Title: From Isengard to Minas Tirith (WIP 8/8)
By: Ithiliana
Overall Rating: Variable, PG at start and in places but as part of overall AU, NC-17
Section Rating: PG-13
Pairing(s): Boromir/Aragorn/Éowyn/Arwen (eventually!); Moriel/Spenna
Note: Original female character appeared in Part 4 (Moriel, healer), another one (Spenna) appeared in Part 6. They will be playing a larger role in next part of series (Minas Tirith: Into the Fourth Age"), so consider yourself Warned!
Feedback: Always Appreciated!

Disclaimer: All characters belong to the Tolkien estate. This story is written for fun, not for money, with no intent to infringe upon copyright.

As with all parts of this series, I blend elements from book and film with AU elements. Then add water and stir.

Link to THE ROADS OF MIDDLE EARTH

Link to last installment: Isengard to Minas Tirith 7



March 16-17

Éowyn sat on the ground under the tree. Merry was next to her, Aragorn kneeling by Merry, holding his hand. Aragorn's other hand was on Merry's face as he gazed into his eyes.

Éowyn shivered. Aragorn had examined her first. She had found it alarming and exhilarating. She understood he was a Healer, but none of the other Healers' touches had affected her as his did. She hoped he could not read her response but feared he could.

"I'm fine," Merry insisted. "Now that they've started feeding us enough."

Aragorn sat back on his heels, hands resting on his legs. "Nobody has ever struck a Ringwraith, let alone destroyed one, and survived," he said mildly. "And you were both unconscious for some time."

Éowyn looked hastily away as the blue eyes shifted to consider her.

"Do you recall any of that time?" Aragorn shifted, settling down to sit cross-legged, leaning back against Boromir's legs. Boromir was sitting on a bench under the tree with Pippin beside him.

"Dreams," Éowyn finally said, reluctantly. "I had evil dreams."

"Merry?"

Merry nodded. "It was terrible," he said. "I was wandering in a hobbit hole. Sort of like Bag End, but no light. No windows. All dark halls." Merry's voice dropped, and he looked uneasily over his shoulder before finishing. "And no matter how long I searched, I could find no food."

Aragorn nodded, but turned back to Éowyn, face expectant.

She looked down, concentrating on two blades of grass she held, twisting them. She could clearly remember her dreams. But she did not want to speak of them. Not here under the light of day, with Boromir listening. She might have brought herself to tell Aragorn, even in front of the hobbits, but not Boromir. Yet the silence from Aragorn weighed on her.

Finally, she sighed and spoke. "Darkness and cold," she said. "And a black shadow. I do not recall much, only the fear that I was dying."

Aragorn nodded, watching her a moment longer as if giving her a chance to speak further. She shook her head at him, spread her hands.

He bowed his head to her. "If you remember any more, please tell your Healer," he said. "We know so little of this ailment that any information could help."

She nodded. Perhaps she could tell Moriel, she thought. The other Healer, who had tended her once, Spenna, was more distant, but Moriel seemed friendly, willing to listen.

Éowyn relaxed, pretending to listen to Merry and Pippin talk, a small part of her admiring how the two hobbits were able to speak to the men. Both seemed more at ease today than she had seen them before, wearing tunic and leggings, none of the armour or weaponry of the past weeks. But the sense of power surrounded them both even when they were laughing at hobbit jokes.

She had insisted to Aragorn that she was recovered, but she knew she had lied. Something inside had changed. Broken perhaps. She did not know what. She did not know why it had happened. She only knew she felt off balance, that nothing she had thought or planned had come about as she had hoped. Too many had died. She had tried to help but could do nothing. First, Théodred. Then Théoden. Both dying in her arms. Neither knowing her at the end. She shivered as the images from the dream, the dead bodies of everyone she loved surrounding her, took her again.

"Lady Éowyn found armour for me!" Merry said proudly, patting her arm.

Éowyn opened her eyes, jolted. They were apparently talking about Merry's feats. She swallowed the nausea that had risen in her throat.

"It was nothing," she said, taking refuge in a role she had long perfected: the White Lady of Rohan. "My brother had saved the gear our uncle gave him when he was a child. It was lucky it fit Merry so well."

This role was one she had played for nearly ten years now, a role that made the people around her happy, a role she agreed to because it masked her feelings, feelings that sometimes terrified her with their intensity and with the fear that, if she expressed them, people she loved would be unhappy.

Boromir laughed, tousling Pippin's hair. "A similar story lies behind Master Took's gear," he said. "Faramir and I were given uniforms of the Citadel Guard when we were children. Lucky it was for Pippin that Faramir had saved his. A hobbit would look strange indeed in a man's clothing, like a child playing."

Éowyn looked at Boromir, smiling, hair shining in stray beams of light that shone through the leaves of the tree that shaded them all. She bit her lip, wanting to say something to stop the laughter. She had wanted to strike Boromir when he had accused her of lying. But even worse when he had spoken against Merry. Merry!

If Merry had not ridden with her, she would be dead. She knew it. She could still feel the iron grip around her throat, the chill that had struck to the bone when the black figure had lifted her off the ground. For Boromir to laugh, to imply that what Merry and Pippin was doing was a children's game, was cruel.

"But I assume that Pippin does not wear the uniform as an empty honour," Aragorn said. "Does he not have duties in the Citadel?"

Pippin shifted uneasily. "I was assigned to wait on Lord Denethor," he said, his voice low.

Silence fell over the garden until Boromir spoke.

The smile was gone from his face, and Éowyn was surprised to find herself swinging from anger to grief.

"As Steward, I have given Pippin leave from the Guard." he said simply. "I think he must be free to stay here with Merry."

Merry jumped to his feet and hugged Boromir. And Pippin. Who hugged him back. When Aragorn complained at being kicked by hobbits, they pounced upon him, trying to wrestle him to the ground. After order was restored, the talk shifted to the planned assault upon the Black Gate.

Éowyn waited until the men and hobbits were deep in discussion, trying to work out the riddle of where Frodo and Faramir might be, how much time they would need to complete their task. Then she rose quietly and walked across the garden. She had seen a stair that led to the top of the wall and she wished to climb it, hoped to feel free for a moment.

She realized as she stepped onto the walkway that ran along the wall that it was part of one of Minas Tirith's seven walls. She turned to see the wall and a high white tower behind her. So they were on the sixth level. Turning back to look out over the City, she breathed deeply, surprised at how weak she felt after so short a climb. Her knees were trembling, her lungs burning. The arm bound in the sling pained her.

But at the top of the wall, the wind blew freshly into her face. She could feel alone, surrounded by quiet. She leaned forward, resting against the warm stones in front of her.

She was glad Pippin would be staying with Merry. Glad he would not be leaving to fight what seemed a desperate attempt sure to end in death. She looked down at the Pelennor far below, seeing the piles of bodies, the ruin of war machines, the small movements of men who were working to try to mend some of the injuries of the battle. What should have been green fields were scorched, smoking, in the clear sunlight that had broken at dawn yesterday.

She shuddered, remembering sitting on Windfola, hugging Merry in front of her, hearing Théoden address the Rohirrim. Then the wild ride across the field, borne up on wings of song and shouting.

Into the dust and smoke of the battle, the sheer terror of riding into the pikes, the men and horses falling around her under the rain of arrows, the horror of seeing the oliphaunts moving like mountains across the battlefield. She'd fought in a blur of fear. She could remember hardly anything except the fear until the stinking beast had landed on the ground, immense, dwarfing even the oliphaunts, threatening her uncle.

She'd had the same experience at Helm's Deep. She still flushed when she remembered throwing up. Fighting there, in a haze of terror and sweat, had taught her that she'd been playing at training for years. She had been lucky. She should have died. To be praised by the others for what now seemed a stupid game pained her. Yet what could she tell them?

Boromir's accusing her of lying made her see why she had never thought of what she did as Dernhelm as a lie. Too many people knew. Her cousin and brother. The men in their éored. Their wives and sisters and daughters. Probably most of the people of Edoras, given how the close-knit clans of the Rohirrim talked. Everyone had helped keep her secret that wasn't one.

Looking up into the dazzle of the sun, feeling tears in her eyes, Éowyn thought bitterly that the only people who had not known were Théoden and Grima. Perhaps a few commanders. Those few who did not last long, who were unpopular with the men of their éoreds. The Rohirrim would not follow orders only because the man who gave them had a title. If enough men complained about a leader, the King removed him.

Remembering how Aragorn had asked about Dernhelm, she was sure he had never been fooled. Only Boromir. And that thought led her again to the accusation that had so angered her.

Éowyn had not thought of Dernhelm as a lie, but she now saw what had happened in a new light. Everyone who had known had stood back and indulged her whim. They had let her play with weapons and her horse. And then when she threatened Éomer, and gone out to the wall at Helm's Deep, she had learned how it was not a game. But even then, in some further rage of fear or frustrated pride, she'd joined the Muster with Merry. She told herself her anger was for him when her brother had mocked the reach of his arm with Gamling. But that was a lie she'd told herself.

"Lady!"

Éowyn turned to see Pippin waving and calling to her, Aragorn and Boromir standing. They were leaving. She would have to go down and wish them farewell. She would probably not see them again. Assuming the mask she had worn for so long, she went down the stairs slowly, determined to show them nothing of what she was feeling.

* * * * * * *

That night, Éowyn dreamed again. The deaths she had seen at Helm's Deep and on the Pelennor surrounded her, bodies gashed and torn, faces twisted with anguish, those faces that she could see beneath the blood. The black shadows that flew high above her head shrieked despair at her. The deaths meant nothing, accomplished nothing. And even worse, Éowyn realized that she could feel nothing as she looked at the carnage before her.

"Wake up, please, Lady!"

Éowyn gasped, choked, and sat up, trying to strike out. Something was attacking her, shaking her.

The light from the small lamp that the Healers left burning all night showed her Pippin, cowering away from her on the bed.

"I'm sorry," Éowyn said, reaching out with one hand. "What's wrong, Pippin?"

Pippin sat up. "You were crying out," he said. "In your sleep. I didn't know what to do. Should I get a Healer?"

Éowyn wiped her face. She wasn't sure if the dampness was tears or sweat, and maybe it didn't matter. Her robe was twisted around her, the bedding half tossed onto the floor. Her mouth was dry, her heart racing.

But it was just a dream.

"No," she said. "My thanks, but it was just a bad dream."

Pippin frowned at her. "Shouldn't you tell the Healers? Aragorn said to.."

"I know," she said. "And I will. Tomorrow. Truly. But it's not worth disturbing anyone tonight." She reached out to the bedside table where a pitcher of water and clean goblets sat, poured herself water, and drank.

Pippin slid off her bed and went back to lie down by Merry.

She realized that he was still watching her and tried to smile at him.

"I'm going to walk in the garden a while," she said. "Please, do not let me keep you waking." She stood and left the room. Perhaps the fresh air would help her sleep, sleep without dreaming.

* * * * * * *

Boromir stood on the balcony that opened from his room, looking out over the City. It was past the middle of the night. He should be sleeping. Imrahil had left a pile of scrolls on his desk, information on everything that had planned for the assault. Boromir would have to spend hours tomorrow going over and approving the plans. If he was lucky, he would be able to spend some of that time with Aragorn.

He closed his eyes, remembering how they had walked out of the Houses of Healing earlier that day. They had paused in the street a moment.

* * * * * * *

Conscious of the people all around them, the anxious faces focusing on the Steward, on the man about whose healing powers rumours were already spreading through the City, Boromir sighed. He had not wanted to return to the Citadel today, but he could think of no place else where he might find a quiet spot in which to talk to Aragorn.

"Were you able to speak with Éowyn?" Aragorn asked.

"Yes. No. We talked, but…" Boromir started walking, up toward the Seventh Circle, and Aragorn walked beside him. "It was hard. I do not think she wishes to speak to me."

Aragorn seemed to sense his mood and asked nothing further. When they reached the Citadel, Boromir led him past the Courtyard guards, in through the main entrance, through the Great Hall, and beyond, through the Merethrond, and back toward the kitchens.

Faramir and he had played hunted through all the back passages when they were children, seeking rooms where they could play alone, unsupervised. Boromir still remembered the way to one storeroom where casks of wine were stored, waiting for the great Feast Days.

His memory had not led him astray. The passage was narrow, the doors barely showing in the light of the few torches. The doors were no doubt locked, but Boromir thought the passage would be quiet. None would be preparing for a feast this day.

Boromir stopped, turned to face Aragorn who still did not speak.

Boromir reached out, cupped his hand behind Aragorn's neck, and pulled him close. Leaning against the wall, Boromir pulled Aragorn against him, sliding his arms around him, holding tight. Aragorn breathed out, a small sound, and slid his arms around Boromir in return, relaxing completely against him.

They stood there. Boromir conscious of the warm strength pressed against the length of his body, searching for the words he needed.

Aragorn shifted, spoke softly despite the solitude of the passage. "I assume you are not feeling the need for Healing?"

Boromir bit his lip, remembering the bathing room in Meduseld, and spoke. "Imrahil spoke to me today. I must stay here. As Steward. Until we leave."

Aragorn sighed. "I understand. I should have expected it," he said. "Your people need you here after Denethor's death."

"You could stay here as well," Boromir said. He both appreciated Aragorn's understanding and was frustrated by what seemed his ready acceptance of it. He felt Aragorn's refusal in the shake of his head.

"Best I stay outside the City walls for now," Aragorn said. "A Ranger. Until we return." He pulled back, slid his hands up Boromir's sides, chest, up to hold his head. Leaning forward, Aragorn kissed his forehead.

"The King and the Steward must both live in the Citadel," he said. "Hold that thought in mind tonight." Releasing Boromir, Aragorn turned and left, walking quietly, making the first of the many turns in the passage with confidence. Of course, Boromir realized, watching him leave. He had been here year ago. He would know the Citadel.

Boromir released the breath he'd been holding, tilted his head back against the wall, and cursed under his breath.

He'd not been sure he could sleep tonight. With those last words, Aragorn had made sure he would not.

* * * * * * *

Boromir stared over the City, watching the red light flickering against the dark sky over Mordor. Even if the forces Aragorn and he planned to lead out of the City could force their way past Minas Morgul, all agreed that route had been the one Frodo and Faramir had most likely taken.

Instead, the Army of the West would march far to the North, through Ithilien. And challenge the Enemy at the Morannon. The gate Gondor had built and let slide into his hands.

* * * * * * *

March 18-25 The Host of West marches from Minas Tirith to Morgul Vale, then passes out of Ithilien. They camps in the Desolation of Morannon. They come to the Black Gates where they challenge Sauron.

Boromir stood behind Gandalf and Aragorn and felt as if he was drowning in the black wave of anger that had threatened him since he had seen the dead in his City.

The messenger of Mordor stood in front of them, words dripping like poison out of the smiling mouth. The guard next to him stood silent, displaying Sting, Faramir's sword, and a green jewel, set in silver, strung upon a silver chain.

Boromir thought that the swords alone would not have convinced him. A warrior can lose a sword and survive. But the sight of his mother's favorite necklace robbed him of breath. He had not known Faramir had carried the jewel. Such secrecy for so many years meant that it could only have been taken from him after an intensive search.

Remembering Pippin's tale of what Denethor saw in the palantír, Boromir felt ill. Surely his brother must be dead.

Gandalf seized the tokens, dismissing the envoy with words of contempt.

They had failed. And Sauron would spread his darkness over all of Middle-earth.

The only thing left was to sell their lives as dearly as possible. Boromir drew his sword and stood beside Aragorn. He would not leave him while they lived.

*finis*