon. Such had been the pattern for ages. He could not let Gondor's defenses weaken due to his own frailties. It is not Gorhend I am burying, he thought. He is not dead, but only a worthy soldier who once served Gondor well. Do not feel it too deeply, he told himself. Do not let it chip away at what should always be strong.

She bent over and kissed her father's forehead. The spring breeze ruffled a lock of his hair and it brushed against her face in a farewell caress. She brought her fingers to his face and ran the tips through the familiar old crags. "Sleep well, Father," she whispered. She kissed his cheek and then drew the linen back over his face and secured it tightly.

She crawled around to kneel beside Belaród and remained silent for several prolonged moments, simply gazing down upon him. In this moment, she told herself that she loved him and it was the truth. He had been an irresistible sort and she recognized her own weakness in being too willing to listen to his engaging voice and seductive words. Her mother was right in that she had been foolish, but she found it hard to regret her loss of sense when Belaród was concerned. Her anger the night before had been dashed away when he was wounded, which in itself was foolishness. I can no longer be so capricious, she thought. What if Belaród had indeed meant me harm? I have no way of knowing it for certain now, but he cannot be alone. There are others who might be of the same purpose, unknown to me. What if I allowed my girlish notions to overrule sense every time?

Even as these doubts circled through her mind, she ran a fingertip over his lips and along his jaw, admiring the handsome features. These, combined with his confident words in her ability to be a worthy heir, had created an intoxicating potion that nearly overwhelmed her for two marvelous years.

"I did not know you felt so strongly for him." Laenilas still knelt beside her husband but she had watched her daughter's entranced contemplation with avid interest.

Myrhil smiled. "I will probably always adore him."

"You surprise me that I did not see what was so obvious." Laenilas could not deny that she was displeased at such blindness on her part, but there was no use being upset about what could progress no further. She was indeed a fool to think that her daughter could have remained completely innocent.

"But it is ended," Myrhil replied, her gaze still fixed on Belaród. "You need not worry about him any longer." She gave a final kiss on Belaród's lips and pulled the linen over his face. Smiling weakly at her mother, she said, "I will have greater things on my mind than simply a handsome face."

By mid-afternoon, the graves had been filled and markers placed with names and years. Three graves now lay side by side and with a final moment of silence beside them, the gathered mourners returned to the house.

Later that evening, Laenilas sat in Gorhend's chair beside the fire, wrapped in a shawl and staring into the hearth. A mug of warm ale rested on the chair arm and periodically she would take a sip of the soothing liquid and return to her contemplation of the flames.

The only other person who still had not succumbed to the exhaustion of the day was Boromir. He had gratefully accepted quarters in the bunkhouse where the herdsmen had lived, but he could not rest peacefully. He had instead spent the early hours of the night walking around the surrounding property, sword at his side, ever watchful and consumed with his own thoughts.

The small wail of the hinges announced his return to the house and Laenilas leaned forward to watch him enter. "Is everything in order?" she asked. When he nodded, she motioned for him to sit down.

He did so and spoke soon to avoid any silence. He had just been surrounded by nothing but the dark stillness outside and now he welcomed the sound of voices, the sound of the living. "I must be returning soon to Minas Tirith," he said, his hand placed on the hilt of his sword in reminder that other places were in need of him. "But if there is anything else you would require of me before I leave, you have only to ask. For such a friend as he, my sword and my strength were ever at his command."

Laenilas smiled in gratitude. "He would be embarrassed to hear you say such things," she said. "Rather, he would insist that it was the other way around." Before he could reply, she added, "I have nothing to demand of you. You have already been a blessing to us when we most needed it."

"May I inquire what you will do?" he asked. They had long dispensed with the formalities, but neither was unaware that they existed elsewhere. Lords and ladies seemed to have no place in such rustic surroundings.

Laenilas leaned back in the chair and looked upwards, lost in thought. "I do not know. I have my own plans, though they will perhaps be of surprise to some." She closed her eyes. "I will travel to Rohan, by one road or another. It matters not which."

"You will leave?" he asked, startled.

"Is there a reason for me to stay?" she replied. "I have spent many, many years on this land. I remained for my husband because I loved him. I remained for the horses because he loved them. I remained for the land because we both loved it, but two of those pleasures have vanished. All that awaits me if I stay here is to rebuild. I would need to spend more years of my fast-ending life creating once more what took decades to achieve and one night to destroy. I am a tired old woman, Boromir." She cupped her chin in her hand and stared at him levelly. "Perhaps it is selfish, but I would like to look upon new sights and see other people."

"You would leave Myrhil behind?"

"If she chooses to stay, I will not force her to come with me. I will ask, but I will not demand. She owns this place now by right of inheritance. She can do with it whatever she chooses."

Boromir scratched at his forehead in thought, his grey eyes peering at her from between his fingers. "I do not believe you would admit defeat so easily. You are sporting with me."

Laenilas looked momentarily startled at his amused response, then a smile graced her normally strained and tightly drawn lips. "Is it so hard to believe that I can give up and lay down my sword?" she asked. She took a long draught from the mug. "I do not think I have conceded without a fight, and I would desire to walk from the field with dignity. I am not running, but instead--" she paused and brought a finger to her lips in thought "--gracefully withdrawing." She finished this with a simple sweep of her hand and a smile.

"You phrase it well," he told her. "You should write military dispatches."

Laenilas smiled faintly. "I doubt Théoden King would find that necessary, but I will not be an inconvenience to him. I greatly desire to know him and be of use to my kinsman in some way."

This prompted Boromir to comment, "The West Road is a long route. You would come to Minas Tirith first, naturally."

"Unless I took a path through the mountains," she corrected him. "If one exists that mortals can tread, that is. Yet I doubt it very much. So yes, I will be coming to Minas Tirith before pressing on to Rohan."

Boromir cleared his throat and scratched his brow again. "If you can arrange your affairs here quickly, then I can escort you to the White City. I would have you reach it safely."

Laenilas nodded and sighed. "Safety is such an uncertain luxury, is it not? Last night proved it so." She brought a hand to her eyes. "This region is safe no longer. Who knows what other destruction those orcs wrought before they reached here?"

"As we travel east, no doubt there will be news if they did."

"I expect Myrhil will choose to stay. If she does, I wonder if I will myself," Laenilas said, more to herself than to him. "Though what protection I could offer should there be another attack will do nothing to change the outcome. There would be no one left to bury those fallen." She shook her head. "Forgive me. I have become grim."

Boromir thought in silence, uncertain if Gorhend's widow desired advice. Though he was not a parent in the literal sense, as a leader of men, he understood the call of duty and loyalty she was undoubtedly feeling, as well as the call of adventure.

"What would you suggest?" Laenilas asked him.

Boromir cleared his throat again. "I do not pretend to know the right way to do things. My father is more skilled in that than I. To my mind, one way is as good as another for most situations. But what you have to decide would be as though I wanted to move to Rohan and leave the White City behind."

"The White City being Myrhil?"

"I--I suppose so, in a way." He shrugged. "'Tis not a good comparison, I confess."

Laenilas tucked her legs up under her large shawl. "No, no, it is a very good one, to tell the truth. Still, that does not make it easy to answer."

"My choice would be clear," Boromir continued. "I could not ever leave the White City. My loyalty runs too deep."

"As can a mother's love," Laenilas mused. "I will put the question to Myrhil, but I am afraid that it is I who shall be tested, depending upon her answer. She may wish to stay here as much as I wish to leave."

When she fell silent, Boromir began to feel the call of sleep beckon to him. Taking his leave of her with wishes for an untroubled night, he returned to his quarters in the barn.

He had to pass by Cirien's pallet before he reached his own and his sword clattered against him noisily. Before he could remove it, Cirien had wakened. "Lord Boromir?"

"Yes, it is I."

"Begging your pardon, my lord, may I speak with you briefly?"

Boromir made a sound of assent and advanced toward Cirien's pallet. The corner of the room was immediately illuminated by the glow of a lantern that hung from an overhead beam. The flickering flame cast shadows on every object, but Boromir thought the haggard and haunted appearance on Cirien's face was no trick of the light.

He sat down gratefully on a small stool and waited for the man to speak.

Cirien took a seat as well. He seemed nervous and uneasy about summoning a Steward's heir, but when Boromir did not display any signs of impatience or seem offended, he gathered his courage and pressed on.

"It is not my place to ask, sir," he began, "and forgive me if I am forward, but what is going to happen now?"

Boromir shook his head. "You should be asking your mistress instead of me, my good man. I do not have the right to make conclusions about which I know nothing."

"Which mistress, indeed, is one of my questions, sir," Cirien continued. "The Master's wife, or his daughter?"

"Do you have a preference?" Inwardly, Boromir bristled. Do not let this man be solely concerned with his own welfare, he thought. The Valar know I cannot remain away from Minas Tirith any longer. Do not force me to leave my friend's child in the hands of another unworthy sharp.

Cirien recognized the dormant sharpness in the warrior's tone and softened his own. "Myself, I do not. If Belaród was alive, he most certainly would. But that no longer concerns us, now that he lies outside in the ground."

Boromir relaxed visibly and pondered whether to divulge a little of what he knew and decided that there was no harm in doing so. The poor man is only uncertain as to how his life will proceed from this moment on, he told himself. Do not be suspicious. Reserve that for the court where it is warranted.

"I have just spoken with the Lady Laenilas," he said, "and she has indicated that everything belongs to Myrhil now, but what the girl chooses do with it is entirely her decision."

"She would not stay here?" Cirien asked, unable to conceal his puzzlement. "There is a chance the girl would leave?"

"I could say more, Cirien, but now we are in territory where it is not my place to say or ask certain things," he said with a light laugh. "I am only a visitor here and I would not dictate how matters should be resolved."

"I understand, sir," Cirien replied, smiling. His eyes were fixed on the floor. "It seems strange, as well it should, there are so many ghosts about this place now. There is much work ahead of us all, past and future and the like."

Boromir nodded. "Myrhil said something like that just this morning. She knows what lies ahead of her, I think."

Cirien turned to him. "If you will forgive me again, sir, that girl has been fighting an uphill battle ever since her brother was killed, and now it seems like she will know naught else. Not to imply that she was treated badly, mind," he hastily added when he realized his words might be construed by his dead master's friend as criticism. "Nothing of the kind. Considering she is what she is, I think she was given more freedom than was proper. . .for other girls."

"Apparently it was not enough to her way of thinking," Boromir put in. "Else the trouble with Belaród would never have happened."

"I know nothing about that matter," he said, looking away uncomfortably. "It was not my business to interfere."

Boromir shrugged his shoulders. "Naturally. It is a wise man who knows when to keep his nose out of rooms else a door shut on it."

"Very true, sir. I suspect that Myrhil is the kind who, when she knows what she wants, will go after it even if the method is not exactly--"

"Subtle?"

"I was going to say wise, but you are right, sir." He sighed and rubbed at his eyes. "Belaród was her method to take her brother's place. Aye, but she is young and no doubt she will grow out of such stubbornness, now that there is no other head to butt up against. That thought comforts me, knowing she will most likely be the one taking her father's place."

Boromir stood and clapped a hand on the older man's shoulder. "Good night, Cirien. I cannot say I envy you, under the rule of a young girl who has shown herself to be hotheaded and rash, but remember your soldier's training. That will let you weather any storm she may conjure with her temper."

With an encouraging smile, he turned and retreated to his own pallet. He unbuckled his sword and stretched out on the straw mattress with a grunt of relief. Closing his eyes, he rolled onto his side with an arm cradling his head. His mind was uncluttered with doubts and fears. All that could be put to rest had been. The dead were already in the midst of their eternal rest, he would be leaving for Minas Tirith within a day or two and, if all went well, Gondor would still continue to have a supply of horses from the northern reaches of Lebennin. It would only require a delay until the herd was again plentiful.

Before Boromir could think of anything else, he was enjoying the tight embrace of untroubled sleep.

Laenilas came into Myrhil's room as soon as the sun rose over the horizon, water bowl and cloth in hand to cleanse her daughter's scabbed wounds. After a brisk good morning, she set about inspecting the stitches on her shoulder and the bruises on her face.

"The swelling has decreased by half, at least," Laenilas commented. "You should thank Boromir for tending that injury when he comes inside for breakfast. He will not be here much longer to receive your gratitude. He and I shall depart for Minas Tirith tomorrow, should all go as planned."

Myrhil continued to lean her head wearily against the wall as her mother inspected the angry, weeping wound on her shoulder, but when those final words pierced her consciousness, she stiffened in alarm and sat up straight, her body rigid.

"Leaving?" she asked in disbelief.

Laenilas managed an innocent expression. "Yes. Why? Does that shock you?"

"Is there a reason why it should not?" Myrhil demanded, her voice containing a faint tremor.

Laenilas set the bowl down on the floor and looked levelly at her daughter. "It should come as no surprise to you that I wish to leave. We have already discussed that."

"But. . .so soon!" came the protest.

"I shall not leave you behind if you wish to come," Laenilas said in a soothing tone. "I assumed that you would prefer to remain here, with your inheritance." She paused to let her words settle on her daughter's ears.

Perhaps it was unfair of her to spring such a subject on someone half- asleep, but for the first time in many years, she was feeling an urgency within her that begged to not be leashed or stayed. Just as Boromir's sleep had been tranquil, Laenilas had spent the entire night in restless torment. Penetrating through whatever scraps of sleep she was able to muster was the morning sun glinting off the fabled Tower of Ecthelion, the fresh spring breezes coursing over the Rohirric plains, and the close and smoky din of an evening meal in the wooden and golden hall of Meduseld, that immense structure dominating so many of her childhood tales. Such sights and smells begged her to partake of them and she yearned to have the road already beneath her feet.

"Inheritance?" Myrhil repeated. She pondered it behind the seclusion of her closed eyes, one of which was an ever-darkening shade of purple. Her expression threatened to crumble as the silence lengthened and her mind mulled over the word and its implications. "What inheritance?" she asked, her voice hoarse. "There is nothing left! No men to look after the horses, and no horses to be looked after! It is gone. Everything gone."

Laenilas shook her head. "Do not despair, my girl. When I was a young bride, I did not even have a roof over my head, but simply a tent in a soldier's camp. That is, until your father decided to settle me here while he continued to fight for Gondor." She took up the bowl again and soaked the cloth. "Or," she continued, squeezing it out and looking at her daughter from the corner of her eye, "are you disappointed that your future was not given to you complete and without a blemish?"

Myrhil was not so tired, pained or bewildered enough to miss the familiar reproachful tone in her mother's voice. But she was too exhausted to retreat and mask her true feelings under another guise. "Yes," she said honestly. "But I am not being unreasonable. Just how am I to make all this what it once was with less people to help me do it? With few horses to repopulate? With no will to see it through to the end?" She sighed. "Mother, I do not think I can do it."

"Then you would have me stay?" Laenilas asked. The words almost refused to come to her lips when her throat constricted painfully. "I do not see how one person could make a difference to you."

The reluctance that saturated those words was unmistakable. Myrhil did not want to look in her mother's eyes for fear of what she might see. No, she knew exactly what those pale blue orbs held: a sad longing, combined with eager excitement, to see that which she had never set eyes upon. Myrhil had also wondered what lay over the ridges to the east, north and west, and what waited beyond the sea to the south. She could not be angry with Laenilas for wanting to follow such a call. Now that it came to it, she was envious. Very envious.

She was also very ashamed. Ashamed and mortified that, once she had all that she had long believed should be hers, she felt inadequate to own it. It is just as well that Father is dead, she thought. Then he would not see me shrinking from my duty like the greenest recruit, unable to tell one end of a sword from the other and afraid to touch either.

She brought both hands to her face and exhaled heavily. "Then go," she said, her voice muffled. "I shall not stop you. I have no desire to do that."

Laenilas reached out a hand and stroked Myrhil's hair softly. "If you wish to come with me, then I shall not balk at your company," she said kindly. "I am certain that Cirien and Cardhel will find employment elsewhere." She paused. "Or you can pass it along to their very capable hands. It would be a pity for Cirien to leave a place he loves so much."

"No," Myrhil said, not removing her hands. "I cannot leave. I must not."

Laenilas stood, her hand still resting on the top of Myrhil's head. "Do not stay if your heart wishes differently," she murmured. "I will not hold any decision against you." She gave the dirty brown curls a kiss and she left the room.

Myrhil was left alone with her thoughts, and they clambered inside her head, each demanding to be considered first before all others. They hounded her from her bed and she made her way out of her room. As she passed through the house, she could hear her mother and Cardhel in the kitchen, such familiar sounds that would no longer be heard once Laenilas left to pursue her long-dreamed visions.

Silently, she slipped over to the door and opened it, the need to breathe the clean air of the outdoors burning within her lungs. Though her mother had thrown open the door and windows yesterday, Myrhil was certain she could still detect lingering traces of decay that stubbornly clung to the walls and rafters. It hung in the air, a pall that refused to dissipate.

The evening's dew had been thick and the dirt clung to the bottoms of her bare feet as she trudged stiffly across the yard between house and barn. It was early yet, and the sun barely hovered over the horizon. Clouds had begun to gather, ready to smother the dawn scantly after its birth. No doubt a spring rain would fall during the day. At least that might delay Mother's journey if the whim takes her to leave immediately, Myrhil thought. Despite what she had said earlier, a large part of her did not want to see Laenilas leave.

She walked over to the two fresh graves, the dirt bearing a mottled pattern of dampness, and gazed at them silently for several long moments. The rectangular mounds oddly looked like sleeping sentries. They would become common sights, just as a quiet kitchen would soon be a common sound. Common, but not comfortable. Or welcome, for that matter.

Her eyes turned from the earthen beds and rested on the barn. The sliding wooden doors were opened a crack to allow fresh air to force out the musty smells of winter's hibernation. She approached the door at a slow shuffle, her toes kicking the damp dust onto the backs of her heels. All of her movements felt slow, cautious even, as though she was a stranger wandering about someplace newly discovered. She could not help but feel like she was seeing everything about her for the first time.

She was startled when, as she rounded the door, a figure emerged suddenly from within. Her throat emitted a choked gasp of surprise, in turn making the other person jump.

"Lass, why are you skulking about?" Cirien said when he had realized who the intruder was. Remembering her new station, he hastily added, "Sorry to scare you, milady." He stumbled over this last word, unsure if it was the correct one to use.

Myrhil looked at him strangely when that new word left his lips, then she nodded sadly. "Forgiven, Cirien," she said, making to walk past him into the barn. "But please call me lass or something. Just not. . .that. Promise me you will."

"If you wish it," he murmured, eyes on her back as she stepped into the barn. "Lass," he called out, "you only have half your clothes on. Did you know that?"

Myrhil paused and looked down at her clothing. She wore a loose woolen shirt, but only had thin underbreeches on her bottom half. "Yes, I realize it now, Cirien," she said listlessly.

"Are you feeling yourself?" he asked, following her into the barn and taking her by the arm. "You are acting. . .lost."

Myrhil turned in his grasp, her eyes not meeting his, but instead seeking out the shadowed features of the darkened interior. She saw the ladder into the loft where she and Belaród had retreated several times. On the walls hung the harnesses and leather tack, soaped and oiled to a supple softness. The barred stall doors, lining a center aisle, contained the remainder of her inheritance that happily chewed its fodder.

"I am lost," she replied, her eyes going from object to object. "I know that things must be done, but I do not know what to do or how to start." Her gaze rested on his familiar gaunt and weathered features as he looked at her curiously. He had been a constant here for many years and, in this moment, she wanted to be assured that he would remain for many more. She swallowed and dragged an arm across her nose as it threatened to run. "Cirien, promise you will never leave me!"

"I will try, lass," he said softly.

His reply seemed enough to reassure her of his faithfulness, for she turned and wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face against his shoulder. Cirien concealed his surprise poorly and stiffened at her sudden move. Hesitantly, he snugged his arms around her in a firm embrace. "I will never leave," he affirmed. "As long as you want me to stay, here I be."

She drew away from him reluctantly, the warmth and comfort of his presence striking her for the first time. In a way, it seemed as though her father was again before her, but she would not let herself be deluded that Gorhend had returned in another form, however much she wanted to believe in such a thing.

"Is there aught you wish me to do before I start in on breakfast?" he asked, taking her hands and clasping them tightly. He craned his neck to the side, trying to catch her attention, but Myrhil's head and gaze were cast downwards. "Anything you want me to do, just give the order. Remember, lass, 'tis all yours now."

Her shoulders slumped at his words. Yes, all hers. But all of what? Tattered remnants of a once-thriving business, now operated by a paltry band of three. She felt so defeated, so unable to pick up her pack and soldier on, as her father would have done -- and had done -- without complaint.

"Go and eat," she told him, squeezing his fingers and managing a smile. "Tell Mother I am out here, will you? She does not know that I left."

He nodded and took his leave of her, exiting the barn and walking towards the house. Myrhil watched him go, then returned to her contemplation of the barn. Her eyes again lingered on the tack and equipment that were now hers to use. Would she finally be able to break the horses she had so longed to master? She did not think that Cirien would stop her from doing such things. He had always been very kind to her, though perhaps a little awkward in the past several months, ever since he had felt the swift and capricious winds between her father and herself. She had before believed that he simply distanced himself from those who antagonized Gorhend. But his kindness of only moments earlier told her that he was a true man who had been loyal to the father and was transferring that loyalty to the daughter. He would be a better master than I a mistress, she thought. He knows where his duty lies, while I ponder and doubt.

A door to her right led into the herdsmen's quarters and, when she opened it, she coughed on the musty dust that filled the air. Hay was housed overhead in the loft and it persistently sifted through the cracks in the floor onto those living below. She had rarely entered this exclusive domain of men, but now she walked inside and stood in the middle of the room, scanning the empty bunks and pallets. Some were still a tangled mess of blankets or made up neatly, depending on the inclination of their inhabitant. Tin cups and plates lay scattered about in comfortable disarray. A half-oiled bridle lay on the floor next to one pallet where one of the men had left it with every intention of finishing the task upon his return.

Her eye rested on Belaród's saddle bag, flung over a short stool next to another pallet. She had always admired it and he had often told her the story of how he had found it next to the half-eaten corpses of a steed and rider on the far southern plains of Gondor, near the sea. It was edged in silver and had silver clasps on the supple leather flaps. She had once laughingly accused him of stealing it, but he hotly defended himself, claiming that if he had not taken it, then a wild animal or an undeserving swine would have. He had naught else of value and he took great pride in owning such a rich piece of workmanship and obvious wealth. But he would not sell it, even when his purse had run dry. He would not even use it, but instead kept it in the best and untouched condition he could.

She had just knelt down beside it and taken the wide strap in her hand when the sound of boots approached. Quickly she got to her feet. When she turned, Boromir stood in the doorway, watching her silently.

"I am sorry to intrude," she found herself saying. "These are your quarters now, I understand?"

He nodded. "For one more night, at most," he answered. "But they belong to you, so you should come and go as you wish."

Myrhil looked down at the saddlebag in her hands and said, "I came to get. . ." Her voice trailed off faintly. She shook her head, as if tossing off some foolish thought. "I do not know why I came," she replied honestly. "Everything that meets my eyes, that once would have not stirred so much as a twinge, now seems like a knife wound." She held up the saddle bag as though it offered an explanation. "Belaród's," she informed him. "'Tis strange to have a whole day pass and not see his face or--" Her voice caught, but she swallowed and finished, "--hear his voice."

Boromir advanced into the room. He had been surprised to find her in the men's quarters, then noticed her state of dress. Wordlessly, he walked over one of the beds and grabbed a blanket. Eyes averted, he returned and held out the blanket. "You have forgotten something this morning," he said.

Myrhil looked down and smiled ruefully. "Cirien may have pointed that out to me," she said, taking the dusty woolen covering after she draped the saddle bag over her shoulder. Swathing it about her and tucking it at her waist, she added, "I am not myself this morning. Forgive me. I have had much on my mind."

"Understandably so," he said.

"I am undecided as to what I should do. I hear that Mother will be leaving with you for the White City?" Try as she might, she could not prevent an edge from creeping into her words.

Boromir detected it as well. "You are angry?" he asked.

"No," she replied quickly. Realizing her tone had been hasty, she paused and added, "I simply wonder why she feels the need to leave so suddenly."

"She wishes for safe passage and I can provide that for her," he said. "At least, to the best of my ability."

"And the safety of those she leaves behind?" Myrhil asked. She did not pause for an answer, for she closed her eyes and sighed. "I am afraid that I am being selfish. Perhaps I only wish that I could be part of her journey as well."

Boromir was silent for several moments, his eyes fixed on the floor as he pondered her words. "How many men would you need to handle all the work that needs to be done?"

Myrhil shrugged. "We will need more horses to replenish our stock, more mares. I have a greater need for them than men at the moment."

"One thing at a time," he said, scratching his forehead. "How many men?"

"I would say five, at least. Seven when we have a full herd again. It's been so long since we had enough men."

"I will find the men for you," he told her. "There are many soldiers who are unable to weather another battle. Wounds that have made it impossible to endure the hardships of battle, but who are brave and want to be of service. They can be of service to me by aiding the kin of one of Gondor's finest soldiers and acting as an outpost."

"You would do that?" she asked incredulously, realizing the depth of love her father had inspired in his commander. "You are most generous." She bowed her head, hand to her chest. "Thank you."

Boromir accepted her gesture with a brief nod. "'Tis no more than what your father deserves. An honor, indeed, to continue his legacy."

Myrhil nodded and looked away. "Continuing. . . It requires strength and will," she said. "I fear that what seemed so easy to say and feel yesterday is a bit harder in coming today." She raised a hand to her shoulder and rested it on the worn leather of the saddle bag strap. "The pains I feel in my shoulder, my face . . .all over, really. . . have lessened and finding something to turn my mind from them is no longer so necessary. Yesterday I needed to break through the pain and bravely told myself that taking my father's place would not be difficult. I had to defeat the pounding within me. Now," her fingers stroked the soft hide, "there is little pain to fight. My body aches less and my mind has discovered that physical pain is a weaker enemy than the one that aims for the heart." She held up the saddle bag and gestured to the room around her. "All I see reminds me of what once was before the night everyone died."

Silence ensued and Boromir waited, expecting her to continue. When she said no more, he asked, "If it is your wish to accompany your mother to Minas Tirith, then I will not object. Within two weeks, there will be another group of men here to assist in returning your father's business to its former glory. You simply need to hand the reins, so to speak, to Cirien and all shall be in order."

"He is a capable man," Myrhil said. "I would rely on him heavily, should I stay or not." She paused as she moved past him. Reaching out a hand, she rested it on his arm and said, "I do not know exactly what type of man my father was to inspire such kindness, but my gratitude is boundless." Smiling faintly, she left the room and continued onwards to the house. She had much to think on and hoped that whatever decision she made would be of sense.

The hours passed and Myrhil still had not made a firm choice. She saddled her mare and retreated to the plains, stopping beside a calm pool of the Gilrain for some peace. Throughout the morning, Laenilas had been gathering her most prized possessions, at least those that could be carried on the back of a horse, and her hurried instructions to Cardhel and the minor chaos roiling in the house forced Myrhil to seek refuge elsewhere to sort out her thoughts. Before leaving, she briefly spoke with Cirien about Boromir's offer to send some ex-soldiers to work for them and he greeted the news with a pleased smile. Yet his brow remained furrowed when he saw her watch Laenilas' movements with an expression of longing and he quietly asked her, "You be thinking of joining your mother on her journey?"

Myrhil found it distasteful to lie to the herdsman and replied, "Such thoughts have lingered on my mind, though I do not know if I should ignore them or pay them heed." As an afterthought, she added, "I do not deny that I envy her greatly. I have known nothing other than the land here. I have heard that there is so much else to be seen, Cirien. So much."

"Aye, there is," Cirien told her. "There are dangers and pleasures, seas and mountains, cities and wilderness. And that is merely in Gondor. Imagine what else lies out there! Creatures and folk that defy description or lived in the tales of old."

"Say no more!" Myrhil exclaimed, managing a laugh, although his words struck her heart more than she would admit. "The urge to see them grows with every word you say."

Cirien fell silent and helped Myrhil into the saddle. She gathered up the reins and set off with a promise to return soon. Cirien watched her amble away with a wistful smile, knowing that he would not see her for much longer.

So it came as no surprise to the weathered old herdsman when Myrhil returned an hour before dusk and, after getting her mare settled for the evening, retreated to her room. Soon the sounds of objects being moved around rattled out into the main room where the others ate. Within thirty minutes, she joined them, her face cleared of the doubt that had clouded it these two days past. No one said a word, although Cirien and Cardhel exchanged an anxious look. The next two weeks would now be a test of their strength.

By dawn the next morning, the three travelers were on their way east. From her kitchen, Laenilas had left behind all but a few tin plates and cups that she would use when they made camp at night, as well as a small cooking pot. The rest she bestowed on Cardhel with a heartfelt embrace and best wishes that they would serve her well. Cardhel blushed at the generosity and promised to feed the men as her mistress would have done, whenever they arrived. Before parting, Laenilas whispered to her former servant, "And you need not sleep in those cramped quarters any longer. Please, our room lies empty and it is too large for only one person." She looked over at Cirien, who was giving Myrhil a farewell embrace. "A master needs his mistress," she continued.

Cardhel blushed even more furiously. "Yes, my lady," she whispered, eyes studiously averted. "If he will have me, I think that would be a fine thing."

Without further delay, Laenilas, Myrhil, and Boromir mounted their horses and set their sights eastward, their pace steady and purposeful. The intermittent rain of the previous day had passed completely and the sky was clear with only a few lingering clouds skirting the horizon. The air on the heels of the showers had turned brisk and it made the journey undeniably pleasant, as well as lightening the doubting mood that had plagued Myrhil in the first hours of travel. Laenilas noticed that her daughter looked over her shoulder several times before a mile lay between them and their home. Knowing that each glance would instill another longing deeper into her heart, Laenilas reached out a hand and rested it on the back of Myrhil's head. "Do not look back," she said. "You shall return someday if that is your fate. But for now, your path lies ahead, not behind. Be firm with yourself."

Myrhil nodded wordlessly and steeled herself to keep her eyes facing forward, regardless of the temptation to turn in her saddle yet again.

The miles fell away beneath the horses' hooves and the three companions settled into a comfortable silence. After a few hours, Myrhil began to enjoy the journey as her seat reminded her that she had always taken this route in the past on the hard bench of a creaking and jerking wagon beside either Cirien or her father when they needed to buy supplies. The reminder of Cirien, struggling alongside Cardhel miles behind them, gave her pause once more, but the thought had no time to settle in her mind because Laenilas voiced a gentle reminder: "Eyes front, girl."

Myrhil turned her head to look at her mother. "I was not--" she began, but stopped when she realized that lying was pointless. "Eyes front," she repeated.

Laenilas smiled in satisfaction. "They will manage quite well," she reassured her. "Do not worry about them. In many ways, they are like your father and I and we created something out of nothing. Cardhel is still young and will prove to be a worthy successor to me, despite her inability to properly mash potatoes, and you know what Gorhend thought of Cirien. He did not keep him for so many years because he was a horrible horseman."

She lowered her voice, although Boromir rode nearly one hundred feet ahead of them and was unable to hear their conversation distinctly. "I am willing to wager that the two of them share the same bed within six months," she said, smiling in a conspiratorial manner that Myrhil was shocked to see. Her mother was gossiping! In fact, ever since preparations had gotten underway to leave the farm by the Gilrain, Laenilas' manner had become occasionally light, even girlish in some respects, although her familiar demeanor would never disappear, not even by half.

Her rule in the kitchen the previous night had been as rigid as ever, Cardhel earning some words about her lack of attention to the stew so that it boiled too long. Cardhel had taken the rebuke with a hidden smile as she placed the filled bowls on the table and everyone, including Boromir, allowed Laenilas this final night of absolute power. For Laenilas, more than anyone, knew that this journey would take her to a place where she was no longer a queen in all but name. She would be beholden to the grace and generosity of Théoden King, should he extend the cloak of hospitality over her weary shoulders. She would lose her right to administer things as she saw fit within the place she lived. Yet it was a price she was willing to pay, if she could see the land of her kin and those in between; if she could satisfy this burning within her breast that she had too long unsuccessfully struggled to subdue.

They pressed onward, even as the sun began to hover close to the horizon behind them. They had rarely paused throughout the day, the cool weather and plentiful running brooks and standing pools of water in the depressions on the plains replenishing their horses quickly and making them eager to continue their pace eastward. Only once did they have to stop for an emergency, when Myrhil's horse picked up a small stone and she felt the animal's distress soon enough so that no lameness resulted.

The road yielded fewer travelers than the South Road would have, but when they did encounter a passerby, Boromir asked them if any trouble had been sighted in parts to the immediate east. None professed knowledge of any such thing, and Boromir decided not to alarm them by relaying the events of a few nights' past. Instead, he said that the rumors he had heard of an orc attack in the west might be false, but that extra vigilance certainly could not harm everyone in the region. They heard his words with immense gravity, not knowing to whom they spoke, and agreed that they would pass on what he said.

As dusk settled around them, Boromir suggested they stop alongside a flat and grassy area on the western bank of the River Sirith. "There is clear water for cooking and drinking," he told Laenilas, "and some brush here for a fire." He dismounted and looked in the direction they had come, as though sizing up their day's progress. "Nearly one hundred miles to the southeast we have come, I figure," he said, his tone extremely pleased. "By mid-morning we will be on the South Road and from there it will not be long before the White City looms before us. The road is well-maintained and hours seem like minutes."

Laenilas was extremely relived that the day was at an end, her riding skills having been put to the test today. She rarely had reason to ride, but today revived memories of what an uncomfortable method of traveling it was. Myrhil's enthusiasm and eagerness to keep Boromir's steady and swift pace dampened her spirits as the day wore on, but she would not betray her discomfort one whit since the decision had been hers to accompany the Captain of Gondor back to his city.

She gingerly dismounted and unbuckled the pack that contained her cooking gear from her horse's rump. Boromir had already unsaddled and hobbled his horse and was now gathering dead branches and breaking off small limbs from the brush that lined parts of the riverbank. He pried rocks from the riverbed where the early spring's rush had already receded into a narrower channel and set them in a ring encircling the kindling. Myrhil stepped forward with her flint and lit the dry wood. When the flames looked like they would survive without constant care, she stood and saw Boromir take off his cloak before starting to walk northwards, following the river.

"Where are you going?" she called out.

"Hunting for supper," he said. "The vegetables your mother brought will not be enough for all of us."

Myrhil turned to Laenilas, who was unwrapping the canvas that held all the foodstuffs she felt her horse could carry, along with its other burdens. She shook her head. "I can make a stew," she said, "but I will need meat for it if it is to do us any good."

Myrhil ran to her pack that she had recently removed from her mare, retrieved something from her saddle bag, and followed Boromir. She had to settle into a lope that covered more ground to catch up to him quickly for her legs, though long, were still no match for his immense stride.

At the sound of her approaching him from behind, he turned and asked somewhat irritably, "Have you ever heard that too many hunters scare the prey?"

Myrhil was unfazed by his tone. "I only think it right I should assist in filling my own belly," she said. She held up the object she had retrieved from her pack. "I have no mean aim with a slingshot. That is, unless you were looking for fish?" She touched her sword. "Then I can try to spear one with this."

Boromir shook his head in amusement at her eagerness, but he did not tell her to return to the fire. The girl had been quiet today, a trait that the women of court sadly lacked, and he had basked in the peace. So it was with only a trace of reluctance that he gestured her to follow him with a swift motion of his hand. Myrhil grinned and again loped until she fell into step beside him, still having to maintain a fast walk to keep apace with his vast gait. When her breath began to come short and sharp in her chest, she gritted her teeth and hastened so that he would not leave her behind, yet it was with distinct relief when he stuck out his arm to stop her. The scuffed leather of his vambraces scratched at her skin and she swallowed a choke caused by the sudden pressure against her throat.

"We have come far enough," he whispered. "The firelight would scare them away, but I do not smell the smoke, either. Can you?"

Myrhil inhaled deeply. "No, I cannot."

"Then let us sit and wait," he said, pointing towards a stand of trees that hovered near the edge of the river, their branches bending low over the water as though to drink like a weary man. "We shall be hidden there should some unfortunate beast choose to come within our sights."

They retreated into the darkness under the trees. Their road had taken them southward throughout the entire day and Myrhil saw that spring was firmly entrenched in this region while it was only beginning to make an appearance in the mountain shadows of the northern plains. The trees were bearing full crowns of leaves in the richest spring green and the scent of the land seemed fresh and new without the dank, temporary aroma of winter's kill.

Boromir drew a long knife from a sheath on his belt and gestured for Myrhil to follow him beneath the low-lying branches. Crouching side by side, they watched the edges of the river. From within their very dim shelter, all that lay outside was illuminated by the fading sky. Should anything approach the water, they would be sure to see it. However, time seemed to pass without so much as a rustle in the grass. Myrhil breathed slowly through her mouth for the absolute stillness of the plains made breathing with her nose sound like the wheezing of forge bellows. Her wound began to throb even more than it had during the day, no doubt caused by the strain of remaining in this alert crouch, and she slowly brought a hand to her shoulder and lightly massaged the tingling flesh. She softened her pained sigh as the pounding alternated between sharp and dull. Boromir took no notice of her movements and remained balanced on his toes, ready to spring forward within a second should anything draw close. The knife was still held loosely in his hand.

Myrhil reached a hand down to the ground and felt around for a missile to use in her sling. Boromir sensed she was looking for ammunition and began to search as well, letting his fingers brush the sparse grass and dry earth around him. Their paths met each other a few times, dusty fingers striking each other. "No luck?" she whispered softly.

"When you want a rock, there are none around," he muttered. "When you have no boots on, they are always underfoot."

Myrhil stifled a chuckle and continued to search. "Have you ever hunted with a sling?" she asked, her voice still a mere whisper.

"Aye, years and years ago it seems," he replied. He tapped her shoulder and took her hand, dropping a smooth stone into it.

She hefted it, pleased. It was about the size of the end of her thumb and would be the bane of any small game animal, should one come within range. She placed it in the small leather strap tied to two strings of gut and pinched it tightly so that it would not fall. "When you were a boy?" she asked.

"Aye," he answered. "My brother and I used them before we were allowed to carry knives. Faramir and I, we would go out on the Pelennor Fields and stalk anything that was blind enough not to see two bumbling boys charging at them like Mumak. There was also no end of rats in some parts of the city. We were the scourge of those rodents for several years." What little light had penetrated the canopy above them was fast fading, so Myrhil did not see Boromir smile, but she could hear it in his voice. "Who taught you to use it?" he asked.

"My brother." She bent her head and laughed silently. "The first day I held one began when he said that I was too weak to pull back on the gut. I could not let a challenge like that pass, so I grabbed his sling from him, picked up a pebble and sent it into his backside." She turned and smiled apologetically. "I was an even dirtier brat than you know, Boromir of Gondor."

She saw the shadowed shape beside her shake with suppressed laughter, then a hand clamped over her arm. "Silence now," he said. "No doubt we have frightened off every piece of meat within a league with our talk."

Myrhil fell silent, wondering if her mother was piqued that her stew still lacked the one ingredient that would make it tasty. No doubt she was convinced that her daughter and Gondor's heir had decided to go all the way to the mountains to kill a goat for her pot.

"How long have we--?" Myrhil ventured, but was cut short when a hand covered her mouth and Boromir pointed towards the opposite riverbank where the tall grass was swaying erratically in a pattern no breeze could create.

Boromir removed his hand and bent to her ear. "We cannot cross the river and hope to catch it, so your sling will have to do the work. Simply knock it senseless, and then we can kill it at leisure," he said. "Let us creep forward now." He tugged on the edge of her cloak. "Take this off. You do not want to get tangled up in it if you need to move quickly. Your sword as well." Wordlessly, Myrhil undid the clasp and let it fall to the ground behind her. Just as silently, she unbuckled her sword belt and left it on top of her cloak. Boromir removed his, retaining only his long knife.

Together they got on hands and knees and slunk out from under their shelter. Myrhil inched forward on her elbows, one hand gripping the arm of her sling, the other on the leather, ready to aim and fire when the moment arrived. They reached the edge of the riverbank, keeping a thin barrier of grass between them. Boromir reached out and parted the grass before her, just enough so that her vision was not impaired and the stone would have a clear path.

The grass on the other side continued to sway and Myrhil strained to hear the noise the creature made, hoping that something would betray what species it was. She did not embrace the prospect of eating skunk, but meat was meat, especially when the stomach demanded to be fed.

Suddenly, the fronds parted and Myrhil pulled back on the gut, her eye trained on the path that lay ahead of the stone pinched tightly between her fingers. The light was fading fast and she silently urged whatever it was to make an appearance quickly else her one shot go astray once blinding darkness descended. Sharp pain flared throughout her shoulder like a hungry flame and she gritted her teeth against it affecting her aim. Sweat beaded on her forehead and she blinked slowly, trying to clear her mind of unnecessary thoughts and sensations. She forced her breath to remain level and low.

A shadowy shape appeared and Myrhil released the tension with a grunt. Her prey quacked in distress and fell down into the water with a frantic flapping of its wings. Myrhil and Boromir leaped to their feet and, seeing that the duck had not died instantly or been rendered unconscious, leaped into the water to catch it before the current and the animal's own thrashing movements carried it away from them forever. The two hunters were relieved to find that the water was not deep, nor the current overly swift, and they quickly reached the dying fowl, which was putting every last bit of strength it had into fighting the water that now captured it.

It was on its back, trying to right itself, but it had no chance to do so because it was set upon with greater force than it had ever known. Hands gripped its neck while others clenched its body. Within seconds, death claimed it to the sound of crunching bones.

Boromir held it aloft and they laughed loudly, the need for silence over. "Well done!" he exclaimed as he gripped her at the juncture between shoulder and neck. "Very good aim."

Myrhil could not suppress a small scream as every nerve within her leaped under Boromir's unthinking gesture. She felt her knees buckle and she collapsed into the water, submerged up to her chin. The chill water soaked her even more thoroughly but she did not care. It soothed the angry wound with its numbing caress and she did not respond to Boromir's hand on her other shoulder, trying to shake her to her senses.

With a muttered curse at his forgetfulness, Boromir bent and clamped an arm around Myrhil's waist, hauling her to her feet. "Ai, why did you have to do that?" she demanded, her voice a mere rasp.

Whether she meant striking her wound or removing her from the water, he did not know. "Come," Boromir said, placing a hand on her back and steering her towards the riverbank. "We cannot stand here in the water all night."

They reached the dry, sandy shore of the river and discovered the eroding bank was once and half again as tall as Boromir himself. When they had leaped off of it in the heat of the hunt, the height had not seemed so great, but now, with their clothes heavy and sodden, it would be no small feat to scale the crumbling wall of earth. The bank was in the shape of a small outcropping instead of slanting upwards and back.

Boromir tossed the dead fowl over their heads and laced his fingers together. "Give me your foot," he said. "I will spring you up over the bank."

"What about you?" Myrhil asked, pressing her wound lightly through the fabric of her clothes in an effort to push some of the cold into it. The throb was slowly receding again. "How will you get out of here?"

"I will manage," he assured her. "We could go up and downstream to find a shallow bank, but I do not think there is one nearby, nor is it wise to remain in the water. The night chill is setting in and your cloak and your sling are up there anyway."

"And now so is our duck."

He laughed. "Just so. Come, your foot."

Myrhil put her boot within the stirrup he created with his hands and grabbed onto his shoulder to steady herself. Boromir barely had to exert himself at all because Myrhil used her own strength to leap from his hands and grasped onto the sturdy fronds at the edge of the bank. Boromir pushed against her foot and, after a brief scramble, the tall grass soon surrounded her again. She returned to the edge and peered down at Boromir. "Give me your hand, if you can," she said.

"I will only pull you back down," he said. "Your wound might tear open as well. Best to stand clear and let me claw my way up."

"You do not know that for certain," she said. "Let me try, my lord."

Boromir thought upon it briefly. The girl barely weighed more than Faramir when he first started serious arms practice and, at that time his brother possessed the unkind name of 'Scarecrow' due to his lanky and unimpressive physique. He doubted that Myrhil would possess the strength to haul his bulk over the small outcropping, but, he concluded with a shrug, it was either attempt it or wade around in the dark trying to find another path out.

He retreated until the water swirled around his calves then ran the few paces to the edge of the bank. He leaped as high as his strength and heavy water-soaked clothes would allow and managed to grasp onto the same strong grasses that Myrhil had used for her escape. His boots struggled for purchase in the dirt and shale and, just when he was certain that his own weight would pull him back downwards, Myrhil hooked her hands under his arms and strained backwards, dragging him with her inch by inch. He continued to move his feet against any bit of earth they touched and, when he sensed that he had reached the point where he could finish his ascent on his own, he grunted, "Let me go."

Myrhil heaved backwards once more and yanked him forward another two feet. Her strength finally giving out, she let go of him and fell backwards onto the grass. Boromir pulled himself the rest of the way up and it was only a matter of seconds before he was sitting beside her, fighting for his own breath.

Myrhil gasped, "My father. . .always told me. . .to look before I jumped. He did not mean it literally, but. . .I should have remembered his advice."

Boromir tried to laugh, but his heavy breathing made him cough instead. "I have heard the same thing, and from my own father," he managed. He fell backwards in exhaustion, wishing that his tunics and breeches had not drunk so greedily from the river. Now he would have to sleep in damp clothes under the sole protection of his cloak and a blanket. It was nothing that he had not done before, but neither was it a hardship he relished.

Getting onto her hands and knees, Myrhil crawled about, collecting her sling and the dead duck. "If Mother doesn't get the meat soon, she may feed us only the vegetables out of spite." She made her way back to him where he still lay in a sodden pool. "Come," she said, prodding his arm, "give me your hand."

Boromir waved her away. "I will get to my own feet without any assistance," he said. "I will not be like Mardenil."

"Who is Mardenil?" Myrhil asked, standing up and wiping the water from her face with the back of her hand. As she did so, she jammed a finger in her bruised eye and bit back a curse. She looked forward to finally lying down for the night and in the stupor of sleep sparing her body from these purely accidental collisions.

"Mardenil was a man from long ago," he began, rolling onto his side and pushing himself to his feet. "It is said that he lived in the time of Door's stewardship, but others say he roamed the taverns when the first Denethor held office and Mordor captured Osgiliath. It matters not when he lived, for he took part in no battles and only slew bottles from gripping their necks too tightly."

Myrhil laughed at that. "I think I shall regret having to leave such an interesting city!"

"I am certain that Edoras has its own Mardenil," Boromir told her. "If so, I want to hear about him. But as for our own, he was merely a hopeless drunk known to all the city, forever drinking himself into complete forgetfulness and collapsing wherever the darkness took him." Boromir ran his fingers through his dark hair and wrung out some more river water, flinching a bit as some drops slid down his back.

"So people would have to pick him up?" Myrhil pressed.

Boromir grinned, enjoying the opportunity to pass along this story to another. It was one of his favorites, one of the first he had heard in the soldiers' barracks. "He was immensely fat, and he would usually fall onto his back. Stranded like a turtle, he was. He would have to lay there until someone was kind enough to take his hand and pull him to his feet."

She laughed. "That cannot be true!"

"Who is to say?" he shrugged off-handedly. "It is a legend in the taverns of Minas Tirith. Ambitious drinkers try to consume as much ale as Mardenil supposedly did, though the amount of his intake increases year by year with each telling of his story to gullible travelers."

"That I believe," she replied with a crooked smile, walking towards the stand of trees. "What happened to him?"

"There are many different endings to it. Some say he lay in the gutter until he choked in a rainstorm. No one wished to help him, so he perished. Others say he overcame his girth and staggered off to drink himself senseless once more. Again, who is to say?"

Myrhil shook her head in disbelief. "There are many things my father did not tell me," she said, "and I shall never know why." She tucked her sling in the waist of her breeches and retrieved their swords and her cloak, throwing it around her shoulders. She winced as her wound bade her be gentle. Boromir took the duck and together they retraced their steps back towards the camp.

Silence fell between them. As they walked, Myrhil ventured several covert glances at her companion. The light had completely vanished and clouds were settling in the sky, blocking the light of the stars, so she saw nothing except a darker shadow in the blackness beside her but his presence radiated comfort and security.

She knew from where these feelings came. Throughout her late childhood, she had heard her father speak of his commander in intimidating and fantastic terms: Boromir had killed seven orcs while one of his arms was broken and a bolt from an orc's bow jutted out of one thigh. Boromir had marched three days in the rain with his men to one of the last remaining outposts in South Ithilien to rescue the men stranded there. Boromir never flinched when duty called him to protect his city or his men. Exploits such as these had assured the young and valiant warrior would receive a captaincy not simply because of birth, but also through martial ability. His men did not feel duty-bound to follow him into battle; they followed because they did not trust their lives to anyone else. If they should die under his command, it was only because the odds were too great for anyone to withstand. Even a defeat could not tarnish their commander's valor and bravery.

Intimidating tales, yes. To a child listening wide-eyed at the feet of a weathered old man like her father, himself so knowing and experienced, such praise of another seemed like descriptions of one of the gods. The childhood stories lost their magical aura as she and Larhend had grown older, the lustre of the hero dimming, for only children believed that gods walked upon the land with mortals. Still, the grains of truth that exist in all exaggerations remained, and though epic grandeur made way for a more realistic tone, the strong simplicity she had seen and felt over the past few days was no less inspiring.

That was it, she thought. Simplicity. The Captain of Gondor wore his greatness with the ease of one wearing an old cloak. His confidence and mastery with a sword seemed no less obtrusive on him than her own skill with a sling or anvil and hammer. His bearing inspired awe, but did not demand it out of a need for praise. She had not seen him in battle that night at the foot of the mountains, being immersed in her own fight, but she knew enough. She was ready to swear her loyalty to him. He was her future ruler, a King without the title, and she felt that whatever Mordor could conjure to destroy her country, it would not win without suffering regretful losses.

"You have skill with a sword?"

Myrhil was yanked from her silent ponderings to this sudden question asked in a soft, interested voice. "Some," she replied. "Father said I showed promise. I have been practicing for years with him and Cirien."

"He said as much that night and I wanted to have you demonstrate for me. When I believed that you were remaining behind, I regretted that your wound prevents you from using your arms as you should in battle, for I would have instructed you a little to further defend yourself." He drew his sword from its scabbard. "It is safe to assume that skill in arms is now a necessity no matter where one lives in Gondor." He pronounced this with a mixture of sadness that such a thing had come to pass. "Now that you will be near Mordor, I would have you increase your skills. Since one arm is wounded, we shall practice using the other as soon as you feel able."

"But I will only be in Minas Tirith for a short time," Myrhil pointed out. "Afterwards, I shall be as distant from Mordor as I have ever known anyone to be."

"Have you not heard of the troubles in the West?" he asked, somewhat surprised.

Myrhil shook her head, but since he could not see her, he took her silence for a negative and continued. "I have not been to Rohan for many a year, but our scouts and diplomats travel the West Road quite frequently and they have returned with reports of troubles filtering through the Gap of Rohan. I fear it might be the trickle before the flood, but since we are pressed upon the East and the West has so far not seemed troublesome, there is no urgent need to turn in that direction. Yet we may find ourselves set upon by both sides." He gave a frustrated growl. "Rumors and reports, no doubt elaborated upon by fear or ignorance by politicians! They are worthless in important matters."

Myrhil sensed he had no use for that breed of Man and smiled. "My father never had a good word to say about them. He trusted a sword many times over a sly tongue." She swallowed and added, "Perhaps that is why he disliked Belaród from the start. He never trusted anyone whose skill lay not in a blade."

Silence resumed between them when Myrhil said no more and Boromir thought it wise not to venture any words on the subject of the dead herdsman. He trusted Gorhend's judgment on the worth, or lack thereof, of the young man now sleeping in the earth, but he could not be unsympathetic to the loss Myrhil obviously felt. Affection could be misplaced and he knew that as well as the next person, but even after such follies were realized, it made the hurt no less. All that could be done was mourn and remember, then press onwards -- certainly a little sadder, but also usually wiser and stronger.

He believed Myrhil was on that path now, and thus showed the same qualities that her father had possessed. He regretted that events had taken such a turn, for he felt that Myrhil could have been a worthy heir to her father if everything had not been thrust upon her so suddenly. The girl had been overwhelmed and in this state, she had taken flight in her fear and confusion. He would not judge the wisdom of her move for only time would tell. It matters not, he told himself. Both will travel to Rohan and their lives shall be their own to live as they see fit.

They soon reached the camp and found Laenilas crouched next to a pot, stirring the contents with a heavy wooden spoon. "Well?" she asked, not looking up.

Boromir produced the dead duck and Laenilas took it with a satisfied sigh. Just as she turned for her knife to gut it, she noticed silvery drops falling from the hair of the returning hunters and the darkened fabric of their clothes. "Did you wait underwater to grab it as it swam by?" she demanded.

"We jumped before thinking," Myrhil offered as an excuse.

"Take off what you can until modesty grips you," Laenilas continued briskly. "The fire is hot and will have them dry within hours."

She turned and laid the duck on a large rock near the fire, knife glinting in the light. As she set about slicing the fowl open, discarding the guts and otherwise readying it for the pot, Boromir turned to Myrhil, wondering if she would follow her mother's orders. He had taken it upon himself to deliver them safely to Minas Tirith, but he would not share their company half-naked!

Myrhil stared at him, her mouth open in mild astonishment. "I'll not," she whispered, shaking her head.

"You will," Laenilas said, decapitating the duck. "I'll not lose you to the fever because you refused to have the good sense to dry your wet clothes."

Glaring at her mother, Myrhil walked over to her pack and untied the blanket roll. Before she left the circle of light that surrounded the fire and retreated behind the curtain darkness provided, Boromir saw that the girl's withering expression had been replaced by one of grim and resigned amusement.

She has become used to this woman, Boromir thought. As for myself, I have not and never shall. Falling back to his own gear, he removed his outer tunic and boots but progressed no further.

An orc, he thought. Give me an orc any day.

A large part of Boromir regretted that he had let his discomfort with the bristly Laenilas get the better of him. His sleep was restless and, in the middle of the night, he woke up to find most of his blanket damp from the water absorbed by his clothes. With a curse, he thrashed his way out of its confines and grabbed the remainder of the gathered kindling. Tossing it onto the dying embers, he fanned the fire to life again and brought the blanket closer to the growing blaze. He lay down upon the coarse wool and inched forward until the heat nearly blistered his skin. By the Valar, his breeches would be dry as a bone come morning. He would not close tomorrow's travel with a rash from the constant chafing of wet leather.

So it was with improved spirits and dry breeches that Boromir greeted the morning, the nascent dawn peeking timidly from behind the distant hills to the east through the omnipresent haze of ash and smoke. He brought a hand to his eyes and tried to rub all vestiges of sleep from them.

Myrhil and Laenilas were also stirring, though the girl's only movement was to roll onto her other side, her blanket wrapped as tightly around her as a caterpillar's cocoon. The river had amplified the chill of the night and it was only Boromir's proximity to the fire that had made his body unaware of it. Myrhil, furthest from the fire, had sought to contain all of her warmth by curling into a ball. He presumed she had been in that position for some time because when she rolled over and ventured to stretch one leg, she gave a tired grunt as stiff muscles protested.

Although she was not the first to waken, Laenilas was already on her feet and surveying the waning fire. She shivered a bit at the morning dampness and pulled her cloak about her. "Where is the kindling?" she asked.

Boromir explained how the rest of it came to be used and she nodded, although she did not hesitate to add, "You would have been safe if you had shed your breeches, my lord." Without pausing for a reply, she hastened to the fire and removed Myrhil's breeches and shirt from the sticks that had been driven into the ground next to the fire, creating a crude rack. With the bundle of clothes, she walked over to her daughter and gently nudged the girl's backside with a booted foot.

Realizing that he would need to distance himself while Myrhil dressed, he got to his feet and quickly rolled his blanket and tied it to the back of his saddle and buckled his sword belt around his waist. With a quick word to Laenilas that he would search for more wood for the breakfast fire, he turned and retraced his steps with Myrhil the night before. The tree that they had hid under would provide some suitable wood for no doubt it had shed a branch or two over the years. The encroaching darkness the previous night had made it impossible to know for certain, but he did not mind the walk. It would help him wake more fully.

Their path through the tender grass was easy to see and his uneasiness, already piqued by their vulnerable position and small number in the lonesome expanse of the plains, increased as he imagined a roving band of orcs happening across it and following the scent up to the very door of their camp. Noses to the ground like the beasts they are, he thought grimly, snorting and grunting with delight at a fresh meal and a warm draught of blood.

He shuddered. He had fought them for more years than he cared to number but the battle in the shadows of the mountains had affected him in a way he had never known. Always he had been with his trained men, whether many or few, but never against such odds as he had faced scarce nights ago. Two old men, a callow youth and a girl had been his only allies in the struggle, fighting against orcs who were skilled and crafty enough to slip past Minas Tirith and the bulwarks of men to the north and south of the city, commanded to divert such enemy activity. Yet every member of this unexpected band could claim at least one kill and most had dispatched three or more. If his childhood tutor had posed such a situation to him, asking if the odds could be overcome, Boromir knew that even his youthful optimism would have been strained to make an affirmative answer sound confident. And such optimism would have undoubtedly earned him a derisive snort from the pedagogue.

But it was possible. Even with dismal odds, victory was possible. It filled his heart and gave him hope. Expand that small skirmish to battlefield proportions and there was nothing to say that success would be denied. The hardened warrior inside him warned that such wishful hopes would prove unreliable, that this odd success was nothing more than luck -- and in the recent past luck had never lingered long in Gondor's favor. Despite this dark and drear voice of doom that spoke with sense and experience, Boromir would not let it grip him completely. He had seen it. He had seen the scattered bodies of orcs, their lives extinguished by two weathered old men feeling the pains of age, by a boy who had relied on his wit and handsome features for advancement, and by a girl who possessed only her brother's sword and the strength that fear can produce.

The tree leaning over the river swayed in greeting as he drew near and he saw that the grassy banks and soft, churning river were as peaceful in the daylight as it had been the previous night. Even during the tense wait with Myrhil to hunt for their supper, it had been a welcome respite from the hard day's ride and the constant weight on his mind of what threatened the city during his absence.

He had no doubts that Faramir was fulfilling his duties as acting Captain with a willing heart and able hand. Although his younger brother's skills lay more in study than arms, in subtle maneuvers than straightforward battle, Boromir held higher faith in only their father. It was not simply brotherly affection that made him so trusting. He sensed a steely resolve beneath that studious exterior, a feeling that would never have occurred to him a scant ten years ago when Faramir celebrated his sixteenth birthday and turned green at the thought of confronting a battle-hardened trollop who had handled her share of swords. Even less impressive was when Faramir had first picked up a real sword, ten years before that. His little brother's eyes had been impossibly wide as he stared at it with the horror of one holding onto a serpent and too stricken to let go.

Yet since then, he had become a worthy soldier and a source of pride for his brother when swords proved to be only slightly more of an obstacle than books had been. Faramir was indeed a boy who was adept at whatever he set his mind to, and Boromir refused to feel jealous at his own shortcomings in that regard. When Faramir was struggling through arms training, Denethor had often tried to prod his youngest son to greater heights through coarse berating and indifferent praise. While Boromir had been initiated into their father's particular brand of encouragement during his own training and did not find it a hindrance to improvement, it had had the opposite effect with the fledgling Faramir. But, like most problems that Faramir encountered, he emerged from them stronger and smarter.

He remembered a day when the lad, barely a month into his training, had parried with a swinging arm contraption operated by a squire. Boromir had looked on, shouting the moves that needed to be made. "Parry, brother! Now, lunge! Attack from underneath!" he cried. They were in a small courtyard in the center of the King's House and the sounds of battle had summoned their father onto the balcony that adjoined his study. For several minutes, Denethor had watched his youngest try to best the wobbly wooden adversary. Boromir could not remember why Faramir failed to block the arm's movements as well as he could have, but it did not matter for whatever reason caused the lack of skill was enough to prompt Denethor to shout taunts down to his son for his clumsiness and ineptitude.

He still remembered the embarrassment he had felt for his brother, as though he himself had been dismissed as an incompetent. Ever since their mother's death, they felt each other's pain as though it were their own. That day he felt as wounded as Faramir, but he did not leap to his brother's defense. Commiseration always waited until they were alone, for he knew that such a display of softness in front of their father would earn him a rebuke as well. As much as he loved his brother, he always sought to please the Steward. His father was strong and the Steward of Gondor, to be successful and preserve beloved city and country alike, had to possess that trait in plenty. When he assumed the leadership of his people, he would need to have their trust and faith. A weak and soft man would receive neither.

He shook his head in dismissal of those hurtful memories. Perhaps it was no mystery why he had preferred Gorhend's gruff, yet affectionate, praise to the sharp demands of his own father. The aging soldier had treated his brother well, too. Although Gorhend had looked upon Faramir's love of books with a skeptical eye, and his fascination with the roaming wizard Mithrandir with uneasy superstition, he was patient with the lad and wanted to turn Faramir into as skilled a warrior as the boy's gifts would allow. After many months under Gorhend's eye and guidance, Faramir had exhibited no mean skill with a sword and a keen talent for the bow and arrow, his confidence blossoming under a very different type of encouragement. Denethor's seeming inability to be completely pleased never failed to dismay the young man, but the hurt gradually became less acute, for praise did come from his father's lips, though perhaps not in plenty. As the years passed, Faramir became comfortable as a leader of men and showed patience and courage when in command. Yes, he thought, my soldiers are indeed in capable hands.

Another breeze swept along the course of the river, bringing the cleansing smell of the water to his nostrils. He breathed deeply, savoring the unsullied fragrance. He loved his city, but it stank of ceaseless habitation and the refuse that came with thousands of people cramped together in quarrelsome close quarters. There were edicts and laws in place to ensure that the citizens would not become mired in their own ordure, but with the stream of refugees trickling through the outer gates, seeking a haven from the perils that gripped the countryside, it was impossible to force obedience from everyone. The Steward's House, situated as it was on the highest tier next to the White Tower, was rarely subjected to the churning aromas from down below in the lower circles. That is, unless an unfavorable wind carried it swiftly upwards, in which case the delicate members of the court would produce sachets of herbs and flowers to ward off the unwelcome odors.

Boromir often spent his time in Minas Tirith among the soldiers in their barracks, located far from the seat of power and in the thick of the raw stench. Despite the smell, he preferred it that way. He was at greater comfort among his men than the conniving and tedious courtiers who spent their days amusing themselves with gossip and the latest fashions. In that respect, it was impossible to tell the difference between the men and the women. He had no time for such nonsense. Most of those idiots would not be able to tell one end of a map of Gondor from the other. Or so he liked to tell his men, causing a hearty roar of laughter to roll along the barracks. On more than one occasion, a soldier would reply that it would be a good day for Gondor when a group of the most worthless court dwellers held a map upside down and advanced straight into the heart of Mordor. Another roll of laughter would always shake the worn timbers of the soldiers' lodgings.

Boromir chuckled to himself as he slipped under the overhanging branches and scanned the ground for dead wood to take back to the camp. He gathered a few choice pieces and broadened his search, all the while letting his mind take a path of its own although his senses remained alert. They would need to be for the remainder of the journey. Every step brought them closer to home. . .and Mordor.

Myrhil did not approach stealthily, but Boromir saw her before he heard her steps. Her cloak was slightly askew on her shoulders and she walked with the uneven and noticeable stagger of the newly woken. At least she has her sword on, he thought. She is somewhat vigilant.

The sun continued to steadily rise from over the mountains and the light that bathed the plains became more intense. Her eyes screwing shut at the painful glare, she flinched and turned her head away, holding up one edge of her cloak to shield herself from it. Her head still averted, she blinked rapidly and shook her head to rid herself of the nocturnal cobwebs that still clung to her mind. If the purpose of walking was to force her to fully waken, it was apparently failing.

"Good morning," Boromir said as she drew near.

Myrhil dropped her cloak and gently rubbed at her bruised eye. "Is it?" she asked. "I am frozen."

"Then I assume that you are not agreeable to a bit of sword practice?" Boromir asked, tucking a bundle of kindling in one arm. "You came equipped for it."

"So I did. I refuse to leave this sword untended. It is too precious for that."

Boromir grinned. "You have a healthy love for weaponry, Myrhil. It speaks well of you."

A loud and raucous yawn escaped Myrhil's mouth before she could stifle it. "I would indulge in some practice, my lord," she said, stretching stiffly, "if I were sure that I would not hack off an arm in my exhaustion."

"I am certain that I would be able to protect myself," he said dryly.

"Your arm?" she replied. "I was talking about mine."

Boromir laughed. "I nearly regret that you will not be staying in Minas Tirith for any length. I should like to set you adrift in the court and watch the results. There are few there with your refreshing country manners." Indeed, he thought, there would be no small measure of amusement to gain from watching her beside the very sophisticated women who littered the court like so many useless items of frippery on a gaudy dress.

Myrhil looked eastward, still squinting in defense but able to look at the sun without great pain. "It will be Mother's decision, the length of our stay in any place," she said. "Though paths may branch. They almost did back home, except that I took the cowardly route and followed her instead of walking a road by myself."

"Not cowardly," Boromir pointed out, although that exact thought had occurred to him the night before. "There is always a reason why things are as they are." With an inward smile, he recalled that he had often spoken the same words to Faramir as children when his brother demanded to know why certain duties were required of him, before the concept of those duties and of hereditary calling made sense to his young mind.

"That is not helpful," Myrhil replied unhappily, still staring at the distant mountains. "For good or ill, I do not know where this path will lead." She turned to him. "I was foolish not to stay behind. This path is completely unknown. At least if I had stayed I would have had Cirien beside me."

Boromir felt it necessary to be blunt. "Myrhil," he began, "I dislike doubt and uncertainty. It is not good for the mind to spend precious time and energy wondering about what might happen for every course of action, even when the decision has been made and the time to change it is past. Do you know what results from weakness and doubt?"

His tone had become so forceful that Myrhil could not help but listen raptly. When he commanded attention, he received it. "Tell me," she said.

"Chaos and madness. Unless one decision is made and accepted fully, then nothing that comes after it can stand on firm ground. Decide and proceed. Take the consequences in stride and mend mistakes as they come by deciding anew. Do not look back, and do not torment yourself with paths not taken." He searched her expression and saw that he had her ears. Faramir's innate desire for knowledge could not have rivaled her avid gaze. "I speak as a captain and I learned this from my father," he continued. "He has not survived so long and ruled a kingdom by pondering all courses and taking none, or by wailing about lost opportunities."

"My mother has been telling me the same thing," she said, "but. . ." She walked past him and picked up a small limb that was covered with dry lichen and swung it absently at the grass around her feet.

Boromir turned and spoke to her back. "But what?" he pressed. "'Tis sound advice and I would never accuse your mother of lacking sense. Why have you not listened?"

"It makes sense when you say it," she replied, poking the end of the stick into the soft earth. "Hearing it from you, it seems like the only way to think, the only right way to act." She looked up at him and smiled apologetically. "Forgive me if I act like a child worshipping some hero out of the old tales," she said. "You see, Father's stories were very kind to you, almost as though he spoke of Elendil or Eorl himself."

Boromir shifted the kindling onto his other hip and cleared his throat in discomfort. "Myrhil, I am not. . ."

"I know that," she added hastily. "Yet it always took great effort to remember that you were actually alive, not some untouchable legend of the past. You coming to see Father helped dispel the magic somewhat. As we got older, Larhend and I realized that you most likely ate food like the rest of us instead of having orcs for breakfast, dinner and supper."

Boromir's eyes widened slightly. "Just what did your Father say about me?" he choked. "Eating. . .orcs?" He did not know whether to laugh or question the sanity of the old man.

Myrhil smiled again. "That is how fathers entertain their children to keep them out from underfoot. Fill their heads with fanciful imaginings so they run off to fight dragons, trolls and orcs and let their elders have some peace. Your father and mother must have done thus to you and your brother. You will no doubt do the same with your children someday."

She turned and picked up another limb that Boromir had missed, tentatively swinging it with her right arm. Her teeth gritted in anticipation of pain, but she was relieved when the twinges and throbs were even less than they had been upon waking that morning. No sharp pains bothered her now, but the itching that nagged at her stitches begged her fingers to dig into the flesh.

"I cannot wait to put more of Mother's salve on this wound," she growled in frustration. "It is driving me insane. Have we finished? Do you have enough wood?"

Boromir nodded. "I think so."

She drew up beside him, holding her two pieces of wood in front of her like swords. Together they retraced their steps once more. The path was fast becoming an enjoyable one to walk.

"Before we leave our camp, can you show me some defensive moves?" she asked, eyes fixed on the limbs and absently whacking them against each other. "Father said that I always attacked and never gave thought that I would have to protect myself on occasion."

"Certainly," Boromir replied, smiling to himself, gaze cast to the ground. He had received the same criticism when he was a young man.

"I will be attentive," she promised. "Your lesson shall not be wasted and I will practice it long after we part."

"I would not expect less from you." He glanced over at her and saw that she was still contemplating her wooden swords. "Myrhil?"

"Hmm?"

"Tell me one of your Father's stories, will you?"

The journey continued, but slower this time, as the effects of the previous day's relentless pace settled in and fatigue took hold of the travelers. Laenilas, long absent from the rigors of the saddle, insisted that instead of matching yesterday's distance, they decrease it by half, if possible. Boromir was tempted to argue and declare that they must press ahead with all speed as the region they now entered was among the most perilous, but upon seeing the woman's weary posture on the back of her mount, he agreed to a shorter day's progress.

"Pelargir is too near to stop for the day," he said an hour after they had left camp. "We may find a tavern or inn on the South Road."

Myrhil eagerly looked forward to seeing the city of Pelargir again. She had not been there in nearly five months and she always enjoyed the purposeful bustle that surged through the streets. Carts and tents were erected in the marketplace with vendors hawking their wares, arguing with customers over prices and keeping a watchful eye on roving bands of urchin thieves who could snatch an apple or tart with the speed of lightning and disappear as fleet as the wind. The overwhelming presence of so many people always made Myrhil somewhat breathless. Living on the sparsely populated plains, where animals outnumbered people, the sight of thousands struck her dumb.

So her reaction was no different when they entered the city at midday. The vendors were in their usual places, the grubby children raced among the laborers and carters with edible loot in hand, and the taverns belched staggering drunks out through their doors with regularity.

After absorbing the sights mutely, Myrhil, riding alongside Boromir, shook her head in amazement. "Sometimes I wonder if so many people can actually exist!"

"Then be prepared for a change of mind if you think Pelargir is large," Boromir told her, amused. "Minas Tirith is certain to leave you speechless. It is constructed in such a way that no man or woman will ever forget his or her first sight of it."

"Father often described the path one had to take to get to the citadel," she said, drawing a zigzag line in the air with her finger. "He said it was frightfully inconvenient if he had to get to the citadel quickly."

"Aye, it is that," Boromir agreed, "but it is one of the best defenses the city has against invasion. Only magic would allow an enemy army to reach the highest circle unscathed. All the while, as they wended their way to the top, they would be set upon and decimated from all sides. No, the only routes an army can take to seize the city is to pluck it out of the sky, or puncture each and every wall to make a direct ascent."

"And every solider knows that to attack from below is suicide," Myrhil said.

"Every soldier, and a soldier's children, it seems. That is, if they have paid heed to their father's stories."

"I have, that."

They paused on the outskirts of the marketplace and while Boromir and Myrhil hitched their horses at the public trough, Laenilas advanced into the marketplace, purse in hand and a determined expression on her face to not pay one coin more than was proper for a small basket of victuals.

Myrhil watched her disappear into the gathering of stalls and stands and laughed softly. "She will return only a few coins poorer and bearing enough food for several hearty meals. Mark me on that."

"I'll not gainsay you," Boromir replied. "I do not think your mother incapable of anything. I have learned that much since I arrived." He grinned. "Notice how even the coins in her purse do not jingle merrily, but reluctantly, as though they do not wish to be parted from one other."

"You certainly have learned much," she agreed with a rueful shake of the head at her mother's back. "When I came here with Father or Cirien, we would always go to a tavern nearby. Maybe you have been there yourself. Desolation of the Drunkard? An odd name, I know, but the ale is excellent."

"You can vouch for it?"

"Many times over. You will not find better in the region."

"I would be foolish to let this opportunity pass," he said. "How near is it?"

Myrhil looked around, then pointed down a street to their left. "That way. See the sign? A man sitting among empty mugs?"

"Come," he said. "It will take not a minute and your mother, I am certain, will not panic at our absence." He turned to the young lad who attended the public trough and gave him two copper coins. "When a. . .determined- looking woman returns and asks our whereabouts, tell her that we will return shortly. Understood?" The boy nodded and took the money with a grin.

Boromir and Myrhil headed down the street, weaving their way between townspeople and foreigners chatting and doing business. The houses around them hung over the street, making it much dimmer than the open area of the marketplace. "Father said never to stray in that direction," she said, pointing further down the street, an increasingly darker tunnel created by the claustrophobic overreaching slant of shabby buildings. "He said it was a rotten limb that needed to be cut off, but this tavern has not been sickened by it. One look at the keeper, Othil, and even the blackest murderer would turn and run with his tail between his legs, yet he keeps his tavern smelling as fresh as a rose garden."

"Sounds charming," Boromir said dryly as they stopped in front of the chipped and worn walls of the Desolation of the Drunkard. To the side of the door was a pane window so dingy that only if one got close to it could anything be seen on either side. The sign creaked above their heads, but that was as soft as a spring rain compared to the savage squeal that burst from the hinges as Myrhil pushed the heavy plank door inwards.

Myrhil had advanced surely, as though entering her own home, but after several steps she halted, causing Boromir to bump into her from behind. She looked to either side of her and lastly towards the counter in the back of the room where kegs of ale were stacked and tended by an aproned figure. She continued, but her steps were noticeably cautious.

Boromir put a hand on Myrhil's shoulder and stopped her again. "A rose garden?" he hissed into her ear. "It is as foul as an orc's armpit."

Indeed, Myrhil had noted the acrid odor that drenched the air. It smelled of spilled ale, the odor of unwashed drinkers, and an indifferently kept kitchen. She remembered the mouth-watering potatoes and sausages that Othil's kitchen maids would cook by the barrowful, but the sickly aroma that wafted through the kitchen doors now turned her stomach. She surveyed the room. She could detect no familiar faces. Every time she had come here with Cirien or her father, the tavern seemed to be inhabited by a permanent group of regulars.

Nor was the man behind the bar familiar. Othil's enormous figure, with head permanently cocked to the side to avoid hitting his head on the rough- hewn beams, was nowhere to be seen. The fine kegs of ale that he had always stocked were still there. The mark of the brewer was the same, the fancy spigots that matched the class of ale tapped firmly into the kegs as they always had been when Othil stood behind the bar. Also still unchanged were the shelves of tankards of every form and substance, wood and metal, lined up behind the bar. But for all this, the differences were more noticeable. The cheerful banter and sodden roar about the room were gone. Questions hung in the air that demanded to be answered.

Their presence had been noticed by the collection of motley drinkers and several had turned on their benches to study the new arrivals. Boromir's soldierly garments, as well as the weapons that both he and Myrhil wore, garnered no small interest. Boromir noted that the knife he wore at his belt, its well-crafted hilt visible, was now the object of many calculating looks. He was not uninitiated in tavern fights, but he had no wish to become embroiled in one while a prudent exit still remained. When he felt Myrhil lurch forward, as though to make for the bar, he took hold of the hood on her cloak and dragged her back to him.

She was about to protest when the man behind the bar yelled, "Are you staying or going? Will you drink or simply look at it?"

"Where is--?" Myrhil began, but she was silenced by Boromir when he tugged once more on her hood and spoke over her shoulder to the inquisitive barkeep.

"We will not bother you further," he said. "The young lady got confused and came to the wrong tavern." He laughed and, with a hand on Myrhil's back, turned her towards the way they came. He practically shoved her out through the door and continued his insistent pace until they were well away from the tavern.

"What were you doing?" she demanded. "I wished to ask them where Othil was."

"He was obviously not there. And those who were looked like they would have fed you lies until you were suitably engrossed so that you would not even see the club coming down on your head. I assume the place has changed much since you were there last."

"Yes," she replied thoughtfully, her eyes trained on the heavy door across the street. "It looked like a den of thieves."

"Which it most likely is. Come." He took her arm. "We shall have to either find a more hospitable place or do without." They were about to walk back towards the plaza when a surprised voice called out, "Girl! You, with the soldier! How is your father?"

Myrhil twisted herself out of Boromir's grip, eyes searching the crowd for the bearer of the voice. "Sir?" she responded. "Where are you?"

A slight figure emerged from the swarm of people standing or milling about on the fringe of the plaza. He looked to be about fifty years old, with long and straggled curls that brushed his shoulders. He was dressed in the garments of a common laborer and his honest and open face was alight with recognition as he made his way to her.

"I never knew your name," he said upon reaching her, "but I remember your face distinctly. You came here many times with your father, Gorhend, or his chief herdsman. Am I right?"

"You are," she replied uncertainly. Then her face relaxed into a smile. "Ah, I recall you now! You and Othil once tried to convince my father to go into the brewery business."

"An argument that was not strong enough to bring down the walls of your father's stubbornness." He shook his head sadly. "'Tis a pity, because the added competition in this city would have lowered the price agreeably." He shrugged his shoulders. "There will be other ambitious men to cajole. How is Gorhend?"

Myrhil recounted her father's death and her mother's decision to journey to Rohan, the land of her ancestors. He listened avidly and with an expression of sadness etched on his features. "My condolences, child," he murmured. "This is troubling news. It seems that odd things have become the order of the day."

"Odd? How do you mean?" Boromir asked, interested.

"Orcs coming so far west. And Othil--"

"What of Othil?" Myrhil demanded. "We did not see him in there."

The man's eyes widened in surprise. "You went inside?" He lowered his voice, though he need not have done so. The clamor in the plaza would have prevented anyone from overhearing. "A frightening place, is it not? Nothing at all like when Othil was there."

"What happened to him?" Myrhil pressed. "As soon as I stepped through the door, everything seemed wrong."

"Aye. 'Tis one of those odd things that happen every so often, and it seems like it should not matter a whit, but the feeling one gets from it says that it does. Othil left here about three months ago, I believe."

"He sold his tavern?" Myrhil asked, incredulous. "He loved it more than he did his own life."

Her informer lowered his voice even more. "Some say that is exactly what he had to pay in order for others to lay their hands on it."

Myrhil was struck dumb. She only stared at the man mutely until she fumbled for her voice. "Killed?" The thought of the enormous Othil bested by anyone seemed impossible to believe.

"I went in one day and he was not there. There one day, gone the next. Very strange. I was wary as soon as I saw someone else behind the bar. A ruffian of the sort you see skulking about in alley shadows. Was he the one you saw just now?"

"I did not take note of what he looked like," she replied. "But he did not sound friendly. Nothing about it seemed welcoming anymore."

"Aye, that was the feeling I had. I managed to choke down a mug, all the while keeping a hand on my purse. There were other regulars, but they seemed as ill-at-ease as I. I even left the dregs in the tankard instead of draining them like I usually do. I wanted to leave quickly." He shuddered at the remembrance. "I am certain that some of the hopeless drunkards from Othil's time still stagger in, for their money would be welcome. For the most part, from what I have heard others say who have since stopped drinking there, the place has become the domain of a most horrible pack of villains."

"Do they threaten anyone in the city?" Boromir asked. "Extortion? Assassinations?"

"Perhaps a bit of the first, but not professional killing. At least, not that I am aware of. They seem content to simply sit and watch others. Wolves eyeing the sheep, is what it is."

Boromir absorbed his words and pondered them silently. Myrhil bowed to the old laborer and smiled wanly. "I thank you for your information," she said, "though it is very grim."

He returned her bow. "I regret it. It has been a shock to many others. There are some who say that they saw Othil leave the city, so there is hope that he lives. Perhaps they offered him a price he could not ignore."

"Yes, I hope you are right." Myrhil's words were hopeful, but her voice was not.

The man begged leave and Myrhil waved farewell as he disappeared into the crowd. She turned to Boromir. "Come, we should leave. Mother is waiting for us, no doubt." They turned and headed towards the place where they had left their horses. Neither of them noticed the avid gaze behind the dingy pane that followed them until they were out of sight.

"Did what he say trouble you?" Myrhil asked when, after having walked nearly all the way to their horses, Boromir still had not spoken.

Boromir nodded. "There are many things occurring in our lands, almost too many to control. As though every bad element is taking advantage of our city's distraction by the threat that Mordor poses to further their own petty advancement. 'Tis impossible to crush all of them."

"What will you do about Othil's tavern?"

Boromir was thoughtful. "That is for my father to decide. I shall report what I have learned, but the decision is his."

"What would you do, were you Steward?" she asked boldly.

"I have never much liked petty thieves," he said, smiling wickedly. "They could expect a group of armed men banging on the front door." He sobered. "But I am thinking with a young soldier's mind. When the Stewardship is upon me, I may perhaps think differently. The world will be a stranger place through that certain glass. My father has hinted at such a transformation on more than one occasion." He looked down at the signet ring on his hand, a piece of jewelry Myrhil had never noticed before. It was wrought of silver and the setting was of a flat and polished black stone that bore an intricate engraving of The White Tree, the same emblem he wore on his tunic, only this time instead of wreathed with stars, the branches were entwined around a sword. The detail was so precise, an amazing feat for so small a thing.

"I shall have to relinquish this ring when I become Steward," he said, voice low. Myrhil strained to hear him. He seemed to be talking to himself, rather than to her. "It will then become Faramir's. My father's ring will then be upon this finger. And with it, the weight of Gondor's welfare, the very life of our country. A much heavier ring." He stared intently at the ring he must surrender, as though in reproach. "One that promises nothing but hardship."

Myrhil watched silently as Boromir lifted his gaze from the ring and turned to watch the people drifting or hurrying around them. She could not discern what he was thinking or feeling. His face was impassive.

They reached their horses just as Laenilas returned from the marketplace. Myrhil helped her mother stash the food in each saddle bag and made several surreptitious peeks into her pack, inhaling the heady aroma of small meat pies and fresh bread. She mounted her horse before the others, but waited for Boromir to lead them from the city.

The Captain of the Guard was still silent, and Laenilas sensed that he was deep in thought, not simply having nothing to say. She rode beside Myrhil long enough to ask what was wrong, but Myrhil simply shook her head. Laenilas fell behind her daughter, but kept her eyes on the soldier.

They passed through the town, single-file, wending their way through the streets and pedestrians, edging around plodding wagons and other travelers on horseback. They had not gone far when Boromir flung his cloak back over his shoulders under the brunt of the day's increasing heat. He received immediate attention by doing so and, should Myrhil have been beside him, she would have seen a smile gracing his features. The fine stitching on his tunic informed them of who was in their midst as plainly as it had Belaród. Bowed heads or hearty gestures of greeting came his way and he returned them with the same solemnity or warmth with which they had been delivered.

The thought of his father's ring, the sign of his office and all the duties that it entailed, required that he remember he had not begun that path yet. It would come in time. But for now, he was simply Gondor's Captain, not its Steward. The joys of being Captain were such as this, when he could be among his people, within their world. It was a luxury that he would have to relinquish once he inherited his birthright. His father rarely strayed beyond the outer reaches of Minas Tirith, and certainly not beyond the Erui River. Politics and the details of governing bound him to the White City, month after month. Minas Tirith, indeed the whole of Gondor itself, survived due to a strong hand, ever present and unswerving in its purpose. Such would be his life when he inherited. Faramir would become his Captain of the Guard while he remained in the Hall at the base of the Tower of Ecthelion, hearing petitions, appointing officers, pouring over maps and scrolls. The sights and sounds of his land would come in the form of dispatches and from the lips of messengers, his memories trying to flesh them out into something recognizable and alive.

At that moment, as the desire for freedom warred with inescapable duty, he regretted that he must return instead of continuing to roam.

By the end of the day, Minas Tirith was not in sight, much to Boromir's disappointment. Despite their continuing rapid pace, and the call of home urging him on barring his moment of reluctance, the White Tower was not even visible in the far distance. Neither did a convenient tavern or inn appear alongside the road when the day seemed to have dragged on interminably and all were ready for rest. Another night out under the stars it would have to be.

Boromir did not wish to repeat the events of the previous night, catching dinner in the dark and otherwise battling the setting sun to get all matters tended to. So, while the reddening sun still hovered over the hills with an expanse of sky in between, he told Laenilas of his decision.

She did not seem bothered at the prospect. "I have nothing against such accommodations," she told him. "I will have a bed beneath me tomorrow evening and afterwards, so the discomfort will not be unbearable." The endless plains had gradually given way to intermittent wooded regions and they were now passing through a stand of forest that the road divided. The shelter those trees afforded would suit her as well as the thatched or tiled roof of an inn, her blanket on a pile of boughs no worse, if not better, than a lumpy and vermin-infested mattress.

Dinner also needed little preparation. The midday meal had only seen a small portion of the food housed within their saddle bags devoured and there was enough that did not have to be cooked so Laenilas' pot remained packed on her saddle. While Boromir tended the horses and Laenilas gathered enough food for a light dinner, Myrhil collected some dry wood and started a small fire in the clearing they had chosen, about sixty paces distant from the road. The branches arched high above them and the ground was mainly dirt with some needles and leaves that made for excellent tinder. Within minutes, they were sitting around the fire, food in hand.

Laenilas seemed the most thoughtful. She watched her daughter and Boromir through half-lowered eyes so that her interest was not easily discerned. Not that they would have noticed her attention was focused on them. Their conversation had taken a martial turn, and though a soldier's widow, she took little interest in the intricacies of battles and arms training. The legends and stories recounted through the generations before her were plenty. Still, she was amused watching her daughter discuss such things as parries and charging attacks. Yet it was not what they debated that held her interest so. It was the sight of them side-by-side, engaged in discourse that alternated from good-natured scolding to harsh criticism, with Myrhil hotly defending her technique on some maneuvers and listening to advice on others in which she knew she lacked skill. On one particularly contested point, Myrhil turned her head and shook it in persistent refusal to accept his verdict on her deficiency. To regain her attention, Boromir did not raise his voice. Rather, he lowered it and continued to speak. Myrhil's curiosity gnawed at her and she turned once more toward him, ears pricked.

Laenilas fully lowered her eyes and smiled, wondering if he manipulated his soldiers in so deft a manner. She understood that Boromir was only trying to teach her daughter all that she could learn in the short time he would be able to give her instruction. When she left for Rohan, Myrhil would take that knowledge to a region where she would doubtlessly need it. Minas Tirith had thousands of defenders, nearby garrisons, regular patrols and a standing army. Rohan's forces, while no doubt formidable and organized, were largely an unknown quantity to the Captain of the Guard and Laenilas would not be surprised or insulted if he deemed them inferior to his own soldiery. She did not know herself how safe her ancestral lands were, but she told herself that it was of little consequence. Lebennin had, up until recently, seemed safe as well. She would no longer wager on anything being certain. What will happen will happen, she thought.

Isolated within their self-made military domain, Boromir and Myrhil continued their arguments. They sat together, sharing a remnant of a fallen tree that they had rolled towards the blaze, and passed a wineskin back and forth, making and defending points between swallows.

"I will say it again: you still leave yourself open too much, dangerously so," Boromir stated flatly, giving the skin to his pupil. "How did you manage to kill that orc? Was it simply luck?"

"No doubt that played a small part," Myrhil admitted. "Perhaps it was fear, but I do not wish to be terrified every time I find myself confronted by one of those beasts and rely on luck to see me through."

"And that is why you need to practice what I teach you." He bent down and took two strong limbs from the pile of kindling. "Here." He handed one to Myrhil. "Put that skin down, if you can bear to part from it."

Myrhil laughed. "It is the watered variety, as you well know. Do not make me out to be a drunkard."

Boromir gestured for her to stand up and they walked around to the other side of the fire. "We shall soon see how watered that wine is, if I can quickly defeat you with a stick rather than a sword." Raising her stick with the tip of his own, he struck the end of it to initiate the battle and began to deliver swift blows, taunting her to equal his swiftness and precision in her defensive moves.

She blocked several of his thrusts in rapid succession, but when she felt a few blows land on her upraised arm and side, she knew that she would soon lose this mock battle if she did not recover and parry. The light from the fire seemed to work with her opponent, flickering when she most needed a steady light to inflict an injury on him, yet bathing her in its glow so that he could find an opening with ease.

"Come, Myrhil, you can do better," he chided. "Faramir equaled you before he saw his fourteenth summer." The strokes of the stick continued unabated, as did his taunts.

Myrhil's response was to put every shred of her strength and attention into following the movements of his arm. Before he could deliver another blow and have it connect with her unguarded body, her stick blocked it. Her side, her shoulder, her neck, her head; all of them would have suffered injury if his attacks had not been repelled.

Their makeshift swords crossed and both put all their weight against the other. What began as part of the earnest contest to best one another descended into a half-hearted brawl with first Boromir shoving Myrhil, then Myrhil retaliating with the same. A kick to the shin, a stomp on the foot, and other childish tactics followed.

Boromir was unabashedly enjoying himself. The weight of responsibility that had pressed on him at the beginning of this journey was fast dissipating into something entirely different. Scant days ago, before they had departed from the bend of the Gilrain, the onus of leading his old friend's widow and only child across Gondor had been something that he would not have chosen to do under other circumstances, but felt obligated to carry out in this particular instance. An opinionated woman such as Laenilas and her daughter, country-educated and unworldly, would never occur to him as being desirable traveling companions.

Yet they were. Laenilas was admittedly still a trial to endure in some ways, her occasionally unleashed tongue and pointed comments, such as concerning the matter of his reticence to remove his breeches, lashing him in a manner most discomforting. But the woman was not altogether disagreeable and the journey would have been undoubtedly miserable if she had been so. In fact, he had noticed her becoming more subdued of late as they drew near to the White City and left her homeland further and further behind.

While Laenilas' change in mien was unexpected, the real surprise to Boromir lay with Myrhil. The woman had already seen twenty years come and go, but she did not possess the jaded air shared by some of the young women at the court nor exhibit the incessant prattling exhibited by others. Her seclusion in the country must explain it, he thought. Cynicism is not usually a crop on a farm, real work taking the place of idleness and bearing greater fruit than what boredom and mischief could yield. She was, by turns, gay or reserved, quiet or animated, childish or serious. Grim under her mother's needle, lying in grimy and blood-soaked clothes atop a table, she had also been pained at the simple sight of a room of empty pallets. Bent and crying over the dead body of her father, she had also crouched beside him under a tree and laughed over shared memories of childhood. Rather than simply remaining Gorhend's daughter, he had shared enough of her pleasure and pain so that she now had a name and, should she die, he would feel sorrow. Thus he would do all he could to give her the skills to prolong her life in whatever perilous circumstances she found herself. Skill in arms was more precious than gold, if one had a whit of sense.

Laenilas remained seated on an old stump that had most likely provided at least one other traveler with a welcome respite from the jouncing and swaying of the saddle or wagon. She silently watched Boromir and her daughter attack each other with sticks like children and laugh as their fight became a contest of kicks and shoves. How young they are, she thought, smiling to herself. Even while threatened to be engulfed by misery and worry, moments such as these are not out of reach.

A thought planted itself in the back of her mind about the frank and friendly ease they showed with one another and she tensed as other thoughts naturally followed. She did not wish to see Myrhil hurt yet again by a thoughtless wretch. Her hand, which had stayed itself, then wrenched the weed of thought from her mind. While thoughtless wretch was an apt description for some, it did not suit Boromir. She had no need to fear for her daughter's honor. As matters stood now, she was relieved to see Myrhil absorbed in something other than death or her imagined cowardice at fleeing responsibility.

The sword fight had ended and Myrhil leaped at her opponent, trying to grab his stick away from him. Boromir put a gentle restraining hand on her uninjured shoulder. "Enough for tonight," he said. "It is time to think about going to sleep. I will take watch, now that we are closer to Mordor."

"Do orcs travel this far regularly?" she asked, her voice betraying a slight nervousness.

"The Anduin usually keeps them from venturing this far west, with some exceptions. I had never before heard of them advancing as far as the Gilrain. I would not have believed it if my eyes had not seen it for themselves. We must be wary. I cannot risk being as lax as I was last night."

"I will take the watch after yours," she said. "You must sleep as well."

Boromir nodded and smiled gratefully. "I shall sleep light regardless," he said, "but thank you."

Myrhil took the stick from his hand, returning his smile, but said nothing.

Although it felt like scant minutes had passed since she disappeared under her blanket, Myrhil felt the unwelcome nudge of a heavy boot against her backside, signaling that it was her turn to stand guard. She fought the urge to tug her covering more tightly about her and ignore the insistent summons, but she reluctantly emerged from under her shroud. Staggering to her feet, she scrubbed at her eyes with one hand and shoved her blanket away with the other.

"It has been silent," Boromir told her, "and so very easy to be lulled to sleep. You must be alert." Judging that exhaustion was stubbornly clinging to her, he took her by the shoulders and shook her gently. "Come, Myrhil. I cannot stay awake all night. I am in sore need of some rest as well." He bent and took her sword from the ground where it had lain beside her within easy reach. "Here. Be quick and watchful. The breeze is with us tonight. Anything that approaches from the east will announce itself on the air first. Remember the smell of the orcs, Myrhil. Keep that foremost in your mind, for they shall smell no different now."

Boromir's ceaseless talk pierced her fuzzy senses, as he had intended, and she gradually woke up, taking her sword from him and buckling it around her waist. "I will not fall asleep," she promised, giving her head a vigorous shake to clear her mind further, then hissed through her teeth. Her hand strayed to her shoulder, her fingers clenching the air impotently, afraid to touch it. "That cursed wound! It shall certainly keep me awake. How many hours until daylight?"

Boromir shrugged. "No more than four. 'Tis dark yet. As soon as you feel yourself falling asleep, wake me and I will join you on watch. Put some salve on your wound and the watch will pass faster."

"Nay. I will leave it for now." Myrhil turned and cast the dying fire a regretful look as she walked past it. The embers still emitted a warmth that lingered in her cloak. As she distanced herself from the fire, the heat quickly faded and soon the cool night air replaced its comfort. Behind her, she could hear Boromir shaking out his own blanket and settling onto it with a grunt.

She paused at her saddlebag and grabbed a medium-sized leather pouch. She continued onward, walking to the same place where Boromir had spent the first part of the evening, a smooth and well-formed boulder rolled up against the trunk of a tree. The construction of the road had uncovered many such rocks and they littered the sides of the north-south route, creating places to rest for the workers and future travelers alike. Sitting on her perch, she pulled her cloak around her, but left her sword uncovered. Her hand lay in her lap, ready to grasp the hilt within a moment's alarm.

The novelty of standing guard soon wore off. This was not the first time she had spent the night outdoors, eyes and ears primed for foreign sounds and smells. She had once or twice cajoled her father into letting her accompany him or some of the other men on their watches after continuous complaints, but it was a want rarely satisfied. The responsibility was rewarding, but the actual tedium of sitting and staring into black nothingness was overwhelming. After an hour, she experienced the same boredom of the past and wondered if she would remember it in the future. While the absence of anything other than the fresh scent of unfurling foliage and the moisture of the evening dew put her mind at rest, however slightly, she did not let her guard slacken. Perhaps there was nothing but harmless creatures out in the void before her, but she could not let herself feel too secure.

When the minutes slugged by slowly, she sighed in resignation and reached down to the leather pouch that rested in the folds of her cloak. With a quick motion of her forefinger, she opened the tightly cinched neck, and the scent of old tobacco filled her nostrils. The demand to travel with few possessions forced her to leave much behind, but small items such as this were easily stowed in her bags. Should it have weighed as much as the hammer in the forge, she would still have brought it. Just the feel of the leather between her fingers reminded her of the craggy features of her dead father.

Rubbing the worn material, she inhaled the aroma wafting from the pouch, her eyes closed in silent remembrance. Her father had obtained the curious dried weed from a trader who had been in the northern reaches, far beyond the ken of the soldiers he regaled with talk of his wares. Told that it would heal all ailments and soothe a worried mind, Gorhend had bought it with low expectations, but great curiosity. His irregular habit of smoking the pungent leaf had left her with a tangible link to him. She would never smoke a puff of it, though she had his pipe as well. It was her intention to always keep it as he had left it. Perhaps it would help supplant her final memory of him. Rather than a still figure shrouded in linen, he would forever be the terse and strong man she admired and struggled with, sitting in his chair next to the fire on a winter's evening, silently watching the flames with pipe held loosely in hand and swirls of smoke curling about his head.

Myrhil felt her nose beginning to burn and, clenching the pouch tightly, she rubbed away the hurt with the back of her hand. She would not let the tears come. She had successfully kept them at bay thus far on this journey and she would not mark her arrival in Minas Tirith with reddened eyes and bleak spirit. She bent a leg and rested her forehead on her knee. The pouch was cupped in her hand and pressed against her cheek. The supple hide caressed her skin and she closed her eyes at the sensation. She remained thus for she knew not how long, so lost in her memories did she become.

An owl in a nearby tree startled her out of her reverie. Cursing herself for her inattention, she let her leg fall and straightened, sitting rigid on the rock. As she cinched the pouch closed, she heard a soft footfall approaching from her right. Fear surged within her and hammered at her senses. Her ears filled with a rush of blood as her heart quickened. The pouch disappeared inside her blouse with a deft move and her hand gripped the hilt of her sword. Trying to measure her breath, she slowly rose to her feet and began to draw the blade from the scabbard.

At the sound of scraping metal, the approaching figure spoke. "Myrhil, it is I," came Boromir's voice.

Myrhil's sword retreated with an edgy sigh. "You need not have startled me so by coming here," she said, "considering that I am the one who is on watch. Why are you not sleeping?"

"Because it would not come to me," he replied, closing the distance between them. She could not see so much as a flicker from the silver threads of his tunic. The night was as black as coal and she now doubted her ability to see anything approach. She welcomed this arrival of another pair of ears to help her.

"After being so adamant about finding rest?" she teased, returning to her seat. "After saying that you must sleep, you are now wandering about?"

Boromir reached out a hand and felt the cool surface of the boulder he had himself perched on for the first part of the evening. He inched closer and settled next to her. The rock was large enough to accommodate both of them. "I could not sleep knowing that you were out here."

"I would have stayed awake," she retorted, baldly defensive. "You need not have feared that I would be a poor sentry." The lost time she had spent mesmerized by the small pouch, she told herself, had not been long at all, although she had no firm idea of how much time had passed.

"'Tis not that," he said quietly. A silence ensued and Myrhil sensed that he was about to say more, but his tone changed abruptly. "I retrieved this from your mother's pack. The salve you have been using on your wound." Myrhil heard the lid make a tinny sound as it was popped off the neck of the small jar.

"I am grateful," she said. "Though I had managed to ignore it, it would have made its presence known within a short time." The abominable itching returned, now that her mind had been turned to it. She reached out a hand and found his in the darkness. "Give it to me."

She had nearly taken the jar of scented balm from his hand when suddenly it was once again secure in his grip, as though he had had a change a heart about relinquishing it. She was about to tell him that withholding it from her was not in the least amusing when he spoke. As he did, Myrhil felt the irritation in her shoulder temporarily subside, replaced by another feeling all too familiar for she had experienced it before, and not too long ago with a handsome herdsman.

"Let me." Boromir's voice, though quiet, pierced her with its overt plea, but carried with it a firmness that she did not wish to oppose for a number of reasons. He was her lord, her father's boon friend, her protector and guide on this journey, a man she was admiring and liking more with every passing day. She did not know which of these fleeting thoughts was the cause of the sensations that were growing ever insistent, quickly robbing her of reasoned thinking. Should I wait much longer, she thought, I shall no longer care.

Boromir waited, wondering what would be the next sound to reach his ears. Chilly silence? A horrified cry? Or, and this is what he hoped for, a sound of welcome?

As the seconds lengthened, Boromir feared that he had misstepped. Perhaps I should have waited for the journey to end, he told himself. If I had, matters need never have come to this. I am not thinking clearly. The fatigue from constant travel and the close company we must keep have affected my mind and clouded my judgment.

His watch, coming on the heels of their tactical conversation and swordfight, had left him utterly alone with his thoughts. Though he did not neglect his customary watch routine of pondering what future precautions The White City might need to survive direct assault, mulling the problems of provisions for Gondor's entire army, and, lately, which men would be suitable for the herding life of the plains, he had realized his mind partly lingered still on his young companion. Their horseplay had reminded him of good-natured contests between himself and Faramir. In some respects, she was like a memory from the past, put in front of him in the present and offering a brief foray into the seemingly distant time of stick fights, running wildly through the palace, skulking about in the shadows and lying in wait for imaginary enemies. But at the same time, as they had pushed against one another in a test of strength, he had felt her resolve, her tensed muscles, and the undeniably feminine curves and softness that covered them. She was neither fragile nor afraid, yet neither distastefully forceful. He wished to have her close to him again, to see if these impressions were invoked again by her nearness. The urge to put it to the test worried at him, nagged him to forge ahead and take her in his arms, but he told himself he would not act upon it. He had already made more apparent than he thought wise, but the prospect of remaining wrapped in his blanket when such an unsettled matter still lingered in his mind had seemed ludicrous.

His doubts were brought to an end when a faint sigh disrupted the stillness that had enveloped them. Only a sigh. No words indicating yea or nay, but the sound, if he were pressed to describe it as an image, of a gently beckoning hand.

He soon felt that hand. Not a wispy phantom before his eyes, but real and solid. Myrhil's roughened hand had not left his since asking for the salve and now her callused fingertips ran over the back of his, over his knuckles and along his fingers, following the path leading to the object of her search. There was a slight ripple of scent in the air as the contents of the jar were disturbed. Her fingers now held a bit of the salve and her other hand undid the clasp of her cloak. A shrug of her shoulders made it fall about her on the rock. Proceeding to the laces at the throat of her blouse, she loosened them and bared her injured shoulder to the night air.

Boromir could only hear the sound of garments falling away and being shifted, but like the earlier sigh, the soft noises issuing from Myrhil's movements created a picture in the darkness. Still, he knew not what to expect to feel under his hand when Myrhil caught him by the wrist and rubbed the balm from her fingers onto his. His wrist still firmly in her grasp, she guided his hand to her shoulder and finally surrendered her hold once the warm flesh trembled under his touch.

"Please, Boromir," she whispered. "It is aching."

He did not hesitate. He ran his fingers over the reddened skin, the bumps of the stitches and coarse patches of dried blood and healing abrasions seeming like the sharpest of sensations as they flowed through his fingertips. Myrhil slid closer, leaning towards him as the powers of the ointment began to work, easing the irritation, pain and tension.

Slowly he worked the salve into her wound. Occasionally he would let his fingers run up the side of her neck and down her throat, inducing another sigh to float on the air between them. Boromir could feel himself being surrounded by the intense heat Myrhil exuded, his own mounting ardor and the sweet scent of the ointment adding to the sense of intoxication. He knew he was being foolish, courting disaster by acting thus with his friend's daughter, but he did not let those thoughts take hold of him long. He was here in the wild, thrown together with a woman who had in fact been offered to him as a bride; a woman attractive not in the manner desirable in brothels or the court, but of a different kind. Since he had known so few women outside of either sphere, he was hard pressed to describe exactly what he felt.

While sweet words from a skilled throat alone could sometimes arouse him, a contest or fight seldom failed to inflame his blood, and the small competition with Myrhil had done just that. If what he did now was a transgression that bore consequences, then at this moment he would gladly face them should they come. It had seemed like such a long time since he had lain in a woman's embrace, enjoyed that heady scent unique to lovemaking. The soldier's life in the field was the illness that moments such as these could temporarily relieve.

His fingers completed another path down her throat, but instead of returning to her shoulder, they lightly brushed along her collarbone and he let his palm slide further down until it covered her breast. He felt Myrhil arch into his hand and he bent his head to place a series of kisses along her uninjured shoulder and across her upper chest. Running his lips up her throat, he stopped the slow and torturous route at her mouth and began to kiss her firmly, needfully.

Boromir remembered Belaród's heated denial of ever touching his master's daughter and told himself he had never believed the young man's protestations. It would have been too much to expect Myrhil, despite her stern rearing, to have forgone this pleasure of life. Though the thought of it pained him on Gorhend's behalf, he was pleased on his own. She was returning his kiss beautifully.

Myrhil was feeling herself slowly and insistently swept up in the crushing embrace being wrapped around her, although no arms encircled her. She felt it in the air, growing ever closer and saturated with the excitement and strange magic that two people thus together created. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to the kiss.

How long had it been since she had last lain with Belaród? Months? It certainly seemed so. Where had they last coupled? The hayloft? She thought her nostrils detected the scent of fodder, horses and well-oiled tack. No, it was not that. That had not been the place. Trees, grass, and earth. Her memories inhaled deeply. The plains. Absconding from home and barn with a couple blankets to spend a few stolen hours out in Nature's forgiving and understanding embrace. Belaród above her, the light of the moon trained on his face and showing him to her, letting her see his tender expression as he whispered to her. The pale beam making his clean-shaven jaw almost shimmer in its cool bath. So beautiful, so smooth. . . Her fingers ached to feel it, her palm to caress the perfection the moon had bestowed upon him. She raised her hand and reached out in the darkness.

Rough. Prickly. A beard.

Boromir.

Her fingers curled against her palm, her knuckles dragging slowly against his cheek as they retracted defensively, crushed.

Boromir felt the odd gesture, but continued the kiss. Her lips were soft beneath his. Soft, unlike the hard ground he had slept on for two nights, unlike the harsh clash of swords or the firm discipline meted out to his soldiers. But when she no longer responded, he parted from her and brought his own hand up to her cheek. He caressed the flesh with his thumb and paused when he felt wetness beneath his hand. "Myrhil?" he asked, concerned. "Are you crying?"

A nod was his answer.

"Why?" he continued. "I thought you were agreeable. When I touched you. . ."

"I am agreeable," she whispered. "I weep because the past cannot disappear, even if I want it to."

"Belaród?" Another nod under his hand. He sighed softly and brushed her hair away from her face, his touch gentle, as it always had been. His fingers ran down her neck and over her shoulders until he felt the cloth of her shirt. Taking hold of it, he drew it up around her, arranging it as best he could in the darkness. He was about to take hold of the laces when Myrhil's hands settled over his.

"Boromir, I am sorry."

He shook his head. "I was wrong to do it. I simply--" He sighed. "Perhaps it is best that you will be going immediately to Rohan. May you find forgetfulness there." He pulled the laces together and tied them in a loose bow.

"Forgetfulness?" she repeated. "Find another man, you mean."

Boromir took her cloak and settled it about her shoulders. "You will not forget Belaród entirely, or at all. Do not fool yourself that you will. But the pain will diminish." He was silent for a long time, but when he began to speak again, his voice was very soft, but tense. "For many months after my mother died, I could not bear to look upon a mother laughing with her child or wrapping her arms about them. The pain of it was like a hot iron in my heart. When female kin or the occasional overcome servant thought to ease my suffering with an embrace or caress, I could not stand their touch. They were not her. But the disgust, the fear I felt, faded away."

Myrhil listened to Boromir's pained recounting of this childhood sorrow. She was unsure of what she could, or should, say. Words gentle and subtle were infrequent visitors to her lips, a trait acquired from her father. "I thought I accepted that as we buried him," Myrhil finally replied, sadly. "I told myself I would not dwell upon it."

He fastened the clasp and rested his hands on her shoulders briefly, contemplating something in the darkness. Then he completely withdrew from her. His presence beside her disappeared, with cool air once again surrounding.

"Are you going to leave me here with these tormenting thoughts, Boromir?" she asked. "This night chill is an unwelcome returning visitor."

"You want me to stay?" he replied, guardedly. "I do not wish to pain you."

"The pleasure I get from your company far outweighs that. Please."

Myrhil soon felt Boromir's solid form once again beside her. They said nothing. She heard him secure the lid onto the jar, but she did not know what he did with it after that. She did not care. Her shoulder was now awash in the soothing comfort the salve provided. Along her throat, the skin still tingled from where Boromir's lips and fingers had traveled. She could not deny that his touch was as pleasant as his company. If she were soon to part from him, then she would relish these last moments beside him, whether arguing about fighting tactics or sitting silently like now.

Impulsively, she reached out and laid her hand on his arm, continuing along the length of it until she came to his hand. Her fingers slid through his and she squeezed gently. "I shall miss you, Boromir."

There was only a moment's silence before a simple reply.

"And I you."

They remained together on the stone until dawn, the horizon tinged with a fiery aura. They had said nothing else for the remainder of the night and, when they rose to return to the camp, words still did not pass their lips. There was no discomfort between them about the previous night for, just as they were about to leave their stony watch post, Boromir took her face between his hands and placed another kiss upon her lips.

Myrhil did not tense or turn away, instead letting him take this small pleasure from her with willing heart. Thoughts of Belaród naturally intruded, but the pain was less than before. Perhaps the blame lay in the darkness, when the mind could conjure up memories more easily when the eyes were robbed of their powers and the hurt and fear those memories contained could twist everything into a mire of uncertainty and pain. In the light, early though it was, the kiss Boromir now gave her was only from him, not a caress from the past. Now she even felt the beard that lightly scraped against her lips and chin. In the darkness, she had not even felt it until her hand reached up to touch what she thought was Belaród's cheek. Such were the powers a black night and memories could wield.

When Boromir parted from her, she placed her hands over his and drew them away from her face, taking them within hers and clasping them together. She squeezed them and wondered if she should say anything, but nothing came readily to her tongue. Instead, she bent her head and kissed the heavy ring on his finger, the silver and black emblem of his rank. With that, she declared her loyalty while the other kiss spoke of a different bond.

Boromir watched her perform this gesture of homage and saw Myrhil passing over an invisible line into the realm of loyal subject, one who would raise her sword to defend him, but would most likely never share his bed. This chaste display was an action that he himself had encouraged and he tried not to regret the selfless behavior the night before which now brought it about. She had not flinched from his second kiss, an encouraging sign for the future, but he would content himself with moments such as these. The love of his people or love from a woman. He weighed the two in his mind and found himself anticipating the affection and fealty of tens of thousands more eagerly. Such love ran deeper. . .and more true.

Yet now was not the time to contemplate such things. The White City awaited and the day was already on its fast flight. He began to walk and Myrhil silently fell into step beside him, the swishing of the dead pine needles beneath their feet the only sounds they made.

Laenilas was surprised to see both of them return from the same direction and her suspicions from the night before resurfaced upon seeing the same frank ease and comfortable closeness between them. She sighed. What was to be done, if anything? Her daughter had already set upon that path with Belaród and it seemed that it might now continue with Boromir. She had never dictated terms to her children, neither of them. Both Myrhil and Larhend had been given ample freedom to make mistakes and learn from them. One of Larhend's had cost him his life, which was to be regretted, but she had never coddled her children. She had not had overprotective parents, and she thought no differently in terms of raising her own offspring. Riding horses, hot tempers, impulses about love and whom to find it with -- all of these matters contained many pitfalls and had to be learned through difficult means, if necessary. Her own father could have forcibly prevented her from marrying the rough-mannered soldier of Gondor, but he had not interfered with her determination to bind herself to him. It would have been a futile endeavor to turn her mind from her purpose. Was such a scenario to be repeated with her own daughter?

No, marriage in this instance was out of the question, and did not even warrant a moment's thought for it was impossible, despite Gorhend's periodic mad musings at such a union. It was a foolish wish of her husband's that friendship would surmount matters of blood and suitability. The few times he had mentioned such an arrangement, she had said nothing, her silence a loud declaration of her skepticism. With that, Gorhend had kept any further thoughts about the matter to himself. She sensed that Myrhil had known of her father's ambitions and looked upon them as a hopeless fancy, just as she had. Of course, Laenilas thought, her daughter had been more captivated by Belaród than anyone else, no matter how noble the blood. But now that the unfortunate boy was dead, it was not unreasonable to assume that another would take his place. Laenilas felt that her daughter, for all her headstrong blindness about Belaród, would not repeat such foolishness with Boromir. She was a clever girl who rarely had to learn a lesson twice. Once had usually be sufficient. Still. . .

Laenilas observed Boromir with a sharpened eye. Tall of stature, possessing broad shoulders and a fair face, wielding all the weaponry he carried with graceful ease. He was a handsome man who no doubt created a competitive turmoil whenever he appeared in a brothel, which, if her experience as a soldier's wife was of any worth, was often. Such a fellow would have captured her own fancy thirty years ago, and she had indeed married that man.

She turned away before her close scrutiny was noticed. The fire had been stoked to life once more and she busied herself with the hash that sizzled merrily and tastily in the iron skillet.

They had not been on the road for more than two hours when suddenly Myrhil felt a hand on her shoulder. "Look there, to the north!" came Boromir's excited whisper. "Do you see it?"

Myrhil was poised to ask him to point out the object to her for she could not see it when her breath caught in her throat. The morning sun was still in hues of read and orange rather than the brilliant yellow of day's peak and its beams were not blinding, but rich and solid. In the distance, the surrounding aura of light making it seem as high as the mountain looming behind, stood a great shaft that seemed wrought of the finest silver and pearl, the pinnacle glittering like the water of a shallow brook breaking over pebbles on a warm spring day. Often had she scooped up the water like jewels from a corsair's hoard and as she looked upon the dazzling peak with its fluttering banner of white, her fingers desired to do the same again.

Laenilas brought her horse along Boromir, her eyes riveted to the sight before them. "It appears they have seen us before we saw them," she commented. "The banner already flies to greet the returning Captain." She paused and tilted her head slightly. "I hear the trumpets calling, unless the wind has acquired such a talent." She leaned forward and turned to her daughter, looking past Boromir. "Do you hear them, Myrhil? They are as clear as I remember them from my youth!" Sighing, she returned her gaze to the glimmering vision crafted against the mountain. "It only requires a body to see it once, and it remains ever etched in eye, mind and heart, no matter where one hails from."

Myrhil heard her mother's breathless admiration and could not add to it with her own words. She could find one that would adequately describe what her eyes beheld.

"A welcome will be waiting for us all," Boromir said. "My return is two days later than what I had planned. I am certain there has been a diligent watch to the south with expectations of an imminent arrival."

"I should not be surprised if there was momentary confusion at the company you keep," Myrhil smiled. "I shall not speak for Mother, but my appearance resembles that of a dirty bandit."

"As soon as we reach the citadel, I shall have lodgings made ready for you and hot, steaming baths will await."

Laenilas could not disguise her joy. "At this moment, that, my lord, is a greater song to my heart than even looking upon Meduseld!"

The Tower of Ecthelion, that gleaming shaft of pearl and silver, was the first thing one noticed upon Minas Tirith, but the rest of this famed city of Men was no less a feast to the eyes, even from a sizeable distance. Myrhil found herself staring in amazement from tier to tier of the immense city, each one smaller than the last and ending at the citadel with the Tower, the effect looking much like an inverted funnel.

The years it must have taken to create such a city, the countless number of people who lived behind those walls, unbeaten by any foe. . . "Father often described the city to me," Myrhil breathed, "but even my most fervent imaginings could never have created such a thing as this." She turned to Boromir. "You were right. Pelargir will never leave me speechless again."

They approached the tall the sturdy walls that encircled the Pelennor Fields and Boromir heartily greeted the sentries who guarded the South gate. "All is well in my absence?" Boromir asked them.

"Very well," one replied. "Several days ago, the lord Faramir led an expedition into the north upon word that there was an attack by the Enemy on Ithilien. He returned the day before yesterday."

"Success?"

"I deem so, sir, for no man was lost."

Boromir did not hide his pleasure at the news. "A finer brother none could hope for!" he declared to no one in particular. "I am glad that he is here for there are matters to the west in Lebennin that will need counsel."

"Sir?" the guard asked.

"Be vigilant," Boromir told him. "Look to the south. There may be orcs roaming the mountains behind us for I have seen evidence of such. They will only be in small bands, but they have already inflicted casualties." He gestured to the two mounted women behind him. "I bring the survivors of Gorhend, fine soldier of Gondor. His wife, Laenilas, daughter of Thédor, close kin of Théoden King of Rohan, and his daughter, Myrhil."

The guards bowed their heads to widow and daughter. "Gorhend's death is sorrowful news, indeed," one said, an old man who would certainly have known the fallen soldier in earlier days. "I fought gladly beside him."

Laenilas swallowed painfully. "My eternal gratitude for your kind words," she said. "He is now beneath the ground he always fought so valiantly to protect. He died protecting it."

"No greater honor," the guard replied, heartfelt. "We welcome you, my lady."

Laenilas nodded, unwilling to trust herself to speak without weeping. No matter how often she had cursed the men whom her husband kept company with -- the men who willingly marched into danger beside him, and the men who ordered him to march -- no matter how many angry tears she had shed over the years at her inability to keep her husband safe from harm, this simple soldier before her did not deserve such scorn. None of them did. They were caring men in an uncaring business, with kin of their own who wished them safety. Why had she wasted so many tears and spoken foul curses against those who warranted them not? She felt the last vestige of her wife's wrath absorbed by a widow's wisdom and quiet grief, and the transformation settled peaceably upon her.

The gates parted before them and as Laenilas passed the elderly soldier, she lifted her hand in farewell. The first and only time this man looked upon Gorhend's bride, he was struck by the sight of her reddish-gold hair and the brightness of her blue eyes shining through unshed tears.

Progress across the Pelennor Fields was swift. The road was passable for it had been several days since Minas Tirith had last seen rainfall and the number of travelers had not been so many as to create a dried, rutted obstacle. Myrhil looked about her as they went, her attention fully absorbed by the cultivated townlands about her and so she had not noticed the emotions displayed so openly on her mother's face. She and Laenilas rode on either side of Boromir and surveyed the sights on their open flanks.

Myrhil felt the gradual incline of the land in her horse's gait as they pressed on, the slopes and terraces of the immense walled enclosure descending to the Anduin in the east. It was odd; her father had somehow given her the impression that the Pelennor was a vast exercise arena, an expanse of flat land. Perhaps her mind had been unable to comprehend land that she had never seen before. All that she knew was flat and open, and thus was the rest of the world until she saw to the contrary. Farmland was not unknown to her, but never situated such as this, with property lines abutting snugly and homes within slingshot range of each other.

"Did these farmers benefit from your scourge of the rats?" she asked Boromir.

"Certainly," he said offhandedly. "Faramir and I easily saved the grain harvest year after year."

"And created a rat corpse pile the height of the Rammas Echor," Myrhil finished. "I think I understand. So, did my father bestow upon you his tendency to exaggerate, or is it a natural gift?"

"All soldiers exaggerate if the vanquished enemy was small, and become modest if it was the opposite. Immense adversaries are dispatched with a shrug of the shoulders, a day's duty done."

Myrhil smiled. "Yet another note in my book of knowledge. I shall have to remember that when I next find myself pressed to relate my single act of valor."

"Should you do that within certain court circles, I think any size of orc will impress them." He paused, then grinned. "But it cannot hurt to make him as fearsome as you like."

"I will begin to craft my tale immediately."

Another set of gates lay before them, much larger than the ones to the south, for they were set within the outermost wall of the city proper, providing what would hopefully be the strongest defense should attack ever break upon the walls like waves on a shore. The walls on either side of the gate, curving back into the vanishing distance, were of the blackest stone. They looked more formidable than anything Myrhil had ever seen. The sturdy fieldstone that her father had used in the construction of barn and house seemed paltry in comparison. Whereas those stone sat upon the familiar plains like silent beasts of burden, supporting timber and thatch, these walls loomed black and forbidding, encircling the city in a protective embrace of dark surrounding light. Black around white, like a lone traveler bearing a lantern at midnight, or Mordor overcoming this first defense of Middle Earth.

Myrhil shivered and turned her attention from the silent obsidian guardian to the rumbling city within while Boromir carried out the formalities of his arrival with the guards. Nearly at the same time, Myrhil and Laenilas craned their necks back, agape at the curved spine of stone that jutted out from the mountainside, slicing the walled tiers of the city in half from top to bottom. The summit arched out over its innermost point like the keel of a ship, providing any observer with a view of the surrounding land only surpassed by the peak of the White Tower itself.

"Should anyone ever despair, they need only to jump from that embrasure to end all sorrows," Laenilas murmured.

Myrhil turned to her mother. "I hope you do not observe that with dark thoughts," she said pointedly.

Laenilas smiled. "There is naught of that in my heart," she said. "Do not trouble yourself that there ever could be." She returned her gaze to the keel of rock. "I have never been to the Citadel, though your father could claim several journeys. I wonder if I have the strength to make it to the summit. Weariness is pulling at my bones."

"I will not let fatigue ruin this moment's excitement!" Myrhil stated tirelessly. "Soon we shall be on our way."

The trumpets continued to sound far above them and Laenilas silently wished they would refrain from further announcing that which was obvious by now to everyone with the city and instead ready a steaming bath for her, but she maintained a pleasant smile on her lips and said nothing.

As though attuned to her quickly vanishing patience, the guards and Boromir concluded their business and the small entourage passed through the Great Gate and began the long, winding path upward. She was also pleased to note that the trumpets ended their stirringly ebullient but monotonous song and the natural sounds of the city could now be heard unimpeded.

Myrhil and Laenilas soon found themselves an entity apart from the man who had led them through plain, city and river. They watched as citizens on the street and soldiers on their way to one duty or another did what the people in Pelargir had done: pause and greet or watch the Captain of the White Tower with unconcealed admiration and affection. Whereas in Pelargir his companions had been ignored, here in Minas Tirith there were many curious glances cast in the direction of the two mounted women who traveled in the commander's wake. In the company of soldiers, yes; but Boromir of Gondor had never been renowned as an escort of women, particularly two such provincial figures as these.

Under such scrutiny, Laenilas felt her face flush hot. She had never received attention such as this, and the press of it all around her was a distinctly uncomfortable sensation. Out in her small corner of Gondor for so many years, surrounded by a mere handful of souls, she had forgotten that within a city of such size, one could always feel several pairs of eyes upon him.

I will have to reconcile myself to curious stares, at least for a short time, she thought grimly. I am certain I shall encounter the same in Edoras. At least there will be fewer of them and I will then possess the luxury of kinship rather than the status of transient guest on sufferance.

She looked over at Myrhil and saw that her daughter was looking down at her garments self-consciously. They were streaked with grime. The unplanned dousing in the river with Boromir had done little to clean them and their age was emphasized when they acquired more than a week's wear. They hung limp and dejected on Myrhil's frame and were not suitable beyond farm work and travel. Laenilas felt her purse and deemed there were enough coins to spare for the purchase of a new shirt and pair of breeches. She would not have her daughter enter Edoras in the unwitting disguise of a beggar.

Onward they went, snaking back and forth through gates and the spine of stone, the walls lined with torches to illuminate the way through the darkness. The second tier was left behind, then the third. The fourth fell away, followed by the fifth.

Upon entering the sixth circle, Myrhil looked to her left and saw an immense collection of structures nestled up against the wall. From everywhere came the scent of herbs and oils, both sweet and foul. The entirety of their journey through the city thus far had been noisy as the people of Minas Tirith had gone about their daily tasks and business, but the air around these buildings was not so boisterous, but rather a solemn hush was decidedly settled over its tiled roofs.

"The Houses of Healing," Myrhil heard a voice say and she turned to see Boromir looking at her from over his shoulder. "You asked me about them the morning after you received your wounds. Should you care to have your shoulder examined again, I will gladly have you brought here."

She nodded, although her mother's salve and Boromir's application of it the night before had done much to ease the pain and irritation. In fact, it had not bothered her even slightly today, nor had her other injuries. She brought a hand to her cheek and rubbed at the skin, then ran her fingers over her closed eye. She felt only the dull twinges and thuds that bruises produce when prodded. With no mirror to look upon, she had no idea how her face was mending. It had always hurt less than her shoulder and over the past few days, she had paid little heed to these minor injuries.

"The color looks healthy," Laenilas told her when she saw Myrhil tentatively take stock of her wounds. "Within two weeks' time, only the slightest traces will remain and none shall know you were even injured."

"But as for now?"

"For now I would wear those bruises with pride," Laenilas smiled. "There is little else you can do. They cannot be hidden, nor do I think you would desire to conceal them." Unspoken was her certainty that by the end of the evening, her daughter would have recounted her moment in battle at least three times, if given the opportunity, perhaps embellishing the details. Though Myrhil was different from her father in so many ways, there were others in which the two were remarkably similar.

Boromir continued to lead them on, but Laenilas took heart in the thought that the journey was nearly at an end. They passed the stables, positioned next to the final tunnel that led up to the citadel. The unmistakable scent of horse sweat and manure hung in the air and she wondered at the stench in the height of summer. Considering the length of the route thus far, she did not envy the servants whose duty it was to remove it from the city.

Entering the tunnel, they had only traveled briefly before a rumble of voices sounded ahead. Myrhil's horse pranced nervously at the strange echoes, its anxiety heightened by the flickering of torches and leaping shadows that it had not yet grown accustomed to. She said some calming words and managed to regain control over the beast while Laenilas soothed her more sedate mount by constantly stroking its neck.

"Is all well?" Boromir asked, turning his horse around at the sound of equine distress.

"As well as can be expected from animals who have never had such walls about them," Laenilas replied. "The sooner we leave here, the calmer they will be."

"I did not wish to force you to go afoot for this final trek," he said, "but it seems that we must. Let us return to the stables and turn them over to the grooms. It is naught but Faramir coming to greet me, but he will simply continue along until he finds us. Come, turn back."

They retraced their steps and Myrhil could feel her horse's muscles relax beneath her once open air again surrounded it. She dismounted and waited for Boromir to resume the lead and she followed behind them to the main gate of the stables.

It was an impressive fathering of fences and stalls that Myrhil found very familiar and she realized that her father had nearly duplicated the arrangement to the best of his ability and limited resources. "'Tis almost like home," she whispered to Laenilas as they advanced into the main yard with leads firmly in hand. "I nearly feel like I would be able to find my way around it without aid."

Boromir hailed a groom who was in the midst of oiling some tack and instructed him to unsaddle, clean and feed all three mounts. The lad nodded eagerly and called to another man to assist him and assured the two women that their horses would be well tended until they had need of them. While Myrhil and Laenilas gathered up their saddle bags and packs, Boromir gave the boy a copper coin. Now as loaded as their horses had been, left the stables and embarked on the final leg of the long, winding path.

They entered the tunnel once more and Myrhil's eyes again adjusted to the dimly lit interior, though her vision was still not clear. Their footfalls echoed around them, as did the voices they had heard earlier, now louder and more distinct. What had seemed like nearly a dozen men advancing upon them was now obviously only two, and fragments of their conversation could now be deciphered, all regarding Boromir's return. When two shadowy figures appeared, Boromir called out in greeting and one figure departed from the other in a series of rapid strides, making straight for the returning Captain and embracing him happily.

"Boromir! You return at last!"

Boromir laughed and clapped the man smartly on the back, continuing the embrace. "Fear that I had met an untimely end, little brother?" he asked.

"Never," came Faramir's instant reply, "though I had to waste words convincing Beregond otherwise."

"Ah, and how is our concerned watchman?" He parted from his brother and spoke to the other figure that quickly approached. "Should you not be spending your worries on that wife and child of yours rather than I?"

Beregond saluted his captain and struggled for a reply to such a question. Boromir laughed and struck him on the shoulder in a friendly manner. "You will never rise in the ranks if you keep such a quiet manner about you and fail to speak up, my friend!"

"Beregond was on duty at the citadel and was dispatched to me to announce your return," Faramir put in.

"Three days I have been on watch," the soldier said, finding his voice. "I was not the only one of the men to wonder at the delay, sir."

"Yes, delay. . ." Boromir mused. "A necessary one, in fact. Honor and duty dictated it. But I have returned and the men can sleep easy tonight." He grinned.

"I shall relay your order," Beregond replied, smiling. With a departing salute to his superiors, he left them and hastened down the tunnel. As he passed Myrhil and Laenilas, standing some distance from Boromir and his brother, he paused and bowed his head in greeting, certain they were the reason for the stated "delay." However, he did not feel it necessary to report that piece of information to the other soldiers. Beregond was in the business of passing along orders, not gossip.

As the steady beat of Beregond's footsteps disappeared into the distance, Boromir motioned for Laenilas and Myrhil to come closer and he said to Faramir, "Rooms must be made immediately for them. They have traveled as far as I and are no less weary." He gestured to each one in turn and introduced them to Faramir, stating flatly that Gorhend had perished on the plains.

Faramir looked at his brother silently, and from her position Myrhil could see in the torchlight that his expression was disbelieving. After her brief conversation with the old man in Pelargir, and seeing the faces of the guard at the outer gate and now of Faramir upon receiving the news, she was again finding it impossible to believe it herself, despite having seen the bloody evidence with her own eyes. Yet she would not let that disbelief take hold.

"Dead? Surely not!" came Faramir's astonished reply.

"Please, my lord," came Laenilas' broken voice. "May we continue? I do not think that my feet can bear my weight any longer without some rest."

"I am sorry," Faramir said. "I hope my words did not distress you."

"Distress? No." Laenilas's tone was tired, but Faramir could detect the pain that lingered underneath. "Indeed, I tell myself that I expected that day for some time, but all the same, it is not something I wish to dwell upon."

"Then I shall say no more," replied Faramir, advancing to Laenilas and taking her by the hand.

Laenilas felt a gentle pressure around her fingers, a reassuring gesture from this young man and former pupil of her husband's. She tried to discern his features in the dim light and a favorable flicker from the torches revealed an expression of such kindness and understanding that she found herself wanting to avert her eyes lest she be overcome. Yet she could not find the will to turn from his gaze. The warmth from his hand -- combined with that from his eyes -- was a balm such as she had never known. She felt her spirit being soothed, when she did not even realize it was greatly troubled.

"Come," Faramir said, leading her onward. "You shall receive your well- earned rest this night, and for as many nights as you wish to remain here."

Myrhil fell in behind her mother, as did Boromir, who allowed his brother to lead them up the tunnel. All the while, Faramir continued to speak to Laenilas but Myrhil could not hear the words. Instead, the tone was more powerful than anything he said. His voice was so welcoming, like a featherbed at the end of a hard day's work. Or what she imagined the pleasures of a featherbed felt like. She had never slept on one, but perhaps that would be remedied tonight. She closed her eyes and let Faramir's soft and pleasant voice prime her for the comfort that would soon be hers.

She nearly jumped when she felt a set of rough knuckles graze her cheek. Her eyes flew open and she turned to see Boromir looking at her with no small degree of amusement flashing in his grey eyes. "If I did not know it to be unlikely, I would swear you were walking in your sleep," he said. His hand fell to her shoulder and rested there as they walked.

Myrhil made no move to shrug off his hand for it was not offending. "Your brother. . ." she began to explain. "His voice is so peaceful."

Boromir smiled. "Aye, he has always had that way about him, for those who notice such things. It does not make him any less a warrior, I am pleased to say." He gave a bemused grunt as he looked at his brother's back, and then returned his attention to her. "Do not let sleep claim you yet, for you need a proper wash, something that the duck hunting began but did not finish."

A laugh. "If you imply that I smell bad, I have not the strength to feel insulted!"

It took little time for accommodations to be found for Myrhil and Laenilas. Built along the wall on the citadel were several small cottages that served as quarters for visiting dignitaries and informal guests of the Steward and his family, and it was one of these that Boromir and Faramir decided would be suitable for the two women from Lebennin. It was small and would serve their purpose, for neither expected to linger long in the White City.

Faramir took it upon himself to show them the few rooms housed beneath the tiled roof. Boromir made his excuses at the door, saying he would try to dispatch servants to them before he got mired in discussion with his father. He then left at a brisk pace to give his report to the Steward.

Laenilas could no longer disguise her relief at the looming prospect of hot water and a bath. She cared not for whatever else the servants might feel it their duty to perform. If they came bearing so much as a bucket of steaming water, she would seize it from them and kick them out, if need be. That was all she wanted presently. Other things such as food and assistance with unpacking could wait.

Myrhil let her mother be led around by the youngest son of the Steward while she stood near the small, cold fireplace. For lack of having anything else to do, she began to throw kindling onto the hearth. No doubt a servant would burst in shortly and seize this chore from her, but until then she would perform it herself.

"My lord, I do not wish to disparage any hospitality extended to us," she heard her mother say from the other room, "but I would like to request that servant interference be kept to a minimum. I have been mistress of my own home for many a year and though I had a girl help me, she knew exactly what to do and what to leave alone. . ."

Myrhil fell into the chair beside the hearth. A small wooden footstool sat before her and she propped her boots on it with a contented sigh. It seldom took long for her mother to revert back to her own self. She debated whether to rescue Faramir, but decided that it was in his best interest to pass this trial, as had his brother. Every soldier needed this particular test of courage under fire. In that respect, she wondered if she was a hardier warrior than the Steward's sons.

"Lebennin! Should this attack become widely known, our people's faith might fail."

"News of it has spread, even if only one place was struck. Should there be no counterattack on our part, Father, the result will be the same."

Boromir leaned over a large wooden table in a small chamber that adjoined the throne room in the White Tower. Before him was a map that had seen many years of service and was marked with the travails of marches afield, battles, and conferences such as the one he now conducted in private with his father, Denethor.

The ruling Steward stood on the opposite side of the table, scrutinizing the battered map. His grey Númenorean eyes darkened to the shade of wet slate at he tallied the strategic and financial costs of another attack from Mordor. The results were grim.

"How could they have done it?" he wondered, his voice a meditative rumble.

"No one is more shocked by this raid than I," Boromir said, his finger following the mountain range to the location along the Gilrain where the attack had occurred. "I encountered no evidence of other raids. No man, woman or child we met on the road had suffered injury, or known of anyone who had been killed or wounded."

"They did not fall out of the sky, I assume!" Denethor snapped in frustration. He dragged his hand over his eyes, but did not allow this moment of unguarded emotion to linger long. With his jaw set grimly and his hands now braced against the worn wood of the table, any weakness he had displayed was either buried or banished.

He crooked his neck and continued to study the map. "They could not have found an unguarded path into the mountains, could they?" His breath came heavy through his nostrils as his finger, shaking almost imperceptibly, settled on the grimy parchment in the mountains around Mordor and to the south of Minas Tirith. "The Emyn Arnen. . ." he whispered. "From there, across the Anduin, and to the Ered Nimrais." His finger made the perceived trek of the now dead orcs. "I cannot believe it. Our men would have detected them. It is too near the city to try a route that bold. Even for orcs, they would have known their chances were slim. Perhaps they crossed the mountains from Rohan. . .?" His voice trailed off as he imagined other paths the orcs might have taken.

"What trouble did Faramir encounter in the north?"

Denethor straightened from his studious posture. "None!" he grunted. "A message arrived with word of orcs on the southern reaches of North Ithilien and your brother rode out with nearly one hundred men."

"They met no enemy?" Boromir asked, startled.

"They all returned, to a man! Not so much as a scratch on them, other than what they got beating the bushes to flush out an enemy that was not even there," he snorted. "You left just when you were needed. Had you gone, there would have been bloody blades returning through those gates."

"I am certain that Faramir did all that I would have done, and more," Boromir replied, hiding his wearied expression by continuing to stare intently at the map. "He returned the men safely and I am content." Denethor had not time to retort for he pressed on, turning to the matter at hand. "The fact that Lebennin was attacked is what troubles me most, Father." He rested his thumb on Pelargir. "Why not harass the towns along the river? Why not hammer away slowly at something within reasonable distance to their fire-blasted pit? Why strike at a region so far away? For what purpose? They massacred scores of horses and would have absconded with perhaps a mere dozen black ones had they survived. From what I have been able to learn, they did not wreak havoc on anything or anyone else." Boromir dug his fingers in his hair and groaned in frustration. "I cannot make sense of it. And the waste of it! Not only for them, but us as well. Capable men cut down, and Gor--" His angry words ended abruptly.

Denethor lifted his gaze from the map and stared levelly at the bent head of his eldest son. "And worthy Gorhend," he finished. "You are saddened at his death?"

Boromir did not immediately respond. He had detected the harsh tone, however slight, in his father's voice and knew that his response had to be thoughtfully weighed before spoken. Though he had taken great pains throughout his adolescence and young manhood to disguise the depth of love he bore towards his arms instructor, he always knew he had been unsuccessful. Camaraderie among soldiers and the brusque companionship in all its gruff tones was no cause for suspicion, but Boromir's eagerness to please the sergeant in drill and sword practice bespoke of a need that was only partly being fulfilled by his own father. It was a need that, unconsciously or not, had permitted Denethor to see his own failings and it rankled the taciturn Steward.

Denethor dispensed warm praise with rarity and his standards were of such strictness that a healthy dose of criticism usually accompanied whatever kind words he chose to bestow. Thus the more frequent and less conditional compliments that Gorhend had given to both he and Faramir had sown the seeds of affection unlike that which they bore for their own father. It had not taken long for Denethor to perceive this difference and it became an underlying source of tension for years, recognized by the three men but discussed in only the most indirect of terms.

"Indeed, I am saddened," Boromir replied slowly, his eyes not leaving the map and his fingers still firmly pressed against the parchment. "We now need to have an outpost established in these hinterlands and had the necessity not come about in this manner, I would have given Gorhend the task of command. Yet now we shall have to rely on men of lesser experience and stoutness." He lifted his gaze and met that of his father. "Do you not agree?"

Denethor's lips curved into a slight smile, not unaware of the carefully chosen words in his son's reply. "Remember to look in a man's eyes when you lie, my son."

"I do not lie, Father. I would not. Not to you."

Denethor's features relaxed visibly, but still he added, "Perhaps half- truths, then?"

"If you wish to believe so," Boromir heard himself say.

The matter would have faded from conversation had Faramir not that moment entered the room. "I was told you were here," he said to his brother, approaching the table. "Father." He inclined his head.

"Make no obeisance to me, boy. I am no king," Denethor snapped irritably. "Faramir," he continued, his voice softening slightly, "I suppose you have heard the sorry news from your brother?"

Faramir looked at him blankly while he grasped for the matter in question to come to mind. "Sorry news?" he ventured. Their father's back was facing Boromir and his brother took advantage of this to mouth the name of their instructor along with a shake of his head. Faramir immediately understood.

"Yes, I was told of an attack far to the west," he said. "So that is what you are discussing now? Countering with an offensive?" He moved to stand beside his father and looked down at the map in avid interest. "What have you planned, Father?"

Boromir glanced upward and his eyes met Faramir's. Their father could not see the face of his youngest son and he was glad for it. Faramir was smiling, but despite his attempt to make it seem conspiratorial, Boromir could see the effort his brother took to not seem nervous. The confusion and apprehension at entering a room already filled with tangible tension would have momentarily set him off his feet had he been in Faramir's position.

"Father?" Boromir prompted. Denethor looked at both of his sons in turn, but said nothing. "Father?" he repeated. "Do you have a strategy or plan to counter this?" He looked back down at the map and shook his head, perplexed. "My instinct is to reorganize the patrols and send a regular detail further into the west than what we have done before. But what if this is just a feint by the Enemy so that we leave their desired target undefended?" As he mused this possibility, his finger drifted northward of Minas Tirith.

"Do you think that was the purpose of the message from Ithilien?" Faramir asked, shocked. "We did see orc tracks there. Fresh ones. Yet we saw no evidence that they had destroyed anything."

"What of the messenger?"

"He swore that he was only reporting what he had seen."

"Do you trust him?"

Faramir looked startled. "Y-yes, Boromir. I have no reason to doubt him."

Finally Denethor's voice broke into their conversation. He brought his hand down onto the map and leaned over the table so that his head interrupted his sons' line of vision. "We must think on it," he said, his gaze fixed on the wall opposite. "I. . .must think on it, and decide whether any action will give us gain or loss." He then looked at each son in turn. His face was drawn into tight lines. The brothers saw the tired and haggard expression of their father and it alarmed them.

"We cannot put too much faith in our strength," Denethor continued. "What we face is greater than anything ever seen before in this world." With that, he drew back and left the room, tugging his cloak about him.

When the sound of their father's steps could no longer be heard, Faramir let out a shuddering breath and leaned heavily on the table. "Boromir. . ." He closed his eyes when he felt his brother's fingers grip his shoulder in encouragement. "Why do I still dread speaking to him?" he asked, voice thin.

Boromir was silent for a moment. Then he said, "He is grim this day, but perhaps that is due to the sorrowful news I delivered."

"He would shed no tears for Gorhend," Faramir replied softly, "and well you know it." He reached up and clasped his brother's hand within his own. "If he is troubled by anything you have reported, it would be about those orcs slipping past our defenses."

"I would expect so. He has cause to be troubled by it, as am I. As should you." He knew Faramir realized the importance of the danger that they now faced, but he always found himself stating the obvious to his younger brother, as a teacher would to a pupil. For Faramir was his student in military matters, the first person the young man looked to for advice or an answer on such things. So it always had been and, he expected, always would be.

Boromir withdrew his hand from Faramir's and gestured to the map in an effort to return his brother's attention to the matter before them. "Depending upon what Father decides, and what arguments I may need to make, there is a great possibility that our patrols shall have to range farther and farther abroad. North and south, into the reaches of Ithilien long relinquished. If they indeed took the route we believe they did, they would have no fears of traveling through less defended areas. We cannot allow them easy passage. We must stop them as they seep through."

Faramir nodded. "When you have the order, I will obey."

Boromir took the map by one edge and began to roll it with a sigh. "I already weary of looking at this," he said. "My mind can absorb little besides a warm bed and a hearty meal. The bed will have to wait for it is barely past midday, but the meal is a different matter."

Appearing pleased that dark matters were put aside momentarily, Faramir asked, "Ah, what did you survive on during your journey? Dried meat and river water?"

"Actually, Gorhend's wife is an accomplished cook and we never lacked for fine food. Myrhil and I hunted one night and nearly drowned for our efforts." He laughed. "We jumped into a river feet first in pursuit of a duck. You may laugh about that as much as you like, brother. It was tasty and worth the effort."

Faramir chuckled. "You make me envious. It sounds like you have not left our childhood far behind!"

"How were our guests when you left them?" Boromir asked, his mention of Myrhil and Laenilas returning him to the need for their comfort.

"I left them well-tended. The Lady Laenilas was more intent on a bath than having any interfering servants around. She was quite direct about it."

Boromir finished rolling the map and secured it with a tattered ribbon, a grin on his face. "Ah, so you have met that pleasant side to the fair lady's personality, have you?" He tossed the parchment onto the table and joined his brother on the other side.

"You speak unfairly of her," Faramir replied. "For the life that marriage to Gorhend would have entailed, any woman would need to possess a spine of steel and a will of iron. Life on those plains is a matter of only the fittest surviving, much like war. City dwellers are very ignorant of how harsh rustic life can be."

"And you, being a city dweller, would know all about that, I assume."

Faramir endured his brother's teasing with good nature. "'Tis only a scrap of knowledge I have acquired from the library," he said, his smile containing a trace of smugness.

"You cannot needle me with such comments about your bookishness, Faramir, try as you might," Boromir said, amused. "As for Laenilas, I can always rely on you having a good word to say about anyone. I do not think even Mother was that charitable." He shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps she is not a complete dragon, but there have been a few occasions where my first instinct was to lay a sword across her throat."

Faramir smiled indulgently at his brother's ungenerous declaration. "Her daughter seems pleasant enough," he said. "I see much of Gorhend in her."

Boromir nodded. "Indeed, very pleasant," he said thoughtfully. "Yes, I have noticed more than a passing semblance to Gorhend as well. She would take great pride in that, if she knew we thought so." He laughed. "That crazy old man, he told her such tales as to make even I blush with embarrassment at the immodesty of them, and I am not known to flinch when hearing of my deeds in battle."

"You should not be surprised about that," Faramir grinned. "You were my shining childhood hero."

Boromir shoved the side of his brother's head playfully and kicked at him, missing him purposely. Faramir laughed and smoothed his ruffled hair from a safe distance, but his humor was dampened somewhat upon seeing his brother's sobering expression. "What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing," Boromir said, trying to shrug off the heaviness that was settling about him. It disturbed him when these changes flitted through him so quickly for they reminded him of his father's volatile moods, though they were not so pronounced as those that Denethor exhibited. He considered himself blessed to have so many of the Steward's admirable traits such as bravery and sense of duty and purpose, but this grimness was wearying to the body and spirit. Perhaps it is simply the nearness of the Shadow, he thought, for it comes upon me here in Minas Tirith more than anywhere else.

"Nothing," Boromir repeated, looking down at the floor and trying to regain his former high spirits. "I think I am simply weary from the long journey and troubled that Myrhil and Laenilas have not yet finished theirs. This strange business with the orcs has me worried for their safety. Should something happen to them, I do not think I could look Gorhend in the eyes."

"Do not think about that now," Faramir said, returning to his brother. His grey eyes held concern for his brother, but also encouragement. "It is only fitting that they be well-rested and supplied before they finish their journey, so they shall remain here for several days or as long as they wish to stay. Though Father held no love for Gorhend, I do not think he would hold his wife and child accountable. By the time they are ready to depart, perhaps these worries shall not weigh so heavily upon you." He smiled. "If you feel that they need an escort, and considering that I find Laenilas such lovely company, I think it only right that I should spend a week with her!"

Boromir found it impossible to not laugh at this vow of self-sacrifice. "You will wish you had not said that, little brother!" Spirits lifted for what he hoped was the remainder of the day, he put his arm around Faramir's shoulders and they left the room.

Myrhil thought that she had enjoyed a certain degree of luxury with Cardhel's constant toiling in the kitchen and assisting Laenilas in the daily tasks while she labored over the forge and in the barn, but she was quite unprepared for the efficiency of the Steward's staff of servants. Faramir seemed to respect her mother's wishes to have little interruption and what Laenilas called "meddling" in her belongings, so only a lone servant appeared during the first several hours after their arrival but his speed was impressive. Rapping on the door each time he appeared with a two- bucket yoke of hot water, he darted into the cottage and dumped the contents into the two wooden tubs before retreating just as quickly for the next trip. Myrhil was so occupied with unpacking her saddlebags and inspecting her surroundings that she was never able to ask the man his name. Whenever she saw him bustle past, he was gone before she could open her mouth. Finally, after the fifth time, she resigned herself to thinking of him as the Water Carrier. The tubs filled quickly and she did manage to thank him before he left.

Myrhil lingered lazily in her tub, water nipping at her chin, allowing the invasive heat to seep into her very bones. I do not think I have ever been so sore or dirty in my life, she thought, flicking at a puddle of grey scum with a disgusted swipe of her hand.

"If you remain in there any longer, I will begin to worry about your wound becoming infected. That water looks as inviting as a low pond in midsummer."

Myrhil looked up at her mother, who was wrapping a coarsely woven bath sheet around herself. "It will be a small matter of cleaning it," she said. "Please do not drag me from this. Filthy it may be, but my bones are thankful."

"Even so, I will get a cloth and a basin of fresh water. We have some wine left. That should clean it adequately."

"A shameful use of spirits," Myrhil muttered under her breath as Laenilas left the room.

"Myrhil, where is the salve?" came her mother's voice. "I cannot find it."

Myrhil's lips pressed into a thin line and she sunk lower in the water. "Boromir. Boromir has it," she finally said.

"Boromir?" came the puzzled reply. "Why did he use it? He had only a shallow wound. It did not even require stitches."

"He. . .he brought it to me last night," Myrhil said with what she hoped was a disinterested air. "He said it would make the watch past faster if I was not irritated by the wound itching and burning."

Laenilas reappeared in the door and stared levelly at her daughter. "So, that is why you returned together this morning. He was tending your. . .hurts."

Myrhil tried not to look away, knowing that it would brand her guilty of something that was of no consequence, but her eyes darted to the side before she could check herself. "He brought it to me, that is all," she said weakly.

Only brief seconds passed, but Myrhil saw her mother's shrewd gaze discern so much more simply from reading the expressions that she tried so hard to suppress. "We did nothing," she put in. Curse her! she thought. I eluded her notice for so long with Belaród, but mere hours after a simple kiss with Boromir, she knows all and suspects the worst. Either she is more observant or I have become weary and careless. I do not desire another confrontation. Not here while I am naked and steeping in repulsive bath water. . .

"When you see him next, remind him of it," Laenilas said. "I have no more salve other than that jar. He has the Houses of Healing at his disposal." With that, she returned to the other room, a smile on her lips. Her thoughts this morning, of allowing her daughter to make and learn from her mistakes, had not been forgotten or replaced, but she was not above letting the girl know that little would escape her attention now. Though should another Belaród appear, she did not think she could remain completely silent. But, as she had told herself only the day before, Boromir was no Belaród.

Denethor sat surrounded by darkness and silence in another chamber in the Tower, a level above the throne room. Ensconced in a finely crafted chair at the head of a table like the one he had just left, he disd not move or make a sound. After leaving his sons, he had dismissed his secretary, declaring an end to the day's business. With that, he retreated from the main hall and slipped into this silent room, remaining here for he knew not how long. Day had dimmed and the sun had long ago lifted its warm blanket from the tower. All the rooms began to acquire the coolness of impending night.

He had not heard his sons' mirth, but even had their cheerful banter reached his ears, his mood would not have lightened. The news of Gorhend's death weighed as heavily on his mind as the orc attack so deep into Gondor's interior. He was quite angered at one, ambiguous about the other. The next orc found within Gondor's borders would suffer greatly for his comrades' audacity. But Gorhend. . . He was another matter.

It had been many years since he last saw that proud soldier, and the intervening time had placed a glad distance between him and one he cared never to see again. His sons could believe that he disliked the dead sergeant solely because they had displayed filial affection for him, but that was not entirely the reason. No, it extended further back than that. There were many men Denethor would prefer never set another foot inside his city, and though Gorhend certainly had not been as much of an irritant as that raggedy schemer Mithrandir, his face and name were always coupled in his mind with those of another man who, long ago, he had despised above all others.

Thorongil. What a rapturous disease that cursed man had caused! Denethor thought with a mixture of amusement and bitterness. It infected my soldiers and, above all, my own father.

Despite his attempts to forget, Denethor could not erase the memories of those pleased and proud smiles his father Ecthelion had bestowed not upon his own son, but rather some stranger from the north, a man of shadow and mystery. From the court of Thengel King this man had come, bearing little other than the clothes on his back and the sword at his side, yet he had forged such adulation for himself during his years in Minas Tirith as to make the Steward's heir tremble and shake in jealousy and suspicion.

The stranger from Rohan had possessed neither the golden hair of the Horse- lords, nor their manner. For all his rough appearance and garments, he bore himself with more grace than those of the Blood and commanded loyalty and respect from every soldier put under his command. Denethor knew such fame would have been his, had Time and Fate allowed him an open ground on which to build himself. With Thorongil beside him, however, it was a competition he was destined to lose. His opponent showed no desire to defeat him -- a maddening situation -- but, rather, only to do his duty and receive victory with affected modesty. Denethor's frustration led him to study his rival and as the years flowed into one another, bitterness and suspicion seized on the thought that Thorongil had come to Gondor not through mere accident, but by design.

But he had remained silent as the soldiers vied for Thorongil's attentions, commanding his own regiments with watchful eye and steady purpose. Gorhend had been one of his sergeants, until the favored stranger selected the hardiest and fiercest warriors to lead down the Anduin to Umbar with intent to cripple the Corsairs. Gorhend, certain of success and eager for promotion, had approached Thorongil personally, asking to be included. When Ecthelion decreed that Thorongil would have all latitude to carry out this mission, Denethor had no choice but to relinquish him to another's command. Gorhend's disloyalty burned his pride and ever since, he had had little liking for the man. It was only the need for Gondor to retain as many skilled warriors as they could that kept Denethor from sending Gorhend into whatever horizon suited him. This necessity had only caused the resentment to fester.

After this intrigue by Gorhend and several other men in his company, it was with thinly disguised pleasure when he discovered that Thorongil, after defeating the Corsairs, had returned north with his men as far as Pelargir and bade them farewell. The men sailed to Minas Tirith, dispirited and confused at their leader's abandonment of them in the flush of success. They delivered a note to Ecthelion written by the absent captain and reported that he had taken a boat across the Anduin and was last seen traveling toward Mordor. What had befallen the departed hero since, no one knew.

And I care not what happened to him, Denethor thought, bringing a hand down heavily on the table. He may return. He said as much in his farewell to my father. He left as a hero and he may well return as such. Should he do so, Boromir shall not suffer the jealousy and suspicion that I felt so harshly thirty years ago. For Thorongil shall not set one foot on the Pelennor Fields, not while I draw breath.

He remained sitting in the darkness for some time when he felt that familiar sensation pull at him. Slowly, his gaze drifted to the ceiling above. He had not been able to control Thorongil, but he could control that little stone up there in the chamber. Confined to this city and the center of power, he received reports from other regions through the eyes and words of others. But that stone. . . It let him see things for himself.

Rising to his feet, he made his way to the circular staircase with steady steps. He did not need to grasp in the dark like a man newly blind. He knew the path. The carved wooden rail felt warm and worn beneath his hand and he let his palm glide over it lightly as he climbed the stairs. Over the years, he had made many such treks. The darkness seemed to lessen as he ascended its height, as he drew closer to the small, inanimate counselor that opened so much of the world to him.

The days turned into weeks. Laenilas, who before had been so eager to press on with her journey when they set out from Lebennin, felt the fatigue of travel and tragedy come upon her with a suddenness that left her aching more than the harshest day of work over pot and tub. She did not linger in her bed or spend her waking hours bent with grief, but she viewed the prospect of walking among strangers with dread. She remembered all too well the heavy closeness of so many people on the busy streets and entering the Gondorian court in her rustic finery would make her prominent in a way she detested. With no small measure of happiness, she kept to herself and her thoughts. When she deemed herself ready, she would gladly embrace the world outside.

However, she willingly accompanied Boromir to the main barracks one day not long after they arrived. He had assembled a group of men scarred by battle or maimed in ways that made intense soldiering an impossible hardship, but the still rigorous, less deadly life of a herdsman was not beyond their skills or strength. They had stood before her, eight curious faces that ranged from the smoothness of youth to the hardened lines and crags that Gorhend and Cirien possessed. Boromir had desired her to speak to them, tell them what she expected and anything else she might wish to say.

"Your Captain has faith in you, otherwise you would not be standing here, selected for this task," she said. "I am grateful that you have accepted and I am certain that you shall keep that region safe as only soldiers of Gondor can." She let her gaze drift over the line of men. Despite their various injuries, they appeared fit and able to stand up against the Enemy, should it ever send another raiding party into the provinces. They would do well.

"You will find your new commander to be not unlike you," she continued. "Cirien once served in the ranks, just as you have up until today. He is fair and just and will treat you well if you work hard. It is a demanding life, but you already know of such things. Instead of a sword, you will be wielding a steady and patient hand on beasts that will eventually bear the friends you leave behind. Swift journey!"

The men bowed awkwardly to Laenilas and looked expectantly at their captain. Many of them had never been so far west and the real prospect of seeing new towns and sights pulled at their patience. Boromir grinned and swept his arm in the direction of the Great Gate. "Grab your horses and packs, lads, and be on your way. Should you encounter trouble, send the swiftest man back with word of it."

A scramble of men young and old left the barracks amid a scraping of boots on worn planks and Boromir watched them go with an expression of vague regret. Laenilas turned to leave and caught the fleeting disappointment on his face.

"Are you sorry to be losing your men?" she asked. "Or do you wish you could take the place of one of them?"

Boromir looked puzzled. "I hold no homesickness for Lebennin. I think I should be asking you that question."

Laenilas gave a flippant shrug. "Perhaps part of me does, but if so, I do not feel it. 'Eyes front,' I have told Myrhil. 'Forward. Never back.' I would not say such a thing if I did not believe it."

"No, I do not believe you would."

"I asked you that because you are laden with your gear," Laenilas went on, gesturing with her hand towards the Horn he wore at his waist and sweeping upwards to encompass the leathers, tunic, chain mail, cloak, sword and knife he carried. "You wear them well, but you seem weary. Riding the plains with a herd would seem peaceful work compared to what you do."

"The season has been quite hot, more so than a normal spring," Boromir explained. "That is to blame for any weariness you see."

Laenilas' eyes did not stray from his, her expression slightly skeptical, but she eventually nodded. "I have felt it," she said. "The warmth that has settled over this city. Even if I had not seen it, I would have felt the seasons change. The plains had a distinct scent to them with every turn of the season. It is no different here."

"Since your arrival, we have increased our patrols and slaughtered stray orcs as we find them," Boromir continued, "even though we did not decide on a full attack. We are determined to not let another party slip past the city unchallenged. When I am not leading a patrol, Faramir is. The strain has been great. Father and I have discussed strategy nightly."

"As indeed you must, but do not despair if the tide cannot be completely checked."

"I despair? Those are despairing words themselves, Laenilas."

Laenilas gave a small, amused grunt at Boromir's reproachful tone. "Gorhend fought against the same Enemy as you do now," she told him. "There are always those who will wish Gondor ill. My husband fought alongside your father and alongside Thorongil, both able and brave men, yet no one has been able to ensure permanent safety. Victories, certainly, but only temporary ones. In the darkest hours of the night, Gorhend would express doubt that the Enemy would ever be destroyed."

"No!" Boromir replied sharply. He intended his immediate response to ring with conviction, and so it did, but his gaze shifted to the ground and Laenilas perceived that disbelief and doubt lingered there, if only a little. "No," he said again. "We will have victory, total and complete. One day the Shadow will fall and we shall stand triumphant upon the field. The white banner of the Stewards will rise where the Enemy's standards now fly." His grey eyes met hers and she saw that he believed all of his uncertainty had been vanquished. "Victory shall be ours, Laenilas, whether by my hand or another's."

She did not answer, but instead reached up a hand and brushed aside a lock of hair that had fallen over his brow. He shifted uncomfortably under her caress and she smiled absently. She could not stay her hand from making such gestures, though she was not his mother or nurse. The longer she knew him, the more she felt that something about him compelled her to see the sorrow and strain that he bore silently. His face was marked with the worries of a soldier, the same that her husband had carried for all the years that she had known him, but there were others, too. Deeper marks, and only beginning to take hold of his features, but they would never fade. Soldiers fought for their country, certainly, but foremost for their lives. For this young warrior, it was quite the opposite.

"And so shall it pass," she replied. "You are so young and the fire to defend your home burns so hotly within you," she continued, her voice heavy with regret. "Be sure it does not consume you to the exclusion of all else."

Boromir retreated from her slightly and smothered a relieved sigh when her hand returned to her side. "That is my duty," he said. "It simplifies all matters. Gondor will come first, now and always."

"I am sure it shall, but do not spend all your years intent on everyone's life but your own. 'Tis not a way to spend one's youth. Take pleasure where you can, my child, for you shall surely regret it when you are old and bent, or breathing your last on a blood-soaked field."

Boromir could not find suitable words to reply, but he found it unnecessary when Laenilas turned and began to leave the barracks. He escorted her back to the tunnel that led to the citadel and she returned to her small cottage while he left the city on another patrol. Since that day, she had rarely ventured from the cozy domicile.

The cottage Faramir had housed them in was comfortable, not to mention peaceful, set as it was away from the White Tower and other official buildings that saw much activity. The cottage's insignificant size also seemed to aid in the peace Laenilas enjoyed, for it tended to escape the attention of the casual passerby. Servants came with bath water and food, but they did not linger in accordance with Faramir's orders.

Two weeks after their arrival, Laenilas asked the girl who delivered their supper to relay a message to Faramir that she wished to see him. Later that evening, he arrived with a soft knock on the door. Laenilas bade him enter and sit at the small table as she took the opposite seat. Faramir was very attentive as he waited for her to speak.

"I apologize for taking unseemly advantage of your hospitality, my lord," she began. "I realize that we have been here longer than what I intended. I certainly did not plan this--"

"Lady Laenilas, please," Faramir said, holding up a hand. "You have not taken advantage. We are most delighted to have you here although we wish it were under more favorable circumstances. Rather, I should apologize for neglecting you so shamefully. It was my intention to escort you around the city or command someone to carry out that task, but my attention, and that of my brother, has been quite preoccupied of late."

"The orc attack."

"Just so. I have but newly returned from the south and Boromir has taken a scouting party north, but you already know of that."

"Yes, Myrhil keeps me informed. She is seemingly determined to keep herself apprised of all military matters here. I would not like her to become bothersome, however."

Faramir smiled. "Boromir is quite capable of fending off her questions, but he is not interested in doing so. I have learned much from him, so it can only benefit your daughter to do the same."

Laenilas nodded thoughtfully. Myrhil had been spending many hours within the city, exploring on her own and in the company of Boromir, his brother, or that soldier, Beregond, who had been with Faramir the day of their arrival. She was not surprised that Myrhil showed greatest pleasure when she spent time, however brief, with Faramir's brother.

"Still, I apologize all the same," she said. "It was foolish of me to expect her to be content remaining here, as I have. Truth be told, my lord, I have had little desire to emerge from this snug cottage, but I know that I shall be feeling constrained within a few short days. My spirit has benefited from this rest."

"If I may say so, I have been concerned about your reticence." Faramir's eyes brightened with amusement. "I was beginning to wonder if Boromir's impressions of you were false."

Laenilas surprised herself by letting forth with a hearty laugh. "The stories you must have heard about me!" she exclaimed. "I am certain that your esteemed brother painted me as a harridan, is that not so?" Before Faramir could reply, she added, "He would have been partially truthful, I confess, for my tongue does have a sharp edge." She smiled sweetly. "But have I not been flawless in my agreeability here?"

"Certainly," he replied, returning her smile. "I truly am glad that you are here, though the circumstances which brought you are regrettable." He stopped and cleared his throat in discomfort as he realized that he had mentioned this before. "I am sorry."

Laenilas looked at him, brow creased in puzzlement, but her expression softened when she realized to what he referred. "Think no more on what you say, Faramir," she said. "Talk of it has ceased to cut me as close as it once did."

"Then if it would not pain you--" He paused and Laenilas saw that he was contemplating something, his expression uncertain.

"My lord?" she prompted. "What do you fear will grieve me?"

"I--I had not seen Gorhend in many years," he continued. "My only news of him was from Boromir, and he and your husband only discussed war and the business of horses." He paused again and saw that Laenilas's head was inclined towards him in expectant curiosity. "Would it hurt you overly much if you could tell me of him these past years?"

Laenilas was silent as she pondered his request. "I am not certain what I could tell you that would be of interest," she finally said. "I was but his wife. . ."

"Then you knew him as something other than a soldier. That is all I ever knew." His eyes, nearly a mirror of his soul, spoke a silent plea.

She rose from her bench and rounded the table to sit beside him, looking upon his fair face in wonder. What was this quality both brothers possessed that made her wish to speak so openly to them about Gorhend? Perhaps it was the love they bore for him. It was honest and open with no hint that their affection hinged on receiving something in return. In that moment, she found herself comparing it to Myrhil's affection and how, up to the hour of Gorhend's death, her daughter had been intent on making amends in order to secure her inheritance. Nor had Larhend loved his father selflessly. Knowing that everything would be his, he had demanded more than what Gorhend would willingly give before its time. It would have doubtlessly been the same situation had Faramir and Boromir been our children, she thought sadly. Families are doomed to strife.

But such ties of blood did not exist between them and there was no cause for rancor. No desire for land, horseflesh, or the freedom from filial obligations came between these two boys and her dead husband. If revealing details of Gorhend's simply country life would please Faramir, then she could not bring herself to refuse him.

She took his hand in hers and clasped it tightly. Her head began to swim with tales and memories, all wishing to be told. There were so many!

"By the stars," she whispered, "where shall I begin?"

Considering Myrhil's obvious contentment to remain within Minas Tirith, Laenilas did not expect to see regret in her child's eyes when she announced they would perhaps prolong their stay for several weeks more. Though not disappointed, she was noticeably curious as to the reason for her mother's change of plans.

"I thought you were eager to go to Rohan," she said. "Why the delay? Have you not rested fully?"

"Oh, I have that. Fully and completely, but I think I was perhaps a bit hasty and single-minded in my plans before we departed. The way is clear for us to proceed at our leisure and I think that leisure is what we must take while it is before us." She chewed her finger in thought. "Though I greatly desire to see Rohan, there is nothing that forces us to arrive there immediately and I ponder daily what does await us in Edoras. I cannot be certain that we will not find ourselves adrift to make our way as best we can. Théoden will surely see to our comfort in small measure, but as for full hospitality, I think it too much to take for granted. So, let us seize pleasure where we may."

"Why not just say that we will take advantage of our kindly hosts as long as it suits us?"

Laenilas shook her head in resignation. "I thought that I possessed little subtlety, but you lack it completely! 'Tis a wonder that you have not become known throughout the city as an unmannered bumpkin!"

"I do not open my mouth as much as you think I do," Myrhil retorted. "I adore this city and, were Edoras not our destination, I should be content to remain here indefinitely."

"Aye, I suspect you would. I cannot say I fault you for thinking so. Minas Tirith does have many attractions." Laenilas allowed herself a smile. "I daresay you would join the army if it were possible, serving under the command of a certain Captain."

Since the night of their arrival, beginning with the partial revelation as Myrhil had lain in her washtub, Laenilas and her daughter had come to an understanding about what had occurred during the watch that night with Boromir. Finding her mother's discerning, yet silent, gaze maddening, Myrhil had divulged further details, if only to prove that nothing had been amiss. It was obvious that the girl was not pleased at Laenilas's knowledge, and the periodic teasing her mother indulged in was an irritant at best, but she maintained there was nothing shameful in what she had done. In fact, once Laenilas had her prized salve back in her own hands, the matter was of little importance other than a source of amusement at her daughter's expense. Myrhil was free to enjoy Boromir's company and she did so, gladly.

"I would happily serve him with my sword in the ranks, but we both know it is a ridiculous notion," she replied without a trace of humor.

"Faramir told me that you were continuing your practice with the sword and you have begun to learn the knife," Laenilas continued. "He says that you handle both well."

"He is a fine sparring partner and he wields a sword more gently than his brother." Myrhil sounded relieved, though grudgingly. "My shoulder is still weak and last week Boromir brought me to my knees. He said that he deliberately softened the blow and my pride still bleeds from his words. I hope within a month such will never occur again."

Laenilas pointed towards the door, her finger rigid. "Go back to the Houses of Healing. They have done much for you, but not enough. If they are as talented as their reputation proclaims, then by month's end you will be able to withstand those soft blows." She shook her head again. "Sticks and swords! With that sling, you already throw rocks. I am proud of you, girl, but please vow that you will never pick up a lance or bow. I wish to travel with my daughter, not a walking arsenal!"

Myrhil left the cottage, mind at work about what weapon to learn next. She despised feeling so petty, but she got a fair amount of pleasure from irritating her mother, as did her mother from mentioning Boromir in such sweet tones. Perhaps it was the closeness of the cottage and her mother's constant presence whenever she entered, which may be why she spent most of her waking hours in the city or out on the Pelennor Fields. Summer was encroaching upon Gondor and, after a harsh winter on the plains, the thought of remaining enclosed within four walls ran counter to every impulse she felt.

She skirted the citadel wall, the White Tower to her left. She had only been in the fabled structure once, when Faramir took her there and presented her to his father in order to thank him for his hospitality, a formality that she had been deputed to perform. Laenilas had adamantly remained behind in the cottage and while Myrhil was, at the time, angered at her mother's apparent attack of fragility, that feeling did not last long when she came face to face with Gondor's ruler. As she looked upon the stern and stony features of Denethor, she could not help but feel that, had her mother joined her, the encounter would have been neither smooth nor successful. Denethor's very mien stated quite plainly that he preferred to have the upper hand in whatever congress he engaged and, considering Laenilas' penchant for having the last word, discord would have been the inevitable result. As it was, Myrhil felt she only emerged with a small measure of goodwill in her wake because she largely remained silent, allowing Faramir to talk in what she was quickly recognizing was the artful and skilled manner she would forever lack.

Still, she could not rid herself of the feeling that Denethor disliked her, though what she had done to earn that ill will, other than prolonging her stay, she could not specify. As she had left the Tower, she wondered if the reason why Laenilas remained behind was because of this same impression she had received. Perhaps her mother had once met him and did not wish to repeat the experience. However, she did not remember Laenilas ever mentioning she had exchanged words with the Steward of Gondor and she had not thought to ask.

She dismissed these thoughts as she passed the tower and continued onward to the tunnel that would lead her to the next level of the city and the Houses of Healing. Her shoulder was mending quickly and without much pain ever since she had first come to the attention of the healers, but not fast enough to suit her. The physician she had last seen bade her be patient and not exert herself, advice that she regularly ignored in her desire to continue her arms practice. Though Faramir had admonished her only the other day for her careless treatment of her own health, Boromir's reaction was one of amusement, almost approval, and she was similarly light about her delayed recovery.

Ah, it mattered not what anyone thought. The wound was still angry and required time to fully mend. It demanded attention and rest. She would not give it the latter, but the Houses of Healing and their immense inventory of herbs, lotions and remedies could provide the former. Since her first session with a healer, she had acquired several fragrances about her as salve after salve was spread onto the wound, not all of them pleasant. What was one more?

When she entered the vast collection of buildings, she was told the healer who had tended her previously was preoccupied with other patients. She agreed to wait. One of his assistants directed her to a room that adjoined the man's study and as she entered, she was surprised to see Faramir sitting there.

"Are you sick?" she asked.

Faramir smiled and she noticed that his cheeks turned a faint shade of red, as though he wished she were not there. He closed the small book he was reading after marking the page with a blue ribbon. "No, not exactly, but I know someone who is." He pointed at her. "You."

"I? I am not sick. Simply mending."

"I must disagree. You have a disease up here." He tapped his finger against his temple. "It is called stubbornness. Or deafness. Either way, if that is not cured now, nothing else ever will."

Myrhil crossed the room and took a seat beside him, her expression guarded. "So you have come here to conspire against me, enlisting a healer or two to join forces and bend me to their will. That is something your brother would never do."

"Boromir is not always mindful of his own health," he said. "He is a soldier, not a healer. He dispatches life. He does not preserve it."

Myrhil's eyes hardened. "He saves the lives of his men. He helped save mine. Healers lose their patients as well, my lord."

"Agreed, but Boromir receives wounds and presses on, regardless of how he feels. It is through luck alone that he has not suffered greatly for it. I would not like you to be one of the unfortunates."

"This is about my father, isn't it?" she asked shrewdly, leaning forward with her arms resting on her legs in a manner unseen among the finer ladies of Minas Tirith. "Both you and your brother help me because in a way you are honoring him. In fact, you are intent on preserving me."

Faramir said nothing. He looked down at the slim volume in his hands, his fingers running absently over the gilded letters on the cover. They were marks that she could not understand, but she paid it no attention beyond that brief observation.

"It is," she affirmed. "I sense it about Boromir as well. From the first time he had me pick up a sword against him, he has been insistent that I bear whatever he chooses to put on me. He says I need to be able to meet whatever I might find before me and come away from it with my life intact." She had not been looking at him as she spoke, her eyes fixed on the book and his hands, but now she lifted her gaze and sought his. "It is so very odd, but when he said that, when he told me I needed to be stronger than I ever thought possible, I swore I could hear my father." Swallowing noticeably, she finished, "I deem myself fortunate to have your concern. I only hope I can repay it in some small measure."

Faramir shook his head. "No, no, you need not fear a debt. And, should our paths ever cross again and one of us is in need--" He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "Well, we will do what we can for the other with no thought for who owes whom. Satisfactory?"

Myrhil considered his words and finally nodded her head, straightening in her chair only to slouch backwards. "Satisfactory." She sighed and brought her hands to her eyes. "Can we not speak of it anymore? Perhaps it is still the wound or simply the arms practice, but I am weary."

"Certainly. I shall abandon my plot to turn your thoughts to your health, now that you know of it. Here." He held out the small book to her. "I will leave you, but this will be entertaining until the healer can tend to you."

She looked at the bizarre letters and waved her hand. "No, I cannot read that. It looks like nothing I have ever seen."

"Ah, that is Sindarin. You do not know it?"

Myrhil looked at him blankly. "Should I have? Who speaks it?"

"It is the language that influenced the tongue you speak." He opened the book to the page he had marked. "See? On one side is Sindarin, the ancient language of Gondor and still spoken by the elves. The other side is Westron."

"What is the book about?" she asked, making no move to take it.

Faramir smiled. "Read for yourself." He held it closer and she took it after a moment's hesitation. "This page contains one of my favorite poems," he went on. "'Tis the first thing I ever memorized. Mother had both Boromir and I recite rhymes like this to cheer her."

Myrhil looked at the page in silence. The image of Boromir as a child reciting a silly rhyme would have made her laugh, had Faramir not continued sitting there expectantly. She wished he would leave, but she would see this through as best she could. Venturing an uneasy smile, she turned the page.

"You did not like it?" he asked.

"What?" She flipped back a page.

"That poem." He affected a hurt expression. "What a blow to my childhood memories to have you pass that by without a word!"

The uneasy smile found its way to her lips once again. "Ah, yes, it was very enjoyable."

Faramir's puzzled gaze went from her to the book and back again. "Read it to me," he said finally.

"W-what?"

"'Tis a simple poem," he said quietly. "Please read it."

Myrhil felt the sudden urge to snap the book shut and shove it into his startled hands, but she instead placed her finger on the page under the first line and held it there for what seemed like ages.

"At least you have your finger on the Westron translation." He took the book from her. "You cannot read, can you?"

Myrhil exhaled loudly as she felt the pressure lift from her. "It appears all your learning has taught you to spy a liar," she said, trying to keep her tone light. In truth, this revelation of her ignorance to one of such high station humiliated her. "In my defense, I know my letters and I can read some and write just as much. Words in my father's ledger, mostly. Inventory words. Barrels, bushels, grain, horses, nails. Things like that, but as for. . ." She gestured helplessly at the book. "I would have as much success reading a book of orc poetry as what you have there!"

He laughed. "Orc poetry. That would be a fine read!" She expected him to be snide about her obvious lack of schooling, but he simply held the book between them and put his finger under the first line as she had done earlier. "Then I will begin to teach you. Boromir shall instruct you on the field and I in the library. Satisfactory?" Though it seemed he was asking for her permission, his eyes held no such willingness to accept a negative answer. He wished to have her learn, and learn she would.

Indeed, he did not wait for her to reply, but instead began to read what was on the page. Each line was spoken slowly and in a clear voice, his finger guiding her eyes and ears.

        Learn now the names of Gondor's Fiefs
        Ever-faithful friends in need:
        In mighty Anórien Elendil sleeps
        While Eastern watch the Stewards keep.
        The Moon walks in Isildur's realm:
        Fair and forsaken Ithilien.
        Lossarnach, in flowered vales,
        Will shelter keep while War's wind wails.
        Cross five streams to reach the haven
        Of Pelargir, in flowered Lebennin.
        High in the mountains of Lamedon
        The Heir will call and Dead will come.
        O'er Belfalas flies Ship and Swan;
        Land of the Prince, where Elves have gone;
        One hundred leagues along the sand,
        Is Anfalas, peaceful Langstrand.
        Seven remain, two gone, Alas!
        Calenardhon and drown'd Tol Falas.

"You just taught me about Gondor. I recognized the names and some other words besides." She smiled broadly and pointed to one name after another. "I have read so seldom, and what I have read were practical things, not written in a way such as this. 'Tis beautiful." Her eyes continued to stare intently at the verses. "You must tell me more about them," she said thoughtfully, her finger drifting from one verse to the next. "There are many stories of bravery and valor in each one, I hope."

Faramir shook his head wordlessly at her appetite for all things military. He did not know if she truly was of such warlike bent, or if she was merely emulating his brother. Her admiration for Boromir was obvious and he suspected she was mildly infatuated with him, which was to be expected, considering what had occurred in the small vale of Lebennin. Boromir had been there to aid them in a trying time, dealing out death and, as she had pointed out, saving lives -- namely hers. His brother had never lacked for admirers and Myrhil was simply another one of them. However, her steadily growing ease with handling weaponry bespoke of a genuine enthusiasm for the soldierly trade and wielding of arms, rather than the feigned interest of the smitten. Perhaps she has interest in learning the bow, he thought.

Footsteps approached and Myrhil looked up to see the healer standing before them, his expression grim. "Ah, I see you have returned for another miraculous potion so that you may continue to throw your bruised body about like a sack of grain," he said, not attempting to conceal his disapproval.

Myrhil looked over at Faramir and bit her lip in mock fear. "You should go," she whispered. "I fear I shall be lectured for quite some time."

He stood and closed the book. "Boromir will be away for several days yet and I feel this good man here will be quite emphatic about you altering the way you spend your time." The good man in question nodded and continued to regard Myrhil with a dour look. Faramir smiled. "Well, we shall obey his orders and you will leave the practice field behind for a few days. It will not affect your progress overly much. Am I correct?"

Myrhil nodded, knowing that what he proposed was reasonable and what must be done, though she would prefer to continue her sword practice. She needed to rest and not take two paces backward in her recovery for every step forward. The prospect of spending several days in a musty library did not set her pulse racing, but there were definitely worse things she could be forced to do.

What they were, however, she could not name.

Note: The poem is "Gondor Fiefs Nursery Rhyme" by Nancy Brooke, a marvelous little inspiration. I have used it here with permission.

"Now, weapon up. Ready? Begin!"

"Wait, wait!" came the panicked cry. "I am not ready yet."

Boromir lowered his sword and twirled it with a smooth motion of his wrist, the blade whirring crisply through the air. "An orc will not be as obliging as I, Myrhil. Finish wiping your face and be done with it."

Myrhil dragged a sleeve across her brow, ridding it of any sweat that might roll into her eyes, and swept away the damp curls that clung to her forehead. The day was blistering hot and the dust from the Pelennor Fields seemed to flow into her lungs and cling to every piece of damp, exposed skin.

Boromir looked no better. He had removed his outer tunic and was garbed only in breeches and shirt, but it did little to ease his discomfort. The garments clung to him from the copious perspiration, and his face and neck bore streaks where rivulets of sweat had rolled through the layers of dirt that covered him.

The impending arrival of an embassy from Rohan within a few days' time had entailed more conferences and discussions than Boromir could tolerate. In a fit of irritation, he had grabbed Myrhil and retreated to this flat area at a distance from the city, seeking some peace. Laenilas was quite delighted with this visit from her kinsmen and she had likewise aggravated her daughter with constant talk about how to present their case to the visitors. When Boromir had suggested that they desert the planners to their own devices, Myrhil did not hesitate to slip from the city.

The two fugitives now stood at a distance from the South Gate, the midday sun pummeling them fiercely. Ever since the sun had achieved its summit, the heat that blanketed the city seemed to intensify with each passing minute. Many wives and daughters who lived on the outer limits of the Pelennor had removed themselves to the Anduin with their baskets of dirty linen so they could work and take the occasional swim at the same time. As she thought about the cool water, Myrhil began to sweat even more. She wiped her brow again and, when she had her sword raised and ready, she nodded her head to begin another bout.

Boromir struck her sword several times in quick succession, their blades ringing and screeching against each other as Myrhil deflected them effectively. Gauging the intensity of the vibration singing along her arm from the force of the blows, she knew he was not applying his full strength. He had done that only once before, a week ago, when he suggested they take measure of her recovery. The single blow had crumpled her to her knees and Boromir had pulled her to her feet with the suggestion that they continue to spar as they had been for a while longer. From the numbing agony she had experienced at that moment, and for long minutes afterward, she doubted she would ever be able to withstand the brunt of his unleashed strength. In the weeks she had spent practicing with Faramir, Boromir, the various contraptions in the armory, and the occasional soldier, she had hardened her body into something only begun in Lebennin over the anvil and forge. Still, she was not as strong as she would have been had her shoulder not been so severely injured, and she doubted she would ever be strong enough to meet Boromir on anything like equal terms. Faramir, perhaps. He was slighter than his brother and Boromir had commented on more than one occasion that she resembled his younger brother at that age. She did not know whether to be insulted at this inference that she possessed a gawky masculine frame -- a cursory inspection in the mirror before a bath inclined her to think not -- or be proud of the observation. She had always wanted to be strong, in spirit if not in body, for Larhend had been both. She could wield his sword with fluid ease and had recently begun practice with some of the heavier broadswords in the armory with barely a twinge from her wound.

They parted from a bout of fierce parrying and Myrhil absently rubbed her neck and shoulder through her grimy shirt as her mind was turned to it.

Boromir lowered his sword and straightened. "Is that bothering you?" he asked.

Myrhil crooked an arm and wiped another sheen of sweat from her face. "No. I simply thought how much it does not hurt, for once."

"Faramir told me that the week you spent away from the practice field during my absence on patrol is the reason for your final recovery. Quite quick it was, he said. No doubt he felt proud and smug that his books did what swords could not." He smiled, adding with a wry twist of his lips, "Sitting on your arse does have a way of resting the body." He walked over to her and put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently. "That no longer pains you?" His eyes flitted to her face, but she did not notice he was studying her, for her gaze was fixed on his hand.

Wordlessly, he handed his sword to her, which she took. He brought his other hand to her face and, when she closed an eye reflexively, lightly ran the pad of his thumb over her formerly bruised eyelid. "And this?" he asked, his voice as soft as his touch. The coloring had faded long ago after remaining an angry purple, followed by a sickly yellow, for many days. The scabs from the orc's sharp gauntlet had also long been replaced by new skin. Almost immediately, he noticed that a deeper blush tinged her cheeks, redder than what the exertion and relentless sun would have caused.

On that night so long ago, he had refrained from forcing himself on a grieving woman, expecting that she would have arrived at -- and departed from -- Minas Tirith long since. At the time, he knew that she also believed she would remain in the White City a few scant days. Once she and Laenilas passed through the North Gate on the final step of their journey, the opportunity to lie in each other's arms would have been irrevocably lost. Lamenting it would have been senseless and other matters would have soon supplanted this idle wish. However, the days and weeks had passed and she was still here. The acute grief and persistent memories had been subordinated by the busy streets of the city, by the arms practice, by Faramir's books and, inevitably, by Time itself.

Myrhil was no longer that confused and grieving person and both were aware of it. Such gestures, like the ones he just made, were becoming more frequent and Myrhil had made several of her own: a hand on his wrist; intentionally brushing against him when she passed; and even a simple glance when she knew he would turn his head and notice her attentions. Neither had shown any indication, however slight, of wishing the other would cease.

"No, it does not hurt," she replied softly, laying her hand over his. She grasped two of his fingers and squeezed them slightly. "Neither of them. In fact, should you now grip me as you did the night we caught that duck, I would not crumple again."

Boromir let his hand slip from her hold and fall to his side. "I will not chance that," he said, taking his blade from her and backing away. Both had received a degree of pleasure from the moment and he retreated until the need for another intimate touch resurfaced.

Very rarely had he succeeded in games involving patience, but he had found it easy to exercise that strange virtue when this situation demanded it. The fruits of this patience were fleshly pleasures different from the ones obtained through the easy exchange of money or freely given due to ridiculous awe and loyalty. It was oddly stimulating. Laenilas had commented on his weariness, on his tired air when fully laden with his soldierly trappings. Perhaps so, but he did not believe that this patience was caused by tiredness. Fatigue would make him irritated at the lack of rapid advance. Instead, each incremental step he and Myrhil took towards one another, no matter the length of time to accomplish it, was a rewarding victory, and he felt no need for haste. The anticipation of the final victory, when they eventually met on this playing field they were slowly crossing, was becoming more tangible with each exchanged caress. It was close now. So very close.

"Nay, I dare not do it," he repeated with a laugh, returning them to the mood they had enjoyed before that suspended moment. "In fact, Faramir would never forgive me if I undid all the good that his fine scrolls and volumes wrought."

"Did that startle you?" she asked, struggling to regain her former footing. With each passing caress, she found it difficult to turn her mind from it immediately as she once had.

"What? That you willingly sat beside him and listened to him for hours, inhaling all that parchment dust and stale ink?"

Myrhil shook her head, slightly embarrassed. "No. That I could barely read."

Boromir shrugged. "You had no use for it, so what good would it have been? You knew enough and your father knew just as much, I am sure. Only being able to read ledgers and the odd contract is nothing to be ashamed of. It was practical." He leaned forward and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "Besides, what can poetry say in fancy words that cannot be understood with plainer talk?"

"From what I have seen, not much," she replied, smiling. "I fear I drove your brother to despair when I insisted on reading about the tales of battles and legends of the past. He did mutter something about 'being corrupted' by you." She smothered another smile by bringing her sword to her head in a salute so that the blade masked her mouth. "He told me that you have little interest in books and lore other than the heroic deeds they tell." She lowered her sword and used it to lean on as another wave of scorching summer hear rolled across the Pelennor. It was becoming intolerable and she could feel her legs quivering in exhaustion.

Boromir answered with a grin. "I have my own collection of books and scrolls and the furthest reaches of the archives contain many more that it is my privilege alone to read. Father can read them too, naturally, and he has done so, many times over."

"I hope you will confide any interesting tales to me," she said, trying to sound light, but unable to mask her distress as she brought her sleeve to her brow again.

"Consider them confided." He looked up at the sun, a hand before his eyes. "This cursed sun! One more bout in it and I shall drop like a flogged workhorse. Only the first day of Nárië and it is already as hot as anything seen in Urimë in living memory." He sheathed his sword and walked over to where he had discarded his tunic, belt, and pouch. Myrhil returned her sword to its scabbard and made to follow him, assuming their practice was over, but he reversed his steps once his tunic was in hand. Taking her by the elbow, he turned their path towards the South Gate.

"Today the Anduin shall not be enjoyed solely by washerwomen and their brats," he said cheerily. "We will find a place upstream from their dirty clothes and enjoy ourselves for a short while before I have to return to the barracks or suffer more endless details about the Rohirrim."

Myrhil's steps, hesitant when still ignorant of where he was leading her and why, became quick and eager and soon matched his. "And if we should spy a duck?" she teased.

"We will let it live," he replied, turning to look at her. His grey eyes were merry, despite the wilting heat, and the corners crinkled in amusement.

Myrhil met his gaze and his face was so alight with the simple excitement of swimming on a hot day that she found herself smiling broadly in return.

Keeping to the Rammas in the narrow strip of land between the large outer wall and the banks of the Anduin, Myrhil and Boromir passed many women and youths who had escaped from the confines of the hot, stifling city to bathe in the cooling waters of the great river. Despite the constant danger of orcs approaching the river from the east, the sweltering heat was enough to make many overcome their fears and venture there to seek relief. If children had swords, they brought them and many women would not think of leaving the city without carrying a knife, either to use on attackers or themselves.

Rain had been plentiful in mid-spring, but it had tapered off shortly thereafter and the width of the running water had narrowed in recent days. Still, there were plenty of deep swimming holes, if one persisted in searching for them. Boromir found such a one, upstream from a large gathering of laundresses and positioned beneath a small bluff with shallow banks on either side. With a sigh of satisfaction, he deposited his sword, tunic and leather pouch onto the grassy bank.

Myrhil unbuckled her sword belt and bent over to remove her boots and stockings, hopping on first one foot, then the other. She had barely righted herself and was about to contemplate the water when she felt a hand in the middle of her back, followed by a sharp shove. Soon the lazy current was rushing up to meet her and her surprised cry of outrage was quickly silenced as she plunged into the depths.

Despite the intense heat of the past few days, the river's bite had not been dulled and the water still induced shivers on first contact. She surfaced and ground her teeth together to still her tremors, looking balefully at the man who was laughing raucously on the bank.

"You would not be laughing if you were in my place," she called out between chattering teeth.

"No?" came the retort. "But I suspect you would if you were in mine."

She nodded reluctantly at the truth of his statement. "And I would give you leave to strike me if a cramp seized you," she said, voice still tight between shivers. Soon the cold made it impossible to speak through her hammering jaw. Closing her eyes, she let herself sink beneath the surface so that the chill would surround her. The shock gradually lessened, much to her relief, and she soon heard a thump course through the water, telling her that Boromir had dove in as well.

Settling into a long stroke underwater, she went against the current and allowed herself to bob gently to the top when she felt her lungs begin to burn. Resurfacing, she sighed as the sun's intense warmth settled on her. Lying on her back, she let the current carry her in the direction she had come. The sleeves of her shirt fluttered in the water around her arms and she delighted in this airy, floating sensation after the long hours of running and retreating across hard earth, the weight of the sword and the oppressive sun wearing away at her strength.

She continued to travel with the listless speed of the river, her feet sticking above the soft swirls and eddies that lapped against her toughened and aching soles. She was about to open her eyes to look for Boromir when her foot was in a firm grip and she swung around from this anchor.

"You have not moved!" she accused. "For shoving me in, the least you could do is explore a little."

"I am familiar with this place," he replied. "Besides, I am frozen to the bone," he replied, "but it is not so bad as it was."

Myrhil continued to lazily drift back and forth as Boromir's sure hand held her ankle. She let her head fall back into the water and looked up at the sky, nearly white from the intense heat and haze. Mordor's smoke and ash made an unsullied blue sky a rarity, but it was something that most in eastern Gondor had grown accustomed to, for they knew little else. Though Mordor's mark was not unknown in far Lebennin, it was far heavier and more pronounced here around the fair and glittering city. Closing her eyes, she focused all of her attention on the sensations that originated from his fingers pressing into the bone and skin around that small part of her and were spreading throughout her body. His touch felt different now than on the Pelennor. Somehow, it was closer, seeming to surround her more than the Anduin.

Boromir stood his ground on the riverbed and allowed the peaceful strains of the Anduin's meandering song to hold sway. He watched Myrhil contemplate the sky above and ventured a glance or two upwards to see what it was that held her interest so. He could discern nothing, and so he returned to his own musings, which were varied and brief. He thought of swimming here with Faramir when they were boys, of his nightly conference with his father, of the Rohirrim emissaries that were due to arrive within days, and of the woman who floated around him.

When Myrhil continued to remain motionless and unresisting under his touch, Boromir ventured to run his free hand along the underside of her leg, beginning at her ankle and up over the tight curve of her calf. He felt her stiffen briefly in surprise, but just as quickly she relaxed without casting him so much as a glance.

Encouraged, he relinquished his hold on her ankle and, before the current could carry her away, his fingers were firmly hooked into the material of her breeches. Slowly, he brought her closer to him, repeating this hand over hand motion. In one purposeful path from her ankle to her back, his hands traveled, massaging her cold flesh.

He ended her journey when he circled an arm around her back and brought her tightly against him. Myrhil moved for the first time during this interlude and Boromir felt her arm wrap itself around his waist. She tried to lower herself and bring her feet flat on the riverbed, but the current kept forcing her aloft. Boromir realized her trouble and snaked his other arm around her legs and began walking towards the shore, his steps slow and tentative on the rocky bottom.

Myrhil was about to protest his action. She was no stranger to embraces and couplings in odd places such as rivers. She and Belaród had done such a thing in the Gilrain on more than one occasion, but she had no desire to reveal that to Boromir. Wherever he took her would be suitable.

He stopped, still in the river. "Are you willing?" he asked, looking down at her.

"Completely so," she replied, her patience fraying as the drops of water slipped and slid on her skin on their way back into the Anduin. Each tumbling roll, whether it fell from her fingers or between her toes, seemed to incite her nerves in a way that demanded to be calmed in the manner that only a lover could provide. "But we need not take the time to leave the river."

"I cannot vouch for you, but I would find it difficult in that cold water. I am shriveled as it is. If I am to be of any use, I need to be warm." To emphasize his point, he squeezed her up against his chest and grinned.

"Then let us see to that," she replied. "To the riverbank."

When the grass was once more beneath his feet, Boromir sank to his knees and laid her gently on the ground. Without hesitation, he covered her body with his, taking great pleasure in the feel of that trembling lean form pressed so thoroughly against him. There were no ringing blades between them as they pushed against each other, no pretense to bring them together like this. It was nothing but what it was, what both of them wanted, without artifice or contrivance.

Boromir felt Myrhil's legs settle knowingly around his hips and the motion was like the same beckoning hand he had seen in the darkness on the final night of their journey. He obeyed the silent command and commenced his assault. His hand went instinctively to that scarred patch on her shoulder. Sliding his hand under the wet linen of her shirt, he let his fingers graze over it. Scars were badges of honor, of valor, and this scar was what had begun the long and patient journey now ending in this consummation. The throat of her shirt was unlaced enough so that he drew it back, revealing the healed pink tissue to the sun's bath. Bending his head, he kissed it, letting his lips follow the rough seams from the stitches long removed.

He stopped when he heard Myrhil's throaty giggle in his ear and looked at her in surprise. "Why do you laugh?"

She tilted her head, smiling, as she ran a finger along his lips. "You are fascinated with that," she said. "You always have been. That first night. . ." Her voice faded as her finger continued its circuit around his lips. She shook her head, as though dismissing some foolish thought or ridding herself of an entrancement. "It was a hideous monstrosity," she went on, "nothing but pain and aching of the worst sort, and that night my wound and a jar of salve nearly undid me and yourself."

Boromir grinned crookedly, catching her fingertip between his teeth. She wrested it free by playfully swatting his head. He gave a final, gentle kiss to her wound and let his lips wend their way up her throat, placing several kisses on the warming skin, at first gentle but becoming more urgent. Myrhil's lazy moans of contentment hummed in his ears. Up over her chin his lips traveled, coming to her mouth where he first contented himself with a gentle brush of a kiss on her lips, tasting her tentatively, as though slowly reacquainting himself with her scent.

The happiness and elation Myrhil now felt seemed more than she could comprehend. Perhaps later, after it was over, she could put it into words, or at least coherent thoughts. The pressure and tension between them was shattering after growing stronger with every fleeting caress and touch over the past two months. When had it started? Myrhil at first remembered their stick swordfight by the campfire, but . . .no, it seemed already in place by then. Was it at an earlier time? She recalled crouching under the tree, searching for rocks in the darkness and their hands running clumsily into each other in their search. It had seemed so natural and unremarkable at the time, but with him now above her, pressing her so forcefully into the earth's embrace, it assumed greater importance, the seed of what now was in bloom.

She smiled against his lips and lifted her head, seeking to deepen the kiss and tangling her fingers tightly in his wet locks. Boromir had begun to grind his hips against her in an insistent rhythm, the wet and coarse fabric of their breeches only serving to frustrate them even more. Myrhil's invitation to plunge further incited him and his siege intensified tenfold. His hands were over her clothes, inside them, rubbing and caressing and kneading her body into something that would receive him joyfully. All the while, his mouth did not leave hers. Her lips and cheeks felt scarred by his beard, inflamed and raw under this strange attack, but it only heightened her awareness of him and all that he did to her. Except by another manner, she did not know how he could possibly unite with her with more sensation. Every part of her felt him and she wanted to feel more. With this thought, Myrhil's hands sought his breeches. She slipped one inside and began to tug blindly at the lacings with the other, prompting Boromir to groan at her touch, but she had not made much progress when all was brought to a shattering halt.

A voice was calling out in the distance. "My lord Captain! Captain Boromir!" it cried.

Boromir wrenched himself away from Myrhil's lips and looked to his left in the direction of the call. "Mordor's breath!" he growled.

Myrhil turned in the direction of his gaze and let her head fall back onto the grassy cushion, defeated, when she heard the unseen intruder call again. Letting out a small groan of frustration, she relinquished her hold on his stirring member and abandoned his lacings entirely. With another groan, she shoved at Boromir's chest. Startled, he was unable to stop her completely rolling from underneath him and he watched her take a place on the grass at a seemly distance. He was pleased to see that he was not the only one whose mood had turned sour. With ill-concealed annoyance, she unsheathed her sword and went about inspecting it for nonexistent rust and dullness just before the man appeared around the bend of the river and saw the object of his search.

"Ah, Captain! I am relieved to find you!" he said, breathless. "The women downstream saw you pass and told me I should continue walking until--"

"What is it, Beregond?" he snapped, irritated. Then he saw the man's reddened face, heard the rasping breaths and detected a frantic edge to his tone. Boromir's instincts reared and he got to his feet quickly. "What is wrong?"

Myrhil heard the urgency in Boromir's question and she turned away from her sword in alarm.

"The Rohirrim," Beregond gasped, finally reaching Boromir. "They sighted orcs. . . That is, one of their advance riders did." Beregond coughed as he fought to refill his lungs.

"Were they attacked?" He slapped Beregond on the back when the unfortunate man still struggled to soothe his spasming chest. "Out with it!"

The order coming from his commander's lips did as much to hasten his recovery as Boromir's blunt aid. "No. No, they were not," Beregond reported, his wheezing now lessened. "The rider returned to the party and they altered their course to keep them closer to the mountains and away from any encroachments on the east. He then rode with all speed to us, and begs for an escort. Every man among them is armed in the manner of their people, though not as heavily as in war. He said that they would be able to defeat any enemy--"

"Naturally," Boromir commented wryly. "Those proud folk would say no less."

"--but that trusting to chance would endanger their mission and that is of more importance."

Nodding, Boromir cast a quick glance at Myrhil, his grey eyes dampened with regret, but she saw that the prospect of battle had already lit the tinder of anticipation for another kind of conquest. She rose to her feet and sheathed her sword, realizing that what they had begun would have to be delayed until a later time. Disappointment washed over her. She would be lying if she told herself she was not dismayed by Beregond's unlucky appearance, but the thought of the Rohirrim under attack, distant kin though they might be, pushed selfish considerations aside.

"Return to the city, Beregond," Boromir told him. "I shall be right behind you. Tell Faramir to begin gathering able men who are well rested. We will have to press hard to meet with the Rohirrim."

Beregond saluted and left them, retracing his steps along the riverbank. Boromir watched him for prolonged moments, and then turned back to Myrhil, his eyes still regretful. She had collected his sword, tunic and other effects and now walked over to him.

"Here, my lord," she said, holding them out to him.

"Next time, Myrhil, it matters not where we may be or who comes upon us," he said. He took the items one by one and garbed himself hastily. "Whether Beregond or anyone in Minas Tirith."

"I will try to match you in that immodesty," she replied with a laugh as she helped him pull the tunic over his soaked clothing. When she was finished, Boromir placed a palm against her cheek and bent to kiss her softly. He drew back and, noticing the fading, reddened patches around her mouth, cheeks, and chin caused by his beard, he rubbed a thoughtful thumb over one of the blemishes.

"You must go," she told him. "Should they be attacked, I do not think Mother would hesitate to vent her ire on you. She so wishes to go to Edoras, but I sometimes wonder if she has chosen to stay so long because I am content here."

"You could remain while she continues on," he said. "There is no reason why you must go."

She nodded. "I ponder it every day. Every day." When Boromir said nothing and made no sign to return to the city, she frowned, puzzled. "What is it?"

Boromir smiled faintly, still watching her intently. "I was only wondering when I would hear the words, 'Let me come with you.'"

"You expected to hear them?"

"I confess the thought did occur to me."

"If the answer is no, then I shall not bother to ask."

Boromir reached out and brushed a wet curl behind her ear. "Then I need not fear that you will give chase and appear at a most inopportune time?"

Myrhil's lips twisted into a smile. "I did not say that." Her light mood faded when she saw Boromir's eyes darken, piercing her spirits.

"Do not say that, even in jest, Myrhil," he said. "I will have my men and the Rohirrim to protect. I do not need the burden of worrying about you." He let his hand slide down her neck, his thumb caressing the line of her throat. "Do we understand one another?"

"I shall be here when you return," she replied, eyes unwavering. "I will not leave the city. You may hold me to my word."

Boromir's features relaxed visibly. "I shall be gone three days, four at most. Myrhil, upon my return. . ." He left the rest unsaid, but it was understood between them.

He turned and began to walk back to the city. Myrhil lingered only for a second, then fell into step behind him, contemplating her would-be lover. Yes, she would remain in Minas Tirith. . .for now. Though part of her had embraced the city as her own, all that was unseen called to her as well. Boromir might embrace her in a way that the rolling hills of Rohan could not, but the touch was one that she did not want to go unfelt. Yes, she would leave, but she would return to the White City -- and Boromir.

That was a promise.

Translations:

Nárië (Quenya; Steward's Reckoning) = June

Urimë (Quenya; Steward's Reckoning) = August

Though Myrhil had felt upon Boromir's departure from the city that the next several days would be intolerable, she did not find them so. Her routine changed little, apart from an increased tendency to fall deep in thought about the absent Captain. Faramir seemed hopeful that she might turn her attention back to the library for want of his brother's company, and on the second day, she did indeed spend an entire afternoon with him in a small study nestled in the back of the archive. He had found a firsthand account of the Battle of Nanduhirion, fought some two and one-half centuries past between Dwarves and Orcs, and thought that in an odd way it would lift her spirits.

"Odd?" she replied when Faramir revealed his reasoning. "Odd? Do I seem that strange to you?"

Faramir said nothing, but his smile seemed to answer her question. "My opportunities for leisure are sparse," he continued, "but I have chosen to spend these precious hours today sharing something that I knew you would enjoy."

"Rest assured my gratitude is properly expansive," she replied, leaning over the tattered scrolls to begin reading the elegant, fading words describing that bloody struggle.

But that had been yesterday and the tales of valorous deeds of people long dead could only occupy her mind for so long. The next afternoon she was forced to stand rigid and patient while a regiment of seamstresses hovered over every limb with their shears, needles and pins. Laenilas had been insistent that they both have new gowns should they ever find themselves in a formal setting with the Rohirrim and Myrhil had reluctantly submitted to this command. Faramir, ever willing to lend assistance to Gorhend's widow, had instructed a dressmaker to measure the two women and suggest suitable fabric for these new creations. After some harsh negotiation over price, Laenilas was able to reach an agreement for two gowns and the third afternoon of Boromir's absence found Myrhil with little else to think about as she bore the women's interminable stitching and alterations.

When her feat of imitating any one of the numerous statues within the walls of Minas Tirith was completed, she abandoned the women to their task and entered the Citadel with no small measure of relief. The sun was still well above the horizon and had not yet acquired that intense golden glow that signaled the closing hours of the day. The city still baked under the merciless heat and the Pelennor was blanketed in dust and haze. An unimpeded view of the surroundings was impossible and the men on watch had lately complained of the fruitlessness of their long labors stationed on the Embrasure. The Rammas Echor to the east was partially obscured by the humid pall, but there was confidence that the Enemy would not move so audaciously under such oppressive conditions.

Despite the limited visibility and Boromir's far distance from the city, rendering even the slightest glimpse impossible, Myrhil walked out onto the jutting spur of rock and announced herself formally to the guard on watch. Permission to pass was granted and she took a position beside him on the battlement, staring silently on all that lay before her.

"Myrhil, you look haggard," said the soldier sympathetically.

"I am, Beregond. I am."

"I did not see you practicing on the Pelennor or in the armory today. Other things were more important?"

Myrhil turned and gave him an amused look of reproach. "Important to some, but not to me. I would indeed have fancied a coat of mail rather than one of silk, but that will not present a demure portrait for my mother's kin. She desires I appear something I am not."

Beregond nodded, but said nothing. Myrhil had long since noted that, though Beregond was among the friendliest of the soldiers she had met, he spoke with great thrift. Once ebullient welcomes were extended to a stranger, he then settled contentedly into unspoken amity with them, rarely revisiting the mundane greetings and pleasantries. At least such had been the case with her and she found his companionable silences comforting in a city that oftentimes seemed to thrive on a diet of endless, bustling cacophony. If his reticence was partly due to her being a woman, she did not feel his distress.

Silence had passed between them for several long minutes before Myrhil spoke. "Beregond, may I ask you something?"

"You may ask." When she seemed not to have heard his little joke or found the humor lacking, he cleared his throat and added, "I will try to answer, whatever it may be."

Myrhil leaned forward on the parapet and lazily kicked at the battlement, her toe bouncing gently off the stone. "If you were given the choice of remaining in the city or. . .leaving for unknown and perhaps exciting lands, would you do it? Would you go?" She tried to make the question sound casual, but her ears told her that her voice had sounded anxious.

Beregond continued to stare out over the Pelennor, as though her question had fallen on deaf ears, but Myrhil saw his expressions flow from one thought to another and knew he was mulling her words. "It would depend on many things," he began, "but. . ." He stopped and his head turned to look down upon one house among thousands in the lower reaches of the city. "Down there," he said, gesturing with a nod of his head. "That is my reason for staying. Ninmíriel and little Bergil. With them to consider, the choice would be clear."

"But for those of us who have no betrothed or children?" Myrhil pressed. "Imagine for one minute, Beregond, that you are a free man again. Friends, yes; but no wife or child to sway you. Would you not desire to journey to lands unknown to you and see all that you have only heard about or dreamed of?"

Beregond turned and smiled imperceptibly. "Do you wish to be convinced to leave here or to remain?" he asked. "I am not learned in the manner of my lord Faramir, but some things do not require wisdom to see."

"My mind has swung to and fro on it," she replied. "I have not settled upon a firm answer. I thought I had a few days ago, but I am not so sure now. It is not a matter to be decided lightly!"

"Then perhaps rather than deciding by mere whim, you should consider necessity," Beregond offered. "Go where you are needed." He gestured to the city beneath them. "I am needed here, but not only because of Ninmíriel and Bergil. Even if we had never wed and Bergil had never come about, I would still be needed here. I am a soldier. This city is a city of soldiers and there can never be enough of them. So here lies my purpose and so here I shall remain."

"Could that reasoning hold true for me, do you think?" Myrhil asked.

"Do I think that you will ever be able to serve as I do?" he replied. "Is that what you ask?"

"That I will ever be allowed? Yes."

"No," Beregond answered gently, as though to soften the blow of this wretched truth. "No, I do not think you ever would."

Myrhil sighed. "It is as I feared. Boromir will not let me. He has said as much, though not directly." She tried to muster a laugh, but it only came as half-hearted. "He made me promise to not follow him on his mission to the Rohirrim. As if I would do anything so foolish and stupid! But it is very telling. He would not consider me joining a small escort. His opinion on joining an army and fighting an enemy host requires no guessing."

Beregond nodded. "So there you have it."

"So there I do. From what you know of me, Beregond, speak truly what you think of me staying in this city with only arms practice to occupy me. Practice that one day will have an end, and no use for it once it is over. What would I do afterwards?" Before Beregond could reply, she added, "And one can only read so many scrolls and books. What would be left? Tending the sick? Waiting for our Captain to return from his forays and patrols to mark the passage of my days?"

"But does Rohan offer anything different?" Beregond prompted.

"That is the mystery. I do not know. I cannot know until I see it, until I find out what it has to offer or what I can offer it in turn. Does Théoden King need me there? Is there the necessity of which you speak? My heart tells me that it may be no different than what I can expect here."

"But as you said, you do not know." He turned his attention once more to the plains and horizon, allowing Myrhil to ponder for as long as she wished while he repeated his patrol around the Embrasure.

The sun sank steadily in the sky and the tower behind them became a spike of flame as the rays intensified the color of the stone. Below came the sounds and smells of supper and Beregond fancied that he could smell the unique mixture of herbs Ninmíriel always used in her rabbit stew. His watch would end soon and he began to measure off the time in his mind. But his concentration was interrupted by seven softly spoken words, uttered in a mixed tone of resignation and hope.

"Embrace me, Rohan, as I embrace you."

"Farewell, Myrhil."

"I have not left yet!" she retorted, this time laughing spontaneously. "And for all this hard thinking, I am going to the nearest tavern and have the largest drink they offer."

She began to leave and was nearly a third of the way down the Embrasure towards the citadel when she stopped and looked over her shoulder at Beregond. "Tell me something, my friend. You are from Lossarnach. Why did you come to Minas Tirith?"

Beregond smiled. "Adventure, Myrhil. Looking for adventure."

Myrhil did not have far to walk to find a place to slake her thirst. On the sixth level of the city facing Mount Mindolluin was a large tavern. It was set against the lower wall and nestled between larger buildings on either side, one being a storehouse for ale and various other spirits. Combined with the shadow cast by Mindolluin in the afternoon, the tavern was always looked over by those seeking it for the first time. Boromir had brought her here on a few occasions over the past several weeks and the ale was among the best she had ever drunk.

The large, heavy door was blocked open by an empty cask in an effort to keep the room airy, or at least as airy as a room full of sweating soldiers and tradesmen on a stifling day could ever be. Most of the chairs and long tables were occupied, but a few small tables on the outer reaches of the room still stood empty and she made her way over to one near the far corner. A serving maid soon appeared and asked her pleasure as she wiped her hands on an increasingly dirty rag.

"Ale. Large tankard, please."

"Odd to be seeing you in here without the Captain," the girl commented playfully. "I hear he's out helping the Rohan folk."

Myrhil nodded. "You will see him again shortly," she said, adding with a grin, "so all of you girls here can contrive to bump into him like you do every time."

"It be a technique that works without fail," came the maid's rejoinder. "Most of us are pleased to get a smile or a pinch. I wager you've tried it yourself with him a time or two." Seeing Myrhil's knowing smile, she laughed. "Large tankard it is. Back soon with it."

The girl left and Myrhil rested her chin in a hand, staring vacantly down at the tabletop. The wood had begun to split in several places and she ran a short fingernail along the separation in the grain. The noise around her, distinct and loud when she arrived after the relative peace of the street outside, softened as it became a seamless din. Here and there, voices rose above the monotonous clamor and she listened to them with little interest, but with no company of her own, she attached herself to these conversations from a distance. A man to her right complained of a flour merchant putting his thumb on the scale and cheating him of a copper coin. Another one could be heard recounting some manner of tale and Myrhil assumed it was of an obscene nature, gauging by the raucous laughter that followed. She smiled to herself and wished she had heard the details.

Her attention to her surroundings, however half-hearted, was distracted by the arrival of her tankard. Eagerly, she took a long draught from the brimming crockery and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. As she let the liquid settle comfortably in her stomach, conversations around the room returned to her ears but none seemed particularly compelling. Bored, she rested an elbow on the table and propped up her head by resting her cheek in the palm of her hand. She was about to close her eyes when she heard a man growl about "that cursed tavern keeper in Pelargir."

Myrhil felt her skin prickle at the words, though there were dozens of tavern keepers in Pelargir. Still, Othil's face and uncertain fate leaped to the front of her mind and she remained in her slouched posture, though she was tensely alert.

"Speaking ill of the dead serves no purpose," another voice said.

"If he'd agreed to the demands, then he'd not be feeding the worms now, would he?"

Again, the growl. Myrhil concluded they sat at the table a short distance behind her, judging by the closeness of the voices and their low pitch. When she entered, she had taken no notice of who flanked her but she did not wish to venture a glance over her shoulder, though she burned to do so. Every bit of her was concentrated on the two men behind her, to such an extent that she believed she could hear them draw every breath, every scrape of a hand or foot against table and floor.

"I need to leave tonight," the other voice said, tiredly. "Is there a message you want me to deliver?"

"I won't have the message for a while yet, but I can safely say I know what it will be."

"Let's have it, then."

"Proceed with the agreed mark. Success is certain with this one. Ambition overruled sense last time, despite my warnings, and none returned. We cannot risk it again so far from our center."

"I still say that was because the lad refused to continue aiding us. A fine time for a sudden attack of noble conscience. I would have killed him had he shown the courage to withdraw in person, but Fate left that task to others." The tired voice acquired an angry edge that rivaled the other man's growl in deadliness.

"Speaking ill of the dead?" the growled voice mocked. "Whether it was that or the distance they had to cross, I will argue against any more forays into Lebennin, particularly near that river. It is too far west-"

Myrhil heard no more. The little amount of ale that was in her stomach rose up in her throat and she tried to swallow it again, but the bitter bile made her begin to cough. She brought a hand to her mouth as the spasms passed and regained her breath. Her entire body had broken into a sweat as the words from behind her mounted in dreaded portent, only to crash against her furiously with that final remark. She felt ill, terrified, and betrayed all at once. Betrayed by her own kind. Men conspiring against Men, working with the Enemy.

And the lad who had aided them? Belaród? Had he betrayed her in a way she never could have imagined? Looking down at her hand that rested on the table, she saw it trembling, the skin flushed a bright red and ridged with veins engorged with frantically coursing blood. She tried to clench it to stop the tremors, but there was no strength in it. She had felt stronger lying prostrate on the table under her mother's needle than she did now.

She tried to wait, hoping that the two men would rise and leave. Then she could mark their features as they passed and report all that she knew to Faramir. Her nerves jangled madly as the minutes stretched on. She tried to hang onto anything else they said, but part of her would not allow it for fear of what else she might overhear. Only a few words met her ears from each exchange, making no sense, and she took odd solace in that ignorance, wishing that the matter had forever remained enshrouded in it.

A heated argument had erupted at the long table to her right and she could not help but hear every single word uttered. The man cheated by the flour merchant had seen the swindler enter the tavern and was angrily demanding his money back. The merchant taunted him for being a fool and professed shock that he would ever play such a trick. Sides were taken and the confrontation scaled threateningly. The suffocating, rank heat inside the tavern, aggravated by the sweltering summer outside, was making tempers shorter by the minute.

When a tankard flew through the air, the entire room exploded with shouts, punches, kicks and any object that came readily to hand. More tankards followed suit, striking walls, ceiling beams and heads. Some people rushed for the door, shoving their way past the brawlers to escape. A few were dragged unwillingly into the fray and fought as viciously to free themselves as the others who had begun the uproar.

Myrhil decided to take advantage of the distraction and looked over at the two men, keeping the lower half of her face masked by her shoulder. Their table was wedged into the corner and it was so dim that it was hard to discern their features. They were both avidly watching the fight, but before she could completely turn her head back, one of them noticed her and met her gaze, his eyes glinting in a stray beam of light, reflecting a mixture of caution and curiosity.

Myrhil felt a surge of panic, but she continued the gesture without haste, using all the strength and presence of mind she possessed. She could not venture another glance without truly endangering herself. Unfortunately, she would be as ignorant of their appearance as she had been before.

All thoughts flew from her mind when she saw a wayward chair hurtling through the air towards her from the brawl. With a hoarse scream, she slid to the floor and crouched under the table, her knees striking against her chin. Wood splintered on the wall above her and soon the contents of the tankard spilled over the table's edge, soaking her arm, running down her back, and pooling all around her.

Two pairs of legs rushed past her and she scrambled out from under her shelter, dripping with ale. A boot immediately treaded on her hand and she struck out with her foot in an attempt to shove the oblivious brawler aside. He tumbled and fell onto her lower body, pinning her to the floor.

It was as though the orc had attacked her all over again. She kicked, jabbed and shoved with all her might, trying to free herself. Calling the hapless soul every name she could think of, she wriggled free and plunged through the entangled mass, climbing over some and dodging under others. She tried to keep the two men within sight, but their strength and bulk made their passage easier than hers. When she reached the door, body aching and bruised, she staggered out into the street and frantically looked left and right.

They were gone.

When Laenilas woke, there was only a brief moment before she felt the close heat of the small room wrap its unwelcome self around her. Kicking the coverlet away, she sat on the edge of the bed, inwardly grumbling about the oppressive evening. Even sleep could not spare one from this unpleasantness, at least not for an entire night.

She straightened. From the bed on the other side of the room, a mere ten feet away, there was not a sound. No breathing; no sleepy movements from Myrhil. The window was of no aid, for the moon was now in its dark phase. She had no method to guess the time. But it felt like many hours had passed since sunset.

Myrhil would have no reason to remain out in the city so late. Boromir was not here so this was Myrhil's one and only bed. It was not in Laenilas' nature to be so alarmed at a simple thing like a child's periodic absence, but she had known too many absences of late, permanent and sudden. Being completely alone was a state she did not wish to experience. Not yet.

She stood and retrieved her gown from the foot of the bed. She pulled it on over her nightdress, tugged a shawl over her shoulders, and left the cottage, making her way towards the Tower. She did not know where else to begin her search.

A guard at the entrance proved ignorant when asked of Myrhil's whereabouts. He suggested that Beregond might know, but that he had returned to his family for the evening. "But I will make inquiries, my lady," he offered. "Please remain here and I shall return shortly with some helpful news." With that, he opened the door and gestured her inside, closing it behind her.

Laenilas ventured ahead several paces, her head turning from left to right as she went. Great sconces were mounted on the walls along the passage, tapers lit. Until now, she had evaded this place, made excuses, and expressed no desire to look upon it again. She was no stranger to painful memories and these, however distant, still stung with a bite of such fresh immediacy she wondered if indeed as many years had passed as she thought. Was it truly the year the calendar said? Or was it again the verdant days of her youth when she had spent the spring months with her mother in Gondor's fairest city?

The hall had not changed much, intensifying this sensation. Care had been taken to maintain its stark splendor, even in times of trial. Other parts of the city had acquired a ragged appearance, but not the Tower. It would never fade or diminish even remotely. Yes, it was as she remembered, though perhaps more austere, now that a Steward of similar temperament carried the rod of office. Ecthelion had not been averse to a bright tapestry or two hanging on the walls, but the ones she recalled no longer occupied their places. Stone and metal, as it always had been, with nary a beam or panel to interrupt.

She paused outside the tall metal door that opened into the great hall. There was no reason to progress further. If the soldier returned and could not find her, two women would be lost and a tedious, confusing farce would no doubt ensue. She turned to retrace her steps, but she let her eyes linger on the door for one second too long. Reluctant indifference transformed into curious desire and she pressed her palm against the metal, surprised at its stubborn frigidity in the summer heat. A gentle push, and the halves fell away in a graceful, silent sweep.

The great hall was dimly lit compared to the passage she had just left. Sconces still lined the walls, but not all were ablaze. Most of the vast room was cast in shadow, but Laenilas saw enough to know that little had changed here as well. She advanced into these familiar surroundings, looking up at the murky heights of the impressive vaulted ceiling. The statues of the ancient kings still lined the path up to the throne and Steward's chair, sentries that had watched over countless lords, ladies, office seekers, visiting foreigners, and the long legacy of Stewards that had kept protective watch over this city. Their faces, grim yet fair, were tilted downwards, as though curious about all that transpired beneath them, but their blank, unseeing eyes conveying bored detachment.

She had just fancied an animated flicker in one of those chiseled orbs when she heard the soft squeal of a hinge issue from the right side of the hall. Instinctively, she drew back and sought the protection of the shadow cast by a statue. A slow and steady footfall echoed over the polished stone, but her ears could not distinguish its direction. By turns, its path seemed to go towards the great door or towards her. After a time, neither was its destination. A dark, imposing figure that was not out of place among these stony watchmen appeared and stopped when he noticed the door gaping open.

"Derelict guards," came a familiar, irritated growl.

"Good evening, Denethor."

Laenilas marveled that the figure did not start in surprise at finding he was not alone in the chamber, though she should have expected it. Control was one of Denethor's unshakeable virtues. She now watched him turn and gaze silently at her, this nocturnal intruder. Tightening her shawl around her, she walked towards him, feeling much less nervous than she had anticipated. As she drew close, she prepared herself to flinch when recognition transformed his features, or be forced to identify herself should he be unable to see her through the years that had passed between them. But his expression, when it did alter, was knowing and not unpleasant, though his greeting was not what she considered welcoming.

"So," he began, "you have finally shown yourself. I wondered when you would poke your head out of that burrow I am so generously allowing you to live in."

"A fine burrow it is," she replied, undaunted. "I could not have asked for more." She stopped before him and tilted her head upward to look him directly in the eye. "I had forgotten how tall you were, though if you are the same as other men, I deem that your structure has sagged with age as well."

One corner of Denethor's mouth slanted upwards in a grudging smile. "Time has done nothing but wrinkle you, Laenilas."

"Am I still that stunning? I have given up the looking glass. I discovered that what once was tactful is no longer so."

"I cannot imagine you fleeing from something as ridiculous as that."

"Correct, my lord. I was lying."

"Ah, now that is something I can believe."

"Yes, I have lied to you in the past, haven't I? A past so distant that I barely remember it."

Denethor's gaze hardened. "Either you are lying again, or you have aged more than I, for I have not forgotten."

Laenilas smiled. She had not sensed his flinty scrutiny in these obscuring shadows. "This has been easier than I feared!" she exclaimed. "I dreaded that you would make a meeting difficult, silent, uncomfortable, but you have been quite. . .talkative."

"It must be your effect on me," Denethor continued, his tone a creeping chill. "You never failed to bring a box of daggers with which we could stab one another. Neither of us preferred to let the other always be the one to strike."

"But I am finding it pleasanter this time." Laenilas still spoke brightly, though she was aware of his souring mood. "Indeed, there have been moments over the years when I missed you."

"Many?"

"Do you doubt it?"

Denethor paused in thought. "I am inclined to think so," he said finally. "I cannot think of many reasons why you would lament my absence."

Laenilas sighed and looked down at her hands. "It is true that I felt Gorhend's slights at your hands just as acutely as he did. A wife's loyalty makes it second nature. You had wounded me upon your betrothal, though I lied and said it hurt me not at all. It was a sad way to part, but I held nothing against you. You could not have borne me ill will for being so accepting. Or did you think I was too understanding? Did I acquiesce too easily?"

Denethor said nothing, nor did he look at her. His gaze was fixed on a point past her, down at the end of the hall where the throne and Steward's chair sat.

"I was sorry to hear of Finduilas," she continued. "The news eventually made its way to the hinterlands. I heard of all the happenings in Minas Tirith many months after the fact, either by gossip or when Gorhend returned home on leave. Know that I grieved-"

"Laenilas, why are you here?" he snapped. "It cannot be to stick me with your knives or to discuss my dead wife. Did you wander in here mistakenly, or were you seeking me out to say something of importance?" Without waiting for an answer, he moved past her and walked down the vast aisle, his dark robes vanishing into the shadows.

"She was a gentle woman," she continued, turning, "and you did well by her, and she by you. I would have failed, had I been in her place."

Denethor's steps halted, and his disembodied voice, no longer harsh, drifted up past the statues to settle mournfully on her ears. "If that is the truth, I thank you for it. I know how you dislike failure."

"I despise it. In myself more than in others, but I am no stranger to it where you are concerned." She pressed her lips together as she debated whether to continue, but the darkness that separated them gave her courage. He had made no motion to retrace his steps. He still stood somewhere between her and his seat of office, perhaps waiting for her to finish. She had much more in her mind and on her tongue and this heavy silence indicated he knew she had more to say. She began to retreat to the open door, walking slowly backwards.

"I once envied her you," she said, "but that is long past." He said nothing, as she knew he would. She stopped when she reached the door. "I still envy her your sons. They are both fine, brave boys. Would that they were mine." She struggled to speak that final word without betraying any further weakness than she had already shown by speaking thusly. "The gods keep you, Denethor."

Grasping the door by its handle, she swung each half shut and was relieved to hear the final clang as it latched, separating her once more from the Steward.

Myrhil started in alarm when she felt a hand grip her shoulder and shake her out of her sleep. She scrambled up from the makeshift chair positioned beside the door of the guardroom near the main gate of the city. Blinking her eyes rapidly to rid them of their heaviness, she peered around, slightly disoriented. "Faramir?"

"Yes, it is I." He sounded weary and, now that her vision had begun to clear, she saw that his features showed fatigue as well. "No one has passed through the gate for some time," he said. "If he was intending to leave the city as you said, he would have left long before this. He could not make any progress on the open road by departing so late."

"What is the time?"

"Well past midnight. We have been here for most of the evening. Come, both of us need our rest." Faramir hooked an arm under hers and steered her along the cobbled street. "The guards have their orders to stop and question those leaving the city. Tomorrow I shall go to the tavern and see what I may learn there. Perhaps someone there knows of these disappearing suspects. And I shall have soldiers watchful of anyone suspicious. Until I discover more, that is all we can do with the little information you gave me."

"And that is all I know," she replied in frustration. "Had I found you more quickly, perhaps we could have caught him. Had I overheard more, I might have known where he was going. It is my fault."

"That is a ridiculous thing to say," he told her flatly. "You already overheard more than enough. You nearly lost your head in the brawl alone, and that had nothing to do with these villains." As they passed a sputtering torch, Faramir studied her face quietly before taking a square of linen from his shirt and handing it to her. "Your lip. It is split open."

Myrhil stopped, took the cloth with a grateful smile and pressed it against her mouth. The blood had clotted and dried, but she wiped at it anyway to clean it as best she could. She inspected the cloth in the torchlight and saw a dark stain soaking the weave. She groaned in what seemed like self- disgust. "I seem unable to go unmarked for long," she muttered, pressing the cloth tightly to her lip. They continued to walk, their pace steady and quick.

"I suppose one cannot wade through a tavern of brawlers and not catch a stray fist."

Myrhil smiled, though uncertainly. One thing she had not revealed to Faramir was the detail about Belaród's possible betrayal of her, her father and all the men who had shared barracks with him. Ever since she had heard the men speaking of it, she turned over in her mind every moment spent with him, every word uttered. It mattered not if he had indeed retreated from fulfilling his pact with these men. He had made one, and that was unforgivable, loathsome and vile. She did not want to discuss it with anyone, not a soul.

Faramir had tried to alleviate her low spirits with that light remark, but her half-hearted response prompted him to look upon the stars once more. "I hope that Boromir is traveling safely. I have had no feelings of unease."

Myrhil's brow furrowed. "You are connected to him that closely?"

Faramir shrugged. "Boromir would deny it if you asked him. A bunch of nonsense, he would call it. But ever since we were children, we have experienced the same thoughts and feelings." He smiled for the first time since she had found him that night. "It could be a matter of blood, that we have done so much together that our minds think alike. Or perhaps it is something magical and cannot be understood by mortal thinking." He looked out of the corner of his eye and saw Myrhil's disbelieving expression. "Ah, so you are a skeptic as well."

"No, no," she said hastily. "Not that, but-"

"'-but I think you are daft as a dancing pig on a rooftop, Faramir,'" he finished. "I cannot blame you. My friendship with old Mithrandir has made some think me foolish and fanciful. He is a harmless old man. Wise and harmless. You know of him?"

"Only that my father thought-" She stopped and paused uncomfortably, as though weighing her words. "Thought him mad," she finished. "But that did not reflect badly upon you, at least to his mind. He disliked my choice of companionship as well, so I think he was merely difficult to please."

Faramir smiled. "Perhaps in the past," he said, "but not your present choice. My brother-"

"Yes, I am certain Father would not be angry with that," she said quickly. She suspected that Faramir was aware of the state of things between her and his brother, but that did not make it a palatable subject of conversation on the city streets.

Faramir fell silent as they continued onward, then he said kindly, "I sense that he is safe, so you may sleep well on it."

Myrhil allowed a nod, though she said nothing. She knew the observant Faramir would see her relief and confidence in that single gesture.

Though Faramir indeed went to the tavern the next day, he was unable to discover any more information except that the two men Myrhil claimed to have overheard had made no impression on others.  One serving maid said that she remembered two men sitting in a back corner, but then there had been so many others at back corner tables that night it was impossible to remember anything specific about them.  When he returned to Myrhil with the news, or lack of it, she shrugged in resignation and said she expected as much, although her frustration was barely concealed.

For her part, Myrhil remained near the cottage all day.  Upon returning to the Citadel in Faramir’s company the night of the tavern brawl, she was embarrassed to discover that her mother had roused the guards to search for her, although she could understand Laenilas’ concern even if it made her conspicuous.  Struck by a sense of dutifulness, she decided to forego her normal routine and stay by her mother’s side.

This unusual desire to be an attentive daughter was sparked by Laenilas’ uncustomary quiet mood.  When she had entered the Citadel, safe though a bit battered, Laenilas’ joy was perfunctory.  Her lack of enthusiasm stung Myrhil not at all, for she would not have liked her mother indulging in effusive relief.  Laenilas seemed subdued not because of her brief disappearance, but something else.  She sensed it when they passed by the Tower on the return to their cottage.  As they skirted it, the stone gleaming dimly in the darkness, Laenilas’ eyes rarely left it and Myrhil heard a barely audible moan strangled deep within her mother’s throat.  The excitement of the evening had wearied her to the extent that she could not summon the curiosity to ask what troubled her, but this reaction to the Tower, along with her former refusal to go there not long after their arrival, spoke of things mysterious.  In the meantime, she would not pry and her mother could brood as she liked, though Myrhil would be watchful.

Her split lip and facial bruises demanded immediate explanation, however, and this Myrhil gave, though she kept silent about Belaród.  Everything she had told Faramir, she repeated to Laenilas.  Her mother trembled as she listened to Myrhil recount the words of the disappeared men, discussing the destruction of all that she had held dear in such brutal, uncaring terms.  With some shame, Myrhil confessed they had seemingly slipped through the gate or were hiding themselves deep within the city.  Laenilas remained rigid in her chair until she slumped backwards with a wearied sigh.  “Others will suffer as we have if they are not found,” she said quietly.

“I know.  It matters not that it will be people we do not know.  Faramir is having the gate watched.  That is all he can do for now.  That, and continuing the patrols as planned.  He says it is entirely possible that their next attack may be thwarted by mere chance.”  She spoke these hopeful words without conviction.

“And you say that there have been attacks near the Gap as well?” Laenilas asked.  Her voice was becoming softer and more resigned.

Myrhil nodded reluctantly, eyes fixed on the floor.  “That is what Boromir has told me.  Mother, I know that no place is completely safe, but please do not let that dissuade you from anything.”

Laenilas shook her head.  “It does not.  It is my will to journey to Rohan.  That was my original plan and so it continues to be.”  She stood and clapped her hands in finality.  “Then let us prepare to lay the path to that end.  We must ready ourselves for the Rohirrim.”

* * *

“Come, Myrhil.  Assist me with this.”

Myrhil turned from her mirror and tried to make her way over to Laenilas, but stumbled after two steps without stumbling.  “Udûn’s depths!” she cursed, kicking at the folds about her feet.  “How can something like this be worn without breaking a leg or neck?”

Laenilas laughed.  “Just think how lovely you will look,” she said.  “It is worth making some small sacrifice of comfort.”

“You, of all people, say that?” Myrhil demanded.  “I have never heard you say kindly things about women who favor a pleasing picture over all else.”  She grabbed the skirt in two angry fistfuls and completed the journey to her mother with greater ease.

“One cannot very well appear in court garbed in kitchen rags.  A sad truth, to be sure.”  Laenilas held out the laces of her bodice and turned her back to Myrhil.  “Do not vent your frustration on me and seal me up tight,” she said warningly.  “At the first pinch, I will strike out with my hoof.”

“Why not simply puff yourself up and let the saddle roll when I am finished?” Myrhil suggested, dropping her skirt and taking the silk ribbons.  She took great care that when she pulled them through the eyelets, the strain would not be felt overly much.  “If the guests were anyone but them, we should not be compelled to undergo this ritual,” she muttered.

“If there is a way to smooth the path to our arrival in Edoras, it is to impress upon these men that we are not going to be a burden.”  The laces were tied and Laenilas looked over her shoulder at Myrhil reprovingly.  “So be a lady.”

Myrhil gave a crooked smile.  “Ah, that I’ll certainly try.  I cannot let that challenge pass.”

“Another challenge for you,” Laenilas said.  “You have met the first one by remaining here instead of running down to the gate.”

Not that I wanted to remain here, Myrhil thought.  Earlier that morning, Boromir had passed through the gates with the men from Rohan in tow.  Myrhil had wanted to be there when he entered the city, but the bustle and rush before the reception in the White Tower had forced her to remain on the Citadel and ready herself for the event.  She wished to hear of his mission and what he had encountered, desired to have him greet her as he had promised on the day he left.  Four long days she had hungered for it.

“This will be a far more dignified setting to present our plight,” Laenilas went on, gathering her unbound hair and beginning to plait it in simple fashion.  “It will have the charm of distance, rather than kneeling before the King’s throne and forcing a hand he might not be willing to extend.  I will not travel there, only to be resented for bald presumption.”  Her fingers continued to weave the hair into a pleasing and modest design.  “Had they not arrived, we should have been forced to trust to his good will, but our way will hopefully be smoothed by sympathetic envoys.”

Laenilas leaned towards the small looking glass mounted on the wall and flinched in memory of her exchange with Denethor.  But what he had said was indeed true.  She was wrinkled, but that was the only thing she felt had altered her.  Underneath was the same heart and mind.

Pushing those thoughts away, she scrutinized her features and wondered if she had the appropriately wearied expression of the truly pitiable.  Only yesterday, she had noticed slight shadows under her eyes and she felt that they would speak well for themselves.  She ran a thoughtful finger under one eye, contemplating the hue.

Myrhil watched her mother and crossed her arms.  “And to think that I felt you would be unsuited to life in such a sophisticated city,” she mused, a sly smile on her lips.  “You have adapted much better than I.  No one could mistake me for one born to the court, but you. . .”

Laenilas did not turn as she continued assessing her features.  “I may have spent most of my years surrounded by beasts and roughened men, but my mother was a lady of the highest order, in bearing and blood, and I am no stranger to Minas Tirith.  I have learned well.  My knowledge has simply lain dormant and come to the fore when I need it.”  She patted her thin cheeks.  “When Mother wished something from my father, she was not averse to playing on his sympathies.  Her childhood was spent in Lossarnach and here, as was mine.  One cannot be surrounded by devious people and not learn something of their trade.”  She turned from the mirror and rested her critical eye on Myrhil.  “Your face is a horror.”

Myrhil peered over her mother’s shoulder into the mirror.  “There is naught that can be done about it,” she said, bringing a finger to her lip and rubbing lightly at the cut.  Then she prodded the bruise on her cheek, the coloring mingling oddly with the tiny bubbles of white scar tissue that was an eternal reminder of the orc’s gauntlet.  “It is a horror,” she agreed.  “As is this.”  Her hand slid to her shoulder where the wound was partially obscured by the neckline of her gown.

“Here,” Laenilas said, rifling through the contents of a small leather bag and producing a dented tin.

“What is that?  Salve?”  Myrhil held out her hand.

“No.  Paint for--.”  Laenilas sighed in impatience when Myrhil’s hand snapped back to her side.  “Come, it is not permanent!”  She removed the lid, swept her finger over the contents, and paused.  Then she tapped it with her fingernail and silently replaced the lid.  At Myrhil’s elated smile, she tossed it onto the bed.  “Granted, it has been some time since I last used it myself,” she allowed.  “I will not try to paint you, but be warned that you may earn yourself some unwanted attention.  But not only on account of your face.”  She shook her head.  “That gown still looks ghastly on you.”

“That is not of my doing,” Myrhil replied testily, tiring of the criticism.  Her mother’s concern about the Rohirrim dwarfed that held by any ten thousand citizens of Minas Tirith.  “No one can say that I did not cooperate with those cursed women and their pins and needles.  I will say honestly that if I had had my sword, they would all be headless and, for my part, unmourned.”

“Very well,” Laenilas sighed in resignation.  “We have little time left, but I will see what I can do.  I have paid for this, but it seems I must do the finishing work!”  She hooked her fingers into the neckline of Myrhil’s gown and lifted it from her shoulders.  “Udûn’s depths, indeed!  What a catastrophe you are in a dress!”

* * *

“These court occasions,” Boromir muttered.  “It does one no good to wear fine clothes when what one needs is a good piece of armor to protect the back from well-aimed daggers.”

A servant stood before him, holding a silver-embroidered tunic of velvet in a rich and head-turning shade of indigo.  Another held one of fair forest green.  They looked at him expectantly for his decision.

Boromir’s mind was not on fashion or what color was suitable for the occasion.  He had returned scant hours earlier, bedraggled and weary from a harsh pace along the West Road to meet the men they needed to escort, coupled with the slower return home with a watchful eye ever scanning the horizon for threats.  The Rohirrim were no less tired, the early summer in the south far more intense than anything they had experienced during the summer season in their northern home.  Boromir was no stranger to Edoras and he recalled the glacial mountains to the southwest of Théoden’s city kept its folk amply cool throughout the warm months.  He wished that a chill breeze would now fly through his window and calm him.  A bath had provided a cooling effect, but the annoyance at the impending ritual was stoking another flame and he had yet to see Myrhil, which only irritated him further.

Boromir stared at the two garments, his expression not one of indecision but genuine apathy.  “I care not which one I wear,” he said, curtly waving a hand in dismissal.  “Fight it out amongst yourselves.”

The men looked perplexed at this command and ventured wary glances at each other.  “Sire,” the one holding the green tunic murmured timidly, “we would not presume to make such a decision.”

“The blue one,” came a voice from the door.

Boromir looked up to see his brother already garbed in his tunic.  It was of a fine brown, the color of tanned deer hide, the hue of a hunter wishing to disappear into the forest rather than the gaudy garden of court gadabouts and politicians.  Even the embroidery of the White Tree of Gondor on the breast was done in a darker shade of tan.  It was of such bland decoration that none would take notice of him within that crowded hall.

“I see your mind.  So you would have me be the conspicuous one of the two of us?” the elder brother accused.  “I think not.”  He advanced to the man holding the green and snatched the tunic from his hands.  “Get out,” he said irritably.  “The hard work is done.  Now no one need fear I will appear in my broken leathers or naked out of sheer spite.”

“Naked?  And you deemed the blue conspicuous?” Faramir laughed.

The servants retreated and Boromir gave the tunic a derisive look.  “I would much prefer to meet with Théoden’s men around a table and begin our business there instead of indulging in these ridiculous pleasantries and rituals.”

“And so we shall, eventually,” his brother said.  “Unfortunately, I am afraid that should such conferences occur without the proper greetings, rumors will rise.”

“They already have,” Boromir grunted as he tugged the tunic over his head.  He had not worn it for some time and found it to be a tighter fit than was comfortable.  “I have heard it from some of the men this morning.  Around the city, people fear Rohan is seeking to coerce us into fighting their battles or other selfish motives.  Blasted rumors!  They are more deadly and damaging than any orc.  Our fair neighbors to the north provoke suspicion as much as they do admiration.  Even friends have to prove their good intentions, sometimes quite often.  This city is changing, brother.”

Faramir nodded sadly in agreement.  “The duty to look to Gondor’s safety first and foremost can be damaging in itself should alliances be strained in the process.”

As he watched Boromir impatiently pull the tunic over his broad, muscular frame, he wondered if his brother’s short temper would cause such strain when he became Steward.  Though their father was not a warm and welcoming figure for foreign emissaries to greet, his very coldness and ability to seem unreadable to most eyes served him well in masking his true feelings.  He met friend and foe alike with the same gruffness, so both could take comfort in mutual uncertainty.  Boromir, however, found it difficult to mask his dislike for someone, or to restrain from speaking his mind when of firm opinion or impassioned.  It had always been taken for granted that Boromir was the wiser and would always tend his younger brother, keeping him on the path and guiding his steps.  In moments like this, Faramir thought, I am not so certain that I shall always be the one with the hand on my back.

“There is another rumor,” Faramir began softly and gently, seeking to lift his brother’s spirits as well as his own.  He was unable to suppress a smile as he said it.

“And what might that be?” Boromir replied with thick sarcasm.  He jerked his arms through the sleeves.  “I await this revelation with bated breath.”

“That Rohan seeks a union between their House and ours.”

“You never tire of that threat, do you?” Boromir rejoined.  “I can set guard duty by that rumor alone, it is so regular, no thanks to you.  If it is not Rohan, it is Dol Amroth.  And if not Dol Amroth, it is Harad or even Dunland if a perverse mood grips you.  Or perhaps news of some orc nobility has reached your ears?”

Faramir spread his hands helplessly.  “When you speak kinder words about your sword or your horse than about wives and marriage, then it is a fertile ground for rumors and fun at your expense.”  He picked up Boromir’s sword belt from where it had been draped over the back of a chair and handed it to the Captain.  “Théoden still has his sister’s children in his house and he would see them well-matched.  Éowyn is but a child--”

“A slip of a thing,” Boromir put in.  “I have seen her, once or twice.”

“--yet it would be prudent for him to seek a troth between her and you.”

Boromir buckled the belt around his waist and glanced up at the younger man as he knotted the leather.  His eyes were sharp.  “You are on dangerous ground, my brother.  Best to retreat before you meet with harm.”

Faramir’s gaze did not waver.  “It is the only dangerous ground where you will be defeated,” he replied.  “For you must tread it sometime and the outcome will not be that which you prefer.”  He reached out a hand and placed it on his brother’s wrist.  “I know what you would choose if matters of state did not have to be considered, and it would be a fine choice, for other men.  But you must needs be more. . .constant.”

Boromir affected a careless shrug.  “It is not a matter of marriage itself.  I am certain I could tolerate it quite well, but this is a matter where delaying the inevitable is not dangerous.  There are more urgent inevitabilities that I must meet head-on, and swiftly.  I will tend to those first.  Mordor, for one, should they attack in force.”  He grinned.  “Besides, should I die without an heir, I need not fear that you would shun the vaunted bliss of marriage and children.  You are a fitter man for that task than I.”  His eyes brightened.  “I have a fine proposal.  You marry Éowyn.”

Faramir did not allow his brother a moment of pleasure at this jab.  “I would not balk if I had to take her to wife when she comes of age,” Faramir replied honestly.  “I have heard that she is fair and kind.”

Boromir cocked an eyebrow.  “I have not prattled on about her to you,” he began, visibly amused.  “So is that what our riders have noticed during their scouting missions along the West Road?  They obtain a new horse at Edoras and peek at Théoden’s young charge?”  He laughed to himself as he continued to tug the tunic around his shoulders.

His brother did not immediately respond and Boromir turned to him questioningly.  His eyes grew light at the prospect of some retribution for Faramir’s earlier mischief.  He leaned close and his voice dropped to a teasing whisper.  “Ah, so my little brother makes a point of learning the latest gossip from Edoras?”  When Faramir’s face flushed slightly, Boromir straightened, chuckling.  “I will say it again.  You marry this fair Éowyn.”  He retreated to the chair that held a fine cloak bearing an elaborate embossed design.  He tossed it over his shoulders and fastened the clasp at his throat.  “No, little brother, a wife would have to be given to me, for I could not court her in the manner she would demand.  I have not time for it.”

“You have courted Myrhil easily enough,” Faramir ventured.

Boromir turned and studied his brother silently.  “Well said,” he replied finally.  “I should have expected that you would not let me have final advantage.  Your quick mind would never allow that.  Must I worry that my brother has found all my actions of interest?”

“I have only seen that which there was to see,” Faramir replied.  “There was no need to pry and she has offered nothing.  I have seen it through honest means.”

“We have courted each other,” Boromir said, voicing his thoughts from days earlier.  “She has done it as much as I.  You do not think it foolish, do you?”  He seemed genuinely abashed at his words, even as he spoke them.

Faramir was slightly startled at Boromir’s bewildered expression, realizing his brother was truly confused.  He did not know intimate details of Boromir’s past and various conquests, but he did know that this could indeed be a new experience for him.  His brother had always portrayed himself as the pursuer, whether a true claim or not.  That he was admitting such was not the case now was an interesting revelation.

“No, I do not think it foolish,” Faramir replied, smiling.

“Then you think it charming?”

“No.”

“Then why the charming smile?”

Faramir heard a note of defensiveness creeping into his brother’s voice and let the smile fall from his lips.  Boromir had apparently recovered from his weak moment, his display of uncertainty, and sought to become brisk and soldierly once more.  He found it somewhat ironic, for Myrhil was a steely sort and seemed to favor the rough tumble of the practice field.  No doubt she softened under his brother’s touch but, from outward appearances, Faramir found it almost an impossibility to imagine two such people lowering their swords and dropping their shields to come together.  Was talk of swords, battles and blood a prelude to a certain type of courtship that some women favored?  Had he been in Boromir’s place, escorting them to Minas Tirith, no doubt he would know more about Myrhil than he did, but such knowledge was Boromir’s and Boromir’s alone.  Yet his brother’s unguarded musing was interesting.  Very interesting, indeed.

Boromir had returned to his irritation towards his garments and he shoved the cloak back over his shoulders.  Finally achieving some semblance of calm within his velvet confines, he raked his dark locks with hurried fingers.  By all outward appearances, their discussion had been forgotten.  “Come, brother,” he said.  “Let us be done with this, and when it is all over, if I have not taken a knife to it to free myself, you can have this smothering rag I wear!”

* * *

The great hall was less forbidding as a site for festivities than it had been the nights Myrhil and Laenilas has encountered Gondor’s ruler.  The statues positioned between the black marble columns that lined the long procession to the King’s throne, empty these many centuries, and the Steward’s chair seemed like mere onlookers rather than watchful sentinels.  Though surrounded by gay company, their stoic and stern expressions stood in stark relief.  But few heeded these cold sculptures, so intent was everyone on the warm flesh and blood that swirled about the hall.  The sun shone indirectly through the windows along the wall to the north and south, illuminating the fancy gilded threads that adorned the gowns and tunics of the gathered assembly, and the vaulted room crackled with curiosity, excitement and gossip.

Myrhil and Laenilas arrived early enough so as not to find themselves pushed to the outer reaches of the assembly, instead finding a suitably close position to where the reception would unfold.  Laenilas wished to be within reach of the Rohirrim ambassadors when she deemed the time appropriate to approach them with her plea.  Despite this precaution, heavily scented women, accompanied by their escorts, surrounded them within minutes and Laenilas’ stature was not adequate to see above the throng.  A clear view of anything that transpired before the Steward’s chair was impossible.

“Were the King’s throne to be used, I would be able to see without trouble,” Laenilas muttered, “but practicality must bend to foolish tradition and lore.  The Stewards are here; the Kings are not.  So why not sit in their actual place?”  She shook her head in incredulity.  “Myrhil, you must be my eyes,” she insisted, unable to disguise her annoyance, “else I shall push my way to the fore and embarrass you horribly.”

“I can see no better,” Myrhil lamented.  “You may have to slip through this breathing barricade in front of us, else we shall not be able to capture the attention of even the lowliest scribe.  I shall remain here in case you need to return.”

Laenilas eased away from Myrhil and sought any opening she could find in the assembled company.  With surprising dexterity, she soon vanished into the sea of bodies and Myrhil could no longer see her or evidence of her passage.  Her mother seemed to have returned to her former temper, for she had shown little hesitancy to enter the tower.  Myrhil wondered if needs had surmounted Laenilas’ aversion, or if it had all been imagined.

In front of her, a cluster of women swirled and chattered amongst themselves about their new gowns, the visiting guests, and their lovers.  One seemed intent on displaying her new garment to her companions many times over, plying them for compliments on the unique color.  Myrhil had to admit it was a brilliant red such as she had never seen.

Despite this entertainment, she regretted her decision to remain while her mother sought a better place.  The Steward’s chair was positioned low enough on the dais, on the bottommost step in fact, so that only the inner circle and the tallest in a crowd of this size could see anything of importance.  Her mother was right.  Why was a perfectly good throne, practically placed, allowed to go unused?  She realized why it remained vacant, but there had been no king for hundreds of years.  The chances that the line would return were slim.  Mention of it only existed in little rhymes like the one Faramir had shown her, something spoken but not truly believed.  Boromir would succeed his father and after him, his son, and so on through the ages to come.  Myrhil wished that she could see Boromir seated on the King’s throne for she had no doubt that he would present a more noble figure than a straggler from the weak line that had faded from the pages of Gondor’s history.  She had always had a vague notion of how the Stewards achieved their present position, but Faramir’s stories and tales in the depths of the library had illustrated the empty canvas with names and pictures of deeds past.  Though Faramir was not an engaging storyteller in the manner of her father, the tales she had learned in recent weeks had instilled in her a new fascination for her country and she did admit to feeling acute regret that she would be leaving it.

Those standing near pressed closer and her view narrowed.  These cruel slippers do not help me see what I wish to, she thought, after straining her neck to see above those before her.  She gave a small jump, hoping to gain a few more inches than what her slippers gave her, but when she landed, her foot twisted to the side and she grabbed the nearest person to steady herself.

A feminine wail of outrage sounded above the indistinct murmurs and chatter that filled the room.  “What are you doing?” the furious woman in brilliant red demanded, whirling to face her attacker.  Her eyes widened when she saw the offender and her contorted lips fashioned themselves into an amused smile.  Far from pleasant, the smile spoke of an eagerness for blood sport.  “Ah, the warrior of the plains!” she cried, a hand reaching out to gesture to Myrhil’s bruises.  “And bearing a trophy or three from her latest battle!”

The noise in the hall had hushed only briefly after the woman’s angry cry, but when nothing else was forthcoming, the hum of conversation resumed and this event was left to continue in a more private manner.

As private as this close-pressed group of people can be, Myrhil thought glumly, sensing that eyes and ears around her were eagerly open.  She did not know this woman, but she recognized the breed most surely.  Boromir had spoken scornfully of it often enough for her to be able to identify the type after only a brief glance, though his derisive and vicious words had seemed so vehement as to make her doubt that such a creature existed.  Nothing as grand as what was happening today had occurred in the city since her arrival, so the excitement and the different breeds of men and women she now saw were disconcertingly new to her and she could not say that she liked all of them.

“Excuse me,” she replied, unable to successfully blunt the edge of her tone.

The woman caught the underlying disgust and unrepentant expression in Myrhil’s eyes.  She continued to smile.  “I have seen you many times from the citadel, running about on the Pelennor and slashing your way through imaginary armies.  Deigning to wear a skirt, are you?” she asked, her gaze surveying Myrhil’s figure.  “Well, I think with a scrawny body like yours, you should content yourself with your breeches and men’s clothing.  Anything that will disguise what you do not have.”

Myrhil’s first instinct was to grab the woman by the throat, but she fought down such an impulse, enticing though it was.  She understood quite well what the woman implied and quickly tried to conjure a reply.  She recalled Boromir’s words that he would be amused to set her among creatures such as these and watch the results, but she was certain he would prefer a less sensitive day than this.  But she was also certain that if an arrogant fellow had derided the size of his manhood, time or place would have little importance.  The hapless fool would be in an unconscious heap on the marble floor, state occasion or no.  She would not be so violent, but she could not let this go unmet.

“So you have noticed that I lack what you have in abundance,” she retorted, her mind finally seizing upon words she thought were cutting.  “I am quite flattered that you thought it important to look.”

“Is that designed to hurt me?” the woman replied, unfazed.  “You talk like a common female of dull wit and broken claws.  I expected your response to be more. . .martial.”

“Had I my sword, you would not say that, if you were still able to speak from a slit throat.”  Pure anger fueled her, but she did not know if she could sustain this strange form of warfare for any length.  She was parrying thus far, but she had no doubt her attacker would find an opening sometime, just as Boromir had always done.  With Boromir, however, she had never feared he would deliberately wound her.

“Ah, that is more seemly for you,” came the pleased retort, “but if you will forgive me, I would prefer not to converse with the child of a sergeant who would shun her feminine gifts, such as they are, to wallow in the affairs of men.”  With that, she turned her back.

Myrhil simmered with rage as she stared at the pale, graceful and unblemished neck and shoulders before her, as bloodless as her garment was bloody. She clenched her teeth, her face betraying the tension with a slight tremble.  She wanted nothing more than to grasp the woman by the arm with one hand, spin her around, and shatter her jaw with the other.

But no, she could not.  She had to remain silent and allow this woman the final insult, much as it cut her.  At the same time, she realized how foolish it was to expect she could drift between two such vastly different worlds as the practice field and the court and not expect incidents such as these.  Even Boromir had said he experienced difficulty when he left one and entered another for short periods of time.  If the Steward’s son could not be comfortable and avoid discord, then she certainly could not, especially with such creatures as the red-clad viper intent on reminding her what she was, what she was not, and what she could never be.  She had neither blood nor title to protect her.  She possessed nothing of use, and swords could not be wielded in every conflict.

Had the room not been so pressed it made exit impossible, Myrhil would have fled to the relief the outdoors provided and abandon gowns and civility forever.  Civility! she thought.  A dagger slipped between the ribs was civil.  A broadsword to the neck was barbaric.  What a strange and revolting world this is.  Edoras cannot be so deceitful.  It must not.  And if it is?  She did not wish to consider the question.

A ripple of commotion coursed through the crowd, beginning at the open doors that faced to the east and continuing onward to those nearest the dais, but Myrhil did not hear it.  Her thoughts were all turned inward, taking no notice of what happened around her.  Dread about Edoras was born and homesickness tugged at her for the first time in many, many days.

As the black-clad Steward walked up the aisle of the parted assembly, his two sons in their inconspicuous tunics of brown and green followed in his wake, the three of them presenting a muted portrait of command.  Their bearing, however, was strong and bespoke the resolve that kept Gondor unconquered thus far.  The father was kingly in figure, if not in name, and his heirs were fair to behold.

Heads bowed as they passed, but Myrhil did not react immediately, her mind still pondering its own troubles.  When she realized those about her were gazing downward while her head remained erect, she looked about in alarm and saw that Boromir was watching her in open amusement, a grin having replaced his solemn expression of only moments before.  From this distance, he did not seem to have noticed that she was not in exactly the same condition he had left her.  Flustered, she cast her troubled gaze to the floor.

And it was then that she saw a straggling thread at the hem of a brilliant red dress.  She brought the toe of her slipper firmly down upon it.

* * *

“It is a pleasure indeed to welcome you to our city, Elfleda of Rohan,” Denethor said, shifting in the black Steward’s chair and his voice betraying no such emotion.  In his hands, he held the gold-knobbed white rod of his office, the only decoration allowed the Steward line, and tapped one end absently against his palm.  “I trust that your soldiers have found their lodgings satisfactory?”

The leading Rohirrim ambassador Denethor had addressed remained proudly erect and thanked the Steward for the reception.  “Yes, Denethor of Gondor.  Your hospitality is quite generous, and I must thank you for the kind and able assistance lent us by your son.”  He bowed his head in Boromir’s direction, as one soldier to another, a gesture that Boromir returned.  “To the matter of our mission: this gathering between us has become a necessity in light of the dangers our countries face,” he began.  “I think it is obvious that ties must be strengthened.”

“I should think so.”  Denethor cast a brief glance towards his eldest son.  Boromir did not appear to have heard the possible implications in Elfleda’s statement.  Faramir, who stood on the right side of the Steward’s chair while Boromir remained on the left, allowed only a flicker of amusement to tug at the corner of his mouth.  “The message from Théoden was not unexpected for we have kept ourselves apprised of the situation to the north and west as well,” Denethor continued, “but it raises questions nonetheless.”

“And we shall discuss them in as much depth as is mutually agreeable,” Elfleda continued, resolute.  His appearance was that of the purest Rohirrim, though perhaps a little dulled with age.  Even so, his hair was still golden as wheat before the harvest, his eyes a proud, piercing blue.  Though he seemed to possess the traits of the Horse-lords as told in the old legends, he was garbed in a manner that seemed closer to the court he now attended than what was customary in Edoras.  It was known among many that Théoden, born in Gondor to a father who had adopted many traits of the land of his self-chosen exile, did not look askance at foreigners, unlike many of his subjects.  This Elfleda seemed to have acquired some habits during his travels while carrying out his duties, and it earned him the approval of many in that tight and curious gathering.

While Elfleda continued his exchange with Denethor, Laenilas observed the scene with eager eye, if not with attentive ear.  She felt invigorated as she looked upon men from her ancestral lands.  Only six attended the leading ambassador and, with one or two exceptions, they were all that she had been told of throughout her childhood.  Tall and fair, they stood rigid and proud, dressed in a manner similar to the figures in the tapestries her grandmother Théda had woven after reaching Gondor in the wake of her brother.  Of varying ages these men were, but vigor was not absent from the faces and bodies of the elder ones among them.  Golden hair fell about broad shoulders and though they did not wear armor, their tunics seemed no less grand and impressive.  The soldiers who had escorted them were not there, instead collecting a well-earned rest in their lodgings.  The display of force they would have presented was not welcome in a diplomatic meeting.  It is a shame, Laenilas thought.  I should like to see them in all their proud finery.

She continued to observe the Rohirrim and was annoyed that the one nearest her was an unprepossessing figure.  If there was one among them whose attention she could capture without making undue noise or gestures, he would be the easiest, yet his unimpressive stature and position at the rear of his compatriots bespoke of his inferior status.  A short, slight man with hair as dark as the others’ were fair and dressed in a tunic of lesser ostentation, he stood with the patient, resigned air of the lowly and she noticed that his hand rested protectively on a leather case that was slung across his shoulder and chest.  His fingers carried faint stains of ink and his pale face betrayed a shunning of the robust activities enjoyed by his fellow countrymen.  She could not imagine this man thundering across the Mark on a charger with a spear or bow.  No, the case and the inky fingers told her that he was the lowly scribe Myrhil had said would be beyond their ability to attract.  But with a simple gesture, perhaps she could begin her effort to present her plea with this man and continue onward to Elfleda himself.

When she saw him look down at his case once more, apparently once again confirming its presence by his side, she darted her hand out quickly, just enough to create a flurry of movement that could be glimpsed from the corner of his eye.  When he did not react, she did it again, hissing softly, “Eorling!”

Heavy-lidded eyes set on either side of a thin, aquiline nose turned from the object of their interest and lingered briefly at the cascade of pale blue silk that brushed the floor.  The curious gaze continued its path upward, becoming no less questioning when he looked upon her face.  He cocked his head, inviting her to repeat what it was she said but, at that moment, Elfleda and Denethor concluded their pleasantries and preliminary business.  The assembly began to stir, the hall humming as it had before the meeting began.

Laenilas looked towards the other Rohirrim and saw that Denethor had risen from his chair and was gesturing Elfleda towards the door on the left.  The others were falling into step behind the lead Rohirrim and one of them had turned around to see if the slight, pale man was following.

“Gríma!” he called.

The pale scribe bowed his head and made to move away from Laenilas, but she reached wildly for him and grasped his sleeve before he had taken a step.  “Please, I ask but a moment,” she said haltingly in the speech of Rohan.

“I speak fluent Westron,” he replied with visible impatience, or perhaps it was fear that he would be delayed from joining those who needed his services.

“My kin were from Rohan,” she said, feeling the words rush to her lips.  “I claim kinship with Théoden King, though I ask no special favors on that count.  I only wish to present myself at his feet and ask for his kindness.”

Another call.  “Gríma!”

When he tried to gently pull away from her, she only held tighter.  “My husband was murdered by orcs and I have nothing to keep me here in Gondor.  I wish to come to Rohan.  My grandmother was Théda, daughter of Fengel.  Can you please tell your lord of my plea?”

“Yes, yes!” he cried, wrenching himself free from her grasp and hastening after the disappearing Rohirrim.  Despite this somewhat frantic exchange, they had not been too conspicuous beyond those in the immediate vicinity.  Laenilas was satisfied that she had not made a spectacle of herself, although she wished she had been able to make her request with more dignity.

 “Mother, were you able to do anything?” came Myrhil’s voice from behind her.  She heard her daughter grunt as she pushed past those nearby to reach her.  One of her hands was balled into a fist and she used it to push her way through.  “I did not know they would be called away so quickly,” she said.  “What a wasted effort!  To stand here for hours and accomplish nothing.”

Laenilas watched the spare figure turn his head towards her as he continued to follow the others.  From this distance, she could not be certain what emotion was in his dark eyes, but that he would consider another glance made her feel that she had not been immediately forgotten.

“Perhaps not much,” she replied.  “But certainly not ‘nothing’.”

Myrhil looked down at her balled fist and smiled, biting her lip.  “On second thought, even little victories can seem like the best of prizes.”  At the same time, she told herself to believe that the cutting words about her father’s low rank, and hence her own worth, hurt her not at all.

That night, the citadel was alight with feasting, song and conversation.  Preparations had been in motion long before the Rohirrim departed from Edoras and they had concluded just as the guests passed through the Great Gate.  Though the Steward had said nothing of the importance of the occasion, it was well understood among all deputed to ready the Citadel into something befitting the arriving Rohirrim.  Within the Merethrond, the great feasting hall, long tables were festooned with garlands, and arrangements of the fairest and brightest summer blooms amongst the silver and crockery presented a cheery atmosphere.  The air was saturated with the mingling scents of flora, roasted meat, fresh baked bread, steamed vegetables fresh from the fields, and various other foods.  Anyone who passed by the open windows were seized with immediate hunger pangs, so enticing was the aroma.

The sun still hovered over the western horizon when the Steward and his family entered to occupy the large table raised on a dais, accompanied by the Rohirrim ambassador and his entourage.  They had arrived directly from the conference chamber, all visibly wearied from negotiation and the tension that always existed when men of strong will and importance found themselves on opposite sides of a table laden with objectives.

Myrhil and Laenilas found themselves directed to a table at the foot of the dais.  Myrhil would have reveled in the seeming importance such a position might imply, but when she saw the woman in brilliant red approach with her escort and seat herself at the same table on the other side only a few chairs distant, her contentment warred against anger.  Even the wad of blazing red thread now secreted in her sleeve, a trophy from one obviously enamored of her wardrobe, could not erase the nasty exchange in the throne room.  She was once again in a room overflowing with folk she did not know, which she would have never known had circumstances not overridden her birth and placed her here.  She braced herself for another unpleasant encounter and her mood soured at the prospect. Without waiting for one of the servants to assist her, Myrhil sat down heavily and jerked herself towards the table.

Laenilas noticed her daughter’s change in temper and looked about in search of its source.  She could see nothing out of the ordinary and lowered herself into her chair on Myrhil’s left, puzzled.  “I would not desire to sit up there, but perhaps you do,” she said.  “Is that what troubles you?”

“No,” Myrhil said curtly, not even turning her head.

“No?  Not even if you could sit beside Boromir?” Laenilas pried gently.

“No!” came the retort, a sharp whisper.  Myrhil held out her goblet to a passing servant for some wine and Laenilas saw that her daughter’s entire body was rigid beneath the green silk of her gown.  If she had before looked angular and incongruous in a dress that best suited a more rounded figure, she appeared even more so now.

Laenilas lost her patience and chose to abandon the conversation, intent on not embroiling herself in a foul mood on this merry evening.  Should she find herself before any of the Rohirrim, she did not want this shadow tainting her thoughts.  She did not think it possible that she could capture the attention of any of them from her lowly position here, but she seized the opportunity to further look upon them.  Only four Rohirrim dined with the Steward and his sons.  The pale scribe was not among them.  She did not know if he and the other missing man that had attended the reception were deemed unworthy of such an honor or were merely unpunctual.  In either case, she regretted that her only contact thus far had been with one who could seemingly do her little good.

On either side of Denethor, as they had stood in the Tower Hall, sat Boromir and Faramir.  On Boromir’s right was seated Elfléda, and Laenilas concluded the two men were continuing a debate begun in that closed room.  Their manner was somewhat tense and she saw Denethor cast a reproving look at his eldest, but it went unseen and therefore unheeded.  She was about to return her attention to the feast before her when Denethor’s avid gaze left his son and swept the room before pausing on her.  Her first instinct was to turn away.  The words exchanged the other night were still a vivid memory.

But she had experienced long ago that when those grey Númenorean depths fixed themselves upon something, it was nearly impossible to escape their grip.  It had been so years past and it still held true now.  She would simply turn her head now.  It was an easy thing to accomplish, requiring but one movement.  Turn, you fool! she rebuked herself in frustration.  She halted when, in the midst of her struggle, Denethor inclined his head with the most grace she had ever seen Ecthelion’s son display and smiled.  It was a smile that lingered barely an instant, but it was most knowing.

Ah, but he does love being the Steward, Laenilas thought, and he loves that he need only tolerate people at his will, rather than be forced to accept them.  With remembrance of the comely and heroic Thorongil rising to the fore, she found it of little effort to return his silent acknowledgement with a meaningful smile of her own design that matched his in complacent serenity.  When his gaze passed on to others in the hall, she turned to her plate, now somewhat infected with a feeling of amusement and relief.

“If you do not get food now, Mother, you will not be eating,” Myrhil said, stabbing a small hunk of roasted beef from the platter in the center of the table and putting it on her mother’s plate.  “These little court pigeons apparently need more to sustain them in their pursuit of men and clothes.  Had we eaten as they do, we would have starved for most of the year.”

Laenilas did not miss the snide tone in her daughter’s voice.  “What has angered you so?” she demanded.  “You have been surly and irritated since this afternoon.”

Myrhil swallowed the food in her mouth and remained silent for long moments.  “It is none of your concern,” she said finally.  “’Tis only wounded pride on my part.”

“Very well,” Laenilas replied uncertainly, taking a large slice of bread from the board and spreading it with fresh butter.  “Wounded pride is an injury we all have suffered.”

The matter would have been of no more consequence to her, but as she was about to bite into the bread, she noticed a woman on the other side of the table seated some distance away.  The creature was clad in a gown of such violent red that Laenilas’ mother would have heartily disapproved, had her daughter intended to wear it to court, and on her lips was a sardonic smile directed at Myrhil.

Laenilas let her gaze fall to her food and she whispered, “Who is she?”

“It matters not who she is,” Myrhil replied.  “I do not know her name or anything of her, but she knows who -- or what, rather -- I am.”

Laenilas smiled.  “Ah, someone jealous of the standing you hold with Gondor’s heir?”

Myrhil did not seem amused.  “I wish it were that ridiculous.  Some find a measure of honor in that position, but none in mine.”

“Yours?”

“‘A mean soldier’s daughter, and naught else.’  Remember?  You said it so eloquently.”  Myrhil grabbed an unfortunate piece of meat from her plate and shoved it into her mouth.  “That is what I am in her eyes,” she continued, “and no doubt in those of many others.  But, there is this. . .”  She wiped her greasy hands on a small square of linen and slipped her fingers into her sleeve, withdrawing the small wad of thread.  “A petty prize and I am ashamed for having felt so invincible when I claimed it.  She has not changed gowns.  It is possible she does not even know that it has frayed.”

Laenilas studied it, genuinely confused.  “What are you prating on about?”  She shook her head and returned her attention to her plate.  “I think Boromir’s absence has affected you.  I would push you towards him right now in front of all if it would not cause his father to grow red and livid.”  She chuckled.  “Though that would be a fine sight.”

As Laenilas laughed to herself, Myrhil returned the thread to her sleeve and looked over at the woman, who appeared curious but ignorant as to what she had just held in her hand.   Myrhil received pleasure from that.  Let the uncertainty fester.  She returned to the delicious meal before her and ate with greater relish.

Laenilas was enjoying the meal as well.  The food the servants had brought to her and what she had cooked herself had been nearly as rich as the fruits of her labor in her own kitchen in Lebennin, but this feast surpassed all of that.  She lost herself in the wine, the meat, the crisp greens, and the steaming loaves of bread that came from the kitchens in steady supply.

Musicians had been gathered and the center of the hall had remained empty to allow dancing.  As some of the feasters reached their limit, they abandoned the tables and began to caper about slowly.  When heavy stomachs began to feel lighter, so did the steps of the dancers and the music became lively and joyous to match the rising gaiety.

Myrhil watched the blood-clad woman rise and vanish with her suitor, but the rank ire had been displaced.  She had eaten more than was sensible and now felt quite sluggish.  The hall was becoming unbearably hot and she ran a hand over her throat and chest in discomfort.

“Perhaps a small dance would help you,” Laenilas said, gesturing towards the center of the hall with a toss of her head.  “It has apparently aided others with full bellies.”

Myrhil laughed, a stark contrast to her mood all night thus far, but she could not help but be amused at the absurdity.  “I dance?  You must be drunk for suggesting that.”

Laenilas brought a hand up to her flushed cheek.  “Perhaps I am.  I should have watered it more.”

Picking up her own goblet, Myrhil sniffed the contents and downed what remained in a few scant swallows.  “I did not water mine at all.”

“Gorhend is to blame for that,” Laenilas said ruefully, “allowing you into taverns and drinking the occasional ale.”  She rubbed her cheek absently.  “I should like to dance.”

“Then do so.  I would like to see you ask that pleasure from Denethor.”

Laenilas looked sharply at her daughter.  “Why do you suggest that?”

“You have studiously avoided him since our arrival,” Myrhil said.  “Even I am not that unobservant.  I meant to ask you at the time when Faramir took me to see him and you insisted on remaining behind, but I deemed it none of my affair.  I intended to ask you the night you summoned the guards to look for me and looked at the Tower so strangely, but I did not.”

“It is a long and tedious history.  This certainly is not the place to discuss it.”

“I sense the tragic tale of a jilted lover,” Myrhil persisted, voice light and sly.

“Far less interesting than that!” Laenilas replied after a shocked pause.  “What gave you that notion?  You must be the drunk one to suggest it.”

Myrhil shrugged.  “Perhaps I am.”

“Are we going to be repeating each other all night long?”

“Perhaps we are.”  Her mother’s stern glare cut the nonsense short.  “I think some of Faramir’s poems have colored my senses,” Myrhil explained, though it was obvious from her tone that she did not believe the excuse she was offering.  “He has sometimes had me read foolish love poetry because it is easier to understand.  Even in my ignorance, I feel my intelligence is insulted.  But the subjects can be quite fanciful.”

“Reserve your imaginings for yourself and Boromir, not Lord Denethor and I.  There is nothing of that in my past,” Laenilas assured her.  “I hope you will recover from any disappointment.”  She pushed her goblet firmly away from her plate, the lie now told.  “Be silent and we shall try to survive the remainder of the evening without saying something truly embarrassing.  Or,” she admonished, “at least begin watering your wine.”

* * *

Faramir saw Myrhil slump backwards in her chair, then apparently remember her surroundings and quickly pull herself into an erect position.  He had watched her for most of the evening, even when he was engaged with others.  The man beside him, a native of the Westfold, had spoken at length about the troubles encountered in the Gap of Rohan, but both had let the subject fade from conversation when their spirits began to dampen to such an extent that the music in the room had difficulty alleviating it.  When silence fell between them, Faramir had little to engage his attention.

He looked past Denethor and saw that Boromir and Elfléda were still in discussion.  He wondered if it was the matter of sending Gondorian patrols further to the north and west than had ever been done.  That was a request by the Rohirrim that both Denethor and Boromir had met with coldness and obvious refusal.  With the Gap now the source of peril for Rohan and the latest incursions by the Enemy penetrating to the south of Minas Tirith, the northern reaches and points west were not of greatest importance, though they were still patrolled regularly.

Not regularly enough for the Rohirrim, however.  The conference ended with no small degree of acrimony.  Elfléda was determined to secure an outcome apparently most beneficial to his King, but Denethor would not sacrifice Gondor’s welfare to please someone else.  It was presumptuous to expect anything of the sort and Faramir sensed his brother’s irritation at the Rohirrim’s forthrightness.  A King of Gondor would not be pressed as hard as a mere Steward to comply.  The ties between the two lands were strong, yet even in the best of times strain was not unknown.

Faramir brought a hand to one temple and rubbed away the beginnings of a headache.  He was surprised that his brother had not willingly abandoned the strife of the negotiation table as soon as the door was opened and the way clear for some festivity.  The ugly specter of marriage had only been raised in the most vague of terms and Boromir had quickly deflected it with talk of a stronger military alliance instead.  Had Elfléda persisted on nuptials with as much tenacity as patrols, he doubted that Boromir would have bothered wasting another word on the man.  Talk of men and arms -- that was more to his brother’s liking, and when he was engaged in such details, little else could capture his interest.  Even Myrhil, who Faramir expected would have been nearly foremost in his brother’s mind, seemed forgotten as she sat silently at a quickly diminishing table.

He excused himself from the Rohirrim on his side of the table and rose from his chair.  Denethor looked up in alarm.  “You tire of our company, Faramir?” he asked.

“No, Father, but I see some who have none,” he said, gesturing below them.  “Our guests.  I wish to beg leave to attend them.”

Denethor studied the two women silently.  When Faramir took his silence to indicate refusal and displeasure, he reluctantly sank into his chair again, but he jumped slightly when he felt his father’s hand on his wrist.

“Yes, Faramir, see to our guests,” Denethor said.  “They must be feeling at sea in a place such as this.  Put them at ease.  As you will.”  He dismissed his son with a wave of the hand.

Faramir nodded in dumb obedience, uncertain whether he had actually heard his father express such host-like concern, though his voice had not been warm.  He cast a final glance at his brother before leaving the table.  Boromir was still acting as the heir of Gondor should, place business before personal desires.  It was admirable, yes -- and he was immensely proud of his brother for his singleness of purpose -- but the sun had traversed half the sky and long set.  It was time to leave military matters behind and enjoy the rare festivities the arrival of the Rohirrim had prompted.

He descended the stairs of the dais with light step and wended his way through the servants and milling feasters to where Laenilas and Myrhil sat.

Laenilas saw him approach and greeted him with a broad smile.  “Ah, Faramir!”  She reached out a hand and seized his in a warm clasp.  “You were most splendid-looking today.  A sight to be proud of.”

Faramir bowed awkwardly at her praise, his smile marred briefly by a pained twitch.  “As do you,” he returned, squeezing her fingers once before letting go.  “I trust the seamstresses met with your approval?”

“Myrhil was not fond of them, but this gown is among the finest I have ever worn.”  Her hands brushed along her sleeves.  “I almost regret that I cannot wear it everyday.”

Faramir smiled.  He would not think upon what his father would say were he to hear this conversation about clothes and appearances.  No doubt he was watching this exchange and had deduced its subject readily, as was his gift.  However, he enjoyed Laenilas’ company and would gladly discuss all matters with her, whether it was serious or pointless banter such as this.

“So why have you fled from your table to ours?” she asked.  “The Rohirrim are not unpleasant, I pray?”

“They are pleasant enough.  As pleasant as demanding allies can be, but I expected that.”  He peered past Laenilas.  “Actually, I have come here to relieve Myrhil of her boredom,” he replied.  “I thought she might enjoy a dance.  Myrhil?”

Myrhil shook her head.  “Mother and I have already discussed it.  I cannot dance, and I would not make you look ridiculous with my clumsy galloping.”

Faramir stood behind Myrhil’s chair and pulled it out from the table.  “Nonsense!” he said.  “I have been told I have the grace of a mûmak, so we shall be in fine company.”

“That sounds like something your brother would say,” Laenilas mused.

“Quite right.  So, what say you, Myrhil?  Let us make fools of ourselves together.”

The safety of the table no longer enclosing her, Myrhil remained in her chair and gripped the arms tighter when she felt Faramir’s hands under her elbows in an effort to prompt her from her seat.  “No,” she said firmly.  “I will not.”

He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “I have a volume of poetry, nigh two hundred pages long, that I can force you to read aloud.  Nay, perhaps even memorize.”

Myrhil loosened her grip and rose so quickly that her shoulder struck the underside of his chin.  When he clutched it and rubbed it in an effort to soothe the pain, she smiled in satisfaction.  “Let that cure you of making vile threats.”

“Vile threats?” he asked.  “I have rarely heard it referred to as that.”

Laenilas laughed.  “And that is all I have heard.”

Faramir shrugged in good humor.  “I will continue bravely onward in spite of the odds.  Perhaps one day I shall have you writing it.”  Laenilas laughed again and motioned him to lead Myrhil away.  As they left the table, side by side, he asked, “Out of curiosity, would you call an offer to dance a vile threat as well?”

“Nay, that is torture,” came the reply.  “Why are you not still at table?  You did not leave simply out of misguided pity for me.”

Faramir held her hand firmly as they made their way to the center of the hall.  “Exactly that.  Boromir is not currently concerned about entertaining you and I did not want you to feel neglected.”

“How kind of you,” she said dryly.

“We could be in a library, Myrhil.  At least try to see the good of my actions.”

“Yes, very admirable.  Suppose we do go to the library instead of making fools of ourselves?”

They reached the other dancers and before Myrhil could protest further, Faramir seized her other hand and hauled her into the swirling circle.  The musicians were playing a gambol and Faramir led her with less difficulty than she had feared.  She stumbled several times as her gown tangled around her feet, but as the music increased in tempo and the steps became even more lively, the gowns of all the ladies fluttered like banners on the ramparts in reds, greens, blues, pinks, and purples of silks, satins, velvets and brocades.  Jewels glittered, laughter rang and the air above the dancers crackled like that of a sweltering summer night when the horizon flashes with an unheard storm.  In that moment, Myrhil cared not where the woman in the red dress stood, or what she thought.  She could feel her blood singing in her hands that Faramir gripped, in her feet that struck against the marble floor with every step she took, and in her ears that nearly drowned out the music.  She abandoned herself to this inner orchestra.

* * *

Laenilas remained at the table and was contemplating her goblet when, from the corner of her eye, she saw someone enter the room through a door to the right of the dais.  She assumed it was a servant, but when she looked over at him, she recognized him as the scribe from the throne room.  His leather case was still slung protectively across his chest.  He seemed uncertain about progressing further, but she raised her hand and motioned him to come forward.  He did so with clear hesitation.

“Good evening,” she said cheerily.  “You are late to the feast.”

“I was tending to my duties,” he replied softly, rubbing at one hand with a handkerchief.  The white linen was smudged with ink in many places.

“Are you a poor scribe?” she asked, pointing to his dirty fingers.

“Only when those whose words I have to copy speak faster than I can write.”  His thin lips were cocked to one side as he labored to scrub his hands without benefit of water.  He paused and stared at her through tendrils of a forelock that fell over his brow.  “Pardon me.  My lady.”  He bowed quickly.  “I recall what you told me this afternoon of your blood ties.”

“It is Gríma, correct?”

He nodded.  “Gríma Gálmódsson.”

“And have you spoken of it with the ambassador?”

He shook his head.  “Today’s business was entirely with Gondor.  Ceddewine, the only Rohirrim you saw today who is not here tonight, is the ambassador’s lieutenant of sorts and I shall inform him of all that you tell me as soon as I am able.”

“Which will be?”  When Gríma appeared indecisive, she added, “Yes, I am impatient and demanding.  If you knew all the details, then you might understand.”  She gestured to Myrhil’s empty chair.  “My daughter is occupied with the dance, so please sit down.”  She eyed his slender frame keenly.  “You could do with a heaping platter or two.”

Gríma’s expression was that of one who felt insulted, and Laenilas realized that her words might have sounded condescending.  This man was no youngster, and he already carried the lines of age on his brow.  His pale features only instilled the impression that he was a newly growing thing, or at least something whose growth was a struggle, like a sapling in a forest of towering trees.

Taking a seat, he sighed faintly at the welcome comfort, resting his back comfortably against the broad slats.  “Forgive me, but I have been bent in the opposite direction for hours,” he said.

Laenilas smiled.  “I understand.  ‘Tis no different in a kitchen and I am no stranger to that form of pain.”

Gríma looked uncomfortably at the plate before him that contained Myrhil’s uneaten food.  There was neither a clean bowl he could use nor an unused knife with which to eat, but he eyed the scraps of meat and cooling pieces of bread hungrily.

“How long have you been in Théoden King’s service?” Laenilas asked.

“My father served him until the day he died, and I had begun to fulfill my duty to my king long before that.”

“Your father was a scribe as well?” Laenilas asked.  Her eyes flickered to his hands that had subtly taken hold of Myrhil’s knife and secreted it in his lap where he gave it a perfunctory wipe with his handkerchief.  She did not know whether to pity or deride him for his willingness to eat someone’s scraps with dirty silver.

“No, he was in trade,” he replied, skewering a piece of cold meat from the platter and pulling it from the congealed grease.  “He sent me away to receive an education and later I secured a post in the king’s household based on my merits.”  He revealed this with some pride as he took a small bite of the meat and reached for a piece of bread.  “You did neglect to mention that you had a daughter,” he continued.  “It is just as well that I did not approach my lord Elfléda or anyone else about this matter, only to have additional details come forth later.”  Laenilas caught a brief flicker of his eyes as they looked at her askance and concluded that he believed she had tricked him intentionally.

“My time was limited, Gríma.  You have to admit that I was left with little opportunity before everyone would be called away.  I have waited here for numerous weeks before continuing with my journey.  I mean to settle in Rohan, but it matters not where.  I do not expect Théoden to gift me with a room in Meduseld or even in Edoras.”

“Then why not simply come to Rohan and purchase a farm in the Eastemnet or wherever it please you?”

“Because I do wish to see my kin, as I would like to think Théoden would enjoy meeting those of his blood who settled and remained in Gondor.”  She affected a deprecating smile.  “I am old and willingly bend to formality in this matter.”

“Why leave Gondor?” he wanted to know.  “You would be safer within Minas Tirith and--”

“Safety is a fruitless debate in these days,” Laenilas interrupted.  “The Gap of Rohan has made Edoras only slightly less perilous than Minas Tirith.  I am not afraid, no matter where I may dwell.  Were it my desire to remain where my husband and I had made our home for years past, the place of his death at the hands of orcs and possible future attacks, I would have stayed.  Yet I wished to leave.  Should Théoden King request my reasons other than the one I have told you, I shall give them to him, gladly -- when I see him.”

Gríma was silent after this blunt speech.  “Yes, I regret earlier circumstances forced you to be brief,” he finally said, “for I should like to hear of your kinship to my king.  Théoden has not forgotten his ties to Gondor.  Customs and manners acquired by his father during his long sojourn here have found a willing champion in our king.  They do not flourish greatly, but many have set aside their suspicion and entwined them with the customs of their own fathers.”

“Am I to assume that you are of that mind?” Laenilas asked.  “You speak kindly of this habit.”

Gríma nodded with the same noticeable degree of pride.  “I am.  So is my lord Elfléda.  He is a worldly man and there is little in both lands that he has not seen and studied in his service to our king.  But, please, tell me of your kinship to the House of Eorl.”

As Laenilas began to inform him of her grandmother’s journey to Gondor and the flowering of her bloodline in her adoptive country, Gríma’s gaze lingered long on her face.  Such a bold gesture was forgivable when joined with avid interest in a tale well told, but his attention was not completely captured by the words she spoke.    Her claims to kinship were sound and one could see it in her face.  Though this woman was Gondorian by birth and the blood of its people ran in her veins, her Rohirrim blood had not noticeably lessened through the intermingling.  Théda’s stock had indeed been strong, and her granddaughter had apparently been gifted with Gondorian fortitude as well.  Her earlier comment about toiling in a kitchen seemed true when he marked the calloused hands that rested on the arms of her chair or gestured during the course of her tale.  The fingers were wrinkled from exposure to extremes of heat and cold for many years, the skin pulled tight and dry, and they were thicker and more blunt in nature than what he had usually seen in nobility.  They were the hands of a farmer’s wife.  But her face. . .the blue eyes, hair that reminded him of the golden roof of Meduseld during a mid-summer sunset, and a visage as flinty as the peak of the Irensaga.  It seemed natural and right that such a person should be in the country that had laid claim to every discernable feature.  She possessed the traits dear to the Rohirrim that he himself lacked, and he fought the envy that rose in his breast.

Yet when she had finished, he nodded.  “I will do all that I can, my lady.”

* * *

“Have you tired?” Faramir asked.

Myrhil did not hear the question through the pounding in her ears and the revelry around her.  She cocked her head towards him, inviting him to repeat it.  When he did, she shook her head.  “Why do you ask?”

“Because you are huffing like you have run around the Pelennor in a full suit of armor with a dwarf on your back!”

She gripped Faramir’s hands tighter, squeezing them as though in rebuke.  “No worse than you!” she replied.  “Your face is as red as--”

Myrhil stopped when she looked over Faramir’s shoulder and saw a red dress.  “As red as. . .” she said, pulling Faramir along with her as part of the dance.  He followed along, puzzled, but his eyes widened slightly when Myrhil sidled up to another dancer, a woman he had often seen strolling about the Citadel, and deliberately stepped on the short train that dragged along the floor.

The woman -- Faramir recalled that the name Imían seemed familiar -- lurched into her escort when she found herself anchored.  Impatiently, she looked behind her to see the cause.  Upon spying a foot firmly planted on her dress, her head snapped up in alarm and her mouth set in a tight line upon seeing Myrhil.  “Not satisfied with receiving one wound?” she demanded.  “You wish for another?”

Faramir hauled Myrhil against him, removing her from Imían’s dress.  He was uncertain exactly what was unfolding before him, but he would try to prevent it to the best of his ability.  “Myrhil, what has possessed you?” he whispered sharply into her ear.

Myrhil struggled against him, but it was not to try to leave.  Releasing her, he looked down as her fingers dug frantically into one of her sleeves and watched in complete confusion as a large wad of red thread appeared.  Myrhil pinched it firmly and waved it in front of her opponent.  “A wound?  On me?  Check your dress, my lady.  You may need the services of a seamstress.”

Imían’s hand lashed out to try to steal the thread, but Myrhil pulled it close to her breast.  “I shall keep this, whether you object or no,” she said.

Before anything more could be said or done, both women were parted as the men with them yanked them in opposite directions.  The musicians had begun a slower tune and the gathered dancers were forming lines.  Faramir darted through an opening, Myrhil in tow, and continued towards the wide doors that hung open to allow the night air to enter.

Once they passed through the doors onto the cobbled courtyard, he stopped and turned to her.  “I will not even ask what that was about.”

“She insulted me earlier.  I was obligated to return the favor.”  She returned the thread to her sleeve.  When Faramir looked at her in exasperation, she replied, perplexed, “If I fought wrongly, then tell me how I should have fought!  Please, Faramir!  Tell me.  Only do not tell me that I should not have fought at all.”  She brought a hand to her eyes, but she did not weep.  She only felt weary.

He shook his head.  “No, Myrhil, it is nothing dire.  At least that is my hope.  But I did not bring you out here to lay stern words upon you.  I simply thought some fresh air was needed, to restore the senses.  For both of us.”  He inhaled deeply and sighed as he looked up at the sky.  “Perhaps we should have gone to the library after all.”

Myrhil lowered her hand and managed a small laugh.  “Yes, I would rather we had done so, now.”

He put a hand on her arm.  “I should return to the table.  Father and Boromir may again wish to have some assistance with the conversational duties.  If you like, we can return together.”

Myrhil declined with a shake of the head.  “I would like to remain here.  It was not until now that I realized how close the air is in that hall.  Make my excuses to Mother.  I do not think I shall be going back in there tonight.”

“Very well.”  He turned to leave and was about to enter the hall when he stopped and cast a final glance over his shoulder.  “Myrhil, promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“By all accounts, Éowyn of Rohan is a kindly girl.  Do not step on her gown.  A king’s wrath is not a pleasant sight, I warrant.”

He said it without a trace of a smile, but Myrhil sensed he was speaking in humor.  She laughed.  “You have my word on it.”

Faramir’s lips curved pleasantly and his grey eyes grew light.  “Good night, Myrhil.  A pleasant sleep to you.”

After he disappeared back into the hall, she leaned against the cool stone of the structure and closed her eyes.  The heat and vigorous dancing had sent blood rushing throughout her body, making her bruises throb with bearable pain, but the night air was soothing those minor aches.  She was incredibly weary and, succumbing to this impulse, she slid down the wall until she was resting comfortably on the ground.  Tucking her gown around her ankles, she laced her arms around her knees and wondered how long it would be before she fell asleep.  She was hidden in the shadows and hoped that she could go unseen for at least a little while.

It seemed like she had barely nodded off when a heavy footfall scraped against the cobbles beside her.  She raised her head and peered up at the shadow looming above her.  She knew who it was before he spoke.

“So I find you at last.”

“I was before you all night, Boromir,” she replied.  “You simply chose not to do anything.”  She gave him her hand, expecting him to haul her to her feet, but instead he took a seat beside her against the wall.

“It seems you have kept yourself busy tonight without thought of me preoccupying you,” he said.  Myrhil heard the bemused curiosity in his statement.

“You saw that scene while I was dancing, I suppose?  Is that what you speak of?”

“Yes.  Well, partly.  It was interesting what I did see of it.  Faramir supplied the other details when he came back to the table after I asked him for them.”

“I did not mean to be so. . .”  Her voice faded.  “What would you call it?  Lowly? Uncouth?  Stupid?  I am inclined towards that one.”  She buried her head in her hands.  “I have stood on a woman’s gown twice today and enjoyed it!”

Boromir laughed.  “Think nothing of it, whatever you have done.  I would only like to know what prompted this little retaliation of yours.  Was it this?”  He took her hands from her face and ran a finger along the split on her lip.  “Or this?”  The finger trailed upwards to her cheek.  “Have you been slapping the women in court while I was gone and they slapped back?”

“Faramir must have told you about the tavern,” she said.

“He has.  You managed to get into trouble even though you remained behind.”  He smiled when he saw Myrhil look at him uncertainly.  “But it is truly fortunate that you were there, even to hear what little you did.  I am glad you were there.”

“As am I.  My injuries are nothing.  I have suffered worse, but it cut my heart to hear them speak of what they had planned and carried out.  I doubt we shall ever find them, but if we do--”

“No mercy, Myrhil.  Vengeance for Gorhend and all the men who fell.”

Except perhaps for Belaród, she thought.  If he is the one they spoke of.  But she kept these thoughts silent.  “Yes,” she said simply.  “For them all.”

“But I did not venture Father’s wrath by leaving the table to talk of sorrowful things.”  He took her hand and she heard him clear his throat softly.  “You look most becoming in that gown.”

“You lie.  I look hideous.  I feel hideous.”  Truly, she was surprised at those words coming from his mouth.  They were not spoken expertly, as though he was not in the habit of commenting on such matters.  And she was not accustomed to hearing them, either.  She realized her response had not been gracious, but it was honest.  She did feel hideous.  The gown felt light and she sorely missed the close comfort of a good pair of breeches, shirt and boots.

“I will not play the gallant like the fools in Faramir’s soggy poetry,” he said, the back of his hand caressing her cheek in just such a manner.

“I would not like it if you did,” she replied.

“Then I shall not.”

Myrhil felt Boromir’s hand slip from her cheek to her neck.  In one swift motion, he pulled her forward, bringing their lips together harshly.  She was startled for but a moment before her own hunger for him took control of every thought and desire.  The restraint she had shown earlier that day by refraining from meeting him at the Gate now slipped its bonds.  Her arms flew around his neck and shoulders and she leaned her full weight against him, as though striving to get as close to him as she could.  In response, Boromir embraced her tightly to him, his mouth crushing hers in urgent demand.

Myrhil did not know what Boromir was thinking, but her mind was full of remembrance of their parting on the banks of the Anduin and the promises they had made.  She had kept her word and not followed him.  Now he was keeping his.  She insistently wrenched her lips away from his impassioned kiss and inhaled deeply.  “You are utterly reliable, Captain,” she said breathlessly.  “You did say you cared not where we might be when we found ourselves together again, or who may happen across us.”

“Are you having doubts about that promise?”

“I have done much today with an audience,” she allowed, “but I would rather enjoy some solitude to give you what you have waited for.  I left you with too little on the Anduin.”

Boromir grinned.  “Yes, nothing is too little.”

She ran her fingers through his locks and grasped them in two fistfuls, giving a playful tug.  “So is that your opinion of my skill?” she demanded in mock anger.  “The rest of the evening shall not go well for you if you do not speak more generously.  Or does Boromir of Gondor feel he has more to teach me?”

Boromir’s hands slowly kneaded her waist and back.  His eyes looked into hers steadily.  “Myrhil of Lebennin has always been a ready pupil.”

Myrhil grinned wickedly at him and slipped her arms around his neck again, resting her cheek on his shoulder.  They remained thus only briefly before Boromir whispered in her ear, “It is nearly midnight, if you had not noticed.”

“I had not.”

“And I have had no rest in over four days,” he added meaningfully.

Myrhil kissed the skin behind his ear and smiled as she stroked his hair.  “Sleep, then.”

“Are you saying I retire alone?”

A careless shrug.  “If you wish for rest, then yes.”

She felt Boromir’s frame shake as he laughed silently.  “The first lesson for tonight, Myrhil, is that there are many, many forms of rest.”

* * *

Boromir lay on his back and looked at the flickering shadows on the ceiling rafters.  After spending four days and nights on his mission with thoughts of Myrhil woven among his concern for his Rohirrim charges, he desired to see the fruition of his imaginings and so he had not extinguished the tapers.  He did not regret his decision.

From the moment he brought her into his rooms, it was as though Myrhil felt completely able to act with him as she willed.  He may have claimed that the night would be his to dictate and that she would learn whatever he wished to teach her, but he found himself being instructed in the matter of speed and eagerness.  Her complaint about her gown seemed amended by the ease with which she divested herself of it, and his tunic, the source of such a struggle earlier, quickly joined her gown on the floor after she nimbly pulled it over his head.

Their first coupling had similarly been swift, but too swift for their liking.  Four days’ longing had ended in pitiful, impatient quickness and only brief fulfillment.  Held in each other’s arms, still joined, they lay in silence.  Then, as though the gift was late bestowed, all seemed to come together and Boromir’s strength resurged greater than it had been.  Whether their first union had been a matter of carnal necessity taking precedence over satisfaction, he did not know.  But soon the sensations flowing from and into him with the woman beneath him became nearly unbearable.  He wanted to take her, fully and completely to the furthest recesses of her body and soul, and watch her as he did so.  Here the candles by the bedside served their purpose, for he was able to see Myrhil’s face as he had imagined it.  Lips parted, eyes closed, and brow beaded with sweat, she fiercely matched every one of his thrusts with one of her own as she clung to him tightly, as intent as he on prolonging this duel to the limits of their endurance.  And so it had ended in such a manner, clashing against one another in one final stroke.  He could almost hear the ringing scrape of blades in his ears before he succumbed to the exhaustion of a bout well fought, one ending in mutual victory.

Afterwards, they still lay joined and silent, but the silence was one of drained vitality and thorough contentment.  And when Boromir heard her murmur “my love” in his ear, he responded in kind and found a measure of excitement in uttering such a thing.  The sincerity, or lack of it, in those words did not seem to matter.  Lazy caresses followed languid kisses until Myrhil fell into a peaceful slumber, but, for the moment, sleep came only to her.

Boromir turned his head.  Myrhil now lay on her side, her back facing him.  An arm was crooked under her head, her hand peeping out through the strands of her hair.  The roughened fingers were curled loosely and invited him to hold them.  This he did, his blunt, square hand gently seizing them.  It was then that he noticed that three of her knuckles were scuffed and scabbed, presumably from the tavern brawl as she had fought her way through the throng.  He shook his head and smiled in amused approval.  She was indeed not afraid of a fight and, when cornered, thought nothing of plunging through danger to do what she could to get out of it.

But he would not see her in deliberate danger, such as serving under arms as men did; yet, he was all too aware that that was what she wanted.  Perhaps she felt she was not equipped to do anything else.  He could understand how she felt, and why.  At least, he expected he did.  Her father had been one of the ablest soldiers he had ever known, and her brother would surely have borne arms for Gondor had he lived.  It was an enticing legacy to pursue, but Minas Tirith had never allowed women to fight and he would not see it done now.  Not in the standing army, and not in the Rangers, no matter her skill and his regard for it and her.  He regretted that he must refuse her should she ever make such a request, but he would take no other course.

He rubbed her fingers with his thumb, staring thoughtfully at her naked back.  She could not be a soldier, and he somehow felt she would not be content to simply be a passive mistress.  He wished her to remain, but her discontent would grow with the passing of time.  A small, puzzled sigh escaped him.  It was too much to think on, especially tonight when his mind had been taken through the torturous paths of diplomacy and second-guessing all day.  No, he wished to dwell on simpler things.

He released her fingers and slid closer to her as gently as he could.  Laying his cheek against her fingers, he snaked an arm around her waist and inched forward until their bodies curved in tight unison.  Though the room was still oppressive from the summer heat and they were both flushed from their lovemaking, he grasped the edge of the bedcovers and pulled them up until both he and Myrhil were nestled snugly beneath them.  Boromir soon fell asleep as the simple pleasure of a warm woman in his bed made cold, worldly matters fade into insignificance.

Myrhil was the first to waken.  Boromir’s rooms faced eastward and the sunrise, such as it was through Mordor’s haze, shone directly into her eyes.  She flinched at the sudden, unwelcome light and shifted slightly to turn her head from it.  As she did so, she became aware of Boromir’s strong form pressed against her.  The back of her neck was warm and moist from his breath and the curve of her waist seemed like his arm had always been draped around it.  His hand was curled against her stomach and she laid her own over it, the tips of her fingers running lightly over the skin.  For such a strong hand, she could feel the narrow bones so finely.

Since the dawn was not as brilliant a sight here as in Lebennin, after the initial discomfort she looked long at it before she felt Boromir stir beside her.  Her hand stopped its idle motions as he came awake beside her.  A slight move of the legs at first, followed by a lazy twisting of the hips, and then punctuated by a grunt as, apparently, the sun met his eyes as well.  She lay still throughout this ritual, curious as to what he usually did with his bedmates once he woke.  A wry smile formed on her lips when she soon learned it was as she thought with this soldier.

The hand she had been caressing slipped out from her loose hold and began to slowly massage her left breast.  He drew her against him tightly and she felt the prick of his beard against her neck and shoulder as he placed several long kisses against the flushed skin.  “Wake up, Myrhil,” he sang softly in her ear.

“How could I sleep?” she replied, still not moving.  “It is difficult when something hard is poking my backside.”

“Your tongue has loosened since I left those scant days ago,” he observed.  His hand now slid from her breast to her stomach, and his fingers clasped her waist in an insistent pull to prompt her over onto her back.  “I do not remember giving you leave to speak to Gondor’s Captain thusly.”

She did not answer and rolled against him willingly, but when he moved to straddle her, she began to laugh.  “What is so amusing?” he asked, pausing.

“If you lay on me before I meet with a piss pot, there will be little to laugh at.”

Boromir gave her thigh a light slap and returned to where he had previously lain.  “Under the bed, on your side.”

Myrhil crawled off the bed and fumbled under it until her fingers retrieved a large porcelain bowl.  Crouching over it, she crossed her arms on the edge of the mattress and rested her chin on them.  Boromir watched her, a smile on his lips.

“You see me at my most vulnerable, I fear,” she said.

“I think not.  Should we ever need to flood the Pelennor--” he paused and cocked an ear towards the continuing sound “--I now know one who could do it.”  His smile widened.  “A mighty gift, that.  One to make the storm clouds weep in envy.”

Finished, Myrhil rose slowly and leaned towards him.  “And I hear that piss pots make perfect helms for impossible captains,” she retorted, shoving the bowl under the bed with a foot, “and I am not particular about them being empty.”  She crawled back onto the bed and slipped under the bedclothes.

“You have your father’s manner without his colorful choice of words,” he said.

“Oh, but I know those as well, if you would care to hear me say them.”  She turned onto her side and propped herself up on an elbow.  “Do you wish for me to wait for a proper occasion, or recite them as Faramir has me do with more innocent things?”

Boromir assumed the same pose as she so that he faced her.  “I would have you recite them to Faramir.”

Myrhil shook her head ruefully.  “You are a wicked brother, Boromir.”  She paused and stared at him shrewdly.  “There is a bit of the dirty little brat in you as well, if I may say so.  ‘Tis not just me.”

A large, rough hand settled on her hip and stroked upwards, the fingers running over her waist and along the swell of her breast to her shoulder.  Boromir leaned forward until his nose brushed hers.  “It is not my habit to bed ‘dirty little brats,’” he whispered.  “I have not seen that in you for countless weeks,” he kissed her softly, “and I am glad of it.  Else we would not be enjoying ourselves like this on so fine a morning.”

“Staring at sunrises and pissing in pots is enjoyable?” she asked.

The glint in Boromir’s eyes was unmistakable, as was his meaning when his fingers trailed down between her breasts and over her stomach to the juncture between her thighs.  “Aye, among other things.”

* * *

It was not until after this third and final coupling that the sated occupants of Boromir’s bed set foot on the floor with intent to go forth into the day.  Myrhil noted that Boromir bounded out in visible high spirits, while she found herself less energetic.  She ventured a glance at Boromir, but he had not noticed her weakened state.  Instead, he was gathering up his tunic and shirt from the pile in the middle of the floor.

“Father has not sent a servant to wake me,” he said, “so it would seem the Rohirrim need no attention as yet.  Will you eat with me this morning?”

Myrhil fidgeted.  “Do you think that wise?”

“Wise?”  He straightened, his arms full of clothes.  “It is not a public matter, if that is what you fear.  There will be none of that multitude we suffered last night.”

“Your father is public enough,” she blurted.  “I am sorry,” she hastily added upon seeing Boromir’s startled expression.  “I did not mean--  Your father is a fine man and--and--”

Boromir rounded the bed and stood before her.  “There is naught to fear, Myrhil.”  His hand went to her shoulder, gripping it and giving her an encouraging shake.  “Certainly not this.”

This what? she thought.  Simply eating with Denethor or the strange new position last night had now placed her?  In the light of day, both filled her with apprehension.  What did Boromir’s lovers do when not in his bed?  She did not think they attached themselves to his house as temporary wives.  Or did they?

“What have your past women done?” she asked.

Boromir’s ministrations stopped, her question -- and the bluntness with which she spoke it -- taking him aback.  “What?”

“Did they live here?  Were they embraced by your father and brother?”

“Hardly.”  The amusement was clearly apparent on his face.  “I would go to see them, not the other way around.  At least, not usually.  There was never a reason or need for any one to meet the other.”

 “I do not speak of whores you pay after a good ride,” she replied, “but those you do not, like me.”

Boromir’s shoulders set and he looked down at her sternly.  “I am torn between wondering why any of it should matter and calculating how to answer.  What does it matter?  Do you want to eat the bloody food or not?”

“If it comes with a heavy silence and piercing glances, then no.  I shall take my meal with Mother.  She knows where I am and has nothing ill to say of it.”

“Of course you will be scrutinized,” Boromir said, as though wondering why he had to state a plain fact.  “And perhaps a nasty word or more will be sent your way.  It will make the morning damned unpleasant and we will all wish we were elsewhere.”

Myrhil was incredulous.  “By the Gods, Boromir, that is an enticing invitation.”

“Ah, I see you have not the stomach for conflict of this sort,” he said, his voice an audible taunt.  “I thought you would have been blooded in that yesterday.”

She did not miss his meaning.  “And so I was.  I did not like it.  Words are not my weapons.”

“Neither are they mine, but I fight as best I can.”  He spread out his arms.  “And here I still stand.”

“He does not like me, your father,” she said flatly.  “I have felt it.”

“It is Gorhend he did not like, Myrhil.”  Boromir watched her expression twist in discomfort at this revelation.  “But it is because of Faramir and I, not you.  But--”

“But there is no reason for him to embrace me.  Blood is blood.”

Boromir shrugged in apparent agreement.  “Possibly.  Father is not without his peculiarities.”  He grasped her chin and tilted it upwards, scrutinizing her himself.  “Nor are you, it seems.”  He let his hand fall, only to give her rump a cajoling slap.  “Enough of this.  I want some of that bloody food.  Come with me, if you like.  But I will understand if you refuse.”

Put in those terms, a challenge to show her face, she could not refuse.  Yes, she would come.  She indicated as much with a resigned yet wary smile.

Boromir seemed satisfied at her silent response and turned his attention to the clothes he held in his arms.  He shook out the tunic and studied it briefly before throwing it onto the bed without further scrutiny.  “I am glad to be rid of that rag.  I shall not wear it again.”

“I though you were a fine figure in it,” Myrhil commented, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed.

“I see.  So you would avoid those silk and velvet constraints if you could, but have me suffer them to please your eyes?” he asked, walking to a chair over which more familiar garments were draped.  She watched as he picked them up one by one and muttered something to himself before vanishing into another part of the room that was separated from where she sat by a heavy curtain.

Now that the room was bathed in light, Myrhil felt as though she was seeing it for the first time.  Her hand was still wrapped around the post at the foot of the bed and she felt the intricate and expertly turned carving beneath her fingers.  It was a strong and solid bed, one that had no doubt provided many nights of peaceful sleep and heated passion to generations of the Steward’s line.  The rest of the room was sparsely furnished with like pieces of sturdy craft, reflecting the man who inhabited it.  The walls sported several pieces of weaponry that bore marks of use and were of a design she decided were the most ancient things she had ever seen.  What figure from the past had wielded them?  Two shields were propped up in one corner and the leather covering of one was ripped.  In front of them lay a pair of boots and several sets of gauntlets.  All seemed to need some form of repair, but everything was arranged in an orderly fashion.  The final thing that caught her eye was the bear pelt hanging from the wall over the small stone fireplace.  Most likely a trophy from the north, she thought.  She had never seen bears in her region of Gondor.  Mountain goats, certainly, and also several large cats, but no bears.  It seemed entirely fitting that the pelt hung beside a tapestry depicting the hunting of another of those large and ferocious beasts.

Her eyes turned to her crumpled gown on the floor and she tapped her fingers absently against the fluted wood as she contemplated it.  She despised the idea of putting it back on, much like Boromir, but unlike him, she had no alternative.  Sighing in resignation, she stood up and made her way over to it.  She could see Boromir now, standing half-naked in front of a large oaken wardrobe, the doors flung open and the contents under his perusal.

“Have you anything in there for me?” she called out, bending down to retrieve her gown.  “I cannot bear the thought--”  She was interrupted by the sound of something hard falling from the folds of her gown and striking the floor, an odd sound of metal and wood.  Looking about her feet, Myrhil saw a small, framed picture on a heavy chain and she grasped it in eager curiosity.

The portrait had obviously endured many hardships.  The paint was cracked and chipped in several places and a few smudges marred the image on the wood.  The image was of a woman, from what Myrhil could discern; a winsome beauty possessing large eyes, long pale neck, and hair dark in the manner of Gondor’s people.  On her lips was a contented smile.

“What is this?” she asked, turning to Boromir and holding up her find.

Boromir finished tying the laces at the throat of his shirt and quickly approached her, taking the miniature from her.  “I had forgotten I wore it last night,” he said.

“Who is she?”  She peered at the portrait again where it was now held safely in Boromir’s hands.  “I fancy I see a trace of Faramir in those features.  Your mother?”

Boromir nodded and put the chain around his neck.  “Yes.  This is one of my unchanging remembrances of her.”

“Did the painter capture her well?”  She inspected it again as it hung from his neck.  “She is indeed lovely.”

“She was,” he began, and Myrhil’s eyes flitted to his face as his voice held the same loving emotion she had heard that night when he spoke to her of his mother’s death and his pain.  “She was indeed, though I never remember her so cheerful.  But Father does and that is why she is painted so.  They were a gift to us five years after she died.  Father commissioned two of them and gave one to Faramir and one to me.  He said--”

Boromir’s voice caught and Myrhil put a hand on his arm.  “Do not speak.  I need not know any of this.”

It was as though he had not heard her.  “He had not spoken of her with anything but grief in his heart and countenance until that day.  But as he put these in our hands, he spoke of her with joy.  It was only a brief respite from the sorrow he bore, but I shall never forget it.”  He gazed down at it for a while longer and his fingers curled around its fading gilded edges.  Then he picked it up by the chain and secreted it in his shirt.  “And there it has rested during many sorties and the occasional battle.  Battles on the field and in the court, such as yesterday.”  He grinned, but Myrhil sensed that his former mood still lingered greatly.  “I needed her patience and wisdom while seated at a negotiation table.”

Myrhil held up her gown and retrieved the thread that still clung to the inside of her sleeve.  “I could have sorely used a talisman like yours as well, though no portrait of my mother would give me patience.  Wisdom, perhaps; but I needed patience last night like the air to breathe.”  And what, she thought, will I need in only a few minutes’ time?

* * *

The dining hall in the Steward’s house was more inviting than the large one for more grand occasions.  A long table that could seat perhaps a dozen people was positioned in the middle of the room and clustered towards one end were several boards and bowls, each one bearing something to eat.  Myrhil smelled the ever-present fresh bread and the aroma set her stomach to growling painfully.  What an appetite last night created, she thought.

Also at the table sat Denethor and Faramir.  Denethor was placed at the head, as was natural, while Faramir sat to his right on the side.  Faramir’s head was bent towards his father as he spoke of some matter, but Myrhil did not know what it was for she noticed that the Steward’s gaze had fixed upon her as soon as she entered the room.  Faramir, following his gaze, fell silent upon seeing her and his brother.

“Good morning, Father,” Boromir said, advancing to the table.  Myrhil followed him as though they were one and she drew on Boromir’s display of unconcern to steady her nerves.  Denethor’s bearing had seemed stern, and his eyes probing, the night Faramir had taken her to the Tower, but in the brightness of day it seemed even more so and the light of his gaze was scorching and inhospitable.  She tried to remember the man Boromir had only just spoken of, the loving and grieving husband who had gone to great lengths to give his sons an image of their mother that had only been his to treasure.  Yet it was hard to find tenderness in the stony visage that now held her under such merciless regard.

“Good morning, my lord,” she managed.  “I beg favor to join you.”

Denethor’s eyes went to his elder son and his thumbs slowly rubbed against his fingers in thought.  Myrhil sensed that he had shrewdly surmised all in one glance, knew everything that had passed between her and Boromir.  Only a fool would have come to a different conclusion upon seeing his heir approach the morning table with a woman unseen in the Steward’s House until then.

“Think you I needed testing today, Boromir?” the Steward said, gaze unwavering.  “I was taxed yesterday, as were you.”  His eyes returned to consider Myrhil, albeit briefly, followed by soft insinuation stiffened with ice.  “You apparently thrive on reaching your limits of endurance.”

“The sure way to learn my full measure,” Boromir replied smoothly.  “I feel not the worse for it, Father.  Rejoice in that.”

Denethor’s expression did not crack.  Instead, he turned to Faramir.  “What say you?” he asked.  “Will our table bear another?”

When Myrhil saw the misery brewing behind Faramir’s eyes, she regretted that she had let Boromir’s taunts push her into coming with him.  Whether these small family dinners tended to be tense affairs, she did not know, but this one promised everything Boromir had said it might be.  I certainly wish I were elsewhere, she thought.  Faramir, in that we are in total agreement.

But Faramir’s mouth set, his eyes steely.  Myrhil could not tell if this look of reproach was directed at her, his brother, his father, or all three, for his voice was impenetrably neutral, though his words were short.  “Yes, Father.  I have no objection.”

Denethor pursed his lips and looked down at his plate in silence, his thumbs still scraping against his fingers in an unnerving monotony like the clack of her mother’s old loom or the hollow chatter of Cardhel’s hand running a shirt over a washboard.  Only a few seconds passed, of that Myrhil was certain, but when the Steward finally raised his eyes, she felt she had been waiting the wait of the condemned.

“Sit,” he said.  “Eat.”

Myrhil grasped the back of the chair and pulled it out from the table.  She tried not to sink into it with the heavy relief that threatened to overwhelm her at completing this first step.  Not that the unpleasantness was past.  It threatened to be wholly present and enduring, if Denethor’s mien was any indication.  He was not pleased, and she could not blame him for feeling so.

Boromir took his seat in the chair beside her and filled his plate in sure, measured gestures.  He showed no sign of regret or discomfort, but Myrhil could not help but think that he was masking his true mood.  She was nervous, terribly so, but Boromir broke his bread and began to eat with a contented air.  Did he take pleasure in flaunting undesirable behavior before his father in the same manner she had done with her own?  Boromir was a dutiful son of Gondor, heir to the Stewardship, but he was not wholly that.  There was something of the plain son within him as well, or so she deemed.  Yet she was not sure which one she had lain with last night.  She had felt both the power and force he possessed, the might he had at his command to bring down at his whim, but she had not been afraid, for he was -- truly -- only a man.

Her thoughts were turned when she heard Denethor’s deep and dry tones from the head of the table.  “So, you go to Rohan,” he said, more as a statement than a question.  “A lengthy journey.”

“Yes,” she replied, uncertain whether he wanted to embark upon a conversation.

“I suspect that it shall become a permanent arrangement.”  Again, a statement.

Myrhil was in the process of reaching for something to settle her unsettled stomach.  She paused briefly and looked across the table at Faramir.  His expression now matched the earlier neutrality of his voice, but his posture in the large high-backed chair indicated resignation at the present happenings and a wish to distance himself from them until all was over and the way clear.  She wished she knew what Boromir’s face held, now that the confrontation was engaged, but she did not want to lower her guard by looking at him.  That would only reveal her uncertainty to Denethor’s avid senses and she felt vulnerable as it was.

“Permanent?  Perhaps,” she allowed.  “That seems to be my mother’s intent, and I am content to remain with her for some time yet.”

Denethor nodded as he chewed, both motions slow and contemplative.  “A subject of Théoden’s, then.  Far from Gondor.”  He turned to Boromir, who was drawing a long draught from his goblet.  Denethor picked up his and brought it to his lips, but he did not drink.  His grey eyes stared over the silver rim.  “So, Boromir, shall I expect your thoughts to be divided between our two nations?”

Myrhil had refrained from following Denethor’s gaze, but this biting question caused her to turn as well.  She was confused as to what intent lay behind the Steward’s words, but when she saw Boromir’s jaw tighten before casting a reluctant flickering glance at her out of the corner of his eye, she understood.  Oh, how she understood!  If Boromir showed regret at her parting and the distance that would lie between them, he was not the rock of strength this beleaguered nation needed, not the indomitable heir Denethor desired.  Yet if Boromir indicated anything less in manner or response, whatever may have occurred in his bed the night before would be shown to have little importance to him.

And I will be here to see it, Myrhil thought.  He knows the realization could never be more unmistakable.  She worked her tongue for a reply, but her mind could supply nothing.  She had to make plain that whatever he said, she realized he had to say it.

“My thoughts are already divided between the two nations, Father,” came the reply.  “How could they not be?”  Boromir set down his goblet and returned his father’s unwavering gaze with one of no less intensity.  “The day we think not on our allies will be the moment we find ourselves alone, and I shall never let Gondor be rendered thus.”

Myrhil looked towards Faramir and found that he was as attentive as she.  The dread was still in his eyes, but it was now mixed with curiosity and anticipation at what was transpiring.  Their eyes met and between them passed words unspoken.  Who shall be the victor of this?

Denethor’s goblet made a soft, yet firm, hollow sound as it was set down upon the polished wood.  Over the table hung a silence palpable and tormenting.  Then, pleased,

“Well answered.”  The anticipated answer to a question planned and asked with iron control of the aftermath, however it unfolded.

The silence resumed.

No defeat for the Steward.  And, from Faramir’s knowing expression, Myrhil concluded that confrontations rarely, if ever, ended in defeat for Denethor of Gondor.

* * *

In the library, a candle burned.  Myrhil sat in the corner of a subterranean alcove, the retreat of many a scholar for centuries previous.  Books and scrolls were nestled in their tidy pigeonholes and lined the shelves on the walls around her.  She had not disturbed a one.  In fact, she had done little but sit and think since she had entered the close and dusty room.  A piece of cheap parchment lay on the table before her, scattered scribblings marking the coarse and mottled material.  A quill slouched loosely in her fingers, the ink dry and flaking on the splintered tip.

She had been bemused at first to find herself here, of all places.  The Library of Minas Tirith had rarely been a destination of choice for her unless forcibly steered by Faramir.  But immediately after the tense and terse breakfast, Boromir’s manner had not invited her to follow him.  Despite his calm and courageous reply to Denethor’s trying question, the ordeal had noticeably rattled him and turned his mood inward, erasing the light spirits in which he had woken.  At the door of the hall, he bade Myrhil a brief farewell before departing for whatever duties called.  Faramir had followed him and she had been left to her own devices.  So here she was, enjoying some solitude after a gut-wrenching breakfast.

She dipped the quill into the inkpot, both items loaned to her by an attendant on duty.  The ragged parchment had been a gift from that same person.  It was already marked and of such poor quality that, from the attendant’s lofty observations, Myrhil sensed was only fit for latrines.  But she was not of such a particular nature.  Her unlearned scrawl would complement it nicely.

The quill scraped harshly over the surface as she wrote in slow strokes with great effort.  It was nothing of import, only random thoughts she had felt confident of transcribing with any measure of skill.  With Rohan looming ever closer, and her worth in doubt (in her own mind, if in no other’s), she hoped to acquire a veneer of learning that would not reflect poorly upon her.  So she continued to scratch and scrawl until the parchment was filled on both sides.  She sensed the hours were passing, but she took odd comfort in this silent sanctuary for the first time in her memory.  Several times she raised her eyes to the ceiling above her, wondering if Boromir’s step had passed over her in the Citadel at all during the day and if its tread had lightened.  If it had not, she would seek her own bed tonight.  Any idle glance at the parchment reminded her of this, for her thought about it had joined the other disjointed phrases and sentences that her quill and the fleeting hours produced.

When the parchment could hold no more, she took up the piece and rolled it tightly, twisting it in the middle to secure it from unfurling.  She also gathered up the quill and ink and grasped the candle in her free hand.  It was no doubt past noon, or even later.  Her stomach grumbled at the thought of neglect.

“Yes, yes,” she muttered impatiently, moving towards the open archway.  As she was about to pass through it, her eyes idly noted the tall wooden case that was anchored to the wall next to the arch.  On a shelf was a collection of slim volumes, pulled from their place and stacked up in a haphazard fashion near the edge.  Their disorder made them conspicuous and she found her curiosity drawn.  She returned to the table and unloaded herself of her burden before advancing to the bookcase.  When she picked up the first book that met her hand, she noted its worn cover and when she let it fall open, the corners of the pages were frayed and ripped.  She smiled.  Of course, it was ragged and used.  A book more worthy of attention she had never seen.  The Principles and Techniques of Mastering Arms, Volume I.

Eagerly, she took the next volume and deciphered the title, then the next, and the next.  Bow, spear, lance, pike, mace, swords short and long, siege weapons and ploys with which to succeed in their usage, shields of various designs to suit their bearer, knives, and several others.  Each weapon had a volume dedicated to its mastery.

Myrhil did not know whether to laugh at her good fortune, or lament her lack of it that had led her to spend hours scribbling meaningless things while a treasure had lain near her hand the entire duration.  She gathered the books to her chest greedily, uncaring that the dust smeared the front and sleeves of her gown in cloudy brown streaks, and deposited them in a scattered heap on the table.

A quick perusal of one revealed a problem.  The author, one Orothil of Cormallen from the stewardship of Belecthor II (or so the first page proudly proclaimed), had been diligent and illustrated it copiously so that her rudimentary literacy posed no real obstruction, but she had no weapon to wield.  Holding out her arm, she slashed it through the air as though a blade was actually in her hand.  No, that will not work, she thought.  Her eyes met the twisted piece of stiff parchment and, with a shrug of her shoulders, she grasped it and held it out before her like the most lethal blade.  In her other hand was the volume on knives, open to what could be called the first lesson of many.

She set about copying the motions, using her makeshift weapon with determination and the little skill she had acquired from Faramir’s lessons.  As in those sessions, Myrhil was finding that wielding the knife -- or twisted parchment -- required agility and a gentler style than what she was accustomed.  Her tendency towards bold and arcing strokes had prompted criticism from Faramir when she had first picked up the weapon, and she could hear those words again as she sensed herself reverting to the techniques of swordplay.

A harsh sound of disgusted frustration escaped her throat and she snapped the book shut.  Giving the parchment a similar appraisal, she tossed both back onto the table and eyed the rest of the volumes thoughtfully.

“Your form is imperfect, my lady, but the skill is there,” came a voice behind her.

Myrhil jumped in alarm and turned quickly towards the open door, the only place from which one could approach.  At first, her eyes told her nothing was there, although her ears adamantly insisted something lurked.  The candle had burned down, lengthening the shadows and dimming the light it had once provided.  It would be an easy accomplishment for anyone to secrete himself in the murky shroud just outside the door.

She tilted her head and leaned forward in guarded curiosity, eyes searching for signs of movement.  “Show yourself,” she demanded.  As the words echoed and faded into mere shadows of their original tone, she could hear the tremor she had tried to mask.

When a figure did appear, Myrhil wondered if tricks such as this were his habit, for he emerged from the shadows silently and with practiced ease.  Even so, as he lingered visible in the open doorway, he seemed not to relinquish them fully, for his garb was of a dark hue and his hair coal black.  His face, in contrast, was pale, the features narrow and fine.  Eyes of icy blue peered at her.  She knew she had never seen him before, but at the same time remembrance pulled at her in eerie persistence.

“Who are you?”

The man entered the room and Myrhil saw further that he was of unimpressive build, very slender and untouched by the rigors of soldiery.  He appeared to be a clerk or scholar of some sort.  She straightened and felt the tension ease from her body.

“Is this your alcove?” she asked, her voice continuing her thoughts.  “Faramir has told me some of the library’s visitors have become inhabitants in all but name.”

“No, I am a stranger here,” he replied.  “I sought a peaceful place to do my work.”  His hand went to a leather case that was slung across his chest, drawing Myrhil’s attention to it for the first time.  His voice was soft and furthered Myrhil’s impression that he was of scholarly bent.

“I was leaving, so you may remain here, if you like.  It is very peaceful, since that is what you seek, and you will not find yourself disturbed.”  She looked down at the pile of books on the table and set about collecting them into neat stacks.  She would return later to give them further study, or ask Faramir if copies existed elsewhere, perhaps in the armory.  From the corner of her eye, she saw the man draw up beside her and begin to assist her with her task.

“The fellow was long-winded,” she remarked.  “He seemed to find every weapon worthy of lengthy discussion.”  When she picked up the volume on the knife, she paused and turned to him.  “You said my form was imperfect.  Then you know something of knives?”

Almost immediately, a blade glinted before her eyes, held in a hand that had, not a moment before, been innocently arranging books.  “Yes, I know something of them,” he added, tone wry.

Myrhil had nearly jumped at his lethal sleight-of-hand and the feelings of unease returned to nip at her.  In a room where the brightest objects were a dagger blade and the pale face of a stranger, she wondered if unease was inadequate.  Terror seemed more appropriate.

But he made no threatening move.  Indeed, he continued to hold up the blade, as though for her inspection.  “I prefer it to all other weapons,” he said, turning the knife this way and that.

“H--have you had cause to use it?” Myrhil asked.

His head turned and, from the slight upward tilt of the corner of his mouth, Myrhil sensed he was amused by her question.  “Not in the manner that you suspect.”

Now that he had spoken more fully, the coarse edge of an accent -- reminiscent of choppy water passing over rocks in a swollen river -- was discernable.  He was not native to Gondor.  When he had declared himself a stranger, it was not only to Minas Tirith.

“You are of the Rohirrim.”  She meant it as a question, but her voice formed it as confident fact.

The blade was lowered and suddenly disappeared, though Myrhil swore that her eyes had not left it.  “Very astute observation, my lady,” he said, “considering that I ill resemble them.”

The words resounded in her ears as harsh; Myrhil thought that his accent was intruding over the Westron.  “Minas Tirith’s visitors have been of great moment to my mother and, by extent, myself,” she explained.  “Little else has troubled her mind for weeks past.”

“You must be the daughter of whom she spoke,” he said.  “Laenilas, granddaughter of Théda, is your mother?”

“Yes.  I am Myrhil.  She is my mother, and my father was Gorhend, a sergeant who served both my lords Denethor and Boromir.”

“And from what I have seen, his profession is one you wish to pursue?”

“Yes.  And foolishly, you think, no doubt.”

The raven locks swayed slightly against his pale face as he shook his head.  “No endeavor is foolish.  There is advantage in everything one undertakes.  Whether one has the sense and opportunity to find and use those advantages, there lies the challenge.”  The lips tugged upward once more.

“What amuses you?”

The slight smile did not fade.  “I was only thinking that many in Rohan think of Gondor’s women as averse to anything rigorous.”

“Delicate creatures, you mean.”

“Something like that, though Morwen of Lossarnach, whom we named Steelsheen, was as strong and beloved as one of Rohan born.  That she was from another land mattered not, after some years.”

“I am of like opinion concerning Gondor’s women,” Myrhil said, her meaning plain by the sarcasm she allowed to infest every word.  “At least the ones here who skitter about and hug the walls, waiting for something to fall that they may take their pleasure of.”  Silence settled about them and Myrhil was shaken from her thoughtful reverie when he spoke next.

“I have spoken of your mother to others, so her plea has been noted by one greater than myself,” he said.  Again, Myrhil heard the accent turn harsh, though nothing else about him indicated displeasure.  “You may convey that to her.”

“I will.  Thank you.”  Myrhil picked up the stacks of books and carried them slowly to the bookcase by the door.  Once they were arranged in a conspicuous manner so that she would not overlook them a second time, she returned to gather the piece of parchment, ink and quill.  The man had already opened his case and withdrawn several sheets of fine quality parchment, supple and unblemished.  The inkpot was open and a quill was already gliding across the surface in a graceful script, led by a slender and pale hand.  The words were totally unrecognizable; Rohirric, no doubt.

Because he seemed intent on his task, and she had nothing else to say, she turned and left the room without a word.

She did not sense the two pale eyes of steady gaze that stayed upon her back as she passed through the door and into the shadows beyond.

“Ah, that is Gríma Gálmódsson.  You have met him?”

“In the library.  Did he strike you as. . .?”  Myrhil stopped, unable to articulate her thought.

“Yes, very unlike the Rohirrim,” Laenilas finished.  She put two plates onto the small table and went over to the small hearth to inspect the contents of the small pot that hung over the fire.  “I suspect Rohan may not run in his veins as strongly as it does in others, but he seems an admirable scribe.  He certainly takes pride in his accomplishments.  If his birth is low, he does not let it hinder him.”

She took a rag and used it to protect her hand as she lifted the hot kettle from the iron bar bolted across the width of the hearth.  Though it was brimming, she did not spill a drop as she carried it to the table.  “Did you not like him?” she asked.

Myrhil sat down and waited for Laenilas to ladle some of the stew onto her plate.  She had divested herself from her gown as soon as she had entered the cottage, all the while assailed by dismayed exclamations at the dusty state of the garment.  The unfortunate item had been beaten and brushed clean and was now stashed safely among Laenilas’ belongings, to wait until the next required occasion.  “And you shall not wear it again out of my sight,” came the irritated edict, an arrangement which Myrhil found agreeable, for she had no wish to suffer it again until necessary.  Now she was clad in greater comfort and she lightly drummed the soles of her boots against the floor.  Such a friendlier fit than those miserable slippers.

“His impression was not slight,” Myrhil replied, “for all that I did not ask his name and knew nothing particular, apart from his skill at unsheathing knives.  He knew more of me than I of him.”  She sniffed at the steaming stew on the plate and picked up her spoon eagerly.

“The unfortunate position of petitioners,” Laenilas commented, sitting down.  Drawing up a heaping spoon of stew, she blew on it and spoke between puffs.  “We must declare. . .everything about ourselves. . .and know nothing. . .in return.”  In went the stew, followed by a pleased smile as she chewed it slowly.  “Shall I expect you to not return until afternoon tomorrow as well?” she asked as the last of the stew slid comfortably into her belly.

“If I do not spend the night here, I shall be knocking on the door by sunrise.”

“I waited breakfast for you and heated it several times,” Laenilas said, “but it was fortunate that I was very hungry.  Not a bit went to waste.”

Myrhil smiled.  Her mother, through the rich foods of Minas Tirith and enforced leisure, had become somewhat plumper since their arrival.  She still possessed the lean look of a plains wife with noble blood, but the harsh edge of endless work nourished by coarse staples had been softened noticeably.  Myrhil remembered her mother inspecting herself in the mirror before the reception and recalled she had looked worn and pale.  Now here she was, flushed and hearty.  What tricks she was capable of!

But her smile faded when she recalled her own breakfast in Denethor’s presence, and how it had turned Boromir’s mood somber.  “I wish I had come to eat with you.”  She fell silent, but when she looked up from her plate and saw her mother’s eyes sharp with concern, she shook her head.  “It is not Boromir.”

“What, then?”

The scene at the Steward’s table came rushing forth from her lips, followed by Myrhil wondering aloud why she had even put herself in such a horrible position.  “What kind of man is the Steward?” she finished.  “To thrive so on vinegar and thorns, it seems a sorry way to pass through life.”

“You have no doubt thought the same of me, once or twice,” Laenilas said quietly, but without malice in her voice.  She glanced at her daughter and smiled slightly.  “I have been caustic and dour in my day.  I readily admit it.  I had much to bear on my shoulders, but most of my burden has passed, and all within a very short time.  Denethor still bears his, a greater weight than what most men will ever encounter, and it will remain until he draws his last breath.”  She filled her spoon and paused it before her lips.  “Do not judge him, Myrhil.  He is a fine man who has been dealt an unenviable task, that of protecting us all from Shadow.  That It is still behind those ash-ridden mountains is a jewel in a crown he can never wear.”

Her mother had indeed been caustic and dour, but neither of those qualities were present as she spoke.  The words were infused with quiet passion and conviction in the man she defended.  Myrhil did not press further, or defy Laenilas’ assertion.  It was no doubt true.  Her mother had rarely been wrong when reading the tale that lay behind one’s eyes.  She recalled her own words to Boromir that morning, her stumbling apology that his father was a fine man.  Perhaps he was.  No doubt he was.  And so had her father been no less admirable.  But Gorhend’s bristles, sharp as they were at times, seemed as paltry as a stray stinging drop of rain against her cheek when compared to the Steward’s spiny nature.

But Laenilas, who had known Denethor nearly forty years past, was in a better position to judge him than she.  Understood, but unspoken, was the implication that the Steward’s son might change through the years as well.

And Myrhil knew that her own defense of Boromir would come to her lips no less readily.

* * *

Yet there will be many long years before the Captain of Gondor reaches such a point of seemingly irretrievable ill humor, Myrhil thought as she lay beside Boromir that night.

It had been a relief to discover that Boromir’s temper had improved over the course of the day.  Before she could seek him out to measure his mood, he found her and the night began early.  Little was said at first; there seemed no need to dwell on words when actions spoke so much more clearly.  But when exhaustion had taken hold, idle conversation emerged.

“So the day passed well for you?” Boromir asked.

“I was in the library.  Tell that to Faramir, but be certain to catch his jaw before it hits the floor.”  Boromir chuckled softly and Myrhil’s heart was gladdened to hear the sound.  “I encountered one of the Rohirrim as well,” she added.

“In the library?  How encouraging to hear that, to know they might pursue interests other than laying their full weight on Father.”

Myrhil turned, her own story forgotten.  “It went ill today?  I did not see you at all, so what you have done is still a mystery.”

“That Elfléda is a hard bastard,” Boromir replied, and Myrhil could not tell if the low tone was indicative of anger or reluctant admiration.  She judged that it was somewhat a mixture of both.  “Clever and stubborn, he is.  I have never seen two opponents more aptly matched than he and Father.”  He reached over and patted her leg.  “But on with this lone man you found in the library.  What was his name?  I am unfortunately very familiar with many of those icy faces at the moment.”

“Mother told me his name, for she has spoken with him, but it has vanished.”  She played her fingers against one another in thought.  “Gel. . .Gar. . .Gel. . .a. . .Gal. . .Gala--”

“Remind me never to include you on negotiations.  You would not remember a thing.”

Myrhil paused in her pained attempts to recollect and slapped his arm.  Then she brightened.  “The scribe!  No need to remember anything when there is a scribe.  It was him.  The dark-haired one.  Very pale.”

“Ah, we have progress,” he commented wryly.  “Yes, I know the fellow.  Remember his name now?”

“No.  Do you?”

“Gríma. . .Gálmódsson.  You had somewhat of a grasp on his father’s name.”

“It seemed to be familiar,” she explained.

“As does the face.”  He turned to her and said, “When I saw this man Gríma, Belaród immediately came to mind.”

Myrhil had heard only the slightest hesitation in his voice before the name passed his lips.

“Did he you?” Boromir finished softly.

She tried to affect a careless shrug, but she dreaded that it was transparently artificial.  In truth, Belaród’s face had not appeared in her thoughts upon sight of the pallid scribe.  She remembered feeling as if she should have known him as soon as he had stepped from the shadows in the library alcove, but it had ended there.  Belaród was gone, buried on an endless plain with but a small marker to note the presence of his crumbling body.  Whatever he had done and everything about him that was now uncertain was buried with him.  There was nothing to be done to uncover it.  It belonged buried.  Boromir’s call for vengeance -- and her promise to carry it out if the opportunity arose -- seemed too painful an endeavor, the reward a grim one.  Let it all rest.  Forever.

She brought a hand to her eyes and rubbed at them insistently as though trying to drive the two faces from her mind.  Gríma of Rohan and Belaród, their faces wheeling and fading onto and through one another, until they slowly merged into one.  Belaród drawing a knife in the quickness of a heartbeat.  Belaród lurking in the shadows of his deceit, biding his time to emerge and watch as her father and all he had built was openly his for the taking in the confusing aftermath of slaughter.

It was not until she felt Boromir’s hand grip her shoulder and shake her roughly that she realized he was speaking her name.

“It is nothing,” she said, letting her hand fall from her eyes.

“A heavy thing, your ‘nothing,’” he commented.  “Like a stone.”  He was silent, and the pause lengthened as neither spoke.  Myrhil was unsure if he expected her to say anything further.  How could she find the words to express feelings that she did not even wish to dwell on?

Just as Boromir turned onto his side, his back now facing her, Myrhil interrupted the pall that had descended over the room.  “I am not mourning him, Boromir,” she said.  “That is all past.”

“I would not presume anything,” he replied, not moving.  “It is a matter that was never mine to involve myself.”  Myrhil sensed no anger, sorrow, or jealousy in his words, no pretense that he was speaking against his true feelings.

“Just as well, for it was of no consequence.”  The words pained her as she spoke them, feeling as though she had shoveled the final spade of earth over that grave in Lebennin.  She pulled herself tight against Boromir’s back and sought his hands.  As he allowed her fingers to twine through his, she closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the nape of his neck.  A squeeze of her hand prompted a like reply, and a smile came easily to her lips.  No, he was of no consequence, she thought.  But you, Captain…

* * *

Father needs support, Faramir thought.  Even if it is mine.

He stood in the stables, his horse half-laden with tack.  The saddle lay cradled over his arms as he contemplated whether to proceed or begin stripping his mount of the gear he had only just buckled.  “What is your considered opinion?” he asked the horse.

The equine turned his head, one ear flattening in annoyance, the large brown eyes demanding a decision.

“That settles it,” Faramir continued.  “Were I to return, I would get the same look from Father.  I would rather receive it from you.”

The Steward had deputed his youngest son to lead the lower-ranking Rohirrim on an excursion beyond the Pelennor walls and seize the opportunity of a hunt should any game present itself.  The ambassador and a select few would remain behind with Steward and heir to continue discussion.  That was where Faramir wished he could remain, lending silent support to his father during the ordeal of constant negotiation.  But other business had been planned for him.

As Faramir left with his father’s orders, he had caught the unmistakably envious expression on his brother’s face.  The memory of it made him smile as he tossed the saddle over the horse’s back and tightened the girth.  Though the truth was that Faramir’s enthusiasm for hunting paled significantly beside his brother’s.

From further down the stables came the general commotion of the Rohirrim readying their own mounts and Faramir hastened his movements so that he would not lag behind those skilled horsemen.  As the younger son of their ally, his status was already diminished and he did not wish to suffer further.  Denethor’s youngest would not go badly-attended, however; two of Faramir’s most-prized subordinates would accompany him on this gesture of Gondorian hospitality.

He tugged the girth securely, prompting the bay to grunt as the last extraneous puff in its lungs was expelled.  “There will be no rolling of saddles today, my friend,” he chided.

“They always have their tricks, don’t they?”

Faramir looked up to see Myrhil approaching with a saddle over her arms and a pair of well-tooled leather saddlebags draped over a shoulder.  The silver inlay and attached decorations jingled softly as she walked.  Her garments were the well-worn breeches and shirt that she seemed to prefer over all other clothes.  A sword belt was slung about her waist and the scabbard thumped softly against the leather of her tall boot.

“I see you take advantage of the fine weather today as well,” Faramir said.

“Only a fool would let the opportunity pass,” she replied.  Then she added with a smile, “And devoted Stewards and their eldest sons.  The rest of us can enjoy it.”

“I hear no sorrow in your voice about Boromir’s predicament,” Faramir commented, taking the bridle from a hook on the wall.  He slid the bit through the bay’s teeth and made certain its tongue would not be pinched.

“I will have enough pleasure for myself and him,” she said, setting down her burdens.  She picked up a grooming brush and entered the stall where her horse had begun to strike the wall impatiently.  “He will hear about it in painfully vivid detail.”

“And what has my dear brother done to deserve this treatment?” Faramir laughed.  Before she could reply, the rising sound of jovial Rohirrim echoed up the wide, hay-strewn corridor.  Faramir turned at the sound.  “My charge is calling,” he explained.  “Have a pleasant ride, Myrhil.”  Quiver already slung across his back, he took up his bow from where he had rested it against the wall.  One of Myrhil’s arms appeared through the barred window of the stall and waved in silent farewell.

“If any straggling Rohirrim pass by,” he added, “tell them to ride to the North Gate.  We will be skirting the Grey Wood.”  A sound of acknowledgement drifted from the stall and Faramir led his horse to the forefront of the stables.  Gathered and waiting in the courtyard were the Rohirrim and his own lieutenants.  He was indeed the last to arrive, but the derision he had feared did not seem present.

Mounting swiftly, he smiled broadly at the assembled company.  Twelve armored warriors, bearing spears and tight-strung bows of strong, supple wood, watched him avidly, their blue eyes and golden hair bright beneath their helms.  Eagerly they awaited the command to follow their host’s son into the woodlands of Gondor.  After remaining idle for several days in the barracks while their superiors went about the diplomatic mission, this day would be theirs.

Faramir let forth a cry he knew these robust warriors would appreciate.  Though he usually rallied his own men in a more restrained manner, Boromir’s calls to advance were lusty and vigorous.  He thought he had not successfully mimicked his brother until the answering cheer met his ears.  He seized upon their enthusiasm and poured his own into it.

“Friends of Rohan!” he cried.  “Today we hunt!”

* * *

Myrhil heard a strident cheer rumble from the courtyard and she sighed softly.  Boromir was buried in documents and diplomacy, Faramir was surrounded by hale warriors who sought respite from boredom, and she was going to alleviate her own.

Hooves clattered on the cobblestones in a sudden burst as the men set out, the hollow clips and clops soon receding into the distance.  As she had waved to Faramir, a request to join them hung on her lips but as soon as she thought of it, she stifled the impulse.  The only answer she could imagine Faramir giving was “no.”  More gently put than his brother’s wont, but “no” all the same.

The strokes of the brush increased in length and pressure.  The dust mingled in the sunlight with the shed hair and Myrhil turned away to sneeze.  A hoof stamped impatiently, followed by a twitch of the tail.

“I am anxious to get outside as well,” she told the animal.  A final swipe of the brush.  “There.  You look almost presentable.”

She knocked the brush against her palm and absently ruffled the bristles with her fingers as she again opened the door of the stall.  She started at the sight of a figure bent over her saddle and bags, inspecting them closely.

“Eh!” she exclaimed.  “Those are mine!”

The figure straightened with some alarm.  Considering she had not been exactly quiet as she groomed her horse, she thought him a bold creature to prowl around another’s possessions in such proximity.  Myrhil marked the slight frame and, when he turned, the pale face of Gríma Gálmódsson held an unrepentant expression, coupled with interest.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked with some incredulity.

“Simply admiring the handiwork,” he replied smoothly.

Myrhil continued to sweep the bristles of the brush against her palm as she regarded him silently.

“There is no reason to mistrust me,” he said.  “I have no intention of stealing anything from you.”

“An encouraging thing to hear from a man who drew a knife and held it before my eyes.”

Amusement flickered lightly at his lips.  “As I recall, you inquired about my skill with that self-same thing.  I merely complied with a demonstration.”

“Which I thank you for.  It was most effective.”

“An effect I regret if it has colored your perception wrongly.”

“My perception means nothing,” she said briskly, walking past him and taking a rope halter and small, thick blanket from the wall.  She brushed at a patch of dried, sweat-encrusted dirt and retraced her steps.  As she passed him again, she afforded him a brief glance.  “I have certainly been wrong about folk before.”  She did not pause, but continued in her task and disappeared into the stall once more.  Within seconds, she reemerged leading the horse, and tied the rope to a large iron ring bolted to a sturdy beam.

“As have I.”  This reply to her remark was so late in coming that Myrhil had brief difficulty recalling what he meant by it.  “It is nothing you ever learn to do unerringly,” he added, stepping to the side when Myrhil returned for the saddle.

“Is it anything you can learn with frequent success?” she asked, hauling the item to her chest.  “I would like to think I have managed to compensate for one folly with a more shrewd assessment.”

“The study of Man holds the answer to that.  Yes, I believe it possible to learn.”  He watched her sling the saddle over the horse’s blanketed back and she noticed he also looked somewhat anxiously down the wide alley of the stables.  She remembered Faramir’s parting words about straggling Rohirrim.

“Were you to ride to the hunt with the others?” she asked.

“I was.”  The lack of fervor in his voice could not have been more apparent.  She thought it unfair that one who had no impediment to ride forth in sport wished to forego the pleasure.

“Then you must hurry,” she said, smothering her own frustration.  “They left eagerly, so I would guess they are halfway to the North Gate by now.  Once they reach the land beyond, the scattered woodlands may make spying them difficult.”

Gríma listened, but Myrhil sensed he cared little if he was unable to overtake the other Rohirrim.  He had, however, made some effort at interest and intent.  Gone was the unimpressive dark woolen tunic of a chair-bound servant; in its place were the clothes of a horseman for an informal hunt.  The leather seemed somewhat worn, though not to such a degree that would suggest he donned them often.  It was conceivable that he only borrowed them when the need arose.  The leather and laces ill-suited him to her eyes, though he himself did not appear too discomfited.  He has also, in the manner of the other Rohirrim she had seen, gathered his hair around the crown of his head and drawn it back with a leather thong.

“If your horse is not readied,” she pressed, as she went about tightening the buckles on her tack, “I shall do it gladly.  If there are any other preparations you must do, go about them and return here.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Myrhil bent and looked at him from under her horse’s chin.  His head was inclined slightly, as though meekly acquiescing to an order, but that perpetual knowing air was still about him.  She wondered if such a manner had brought about this reluctance to join the other Rohirrim.  And the others had not gone to any lengths to wait for him.  She could not imagine he was terribly ingratiating.  His somewhat exalted position as a transcriber of words among the mighty had apparently been achieved by other skills.

“And what shall be the price of this kindness?” he asked.

“I will escort you,” she said without hesitation.  “That is my price.”

“And my price for that will be any number of angry faces -- from Gondor and Rohan both.”

“No doubt.”

The amused twitch of the lips returned.  He bent down and retrieved the saddlebags from the floor.  Wordlessly, he put them over the horse’s back and secured them to the saddle by a small buckled strap.  Ink-stained fingers tapped the leather briefly in fleeting consideration.

“Come,” he said.  “You have a horse to meet.”

* * *

Though this Gríma did not seem to relish the robust pursuits embraced by his fellow countrymen or, indeed, of the average man of Gondor, Myrhil mused, he seemed to sit a horse well enough.  That was no doubt the one skill every man, woman and child of Rohan possessed, even if they lacked others.  The relationship all good riders have with their mounts seemed present and amiable between the slender scribe and the dappled grey gelding.  The Horse-lords, being devoted to the perfection of the breed and all the elements surrounding it, certainly matched horse and rider with as much, if not more, care than they matched themselves with a husband or wife.

The other preparations that Gríma had taken included assuming the rest of his hunting gear.  In addition to a sword at his side, a full quiver now nestled between his shoulder blades and a bow rested across his thighs, gripped lightly in one hand.  Both had distinctly Rohirric ornamentation; the quiver was decorated with interlacing knots of dizzying endlessness and each end of the bow was a horse’s head, the string disappearing between its teeth.  Despite their grand appearance to eyes such as hers, unused to the armament of Rohan, she had seen the Rohirrim soldiers at practice the previous day and their equipment was of staggering brilliance.  Each piece looked as though it had newly come of a master worker’s shop, but she knew that every bow, sword, and shield had seen service countless times over and only retained such polish through devoted care.  Gríma’s attire saw the care that would not allow it to fall into uselessness, but nothing beyond that.  She had seen it before.  Some of the men her father had hired were former soldiers; the state of their own gear always spoke of their interest, or lack of it.

“Have you food in those handsome bags of yours?” he asked.

“Some.  Not much.”

“If the hunt is unsuccessful, you may have some hungry men to fend off.”

Myrhil smiled.  “There is naught but some tough meat and cheese.  The bread is fresh, however.  But the meat is no better eating than chewing on leather.  Still, I am used to it, so I pay it little mind.”

“From what I have learned, you came to Minas Tirith under uncommon circumstances.”

Myrhil was quiet as she debated how forthcoming she should be.  She was uncertain exactly how much her mother had revealed in the course of her petition.  An orc attack seemed a safe assumption.

“There is nothing of interest beyond what you already know, I fear,” she replied.  “Orc attacks are sadly frequent, and we had the ill-luck to suffer one so far from their borders.”

“The entire dwelling was destroyed?” he asked.  “Home, barn, and stock?”

“No, that remained, less most of the stock.  There was enough to rebuild the herd, with some aid.  Our hired men perished to the last.  Captain Boromir assisted us by sending battle-weary soldiers to replace them.”

“All of them perished?”

“To a man, save one.  An old friend of my father’s.”  She saw Gríma shift in his saddle and switch his bow from one hand to the other.  “It was a terrible night.  I do not wish to speak of it.”

“I apologize,” he said, and his voice was somber, but Myrhil thought he sounded so more for himself than for her.  “We are beyond the North Gate,” he added, as though to diffuse the melancholy, “so it is best our concentration be on finding the others.”

Myrhil nodded.  She reached behind her into one of the bags and retrieved two pieces of tough, dried meat.  She put one in her mouth and let the flavor slowly flow from it over her tongue.  The other she handed to Gríma, who took it and did the same as she.

They rode at a leisurely pace for what to Myrhil felt like an hour, or even more.  Conversation, when it occurred, was brief.  The landscape gradually became more dotted with trees, the grasses greener from the flow of glacial water seeping down from Mindolluin.  They were approaching the region in the lee of the Ered Nimrais, protected from the hot, dry winds that swept from the south.  Here, the air seemed fresh and clean compared to that of the dusty Pelennor.  Myrhil inhaled deeply as they progressed.  Even if they never encountered the other Rohirrim, this journey would not be a wasted one.

“Do you think we will find them by crossing their path or hearing hunting bellows?” she asked.

When Gríma did not reply, she turned to see if her question had fallen on deaf ears.  When she began to repeat it, his hand signaled to her impatiently to be quiet.  He tilted one ear northward and his posture in the saddle became rigid and strained, his expression troubled.

“Can you not hear it?” he asked.  “Have you ever known a stag or boar to fight back with the weapons of Men?”

Myrhil could hear nothing, and she was about to tell him so when a stray echo of metal clashing desperately against metal winged its way to her waiting ears.  She felt her chest gripped by a familiar fear, a known dread.  And the urge to assist, even blindly, pulled at her once more.  Fortune had favored her once before.  Whether it would do so again was yet to be seen.

She turned to Gríma and she saw her own alarm mirrored in his countenance.  His ever-present pallor had deepened and he regarded her warily.  “We have no shields,” he began.  “No armor.”

“Then we must always be the ones to strike.”

“It is not possible to always be the one on the offensive,” he argued.  “It does not take a warrior to recognize that.”

“We will do what we can, then.  Do you think I wish to die?  I hope it is a simple matter completely different from what I fear, as much as you do.”

She spurred her horse forward and observed that Gríma, despite his argument and seeming hesitation, did not let her advance far before he urged his mount to match Myrhil’s swift pace.

They followed what she hoped was the direction of the echoes.  There was no way to know if the mountainsides were manipulating their path.  She had to trust to Luck.  The woodlands intensified and faded, forcing them to alter their gait and pause periodically to regain their bearings, the continuing echoes of steel their guide.

Gríma’s eyes were the first to descry the object of their search.  Before them, a short distance to the east, was a mad skirmish between mounted warriors and perhaps twenty-five crouching creatures.  Unmoving lumps lay on the ground, but it was impossible to tell if they were Rohirrim or Orc.  Behind the pinned Men stood the outskirts of the Grey Wood and Myrhil wondered why they had not fallen into its protection.

It was as though Gríma had read her thoughts.  “My people have heard stories of the folk that inhabit those woods.  They would rather face orcs.”  Myrhil heard the disbelief, the disdain of some superstition she had no knowledge of.

But this was not the time to ask for explanations of tales.  Battle lay ahead, and it was entirely possible that the night in Lebennin would be repeated, only with different men taking part.  But in essence it was the same.  The Rohirrim and Faramir and his men seemed to currently possess the advantage, for they would wheel and form line to charge each successive onrush of orcs.  By doing so, they had whittled the enemy’s numbers down, bit by bit.  It was a patient and determined strategy.

She could wait no longer, and her parting glance at Gríma said as much.  As before, the gap between them was brief and narrowed quickly.  Myrhil drew her sword, her grip as strong as her fear.  Gríma nocked an arrow with indifferent grace, trying to time his movements with his steed’s gait.  But neither could foresee their effort being anything more than temporarily successful.

Some narrow fingers of forest from the Grey Wood, itself an extension from the larger and fell Drúadan Forest to the west, lay across their path and it took some effort to avoid the various obstacles.  Debris and low-hanging branches threatened to unhorse both of them on several occasions.  But the site of battle was coming ever closer each time they emerged from a copse.

Myrhil heard the twang of a bow and her first thought was that it had come from Gríma’s.  But only a brief moment of reconsideration located the sound as coming from above.  She looked up in time to see an orc on an overarching branch before her ready another arrow and aim towards the group of Men only a short distance away.  They were being attacked from both sides, but Faramir and the Rohirrim showed no signs of awareness of this new problem.

She shouted at him to divert his attention and the orc spun around on his small perch.  Seeing prey at much shorter range, he fired at her instead.  Myrhil slipped to the side of her saddle, relieved that it did not roll dangerously with her movement.  She felt the coarse fletching of the arrow as it grazed her shoulder.

She was about to right herself when a full, crushing weight came down on her leg, still draped over the seat of the saddle, and she cried out in pain.  It was not excruciating enough to make her think it was broken, but the orc that continued to pin it beneath him would not move.  Her sword arm was closest to the orc that now rode with her and she looked up to see clawed hands grip themselves around her fist to pry the sword from her.  She slashed her arm backwards, hoping the sword would at least come dangerously close to unbalance him.  She knew it would not be anything remotely like a killing stroke.

A twang sounded from behind and the orc reared backwards.  This missile was not from an archer overhead, but from Gríma’s bow, and in his spasm, the orc fell to the opposite side of the saddle.  Myrhil took advantage of this and pushed against her left stirrup to propel herself upright.  Yet the orc’s grip did not slacken and, as he went tumbling to the ground, Myrhil was dragged with him.  She screamed in panic, terrified at the possibility of her ankles becoming twisted in the stirrups.  Kicking frantically, she managed to disengage one foot.  Just then, her horse stumbled in a snarled thicket and the three collapsed into a sprawling, thrashing heap.

The orc had fallen on his back and Gríma’s arrow passed through the creature’s body, back to front, and a bloody head and shaft now protruded from his chest.  He was stunned, and his grip on her hand had now completely slackened, but he was quickly recovering.  Myrhil summoned as much strength as she could and delivered a blow to the side of his head with the hilt of her sword, followed by another, weaker one.  The orc fell still.

The whizzing sound of other arrows fell about her ears and she flinched as her horse squealed in dismay as one or more of the orcs’ aim found its mark.  It thrashed about and Myrhil pulled at her leg that was still trapped under the animal, hoping some movement would allow her to free it.

Time felt as though it dragged, that she should have long ago succumbed to the onslaught from above.  She jerked her leg free, doing her best to ignore the pain, and scrambled away from her dying horse and the dead orc.  Staggering to her feet, she sheathed her sword as she sought shelter behind the nearest tree, peering around it for sight of Gríma.

He was beside her, still on his horse and unwounded, though another arrow was nocked and ready.  She barely had time to register his presence before his hand was around her wrist, prompting her to swing up onto the saddle behind him.  She gripped the grey’s flanks as tightly as she could and clasped her arms around his chest, not caring that the quiver jabbed her sorely.  As another arrow sailed past them, Gríma dug his heels into the grey’s sides and they bolted from the copse.

From behind her, Myrhil heard the shriek of pained orcs and she whipped her head around to see a few dark shapes tumble from the trees and crash onto the leafy forest floor.  What was happening?

She returned her attention to the scene before her, seeing a jouncing view over Gríma’s shoulder.  As he slowed the heaving gelding, his elbow poked her in the ribs and she realized he wished to let another arrow fly.  She leaned to the opposite side of the draw of his bow and, from beneath his extended arm, she saw Belaród’s saddlebags draped over the pommel of the saddle.  She had forgotten about them, but he had possessed more presence of mind than she.  Still, why would they be of any concern when the danger of pausing to collect them was greater?

Faramir and the Rohirrim were in the process of wheeling once more to meet the next assault.  The orcs before them had dwindled to less than fifteen, and Myrhil saw that every single Rohirrim was still ahorse, though some had suffered more injury than others.  She saw bloody stains, both red and black, on many of them.  Faramir, flanked on either side by his lieutenants, nearly halted in alarm upon seeing a stray rider behind them and his surprise was heightened when he caught sight of her seated behind the lone man.  But he followed through on the maneuver and led the charge.

“We must join them,” Myrhil said.

“You have lost your horse.  I will not risk mine,” was his reply, altering his aim slightly at a distant, advancing orc.  “Have you ever heard of soldiers charging with two riders on one mount?”

“No.”

His bow sang as the arrow was loosed.  An orc stumbled, but did not fall.  It was not a mortal hit.  “There is a reason why.”

The charge had been followed through, but as Faramir and the others returned, Myrhil saw that another one was not to take place.  He gestured to the dense trees and commanded the Rohirrim to seek its shelter once more.  Myrhil saw reluctant yet weary expressions, but grudgingly they gave over to necessity rather than the superstition Gríma had previously mentioned.  As one, they formed square and bolted headlong towards the Wood.  As Faramir drew close, Myrhil gestured wildly to the forest from behind Gríma.

“There were orcs in the trees down there!” she said, pointing in the direction from which they had come.  “Archers in the trees!”

Faramir looked up at the leafy canopy before them, total resignation threatening to overcome him.  “We shall have to take our chances,” he said grimly.  “If we press on far enough past any volleys, we will have the same advantage as they, should they come after us.”  A quick gesture of his arm indicated for Gríma to follow.

As they entered the outer reaches of the Wood, some arrows indeed rained down upon them and Faramir gave a command to quicken pace as fast as was possible, given the obstructions that lay nearly everywhere.  Myrhil held onto Gríma even tighter and when he commanded her to duck, she did not question why.  The whoosh of a large branch passed overhead, its bark snagging some stray strands of her hair and ripping them from her scalp.

The path he took was at the mercy of the vagaries of nature.  Myrhil looked to her right to see that some of the others were still somewhat together, while a few -- her and Gríma among them -- were forced to take a route that zigged and zagged crazily around felled trees, dense brush and anything else that was impossible to go through without injury.

Though it was the height of day, the light had grown dim as they progressed inward, and Myrhil jounced madly as Gríma quickly brought the grey’s pace to a trot, then a walk.  There were no whistles of arrows overhead and Gríma felt it safe to come to a halt.  Myrhil cared not if he would walk away and leave her; she slid clumsily off the horse’s back and landed on her own.  She needed rest, but something else begged attention.

She crouched and pushed herself to her feet, taking the few steps to stand unsteadily by his leg.  Her hand flew to the pommel of the saddle, but when her fingers went to grasp the leather strap of the saddlebags, she found that his hand was already securely around it.  She looked up at him and saw him regarding her intently, his blue eyes icy and unyielding.  His other hand went around her wrist and his grip did not cease as he shed himself of the stirrups and dismounted.  The movement wrenched her arms slightly.  The saddlebags now dangled between them.  He let go of her wrists and Myrhil took immediate advantage to try to pry the bags from his hands.

“Those are not yours to take!” she hissed between clenched teeth.

“Nor are they yours!”

The sharp growl that embodied those words made her pause in her attempts to wrest them from him.  Gríma twisted the strap so that the underside was exposed, and he jabbed at a series of letters etched into the leather.  The letters he had seen in the stable before she had disturbed his inspection.

“Now,” he said, struggling to calm himself, “tell me how you got these from my brother.”

Gríma shook the saddlebags before a pair of shocked eyes.  "Speak!" he demanded.  "How came you by these?"

"I did not find them myself. I was told they were found on the plains.  In Gondor.  Gondor's plains," was the stumbling reply, a rush of words spoken with no attempt to harness them.

"By whom?  When?"  The questions battered his senses, along with countless others, all demanding immediate answer.  When the woman's mouth worked in mute helplessness upon seeing herself become the object of such cold intensity, he fought down his temper as well as he was able.  "Udún take you, I will know the truth."

The threat, though softly spoken, apparently released her from her paralysis.  "A man my father hired," she said.  "Belaród.  He found them on--on a rotting corpse of horse and rider."

Gríma felt the anger within him fade to confusion.  He shook his head in stubborn refusal and pointed to the etched letters again.  "Look carefully," he began, exerting every shred of patience he possessed.  "These letters -- these -- spell the name of my brother, Belaród.  The script is of my language."  He held up the bags and shook them again for emphasis.  "This was a gift to him from our father over ten years ago."  Looking down at the buckle on his quiver harness, he gestured first to that, then to the buckle on one of the unfastened straps of the saddlebag.  "The same," he said, for he was not certain this woman appreciated the obvious.  "This ornament was here then as it is now.  Never could I mistake these bags for any others.  These are his.  These have always been his."

As he spoke, he saw the woman's expression become as confused as he knew his had surely been only moments before.  Then, just as clearly, the confusion melted away, only to be replaced by a realization that seemed to war with itself between grief and anger.

Hands reached towards the bags, but the gesture was too slow to be intention to take them.  Gríma tightened his grip around the wide strap nonetheless.

Two hands now were in a stranglehold around one of the pouches.  The knuckles were white and Gríma thought he could detect a rapid trembling, as though she desired to inflict harm on the helpless leather.

"Why did he lie?" he heard her whisper tightly.  "Why did he always lie?"

"You rest comfortably?"

At Myrhil's nod, Gríma gave her knee a final, cursory inspection.  He had been able to extract little more information from his companion before it became apparent she was favoring one leg.  So, he had thrust aside the questions that still burned within him and found two suitable pieces of deadwood to set on either side of her knee.  Fastened tight around the makeshift splint was the belt from his leather tunic.

"It is not broken," Myrhil said.

Gríma shook his head and rested his hand on the wounded joint.  "No.  Only a mild sprain, if that.  I can barely feel the warmth of soreness.  The pain will fade soon enough."  Remaining crouched beside her, he leaned back on his heels as he studied her silently, one hand clasping his chin in thought.  He slowly let a finger leave its meditative position and leveled it at her, though its manner was not overtly accusatory.

"So, my brother came into your father's service," he mused, continuing from where their conversation had been cut short by Myrhil's wound.  "When was this?"

Myrhil shifted against the tree they rested under and pondered the question briefly.  "A couple years ago, perhaps.  I took little note of his arrival.  He appeared one day in my father's company after a routine trip to Pelargir, but then, so had many others over the years.  He was simply another herdsman to me."

Gríma absorbed her explanation but let a lingering thought pass his lips.  "Yet you thought highly of these."  His hand came down lightly on the leather bags that lay on the ground beside her.

"I did not steal them," she insisted.  "I told you that before."

"So you did.  But a dead man can say neither yes nor no, can he?"

The woman's eyes hardened.  "If you charge me of such a thing, accuse yourself of it as well.  You seem more concerned with what Belaród owned than of his passing," she said sharply.

Gríma smiled wanly, and he fancied she was surprised at his reaction, no doubt expecting the anger she had seen him display earlier.

"News of his death is not unexpected," he said.  "He was restless and adventuresome.  That he found death so violently only seems logical."  He rose to his feet and crossed his arms over his chest.  "You truly know nothing of him before your father brought him to your home?"

"I know what he told me, and admittedly that was neither much nor, I now fear, truthful."  She bent her unfettered knee and rested an elbow upon it as her fingers played with a lock of hair at her temple.  "He said he had ridden throughout Gondor," she continued, her eyes fixed on Gríma's boots, "working where he could and doing all manner of things to survive.  I never took him to be of Rohan, or any land other than Gondor.  His accent did not betray him.  He must have spent many years among us."  She shook her head.  "I wanted to believe the tales he told, and something inside me said that he had lived each one in part, if not entirely."  She let loose of the twisted hank and lifted her weary gaze from his feet.  "Now, tell me your tale."

Gríma felt a heavy weight settle about him as she uttered her request.  He was not eager to share a single remembrance until he felt more secure in these fell surroundings.  Late afternoon had come, and the dense thickets did much to hinder the sun from reaching them, even at a small portion of its brilliance.

"I would rather have the orcs well to our backs before delving into that," he said.  "It is long and tedious."

"That is a hedging response.  I have spoken plainly," she said, just as bluntly.  "I would have the same from you."

"I possess the sole means of fleet escape, my lady," came the words frostily to his lips.  "Though it can bear two, I am not partial that it do so."

"And leave me to the malevolent spirits that infest this place?" she retorted.  "I think not.  Your king would not find the humor in that, distant kin though I may be."  She held out her hand in silent request to be aided to her feet.

Gríma hesitated briefly.  He was not overly enchanted with her, for he felt she had not been completely forthcoming about Belaród.  Her tidy conclusion to her tale spoke of things still secluded in her mind.  He would have them, in time.  Patience was a hard-earned skill of Gálmód's eldest son.  The actions of the youngest had made it necessary.

He grasped her about the wrist and hauled her upright with more force than necessary.  She staggered off balance and moved past him with visible annoyance.  Without another word, he helped her mount the horse and took up the reins to walk alongside so that the grey would be spared the extra weight.  He did break the silence to muse aloud in which direction they should travel but, after Myrhil's curt response to head northeast, the silence resumed.

And it was a near total silence.  Though they were surrounded by wilderness, Gríma heard few birds and even less of the underlying sounds usually present in a forest -- rustling leaves, skittering rodents, and the soft scrape of branches under the ply of a breeze.  It seemed like a realm of the dead, hospitable only to those creatures of tales he had derided earlier.  Now, within their domain, he found himself fighting off unreasonable dread with what he hoped was adequate and healthy skepticism.  Yet in the back of his mind he wondered what he would do if faced with a spirit.  Or an orc.  Those foul beings would find this a cheerful counterpart to Mordor.  As one hand gripped the reins tighter, the other found comfort around his bow.  The carvings on the handle bit into his palm, and the pain was reassuring.

He did not see it until he almost bumped into it like a man newly blind.  They had wandered onto a narrow path that could possibly be described as beaten in only the remotest sense of the term.  He realized he had not been as watchful as was prudent.

Gríma's hand fell from the reins and he felt the dagger hilt slip from under his sleeve and nestle comfortably into his palm with but a flick of the arm.  As he drew it before him to strike, his eyes finally saw what they had overlooked earlier and he lowered the weapon slowly.

It was no living thing.  Off to the side of the negligible path, a squat figure of stone, whose head reached no higher then the quiver strap that crossed his chest, stood implacably before him.  Knobby, crude features and stumpy limbs would have made the small statue comical if it were not in so ominous a setting.  The eerie, wide-mouthed grin carved beneath the squashed nose bespoke of amusement -- taunting amusement -- as though delivered to the back of a frightened enemy.

"One of the spirits, I presume."

Gríma turned at Myrhil's voice and he saw the curiosity in her expression, underneath which lay anxiety.  She was as disquieted by this forest as he, though their persistent lack of conversation had not made it apparent to him.  He was determined to not let his unease grow any greater, and so he carelessly settled one hand over the cool stone scalp and patted it in mock affection.

"If this is intended to frighten us, then it requires more effort," he said.

An agreeing laugh came from Myrhil, but it was not long, nor was mirth within it.

"I suppose my brother had a tale to tell of these creatures," he said.  "'Woses' are their names, I believe."

"No, he never mentioned them," she replied.  "Should he have?"

"Nothing would have compelled him to say anything unless he felt inclined to spin another tale," Gríma continued, taking up the reins again and moving past the squat sculpture.  He stared at it in naked curiosity as he did so.  "We had heard of these spirits…creatures…folk…call them what you will…we had heard of them before in Rohan, for our people in the past have hunted them as you would a stag or boar."

A grunt of disbelief sounded from behind him.  "Then we can only hope they do not find any of us," Myrhil said.  "I would rather not be assumed to be of Rohan, simply because I am in your company.  I have committed no outrage against them."

"Continue with that Gondor backwater dialect and you need fear nothing."

"Please turn from my faulty diction for but a moment, if you can find it within your boundlessly generous spirit to do so," she replied dryly with exaggerated precision, "though I have no doubt become intelligible since coming to Minas Tirith."  She dropped the pretension.  "You were telling me of Belaród.  Must I ask specific questions in order to get answers?"

Gríma tugged on the reins and quickened his own pace.  He was silent for as long as he wished to keep her waiting.  "Our father," he began, "wished to see his sons learned.  He wanted us to stand above those who knew nothing but their own surroundings.  Some ten years past, he finally possessed the means to carry out this plan he had long harbored."

"He sent you abroad?"

Gríma turned his head slightly at the first of what he felt would be many persistent questions.  "He did.  I was the elder by a number of years and was charged with my brother's safety.  We came with money to pay tutors, to school us in current thought and skills that would place us in good stead when we returned home.  Théoden King is not secretive about his willingness -- eagerness -- to have men about him who know more than what lies before their faces.

"We entered Minas Tirith and found lodgings.  The months passed and I realized I had an aptitude for words and figures.  Perhaps it was only my age that made such matters seem so important.  Belaród was young, the quaver of youth still in his voice, and he felt no joy in his duty, held no desire to fulfill our father's request.  His mind was stubborn and did not absorb what the tutors tried to force into it."

"He fled."

A small, rueful sigh.  "Then you knew him well.  A more impetuous fool never lived."  The final word escaped his throat just as he felt it clench painfully against his will.  He tightened his jaw and stared ahead of him at a distant fixed point among the dense foliage in order to find some measure of control.  "Yes, he fled.  He left me only the smallest scrap of a note, indicating nothing of his intentions or whereabouts.  He had barely reached his sixteenth year."

"Did you seek him out?"

"I had no choice but to try," he answered, and he was aware too late that he sounded defensive.  He took a measured breath.  "I was unsuccessful in all my attempts," he continued.  "I knew nothing of the path he chose but--" and he looked at the leather bags that were now draped over the saddle "--if he boasted he took these off a rotting corpse, I fear he opted for banditry and any opportunity for easy gain, as well as acquiring a flair for the fantastic turn of a tale."

"He was skilled in deception."  When she saw Gríma start at her words, she rushed on.  "At least to those who did not look to be fooled," she hastily amended.  "Much as a crude conjurer can baffle a child into believing he possesses the powers of the gods."

Gríma stopped.  "You have evidence of these charges?  If so, I would know it."

"I am unsure," Myrhil replied.  "No doubt only suspicions of the suspicious."

"Harmless deceptions I expect, for he was young with a youth's desire to impress.  But if he committed more serious acts, I demand to hear your suspicions."

"Why should that matter now?" Myrhil asked.

"Even if it is of no import to you," he responded coldly, "let me be so bold as to say that it might possibly matter somewhat to his brother."

Gríma watched as she considered his demand.  Apparently deciding she could not, or would not, answer, she instead replied, "If Belaród sought adventure, why did he not simply join Gondor's army?  Or did his pride forbid serving another country?  Were the rewards too pitiful?"  The guileless and puzzled wonder would have seemed genuine enough had he been a disinterested observer.

As Myrhil nudged the horse's sides with her heels, Gríma realized they were tarrying dangerously and willed himself to momentarily put other matters to the side.  The small path had become more visible the longer they had trod it and, desiring to hasten their progress, Gríma mounted the grey behind Myrhil.

His hesitation to lay hands upon her in the manner she had done earlier that day during their flight -- this situation was less dire and pressing -- must have been immediately apparent, for the woman chided with what Gríma decided was perverse relish, "I am not against the feel of a man's arms about my waist."

"It is not any perceived comeliness of yours that stays me," he replied stiffly, "but rather the knowledge that you deflect questions poorly."

"Poorly?"

"I speak the truth when I say that my trust could be placed in a surer vessel."

No sooner had he finished this scathing assessment than the woman before him turned in the saddle and glared at him in bald vexation.  Her long, straight nose matched the smooth, tight line of her jaw and of her sun-marked face.  "My mother speaks kindly of you," she said tensely, "though if she were here now, she could not but help reverse her opinion."  Her eyes narrowed.  "Just what is it about me that you despise so?" she demanded, pausing only briefly before adding, "Is it that I knew your brother when you thought him lost?"

As she uttered that painfully correct accusation, Gríma was angered that he had been so foolish as to betray himself to such an extent that this motive was so obvious.  Here, alone and away from the eyes that would normally keep him firmly in his place, he had unleashed his impulses, and they were absurdly transparent.  He had enjoyed hurling the barbs at her, having sensed within her a weakness, a feeling of inadequacy and futility.  It had been obvious the day in the library, her dogged determination to tackle the realm of weaponry that could never be put to practical use in the course of a common day.  This woman could only throw herself against a wall with no hope of surmounting it.  What a simple task it was to find the weakness in such a dream as that.  If he was not mistaken, Théoden King's young niece harbored similarly fruitless ambitions.  On more than one occasion, he had espied the child Éowyn grimly practicing with a sword that would most likely never savor a bite of enemy flesh.

"Well?"

The harsh, rustic Gondorian accent stirred him unpleasantly to his senses.  He suspected she had sharpened it deliberately.  "As you say," he replied mildly.

Her expression did not change.  No triumph at seemingly discovering the truth.  Instead, it was as though the matter was at an end, at least for now.  Yet something compelled her to prolong this moment, for she said with what sounded to Gríma like leaden sadness, "It is no pleasure to hold a dying man, no matter how one feels about him."

Though he was seated precariously in the saddle behind her, his thin knees his only means of anchorage, he did not move to secure himself further by embracing her about the waist or any other region.  If he did not have confidence in his own eyes, he would swear a wall towered between them.

His fingers, thus absent of purchase, dug into his legs and he gripped them until he felt bitter pain.  There was no wall.  He could see her all too clearly.  Also present before him, and painfully so, were those arms that had held his dead brother.

Boromir watched the blood-red sliver fall behind the horizon and his hands clenched the smooth masonry of the battlement until he thought his fingers would break.

After hours of political wrangling and military battles waged in terms of words, he had emerged to discover that, even though the daylight hours were waning, Faramir had not returned.  Nor, the guards at the gate informed him, had any of the Rohirrim who had ridden forth with the Steward's youngest son.  Depending on how far the party had traveled, Boromir told himself, perhaps it was not so odd that they were still absent.

No, not odd at all, Boromir repeated emphatically, hoping to convince himself of it.  Even if they had encountered trouble, Faramir and the hardy Rohirrim warriors would effectively combat any minor assault.  They must have.  And a large assault, after so many small forays by the Enemy, seemed improbable.  There was no other scenario he would willingly contemplate.  If he did allow dreaded notions to take hold, he was not confident he could refrain from letting his fears find full voice through impetuous action.  No, Faramir was able, and surrounded by able men; thus, though a part of Boromir warned him to ride forth to search for him, another part compelled him to court patience, if only for a while longer.

He would try not to dwell on the other matter, the other missing person.  The guards had revealed that, not long after Faramir and the others had passed through, another Rohirrim had approached, expressing intent to overtake the others.  Accompanying this straggler was Myrhil.

No, he thought as he gripped the cold, unfeeling stonework even tighter, and a resigned smile found its way to his lips.  Not odd at all.

"My lord."

He turned to see Laenilas standing several paces behind him.  Her hands were clasped together and, combined with the rigid manner in which she held herself, it was plain that she was enduring the same feelings as he.

"No sign of them?" she asked, and Boromir thought the furtive tone softened her more than he had ever known her to be.

He shook his head.  "The night is clear, the moon waxing.  If we do not sight them within an hour, I have little choice but to give chase."

Laenilas advanced to stand beside him, her gaze fixed intently on the northern horizon.  "Is that your father's wish?"

"No, it is mine," he replied.  "Father would have had me leave long since."

"On account of the Rohirrim, no doubt."

"It is a poor host who cares little about the health of their guests," Boromir replied, "but it is Faramir who worries us most.  Théoden's man, Elfléda, has been insisting on the danger in the north for so long that I cannot help but think Faramir has ridden right into it."

Laenilas smiled faintly.  "Yet your faith in Faramir has stayed you, as does mine in my daughter.  Talk of these dangers has spread throughout the city, and I wanted to ride forth to find her as soon as I heard she had ridden off after Faramir.  Sense prevailed.  She will come back."  She punctuated this pronouncement with a confident nod.

"You speak as if to reassure me."

"Am I?  Your trust in her falls short?"

"Is it wrong of me to think that my brother and the Rohirrim are more able to protect themselves than Myrhil?"

"Of course not," Laenilas replied firmly.  "In fact, I would question your sanity if you held the opposite view."

Boromir laughed softly.  "It is fortunate, then, that I do not.  You already think many other things of me, my lady.  I would not have insanity join them."

"The wife viewed you somewhat differently than the mother," Laenilas told him.  "If you understand the meaning in that, consider the esteem in which I hold you to be of the highest."

Boromir tensed in suspicious puzzlement, disliking such tests of his acumen.  He was not blind to all subtleties, but some things were phrased too obtusely for his comfort.  This challenge of Laenilas' would find snug company with many of his father's spontaneous demands of his heir's agility.

This bristling must have been clear, for Laenilas smiled and added, "No matter your answer, I would be hard-pressed to see fault within it."

"Then this mother's view of yours must be considerably changed from the former," Boromir replied with some shock.  "I seem to recall you receiving me with more dread than pleasure whenever I appeared on your doorstep."  He paused as a thought flitted into his mind and he long considered it before giving it voice.  "I see no difference in what I am doing," he continued in bare honesty.  "With Gorhend, I took his life into my care during battle.  Afterwards, I came to take the horses you had striven so hard to raise."

"And?"

"And now I have taken Myrhil."

Laenilas nodded, and Boromir wondered briefly if he had expressed a thought she had not considered.  However, when Laenilas smiled knowingly, he chastised himself.  Of course he had not.

"In a sense, yes, you have," she said.  "Taken her completely, I suspect, and perhaps in more ways than she realizes.  Allow me to be a sentimental fool for but a moment--"  She stopped when she heard a huff of amusement and smiled at the apparent absurdity of her own words.  "Yes, a sentimental old fool, Boromir," she continued.  "I think that this form of robbery is one that I can tolerate quite well, or even encourage it eagerly."

Boromir knew he should feel relieved with such a blessing, knowing that Laenilas would not give it lightly, but unease gripped him instead.  "And if this happy thievery should end badly?  I think it is obvious that some things may -- correction, will -- never be."

"If you are saying that Myrhil expects to become wife to you, I believe she realizes that impossibility already," Laenilas told him.  "She is acutely aware of her father's blood.  Or lack of it, I should say.  Her ambitions rest squarely within those confines.  Sensible of her, no?"

Boromir leaned on the battlement and sighed heavily.  "Very sensible," he muttered, as his ingrained notions of using mistresses and cherishing wives begged for revision.  Even Myrhil seemed to have been cannier in her assessment of the situation than he when she had spoken so bluntly about his other women.  She had not even flinched during her inquiry of how past mistresses fit within his morning structure.  She considered herself one of many such women, harboring, no doubt, deep affections of her own, but aware that there was a line that could not be crossed.  Consequently, much would be denied her, and so his mind raced with ideas of what he could grant.

But Laenilas' voice interrupted his thoughts.  "If Myrhil finds it too hard to bear," she said, "then she shall have her poor mother to give her consolation.  She may discover I am more understanding than she suspected."  At this, Laenilas turned and looked long upon him with a smile of muted cheer.

If he had not become so tired of questions and answers, Boromir would have asked Laenilas what she had suffered to make her a suitable companion for commiseration, but instead he studied the darkening hues of the horizon and began to plan a scouting mission for the missing men.  He hoped it would not become a rescue party or, worse yet, an escort for the dead.  Though if it should be so, he hoped that Faramir would not be among the fallen.  He would rather see five thousand dead, Rohirrim and men of Gondor both, than his brother's lifeless body.  And when he found himself coupling Myrhil with Faramir in his silent prayer, he knew that she had indeed crossed that invisible line.  Or rather, he thought, I have carried her over it myself.  He felt confused, even frustrated.  Straightening, he gave the distant northern landscape a final, grim study.

"If you find her, no matter her condition," Laenilas said, "make her not ashamed.  That is all I ask of you at this time."

He bowed his head.  "You may trust in me to always treat her fairly," he said, and the sincerity was as pure as the white stone tower that loomed behind them.

"No fire will guide us.  That is, if Denethor's son has shown sense."

"So it is a matter of us stumbling across them, or them finding us," Myrhil said with a sigh.  "Just like before, then."

"I will venture a guess that this time the orcs will not be present, gods willing," Gríma remarked.

Myrhil shifted in the saddle and rolled her shoulders in discomfort.  "The night is deepening and I have not felt the summer's heat in this forest since entering it.  It is so dense and unworldly that it feels like a strange power governs it.  The creatures you call Woses must possess some sort of magic craft."

"If they do wield unearthly powers, then they failed to use them against those Rohirrim who slew them like vermin," Gríma said.  "I am somewhat certain that it is only their …singular appearance which has given rise to ridiculous fables about magic and devilry, if that statue we encountered is any indication."

"You include me among those you deem witless fools who are easily swayed by talk of demons and ghosts?" she asked him.

Gríma shrugged.  "I am not so proud that I would never alter my mind once I settle on an idea, should circumstances warrant it."

"Well, then, please tell me when I am finally in your favor," she replied.  "I should hate to miss--"

Myrhil found herself interrupted by a gloved hand clasped tightly over her mouth.  She attempted to wrench herself out of Gríma's grasp, but his sharp whisper by her ear stilled her.

"I heard movement."

She relaxed and the hand was removed, as if the man behind her believed she had reclaimed any wits she might have lost.  Peering into the gathering darkness before them, she could detect neither sound nor movement.  If they did not come upon friend or foe quickly, camp would have to be made.  Wandering blindly in the night could find them anywhere come dawn.  In the final fading glimmers of twilight, she could see a small glen ahead, a slight thinning of trees that would serve well for a night's rest.

Then she heard the stamp of hooves.  Faint and distant, so it was not the grey beneath them.  The deafness of confusion fell from her ears, layer by layer, and soon the sounds of standing horses were joined by the scrape of a stray boot against hard earth, the soft, hollow clang of weaponry as it shifted against a moving body clad in armor, and the low mutterings of weary men.

Myrhil started in alarm when she felt the reins being seized at the horse's bridle, so intent had she been on sounds in the distance that what lay close had gone undetected.  This suddenness of appearance reminded her of the Wose statue and her first thought was that one of the actual creatures had chosen them as prey.  Her eyes went to the dark shape that now was so obviously beside them and, in mere moments, the eerie anonymity shed itself to reveal the blood-spattered and exhausted visage of a soldier of Rohan.  Despite his tired state, the soldier peered at her in suspicion, an expression that was sharpened when he apparently noted an extra leg.

Gríma gripped Myrhil's arm and leaned around her into the soldier's view.  "We are of Lord Faramir's party," he said hastily.  "Late in coming, but here all the same."

"Gríma."  Myrhil was not sure what lay in the man's manner of speaking the name.  He sounded somewhat surprised and perhaps even a little amused.  Of all the Rohirrim for me to be stranded with, she thought, it would be one prone to ridicule.  She restrained an embarrassed sigh.  Here, surrounded by bloodied warriors who were strangers to her, she was beginning to feel uncomfortably conspicuous.  Her appearance with a battle-shunning scribe was less than inspiring. Though, she reminded herself harshly, without him today I would most surely be dead.  His arrow had flown straight and true when needed.

"Yes, it is I," Gríma replied, tone noticeably testy.  "I give you high marks for recognizing me, Garúlf, even in this wretched light.  It is not a common sight to see Gálmód's son dressed for the hunt."  Then Myrhil heard a soft chuckle in his throat and felt it flutter through the hand that still held her about the arm.  "And a fine hunt this turned out to be, would you say?"

The soldier gave a short laugh and his head bobbed in grudging assent.  "That it did.  Very unfortunate that you missed it."

"Really?" Gríma asked in childlike wonder.  "I was about to ask where you were when the orcs attacked us.  We had them falling out of the trees, and quite literally at that.  Is that not so, my lady?"

Myrhil turned to see Gríma's pale face, seeming so much more visible in this darkness than what she thought hers would be.  He was looking at her with a knowing smile and she felt like she was being lured into some enclave, invited to share this joke with him and deliberately stand apart from these seasoned warriors, rather than be shunted aside as a matter of course.  It puzzled her greatly, to feel this conspiratorial gesture extended by one who had been adamantly abrasive and suspicious during the preceding hours.  Perhaps outsiders naturally band together when in the presence of strength to form strength of their own.  I must be going insane, she thought.  That is something Faramir would discern as easily as finding the sun in the sky, but not I.

"Yes," she heard herself saying, and felt her mouth widen into a grin.  "Falling like nuts to the ground."  Garúlf gave a snort of surprise, but commented no further.  "Where is Lord Faramir?" she asked more seriously.  "Is he straight ahead in the glen that I see?"

"Yes, he is.  He has forbidden fire, at least until the perimeter is secure, but not a one of us wishes to tempt anything that might lurk without."

Woses and orcs, Myrhil thought.  At least should something attack, we need make no distinction in the dark.  Kill whatever approaches.  That is frighteningly simple enough.

"I know there are many things you would rather see right now, and I am not one of them."

Faramir laughed softly with but a brief convulsion of his shoulders.  "Though it is unexpected, I believe it possible to cope rationally," he replied with what Myrhil thought was admirable cheerfulness, considering the circumstances.

"I simply wished to escort Gríma to the others," she explained.  "As a gesture of kindness."

"Are you practicing your excuse with me before attempting it with Boromir?"

Myrhil was silent as Faramir slowly removed Gríma's makeshift splint.  Upon seeing her injury, he had noted that it had loosened, thereby being of little aid, and offered to reapply the crude dressing.

"A clumsy ploy," Myrhil agreed, "and I insulted your intelligence by it.  I am sorry."

"I will believe your reasoning, if you do."

"Lying to myself achieves nothing.  I wanted to follow and the opportunity was before me."  She sighed.  "Perhaps it was the wrong one to seize."  The pieces of wood now pressed more firmly against the swollen joint as Faramir cinched the belt a few notches tighter than it had been.  She hissed slightly through her teeth.  "It is painful, but in a good way."

Faramir tucked in the stray end of the leather belt.  "Your scribe companion did fine work, for all the few materials he had at his command."

"He is a trial and useful by turns," Myrhil admitted with a low laugh.  "Today has been an exhilarating test of strength in his company.  I have been on the verge of doing him harm for some miles."

"Boromir will take comfort in that, for he is of like mind with those he finds himself negotiating with."  Myrhil had to strain to hear this, as Faramir had dropped his voice to avoid being overheard.  Half of the Rohirrim, those suffering the least injury, were standing watch at several points around the small glen.  Faramir's two lieutenants were currently assisting the rest to tending the wounded near where she and Faramir sat.

"They have been silent about my presence here," she said, a slight inclination of her head towards the Rohirrim indicating whom she spoke of.  "Somehow I would prefer them to rage about what business could have possibly brought me."

"Myrhil, I think they all have their minds on more important matters than who is here, and several others are suffering injury as well.  In the most impartial of terms, I have nothing but sturdy soldiers about me."  This was spoken in kind encouragement, and Myrhil allowed herself to be soothed by it.  "You say you killed an orc who attacked."

"I assume I killed it.  I struck it senseless before I ran off, and Gríma's arrow seemed unforgiving.  With luck, the wolves are now feasting on it, if they can stomach the meat."

"Your fervor is admirable.  Would that it was unnecessary."

She nodded, but said no more.  Surreptitiously, she brought a sleeve to her nose and sniffed.  Yes, the scent of orc was indeed there.  She gave a disgusted shudder.  For hours, she had thought it was the smell of rotting vegetation and carrion every forest contained.  "Do you think Boromir has abandoned debate to search for us?" she asked, firmly turning her mind to other matters as she gave her sleeve a futile wipe.

"Perhaps.  It was my intention to return to the city before sunset, and I said as much.  Boromir will have noted the passing of hours, I am certain."  He fell silent.

"He will have no cause to worry when he sees that all of us are still alive, that you have kept everyone safe under your command."

"Every confident declaration is one that I did not have before," he said.  "But we are not out of the woods yet."  He looked up at the dark canopy of leaves that arched over them and Myrhil heard an edgy, amused sigh escape him, as though he himself now wondered at his capability to find humor in a situation such as this.  "I am no stranger to fighting," he added, "and Boromir has said that one feels compelled to laugh at the oddest moments, especially when surrounded by uncertainty."

Myrhil recalled her nervousness upon seeing the squat statue and told Faramir of it.  "Did you encounter any such figures?" she finished.

"Yes, and if I am at all skilled in reading the manners of men, several others had the same reaction as you.  Gríma put his hand on it, you say?"

"As though patting a puppy."

"What brave warriors Rohan breeds," he said.

Even if Faramir meant no humor in that remark, Myrhil brought a hand to her mouth and smothered a laugh, keeping the surrounding uncertainty at bay for a few welcome moments.

It had not been her intention to fall asleep.  Myrhil believed it would be impossible to find any semblance of peace or comfort that would allow her eyes to close and her mind to drift.  The forest had grown more dank and chill as night gained foothold, and her position against a large tree trunk with her good knee bent protectively against her chest while her other remained uncomfortably rigid, had indeed kept her awake for several hours.  The Rohirrim, all wounds cleansed and bandaged using water flasks and any strip of garment able to be sacrificed, were stationed around the glen at equal distance from each other, ten strong paces from what Faramir had deemed the boundary of the central camp.

Faramir had directed Gríma to stand guard in the region where Myrhil had set up her own bare little camp, which consisted of a tree to lean against and a patch of moss to sit on.  He did not say why, but Myrhil suspected that since she and the scribe had arrived together, Faramir had taken it upon himself to continue keeping them in close quarters.  Thanking Faramir for that would be among the things Myrhil knew she would never accomplish.  Also, he now knew of Gríma's acts through her recounting of the small ambush in the woods, so the commander of this small band pressed him into service as well.  Whether the scribe was pleased with this, Myrhil neither knew nor cared.  Yet, all was not silent between them, and while he stood guard and she rested, she found herself being asked a few questions about a subject she thought had been put to rest.  Where is Belaród's body?  Was he indebted to your father?  What other possessions of his still remain?  What were his final words?

It seemed of little consequence to him that answering might cause her pain.  Even though he was unaware he was speaking to his brother's lover, being witness to the violent death of any man would surely be cause for grief.  She answered as best -- and as quickly -- as she could, replying in what she hoped was a deceptively even voice.  A long silence would follow each answer, every word she spoke no doubt being mulled over by that strange and often unknowable mind, after being pinned to his memory with a dagger stroke.  It was during such a silence that Myrhil drifted off to sleep and left Gríma in the darkness to tend to his own concerns.

The sound of harsh early morning birdcalls woke her, and Myrhil opened her eyes to see that dawn was still hours away.  The outline of leaves against the sky was clearer than the night before, but the welcoming wave of color that announced the sunrise remained tight against the horizon, not venturing into the heavens above.

Bracing her hands against the trunk, she slowly crept to her feet, wincing as the stiffness in her body exulted in her discomfort.  She had not shifted position the entire night, and had thus remained reclined against the tree like some forgotten shepherd.

Now that she was standing, she could see slight movement in the woods about her, and the absence of most of the Rohirrim from the inner circle of this camp told her that the glen was still firmly guarded.  She turned to seek out Gríma's shape at his post, but he was not the man she saw.  Another soldier stared back at her and Myrhil turned away from him quickly, finding herself ducking her head in embarrassment as she did so.  Despite Faramir's kind words the night before saying that her actions made her no different from the others, all the other inescapable details made her feel grossly out of place.

Wishing simply to leave his sight, she began to walk around the large trunk and halted when she saw another pair of legs jutting out from the other side of the tree.  A quick glance around the vast expanse revealed that the scribe was serenely enjoying the oblivion that she had recently left.  His bow was laid across his thighs with an arrow nocked.  His readiness was admirable, even if he had to be roused first.

She looked around and saw that while Faramir was awake and tending the horses with his lieutenants, some Rohirrim that had been relieved of their watch during the night were still taking some rest.  The order to leave had not come yet, and so Myrhil slouched against the tree and slid down it until she sat next to the dozing Gríma.

With little else to do, she turned her attention to the splint and began to unbuckle the belt.  It was feeling considerably better than the night before, and she was weary of being hobbled by the device.  Just as she had finished unwrapping it from around the now intolerable pieces of wood, an open hand held itself out to receive it.

"Thank you," she said, without missing a beat.  She dropped the folded belt into his hand.

"You heal quickly."

It was past her lips before she realized it.  "In some things."

What sweet relief it was to be traveling in gathering brightness rather than feeling the press of night.  Myrhil found it hard to think of anything but this as the hunting party, barren of any intended trophies, wended its way back through the woods in the direction they had come so frantically the previous day.

The Rohirrim talked amongst themselves in small clusters, and Myrhil noticed that their words were carefully chosen in Westron rather than softly spoken in their own language.  Apart from such centers of conversation, Myrhil felt at liberty to ask Gríma from her position behind him on the grey why they did not indulge in muttered gossip or complaints like others would do on such a wretched journey.

"I know you would not forget, my lady, but folk from Rohan are not 'others,'" Gríma replied, "and they would remind you of it quite proudly."

"What about you?"

"Consider yourself reminded by one who knows little of what he talks about."

"Everything you have ever said belies that," she told him.  "Do not expect me to believe it now."

After she spoke, she realized that Gríma's self-disparaging comment was perhaps twofold.  One was patently false; he was intelligent and had even boasted about it.  The other meaning she believed he intended held more than a grain of truth.  He was very unlike the other Rohirrim she had ever seen, and heard about in stories.  He could ride and wield weaponry, certainly, but he did not visibly possess that "fire of Rohan," that quality her mother had referred to frequently during her childhood as a flame that had forged her ancestors to be as unbreakable as mortals could claim to be.  If she had not strayed wide of the mark, she believed that Gríma had admitted he was lacking in the one thing that would brand him as one of his own.

Her thoughts were given no chance to progress further.  Faramir, riding ahead with his lieutenants and an informal leader of the Rohirrim, had halted his horse suddenly and was embroiled in a minor struggle with it.

The command came from Faramir and continued along the riders.  "Dead orcs," was the warning.  "Ready yourselves.  Look to the trees and the thickets."

Gríma's curiosity was either fueled by Myrhil's obvious eagerness to see what had disturbed Faramir's mount so, or ample on its own, for he urged his gelding onwards anxiously.

Faramir and the others in the lead had not progressed further, instead ceaselessly scanning the foliage above and around with sharp intent.  The Rohirrim drew up behind and fanned out slightly to the side to form a ready line, should danger present itself.

"We did not kill them," one solder said in amazement.

Myrhil peered over Gríma's shoulder and blinked in shock.  Scattered about the forest floor, discarded like chaff from a field by an unforgiving wind, lay a dozen orcs.  Myrhil counted the visible bodies and portions of bodies that found some veiling by the undergrowth.  No, more than that.

Several of the horses fidgeted and danced slightly beneath their riders and everyone laid it to the stench of so many orcs in such close quarters.  The smell was offensive and Myrhil turned her head, nostrils striving for clean air.  Everything seemed wrapped in a tense shroud as they looked down upon another's prey, their own predators of only the day before.

The voice, when it spoke, left not a single person among them unshaken.  As one, Faramir and his party lifted their heads to the branches above.  A few quick Rohirrim drew their bows, arrows nocked and ready, and aimed them levelly in the direction of the disembodied voice.  Faramir heard the creak of the strings and held up his hand in warning to lower their weapons.

"Pass through these woods in safety," it said.  "Our quarrel is not with you."

The words sounded familiar to Myrhil.  Not the words themselves, of course, for she had never heard them uttered before.  But the shape of them, the way they were spoken, and how they crystallized in her mind when she had no face with which to pair them; all of these pulled at her and made her search for match she knew existed.  The voice was rough, misshapen, even, as it pronounced its own unique form of Westron.  And hard.  This voice was as hard as stone, but at the same time possessed an edge of…amusement?

A harsh, muttered epithet came from beside them and Myrhil felt Gríma's body shudder with a suppressed laugh.  "What is it?" she asked.

"Garúlf has no love for Woses, do you?" he asked the soldier who had cursed.

"Rógin," Garúlf spat.  "Dirtier than Dunlendings."

After a moment's consideration, Myrhil realized that the sound from the trees and the lumpy rock figure by the path were an eerie, yet natural, pair.  She turned to Garúlf.  "If he should take aim at you," she said, "I cannot blame him for feeling insulted."

Garúlf looked at her, as though noticing her for the first time.  But before he could reply, Gríma spoke.  "Pay her no heed, Garúlf.  She has already professed hope that should Woses attack, she not be the one their poisoned arrows find."

"No arrow of ours has ever sought to kill the horse-men," another voice said from the branches of a dense and towering evergreen beside them, "though theirs found many of us in the past."  The scornful and stern tone was quickly replaced with a light and merry laugh, almost like the sound of a brook in springtime, when Garúlf fumbled at his sword.  "Peace, horse-man," it gurgled.  "We will not harm you."

Faramir was heard clearly and strong above the scattered mumblings that had erupted throughout the group.  "We thank you for your assistance, Drúedain," he said, "for that is the name I know you by."

"Go along," the first voice said.  "The way is clear to the edge of the forest.  Not an orc or drughu shall stop you.  The first are dead and the others know of your presence and shall let you pass.  I, Ghân-buri-Ghân, have spoken."

"Faramir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, has heard.  Peace unto you."

Faramir nudged his horse forward and his own men followed close behind, then the Rohirrim, each one picking his way slowly around the scattered corpses.  What the Woses would do with them, none knew.

Gríma had not spurred the grey, waiting instead for Garúlf to precede him.  Myrhil watched the soldier give the branches above him a final, parting glance, and she found herself staring up into them as well.  Though something lurked within them, they swayed not an inch.  Even the smallest bird could disturb their peace more than a watching Wose.

Garúlf slid his sword back into his scabbard and departed abruptly without another word.  Myrhil watched him go and allowed herself a small laugh when he was beyond earshot.  She tapped Gríma on the shoulder.  "I believe we now know who killed those orcs we fled from."  She looked up into the branches.  "It was you, wasn't it, killing them out of the trees and helped us?"

Another rich and rolling laugh greeted her ears.  "Yes, horse-woman, it was us.  And you, horse-woman.  You killed, too.  And you."  This was addressed to Gríma.  "You helped us."

Myrhil found herself smiling widely up at the hidden Wose.  Hearing its laugh made her happy for some unexplainable reason.  She looked over at Gríma and saw that his gaze was turned upwards and only the barest trace of a smile lingered on his mouth.  His head shook imperceptibly, as though unable to understand a fleeting puzzle, and he returned his attention to the task before him.  Gathering the reins, he commanded the horse to walk on.  While he steered the grey around the grisly debris on the forest floor, Myrhil craned her neck as far as she could and only took her eyes off from the still and silent evergreen when the underbrush filled her vision and shrouded it from view.

An hour of quick and confident travel -- though Faramir ordered everyone to still be watchful -- brought the party to the edge of the forest.  They were not much farther from where they had entered the woods the previous day under more harried conditions.  They were further south, Faramir decided, as he pondered a map; which was just as well, considering the north seemed to be a breeding ground of orc activity.

He allowed no rest, instead insisting they press on to Minas Tirith.  Myrhil also wondered if he hoped his path would intersect Boromir's, had his brother indeed decided upon pursuing the missing party.  The closer to the White City that happened, the less his brother would be inconvenienced or worried.

It happened as Faramir intended; or, at least, what Myrhil assumed was Faramir's intent.  She figured they had traveled more than one-third of the distance home when a small patrol of eighteen men, led by the Captain of the White Tower, appeared over a rise in the land.  Though Myrhil was overjoyed to see him -- as were several others, she suspected -- she remained immobile behind Gríma.  His quiver was a welcome obstruction now, and she positioned her head behind it.

As the distance closed between the two parties, Myrhil thought she showed no signs of tension, but when she felt Gríma's hands on hers, she wondered if she had betrayed herself somehow.  His fingers were insistently prying at hers and, in surprise, her hands flew open and she felt the corded leather reins fall from palms slick with sweat.  Her arms remained draped around his waist, exhausted.

"Thank you, my lady," he said in wry relief.  "The horse was becoming quite irked."

She brought her hands to her face and rubbed at her cheeks, her eyes and her temples.  She felt tired and edgy all at once, and knew the root of it was coming towards her at a fast trot.  At least Gríma had remained in the rearguard, and that offered a momentary stay of sentence from whatever anger or annoyance Boromir was feeling towards her.

The brothers greeted each other and the relief on both sides was touchingly apparent.  The Rohirrim likewise seemed delighted to see the renowned warrior of Gondor.  Though Myrhil knew Boromir had ambivalent feelings about the few Rohirrim he was forced to consort with on matters of state, his admiration and respect for the plain ranking soldiers was heartfelt and complete, and from the various good-natured greetings she heard come from nearly every man there, the feelings were returned in kind.  She let one eye peer around Gríma's arrow and quiver and watched as Boromir leaned over in his saddle and embraced Faramir quickly.

"So you come to save me, dear brother," Faramir said when they had parted.

"Should you need saving," Boromir replied.  "It appears you had it all well in hand."  He looked at every rider from where he sat, assessing the condition in which they were returning.  "Some wounded," he commented absently, his eyes still drifting from face to face.  His head tilted slightly when his gaze rested on Gríma and she leaned only slightly further into his view.  Her eyes did not leave him and while his lips were pressed together, she saw the corners of his mouth were upturned.  "But all are here," he finished, nodding in obvious satisfaction.  "Good…good."

"Sixteen men," Faramir reported.  "Not a one lost."

Boromir's brow furrowed in puzzlement and he began to count silently, a gloved finger bobbing slightly in calculation.  "Fifteen men and--"

"Sixteen, brother," Faramir insisted gently.  "All together."

Boromir clenched his fist and tapped it against the pommel of his saddle, as though suddenly reminded of something and chastising himself that he had forgotten.  "Yes, sixteen," he repeated, more to himself than to the others.

Little time was spent on further proprieties.  Return to the city became foremost in everyone's mind and Boromir's order to form square was followed quickly.  They got underway and Myrhil had just wondered if Boromir would refrain from approaching her until the gates of Minas Tirith had closed behind them, when he slowed his horse's pace and fell back to where she and Gríma were located.

Gríma bowed his head and murmured some expected salutation, which Boromir answered with expected courtesy, but the scribe, having sensed that he was not the object of this visit, returned his eyes to the rider in front of him.  Myrhil knew his ears were open and eagerly curious, but she would not feign polite and detached pleasantries.  Not for his sake.

"I think my brother has helped me find another name for you," Boromir said, dispensing with all greetings.

"And I am glad to see you, Boromir," she laughed tiredly.  "What is the name?  Sixteen?  A lone one?"

Boromir smiled.  "You heard that?"  At Myrhil's nod, he shook his head.  "No, not sixteen.  You could never be considered some hollow."

"Er, that is good to know," she replied uncertainly.

"I think 'metal' is more suitable."

"Metal?"  Myrhil's confusion was complete now.  She did not know what he was talking about, or where these words were coming from.  Rather than the evening unfolding as she suspected it would, she believed she would find herself questioning Boromir extensively on the amount of time he had spent under the summer sun.  Obviously, his brain was addled.  "Metal?" she asked again, the way she said it a request for him to affirm that she had heard him correctly.  "Because I am cold and frightening?"  Though she was speaking to Boromir, she directed her words in some small degree to the man in front of her.

"Hardly," he replied, his smile broadening.  A slight tug on his reins brought his horse closer to Gríma's, and while he did not lean over to speak more intimately, his proximity was close enough so that if Myrhil ignored the other noises about her, she could hear him perfectly.  "No," he said, "I say 'metal' because it warms quickly, is difficult to forge, and lasts for a very long time."

Myrhil felt her body flush hotly and she straightened in the saddle, her eyes widening in surprise.  "And?" she asked, slightly breathless.

Hesitation briefly marked Boromir's features, coupled with embarrassment, but it gently subsided, as did the rough note in his voice.  He leaned closer and she obeyed an inner command to bend, lean, twist, or do whatever necessary to hear him.  Another sensation flooded through her when his left hand surreptitiously seized her right in the cover of the narrow distance between them.  It was a brief gesture, lasting only a few charged seconds and of such fleeting pressure that she had to wonder if it had even happened.  But Myrhil felt its weight in another way, all the while wondering why he was even thinking of metals, forges, and weapons when his eyes spoke of other thoughts.

The broken leather encasing Boromir's fingers slid over her own.  "And sometimes a man needs only…one."

By whatever route of logic he had followed so that all of this made sense to him, she did not care.  And whatever she had done that made him find it desirable to speak thusly to her, Myrhil was entirely glad she had done it.

Translations:

rógin – Woses (pl., Rohirric)

Drúedain – Woses, term used by the Númenoreans and, I would assume, their descendants

drughu – Woses' name for themselves

unque – the Tengwar for 16, it means "a hollow" (Quenya) (I figured the Tengwar would be something children of Boromir's station would learn and never forget, kind of like the multiplication tables -- it's 12 am, please work with me on this; See Appendix E in ROTK for more details if this makes no sense.)

tinco – the Tengwar for 1, it means "metal" (Quenya)

Chapter 23: Choosing Another

Two men stood before a cold fireplace, the light that a fire would have provided – had the evening been chill enough to warrant one be built – instead supplied by several ornately-wrought candelabra. The tapers were newly lit, the wax barely beginning to overflow the craters about the wick. The servant was only now withdrawing from the room, the candles ablaze and the platter of food positioned beside a wine flagon, his tasks performed with discreet speed.

“Some wine?” one asked as soon as the door closed.

“An honor to share it with you, Lord Steward.”

A sound of benign pleasure came from Denethor’s throat, a supple note that seemed at odds with his perpetually steely visage. “There’s been little opportunity for us to speak as I’m certain we both wish.” Denethor filled the ambassador’s goblet with the rich wine and held it out to him. “I think you’d agree?”

Elfléda took the heavy silver cup from the Steward and sniffed its contents. What could be described as a smile on his narrow lips crooked even more acutely, amused. “No obvious poison,” he observed.

Denethor took a long draught from his own goblet, his eyes hard as iron as they watched Elfléda from over the rim. The Rohirrim followed suit, drank deeply, and smacked his lips softly.

“Not obvious,” the Steward said, “but very agreeable, I should hope.”

“My compliments on a fine vintage. Rohan doesn’t lack for spirits, but only southern Gondor’s wines can fan the blood so marvelously.”

Denethor drained his goblet and was silent, nodding slowly as though considering his words. “It is war which has lately spurred the men of Gondor,” he finally said, “not anything as harmless as this.” He set his goblet down with a thump.

“I was unaware a state of war existed,” Elfléda replied blandly.

“Play word games all you like,” Denethor retorted, tone crisp, “but you know it matters little. These…formalities we as civilized people would observe in our own company are utterly foreign to the Enemy, who simply attacks when and in the manner It chooses, with nary a warning or interest in formal declaration.” Denethor left the table and gestured for Elfléda to follow him to the two large chairs before the hearth. “Weeks, sometimes months, pass with no sign of the Enemy, then days on end are filled with terror, only to give way to another period of inactivity. That is not war – not as we know it or have been schooled to expect, but we must call it that for lack of a better term.”

“And this we have experienced as well,” Elfléda said with some impatience. “’Tis nothing I don’t already know.”

“Just so,” Denethor replied mildly, “which is why I’ve come to expect the unexpected. Truthfully, it’s a rare thing that surprises me. My ability to discern from a distance is not inclined to fail me.”

“You knowledge is considerable,” Elfléda allowed, “and we in Rohan regard it as such.”

“Too kind, but the complimentary language doesn’t seem to be as palatable in such a setting as this.” He gestured at the very modest chamber. “It begs for stark honesty, I think, but that is a humble lore-master’s opinion.”

Elfléda smiled. “Very well, if the Steward can suffer to speak brutally, then I’ll not shirk from it.”

Denethor settled into his chair and leaned back, an elbow propped on one of the carved arms. He clasped his chin in a scrutinizing manner. “Proceed,” he said, as Elfléda took a seat. “I’m eager to see what your unleashed tongue is capable of.”

Elfléda paused in his attempts to situate himself comfortably in the close-fitting chair – the smaller of the two, he noticed, and the one Denethor had left to him. The challenge in the Steward’s words, tone, and posture was unmistakable.

“You’re not pleased with how your forces will be deployed,” Elfléda said smoothly, crossing one leg over the other and lacing his fingers before his chest. “Yet that was a term you agreed to. To this I can only say, Rohan sympathizes, but doesn’t weep.”

“You seem confident that attacks will come from the northeast.” Denethor’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Your confidence may have persuaded some of my advisors, but I would prefer to know how you received this information. My Rangers tell a different story.”

“Such as?” Elfléda continued, unperturbed. “Do they lack any useful information?”

“Faramir’s attention to his duties is well nigh impeccable,” Denethor said tightly, “as are those of his lieutenants. There is little of Ithilien he has not trod, and what he doesn’t see, there are a score more who do.”

“I never meant to impugn your son’s abilities, and there are few Gondorians held in higher esteem than your eldest son, but I only insist that there is danger lurking to the north. Unchecked, it would sweep up the West Road to Edoras’s very doorstep.”

“And if the Enemy should instead launch a frontal assault on Minas Tirith itself, straight from the East? Or roll up southern Gondor first? With forces spread so thin, any fight would cost more blood than can be spared.” Denethor leaned forward on one arm. “I’ve signed nothing, Ambassador. Therefore I’m bound to nothing, and all is still open to negotiation.”

Elfléda considered this and spread his hands in silent assent. “Then there is little point on hammering the subject for the moment,” he said. “It’s a matter that demands re-visitation, however. And as long as you wish to negotiate, then we shall continue to partake of your fine hospitality.”

“My gratitude for the warning in advance. I’ll be sure to keep the cellars stocked.” Denethor leaned back in his chair again. “Well, this is no ordinary siege, is it? Both sides locked within the city, rather than a wall separating them?”

Elfléda laughed softly. “If we can’t come to an agreement on that, then perhaps we can move onto another matter.”

“Oh?” Denethor’s brows arched in interest. “Which is?”

“The kinswoman who wishes to return to Rohan.”

“If you’re having doubts about allowing Laenilas to travel with you, or even permitting her entry into Rohan, best put them out of your mind immediately.”

Elfléda’s lips twitched. “So eager to be rid of her?” he asked gently.

“Not eager, but she is presently a drain on my same fine hospitality you enjoy. She wishes to go to Rohan, and I would see that she gets this desire.”

“I have inquired about her,” Elfléda said, “after receiving word from my aide that one of your citizens had a petition to come to meet my King.” He smiled apologetically. “Forgive me if I had any suspicions about one from Gondor, but you understand…”

Denethor nodded curtly, but he waved his hand in dismissal. “She’ll be of no trouble to you. She is not a schemer or prone to intrigue. She is far, far too straightforward to connive at anything. If she has anything to say or do, she’ll do it directly. If you find blunt speech to your liking, Rohan can as for no better practitioner of that art than she.”

Elfléda laughed easily. “It seems you have some knowledge of the lady’s character!”

The Steward’s expression was impassive. “I knew her as a young woman when her family came to Minas Tirith for a few short years. She hasn’t changed much since then, I can assure you. More wrinkled, perhaps, but she’s remarkably well-preserved.”

“Your assurance is enough. I wasn’t overly concerned about her since she is startlingly like our women, even from a distance. But there is someone else, a daughter…”

“Yes.”

“She has a habit of being in the middle of frays, I hear?” When Denethor didn’t immediately respond, Elfléda continued. “It has been three days since my soldiers’ ill-fated hunt, and after discovering that this young woman had attached herself to the hunting party, I made inquiries as well.”

“It was my understanding that one of your men agreed to bring her with him,” Denethor countered dryly, “but still, idleness certainly isn’t one of your failings. Your curiosity appears boundless.”

“That it is,” Elfléda agreed, “especially when the safety and well-being of my King and his country are concerned.”

A sharp, brief burst of incredulous laughter erupted from the Steward. “You think she might be a danger?” he asked, then added shrewdly, “Or merely a bad example?”

“Come, Lord Steward,” Elfléda replied, his tone indicating that he would not be insulted, “our women aren’t as easily led as that. I’m only asking if tavern brawls and orc attacks are a nasty sort of baggage she brings with her.”

“Faramir has informed me of the tavern brawl and the girl was merely unfortunate enough to be in a room teeming with irate men spoiling for a fight in the heat. Your suspect is guilty of nothing dastardly,” he finished with a tolerant smile.

“Very well,” Elfléda replied slowly, “but I’ll still reserve for myself the right to rethink any decision I make regarding them. I cannot simply let anyone enter Rohan and bring them to Edoras to inconvenience the King. Their purpose must be plain, clear, and devoid of any threat.”

“Caution is admirable, Ambassador, but it can make fools of even the wisest of men if danger is seen in everything.”

Elfléda sighed. “That’s true, but not everyone has the fortune to be gifted with your peculiar sight. Let us untalented men make our way as best we can.”

Only small matters prolonged the conversation, subjects of even lesser importance than one girl’s scrap in an unremarkable tavern fight. Compliments were exchanged when appropriate; veiled insults and swift jabs made brief appearances, and then Elfléda begged leave with the excuse that if he indulged in one more goblet of wine his head would regret it the next morning.

Elfléda left the chamber and paused as the door closed behind him. Denethor had chosen to remain behind, accepting Elfléda’s assurance that he did not need to summon a servant to guide him back to his quarters.

As Elfléda stood there in the semi-darkness of the corridor, he turned his head at a familiar footfall. A silhouette appeared and lengthened slowly along the illuminated flagstones as it approached.

Falvöd. Never far away, always ready for his next order. From the day Théoden had bestowed upon him the enormous charge of representing Rohan beyond its borders, Elfléda had kept Falvöd near at hand, should stealth and swift action be necessary. There was none other Elfléda trusted more than his éoredstalwart for more than twenty years. The man bore numerous scars from leading small patrols into hostile and dangerous regions – the Dunlending borderlands, among others – and the unpredictable nature of diplomacy, to Falvöd, seemed to be only one more frontier to subdue and navigate.

“My lord,” Falvöd began.

Elfléda held up a hand and closed the distance between them in three long and effortlessly silent strides. The narrow confines of the corridor had long ago become overheated from the wall sconces, despite the moderate spacing between them, and Elfléda flipped his cloak over his shoulders with an undisguised sigh of relief that one more display of formality with the Steward could now be done away with. For all Falvöd’s subordinate position, they observed few formalities of the sort often maintained between servant and lord. It was welcome to abandon them for the moment.

As Elfléda passed, Falvöd swirled into his wake like foam in a current and let himself be guided through the corridors, though he no doubt knew the way himself as one blind knows their own home. Falvöd had been given the task of learning Minas Tirith – streets, buildings, people – with the proficiency of a native son. Never before had this dutiful man ever disappointed. It was inconceivable he should start now.

Elfléda reached his chambers and paused briefly at the soft scrape from further down the hall.

“Guard,” came Falvöd’s whisper.

Elfléda nodded and opened his door, moving with speed but not so quickly that any noise he might cause would arouse suspicion in the nearby guard. Without needing to usher Falvöd inside, the other man entered the chamber first and darted around the door with his hand on the hilt of a dagger he kept nestled in his leather belt. When no intruder was revealed, Elfléda stepped into the chamber and saw that a servant had preceded him. A small fire crackled in the hearth, a gesture towards hospitality rather than any need for heat since his room was no less warm than the chamber he had just left.

As Elfléda removed his cloak and tossed it onto the bed – the covers turned down by the same diligent servant, no doubt – Falvöd went through the chamber, looking behind the curtains and tapestries, searching the shadows for sign of face, figure, or blade.

“I think you’re even more distrustful than I,” Elfléda remarked.

Falvöd let the heavy velvet drape fall closed, his final inspection over. He didn’t reply, this wry jab spoken so often it warranted no answer after so many years. As the soldier’s hand left his dagger, Elfléda knew it was safe to proceed, and he did so without delay.

“You have made contact with them?”

Falvöd nodded. “It wasn’t easy. One had fled the city entirely. The other two have been living like rats in a hole to avoid being seen or rousing suspicion.”

“It’s my understanding that they were never properly identified in that brawl, that only suspicious behavior, not identification, could incriminate them. So what do they have to fear?” Elfléda sank into a chair by the hearth.

“They’re bloody cowards,” Falvöd stated flatly. “They can connive at raids fair enough in the expanses of the countryside, but they quail at close quarters. Anything requiring caution and subtlety.”

“You lacked those skills once, if I’m not mistaken,” Elfléda reminded his old friend gently.

Falvöd’s reply was harshly dismissive. “I learned, and that’s something these oafs steadfastly refuse to do.”

“They must have had some information, once you finally found them. What did they tell you?”

Falvöd snorted. “One was particularly preoccupied with the girl in the tavern, the mannish daughter of that petitioning kinswoman. He believes she saw him fully and could identify him if she saw him again.” His tone indicated he was skeptical of these fears. “His friend that night fled,” he continued, “but he was unable to leave the city before the girl alerted that youngest boy, Faramir, to her suspicions and he began the gate watch. Which is still kept,” he added, when Elfléda moved to ask him about that very same thing.

“It’s horribly unfortunate they chose that farm and herd, of all possible targets, to attack.”

“The orcs wanted horses and you wished for a diversion in the south that was frighteningly deep within the borders. It couldn’t have been a more perfect target,” Falvöd asserted, “apart from the kinship of the inhabitants.”

“It’s a good thing I don’t bother myself with seeing these cretins face-to-face,” Elfléda scowled. “I’d throttle them with my own hands for not uncovering that fact. It has complicated matters. I can always step lightly, but it expends more effort and discipline.” He leaned on the arm of the chair and tapped his fingers against the polished wood. He was silent and stared at the flames thoughtfully. “What of the other man? This other coward hiding with the rats?”

“He arrived several days ago,” Falvöd reported. “He still moves about with some daring, not as cowed as the other. He’s come from Pelargir where he’d spent the last eight months or more – more, I think – carving a niche for himself in one of the taverns. He said there’s still some work to do there. However, a network has been established with the tavern as its center.”

“And that wasn’t too troublesome, I warrant?”

Falvöd shrugged. “He mentioned the previous owner refused to sell, but I didn’t press for the gruesome details. His manner suggested that the man was eventually persuaded.”

Elfléda made a face. “Just as well I never know those sorts of facts. They serve little purpose, as long as the ends are met.” He continued to tap the arm of the chair until he noticed that Falvöd had remained standing. “Sit,” he said. “You look weary.”

Sinking into another chair with muted gratitude, Falvöd leaned back and stretched his legs before him, crossing them at the ankles and settling clasped hands over his stomach.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Elfléda said. “I may have an errand for you, as soon as I hear your opinion.”

Falvöd’s head righted curiously from its slouched position. “Oh?”

“It’s imperative we not have too many within our ranks lest betrayal come easily, but I sense that we shall need more aid before long. His ambition is growing and the call will come to force our hand. I want the strength to be there when that happens.”

“You anticipate difficulties?”

Elfléda spread his hands in a silent admission of uncertainty. “Théoden is still strong, though he has weakened some in the two years since the Queen’s sudden death.” He paused to glance at Falvöd, but the other man was staring at the fire, his features unmarked by any discernable emotion at what he had just said.

That is the sort of man I need more of, Elfléda thought. One who obeys commands, no matter how heinous, and betrays nothing. Little of his deeds ever passed Falvöd’s lips. He carried one out, then it was done and onward to the next. Though the matter of the Queen ranked as one of his greater accomplishments, the sardonic soldier from the Westemnet had no desire or freedom to boast. He asked for no reward other than to remain in Elfléda’s service, a price the ambassador was willing to pay to keep the sole survivor of his first command under his strict control. Better that his mind and Falvöd’s weapons work towards the same end rather than at cross-purposes.

“So what is this matter that urgently needs my opinion?” the other man asked quietly.

Elfléda’s lips twitched in the barest ghost of a smile, and he settled back further in his chair in anticipation of his friend’s reaction. “Do you think Gríma Gálmódsson possesses suitable mettle?”

“Gríma?!” Falvöd repeated, the word infused with caustic disbelief. Had the man been eating, Elfléda was certain he’d have choked fatally on the name. Falvöd was silent as he looked at Elfléda with what seemed to be complete bewilderment. “What has Gríma done to make you think him an apt choice for this or—or anything that you plan?”

“I counted on your reaction, my friend,” Elfléda replied, laughing softly. “I knew it would take some persuading on my part for you to even lend my proposal half an ear. So, here it is.

“You overlook Gríma’s qualities, I fear,” Elfléda began. “What is seen first by all is his obvious foreignness to many things the Rohirrim believe make up ‘one of us.’ He will only ride when forced. He doesn’t spend hours mastering arms. His appearance – so dark and frail! – leads one to think that he has not a drop of Rohirrim blood in his body.”

“I don’t believe he does,” Falvöd replied quickly. “I know his father and mother were from our land, but I look at him…and I cannot bring myself to believe it.”

“Your suspicions are unfounded,” Elfléda said amicably. “I knew of Gálmód Gúrundsson – and his wife – and both were of good Rohirrim blood. He was dark, but Tildath was among the fairest of our folk. She died many years ago and I presume that you never knew her, being from the far Westemnet while I and Gálmód lived in the Eastemnet near the Entwash.”

“I knew of little outside the éored,” Falvöd replied. “I trained and prepared for it until I was accepted, then never cared to look beyond it once I was inside.”

“And that is the mentality which I see in young Gríma.” Elfléda smiled. “Perhaps I shouldn’t demean him so but speaking of him like an untried lad, but I recall him when he was but a mere child and saw little of him until he returned to Edoras from his extended sojourn here to study. But his mind is of singular acuity, and that is what I have been searching for for quite some time. He lives to sharpen it on something – anything – that challenges him.

“You’ve noticed it, haven’t you?” he continued. “Even when given a menial task such as copying coarse notes of the rambling of politicians, he devotes every measure of himself to it. When faced with a problem, he ponders and puzzles it into perfect solution. When Théoden’s niece was seized with the fever last Yule, he shadowed the healer and, through observation, determined the cause of her sickness and the cure.”

“I wasn’t aware of that, but wanting to cure the sick, to do well by someone, isn’t exactly what will be required of him should he fall in with us,” Falvöd pointed out. “He’s liable to balk at the first suggestion of anything his overstuffed brain perceives to be less than honorable.”

Elfléda smiled. “If he has even a share of his brother’s blood in his veins, I’ll not worry.”

“Is that the inspiration of this idea? To replace one brother with the other? The Belaród boy becoming a part of this was completely accidental. The man in Pelargir searched about for someone to use in that raid, and he happened to be the one hired for it.” He waved his hands in a rare show of anxiety. “I don’t think we should have the two of them involved. If Gríma discovers— He came to you, asking permission to bring his brother’s body back to Rohan. I would leave the two of them at that and have nothing more to do with either of them. I’m certain that as far as he knows, his brother was simply part of a rogue band, not anything as complex as this.”

“Belaród wasn’t even aware of the complexity. No one is aware of the complexities, Falvöd. The only ones privileged to that information are you and I, my friend. And Him.”

Falvöd brought his hands to his face and rubbed at his eyes, but not in weariness.

“You’re not feeling overwhelmed, are you?” Elfléda asked. He was concerned for his old comrade, and he let a small degree of that concern color his voice; but foremost was his demand that Falvöd maintain the strength and loyalty he had always exhibited. It was this sharp tone that came across clearer than his concern.

“No, no,” Falvöd replied, removing his hands. “Continue.”

Elfléda nodded in reassured satisfaction. “If I’m correct about my impressions of the man, then any desire to do right and follow some honorable code will soon be overcome by pride in the recognition of his skills and worth. He’ll be flattered that someone has seen what he, deep down, has known all along. What is languishing in disuse apart from his own attempts to exercise it. I will be offering him an opportunity to apply it to something greater than what he had ever expected.”

Falvöd moved to protest, but Elfléda silenced him with a quick gesture of his hand. “We shall start the process tonight, my friend. It may require a bit more subtlety than you think yourself capable, but it must be done. I know He is waiting for his next step to be accomplished. We have little time to lose. Are you ready?”

Though Falvöd’s eyes held less eagerness than in the days of old, he nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

Chapter 24: Unraveling

When Myrhil stopped to think about it, she realized four days had passed since that eventful hunting trip. Her body, however, insisted that it had only been two, if that. The prospect of lying abed late into the mornings was an attractive one, and whenever such an opportunity presented itself, she tended to grasp it. Twice, Boromir had risen before dawn and she had followed suit, but this morning he was apparently content to linger long past his normal waking hour. She wouldn’t argue with that.

Only moments earlier, she had been woken by various aches and pains that had thrown off the shackles of sleep and now were dancing gaily through her limbs. Her knee, she noticed, was throbbing less with each day, but it was still intent on being an annoyance. She kicked her leg gently, flexing the joint to rid it of any stiffness that had set in during the night.

With that matter tended to, she then turned her attention to her chest and the bruise incurred by Gríma’s quiver from where it had bitten into her during their periods of flight. She didn’t think she had held onto him that tightly, but the dark, purple stripe that was a near-perfect impression of the hard leather rim of the quiver was proof that she had. As soon as she had seen it the following morning, she had wondered if Gríma wore a brand of her making somewhere on his body. She hadn’t seen him since to inquire about it, though, and even if she had, she had a feeling that such a question would provoke no answer.

He was secretive, that one, she thought. It seemed that all the Rohirrim guarded their words very closely compared to the men of Gondor, the open and expansive men her father had always hired to work for him. It had sometimes been said that the temperament of southern Gondor was as hot as the weather. No doubt an unfair observation, but it was probably also untrue that the Rohirrim were as frozen and unyielding as the mountains that ringed their country. Though such an opinion was accepted wisdom among the various herders, even among those who had ventured into the country of their neighbor to the north.

Myrhil kicked her leg again for good measure and pushed such thoughts to the side. They were essentially worthless, for she would soon discover for herself if they were true or not. She had received some indications from Boromir that negotiations were winding down between Elfléda and Denethor, though not all terms had reached an ideal level of agreement, and soon the Rohirrim would leave Minas Tirith. Boromir had spoken much of compromise, but always in a tone that suggested it was being demanded far more from them, than by. The term “hard bastard” had become part of his standard description of the Rohirrim ambassador, along with the conviction that the man was far too clever for his own good. Myrhil recalled laughing at that, replying that a king would be a fool to send any man with less than a cagey brain to negotiate on his behalf. Boromir had agreed, but maintained that despite Rohan’s opinion of its own importance, it paled in comparison to Gondor’s when one looked dispassionately at the facts. Her observation that he was beginning to sound like a belligerent Steward alleviated his mood, but not by much.

Myrhil sighed and turned her head towards the window. The sun had only begun to rise, the Citadel receiving the first light. There was little chance of her falling asleep again since it would soon become too bright to ignore, and she wondered if she should simply rise and let her day get underway.

A quick glance at Boromir revealed that he was far on the other side of the bed and unlikely to be disturbed by any movements she could, or would, make. Lying prone on his back with his arms and legs askew, he would have been a fine picture of one dead were his chest not rising and falling as he soundly slept. Instead, he exuded the bliss of ecstatic slumber. Considering his mood of late, she desired him to continue sleeping as long as he wished.

Slipping from the covers, she snatched his much larger shirt from where it lay at the foot of the bed and continued on to the balcony. One unadorned wooden chair was situated next to the low rail and Myrhil settled into it contentedly. Though a cushion on the seat would have been welcome, this lowly piece of furniture was left out in the elements year round and no extravagance was granted it.

She placed her feet squarely against the iron railing, the centerpiece of which was wrought in the shape of the standard white tree of Gondor, and some flakes of ancient black paint fell to the floor. Tucking her knees up to her chest, she brought a hand to the sore joint and aimlessly rubbed it as she listened to the sounds of the city waking. Despite it being the early minutes of dawn, some of the city folk were already awake and busy. The night watch was returning; the sounds that drifted to her ears from the direction of the barracks made her think so. Ovens had been fired and some industrious bakers already had steaming loaves ready for sale to wakeful citizens. The delicious smell was wafting on the morning air and Myrhil licked her lips in anticipation of breakfast.

Along the horizon, clouds rose and gathered, moving towards the east. The sun had only cleared the distant mountains for scant minutes when it was blotted out. With it went what little warmth it had created. Following this was a chilly breeze that swept along the Pelennor and came swiftly up the mountainside to strike her, causing a shiver to course through her and prompted her to hug her knees even tighter.

As the wind faded from this brief surge, she became aware of sounds behind her and turned around in time to see Boromir standing in the open doorway, yawning. One hand was braced against the wall while the other scratched his backside.

“Good morning, my handsome one,” she chirped.

Boromir’s hand migrated to his chest where he continued to scratch. Another loud yawn escaped him, then he shook his head vigorously as though to toss any other remnants of sleep from him. “And good morning, thief,” he replied.

“Thief?”

All itches scratched, he pointed at the shirt. “I wondered where that went. I didn’t recall tossing it far last night.”

Myrhil looked down and leveled a finger at him. “I didn’t steal your britches, so there’s no excuse for you not to have put those on, at least.”

“I always put my shirt on first,” he retorted impassively.

“And apparently you don’t care who sees you until you do. Like the entire city, for instance.”

Boromir shook his head. “Actually, no.” As if to prove his point, he walked out fully onto the balcony and stood exposed for several seconds before he crouched beside her. “Deep in thought?” he asked.

“No. Why should I be?”

“You seemed intent on something, bent in half as you are.”

“In all truth, I was trying to keep warm. It became bloody freezing all of a sudden,” she replied, “and seeing you naked like that is making me colder.” She wiggled one foot. “I could have said I was contemplating the dirt between my toes. It’s a fascinating pastime. Care to see for yourself?” As well as she could, she contorted one leg outward for his perusal.

Boromir clasped her lightly around the ankle, his fingers and palm a warm shackle. “Very fascinating. And I’d have thought you were contemplating something much deeper, like those women do in the poetry Faramir reads.”

Myrhil laughed. “I think you’ve read more of that soggy poetry than you’ve admitted to. You appear to be quite well acquainted with its conventions.” She arched a brow inquiringly. “Hmm? Let’s hear it.”

He chafed her ankle lightly. “You’ve found me out,” he confessed. “There is little that boys won’t do in the quest of finding out what girls like to hear.”

“And you apparently delight in confusing them as well. I finally puzzled out what you meant, that little riddle you said after meeting us on the way back from the hunt.”

“A clumsy attempt at poetry myself, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, but very successful at making a tangled mess of my mind. There were sixteen men, or rather fifteen men and myself, sixteen meaning ‘hollow’ in that Quenya language. And one – I - means ‘metal.’ And a man only needs one metal or blade, or woman. Quite a convoluted way of saying that you find me tolerable and good company.”

“Excellent company,” he replied, putting an arm around her shoulder and pulling her close to him. His lips began to warmly tend her neck. “So, did you go to the library to look that up?”

“No, I asked Faramir.”

Boromir pulled away slightly and straightened his back in sudden alarm. “My brother?” The corner of his mouth quirked in surprised discomfort. “An—and did you tell him the circumstances of it?” When Myrhil grinned, he raised his brows. “And?”

“He held his sides and laughed for about fifteen seconds, then he told me what I wanted to know. He is very helpful.”

“Too much so,” Boromir grumbled.

“Oh, come now! Take heart that as soon as he laughed, I thought he found the prospect of you holding me in your affections to be absurd. I nearly asked him why it shouldn’t be me, then it became obvious that he was being a typical sibling.”

“So Larhend was like that?”

“All the time!” Myrhil smiled. “Cheer up. One day you’ll be able to torment Faramir horribly over the girl who truly captures his fancy and makes him act idiotically poetic.”

“Fair praise for my wooing gesture.”

“I’ve told you that I prefer your very direct approach to courtship,” she chided him. “Talking wastes time, and it’s reaching the point where I have little of it left.”

Boromir’s arm went slack around her. “That’s something I don’t wish to dwell on,” he said. “It’s a cruel irony that it is the Rohirrim which has been consuming my time and energies of late, and it is they who will take you away so quickly.”

Myrhil sighed. “I would love to leave Minas Tirith, however briefly. You and I leave. Perhaps enjoy ourselves as we did on our journey here from my home.” Before he could reply, she shrugged. “Impossible, I know.”

“Yes.” The single word was heavy with regret. “I had many days like that when I was young, waiting for the responsibilities to come to me. And now…they seem ill-timed.”

Myrhil snaked her arm around his back and ran her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. “I’d pity you,” she said, “except I know you wouldn’t want it.”

“Correct. I don’t. It’s useless to regret what’s past. I learned that long, long ago.” He gave her an encouraging shake. “Then let’s do what we can, eh? Treat each day like the last.”

Myrhil smiled weakly at his attempt to cajole her, and she found it difficult to believe that only moments earlier, she had been the one prodding his spirits. Treat each day like the last, he’d said. Just what would that day be like? She wasn’t certain she wanted to know.

“I’ll stay, if you wish it,” she whispered. “I won’t leave with Mother. Just tell me to stay and I will. The only land I need to see is Gondor.”

Boromir regarded her silently before shaking his head. “No, I’ll not hear of it. You want to go, I know that much.” He pointed towards the increasing dark clouds on the horizon. “It’s only a melancholy dawn that’s making you say such things. Imagine what a sunrise will look like in far Edoras, many hundreds upon hundreds of miles away from the black ash and smoke that makes it rare for us to enjoy the sun’s birth every day as my distant ancestors did. As yours did.” He reached behind him and settled a hand over hers, so that both now rested on the nape of his neck. “If I have one demand of you, Myrhil, it’s that you come back to Minas Tirith soon and tell me what you’ve seen.”

“But you’ve been to Rohan,” she said. “You’ve already seen it for yourself.”

Boromir smiled in sudden embarrassment. “So I have. I’m an abysmal liar, then, aren’t I?”

Myrhil laughed quietly and realized from the nasally sound that met her ears that she had foolishly begun to cry. She ran a hand across her nose as she felt the tears begin to dry on her cheeks in the wind. “No, you’re not,” she sniffed. “You’re simply telling me in a wonderfully indirect and mildly convoluted way that you want me to return soon.”

“Yes,” he replied, “and that’s as plain as I can make it. Now then, what say we push all gloom aside and start thinking about what’s truly important.”

“Such as?”

“Getting dressed, for one.” He took hold of the loosened laces at the throat of the shirt and tugged on them gently. “As I said, that’s mine and it always goes on first.”

Myrhil also seized on the laces and tugged them back towards her. “I’m very content with it at the moment. You’ll need to win it. Take by force or negotiate.”

His tone was reproachful. “Myrhil…Myrhil… You think I have the stomach for more negotiations?”

She jumped to her feet, her sudden movement startling him to let the laces drop from his hand. Bounding away from him with a leap towards the open door, she held her arms out to the side and let the breeze ruffle the voluminous sleeves. “It’s yours if you can get it!” she taunted before darting back into the room.

Boromir stood and glanced over his shoulder at the Citadel and city below, wondering if the attentions of any citizens had been drawn upward to the small balcony. With a grin, he leaped in pursuit of Myrhil, charging forward like a hound on the hunt.

He ran a hand over his eyes and blinked, groaning when the knocking on the door continued. Myrhil stirred beside him and muttered something about telling whoever it was to do the impossible with himself.

“Boromir, I need you to come with me,” the voice said.

“It’s Faramir,” Boromir told her as he poked her back. “It sounds urgent.”

Before he could call out for his brother to enter, the door opened and Faramir was standing beside the bed. His cheeks were flushed and his breathing was slightly labored. His appearance was so alarming that Boromir quickly sat upright and was already halfway out of bed when Faramir spoke again.

“Boromir, I think we’ve found one of the men from the tavern brawl. Myrhil?”

Myrhil shoved the covers down from over her head and stared at him in sleepy surprise.

“You get up, too, Myrhil,” Faramir continued, visibly agitated. “Come with us. I hope you’ll be able to identify him.”

Faramir waited outside in the hall as Boromir and Myrhil quickly threw on their clothes. As soon as his brother emerged, he fell into step beside Boromir as they rushed down the corridor. Though their pace was hurried and loud, Faramir kept his voice low as he informed Boromir of the instances of this sudden development.

“He was caught stealing from one of the bakers early this morning, before dawn. A carter saw him and ran him down, literally, tackling the man right in the middle of the street. The guards took him to one of the gaols used for drunks. That’s what they thought the man was.”

“Smell of ale, did he?”

Faramir shook his head. “Not overly much. But he looks like a vagrant and any suspicious person has been questioned about that tavern brawl.” He looked over his shoulder at Myrhil, who was keeping close on their heels. “I’m not convinced that both of those men you saw made it out of the city before we’d shut the gates,” he told her. “There’s at least one in here, and I’ve been determined to catch him.”

Boromir smiled in grim satisfaction. “Just like a dog with rats, Faramir, you’ll ferret them all out or die trying. So, how were your suspicions tweaked by this man?”

“I accused him of a violent crime that occurred about two weeks before the brawl, to hopefully get a sense of how long he’s been in the city. I didn’t even have to test the waters for more information. He protested immediately that he entered the city nine days ago. That would be the day or so before the fight in the tavern, consistent with a man slipping in and out to report to a superior, or whatever tricks they’re up to.”

“Did you trap him into saying anything incriminating?”

“He called himself a poor, innocent traveler—”

“Of course.”

“—and he claimed that someone had stolen his purse, forcing him to lift his meals from peoples’ carts and sills. That was also apparently his reason for why he looks like he’s been pulled through a rat-hole backwards.”

“Filthy, is he?”

Faramir nodded. “No vagrant here for a mere nine days would have acquired such a look of the gutter to him. He’s been trying to stay out of sight, that much is clear. I accused him of being in this place or that place, seen by one person or another, and he denied them all. Kept saying, ‘No, no. It’s all false.’ I’ve been unable to get much more out of him than that.” He exhaled loudly. “So I’m going to try to shock him. That’s where Myrhil comes in.”

“But I didn’t see him – either of them – that clearly,” she protested.

“True,” Faramir acknowledged grudgingly, “but I’m wagering that they saw you. That would corroborate my theory that this man we caught wanted to stay in the shadows, away from anyone who could identify him in connection to something far more serious than being a simple thief or vagrant.” He smacked his fist into his other hand. “I have to be right!”

“I don’t doubt that you are, little brother,” Boromir told him. “Like I said, a dog ferreting out rats. You don’t even feel the nips and bites in the digging, so fixed are your eyes on the objective.”

Faramir bowed his head and waved his brother’s words aside with an embarrassed gesture. “No, that’s not me. Not me.”

Upon entering, Boromir sidled over to a position out of sight of the cell holding Faramir’s suspect, in accordance with his own suggestion that should intimidation be needed, he would then step forward. There was no sense, he said, in pulling out all their weapons at once. Myrhil took a place beside him and intently watched Faramir approach the cell, waiting for his signal to come forward.

Faramir leaned stiffly against the door and craned his neck to peer through the window into the dark cell. He waited in silence, but when no sound was forthcoming, he kicked at the door with his toe and resumed his intent observation of the inhabitant within. “Get up,” he said brusquely. “You’re not sleeping. Don’t pretend you are.”

From Myrhil’s position, she could hear some deep mumblings from the prisoner, but the thickness of the walls and doors muffled any intelligibility. She fought the impulse to creep forward and eavesdrop, instead slouching against the cold stone behind her and mulling over any and all possible scenarios regarding this incarcerated thief. If he accused her of lying, what could she counter him with? Was her evidence too slight? Could she even recognize this man? When she recalled the brawl, she remembered most vividly the shower of ale dripping over the edge of the table and being pinned under a pile of sweaty and cursing bodies.

“Get up,” Faramir repeated, his tone no less stern than before.

Myrhil tilted her head up toward Boromir’s ear. “Your brother,” she whispered, “was almost genial in comparison after the orc attack on the hunt.”

Boromir nodded, one corner of his mouth crooking into a grin. “That was out there,” he replied, just as quietly. “This is in the city itself, a danger neither of us wants. Quite a different Faramir than you know, I’ll wager.”

Myrhil made a soft hum of assent, but quieted when Faramir turned his head briefly in their direction at this disruption. He made no indication that he had heard what they said, only that they were making noise, and betraying their presence.

The prisoner must have noticed either this motion or heard them himself, for out of the small window came the sharp demand, “Who you got out there with you?”

“No one of importance,” Faramir replied coolly. “Merely someone curious about you.”

“Curious?” The voice had quieted again, but Myrhil thought the tone had thinned with this one word.

Faramir didn’t turn from the door, but he slipped one hand behind him and waved Myrhil to come forward, then motioned her to approach slowly. “Yes. Curious,” he said. “No harm in having a citizen look upon a thief as a moral lesson, correct? It will make this city easier to patrol. There are many other things more diverting to do than admonish people locked up in cells that stealing is wrong.”

“How right you are,” the prisoner affirmed with mock righteousness. “Let them gawk. What do I care? Let me be a lesson to everyone.”

Myrhil drew up alongside Faramir, who stepped aside so that she could look through the small window and observe the prisoner fully. The cell was incredibly dark at first, even though the dim interior of the gaol itself had already adjusted her eyes considerably. Soon, the vague lumpen shape of a man slouched in the corner stood out in shadowy relief from the pale, stained stones of the cell wall. Then features became distinct: coarse, grime-soaked hair, rough hands clasped around knees encased in worn leather britches, a nose that appeared to have suffered an unfortunately devastating punch at one time or another, and eyes that glittered at her in what she believed was a mixture of resentment at being imprisoned and apprehension that his true crime would be revealed.

The silence lengthened as Myrhil tried to grasp at every detail she could recall from the tavern fight. It all seemed so long ago. A jumble of shouts, rancid smells, and flailing limbs. She had only ventured the briefest of glimpses at the two men scheming behind her. Fear had prevented greater bravery. Now she wished she had foolishly turned to face them, even marching over to their table. Chances are they would have still fled in the welcome confusion, but at least she would have no doubts about identity if she were ever confronted with either man, such as now.

Faramir shifted beside her, drawing Myrhil’s attention from the object of her scrutiny. She looked at him reluctantly, knowing he was expecting an answer in the affirmative. Indeed, his brows were arched hopefully in mute inquiry. She wished she had an answer to give him. Her apologetic expression provoked a muted chuckle from the confines of the cell.

“So certain, were we?” he taunted. “Go stare at someone else, woman, whoever you are.”

“This woman,” Faramir interjected icily, “might be known to you, or you to her. I suggest you think hard. Both of you.”

Myrhil flinched inwardly at the command in Faramir’s tone. He had been doggedly pursuing the fugitives, even when it seemed they had completely vanished within the city or perhaps had escaped into the safety of Gondor’s expanses. He believed he had found one of them, and Myrhil believed that he would not let her doubts or the prisoner’s brazening taunts discourage him. If she didn’t identify the man, he would achieve it through other means. But her failure would always nag at her. She had to proceed as though she were absolutely certain.

The prisoner emitted a sullen grunt. “I seen plenty of faces since I got here. Why should she stand out so damn particular?”

“My father raised horses,” Myrhil began slowly. “In Lebennin province. You have heard of it?”

The prisoner was once again silent, and Myrhil sensed a heightened tension in the air, gradually got the impression that this question struck a nerve.

“I’ve heard of it,” he finally replied.

“Anything beyond that?” she pressed. When no answer was immediately forthcoming, Myrhil added, “Repeat after me: ‘I would have killed him had he shown the courage to withdraw in person.’ You were talking about Belaród, a young man who was bought for some scheme, in a tavern some nine days past—” She was prevented from saying more when Faramir’s hand clamped firmly around her arm and he led her away from the cell door.

“Myrhil, you’re not hedging wisely,” he whispered. He looked over at Boromir helplessly. “She shouldn’t have spoken to him so directly.”

Myrhil turned on Faramir, frustration creasing her brow. “I’ve had no lessons in this,” she retorted in a sharp whisper. “That man was talking with another that night…about Belaród. I don’t know how to go about such a plain fact as that with any delicacy.”

The grimy face filled the barred window behind them. “Yes, we was talking about him!” he shrieked. “He was a lousy rat who didn’t do as he was told, and he got it in the end!”

The three outside the cells stared, dumbstruck, at the agitated prisoner. But it was Myrhil who first rushed forward. Before the man could propel himself back from the window, her hands were filled with his hair and the ragged collar of his shirt. She yanked him forward, striking his head against the bars with a satisfying clunk, and braced one knee against the door to prevent him from reeling backwards and inflicting the same injury on her.

“What was the scheme, you bastard?” she hissed. “Stealing our horses for Mordor? What about Belaród? How did you lure him into aiding you?”

The stench at these close quarters sent Myrhil’s empty stomach roiling, but she didn’t relinquish her hold on him. “Huh?” she demanded, yanking him forward sharply, and his forehead met the bars again.

He was saved from further attack by Boromir, who seized Myrhil from behind, locking his arms under hers, and lifted her from the door. Even so, her hold was not loosened so easily and the stone structure rattled from the prisoner’s wails as a small clump of hair was ripped from his scalp.

“Myrhil!” Boromir shouted into her ear. “You’re behaving irrationally.”

Myrhil drew in a deep breath to settle her madly pounding heart and head. She looked up at Boromir and realized that he had both hands on her shoulders, shaking her roughly. “I-I’m fine,” she managed, though she cast a withering glance over at the now empty cell window.

“It’s a start,” Faramir told his brother dryly. “Take her outside, Boromir. I’ll see what else I can learn.”

As Boromir steered her towards the outside door, Myrhil looked over her shoulder at Faramir. “Find out who he answers to,” she said in a tone that indicated she would settle for no other outcome.

Faramir smiled weakly. “We’re not in the Tower,” he joked. “I don’t know whether to thank you for giving me this task, or ask if I’m truly crazy for asking for it. I’m glad you trusted me.”

Boromir clapped Faramir on the back. “Enough said,” he replied. “It’s been nearly four hours. What have you learned?”

“Probably nothing that ten minutes of a beating couldn’t have revealed, but I wouldn’t resort to those methods.”

“If Myrhil had been given free rein, it might have been five minutes.”

Faramir shook his head in bewilderment. “I almost couldn’t believe my eyes,” he said. “Her fury burst like a dam. Irrational was a kind way for you to describe it.”

“I can’t say I would react any differently if I were confronted with someone who had had, even slightly, a hand in Father’s death. No doubt I’d be even more irrational. Would you?”

“Yes, undoubtedly,” Faramir replied immediately. “I confess my hands itched to throttle the cretin on more than one occasion.” His expression clouded in thought, but he shrugged it off quickly – something the sky was not inclined to do, he noticed. Looking up, he saw that it was still overcast, though the rain had long since stopped and some of the cobblestones were beginning to dry. “Where’s Myrhil?”

“Her impatience got the better of her and she stalked off in the direction of the Citadel,” Boromir told him. “I was not going to run after her.”

Faramir straightened. “You’re a difficult one to puzzle out. One moment I think you and Myrhil are one painful word away from asking Father to bless you, and then the next moment each of you are marching down a different road.”

Boromir gave a low growl, as though he didn’t wish to discuss the matter in such open quarters. “Just tell me what you discovered,” he said gruffly, making no attempt to mask his obvious desire to change the subject.

“I’m no closer to the identity of the other man Myrhil says was talking with this one,” Faramir told him, willingly leaving the sensitive topic behind. “Only that he implied the fellow was one step above him in command, whatever organization they have for horse stealing and murder.”

“The horses were for Mordor?”

“You told me that the black ones were spared, others were slaughtered. When faced with that fact, he couldn’t deny what the method implied. It’s well-known throughout Gondor and Rohan. To deny it is either admitting hopeless ignorance or blustering one’s way out of complicity. But he and this other man seem to have no part of actually carrying the raids out. Merely planning them. The thought of actually having to march across miles in the company of orcs truly disgusted him, quite frankly. No, I believe that our prisoner prefers the company of Man in refined pursuits like spying and intimidation.”

“Intimidation…” Boromir paused, considered the word thoughtfully. “Soon after I arrived, I informed Father about a tavern in Pelargir that appeared to have been forcibly seized by thugs, running any number of shady businesses from that central point. A townsman seemed to believe extortion and murder weren’t beneath them. I reported this to Father and a patrol was sent a short time after, I believe. Their findings must have been either unremarkable, or completely overshadowed by the distraction of the…bloody Rohirrim arriving and then consuming our every waking minute!” His jaw worked in frustration. “What did they discover? Do you know?”

“A pit,” Faramir told him. “Ale-soaked and reeking of Eru knows what, and peopled with the types you would expect to find in a place such as that. The sergeant’s report relayed that they made inquiries, but they could not find one soul in the town to speak against it.” He glanced at the silent gaol. “But since our man knows of it, it warrants another visit.”

“And we now know that the former keeper of that tavern met a sudden end by our conspirators Myrhil overheard. If the second man is no longer in the city, I would wager my armor that he has returned to Pelargir.” Boromir groaned. “Would that I could leave this city, if only for a month, and take fifty men with me. I would make a wide sweep of this country and get rid of all these foul elements, now that the pieces are falling together!” He grinned wickedly. “The Rohirrim are leaving within the week, empty-handed or no. I shall kick every one of them out the gate personally. In the most diplomatic fashion, of course.”

“Make certain you have your horse ready as they’re leaving,” Faramir advised. “Your particular brand of diplomacy is well nigh exhausted already. You’ll need to exit quickly before the Rohirrim turn round after they realize they’ve been booted up the backside and hear your parting curses.” He sobered. “There was more I gleaned from our prisoner.” Seeing Boromir’s avid interest, he continued. “About Myrhil’s acquaintance, Belaród. Naturally, it was money that acquired his services. Our guest has no qualms about speaking ill of the dead, especially one who failed to keep his side of a bargain.” When he saw his brother nod, he added, “You don’t seem surprised.”

Boromir shook his head. “Young and rash was my impression of him. No doubt Belaród wanted the money and thought it was no large task to carry out, but gave no thought to any consequences if he backed down once he had the money in hand.” He sighed. “Gorhend’s land was so remote that Belaród probably thought it was a form of protection. Were any raids to come as planned, he would have the option of fighting or fleeing into the vast plains. A haven for cowards, I should imagine.”

“But he chose to fight.”

“He did. Bravely, too. Against those odds, it was very brave.”

“I won’t take it upon myself to judge him or ponder his motives,” Faramir replied. “I don’t even think Myrhil fully knows what lay in Belaród’s mind and heart. If she can’t say what they were with any certainty, then neither can I.”

“The Rohan scribe, Gríma Gálmódsson, is his brother.”

It was stated so simply that Faramir almost didn’t hear it, but his eyes widened at the information. “How did you discover that?”

“Myrhil. Stranded out there in the woods during the hunt, she and the little scribe became reluctant conversationalists.” Boromir smiled wryly. “He saw her saddle, recognized it as his brother’s, and accused her of stealing it. Their ‘friendship,’ so to speak, had an unenviable start.”

“Perhaps he knows more about his brother that might be of some help,” Faramir mused. “I must question him.”

Boromir shook his head. “No luck, little brother. The two apparently hadn’t seen each other for several years, since they came to Minas Tirith when Belaród was a young man. He ran away shortly after and cast his lot with that charming individual inside. Faramir, even if he had something to tell you, I don’t think he would. You know how tight-lipped the Rohirrim are. You would have a better chance ridding a Harad camel driver of sand fleas.”

Faramir smiled feebly. “I appreciate your attempt at humor, and if matters indeed stood so distant between them, then I don’t see how pestering our good guest from Rohan would improve anything. The last complication we need is the Ambassador crying ‘persecution,’ yes?”

Boromir rolled his eyes. “The very last!”

Boromir had said no more about her outburst in the gaol. She felt the urge to explain why she had acted as she did, feeling that the loss of control was inexcusable and weak, but that same encouraging smile met her as she had opened her mouth to speak. Perhaps he was only trying to make the indignation and anger subside, soothe himself as much as her. Perhaps. It was a balm, that smile, and she did feel the tension ebb from her somewhat, but the seconds dragged into minutes, and then into hours. Unable to focus her thoughts on anything beyond what might be transpiring inside, she decided to remove herself from it. Wrench herself, actually. A quick and sudden break to reduce any inclination to linger and let the boredom and impatience twist her further. With only a final glance at Boromir, she left, heading straightway towards the Citadel. He could wait for his brother, if that was his desire. She was certain that he wasn’t being plagued with scenario after scenario about how the interrogation was unfolding.

As she wound her way back up to the Citadel, she saw several Rohirrim at leisure, strolling through the streets singly or in twos, more visibly at ease with their surroundings than what she recalled seeing two weeks ago. She sympathized with their initial confusion and sense of being overwhelmed. Lebennin, despite its relative proximity to Minas Tirith, possessed no city even one-tenth as large as the glittering seat of the Stewards’ power. Myrhil thought that any dirt scratcher from the backwaters, herself included, would be struck dumb at the sheer size and density of it all. For the Rohirrim, so used to vast expanses and, she heard, small settlements, this sojourn had been an experience no different from hers.

She was startled to see a couple of those she passed nod their heads in acknowledgement, and before she could give it much thought, she returned the gesture, surmising they had been on the hunt with Faramir. She recognized not a one; they weren’t wearing their helmets, and on the hunt they had never doffed them. I can use every scrap of goodwill I can muster, she thought, as she forced a smile to accompany her nod. Though surely Théoden couldn’t be as difficult a man as Denethor.

Ah! Speaking of difficult men…

Ahead of her at some distance, one shoulder sagging familiarly under the weight of his leather scroll case, was Gríma. He was inspecting some goods at a merchant’s stand, and quite intently so. More than once she saw him glance up at the man in the booth, either in interest at the typical spiel of the seller or distrust of the same. Perhaps against all impulses of fairness, she settled on the latter. Shrewd and sarcastic, he must be a merchant’s nightmare, she thought.

The tumult of the confrontation in the gaol faded as she willed herself to be diverted by the sight of Gríma’s suspicious interest. There was something obviously amusing and, at the same time, vaguely intriguing about the peculiar-looking scribe. So unlike the other Rohirrim she had met in both character and appearance, that it was perhaps no surprise that he found it difficult – if not downright undesirable – to force himself into their mold. From the amount of time of shared company, she found him the most interesting of all. His suspicion towards her had been tempered with what she felt was genuine interest. Such would most likely not be the case if they had not the common bond of Belaród between them.

“Do you prefer to watch others buy rather than lay money down yourself?”

Myrhil started at the sound of a deep voice approaching her from her right, the distinct rocky accent of Rohan sharpening each word in Westron. She turned to see a man of imposing height and muscular build walking towards her, his wheaten hair and weather-scarred face branding him as a Rohirrim, though he was not wearing the tell-tale armor of the northern warriors. Rather, he wore tunic and trousers of soft, worn leather in earthen red hues. The more brilliant reds, she had learned, were restricted for those of royal blood. Still, the style and state of this man’s garb indicated a station of some importance. He bore himself quite impressively, even more so than some of his proud and stoic countrymen.

She sensed that he was acquainted with her, for his expression conveyed familiarity, yet she could not recall his face from any previous encounter.

He soon supplied her with the information, unprompted. “I am Lord Elfléda’s lieutenant,” he stated as he drew up to her and stopped. “Falvöd is my name, and I hail from the Westemnet of Rohan, if you have knowledge of how our country lies.”

“I do, yes,” she replied. “I have seen you by his side on the few occasions I have glimpsed the Ambassador.”

“No formal occasions, I believe.” As one of her brows rose in query, he went on. “It is only that you have the appearance of preferring your present costume above all others,” he said. “We have already discovered that you are not easily hidden among the other womenfolk of this city.”

“I have made no attempt to hide,” she replied, “and no one has tried to hide me that I’m aware of.” She tensed at the turn of conversation, finding it somewhat odd to be accosted in such a manner on the open street, even if it was by one of the Rohirrim. Her attention returned to Gríma, who was still in some state of indecision at the distant booth. “You are kindly guests of the Steward,” she said, “and I am certain that you will be kindly hosts to my mother and I when we make the journey to Rohan in your company. So, does the Ambassador wish to see me on some matter?” she asked. “Is that why you approached me?”

“Partly. We heard of some trouble in the city this morning and I am making inquiries. Just out of curiosity, you understand.”

“A matter of horse thieving,” Myrhil said guardedly. “A man in league with a band of orcs has been captured. The practice is a blight your country has suffered as well as ours.”

“Indeed. A relief whenever one of the perpetrators is captured or killed. This man…he is being held nearby?”

“He is being questioned now.”

“A shame I’m not there. I would like to discover Gondor’s methods of interrogation. I wager they’re different from our own.”

“I should hope to avoid both breeds in my lifetime,” Myrhil commented.

Falvöd didn’t immediately reply, and Myrhil straightened as Gríma parted with visible reluctance from the coins he dropped into the hand of the merchant. He gathered up his purchased goods and turned from the booth to walk towards them, head bent in avid interest of the items he held.

“You are quite familiar with Gríma Gálmódsson, I hear.”

Myrhil found herself bristling at his words, though she could not put her finger on anything particular about them to make her feel so disconcerted. It was an innocuous enough remark. She was very familiar with innuendo, sly insinuations and ribald digs both, and though his comment could be interpreted thusly or as a casual remark, it did not ring in her ears as such.

“I’m acquainted with him, yes,” she said, leaving him to advance on Gríma. From the corner of her eye, she saw the Rohirrim fall in step beside her. Any conversation she had hoped to curtail was apparently impossible to elude, though she still had hope when, at that moment, Gríma found complete satisfaction with his new possessions and returned his attention to the street to navigate safely through it.

She had barely opened her mouth when Falvöd called out heartily, “Where are you off to?”

What little pleasure Myrhil had seen in Gríma’s face faded quickly, though which one of them, she or Falvöd, had brought about such a change, she was not certain. There was certainly no reason why he should be particularly glad to see her – or anyone, for that matter. Nothing about him had ever indicated he was one for easy smiles and a surfeit of cheer. The only person she could imagine he would have ever been pleased to see was now dead.

With the briefest of gestures over his leather bag, Gríma’s hands were emptied and he clasped them before him in suppliant attentiveness. “Good afternoon,” he said, punctuating his greeting with a hasty nod. His eyes were restless, gaze flitting from one distraction to another until finally coming to rest upon Falvöd. His shoulders seemed to reflexively hunch as he did so.

The Rohirrim beside her breezed on. “Adding more junk to your collection?” he commented jovially. “You must have enough quills to clothe a naked goose and plenty ink to drown the Ered Nimrais, Gríma.”

“I daresay that my supplies will never run dry,” he replied impassively.

“Are you off to scribble whatever the Ambassador has to say?” Falvöd continued. “It wasn’t originally my intention to converse with this…able-bodied young woman. I was looking for you.”

Gríma was silent, and his gaze threatened to rove once more, but pale skin tightened over a clenched jaw and through his lips came, perfectly modulated, “What services are required?”

“The Ambassador will inform you of it when he sees you,” Falvöd went on smoothly. “Merely that same little matter from last night. He’s not quite certain he agrees with how you have transcribed yesterday’s negotiations with the Steward.”

“I believed I had explained it to the Ambassador’s satisfaction,” Gríma replied.

“There were other details he recalled afterwards, details he told me the Scribbler needed to be aware of – to make the record complete.” He inclined his head in the direction of the Citadel. “Go.”

Gríma nodded curtly and, hands clutching his leather case, he slipped between Myrhil and Falvöd.

As he sidled past her, his bony elbow nicked her side, seeming to jar her awake. She had watched the exchange between lieutenant and lowly man of letters, her own trepidation about the Ambassador’s man fed by Gríma’s visible unease. Some people had the unenviable knack of disturbing others for whatever reason. So did this man Falvöd. The friendliness seemed genuine enough, his words unremarkable in their geniality or good-natured ribbing, but they were delivered in such a way that commanded the senses. They were not sharp, but direct; not menacing, but strong and brooked no refusal. It was not only his size and obvious prowess that gave one pause. There were indications of other strengths behind his eyes and voice.

The prospect of remaining in his company upon Gríma’s absence spurred her to seized upon the departing scribe like a drowning man flotsam. “I should like to join you, Gríma,” she blurted – too loudly, she feared.

Gríma stopped and turned. “I regret that you cannot. The Ambassador would wish to see me alone.”

“No doubt,” she pressed, “but that is not my intention – to intrude in your meeting with the Ambassador. I am returning to the Citadel anyway.” She knew she was courting refusal. Even if Gríma should realize she wanted to leave the Ambassador’s man through any ploy, the perverseness of his own nature could push him to leave her to writhe in discomfort.

So she was startled to see the anxious lines in the scribe’s face fade briefly as he gestured for her to join him. With a hasty word to Falvöd, she hurried after Gríma.

Only when they were both some distance away did either venture to speak.

“I thank you, Gríma, for your kind rescue.”

A small grunt of amusement. “Desired to be free of his company?”

“You didn’t appear ecstatic to remain with him, either,” Myrhil replied bluntly.

Gríma shook his head. “We poor overworked scribblers often have that look about us when it’s actually lack of sleep that makes us appear so…”

“Tired? But you looked skittish.”

“Since when have you discarded all pretenses of subtlety?” he demanded stiffly.

“When trying to throttle someone proved more satisfying.” She clasped her hands together, lacing her fingers, and squeezed until her knuckles were deathly white. “I lost my temper today, and would have killed a man had a door not been between us. All because he had some answers that I wanted.”

“What sort of answers?”

“About the massacre of my father’s horses. About Belaród’s deal with them.”

Gríma straightened. “You wrung no answers from him?”

“My interrogation differed from what Faramir had in mind. No doubt his plans are more thought-out. Blind rage works in some situations, but not all. He did know Belaród. That much I did discover before I was turned out to cool my head.”

“You Gondorian women,” he said, faintly smiling, and fell silent.

Despite this slur on her sex and country, it was an odd comfort speaking to Gríma, Myrhil thought. He was like a deep well into which things – words, thoughts, observations – could be tossed, there to rest forever, unmolested. Of all the people in Minas Tirith, only he was the natural one to share information about Belaród. Boromir had other concerns, and though he did not seem averse to the occasional mention of her former lover, she would rather not make the dead man a steady topic of conversation. But with Gríma, the surviving brother, talking about Belaród was one of the few wedges she had into that well-girded fortress, that sardonic stronghold.

The few glimpses she had inside him had been due to Belaród. It was a chink she would hack away at, bit by bit, until she breached the pale walls.

Chapter 25: The Unexpected Corpse

Minas Tirith was a noisy city, that could not be denied, but there were moments when a peace settled over the walled tiers – a peace so complete and content that Gríma found himself comparing it to a still night on Rohan’s plains. Even Meduseld attained such peace when the clunk of slopping mugs and din of boorish laughter finally ceased in the early hours of the midnight watch. From his small and tidy hovel in Edoras, he could hear the Golden Hall subside into silence and, on such nights, it was his custom to slip into the darkness, padding up the hard-packed dirt path to the home of his king, to look undisturbed upon the seat of Rohan’s power.

He shunned the Hall when it bustled with activity, when it rocked with the drunken revels of a returning victorious éored. Long ago, he had discovered that he invited derision through no effort of his own, a curse that had not been lifted with age. There were warriors who, not content with vanquishing a filthy Dunlending or orc, felt need to strike at one of their own. He had bitterly accepted it, forced to witness every day that the strength in a man’s arms and the simplistic ideals in his heart would always be prized more highly than one’s brain in the realm of Rohan.

Gríma inhaled deeply, drawing the sweet summer fragrance into his lungs. Minas Tirith. He had once lived here, and this journey had made him question his commitment to his native land. The Library alone was an irresistible temptation to unpack his scroll case, once and for all. Rather than continuing to pine after the knowledge housed in the White City from such a distance, it would be at his fingertips. Tracts on healing, history, engineering, literature, myth, and so much more. The feel of parchment beneath his fingers was more sensuous to him than the type of indulgences lauded in Rohan. Nightlong conversations between a scholar and a prized scroll raised a fever of its own kind.

Even as the evening breeze strove to purify all it touched, Gríma felt somewhat immune to it. The day’s events guarded against it. His audience with the Ambassador, so interminable, lingered with him like a heavy miasma, though Gríma was slowly discovering that the stench of politics, while still inarguably odious, had an aroma that was strangely compelling. What person had ever sniffed fetid offal or carrion and not instinctively inhaled again, perhaps deeper than before? Ugliness and decay were hardly shunned by vultures and maggots, and what was Man but a minimally elevated form of the same base instincts? The Golden Hall, bursting with life and vigor, attracted flocks of ambitious lords and scions, eager to feast, with the same infallibility as a rotting carcass on the plains.

Gríma brought his hands to his face and vigorously rubbed at his eyes. Feeling awash with weariness, he leaned forward, thin elbows digging painfully into his thighs. Corpses, carrion, death… Always such cold concepts to his body and mind when the heart had not been engaged. His parents were both in sleep eternal through no fault of his own. Death had come for them in sickness and age, and he had accepted at the time that there was nothing he could, or should, do to prevent their departures. If Death were a natural thing, it had been so when those two hardy souls breathed their last.

But not Belaród. That death was laid at the feet of an unvigilant brother, a young man distracted and infatuated by the sudden and overwhelming abundance of intellectual passions, impulses that could finally be indulged and luxuriated in. In his own feast, he had been oblivious to his brother’s famine, a hunger that was enforced and prolonged by an invisible shackle to an unimaginative scholar.

So he broke loose, Gríma thought, and I, in my confusion and impatience, thought him better gone. Convinced myself it was so. Had it not been for that rustic kinswoman of Théoden King, I could have lived out this life, unknowingly content with a lie. I am grateful and ungrateful by turns. But would that she had left Belaród’s saddle bags in Lebennin!

It went against the grain of his learning to favor ignorance, but tonight he would have welcomed never hearing another word about his missing brother as long as he drew breath. But such was not to be. He would soon be face to face with that spectre from the past, a reproach to his carelessness years ago. He would soon be looking upon his brother again.

The Ambassador’s summons this day had been twofold. After a seemingly warm compliment on the thoroughness and diligence with which he had executed his scribal duties during this mission to Minas Tirith, Elfléda had then proceeded to commiserate with Gríma on the death of his brother. These condolences Gríma recalled accepting with due and humble gratitude, hoping that would be an end to it. Speaking of Belaród with the horse breeder’s daughter alone was a willful rending of old wounds; he preferred not to repeat the experience with another.

But the Ambassador was not done, not nearly so. Out of consideration and in honor of Gríma’s father, a good man of Rohan, he was granting his able scribe leave to travel to Lebennin and retrieve Belaród’s remains so that another of Rohan’s sons could forever sleep beneath native soil rather than molder in foreign lands.

It was an honorable and generous gesture, not to mention unexpected, but hardly forgotten by Gríma was the previous evening’s visit by the Ambassador’s most trusted man, Falvöd, to Gríma’s quarters. Playing upon his pride and any desire to advance himself, Falvöd had hinted to him that the Ambassador was quite amenable to having a talented man like Gríma work for him in ways that would not, in Falvöd’s words, “see your final days crippled over a desk, rewriting long-forgotten and unimportant words.” Polite though he tried to be, Gríma knew he had been unable to hide his offended sensibilities at this slur on his profession and preferred path. At the same time, he had been attentive.

Coming quickly on the heels of today’s gift to bring Belaród’s body back to Rohan had been the Ambassador’s off-hand praise, skillfully rendered, that Gríma’s attention to detail was surely not limited to words on a page. Long ago Gríma had learned that silence was the best answer, for it provided bait no fish could resist. Not that Gríma fancied himself an able fisherman, but when one was uncertain of what to say, experience had proven that it was often best to say nothing. Elfléda’s musing, coupled with Falvöd’s more direct appeal to his ambition, rang a clear signal that he was being courted for one reason or another. While flattery was not entirely unknown to him, it was still uncommon enough to give him pause.

It had become nearly instinctive for Gríma to scuttle away from any attempt to pluck him from the throng, though it was perhaps impossible to say he enjoyed the same anonymity as did so many Rohirrim of his plain class and birth. His father’s ambitions for his sons had given him early prominence or, rather, notoriety. More than one neighbor had muttered loudly that if Galmód so passionately wanted his sons to go to Gondor, the entire family could well move there. In such heated comments, the fact that Galmód had, by virtue of his own travels and trade, enriched their lives was conveniently forgotten.

But the Ambassador’s words had not caused him to shy away as past comments by neighbors, childhood peers, and pompous warriors had done. Until Elfléda, never had one so high favored him for what he possessed – an unerring ear, a steady hand, and a discreet tongue. For many years, Gríma had gone unrecognized and had slowly begun to adhere to a creed that he would find satisfaction in his unheralded accomplishments. Who needed advancement? Honors? Hollow praise by the same vultures that would rip into a corpse, or even one still living, with glee? Why should he put himself in the path of jealousy and woe?

So convinced had he become of this that, when Elfléda extended a hand onto a path of distinction, the sudden crumbling of those prideful convictions frightened him. Ambition was rank in any man, he realized, no matter how one tried to guard against it. As the Ambassador had spoken, Gríma saw the Golden Hall again, as desirable in the light of day as in the quietest hours of night.

The intense struggle within his heart as he stood before the Ambassador had nearly rendered him incapable of speech or the presence of mind to divine a course of action. Like a drowning man, he had clung to silence and allowed Elfléda to continue. The praise was not fulsome or elegantly contrived – it was spoken without ornamentation, striking as cleanly into his heart as an arrow. The longer he had remained silent, the weaker he grew. Though he had refrained from immediately accepting whatever duties the Ambassador was entertaining for him, his interest had been impossible to conceal. There would surely be other forays into his ambition, and his defenses were already weakened. Falvöd had begun the assault and, deep down, Gríma felt he would never forgive the man for that.

Gríma heaved a ragged sigh, his fingers continuing to dig into his closed lids. The action prompted tears, and he dashed the burning traitors away. What to do? Remain on his current path as a lowly scribe? He would still suffer indignities, perhaps endure more. To refuse elevation by the king’s most trusted man and diplomat could earn him a new opprobrium. What type of man would refuse Théoden’s ablest lord? Yet, to be seen as a closer member of Elfléda’s circle would attract emotions and possible consequences that he found intolerable.

Yet, everything could be tolerated. Everything. Couldn’t it? Surely the more one endured, the greater the reward. He had read an old scroll saying something to that effect. He recalled a sour mood had led him to dismiss it as misguided nonsense, but today it had not seemed so ridiculous. Would it erase or alleviate the pain of failing mother and father to keep his brother safe? Would it perhaps alter the perceptions of his countrymen, prompt them to think of a man’s worth in other ways?

He was fearfully uncertain, but how would he ever know?

Gríma groaned as his temples began to pound. The cool air was becoming increasingly stagnant around him, and he put it to the endless circles of thoughts and doubts, so strong that nothing was unable to puncture it. He grasped his knees and rocked tensely on the bench he had gladly found upon which to rest and reflect. It was an unremarkable and bulky construction of stone rejected for finer purposes, and it appeared to be as heavy as his spirit. The weight seeped into him, almost deadening his senses, but the creeping chill of night it conducted into his body prompted him to stand. He was still in the shadows, gratefully shrouded in the looming presence of the large Feasting Hall. Though no doubt there were other places on the Citadel that offered solitude, whether by accident or design, the unobtrusive location of this bench had beckoned, as though asking to be his confidante for this and any other night.

Leaning back against the cold, stone wall, he sighed, though not loudly. The exhalation was measured, controlled. Eyes closed, he remained unmoving, almost entranced by the beating of his own heart. Though it had finally slowed after the quickening of shock and ambition had spurred it like a warrior on a charger, it had not yet fully returned to its normal, disinterested pace. Perhaps he was mistaken, but its beat was stronger, more vigorous.

Beyond the pulse that murmured throughout his body and hummed softly in his ears, he heard the scuff of boots. A couple scrapes on the cobblestone, as though someone had carelessly failed to pick up their feet properly. Following this was a muffled curse, leading Gríma to wonder if the unseen passerby was rebuking himself for giving away his presence.

He peered into the darkness, glad that circumstances had placed him in such a vantage point. His observation skills, so well-regarded by Lord Elfléda, could perhaps yield something of note.

The unruly heels scuffed again, and Gríma perceived that whoever it was, the nocturnal lurker was approaching him. From the corner of his eye, a meager beam of torch- or candlelight from a window on the nearly silent Citadel fleetingly caught a cloaked figure. The point of a scabbard distended the cloak, oddly heaving the fabric up and down like a sea swell. Gríma puzzled what motion could accomplish such an effect. A hand fidgeting with the sword hilt, perhaps?

As soon as he observed this mysterious individual, it was gone, and Gríma leaped from the bench without another moment’s thought. He was not such a fool that he didn’t realize the Ambassador and Falvöd had approached him in hopes that he would use his eyes and ears in an expansive way to serve limited interests.

A spy. See, but not be seen. Hear all, but say nothing. What was so different about it that he had not already done? Nothing, as far as Gríma was concerned. For more years than he cared to remember, he had been a consummate observer. If this nighttime wanderer proved to be on innocuous business or was one of the Rohirrim, then he would consider it practice – a trial – and begin actual duty at another time, after he had formally accepted Elfléda’s implied offer of advancement.

This is how it will have to be henceforth, Gríma thought. My habit of doubting and regretting actions has never been of help, but more often an anchor on my courage. Decide, act, accept. A simple enough creed for this Eastemnet boy with more brains than wealth.

Like the ivy that clung to the walls about him, Gríma sidled along the stone as though failing to do so would result in the Citadel guards setting upon him. He had no fear of being challenged, however, for he had become a common sight in the past weeks, hurrying from one building to another. Yet he would not alert anyone to his presence unless propitious.

He paused periodically to gather a sense of where the footsteps were leading him, if they were joined by others, or anything else that might persuade him to abandon this first attempt at deliberate pursuit.

His ears caught the sound of a male voice, but though he appeared to be conversing with someone, Gríma could not hear anything from the other person. Taking advantage of the guard’s distraction, he crossed from one building to another, still clinging to the shadows.

A torch flickered by the entrance to the tunnel that descended to the lower circles of the city, and as Gríma slipped from one building’s protection to the other, he saw two figures in the torch’s light. Little else was visible than what Gríma had glimpsed earlier.

He was about to turn away. Whoever it was was known to the guard. If they wanted to leave the Citadel in the deep of night, it was no one’s affair but their own.

But…the muffled curse returned to his thoughts. Though they had had no qualms about stopping to pass the time of day with the gate guard, they had wanted to get to that point as silently as possible. There was still something worth pursuing.

The figure left the guard and vanished into the tunnel. Gríma waited until a seemly amount of time had passed before he tugged his cloak around him and strolled from the shadows and proceeded directly towards the tunnel entrance.

The guard halted him and peered but briefly into his face before the expected recognition dawned in the man’s eyes. “Ah, it’s you.”

Gríma affected an innocuously agreeable smile and was immediately aware that it pulled at his mouth with the oddest sensation. “You seem tired, friend,” he said. “A long night?”

“The longest,” was the reply. “More than half the people asking leave are on their way to get gloriously drunk and have been tormenting me with their plans.”

Gríma checked the snort of disgust that nearly escaped him. Gloriously drunk. It was a marvel any business was ever completed in Rohan and Gondor, unless centuries of cohabitation with fermented brew had given decision-making with a pounding head a certain unique accuracy for wisdom.

“Indeed,” he replied dryly. “Well, I shall not torment you terribly, though I am thirsty.”

“Then you’re in luck,” he was told. “If you hurry along, you may overtake the last person I let pass. She’s on her way to down an ale or two.”

“She?”

“Yes, Lord Boromir’s woman,” the guard went on. “You must know her. I hear she’s leaving with you Rohirrim shortly.”

Gríma was uncertain if he had heard relief in the man’s voice. Interesting. “I do know her,” he ventured, “and I gather she has already carved a niche for herself on the Citadel. Considering she has been here but a short time, I find that admirable.”

“It’s the Captain who’s done it,” the guard replied, without hesitation. Obviously, the long watch and tormenting tavern tales had loosened his tongue. “He gets a certain way about him if the itch is too great, and this one’s under his skin something fierce. Once she leaves, his mind should go back to where it should be.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Gríma responded with a puzzled shrug. “In all of the meetings I’ve been privy to, your captain has been remarkably lucid, the matters at hand seeming to occupy him fully. I haven’t seen a speck of distraction about him. Certainly not for a female, of all things.”

“Oh ho! Not to your liking, then?”

“What?”

“Females. Not to your liking, I assume. From your tone.”

“My preferences are based on merits, and merits alone,” Gríma retorted coldly. “Not some ridiculous possession, or lack thereof, of an appendage.”

The guard laughed, seemingly disinclined to take offense. He obviously found this riled little foreigner amusing. “Hurry along,” he said, waving towards the tunnel. “Should you catch up with her, you can charm her away from the Captain with that wit of yours.”

Barely leashing the annoyed snarl that threatened to bubble from his throat, Gríma left the still-chuckling man behind and descended into the damp enclosure. Bored minds could derive pleasure from any little thing, it seemed.

The mild snap in the subterranean air began to cool his temper and Gríma regretted that he had been so easily provoked, especially on such a pointless matter as virility. Granted, he hadn’t responded as would most Rohirrim if their masculinity had been so baldly ridiculed. A caustic retort was much less injurious than a solid blow to the jaw or a bone-crunching tackle to the cobblestones. He had seen that other scenario played out before him on several occasions within Edoras, akin to watching two brutish animals grunting and bludgeoning each other to assert dominance. All the same, that his mere appearance prompted others to think he had not a virile pretension in his body irked him more than he would admit aloud. Did one practically need to rut in the streets to gain respect? The more he thought about it, the more Gríma wondered if he was suited to, well, anything if it involved other people.

Distract yourself, Gríma, he thought. But focus on pursuit. He did not know why he was proceeding with his plan to trail the shadowed figure, now revealed by the guard as Myrhil. If she was skulking around at night behind Boromir’s back to get a drink, then that was her affair. At least she had had sense enough to bring a sword for protection. Though Minas Tirith was safer than many other towns in the region, one’s well-being was not immediately guaranteed when walking about in the deepest hours of the night.

He hurried along the cobbled decline, pushing away any thoughts that he was scurrying like a rat. The soft soles of his boots made barely a sound as he continued down the tunnel, allowing Myrhil’s strides to faintly echo unimpeded. She would soon be approaching the exit and could disappear into the morass of alleys and shadows. Hence, Gríma hastened his steps so that, even if he did not overtake her, she would hopefully remain in his sight.

Upon reaching the other end of the tunnel, he expected to see her well on her way down the street, but was forced to quickly halt when he glimpsed her standing a short distance away. Shrinking into the shadow of the entrance, Gríma watched and waited. The scabbard was again doing its oddly nervous dance under the edge of her cloak, and Gríma felt his curiosity keen within him like a winter wind. Though he had spoken dismissively of her as a “female” with the guard, if Gríma was honest with himself there was little he had witnessed about the horse breeder’s daughter, beyond physical features, that made such an opinion accurate and just. And her tie to Belaród catapulted her into his conscience as more noteworthy than most other women.

After she had taken whatever respite she required before embarking onto the meat of her business, Myrhil set off. Two sentries manned the entrance to the Citadel, but they logically paid little heed to those who were descending into the city. Gríma surmised that only those wanting to gain access warranted inquiry. Still, he needn’t arouse any suspicions unnecessarily, so he left the seclusion of the tunnel and, with a subdued smile and a tip of the hand to the guards as he passed, he followed his quarry.

It was not long before Gríma began to doubt that a tavern was Myrhil’s objective. Though they passed several as their path wound down the mountainside, Myrhil did not even pause outside their doors. What surprised him was that when she did stop, and he had taken shelter in a nearby doorway, it was before a squat stone building. If he was not mistaken, it was a gaol, one of the various pits into which drunkards and brawlers were tossed to soak their heads and sleep off their indulgences. A small, barred window was set high on the wall to the right of the door. It was dark, leading Gríma to ponder if there was no guard on duty and, had there been, if Myrhil would have turned smartly on her heel and beaten a retreat to the Citadel.

From his post of observation, Gríma watched Myrhil satisfy herself that no one was approaching from either direction, then proceed onward to the gaol itself. In one seemingly fluid motion, the lock opened with a soft thunk and the door swung open into the inky blackness of the interior, even darker than the night without. Unless her position on the Citadel included rights to bear gaoler’s keys, Gríma was inclined to believe that she had filched them from her unwatchful Captain.

When Myrhil disappeared inside, leaving the door ajar only slightly, he leaned more fully against the humble alcove in which he stood. As he did so, muscles relaxed that he hadn’t realized were tense. Yet his eyes remained fixed and intent on the heavy planks of the gaol door and the slender strip of black, his one wedge into whatever mischief she was up to.

You should be nervous, Myrhil. If anyone discovers you, your hide will be worthless.

In the manner of those who plan their justifications on the slimmest logic, Myrhil told herself that she was not truly disobeying any orders by coming to the gaol with a purloined key. She had not been told to stay away from the suspect or his cell. Boromir was preoccupied with other matters and she didn’t wish to add her troubles to his. Faramir had carried out his interrogation to his satisfaction and would most likely be disinclined at further attempts to persuade the suspect to talk freely. Convinced she already knew the answers to whatever questions she could put to Faramir, there was no sense going that route out of pure formality.

So she was taking matters into her own hands. Though she now tried to calmly plan her reasoning in the event of her discovery, she had actually acted on impulse. Dissatisfied with the few meager details Boromir had seen fit to share (there were more, she was certain), she had seen his cumbersome ring of keys laying half-hidden under his discarded cloak and grabbed them without pausing to reconsider. Even greater than the task of stealing them was the problem of keeping such a large, jangling item quiet, and her right hand had been clenched around the keys every step of her journey.

She knew Faramir would immediately assume she wanted to resume her forceful methods with the prisoner, and that it was the motive behind this secretive visit, but her loss of control that afternoon had rattled her, made her begin to question her mettle. Never had she lost her temper to such a degree, not even when Larhend had been at his most infuriating. Perhaps without the intimidating presence of Denethor’s sons and her onus of providing Faramir with a positive identification, she could speak to the man calmly and, hopefully, learn more of what he knew.

The absence of any light within the jail had given her pause and relieved her at the same time. Had a guard been on duty, she would have turned back. But, surely, the prisoner was important enough to warrant a guard? Unless Faramir had had the man conveyed to the Citadel, there to enjoy more distinguished confinement. But Boromir had not mentioned any such thing. Or perhaps he had deliberately omitted sharing that development with her, given her behavior that morning.

You’re being suspicious and ridiculously distrustful, she thought. And of someone who doesn’t deserve such doubts. However, though Myrhil knew it was unjust, she could not help but feel the age-old notion that the plight of the bereaved – the nagging questions and burning demands – were beyond the comprehension of those outside the family. Boromir had loved her father, but he was not blood. That, in the end, made all the difference.

And there was no possible way Boromir could fathom her grief for Belaród. Dubious character or not, he had been her first and those brief months together had been as remarkable, in their way, as these past weeks with Boromir. Perhaps even more so; her impatience and Belaród’s own impetuousness had been very similar, nearly an immediate understanding between them. He had prodded her to be discontent, to want more than what she was allowed, and he himself always claimed he had left a stifling home behind. More than once, she had considered leaving with him to go wherever he desired. Of course, now that she knew the company he had kept was cutthroat, she was relieved she hadn’t been so rash, else she might have also found herself jailed or slain for doing wrong. Just as this man in the corner cell had been.

Myrhil started when she realized she had lingered by the door, her mind and heart taking a thousand leaps and steps before her feet had moved. Slowly, she began to inch her way across the gaol, ears straining for a sound – any sound – to come from the cells.

In the darkness, she was aware of things gone unnoticed that morning, such as the nearly imperceptible slope of the floor. A steady drip into what sounded like a cistern told her that there was a drain in the gaol floor where any waste could be easily disposed of, a bucket of water sluiced across the flagstone taking it down into the sewers.

Just as her nostrils flared at the coppery tang of blood, she felt herself dropping through the floor, one leg plunging into a hole and throwing her violently off-balance. She flung out her arms in a desperate bid to prevent pitching headlong on the unforgiving stones. Her leg was wrenched slightly, but she was able to heave herself out of the hole. As she did so, her elbow whacked a heavy piece of metal that chattered against the floor. The grate that should have been in place over the drain…

Myrhil had little time to ponder the state of the drain lid because her nose wrinkled sharply at the smell of blood, now more pungent than before. The hair on the back of her neck bristled as the pitch darkness of the gaol suddenly transformed into something undeniably menacing.

The open drain… Blood… Had there been another intruder here before her arrival? Or had one of the prisoners easily reached despair and ended their own life?

She remained hunkered close to the floor, all of her senses peeled to their most bare and alert. As she lay there, she became gradually conscious of a slick substance on her left hand. Belaród’s blood had felt the same, and she rolled away from it, rattling the drain lid again.

Panic began to cloud what little vision she had gained after her eyes’ acclimation to the darkness. She crawled backwards until she felt her foot nudge the wall, and stood up to lean against it, fearing that she would not know her bearings if she remained unanchored to a fixed point. The thin echo of the metal grate still whined in her ears, and Myrhil thought she could hear all sorts of sounds whirling around her, not least of which was the rapid thrumming of her heart.

Then one sound rose above the others, joined by another. The soft brush of leather on leather, the crunch of grit under a boot. Both were steady sounds; not hesitant, not anxious, not weary. Even though her sword had been rattling against her leg, telling whoever it was that there was an armed person in here with them, it was not giving them pause. They were apparently confident they had the advantage in weaponry. Myrhil silently cursed herself for not bringing her knife. These tight quarters made sword fighting difficult, if not impossible.

But the other intruder was not making any move towards combat. There was no ring of steel being drawn or the opening salvo of a grunted lunge. Instead, it was achingly quiet, as though the gaol nearly begged to be set free from the silent tension contained within its walls.

Myrhil nearly leapt out of her skin when the blackness before her loomed even blacker. Whoever it was had decided the time was right to either strike or make a mad dash towards escape. The grate rattled, betraying the intruder’s exact location. If he opted to flee the way he had come, rather than using the now-open door, Myrhil feared she would never be able to catch him and, once again, a culprit would slip through her fingers. She couldn’t allow another failure.

Without pausing to reconsider, she shoved herself away from the wall, drawing her sword. The challenge did not go unmet, for she immediately heard the curt answer of a long knife being unsheathed. She instinctively ducked and hurled herself at the person’s knees in an effort to upset their balance.

They both crashed to the floor, grunting in unison at the impact. However, what little advantage Myrhil was able to gain was quickly erased when a heavy boot caught her on the side of her head, sending her senses into a blind reel. Darkness was replaced with an intense starburst of white. In desperation, she clung to her sword as though it had been grafted to her hand. Unless it was ripped from her, she was determined not to relinquish it.

Myrhil scrambled clumsily on all fours, trying to right herself. She gave a sharp yelp of pain and surprise when the same heavy boot delivered a kick squarely in her stomach, causing her to gag on the nausea that lodged in her throat.

Her choices were quickly narrowing. Lay prone on the floor and pretend unconsciousness to escape further injury, thus allowing him to slip away, or throw whatever she had at him and hope luck would favor her.

The decision was torn from her as she felt two powerful hands grabbing both shoulders and hauling her to her feet. Stunned, she remained limp, but regretted her unresisting posture when she was shoved like a doll against the wall of the gaol. The pain that shot through her shoulder was agony enough, but nothing prepared Myrhil for the sheer terror of an iron grip around her throat. Held fast against the stone, lifted off her feet, she kicked frantically but was unable to land a disabling blow.

Panic like nothing she had ever known flooded her body and mind. She tried to scream, but only a hoarse blat would come forth. She had no knife, and he knew she didn’t. Drawing her sword had said plainly that she had no other weapon, for it was the last useful and most cumbersome blade to wield in such tight, dark quarters. Myrhil squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the knife she knew he possessed to slip between her ribs. Eru grant that it would be a faster death than slowly being strangled.

She swore she could feel the prick of the blade against her side when her assailant’s grip around her throat clenched tighter before going completely slack.

The rush of air into her lungs overwhelmed her. Pitching forward, Myrhil landed on the body of the man who, just a moment before, had been so close to ending her life.

There was no room in her tangled senses to ponder what had just happened and how she had been delivered from it. When she felt another grip on her shoulder, she didn’t process its more gentle pressure. Instinctively, she flailed away from it, certain she had only escaped death to have it visited upon her by another. In her movements, one hand brushed a knife hilt and she grasped it. Yet it was stuck fast in something and not easily removed…

“Myrhil.”

Hearing her name was like a splash of cold water on her face. Surprise was quickly joined by confusion as she recognized the voice. But it couldn’t be…

“Gríma?” Her voice broke and she was seized by a fit of coughing as her throat rebelled at the exertion of that one simple word.

“Yes.”

Strange as it seemed, Myrhil was relieved to see him, though it was more his presence she felt since he was not actually visible.

His hand closed over hers – the one gripping the knife – and withdrew the blade with a soft squelch.

“Yours?” she asked, not confident she could say more without succumbing to another spate of coughing.

“Yes.” In a brief instant, the knife was no longer in her hand and Myrhil recalled the day in the library when she had first met the scribe. The knife was no doubt once again clean and residing in the sheath he had strapped to his wrist, cunningly concealed under his sleeve. If he had struck tonight as swiftly as she believed him capable, her assailant had been completely unprepared. It shocked her that he had just killed another with precision and calm, but then she recalled his actions on the hunt and his skill with the bow. Perhaps not so strange after all.

“I’ll not ask why you’re here,” he began, interrupting Myrhil’s musings, “but we can’t linger.”

“We can’t leave—” A ragged gasp as she inhaled. “—him here.”

“Were there others? Prisoners?”

“There were three—here this morning. One’s been killed…I think.” Gradually she was breathing easier, though her voice still remained a thin croak.

A sound of frustration and worry came from Gríma. “Care to venture a light, should we find one?”

Myrhil hesitated. Already there was enough for Denethor to imprison them both for life or send them into exile in Harad or some other wasteland.

“Let’s simply run,” she said, “before anyone comes to investigate whatever noises they might have heard.”

“Loose ends, Myrhil,” he said. “This gaol is teeming with them. Besides, no one has been near this building for some time and, I safely assume, for awhile longer.”

The realization struck her. “You—you followed me?”

“Curiosity,” he answered hastily. “But we have other business.”

He left her and Myrhil could hear him walking around the gaol, ostensibly searching for a lantern or candle stub. While he did this, Myrhil crawled away from the body and towards the center of the room. Coming upon the drain, she ran her hand around the opening and found the circumference quite large. It was a wonder she had not fallen bodily into it.

From the corner of the room, light sparked then settled into a soft glow. She looked over to see Gríma shielding the light with one hand as he walked over to the cells.

“Blood,” he told her. “Running under the door.” His hand went to the latch. “Still locked. Either the prisoner killed himself – unlikely – or our good friend over there was able to get him close to the small window here, grabbed him, and slit his throat.”

“That,” Myrhil replied. “I grabbed hold of the man today through the window, so what you say could’ve happened.”

Gríma turned and regarded her with open suspicion. “Did I rescue a murderer from another one?” he asked. “Would this man here have died anyway?”

“No!” she protested. “I wasn’t going to kill him, not when he had answers about Belaród.”

The scribe was unable to mask his surprise and interest, but he didn’t pursue it. Glancing quickly through the windows of the other two cells, he concluded, “I can see nothing. Only one man must have been in here tonight. Now, let’s look at the other one.”

Myrhil pivoted on her heels, where she had remained crouched by the drain hole, and began to crawl back to the body when Gríma gasped. She snapped her head up and was frightened to see the normally pallid face now stark white, even in the yellow candlelight. He was staring down at the body with the same expression as one discovering a viper at their feet.

Myrhil’s gaze followed his and her chest clenched painfully when she saw the strong and unmistakable features of Elfléda’s trusted soldier.

Falvöd.

Chapter 26: Plans

Myrhil bent over the basin and dipped her hands in the tepid water. As she brought her cupped palms to her face, she discovered she was trembling so badly that the water ran freely between her twitching fingers. With a muttered curse, she gritted her teeth and splashed what little water she could on her face, finishing the procedure with a furious scrubbing of the skin with a small towel.

She had washed what seemed like a dozen times, and still she felt the stench clinging to her, despite the fact that she had discarded her clothes that reeked from the sewer. Now clad in a pair of hose that were too short and an ill-fitting tunic, Myrhil felt that it should have alleviated the presence of the gaol, but it had, if anything, increased.

“I apologize for my poor wardrobe.”

Myrhil lowered the towel from her face and looked at Gríma, who sat on the edge of his small bed.

“Considering the alternative, I’ll not complain.”

Gríma nodded. He didn’t appear to be nervous or irritated but, rather, seemed in the first throes of exhaustion. Her own body was fast succumbing to the temptation to collapse and sleep wherever she fell and, given Gríma’s slight stature, it was not surprising he showed signs of fatigue.

As Myrhil wiped her hands, she surveyed her surroundings. The room was cramped, and she deduced it was one of the myriad niche chambers given to subordinates of more expansively accommodated guests. Tucked away almost as an afterthought, it had been relatively simple to reach it with minimal observation by the guards on duty. Tightly snugging her cloak around her, Myrhil had bobbed and smiled to the night watch in a display of tipsiness, all the while hoping their noses wouldn’t be alarmed by the aroma in her wake. Once inside the Steward’s hall, Gríma had quickly led her down a series of corridors and stairs to his humble chamber. There, she could wash and reemerge in a presentable fashion. Above all, she and Gríma could gather their disturbed thoughts.

Now that she had accomplished the former to some degree, they could tend to the latter. Still, the wall Myrhil sensed Gríma maintained around himself showed little sign of crumbling, despite their shared part in Falvöd’s death.

“If you remain here any longer,” he suddenly said, “it will be dawn and your absence will be noticed.”

Myrhil finished drying her hands on the towel. “You’re right, of course, but I can’t leave yet.”

Gríma shifted in discomfort as Myrhil eased herself gently onto the bed with a heavy sigh. “Your body…it is stiff?”

“I was bent nearly double in that drain, pushing and pulling him along,” she replied. “I don’t feel as I’ll ever get back to my normal self.”

Gríma nodded, but his gaze never left the floor. He brought a thumb to his mouth and plucked at his lower lip in a distracted manner.

“You think—” she began tentatively, but stopped when words failed to form on her tongue.

“I think…what?” Gríma prompted, still aimlessly thumbing his lip.

“That he’ll ever be found?” she finished with great effort. “I took him into the sewers as far as I could, but what if it wasn’t far enough?”

“It will have to be,” was the brisk reply, “though fingers may point at us regardless. Our only alibis rest with a guard who believes we were only concerned with drinking. We’ll have to trust that no one will imagine we deviated from those plans when Falvöd’s presence is missed.”

Myrhil leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees, head cradled in one hand. “Why was he there, Gríma? He killed that man, the prisoner I wanted to question. The man knew about Belaród and the plots to raid herds in Gondor. It must be why Falvöd was there.”

Gríma shook his head. “My impulse is to reject it utterly—”

“But you’re not the impulsive sort,” Myrhil interrupted in annoyance.

“—and I cannot believe,” he continued smoothly, “that such a delicate mission as the King’s embassage would be imperiled to assassinate some lowly—”

“—spy,” Myrhil finished. “The man was a spy, and he knew more than what others wanted him to say.”

“And Falvöd was a part of these others? That is what you’re saying? Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“I…” Myrhil’s mouth worked silently until she sighed in perplexed frustration. “I don’t want to meet the same end as that prisoner,” she finally said. “I have never felt so close to Death before as I did tonight. Waiting for that knife to do its work—”

“Yes, very harrowing,” Gríma replied as he hastily rose from the bed. “You have a tale to amuse your grandchildren.”

“Gríma!” Myrhil felt all of her inner counsel to be calm fly out the window in the face of the Rohirrim’s flippant remark. “Haven’t you the good sense to be frightened?” she demanded.

He regarded her with a thoughtful expression. “Of course, but you can’t allow it to cloud your judgment.”

Myrhil’s eyes narrowed. “Was your judgment clouded when you struck at him? You did not like him,” she added, not waiting for a reply.

His thin and angular features seemed to sharpen at this implied accusation of premeditated murder. “No, I did not like him, but I didn’t know his identity until afterwards, as you very well know. I came to the defense of one who was in danger, and not for the first time. If you recall.”

“I do recall,” Myrhil replied, without embarrassment at his reminder, “and I am grateful.”

“Strangely, this is the first I have heard you say so. I was beginning to question the wisdom of my generosity.”

Myrhil clenched her hands and shook them at him. “Very well, then. Let’s insult each other for what remains of the night! I would absolutely rather do that than go to Boromir’s bed.”

She took satisfaction in the discomfited expression her remark provoked, but his embarrassment was short-lived, to be replaced by exaggerated patience.

“Your fine Captain will be full of questions when the prisoner’s body is discovered. One possible outcome to our advantage is that there may well be some recrimination around the Citadel that a guard was not on watch in the gaol. They may become occupied by that matter and, hence, overlook us.”

“We can hope,” Myrhil said, glum. Much as she loved Boromir and regarded Faramir, her own desire for self-preservation was asserting itself.

“I would remark that it is a shame the Steward’s sons will be inconvenienced on your behalf—”

“Our behalf,” she corrected tersely.

“—and that you must consider it a mixed blessing, but I don’t wish to antagonize you further.”

Myrhil looked up at him balefully. “I don’t wish to antagonize you, Gríma, but your barbs are becoming tiresome. I can implicate you, and you me. We could ruin each other, if we push ourselves to those extremes.”

“Then this is an understanding?” he inquired with interest. “I’m content with that.”

“I thought you might be,” Myrhil continued, less irritable. “I won’t say or do anything to spoil your future plans, whatever they may be, and—”

“—and I won’t let one word imperil your cozy sleeping arrangement.”

“How thoughtful,” Myrhil replied dryly, “that where I lay my head means so much to you. I would rather have a head to lay down than whether it be in one bed or another.” She grabbed her cloak and rose from the bed. “Gríma,” she said as she paused before him, “I’d rather have you as a friend, even a prickly and disagreeable one, than to have to watch my back lest I find your knife between my shoulders. Figuratively speaking, of course.”

“Of course.”

“So, what are your future plans?” she asked, tossing the cloak over one arm and moving towards the door. “To become the King’s most trusted man? No one would suspect you of this wrongdoing if you prove yourself loyal and humble while doing so.”

Gríma inclined his head in agreement. “True, but a man already holds that position, and he is not humble. His blood affords him that luxury. Still, you have my humble gratitude for the advice. However, I’ll soon be leaving for Lebennin.”

Myrhil straightened and peered at him in wary curiosity. “What takes you there?”

“Belaród. Elfléda has given me leave to collect his remains.”

“This is the first I’ve heard that you wanted to claim his body,” she said, tone brittle. “When does this journey begin?”

“Considering what occurred tonight, as soon as possible.”

“You go alone?”

Gríma stared at her, silent. The corner of his mouth then quirked upwards. “You think a scribe would warrant an escort? Unlikely.”

“But you don’t know the way.”

“Gondor’s maps are reliable.”

“To a certain point, yes.”

Gríma’s smile did not widen, but his eyes glinted in mute anticipation and Myrhil knew she was being picked at and frayed as deliberately as a loose thread discovered by a child. Her nerves had been yanked, throttled, pummeled and squeezed into a suffocating and reeking sewer. And the threat of light mischief by one as guilty as she – no, more so – promised to rend the rest of them to irreparable shreds.

Though she felt her darkening mood was obvious in her expression, she was not surprised when it failed to stay Gríma’s intent.

“I was wrong,” she said, cutting him short before he could even speak. “You are the impulsive sort. At least when it comes to infuriating those who don’t deserve it.”

“Everyone has done something to deserve an annoyance or two. You are no exception.”

The reason was left unspoken, but to both it was clear. Belaród. It chafed him that she had known his brother when he believed the young man had been killed anonymously and without remorse. And it saddened her that, behind Belaród’s beguiling speech and seemingly honest smiles, there had lurked not only deceit about his intentions, but also of a past he never felt her worthy to know about.

And now, to exhume him and reopen that grave she had believed was forever sealed shut…

Myrhil turned her head away briefly and closed her eyes, trying to gather her thoughts. If she remained silent for too long, it would only fuel the scribe. She needed to reclaim the offensive, at least for a while. So strange that Boromir, the hardened and strong warrior, was gentle in his words and behavior, whereas this slight and unmartial man was nearly unrelenting with his sharp tongue and mind. Expressions were akin to punches, and words carried the same effect as a hot iron to the skin or a skewering blade.

“Then I wish you speed and safety, Gríma,” she said. “Both you and your reliable maps. Belaród’s grave is clearly marked as well. We gave him a worthy resting place, but it seems others have plans for him.” She paused. “Are you going to broach any of this with your Ambassador? He must be told of Falvöd’s actions.”

“His actions?” Gríma retorted with some incredulity. “What of mine? That I was lurking outside a gaol well past midnight because I had followed Lord Boromir’s mistress when she aroused my suspicions? That I saw this same mistress enter said gaol with a pilfered key, heard a scuffle, and then heroically waded into the mire, only to slay his loyal soldier and friend?” He shook his head in disbelief and regarded her as if she had gone insane.

“Falvöd’s loyalty was either too little or too great.”

Gríma paused barely a second before he placed a hand on her back and, with a sudden display of strength, steered her the remainder of the way towards the door. He lifted the latch with speed, yanked open the door, and propelled her into the flickering hallway before she could voice a protest or a curse. So quick were his movements that Myrhil had no opportunity to brace herself or right her balance. The ill-fitting hose hampered her legs and for the second time that night, she found herself meeting a stone wall. This time was more gentle, but it angered her no less. Balling up the towel she still held, she threw it at him, despite her flaring temper wanting a more lethal weapon.

He dodged it easily and gave it, then her, a disgusted look. “Entertain whatever suspicions please you, only don’t trouble me with them!” he spat. “Tell them to your fine lord if you think them so credible!”

As he began to shut the door, Myrhil pushed herself away from the wall and reached it before he could do so, jamming a foot against it and throwing all her weight to force it open. Soon a struggle developed, both pushing furiously. Her throbbing shoulder hampered her efforts and she could see the open wedge quickly narrowing.

“In a short time, our lord will be one and the same!” she told him, just as the door thumped shut dangerously close to her face. “What shall I tell him?” she finished, louder, though not enough for her voice to echo down the corridor.

She remained there, leaning against the door and fuming silently. She tested the latch and gave an experimental shove, but the door opened only a fraction before thumping shut again. He was no doubt bearing his weight against it as well, determined to keep her out.

In parting, she pounded her fist once against the dense planks and stalked down the dark hallway.

Chapter 27: Loyalties

“I find it exceedingly difficult to believe that there is no one who saw what transpired,” Denethor said, his tone a clear order to find that which obviously existed somewhere. “This city has tens of thousands of eyes, and gossip is the profession of more than is tolerable.”

Faramir’s gaze flitted briefly to his brother before returning to the waiting Steward. “It is only noon, Father,” he began, “and there are twenty men searching and questioning those in the area.”

Denethor looked to his eldest for confirmation and Boromir nodded. “They have covered much ground already,” he elaborated, “and though some people claim they heard noise from the region of the gaol, none thought it of enough interest to rouse out of bed. They thought it was merely a fight between drunken fools.”

Denethor gave a snort of bitter amusement. “A fine time for them to acquire a sense of propriety.”

Faramir nodded in mute agreement. “There is solid reason to believe that one of the prisoner’s conspirators…silenced him.” He paused to see if his father wished to comment. “The man knew of the raid on Gorhend’s horses,” he added.

“Yes, I remember,” Denethor said with visible impatience. He then sighed upon seeing his sons exchange a silent agreement of mutual reassurance. Dragging a hand over his eyes, he nodded. “Yes, Faramir, go on. Anything else? An indication of why the murderer chose that particular night to do the deed?”

“Necessity, I imagine. He no doubt realized the man had been questioned once, and would be again.”

The Steward’s flinty eyes went to Boromir. “You had questioned him?”

“I did not.”

“Hm. Your methods might have achieved greater results, and we would know more.”

“Perhaps,” Boromir replied, noncommittal. “But Myrhil thoroughly rattled his brains against the cell door and it had little effect.”

“Interesting,” Denethor said, more to himself than to his sons. “The good Laenilas certainly throws odd offspring.” This last comment, soft-spoken though it was, had obviously been meant for Boromir’s ears, for he bestowed an amused and calculating smile on his son.

“No odder than Mother did, I suspect,” Boromir returned placidly. “I have my share of peculiarities.” A smothered chuckle escaped from Faramir.

“Indeed,” their father said.

A voice raised in anger made all three turn their heads towards the door of the Steward’s study. Faramir and Boromir advanced as one and swung the door open into the hall where nearly two dozen men stood with petitions and various other items of business they wished to receive their lord’s attention.

From this gathering surged one individual whose robes of high station and impressive Rohirric features swept an open path before him. Many recognized Elfléda, the omnipresent emissary from Gondor’s neighbor to the west, and they immediately melted to the side. They knew that his business would supercede theirs, despite some of them having waited to see the Steward since dawn.

Denethor’s sons watched as the two guards who stood sentry outside the study began to ask the agitated ambassador his business so that they could announce him to the Steward, but Elfléda strode between them with nary a word or look. He made to pass by Faramir and Boromir just as imperiously, but Boromir held up his hand and smiled good-naturedly. Elfléda halted quickly and paid them no heed, instead staring between where the brothers stood side by side and speaking directly to his quarry.

“Denethor!” he called. “I wouldn’t trust this city to go one day without an outrage of some sort!”

“Now this is the blunt speech I’ve wanted to hear at the negotiating table,” Boromir rejoined, grinning. “Please continue it for the remainder of your visit.”

“There’ll be no lack of it, Captain, if you don’t allow me to pass,” Elfléda snapped. “When you’re Steward, the tenor of any debates will be yours to set.”

“Let him in,” came Denethor’s voice from deeper within the chamber.

Faramir looked over his shoulder and saw that his father had retreated to his vast desk, before which he now stood with his hand resting on the white rod signifying his office. He stepped aside and Elfléda swept past him, the politician’s posture as rigid as his anger.

Denethor tapped his fingers against his plain scepter as he waited for Elfléda to calm somewhat. It soon became apparent that the ambassador had little intention of doing so, and the Steward gestured for him to speak. “And what grievance do you have today?”

Elfléda turned as Boromir and Faramir passed him and stood to the side so that they could fully observe the proceedings. Faramir’s arms hung at his side in a display of content patience, but periodically he flicked his fingers together, betraying some unease. The Steward’s heir, however, stood to his fullest height with arms folded across his chest and one hand grazing his chin contemplatively.

“I would prefer, Lord Denethor, if we could speak alone,” Elfléda began crisply.

Denethor shook his head without hesitation. “My sons and I were discussing a rather important matter. No offense intended to your urgent matter, Ambassador, but as soon as I have heard you out, we’ll be resuming what you interrupted.”

Though visibly dissatisfied with this arrangement, the diplomat from Rohan realized he had little choice but to acquiesce. “Very well, Denethor,” he replied, a civil rein now on his tongue, but only barely. “I shall be quick in order to conserve your valuable time. Some of my men have come to me this morning with suspicions and fears that some ill might have befallen Falvöd.”

Boromir shifted in interest. “He has taken sick?”

Elfléda turned and smiled faintly. “Would that it was so simple. I appreciate your concern, Captain. I understand you both have exchanged ideas on combat and tactics, and he admires your skills greatly, as do many in Rohan.”

“Diplomat to the last,” Denethor observed, not without some humor. “So if he’s not sick – and I assume you’ve inquired at the Houses of Healing – then what is it?”

“He’s disappeared,” Elfléda returned flatly. “He has never failed in his morning duties, and today no one has seen neither hide nor hair of him.”

Denethor shook his head in exaggerated bewilderment. “We are your hosts, not your keepers! Had any of my guards been overly present around but one – one! – of your soldiers, you would still be standing here complaining, but only then of spies and the dishonor done to your integrity and that of your king!” He leveled a finger at the fuming Rohirrim. “I’m a patient man, Elfléda, but the day I see your horse’s arse will find me rejoicing.”

The room fell silent, but the air shimmered with anger and shock. Boromir and Faramir stared at their father as if some dementia had suddenly possessed him. Sharp, acidic words had tumbled off the Steward’s tongue before, but never recklessly. However, there was little about Denethor’s expression that indicated he had spoken without due consideration.

Elfléda straightened, the muscles in his face turning rigid as he squelched whatever retort he burned to speak, yet would not. “Very well,” he ground out, “then let us turn to one of my men who is still among us.”

“By all means!”

“I’ve granted my scribe, Gríma Galmódsson, leave to gather his brother’s remains. Of course,” he added, gesturing with broad sincerity, “if you decline to let one of Théoden’s subjects to wander about your country at will, then I shall certainly understand.”

“Where are these remains?”

“On Gorhend’s farm,” Boromir interjected, his eyes on Elfléda though he spoke to his father. “He was killed the night of the orc attack.”

Denethor nodded. “I would think it quite coincidental that one of your men has to journey deeper into Gondor,” he told Elfléda, “but it seems my son verifies it fully. He may go.”

“No escort?” Elfléda needled.

“To safeguard him or Gondor?” Denethor rejoined with wry humor. “You should have kept silent, Elfléda. Now I’m suspicious.” He turned to his eldest son. “You know of this scribe? You vouch for his character and intentions?”

“He seems honorable,” Boromir began slowly, “though I know him only in passing.”

“Ah, well then, is there anyone who can put my, no doubt, unwarranted suspicions to rest?”

Boromir was silent, but when Faramir shifted at his side, he cleared his throat lightly. “Laenilas’ daughter has spent some time in the scribe’s company,” he said. “She has spoken well of him.”

Denethor’s brows rose in surprised interest. “It seems I am overdue for a meeting with her. She has been quite…occupied during her stay here.”

“Does this mean my scribe’s journey hinges on the impressions of that bothersome girl?” Elfléda snapped. “Don’t forget our conversation that night, Denethor. I asked you for assurances of her good character.”

“Her character is unquestionable!” Boromir retorted without hesitation. “She is no doubt more capable of defending herself than that scribe of yours.”

“Arguably,” Elfléda replied. “She has certainly proved herself against orcs, so I hear. Yet Gríma is not untried himself. I believe them quite equal in that regard and, to be honest, well-suited as a traveling pair. They have already done so, endured attack, and emerged with their lives.”

“An interesting proposition, Ambassador,” Denethor said.

Boromir turned to his father, eyes widening in consternation. “Interesting?” he repeated. “Foolish!”

Denethor gestured to his son reassuringly. “Calm yourself. When have I ever decided anything without full consideration of its merits?”

“Never,” he agreed, relaxing slightly.

“Precisely, and this will be no different.” The Steward regarded his son silently before returning his attention to the waiting Ambassador. “You shall have an answer about the second matter, the scribe, by evening. As for your original request…” He shook his head. “We will do what we can, but at the moment my sons have urgent matters to investigate. I’m inclined to let this missing man of yours have an opportunity to show himself before I divert soldiers and time to chase after what may be a fool’s errand.”

“Well then, I suppose that is all one can reasonably ask for, isn’t it?” Elfléda asked, his tone slightly colored with reproach. He turned to leave, but stopped and looked over his shoulder at Denethor. “This matter that has occupied your sons’ full attention… There has been talk this morning, raging up and down the city in fact, that someone was murdered. I always thought Minas Tirith to be quite…safe.”

“It is, I assure you,” Denethor replied stiffly. “Some undesirable elements have entered the city and we have been rooting them out. Or, in this case, one eliminated another. But the Citadel is quite safe from it.”

Elfléda smiled. “Any fears I might have had are allayed, Lord Steward.” He bowed his head. “And I will anxiously await your answer about my scribe’s journey. Any escort you provide will be suitable. Gríma is not prone to complaint.”

Denethor cast a glance at Boromir. “I shall keep that in mind.”

As soon as the door was swung shut behind the Ambassador by the two sentries, Boromir whirled to face his father. “I don’t often speak out of turn,” he said, “but don’t do—”

“Do what?” Denethor stared at his son unflinchingly.

Boromir’s jaw tightened. “I won’t believe you’ll let your contention with Laenilas and Gorhend extend to Myrhil. Do you seek to punish that woman by endangering her daughter?”

“Boromir…” came his brother’s soft plea.

“No, Faramir!” Boromir said harshly, turning away this imprecation. “Father, if this shunts me from your affections for a month or even a year, I will say it. Myrhil shares my bed and my heart. That is a fact to which you best reconcile yourself.”

“And when she leaves for Rohan?” Denethor asked placidly. “She will go. I have not heard anything to the contrary about that. I believe you mentioned only recently that she wished to follow her mother there, to see new sights. So, after she leaves, what of your bed and heart then?”

“They will await her return,” was the unhesitating reply, the words clipped. “Until then and beyond, she will not become a pawn in your politics or age-old grudges.”

Boromir’s eyes went from his father to his brother. Neither of them seemed inclined to argue further. Faramir had crept closer to the desk and was glancing down at a map in an effort to distance himself from the fierce confrontation. Denethor, however, was returning his son’s unblinking gaze. Then he smiled in reconciliation.

“Let’s turn to the truly important matters before us, hmm?”

His father had always seemed to be, in large part, a mystery. His mind and nature wasn’t like that of other men Boromir had known, even those nobles whose blood was almost as elevated and whose minds were also acute and learned. Denethor had always been like that, more so after the death of his wife, but still… Boromir could recall many days in his early childhood when he was confused and troubled, though not overly frightened, by his father’s curious turns of temperament. What was the explanation his mother had often used? Ah yes… He has his reasons. He had heard it so often that it became as familiar as the drum beat on the battlefield years later.

But these vacillating moods – they were increasing in both frequency and intensity of late, and it had led Boromir to presume that his father was acting out of petty revenge by threatening to send Myrhil out into the wilds with the scribe. Denethor’s decision was still solidly cloaked behind that impenetrable mask of the politician, a mask the Steward had no qualms about wearing in front of his own sons if it suited him. And to make his heir bend and twist in the wind of uncertainty – what a fine joke!

Boromir forced both his feet and his breath into a slower pace. His head, beginning to pound, gradually subsided to a tolerable, though still irksome, throb.

A few inquiries had revealed that Myrhil hadn’t yet been seen on the Citadel that day, despite the noon hour having already come and gone. When he had risen, she hadn’t stirred a whit and her deep sleep was explained when his questioning of a guard revealed that she had returned sometime after the midnight hour. The odd and slightly embarrassed expression on the man’s features Boromir could interpret any number of ways, and he was hard-pressed not to do so, but he merely thanked the fellow and moved on.

For his part, Boromir couldn’t recall hearing her enter his room. He had retired early, alone, and fallen asleep shortly thereafter.

That he hadn’t heard the door open or felt the mattress sink beside him gave him pause, discomforted him. Was he becoming too rested and content? Was the fine and ready edge of his senses in the field being blunted by routine and inaction? It was obvious that his father believed Myrhil’s continued presence would be detrimental, but he hadn’t articulated any of those concerns. It would not be amiss for Denethor to leave him to discover such things on his own. Conclusions done in this manner, laborious and hurtful though they might be, tended to be lessons learned thoroughly with no need for repetition.

Boromir stopped outside his door and rested his hand on the latch, unsure whether he wanted Myrhil to still be inside. His father’s hovering threat to send her off into the wilds with nothing but her sword and her wits to protect her – for the scribe could, and would, look to his own safety first – plagued him. He debated with himself whether to trouble her with it when the matter was still undecided. With a snort of impatience at this willful hesitation, he opened the door.

Myrhil twisted around from her position on the edge of the bed. With a sleepy smile, she finished tugging her shirt around her waist. “Good morning.”

The guard’s reticence returned to his memory. “You were outside late last night.” He bit his tongue as soon as he said it. It was blunt, without preamble, accusatory.

Her expression of rumpled good cheer faded. She turned back and bent forward to retrieve something from the floor, but returned upright with empty hands. She tapped her fingers on her bare knees and asked, “Have you seen my trousers?”

The apology that had been ready was tucked away. Against his desire to erase whatever hurt his words might have caused her, curiosity rooted and grew. Was she ashamed? Caught like a child who had sneaked out of the home long after bedtime? He almost smiled at the absurdity of it, the innocuous charm doing much to alleviate the tension that had hounded him from his father’s study.

“I didn’t see where you put them,” he replied, tone light. “You took great care to not wake me.”

She nodded, the motion quick, almost a spasm. “I did come to you late, as you said,” she said, still not turning around.

Boromir felt his curiosity acquire unwanted weight. He circled the bed. “Myrhil, honestly, you are not chained to me,” he began. “I would not like that, nor would you, I suspect.”

She sprang off the bed in obvious search of her vanished clothing. “Are you certain you didn’t do something with them this morning?” she asked.

Boromir decided to put aside his nagging questions for the moment and indulge her determined distraction. His eyes went to the four corners of the room and searched every point in between.

“I must have put them in here,” came her voice as she went into the adjoining room. “Help me look.”

He began to follow her when he stopped, his eyes catching sight of a garment under the bed, only the smallest portion of which was visible. “Wait. Maybe it’s this.”

Crouching beside the bed, he grasped the item and withdrew it. His brow creased in puzzlement when he saw that it was a pair of hose. “Is this yours?” he asked, holding it up and looking towards the open door into the other room where Myrhil stood watching. He regarded them again. “These can’t be yours,” he mused. “If you can fit these, then I can still wear Faramir’s baby clothes.”

“You’d best see Faramir straightway,” she replied with an abashed smile as she approached him and took them from his hand, “for they are indeed mine.”

“Put them on. I’m curious to see how they fit you. It must border on the comical. Or indecent.”

Myrhil placed her hands on her hips. “Gondor will certainly fall into neglect if you’d rather I parade outfits before you than see to the country’s business.”

Boromir shrugged. “Indulge me.” When he saw Myrhil’s eyes darken at her thinning humor, he added, “I’m surprised you didn’t find them when you bent over the edge of the bed. I wondered what you were looking for. Or hiding.”

Myrhil’s dismissive headshaking halted suddenly as the first syllable passed his lips. “Hiding?” she asked with some incredulity. “These sorry-looking things?”

“I’d be ashamed of them too, if they were mine.”

“You’re determined to hound a sordid story out of me, Captain,” she replied crisply. “I do hope it meets your expectations.”

Boromir sat on the edge of the bed, arms folded across his chest, and smiled. “Pray continue. I’m eager to know this new trouble you fell into when I wasn’t looking.”

Myrhil blanched. “It’s more foolish than a tavern brawl and not nearly as interesting as an orc attack.”

“But no doubt more entertaining than a puffed-up diplomat crying over an independently-minded subordinate.”

Myrhil’s brows rose. “From your tone alone the ridiculous events of my evening pale in comparison to your morning. What happened?” She took a seat beside him, rested an elbow on his shoulder, and flicked at a lock of hair that had fallen over his ear. “Hmm? Tell me.”

He batted at her hand. “It must be an extremely ridiculous tale you’re keeping from me to change subjects so clumsily.”

“Continue to bait me with that grin, and I’ll forever keep it a secret.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “I grew thirsty late, after spending the evening with Mother.” Her gaze flitted to Boromir, but his attentive expression indicated all too clearly that he would remain and listen until satisfied.

“So I left the Citadel,” she went on, “and headed for a tavern, just for a short drink.”

She paused and Boromir leaned forward. “And then?”

“Your rapt attention mocks me. Chance put that scribe Gríma in the same tavern as me and we drank together. On our way back to the Citadel, some drunken louse had tossed his insides on the cobblestones and my foot found it.”

“Don’t tell me. You slipped.”

“Well, it can be quite slick,” Myrhil smiled, though her face twisted in disgust.

“Please, go on!”

“We returned to the Citadel and Gríma made a generous offer of hose and tunic. I wished to discard what I wore before coming in here, because I knew I would never hear the end of it.”

Boromir indulged in a hearty laugh. “Tell me,” he began once his laughter had subsided, “were you inebriated or otherwise scandalous?” At her hesitant expression, he waved his question aside with another chuckle. “It seems you shocked one of the guards. He was quite reluctant to tell me details of your arrival last night. If eyes could speak, he would have said a mouthful.”

She straightened. “I do remember passing a guard. What did he say?”

“If I read his nervous twitterings and flinches rightly, your spirited appearance in the company of one of the Rohirrim was the exception to a rather dull watch. I’m certain he thought revealing that you had a companion would send me into a rage.” He shook his head, then turned to regard her. “It should, I know. Carousing about the city, getting into mischief, and spending unseemly amounts of time in the company of another man. But…it doesn’t. It’s a charm I thought never existed.”

Myrhil was silent, returning his gaze. She reached out a hand. “If my ‘mischief,’ as you call it, does you harm or causes you embarrassment, then I regret it. It is not my intention. Things have a tendency to find me, not the other way around. I think I’m beginning to look at Rohan with relief rather than excitement. What can possibly plague me there? It’s nothing but rocks, horses, and hills.”

“By Yule, I’ll expect to hear news to the contrary.”

Myrhil huffed a resigned sigh. “I’ll not wager against that.”

He grasped her hand and squeezed it tightly. “Myrhil, there is something you need to be aware of.” Their hands still clasped, Boromir felt Myrhil’s fingers play over his, whether the gesture was absent or nervous, or her slight shift an indication of physical discomfort or apprehension, he couldn’t tell.

“I have just come from a meeting with Father,” he began, “and I fear he’s in a perverse mood. It is something that Elfléda planted in his mind, but I refuse to let him act on it.”

He proceeded to tell her of all that had happened that morning: the dead prisoner in the gaol, Elfléda’s self-important outburst, and the exchange about the scribe’s planned journey to Lebennin to collect Belaród’s remains.

When he finished, Myrhil surprised him by nodding. “He told me of that last night. It came as a shock. First, that he wishes to disturb his brother’s rest, and also that he will go alone.”

“Don’t worry about that second matter,” Boromir replied briskly, Myrhil’s thoughtful tone pricking his fears. “Father will send someone – a soldier or Ranger – to escort him. And if he should be up to mischief or on a mission of which this body retrieval serves only as a ruse—”

“It isn’t a ruse,” Myrhil told him. “Belaród meant much to him. I’ve sensed it, despite their estrangement.”

“That may be,” Boromir insisted patiently, “but the man can’t be content to play the scribe forever, and I’m no stranger to the look of ambition in a man’s eyes. The outward symptoms aren’t a mystery to me.”

“But you said you told your father he was honorable.”

“Seems honorable,” he corrected her. “So did the leader of a strolling band of players who came to the city last year. He was quite the noble presence during the performances, but at all other times he was adept at parting people from their money.”

Myrhil looked at him in confusion and disbelief. “Gríma’s not some cutpurse or gaming-house trickster!”

“But he is ambitious.”

“And an inherently decent man,” she insisted.

“I told Father that you know him better than I,” Boromir said quietly. “It seems I wasn’t mistaken.”

Myrhil flinched, an involuntary spasm that saddened him. “He is a trying person,” she allowed, “though not altogether disagreeable.”

“It is just as well that I’m not jealous. Your confidence in him, conditional though it may be, relieves me. And as Elfléda says, he’s capable of defending himself.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it in brisk affection. “So you can cease troubling yourself about his safety.” He stood.

“I owe him a debt,” she said simply, not moving.

“There are many, many ways to repay it,” he replied, “but I won’t let you offer up your life to discharge it. Myrhil, you are as reckless as your brother.”

“He died through anger. I could not be more calm.”

Boromir felt frustration and anger of his own creeping upon him in the face of her stubbornness. It was becoming apparent that Myrhil’s docility, when it surfaced, was doomed to a short life. In moments such as this, the fine virtues of tractability and gentleness would be welcome. But the set of her jaw on the invisible bit wasn’t that of a biddable mare. Rather, her expression was distinctly mulish.

“Wherever you wish to go,” he said, “I will not stop you. Far be it for me to dictate your honor and conscience.”

Myrhil looked up at him. “You’ll not forbid me?”

“Were you one of my soldiers,” he said grimly, folding his arms over his chest, “I could order you to walk there barefoot and you would thank me for the privilege.”

Despite his leaden expression, she smiled and nodded. “I’m certain that’s true. Soldier or wife, I would be yours to command. However, that’s not the case.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“You’re unhappy with me.” It wasn’t a question.

Boromir was silent, then he sighed. “Unhappy, no. Perplexed, yes. I would see you content, Myrhil. Gorhend would demand no less of me, were he aware how matters progressed after his death. He would want you safe, and Minas Tirth is safe, recent events aside. He would want Laenilas safe and around what little family she has left. And he would understand whatever feelings you had about honor. He swore by honor and duty, and Gondor was well-served by those convictions. He stayed long after others had abandoned the field for a peaceful dotage.”

“I knew him for so little time, it seemed,” she said. “Somehow I think that if he were here, he’d tell me to think of my own safety above all else. It was ever so with him. I always tried to not be bitter about it.”

“He had reason, after your brother’s accident.” A solid reason, he thought. One that made his snappish commands to his daughter completely logical. Thinking of Gorhend made his earlier contemplation of his father even more hurtful, and he clapped his hands together in discomfort.

“Your father wanted to see me, you said?”

“He made a comment in passing about it, though no doubt it was one of his usual antics.”

She nodded, then smiled. “It would be amusing to ask for the very same thing he supposes would be a punishment. Don’t you think?”

Boromir grinned. “It would, though it might not be prudent on today, of all days. He wouldn’t appreciate the humor in it, what with a murder to inquire about.”

Myrhil’s smile faded. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

Boromir cocked his head. “You’re troubled.”

“No, no, it was thoughtless of me to suggest such a trick, with weightier matters to consider. It’s my enduring difficulty with proper behavior among my betters.” She glanced up at him. “Gríma puts me in my place easily enough. Says my accent is pure backwater.”

“Charming,” he commented dryly. “And you owe him what, precisely?”

The reply was unhesitating. “My life.”

It had been his intention to only speak with her briefly before returning to his duties, which seemed to be mounting throughout the day, but her manner was curious. She seemed perfectly normal, her chatter the same as it had always been, but the banality of it was out of place. It struck his ears as hollow, an artifice. He didn’t want to give one moment’s consideration to these thoughts. He knew he would regret pursuing them. But something compelled him.

“Would that you owed that debt to me.”

“I owe you much, much more than that.”

“Is that so?” He resumed his seat on the bed beside her. Brushing tangled locks of hair from her brow, he asked, “Would you care to begin repaying it?”

She smiled lazily. “You’re busy. You’ve said as much already.”

He cupped her chin. “It won’t take but a minute.”

“So little?”

“Perhaps not,” he whispered. “Please…tell me if you saw anything abnormal last night.”

The hunted and furtive look that had been in Myrhil’s eyes flared brightly before clouding into confusion and annoyance. “Always so mindful!” she declared. “And I thought your desire lay elsewhere.”

Boromir allowed a smile to mask the very real fears he felt. He had never caught her in a lie, was unable to recognize the ticks and gestures unique to every person when falsehoods passed their lips. However, her expression, as brief as a lightning flash, spoke quite clearly. He felt confident enough to press on.

“Myrhil, you were about the city last night. Did you hear anything peculiar? Did you see anyone?”

She stared out the window, her jaw rigid and eyes steely. “Yes,” she began in clipped tones. “I heard drunken songs and I saw Gríma.”

“I was not looking for petulance.”

Myrhil’s gaze fell to her lap, accepting his rebuke. “I saw nothing, Boromir. Brawls, arguments, typical rowdy behavior of men too deep in their cups.” She turned and her eyes and voice were steady. “That is all.”

“You didn’t try to see the prisoner?”

“Why would I?”

Boromir shrugged. “A random thought I had. Your anger yesterday prompted it.”

“I assure you, I saw and heard nothing around that gaol. I passed by it, yes, on my way to the tavern, but it was silent as a tomb.” Her lips tugged upwards in fleeting amusement. “Perhaps it was already serving as one by then.”

He could not find it in himself to return her humor. “So I daresay it would be pointless to put similar questions to your friend the scribe?” he said.

“I daresay. He was with me, so whatever I saw, he saw.”

Boromir stood. “Get dressed,” he told her. “The day is yours to do with as you please, since you will no doubt be leaving soon. At least it will be into familiar territory.” With that, he turned and left.

As he retraced his steps down the corridor, he mulled over the change that had come over Myrhil. When he had risen from the bed, he had felt pushed to his feet as much as moving of his own will. Sitting beside her, he had felt her hair and her warmth, but there was something new, something disturbing. He could sense another presence around her. That damnable scribe.

The man hadn’t stolen her heart; that was absurd. But her loyalty was now divided, and he struggled with it. There was nothing amiss in feeling as she did. The man had indeed saved her in the woods during that chaotic hunt, and her honor, cultivated as it was by her father, called upon her to repay one of the highest debts a person could incur. It was natural, he told himself. Natural. He would no doubt do the same. Had done the same, in fact. Debts big and small had never been “forgotten” in the cracks of his station and blood.

But Myrhil was no longer his own, and the loss burned him even greater than he had imagined, resented the notions of honor for the first time. The gods help that scribe if he should wander into his path today.

And the gods help him if this merry errand brought Myrhil to harm.

Chapter 28: Caught

When the summons came, Myrhil briefly considered donning a disguise and leaving a note for Gríma that she would meet him on the road at a safe distance from the city. Slinking from Minas Tirith like a thief seemed preferable to an interview with Denethor.

She had never forgotten that tense breakfast at the Steward’s table. The joy with which the sharp-featured ruler had wielded his sharp mind and sharper tongue in testing wills and verbal quickness had intimidated her into muteness. She had been rendered thus despite Boromir’s presence. Ever since, she had avoided the Steward to the best of her abilities. Nor had he sought her out. It was a battle she knew she would lose, so she shunned it like a coward. He obviously felt the fight wouldn’t be worth his while and ignored her.

Now she would meet him, face to face, perhaps alone. She felt her insides turn to water with every step. Never before had she wanted her mother beside her so much, though there was shame in seeking refuge in her company. It would speak of weakness and brand her of her unworthiness to be anything but a passing fancy for his son. Gondor’s heir needed a strong consort of good blood. If she quailed before him, Denethor would care not how many orcs she had slain.

The guard escorting her to Denethor’s chamber stopped and Myrhil, lost in thought, bumped into him. He stepped aside, his face emotionless in the manner of Citadel sentries, and rapped on the heavy, paneled door with precision.

It opened, and a man slipped into the hallway, a harried expression slowly fading into apparent relief at the interruption. Myrhil had seen him several times, and Boromir identified him as one of his father’s able, burdened secretaries.

“Ah yes,” he said upon seeing her. “Prompt and presentable.”

Myrhil immediately looked down at her clothes in self-conscious appraisal. She had chosen a simple pale green gown, one of several dresses that Laenilas had been busying herself with while waiting for the Rohirrim to depart. Unadorned by lace, ribbons or beads, it also had a neckline square and modest, as much from its pattern as the fact that she possessed little to fill it to daring capacity.

With a polite bow, he gestured to the open door. Myrhil moved past him, hesitating as her foot hovered in the air over the threshold. But there was no plausible way to withdraw at this juncture, so she bit the inside of her cheek and entered the room. She kept her steps purposeful and her posture erect, yet hoped neither would be interpreted as arrogance. It was a fine line, and she was unsure what would cross it in Denethor’s eyes.

She paused as a grand and glorious tapestry loomed before her, hung with reverence and lending the room an ostentation that she would have thought the Steward normally shunned. Whereas the one in Boromir’s rooms depicted a hunt, this portrayed in excruciating detail a scene of peoples coming together on golden fields beneath the sun. Not in war, for the stances were not angry or lunging in attack, but calm and perhaps joyous. It was as though the weaver had allowed dreams of peace to overcome the reality of sporadic, predictable war.

The warmth that the tapestry evoked was quickly chased away. A chill and rainy summer day gripped Minas Tirith, and the stone and worn wood seemed steeped in the cold. A fire had not been lit to dispel the dampness and it was apparent that the inclement weather bothered Denethor not at all, for three of the large windows were swung open to the elements. Rain splattered on the sills, striking the edges of the panes. She was grateful for the sound, for the study was otherwise eerily quiet. Denethor wasn’t there.

She turned and her gaze fell on a desk so large and imposing that she wondered how she could have missed it. It was large enough to accommodate a grown man lying full upon it with room to spare above his head and below his feet.

She flinched in surprise when a slight movement revealed that Denethor was indeed in the room, and that he was sitting behind the desk, his presence having been camouflaged in the grand austerity of the room since he possessed those very same traits himself. It was almost a marriage of man and surroundings.

The motive for the position of the grand tapestry and of the Steward’s desk became clear when she watched him regard her silently. The image one saw upon entering would render them immobile with awe just long enough for Denethor to see expressions and gestures that could betray true feelings a heartbeat before mutual awareness threw up the walls of guarded conversation. The Steward no doubt possessed the gift of far-sightedness, but Myrhil surmised that it was, in no small part, due to logical and simple tricks such as these.

She had to suppress the urge to flinch again when he spoke, though the silence had lasted well past a comfortable breaking point.

“There’s no need to be frightened.”

Myrhil didn’t know if he had detected some minute spasm despite her best efforts to hide it, or if he had always intended to open the meeting thusly.

“I’m not,” she mustered.

His eyes left her and a flicker of condescension around his mouth plainly said that he didn’t believe her. He rose from his chair with surprising grace for his seventy-eight years. Though he possessed the long-lived blood of the Númenoreans and such continued vigor was natural, Myrhil had rarely, if ever, seen it herself. She could not help but think of her own father, stiff and coarse after years of hard fighting and living. Denethor was no stranger to combat, but the harsh life of the plains he had never known. Just then, a breeze came rushing down Hollenduin and through one of the open windows. It swept over her skin, piercing the fabric and raising bumps along her arms and legs. It was a reaction she had had countless times back home, as the winds that coursed down the slopes of the Ered Nimrais could chill one to the bone any month of the year.

Denethor skirted his desk with deliberate steps. He still did not look at her and Myrhil tried not to intensify her unease by speculating on the meaning of his every gesture. She clasped her hands behind her back in the manner of a pupil enduring a lesson by a frustrated pedagogue. It was the only way she could be certain they would not shake or, if they did, that he would not see how much he unnerved her.

“No doubt Boromir knows you’re here,” he said, without prelude or ceremony.

Myrhil shook her head. “I do not inform him of all my actions, my lord.”

Denethor smiled at that, his mouth curving so slightly that at first she was not certain she had seen it. “I’m heartened to hear it,” he continued, pausing at a table upon which several maps and charts were strewn.

“Heartened?” she asked, confused. “You’re glad I keep secrets from your son?”

Denethor shrugged as he gazed at a map that, from Myrhil’s vantage point, detailed the interior of Gondor, the region she would soon be traveling through. “Enough of what you tell – or do not tell – Boromir. We may return to that, for I do have some questions.”

Myrhil nodded, but only because she had little choice. This meeting was his; he controlled it utterly.

Holding out one hand, he motioned for her to join him in studying the maps. She obeyed and stood beside him silently, her eyes fixed on the large chart. The route she would take was no mystery. It would be the way she had come.

“It is a long way,” he commented. “I’m nearly inclined to ask why you wish to do it.”

Myrhil interpreted his words as a command, though on the surface it appeared he cared not to know her reasons for his attention seemed directed towards the map. “I’ve explained to Boromir,” she said.

“And he agrees?”

She paused, conflicted. “He understands.” Denethor said nothing, though his stance implied he was keen to hear more. “It’s a matter of honor,” she elaborated. “A debt I must repay to the scribe.”

Denethor looked up from his perusal of the map, his eyes and expression unreadable. “So simple,” he remarked. “Almost absurdly admirable in its simplicity.”

Myrhil’s gaze sank before his observation, her cheeks prickling in an embarrassed flush. He was ridiculing her for her childish notions of honor, her dutiful adherence to a code that pragmatists followed only when it suited them, but shunned obeying as a general rule.

“Yes, simple,” she managed, “but I was taught to conduct myself by few, but important, rules.”

“Soldier’s rules.”

Myrhil paused, unsure how to proceed. She knew of the ill feelings that the Steward had borne – and evidently still carried – toward her father. And she had suspected that Denethor, perhaps against his will or perhaps not, bore a measure of the same prejudice against her. To admit that she was doing as her father would have done, to flaunt that name from the past before Denethor’s face, would surely cast a pall over an already dour conversation.

Denethor’s unrelenting scrutiny burned her from head to toe. She was so certain he compared her to her father that she was startled when another name passed his lips.

“I see nothing of Laenilas in you.”

If she hadn’t known that verbal barbs left no physical wound, Myrhil would have believed she bled. How to answer that? The truth? Did it matter if she tried to mask her true feelings? Wouldn’t he see it with his keen sight, regardless?

“No, I am very much my father’s daughter,” she replied stiffly. “Simple, crude and of poor blood. I make no apologies for it.”

“Then it would be best to find a man who shares those qualities, wouldn’t you say?”

The question cut her like a knife, despite having already told herself that he would likely be ungentle about her suitability for Boromir.

“I have told Boromir many times, my lord, that I am neither whore nor a lady like those I have seen here on the Citadel. In other words, I do not deserve to be discarded roughly, but I also do not expect to ever call this place home, Faramir my brother, or you father.”

Denethor regarded her with undisguised appraisal. “Your clear thinking is admirable. I had expected tears.”

“Perhaps, had I no other purpose before me,” Myrhil said honestly, “but I do.” She placed her hand flat against the map. “My mind is fully preoccupied with this, not courting approval which I know will never come.”

When she finished, she had to refrain from exhaling in relief that the words had come out as she had intended. His direct insult had forced her to find her tongue, and while her ire urged her to speak recklessly, she felt she had exercised due restraint.

“You would give up Boromir of your own volition?”

“I did not say that.”

“But you will bow to reality?”

Myrhil pressed her lips together, wanting to hate him but finding it impossible when he was only voicing what she had thought and feared since she and Boromir’s first coupling.

“With protest and a heavy heart,” she told him. “Rejoicing will have to come from other quarters. A woman would have to be blind or a fool to willingly leave your son. Either son.”

Denethor’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “If that is an offer to accept the lesser prize in order to retain a chance at the greater, think again.”

“I would never attempt to negotiate such things with you, my lord. Faramir, if I may be blunt, deserves a far finer woman than what your heir desires.”

“Now that is an interesting observation, for I would propose the opposite. Faramir needs steel to balance his scholar’s mind. Sparks from a blade to counteract the dust motes from books.”

“Faramir is already a warrior,” Myrhil pointed out, confused. “He needs no woman to stiffen his spine or give him courage and purpose.”

“That you presume to know him better than I hints at some gift of judging character I lack.”

Myrhil bowed in apology at this hint of simmering anger. “I have been in Faramir’s company only briefly, I admit, and my impressions of a suitable wife are undoubtedly flawed.”

She kept her eyes to the ground, wishing that he would dismiss her and she could turn round and leave this torturous room behind. Her mother admired him; perhaps even loved him. Or had, in the past. She tried to remember that, but he was so very hard and cold. Would that she could be a fly upon the wall during one of her mother’s meetings with him. Several times Laenilas had vanished into the Steward’s House or Tower, either obeying his summons or seeking an audience. What was discussed, her mother would not reveal. No doubt a measure of petitioning and haggling for hospitality took place, but Myrhil would not believe that talk never turned to other matters, other times, moments when the Steward perhaps thawed into nostalgic pleasantries.

He had not spoken and Myrhil, eyes still fixed upon the floor, began to wonder if she had been dismissed through some silent command. She waited a moment more. “Begging your leave—”

“But you have sufficient steel, do you not?”

Myrhil started in confusion and surprise. Something within her warned to tread carefully. “If I have to fight, I fight.”

Denethor settled back on his heels and looked up at the ceiling in overly casual contemplation. “Odd. It’s been my impression that your tendency to court mischief has been inerrant.”

“Mischief?” Myrhil asked, looking askance at him. “Who has termed it thus? And I do not court it.”

“Then that prisoner ran his own head into the door?”

“Boromir told you.”

“The man is – was – my prisoner,” Denethor informed her. “I have delegated the task of questioning such people to my sons, not you. And now the man is dead. Not only that, but a Rohirrim is still missing. It has been two days. Both occurred the same night.”

Myrhil rigidly controlled her breathing, though she felt her gut contract. “I have heard of both mysteries. I hope they are solved quickly. It must be troublesome to you.”

Denethor ignored her offering of sympathy. “You had no love for the prisoner,” he said bluntly. “You were intent on doing him harm.”

“Interrogation and murder are two separate things.”

“You were unable to wrench all that you wanted from him on that day,” he went on, “and so you ventured forth again. That very same night.”

Cold shot through her body. The room suddenly seemed like a dungeon and she instinctively looked over her shoulder at the door, her only means of escape. It was a gesture of admitted guilt, and she knew it as soon as she heard him move closer behind her. Slowly, she turned back to him, but her eyes remained lowered.

“I saw you leave the Citadel that night,” he said, “and I saw in which direction you went.”

Myrhil thought her ears were deceiving her, but Denethor’s voice seemed more kindly than before, now that she had been caught. Still, it was not friendly or inviting. Perhaps he was relieved that she had not attempted to protest and prolong the deceit. It would not be an equal match of wits or knowledge, and such a lop-sided game would be tiresome to him.

“The Steward sits very high indeed,” she mumbled, “to see all things, even in the dark of night.” She lifted her chin and forced herself to look him in the eye. “So then, is this now to become an interrogation as well?”

Denethor shook his head. “I will not call upon Boromir to question, and none shall lay a hand upon you. But I do require answers, full and truthful.”

Myrhil’s mind raced. It was not only herself that depended upon how she answered, but another as well. She could not speak of Gríma’s actions that night and leave him to the mercy of both Denethor and his own lord, Elfléda. Yet if Denethor had seen her, then it was likely that he had also witnessed Gríma’s movements. Even so, she would not tell him anything about the scribe.

“You’re not capable of murder, Myrhil,” he said, and she flinched at this first enunciation of her name. She had never heard him say it before, and the familiarity pushed her more precariously on edge. “Someone else is, and I would know the culprit’s identity.”

“The prisoner was dead when I got there.”

“And you entered…how?”

“I stole the keys from Boromir. I replaced them when I returned.”

Denethor was silent and Myrhil wondered if he was tucking away a notation to remind his eldest son to beware of women with light fingers in bedrooms.

“And your reaction?” he resumed. “When you discovered that your quarry was dead.”

“Enraged,” she said flatly.

“Was anyone else there?”

“No.”

“Think harder.”

Myrhil paused, then decided to push his persistence further. “I saw no one. I heard no one. The man was dead and abandoned. I’ve told Boromir all of this.”

“Not quite,” Denethor pointed out. “He was under the impression that you merely walked by the gaol, but did not enter.”

“So I did,” Myrhil replied, flustered. “My intention was to not worry him by my actions, foolish as they were.”

“Did that scribe from Rohan follow you? Apart from my son – my eldest son – it is this scribe you have chosen to pass your time with. I don’t think it out of place for him to have dogged your every step that night, considering you returned together. Someone did follow you from the Citadel of like size and movement.”

Myrhil felt her limbs turn into seventy shades of ice. It was the question she had dreaded above all others. She would rather defend Gríma with a sword than with her mind. The former was sharp and she could wield it with some measure of success. Her wits were dull, poorly tended, and unreliable.

“It’s likely I’ll never wrest an answer from either of you,” he said. “I haven’t even bothered to question the scribe. It would ruffle feathers I wish to keep smooth. The prisoner, a lowlife, is dead. So be it. One of the Rohirrim is missing, and unless you can tell me that both deaths are related, then I’ll continue to affirm to the good Ambassador that our hands are unsullied by his disappearance.”

Confusion beat Myrhil about the head and shoulders and she tried to grasp onto something to tell him, something he would want to hear and which was partially true. A kernel of truth would hopefully lend her some conviction in expression and voice.

“I only met the missing man, Falvöd, briefly and on few occasions. I saw him the day before his disappearance, or when his absence was first noticed. He seemed interested in the fact that there was a prisoner.”

Genuine interest flickered in Denethor’s eyes. “Indeed? His manner was curious?”

Myrhil saw a fate of shackles and a cell grow more faint as the light of suspicion edged away from her and towards the dead Rohirrim. Self-preservation begged her to shunt her own guilt even further onto the dead man, but if she seemed remotely eager or overly helpful, Denethor would rightly suspect her motives.

“A natural curiosity, no doubt,” she said. “That quarter of the city was buzzing that morning with speculation.”

He nodded. “It seems likely that he witnessed something none were meant to see.”

Myrhil made a subdued gesture of agreement. “My lord, I beg your leave now to prepare for my journey. Gríma and I will leave tomorrow at dawn.”

Denethor waved her away towards the door and Myrhil bowed in respectful leave-taking. Her cheeks felt hot and she wondered if they were pink enough to betray her unease. Though matters stood well at the moment, she would not rest easy until she and Gríma stopped along the road the first night of their journey and Minas Tirith was well to their backs.

She had reached the door and had just placed her hand on the latch when it was flung open, forcing her to leap backwards or be struck by it.

The secretary who had greeted her earlier hustled past her and made straightway for Denethor, who seemed as startled at the man’s sudden appearance as she.

Myrhil did not move as she watched him impart something to Denethor, their heads bowed together, the secretary’s voice a whisper. She could discern nothing and, rather than appear to be desperately eavesdropping, she turned again to leave.

“Wait.”

Myrhil froze and looked over her shoulder at the Steward. Denethor strode across the room, his secretary in tow. With a gesture, he dismissed the man to what appeared to be an agreed destination, for he bowed and set off down the corridor with great purpose.

“Step inside.”

Her body obeyed, though Myrhil felt her mind had no part of it. Everything seemed distant and hazy, like a nightmare over which the sleeper had no control. She retreated into the study and stood unmoving. Waiting.

“It appears that a drunken fool in this active gaol complained so persistently about a stench that the guard sent a man into the drain and along the sewer until he found the cause of it. A bloated corpse.”

Myrhil did not feel the need to feign shock. She was genuinely horrified. She had not dragged Falvöd far enough. She had not believed that a reeking hole for drunks could not mask the smell of putrefaction, or that one of the “guests” would force the guards to tend petty complaints.

“This becomes increasingly interesting, yes?” he remarked. Then, with rigid calm, he asked, “What do you know of this? You…were…there.”

Each word seemed to press her down further into the muck and mire that had slowly but steadily gripped her with every minute she had spent in this room and his presence.

“He was there, dead…when I entered,” she croaked, unshed tears straining her throat.

“You hid the body.”

“Yes.”

“The prisoner was dead as well?”

She nodded, the gesture limp and defeated.

“But you decided to conceal a murder,” he pressed. “Why?”

“The…the anger it would unleash,” she mumbled. “Breaking an alliance with Rohan…”

Denethor peered at her closely, his skepticism palpable. “You unwisely steal your way in there, you discover a murdered man on the floor, and your one and only thought is the misfortune it could bring upon Gondor?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe I should commend you for that?”

Myrhil refused to look him in the eye. “I should not demand anything, only do not imprison me.”

“I have no intention of shutting you in a dungeon,” he told her. “But,” he added, when her relief showed itself, “you may have the rest of Gondor, and even the entirety of all other lands, to wander about.”

Myrhil braced herself for the words she knew were coming, yet dreaded to hear. They dripped off his tongue, each drop caustic and painful.

“You must never enter Minas Tirith again. I forbid it. Nor shall you come within a day’s ride, sail, or, should you sprout wings, flight of the city. Is that clear?”

“Who else will know of it?”

“That is your choice,” he told her. “I cannot think of one more unsuited for an heir of Gondor, so you may convey those sentiments in your farewells, on the condition that you also admit to your own misdeeds.”

Myrhil knew that anger would not help, that it could stoke Denethor’s order of exile to harsher heights. But surely he could see that there was something horribly wrong with Falvöd in the gaol in the first place?

“You burn to say something,” he observed. “Say it.”

She desperately tried to gather her thoughts and suspicions, knowing that a frantic accusation of treachery would seem outlandish and weighty. The Steward would want facts: names, faces, and events. That he had judged her purely by his own ideas of what made one worthy to bed or wed seemed beside the point. She did love Gondor, and she had hidden Falvöd as much for Gondor’s sake as she had for Gríma’s. That motive, however, would have to remain forever unspoken.

“The Rohirrim,” she began. “There is something not right amongst them. Falvöd should not have been there for any reason.”

“I believe that has been obvious for some minutes,” Denethor replied. “Ambitious men always need watching. Perhaps your arrival in Rohan, and your gift for troublemaking, will preoccupy them.”

“Is that an order?” she asked, confused.

“Hardly. Even if they are plotting for whatever reason, they have my condolences.”

The words stung, and as though in sympathy, the scar on her shoulder from the orc’s teeth began to throb, reminding her of a time when she had fought and won. There was nothing but defeat when standing opposite Denethor.

He had made his feelings all too plain. She was not wanted. If she remained or returned out of spite, her days would find biting words tossed her way, making pleasure with Boromir a bittersweet refuge. And there was the matter of her own “misdeeds”, as Denethor called them. He knew of them, and she had lied to Boromir. Her lover had been tolerant and indulgent of her actions in the past, mildly frustrated but eventually amused. She feared that she had leapt into other, darker territory when she had stolen his keys and concealed a murder, however unsuccessfully.

She had decided. She would say goodbye, but she would never come back.

Chapter 29: Leaving

Goodbyes and farewells. Myrhil felt that what they lacked in number, the pain and shame compensated. Each one carried the sting of a pleased smile, completely ignorant of the underlying circumstances hounding her departure.

Beregond, the stalwart guard of the Citadel, reminded her that though they had spoken on few occasions, he would be first to wave to her upon her return. That is, he amended, if the Lord Boromir didn’t see her first from the battlements.

Faramir took her hand and, with a defeated shrug of his shoulders, lamented that her mind hadn’t been turned more fully towards study. “The largest library in the entire world, Myrhil,” he said, “and you could not see its beauty!” A joke came readily to her lips: she would be traveling with a scribe and professed scholar, so surely that would alleviate his disappointment.

She found her mother in their small cottage, intent on all being in readiness for the departure of the Rohirrim, scheduled for two days hence. On her knees before a small leather trunk, she was arranging and rearranging the contents to achieve greatest capacity.

“If you fold those dresses any tighter, you’ll need a chisel to use them again,” Myrhil remarked, standing in the doorway.

Laenilas laughed, though she still didn’t turn around. “Don’t complain! I will be hauling your few bits of finery with me as well.”

“Yes, I forgot,” Myrhil said absently. “I thank you for that.”

“Oh, it’s a mere trifle,” her mother sighed, hauling herself to her feet and swiping damp tendrils of hair from her flushed brow. “The Ambassador was generous enough to purchase a mule expressly for my—our baggage.”

At the mention of Elfléda, Myrhil bristled. “Don’t become beholden to him,” she said. “He could be buying your favor.”

Laenilas surprised her by laughing heartily. “Of course he is! He may have the King’s confidence, but I—” she snapped her fingers “—share Théoden’s blood. That is something no amount of merit can win him.”

Myrhil allowed her mother’s feisty mood to buoy her own spirits. She smiled. “I see you’ve already begun to act the arch role of privilege.”

“I shall be queen of my own chamber, or hut, or whatever Théoden sees fit to give me. To tell the truth, I fervently hope he allows me to remain within Meduseld. A large part of me is curious to see those young wards of his at close, prolonged quarters. He hasn’t taken another wife, so those children no doubt sorely lack for proper care.”

Myrhil started. “You shock me. Here I stand, under the impression for several years that you would like nothing more than to boot me from the nest, and now you talk of gathering other chicks.”

“It is the boy, Éomer, I am most curious about,” Laenilas said, rubbing her hands together with a thoughtful expression.

“Oh,” Myrhil nodded stiffly, her pleasant mood fast fading. “Yes, I expect you would anticipate that. He—he’s nearly Larhend’s age when he—”

“Yes,” Laenilas interrupted. “He is, indeed.” As though she suddenly became aware of the mournful tone their farewell was taking, she clapped her hands in impatience. “Oh, what are we doing speaking of that? No doubt the boy will be hot-headed, disagreeable, and shun affection, much like any male creature of that age.” She held out her arms and walked over to clasp Myrhil between them. “So, you have said good-bye to all?”

“Those who might be sorry to see me go,” Myrhil replied, wrapping her arms around Laenilas’ shoulders and squeezing tightly.

“Boromir?”

“Last night. He had to leave on a patrol before dawn.” She peered over her mother’s shoulder and saw the sun hovering above the eastern horizon, shining remarkably brilliant despite the omnipresent haze of ash and smoke. “It’s time I left as well. Gríma was insistent we leave at dawn, and I’ve been tarrying too long. The horses are probably being fed a string of well-articulated curses right now.”

“You have never been overwhelming in your desire to open yourself to me,” Laenilas whispered. “On occasions few and lamentably far between, and as unpredictable as a colt first shown the rope. Even now, you’d rather joke about a cross scribbler.”

Myrhil stiffened in the embrace. “I say nothing because you will discover it regardless. You and the Steward are fingers on the same hand in that respect.”

Laenilas parted and rested her hands on Myrhil’s shoulders at arm’s length. “A fine mood you’re in! Your good-bye to Boromir must have gone badly, rather than well.” At Myrhil’s impatient look askance, she held up her hands in surrender. “Very well! I’ll not tread on that ground. I’ll not even ask who spoke the first harsh word.”

“Imagine it to your heart’s content,” Myrhil told her. “I don’t wish to speak of it. It's a burden that I shall have it as wretched company for the entire journey.”

Laenilas’ eyes darkened in concern. “Myrhil, please tell me if you think it would lighten your conscience, either a little or greatly.” When Myrhil made no move to speak, she crossed her arms. “This troubles you now, whatever passed between you and Boromir last night, but you have been fighting a peculiar melancholy for longer than that. What is it? Did Denethor smash any notions you might have had of occupying a position on the Citadel?”

“An approved position, you mean. One that had Papa’s full consent.”

“Yes. I mean exactly that.”

“I think Denethor thought me more stupidly ambitious than I truly am,” Myrhil said. “Of course I dreamed of calling Boromir mine forever, but it’s not even a remote reality. I always knew that.”

“Did you?”

Myrhil pursed her lips. “I now say so. It is easier that way.”

“You’re being more considerate of his father than you are of him,” Laenilas remarked bluntly. “I don’t think Boromir shares the same definition of ‘suitable’ as Denethor does.”

“More fool he. It is by his father’s he must abide.”

“And you have told him this?” Laenilas demanded. “You have told him that he should not harbor any hope beyond this dalliance you have enjoyed?” Her voice sank to a tone that brooked no argument and compelled a short, satisfactory answer. “I will not have you deceive him, Myrhil. Not for an instant.”

Myrhil threw out her hands in angry supplication. “What would you have me do? Tell him plainly that it is an end? I wanted to! I couldn’t! I’m not so deluded to think he fights with me in his heart and that if I am gone, so is his purpose, but he does care for me enough that I couldn’t bear to turn our final night into something ugly. It was tense without it.”

“But he understands why you’re choosing to leave,” Laenilas said. “I confess I don’t. The scribe can find his own way. It is his brother he’s retrieving. You need have no part of it. Honor be damned if it takes you back over the same ground.”

Myrhil let this last remark pass without comment. It was no surprise her mother felt like that. So fixed had she become on this journey to Rohan, this marching into a new personal frontier, that the old and familiar were like worn things best set aside. It was as though Laenilas sought a new source of vitality, having received all Gondor had to offer.

“Yes, he understands,” Myrhil said. “In his words, at least, but his eyes told another tale. And—and he was not—” She stopped, flustered.

Laenilas peered at her intently, cool Rohirrim eyes delving beneath the barriers Myrhil tried to miserably erect, even in the knowledge that it was already too late. “He was ungentle with you,” she said flatly. “Last night.”

When Myrhil offered neither confirmation nor denial, Laenilas nodded in satisfaction that she had guessed rightly. “Of course. I see the pain and confusion in your face. I know more of long absences than you can begin to imagine. Few are the soldiers’ wives that haven’t had a similar coupling. A rare breed of violence, isn’t it?”

“I don’t hate him for it,” Myrhil said emphatically.

“Nor should you! There is nothing wrong with your voice. Had it been against your will, you would have made the rafters ring. But I do suspect you’re allowing it to ease your conscience, given those tart words about him just a short while ago.” She crossed her arms, her eyes suddenly sad. “Regrettably, it is too late for you to tell him the truth he needs to hear, but false hope has never killed a soul yet. Though, perhaps, he did what he did last night precisely because he know it was at an end. Who can say?” She shrugged. “But, Myrhil, rectify it when you pass through Minas Tirith on your way to Rohan. Come to Edoras with a clean conscience. Do not bring such a burden and unfinished business with you.”

There was little else to say. Myrhil nodded at this order, spoken perhaps more softly than Denethor’s had been, but certainly no less forceful.

A clean conscience? Impossible. Unfinished business? There would always be something she could never rid herself of. Falvöd’s body was being borne to Rohan, his death blamed on the unknown assassin who had also slain an incarcerated troublemaker. It was the conclusion Denethor had quietly and convincingly drawn, and so it had become accepted by all, at least to Myrhil’s furtive observations.

Once she reached Rohan, that body would lay moldering in its grave, but the stench of Falvöd’s blood and his temporary tomb in the sewer would never leave her hands. She had not killed him, but her part in his death negated her innocence in that matter. Denethor had exiled her for much less.

With a final, murmured farewell, Myrhil turned and left the small cottage to stumble her way to the stables, there to meet a man seemingly more calm and unburdened by events than she. As she descended from the Citadel, one portion of her conversation with Laenilas kept returning. Not Boromir or the stark, needful and punishing intimacy she had hinted at. Nor the matter of Denethor’s disapproval. What lingered was her mother’s expression as she had spoken of Théoden’s nephew, visibly lost in contemplation of having an incarnation of Larhend to perhaps dote upon, even if from a distance.

Yes, this young Éomer was around Larhend’s age when her brother perished, but as Myrhil stood there before her mother, her mind had been filled with one thought, and it echoed painfully with every step she now took.

Do you forget, Mother? So am I.

How she wanted Boromir here! This journey was similar to what she had proposed to him not long ago. Just the two of them, their horses, and a few days’ supplies. Unfortunately, duty had asserted itself over impulse and Myrhil could not find it in herself to condemn Boromir for his priorities. Then, other matters had intervened and that plan seemed even more unlikely of ever being fulfilled.

A small fire had been built soon after they decided upon a wayside camp and Myrhil now looked over the flames into the face of the scribe. Had events been different, perhaps another would be sitting in his place and the objective would not be to retrieve a corpse, but to revel in the freedom and life of a brief, aimless wandering.

She further scrutinized Gríma, fascinated in a way to discover how he would further cope with these rustic arrangements. When an inn had not presented itself around dusk, his distaste had been palpable, try as he did to mask it. Still, he had made camp with as much ceremony and deliberation as one would entering the finest wayside lodgings blessed with a roof. Gríma’s attention had been focused on some scraps of paper he was holding towards the light to read, so Myrhil’s scrutiny had gone unnoticed for some time. So long, in fact, that when he lowered a page and looked up, she didn’t realize he had done so until his voice wrenched her from her daze. She wasn’t certain what he had said, but it was apparently unimportant, for he said nothing else and had shifted his position so that she could not see his face so readily. Most likely it had been a sharp order to mind her own business.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “My mind had wandered.”

He gave a low grunt of agreement. “I didn’t expect an apology,” he said, “but thank you.” He did not bother to look up as he spoke.

Myrhil fell silent again and nudged one of the campfire stones with her toe. It was of uneven shape, and so it tottered on its ragged underside. She nudged it again, then again, until it had spun full circle.

“Will you humor me for a brief moment?”

Myrhil looked up from her game in surprise.

“I realize that it’s not incumbent upon the Steward’s sons, extending back for generations, to pursue women of high intellectual merit,” he said, “but there must be something to occupy your mind other than rock spinning. Otherwise, it will be a long night.”

Myrhil leaned forward. “And will you humor me? Try to speak to me once – once! – without insults leaping off your tongue. Just because you don’t lace them with profanities doesn’t make them less odious.”

Gríma lowered the paper he had been studying and regarded her with an expression of long-suffering patience.

“I came because I must help you,” she went on. “I wanted to.” Her voice broke, though she did not weep. “You haven’t the birth, but you have all the arrogance, and I now wish I hadn’t felt so bound and willing to aid you.”

“Then go,” he said without hesitation. “I release you.”

Myrhil leaned backwards into her former slouch. “It’s not that simple.”

Gríma waved his hand in a gesture of mock grandiosity. “Yes, I forget. How stupid of me. The country folk of Gondor have an intricate code of honor they adhere to.” He sniffed, unimpressed. “A rude shock awaits you. You have not yet navigated through the honor protocol that rules Rohan. The world can thank us for inventing that particular beast. I have seen a fair but pale, very pale, imitation of it here.”

“You like nothing, Gríma,” she told him. “Gondor doesn’t have Rohan’s code, so we’re a bumbling people of insufficient honor, and Rohan knows not what books are and is a nation of ignorant fools. It is a wonder, truly, that you deign to live in either place. What need have you of honor anyway?”

“When it suits my purpose,” he told her. “It’s a tender thing and I don’t wish to overuse it.”

Myrhil picked up a small twig that had broken off the limb wood she had gathered for the fire and twirled it between her fingers absently. “Do you wish you had told Elfléda what you had done and exercise that rarely-used honor?”

Gríma snorted. “You must be mad.” His eyes narrowed. “Has that odd nose of yours smelled a business proposition to be had at my expense? You seem quite interested in what Elfléda does or doesn’t know, and his motives.” Before Myrhil could reply, he added, “Lest you forget, it was this same honor of mine which prompted me to action in the first place. Falvöd would have pounded you to pieces otherwise. Never forget that.”

Myrhil was silent, though her hand had stolen to her face upon his comment about her nose. It had always been rigidly angular and larger than she would have liked, but it was rarely, if ever, cause for comment. However, Gríma’s snide remark prompted her to unthinkingly inspect it.

“You haven’t moved,” he observed. “So I surmise that you would not return to Minas Tirith, even when given the option to do so.”

“Not in the dark, certainly,” she snapped, though she realized immediately after the words left her lips that he had provoked her intentionally. She should have grown used to his long ago. Gríma never uttered a word without total awareness of what he said and the effect it would have. For such a remarkably short time since they had first met in that library nook, he knew her disturbingly well. He knew what to say to make her self-conscious, angry, or render her into impotent silence. It infuriated her; frightened her, even. Boromir had exerted control over her body with a touch or a look, but Gríma sent her mind into a torment with words. His brother had done the same, though he had had a bit of Boromir’s effect about him as well.

Silence reigned for some time longer until Gríma said, “You will not leave in the dark, but what of the daylight? Do we part ways tomorrow?”

Myrhil stared into the fire grimly. She had not told him she was no longer welcome in the city, though she realized she would have to explain at some point why they would need to give Minas Tirith a wide berth on their route to Rohan. Or at least why she could not enter the gate to the Pelennor.

Denethor could not have meant that I am literally for bidden from being closer than a day’s flight from the city, Myrhil thought. It would be impossible to do so without passing dangerously close to Mordor, if not actually entering its outer wastelands. The only other option was crossing the mountains, thus avoiding Minas Tirith entirely and that…that was madness.

Myrhil shook her head. There were paths, but she was no mountain goat. She looked over at Gríma. He was small and nimble, yet she doubted he had the strength for such a feat. She knew it would tax her to the point of worthlessness before reaching the summit. The foothills were no stranger to her; she had wandered them before, but the giant slopes above repelled travelers by their size alone.

“There is something you haven’t told me.”

“There are a lot of things,” was her immediate reply, snappish and annoyed at the intrusion on her thoughts.

“Very well. I deserved that,” he said, “but if you would part with one thing you are withholding.”

Myrhil looked up. The scribe’s expression betrayed his curiosity, but did not indicate great worry. It would keep; there was no need to admit to her exile just yet. Perhaps there was still a way out of it and this banishment was only temporary. Confiding her dilemma to him was among the worst things she felt she could do. It was only the first night. Best to give the scribe fewer days to sting her with comments about losing Boromir.

She did not answer him. Instead, she retreated to her blanket and lay down with her face towards the fire and Gríma.

“Do you not trust me?” he scoffed. “I assure you, you are quite safe.”

“Don’t say it,” she rejoined. “My nose is a splash of water on even the hottest lust.” By insulting herself, it could only lessen the sting of his barbs. Or so she thought.

But Gríma would not be bested or let her have the final word. “Obviously not,” he said. “My brother found it no deterrent.”

“And you’re nothing like him, so you’re right. I have no reason to fear you. But that’s not what I meant,” she went on. “I’m wondering if I’ll wake up with a sore head and find you gone.”

“Your company isn’t irritating enough that finding my way through this country alone is enticing. I’d rather not rely on the kindness and goodwill of strangers. It’s seldom reliable.”

Myrhil smiled at the truth of this and nestled her head further into the crook of her bent arm. “I grew up among dour people,” she said. “My father was weary of war, and my mother had been blasted by the plains winds that sharpened her in places that are smooth in other people. Every day was filled with work of some sort, driven to do this or that simply because we had to. And I didn’t mind it all that much – or thought I didn’t – until your brother arrived.”

She paused, thinking that Gríma would use the opportunity to make one of his sharp-tongued observations that she was beginning to think was some sort of natural impulse, but he remained silent. His eyes had left her and were staring into the fire, and he had drawn one leg up to his chest and wrapped an arm around it. Though he gave the appearance of being lost in his own thoughts, a slight shift in his body told her that he was listening.

“He didn’t care about much, other than what gave him pleasure. I thought him daring and exciting. He wasn’t sour, and he wasn’t cynical. He was so different from what I had known. And that’s the strangest thing.”

Gríma looked up from his contemplation of the fire. “What?” he pressed. “What was strange about it?”

“That I should think him so wonderful, and yet discover, now, that I was foolish to be blinded. It is you who has a better grasp of what Men are and what this world is.” When Gríma flinched, she hastened to add, “I meant that as a good thing.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“You’re not pleased by it?”

He shrugged. “Others rarely find it a good trait in one like I. In experienced and bitter soldiers, yes. But they feel I could afford some optimism. Maybe play the fool for their mighty selves. I don’t know.” He shrugged again, this futile pondering no longer of interest. “Go to sleep. I’ll douse the fire and keep watch.”

Myrhil nodded without protest and pulled her blanket around her. She did not close her eyes until the coals had finished hissing and Gríma took his watch position, swathed in his blanket to ward off the falling dew.

She recalled her words to him, her fear that he would knock her unconscious and continue on alone. Her eyes grew heavier, and her thoughts became slow and ponderous. How ridiculous of her to have said that. He was quarrelsome, but so was she. And he had done nothing to lose her trust. It was only his prickly character that gave her these momentary feelings of doubt and frustration with him. He had killed a man to save her. Her trust should endure, if not grow.

She went to sleep with the notion that she was quite, and strangely, safe.