Chapter Text
The next morning Aragorn and Legolas departed from the company, searching the land around them for a path that could be taken safely past the rapids of Sarn Gebir. It was an hour later that they returned, quickly ushering the fellowship onto a path they had discovered. The slope was steep, hewn roughly from the stone surrounding the river. It was grown over with weeds and littered with loose stones that disuse had allowed to linger. The fellowship moved slowly, forced to carry the boats upon their shoulders, but passed the more volatile of the currents by around midday. Here they allowed themselves a brief rest before again setting oar to water, eyes scanning around them for any more unpleasant surprises.
The next day they passed the Argonath, great stone statues that lined the river’s edges. Both men carved into the rock wore long and flowing robes, with both crown and helm atop their heads. Their right hands held axes, while their left were stretched outwards, palms down, as a silent defiance of evil.
“Isildur and Anárion,” said Aragorn. “Long have I desired to look upon my sires of old. This here was once the northern border of Gondor, though now its lands are greatly diminished.”
This caused Boromir to tense slightly, though Aragorn had truly meant no insult by his words. The ranger turned to Minriel, who had drawn her boat alongside his, and was now gazing wide eyed at the statues of her own ancestors. Feeling her father’s gaze upon her, she turned her head, and as their eyes met, she gave Aragorn a lopsided grin.
Minriel couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed in the shadow of Gondor. This was the kingdom her father was meant to rule, that she should have had a home in. The place she soon would be a part of. The thought terrified her. Minriel had spent so long in stone tunnels of flickering torchlight, in the knotted vines of the Mirkwood forest. The dark was safe, it was home. In the light of the white city that southward faced the noontime sun, there was no safety in secrets. There were no shadows to hide in.
Minriel knew that in Gondor, there would be no reason for those secrets. She wondered how different her life would have been if Aragorn had been the king of Gondor at her birth. If she had grown up in the White City, the beloved princess of Arwen and Aragorn. If there had been no need to hide who she was. Minriel sighed; it was no use thinking about that.
And besides, she did not think she would prefer a life different from the one she had led. She was loved in the mountain, Mirkwood, Rivendell, and the Shire. The majority of these realms would have been foreign to her otherwise, as would have the people in them who she loved. She glanced in front of her to Mithril, and decided that no, she would not have wanted another life. She could not imagine her life without Mithril- her sister in all but blood- by her side.
How would that change after the war? Minriel knew that when her parents took their place upon the thrones of Gondor, she ought to join them. Would Mithril follow? Mithril had no true obligation to remain in Erebor, for while she held various duties as a princess, there was no throne awaiting her. It would pass to Fili, and to his heirs after him. All the same, Minriel couldn’t imagine Mithril leaving the mountain she loved. The thought of being so far away from Mithril caused an ache deep in Minriel’s chest, and she banished the thought from her mind. It would not happen.
She still could not help but wonder what would happen. Her hand drifted to the fork Galadriel and Celeborn had given to her. She knew that by accepting it she had given a promise. A vow to step into the light, to stop hiding from who she was and bear her lineage with pride.
Minriel wanted to. Gazing upon the likenesses of her ancestors, Minriel thought that she would very much like to take the mantle of princess, and, eventually, queen. She loved Erebor despite its flaws, and the animosity it still held in its jeweled heart for her. When faced with a people of her own… yes, Minriel could easily give her heart over to them.
This did nothing to quell the fear that lit her mind like beacons at the thought. Minriel shook herself before it could overcome her and looked to her father. She thought she could see the same worries in his own eyes, the same conflicted hopes and duties. They were bound to too many places, yet there was no home which could as of yet claim them.
It was a sorrowing thought. One she didn’t much like. Needing something to distract herself, Minriel again surveyed the rising stone of the Argonath. It was well carved, yet rough to the touch, with moss and slick river slime filming over the lower reaches of the statues. Above, wind had peeled slowly at the layers of rock, and Minriel was quite sure that, should she climb to the top, she would find various debris and markings left by the airborne wildlife.
“Good place for a bird to nest,” she joked. “Watch for gifts from above.”
She received several chuckles, and Minriel watched with no shortage of amusement as several people automatically checked their shoulders and heads for bird droppings. She tried to imagine her mother there and decided that the elf might just lose it. The thought had her letting loose with a long stream of bell-like laughter, drawing a raised eyebrow from Mithril.
~ ~ ~ ~
It was an hour before nightfall when they reached the falls of Rauros, drawing their boats to a stop just before the great waterfall. They anchored on a small island, on either side of which the Anduin separated into two segments. At the falls the two halves rejoined, converging in a sheet of white water that cut through the air like a blade; how far down it went, those with hobbit and dwarf blood did not want to know. As Minriel docked their boat, Mithril found herself staring at the falls. It seemed suddenly that all she could hear was the rushing of the water, and its sudden drop off. The spit of white foam at the edge of the watery cliff. Each moment brought her closer and closer, though her very being recoiled from the falls. The air was suffocating. The water rose. The roar of it on the rocks pounded against Mithril’s ears with enough force to hurt. The ground began to drop.
“Mith, can you grab the bags?”
Mithril nearly collapsed as she was yanked out of her mind. Minriel stood in the boat behind her, watching expectantly. Twitching slightly, Mithril nodded and grabbed the bags. Had anyone noticed? She hoped not. Carefully, she climbed onto shore, and the fellowship began to set up camp. Aragorn stood on the eastern edge of the island, looking out across the river.
“We must wait until nightfall, then cross under cover of darkness,” Aragorn said. “Make for the northern border of Mordor.”
Legolas frowned, standing beside him. “We should cross now,” he said.
“The western shores are teeming with orcs,” objected Aragorn. “We must wait.”
“It is not the western shores that worry me.”
“Either way, it’s Frodo’s choice,” reminded Sam. “Or have you forgotten? We may not even be going that way yet.”
There was a moment of silence, during which a tenseness settled over the fellowship. It had been a decision of great discussion over the past weeks. Would they go straight to Mordor? Or would they first go to Gondor?
“Well, we’re going with Frodo,” declared Merry. Beside him, Pippin nodded.
“As will I,” stated Gimli.
“You have all made your intentions clear.” Boromir rolled his eyes. “You will follow Frodo. What kind of a king turns from his people?” His eyes bore suddenly into Aragorn before darting quickly away.
Mithril and Minriel exchanged surprised and wary looks. They edged closer to where Frodo sat by the fire.
“I have not abandoned my people. I turn West here and return to Minas Tirith. Will any of you accompany me?”
For several long moments there was silence. Boromir and Aragorn met each other’s eyes. In the dark it was hard to see what tempests swirled in their depths. It seemed to Mithril there was a centuries old conversation there, a plea for the other to see their side, and sadness molting into anger that a true understanding could not happen.
“I need time.” Frodo bolted to his feet. “I must think. Give me an hour, and then I will have an answer for you.”
With that he slipped into the woods. Mithril wanted to follow, if only to keep him safe from unseen dangers while his mind was occupied. Minriel stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm.
Frodo’s words had broken the staring contest between the two men. Aragorn turned to the girls.
“Regardless of Frodo’s decision,” he said slowly, “you will go to Minas Tirith with Boromir. In the White Halls of the kings of old you will be safe. Do not leave the city until this quest is done.”
Immediately the girls were on their feet, crossing their arms and aiming identical glares at Aragorn.
“No chance,” stated Mithril.
Aragorn scowled. “I will not place you in further danger than you have so far endured. You will stay where it is safe. Learn the ways of the people, hear their concerns, assuage their fears. So close to the eye of the dark lord, a large group such as ours is more likely to be seen. You are of better use in Gondor— and safer.”
It seemed to Mithril that his eyes sought out Minriel in particular, who shifted uncomfortably. Mithril wanted to hiss at her uncle for caution, for Merry in particular flickered his eyes between the ranger and half elf.
“Because a city constantly under attack is so safe,” she said instead.
“Minas Tirith has never fallen,” Boromir snapped.
“Nor will it in the time it takes for us to destroy the ring.” Aragorn spoke with a soothing tone and nodded as if all was settled. “Escort them to Minas Tirith. Protect them. I will come once the ring is destroyed.”
“No.”
Aragorn turned in surprise to Minriel. His daughter, usually eager to avoid conflict within her family, was now giving her father a glare that was worthy of her mother.
“I will not remain behind while my family goes into danger. I refuse.”
Aragorn stepped forward. “You have no choice in the matter. You will continue no further.”
“I will see this quest finished,” spat Minriel. She stepped forward as well, eyes ablaze, and even Mithril paused at her fury. No one there had ever seen Minriel so enraged, not in all her years. “I am tired of being coddled. I am a grown woman, not a child. You cannot make my decisions for me.”
“You are not even sixty years old!” Aragorn’s growl seemed to crawl between the trees and out over the water. His eyes burned with the same intensity as Minriel’s. Twin storms brewed between them. “I will not allow you to take one step closer to those dark lands.”
“You do not tell me what to do!” Minriel’s shout was so loud that the fellowship glanced around, sure that if there were any hostile beings nearby that they were now alerted to where the travelers were clustered.
Minriel didn’t care.
There had been a rage building in her heart since a secret was uttered to her in the sitting room of her childhood home. She had buried it under quiet disciplines and stoic duties. No longer.
“You have no say over my actions! You may be my father, but you did not raise me! Where were you when I was sick? When I had nightmares? When there was an attempt on my life? You run from your duties, as king, as husband, as father. Why should I listen to a word you say? You are nothing!”
Releasing the shackles her own mind had fastened about her, Minriel stormed into the forest. No longer would she be a slave to them. For a moment the company stood in shock, staring at Aragorn with mouths agape.
“Her what?” rasped Gimli. He glanced back and forth between Aragorn, Mithril, and where Minriel had disappeared. Had he heard the girl right? He searched Mithril’s face, hoping for the same confusion to be evident on her features, but she looked unsurprised, though rather resigned.
It was true. Gimli couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t sure what was more extraordinary. Minriel being Aragorn’s daughter, or that the girls had both known and hid it from him. Did they not trust him?
Gimli’s whirling mind was still seeking answers, and coming up with only more questions, when Mithril turned and stomped away. She disappeared into the forest before Gimli could work up enough of a voice to call her back, and for a moment her shouts for Minriel echoed off the trees.
~ ~ ~ ~
“Min!”
Minriel didn’t turn as she heard Mithril scramble behind her. She heard the sound of someone slipping on wet leaves, followed by a hard thump and several curses. With a sigh, Minriel paused. After a moment Mithril caught up.
“What was that?” Mithril’s eyes were wide. “Have you any idea how foolish that was, revealing yourself like that? What were-”
“Do I know? Do I?” Minriel couldn’t help but laugh. Of course. “I know far better than you, Sister, the danger brought to me by my line.”
Anger flared in Mithril’s eyes. Minriel saw her sister brace, saw her jaw tighten as she prepared to give one of her speeches.
That was the final straw.
“Don’t even speak.” Minriel jabbed a finger at the shorter girl’s chest. “Don’t even speak. I am so sick of being coddled. By Da. By Thorin. By Bilbo. By you worst of all.”
“We’re trying to keep you safe,” Mithril snapped.
“I don’t need you to!”
“Yes, you do!” Mithril stepped forward then, and in her anger seemed to grow. Seemed to fill more space than she actually did. Normally Minriel would back down at the sight, but it only made her angry.
“You need protecting,” Mithril yelled. “Yes, you know about danger, but you have been spared from it. You have fought no battles. Not really, not on your own. What would you do when your arrows run out?”
“Not turn to you, if that’s what you believe.” Minriel spat out the words. “Spared from danger? Is that what you think? I have never been spared from danger, not since the day I was born. You certainly have never spared me from it. I face my trials alone. I don’t need your overbearing, useless shield. Keep your blood in your veins, it is not the same as mine, and I do not want it.”
With that she spun and stomped away. Up the hill she went, over the slippery slopes that would slow her heavier cousin. She didn’t listen for Mithril’s attempt to follow. She hoped Mithril wouldn’t.
~ ~ ~ ~
For a long time, no one moved. Aragorn’s mind was still reeling under Minriel’s words when Mithril appeared. Her face was pale and her eyes wet, though the tears had not yet brimmed over. A part of Aragorn wondered what had caused them. Had she found Minriel and quarreled?
It didn’t matter. There was work to do.
“Get ready to move,” he ordered. He grabbed Minriel’s bow and quiver, which she had placed on the ground, and set it in a neat stack with her and Mithril’s packs. Why on earth had she even gone off without it? Off to the side he saw Mithril frown with the same thought. He paid her no mind. Instead Aragorn scanned around, scowling at how the others were still standing in shock. “Move! Legolas, Gimli, start loading the boats. Sam, put out that fire. Boromir, Mithril, wait here for Minriel.”
Whatever had happened between the girls must have been terrible indeed, for Mithril said nothing. Aragorn wasn’t even sure she had heard him. That was fine. By the time she realized what was going on, the fellowship would be underway. Boromir would take them to Minas Tirith. Aragorn trusted him to do that much.
“What about Frodo?” asked Sam. He glanced up as he shoved dirt on the last of the flames.
Aragorn cursed. They needed to find Frodo. He was the one person they couldn’t leave without.
“Where is he?” Aragorn asked. “The time for deciding is done.”
Shrugs and helpless looks went around the camp. It was Pippin who spoke next.
“Where’s Boromir?”
Aragorn frowned. The soldier was right– gone.
He was gone.
A dark feeling settled in Aragorn’s stomach. He had seen the way Boromir had eyed Frodo the last weeks. The way he had always watched the ring. For him to vanish now, when the fellowship was distracted and Frodo was on his own…
Aragorn dashed into the woods, panic burning in his veins. He had to find Frodo. Before Boromir did.
~ ~ ~ ~
Frodo was almost to the ruins of Amon Hen when there was a sound from behind him, a breaking of twigs by something heavy. He spun, finding Boromir approaching, his arms laden with branches for the fire.
“None of us should be wandering alone,” the man commented. “Least of all you.”
Frodo tensed, backing away. If that was truly Boromir’s opinion, the man would not himself be wandering about alone. Suddenly words that had been spoken to him by the lady Galadriel rang in his mind, and he peered closely at Boromir. The soldier did not hold the proper wood for a fire; it was too green yet to be of any use. That, accompanied by a glint in his eyes that just seemed off, told Frodo all he needed to know.
He was still attempting to decide if he should bother parrying words with Boromir or if he should simply run when the soldier, still cradling the wood in his arms, threw himself on the ground, and offered, “Sit with me, my friend.”
Against his better judgement, Frodo did just that. He sat what he hoped was a safe distance away, ready to spring up again should he need to.
“What are your thoughts on Aragorn?” Boromir asked him. He set down his woodpile and leaned forward, resting his arms and torso against his thighs.
Frodo blinked in surprise. It wasn’t at all the question he expected to face that day, but he supposed it was better than anything he had imagined. Frodo took his time answering, wavering between loyalty for Aragorn and fondness for the Gondorian before him.
“I think he is a good man, fair and noble. He will make a fine king.”
Frodo studied Boromir’s reaction. The man nodded slowly, and Frodo couldn’t tell if he seemed disappointed, relieved, or some mix of both.
“King,” Boromir trilled slowly. “King. I never thought to be the King of Gondor. It is above my line. Yet what trust must I put in a stranger. You say Aragorn is a noble man. Bravery I have indeed seen in him, but fairness? He has not listened to a word I have offered this quest. I worry for my people.”
Boromir’s eyes darkened. For a moment he seemed on the verge of tears, and Frodo’s heart ached for him.
“I only want what is best for my people,” he whispered. Boromir’s voice wavered and cracked before he laced it together again with trembling lips. “Who is to say I cannot lead them as well as Aragorn? Never have I thought to take the crown upon my own head, but for my people… aye, for them, I would take the burden. I would be as fair, as brave, as he. My blood may not hold the nobility of the fair folk, but long have the line of stewards endured for Gondor’s silver flag. Would I not be just as fair? Do you not suppose?”
Frodo worried at the chain around his throat. He didn’t think Boromir would be a bad ruler at all, for he could see the love of Gondor shining in his dark eyes. A quarrel for the crown was beyond him, however, and Frodo had no wish to entangle himself within it. Not when he had loyalties on all sides.
“I do not think it is for me to decide,” he said softly.
Boromir sighed. “You should see it, Frodo. I do not doubt the style of my people is different than your own, but I think you would appreciate the marble halls of my forefathers. If only you would see it.”
He set to describing Minas Tirith. Frodo listened, drawn closer and closer by Boromir’s description. The white city carved from the mountain itself, shining in the noonday sun. The white tree that had for generations inspired hope. Frodo thought fondly of another tree, long branches of oak shading his curly head from the summer sun’s blistering heat.
Boromir spoke long and gently, telling Frodo of the glory of Gondor, fading though it was, and how he might restore it. He spoke of peaceful days to come, a people under his protection. He would love them as his children, always fair and wise. Under him, Gondor would thrive.
It was a grand vision. For a moment Frodo could see it all. Boromir sitting upon a white throne, a golden crown atop his head, smiling benignly upon the kingdom he loved. A part of Frodo yearned for it. He thought of the bloodshed and sacrifice. How on earth could anyone ever bring such prosperity on a kingdom under so much distress? It seemed the last and fading hope of one who could see the end in sight but had yet to accept it.
In his mind’s eye the image of Boromir extended a hand toward him, and a gold ring glittered on his finger. Shadows drew around the king who might have been, and Frodo sucked in a harsh breath. The idealistic image shattered. Boromir continued on, unaware of what had passed through Frodo’s mind.
“The Ring!” Boromir implored gently. “Is it not a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt for so small a thing? So small a thing!" He turned beseeching eyes to Frodo. “If you would but lend it to me-”
“No.” Frodo stood and backed away. His fingers curled at the ring nestled against his throat. “Whatever thoughts you have, banish them. The ring cannot be controlled. You know this!”
“But what if it can?” There was a frenzied desperation in Boromir’s voice that Frodo did not trust.
Frodo shook his head. It seemed that the shadows of the forest yawned over Boromir, jagged fangs that opened to a gaping maw that sought to swallow them whole. They enveloped Boromir, cloaked him. He was more haunted spectacle wreathed in darkness than man.
“Boromir, you are not yourself!”
Frodo turned and began to walk away, and behind him Boromir let out a growl. “Do not turn away from me!” he shouted. “Come here!”
Frodo grunted as the force of Boromir’s charge knocked him to the ground. Twisting under the soldier, he lifted his hands to block Boromir as the man scrabbled at his neck, trying to yank at the one ring.
“No!” Frodo lashed out, punching and kicking, and Boromir sat up for a moment. His hand flashed out to the side, and Frodo didn’t wait to see if it would come back bearing either stone, branch, or sword. He slipped the ring onto his finger, and, as Boromir froze in confusion, lashed out again. Now the force of his kick was enough to knock the unprepared man from atop him, and before Boromir could rise, Frodo leapt to his feet and sprinted away. He didn’t look back as Boromir’s shouts sounded behind him, nor when those shouts turned to sobs.
~ ~ ~ ~
Mithril froze as she heard the savage shouts of orcs behind her. It had been several minutes since the company had rushed off, calling for Frodo. Mithril had scrambled, cursing and shouting Frodo’s name, through the woods of Amon Hen. She had grabbed Minriel’s bow as she’d gone, on the off chance she encountered her cousin again. A lecture about safety and not leaving behind one’s weapons was already forming in her mind. Mithril knew she really shouldn’t. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to help herself.
That was until she heard the orcs. They cut slowly through the frenzied panic swirling in Mithril’s head, questions about Frodo’s whereabouts and safety churning with agitation over Minriel’s. As she at last picked up the battle cries of the Uruk-hai, Mithril’s breath hitched in her throat. Her family was separated, ripe for the picking. Any of them could be killed at any moment. Mithril was in no position to protect any of them. She needed to find someone. Who? Merry and Pippin were likely together and calm enough of mind to hear the approaching danger. Would it be enough? Hopefully Sam had stayed with them, or with one of the more experienced fighters. Or was he by the boats, awaiting Frodo’s return? Cornered by the water by Uruk-hai that would explode out of the trees like Gandalf’s firecrackers. The trees. The trees spun in dizzying circles. Min. Frodo. Sam. Merry and Pip. Mithril stumbled in place. Who needed her help more?
There was a snap of twigs. Mithril had time only to fling herself to the side before an Uruk-hai leapt out of the trees at her. She drew Orcrist as she scrambled to her feet, and before the foul creature could recover its footing on the forest floor, she plunged the blade into its side. Breaths heaving, Mithril scanned around her for more enemies.
It was then that she heard the horn.
~ ~ ~ ~
Minriel didn’t know how long she walked for. Anger swirled in her mind. Regret. Loneliness. The forests of Amon Hen were dark, if not deep, and in them Minriel had never felt so alone.
The air was quiet. Too quiet, Minriel realized, with growing alarm. She bent her ears, and heard suddenly the clash of metal, and the stamp of Uruk-hai.
Minriel reached for an arrow. Her fingers wrapped around nothing but still air, and she cursed. With a hand that shook ever so slightly, Minriel unsheathed her sword and scanned around her. How long until the Uruk-hai reached her? Who would they come across before then?
Minriel decided she would not wait for danger to find her. Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin were not able to defend themselves, and Minriel knew they would not last five seconds against the servants of darkness.
She had to find them. Minriel had wandered towards the northern half of the island. She started south, back towards camp, hoping she might find at least one of her cousins along the way, and that they might help her find the rest.
It wasn’t long before the sounds of battle reached Minriel’s ears, and she sprinted to where the slopes ran together beneath blankets of dying leaves. Minriel froze. She knew this scene. She knew it well.
A leaf fell from above and brushed against Minriel’s shoulder. It was as red as the blood that would soon be spilt here.
~ ~ ~ ~
Frodo ran blindly, tearing through the underbrush of the forest. He thought he was heading back towards the boats; he certainly hoped so. Either way, he didn’t have time to pause and take his bearings. If he delayed for even a moment he would be overwhelmed by orcs.
He skidded to a stop as a group began to rampage by, and he barely managed to hide himself behind a tree. Peering around the trunk, he watched as they began to parade past, surely searching for him. His hand crept up to where he had replaced the ring around his neck, clamping around it to ensure that it stayed there.
“Frodo!”
Frodo glanced over at the sound of Merry’s hiss, spotting his cousin hiding under a small alcove created by a cluster of rocks. Beside him was Pippin, the two hobbits peeking out from their hiding place at him. They waved him over, and Frodo saw that there was just enough room for him to join them, should he wish.
“Quick, come here,” called Pippin.
Frodo bit his lip, tempted, but then shook his head. He couldn’t. The ring had corrupted Boromir; he could not chance it corrupting the others. He couldn’t stand it if their hands should wrap around his throat.
He began to back away, and Merry and Pippin frowned.
“What’s he doing?” asked Pippin. Merry’s eyes widened a modicum, and he sent Frodo a small nod that told him to go.
“He’s leaving,” he replied.
“No!”
Pippin jumped out, intending to drag Frodo into the safety of the alcove. Out in the forest teeming with orcs, Frodo wouldn’t last five minutes. He was safer there. Besides, why would he leave without them? It didn’t make sense.
“Pip!” Merry jumped out after his cousin, attempting to wrest him back under the rocks, but it was too late. A snarl off to the side signaled that they had been spotted, and Merry turned to see the orcs now charging right at them. He glanced to the side; Frodo was still hidden behind the tree, and as such had not been spotted yet. Making a decision, Merry subtly waved his arm.
“Go,” he whispered. “Frodo, run!” Then he turned to the orcs that were drawing near with alarming speed and took a deep breath. “Over here!” he called. “I’m here; come and get me!”
Pippin glanced back and forth between Merry and Frodo, and then seemed to catch on. He raised his arms and began to wave, much as Merry was now doing, adding his voice to his cousin’s.
“Yeah! Yeah! Follow me! Come on; I’m right here!”
The two hobbits began to edge away, in the opposite direction from Frodo. They gave Frodo a last smile, and then turned to run, knowing that he was now sprinting away. As they leapt over a fallen tree Pippin stumbled, and Merry backtracked several meters to pull him to his feet.
The orcs drew closer, battle cries on their lips.
The sound of a horn cut through the air. It was deep and ancient, filled with the might of the kings of old. Merry whipped his head towards the sound. Meters away the Uruk-hai stopped, searching.
Boromir charged out of the forest. In one hand he still pressed the horn of Gondor to his lips, and in the other his sword cut the air. With a battle cry he dropped the horn and charged the entire Uruk-hai force.
In the moments after Boromir’s confrontation with Frodo, realization of his crime had dawned with horror in his mind. The greed and hate and fear in his heart was vanquished by his love. As he threw himself, fair and brave and noble of heart, to the defense of his friends, the shadows seemed to pull away from him, and the golden light of the resting day crowned his head and shone like fire in his dark eyes.
For a moment Boromir was lost amongst the mass of enemies. Merry stumbled away, Pippin beside him. Boromir appeared again, backing up so that he was between the Uruk-hai and the hobbits.
There were so many. Merry seized a rock and threw it at a creature charging Boromir from the left. It snarled and fell back. Pippin joined in.
“It’s not enough!” Pippin yelled. His eyes were wide as he looked between the fight and Merry. Orcs spilled as numerous as the falling leaves from between the trees, and for each one a voice that sounded suspiciously like Gandalf’s chanted in his head to run. “Boromir!”
Boromir’s eyes flickered back for a moment, but then he turned his attention back to the fight. Merry held his breath as he watched.
It was then that something small and silver flew through the air and impaled itself in the neck of an Uruk-hai.
“Dinner is served,” Merry managed to quip. His voice was choked with mixed fear and hope even as he swiveled his gaze to the source of the weaponized fork.
Minriel appeared seemingly out of nowhere. She joined the battle, sword flashing as she put herself back to back with Boromir. She was like a silent storm, dark hair flying and gray eyes flashing, twisting gracefully between foes. Gone was the goofy older cousin Merry had always known, and in her place was the grim and stoic warrior that had always hinted beneath. A daughter of kings, indeed.
“Go!” Minriel shouted. “Merry, Pip, run!”
Merry couldn’t. His feet were frozen. Only his arms seemed to work, hurling rocks on autopilot, eyes seeking out new missiles from the forest floor before his brain caught up with his actions. Pippin was doing the same. Before them, Minriel and Boromir slew the Uruk-hai. Hope began to fill Merry’s heart- they were winning!
Then there came the whistle of an arrow on the wind, and Boromir cried out in pain.
~ ~ ~ ~
It would work. Minriel grit her teeth as she dealt blow after blow. She would not allow this vision to come true. Not this one.
An Uruk-hai charged her. Minriel spun under its arm and slashed the backs of the beast’s legs. It fell with a howl, and Minriel put it out of its misery.
Somewhere, an arrow was fired.
It took Minriel’s brain, frazzled as it was, far too long to decipher the sound. She turned to shout a warning to Boromir, but it was too late. The black arrow sank into his shoulder, and the soldier made a small gasping noise as he stumbled back. Minriel’s heart froze.
Smelling blood and sensing victory, the Uruk-hai charged forward. Minriel watched, unable to move, as Boromir met them. A moment later a second arrow hit him. He fell to his knees. It seemed to happen too slow for Minriel to comprehend, yet hurried, as though time were racing to catch up to the end she knew came next.
Minriel leapt forward as Boromir stumbled upright again. His sword lifted high, but she didn’t give him a chance to use it. Instead she tackled him to the ground. An arrow whistled over their heads.
Boromir choked as the arrows dug into his side. Minriel muttered apologies as she dragged him behind a boulder. For a moment she squatted in place, breaths heaving as she sought to reconnect with reality. The averted vision swam behind her eyes. Minriel blinked it away and forced herself to return to the battle before her.
“Merry,” she called. “Pip!”
She searched for them. To her horror they were already being lifted by the Uruk-hai and carried away.
A shrill scream forced its way past her lips. Minriel made to follow, but a firm hand on her arm stopped her.
“They will kill you!” Boromir shouted. He grimaced in pain.
As if to accentuate his point, an arrow bounced off the boulder they hid behind. Minriel cursed. They were trapped.
What could they do? They needed to follow. They needed to handle the Uruk-hai. They couldn’t without a bow, and Minriel had abandoned hers. She gripped her sword tighter. Perhaps, if the archer came closer, she could-
Her plotting was cut short as another arrow flew, this one from the opposite direction. There was a snarl, and Minriel peered over the boulder to see the orc archer clutch its arm.
“Min!”
Minriel’s gaze was drawn back to their protector. Mithril skidded down the slope of the hill, and as she did, she swung Minriel’s quiver off her shoulders and threw both it and the bow to her. Minriel caught them and fit an arrow to the string.
“Follow the army!” She shouted. “They have Merry and Pip!”
Mithril’s eyes flared. She spared one last glance towards the battle Minriel was facing, but as Minriel began to trade shots with the Uruk-hai archer, she spun and gave chase.
There were more Uruk-hai coming. Boromir attempted to stand and meet them, but Minriel shoved him down again.
“You can’t, you’ll be cut down,” she growled. Her voice rang with the utmost certainty. Again the vision flashed through her mind, and Minriel shoved it, and Boromir, down again. She began to fire arrows at the sword bearers, grimacing as the arrows of the archer struck closer and closer. It was not good. They wouldn’t last much longer, not without help.
Help came. It came in the form of Minriel’s father, charging from the trees with his sword in hand and a snarl on his lips. The archer wasn’t expecting him, and as Aragorn slammed into the beast, they fell to the ground and rolled. Minriel shouted his name, but he didn’t pause to look at her.
The others were still charging. Minriel stowed away her bow and drew her sword again, meeting them head on. A moment later there came a battle cry she would recognize anywhere, and Gimli and Legolas appeared. Legolas planted himself by Boromir and fired arrows, and Gimli hacked his way towards Minriel. By the time he had reached her, the battle was over.
“Are you alright?” he demanded.
“Fine.” Minriel scanned around her. As she did, her father stepped away from the decapitated form of the archer. Minriel breathed a sigh of relief.
“I did it,” she whispered. “I changed it.”
“You did what?” asked Gimli.
Before Minriel could think of a suitable answer, or before her father could approach her, there came a gurgled sound. Boromir’s voice was raspy.
“The hobbits.”
~ ~ ~ ~
Mithril ran. She ran harder than she had ever run before. Air gasped like sandpaper in her throat, and still Mithril charged ahead. She ignored the burning numbness in her legs, ignored the desperate pounding of her straining heart. She followed the sounds of orc boots, of her cousins struggling. Suddenly Merry and Pip’s cries were cut off, and Mithril’s heart froze.
They couldn’t be. They couldn’t.
Mithril charged forward with a sudden burst of energy. As the orcs began to cross the river Mithril burst from the tree line, letting out a battle cry as she loosened Orcrist from its sheath. The blade, glowing blue, swung towards the nearest orc, and as the black blood sprayed Orcrist seemed to drink it up.
Her eyes sought out her cousins. They were there, dangling limp and bloodied from the arms of the Uruk-hai. Mithril’s blood boiled, and she screamed.
There was a flash of metal. Mithril ducked the sword of an orc, returning with a stab to the stomach. She yanked Orcrist free and danced backwards, putting her back to the river. Her brain had gone a hazy and tired red. The roar of the water filled her mind. Mithril pushed through it, grunting as she hefted Orcrist. As her heels brushed the water’s edge she automatically pulled away.
Her moment of panic nearly cost her head. She barely avoided the crudely fashioned blade, but as she ducked out of the way she lost her balance and tripped over several loose stones. Orcrist tumbled from her grasp. Mithril was forced, with too little time to draw one of her knives, to bring her arms up before her neck to block the orc’s sword again. Her greaves took the brunt of the blow, though she could feel the bite of the metal through them. She gasped in pain and yanked back.
She didn’t see the sword come again until it slammed into her side.
Mithril screamed. Even with her armor, she could feel the steel tear deep into her flesh. It burnt with a searing coldness, slamming Mithril off her feet. She hit the water with a second scream and a splash.
Mithril was pulled under instantly. Weighed down by her weapons and unable to swim either way, Mithril thrashed wildly. She spun and careened off the rocky riverbed. Pain lanced through her. Water rushed into her nose and mouth. A great roaring filled her ears, and a moment later Mithril was spat over the edge of the cliff and out into the open air.
She would have screamed, were there air in her lungs to do so. The last thing Mithril knew was the sight of the water rushing up to meet her. She was flung against a sharp rock protruding from the side of the Falls of Rauros, and with one last burst of agony, the world shattered into darkness.
~ ~ ~ ~
“You can’t travel.”
Boromir grit his teeth and began to push himself up. Aragorn rolled his eyes. He didn’t say anything, leaving that to Minriel, who shoved the soldier down again and resumed tending to his wounds.
“We must- the hobbits- taken-”
“Not all of them,” Legolas said. His eyes were focused on the southern shore of Amon Hen. “Frodo and Sam have crossed the river.”
“And we will catch up with the others shortly,” Gimli added. “Mithril is already in pursuit.”
“We won’t be catching up to anyone with him,” Minriel stated. She looked up finally, her face drawn and dark. “These wounds are too great for the supplies I have. He needs medicine. Proper medicine.”
Aragorn cursed. He knew it, but they didn’t have time. They had to rescue the others. He knew Mithril would not wait for backup- if she reached the Uruk-hai first, she would be killed in a rescue attempt.
“Lorien is too far away,” Legolas said.
“Rohan,” Aragorn suggested. “Seek aid in Rohan. Make your way to Edoras. I will leave you my map. We will rescue the hobbits and join you there.”
Minriel nodded. A light flashed in her eyes. Was it pride?
“Thank you, Ada,” she whispered.
To the right, Gimli shifted uncomfortably. Aragorn knew there were questions coming. Questions he didn’t want to answer. Whether he wanted to or not, the time was approaching.
“Let us go, then. Boromir, can you walk?”
Minriel was opening her mouth, Aragorn was sure, to say that no, he couldn’t, when the soldier pushed himself upright. He swayed, and it was only Minriel’s arms that kept him up.
Aragorn wasn’t sure, but he was fairly certain the words she muttered in Khuzdul weren’t compliments. Gimli’s mouth twitched upward.
They made their way slowly to the boats. Sure enough, one was missing. Aragorn spotted it on the east shore. A part of him wanted to follow. He had sworn an oath.
He couldn’t. Frodo had been right. Only he could complete this task. Aragorn had other matters to attend to. He knelt down so that he was eye to eye with both Boromir and Minriel, who was searching through the bags for bandages.
“I can follow,” Boromir pleaded. “I have failed. Let me repent.”
Aragorn shook his head.
“You have not failed.”
“I have. The ring. I tried to take it.”
Aragorn barely held back a curse. He had suspected as much. Now was not the time for anger. Only action.
“It might have been the undoing of all our minds. Let the ring pass from us. Frodo is better off without our sins haunting his steps. Go to Rohan. Be healed. I will meet you there, and together we will go to the halls of our fathers.”
Minriel tensed beside him. Aragorn didn’t let himself look at her reaction. What was she thinking? Did he want to know?
Boromir’s eyes lit. For the first time in as long as Aragorn had known him, hope shone through the soldier.
“Then I will follow you into battle,” he swore. “And pay you all the honor of my own. As my brother. My captain.” Boromir paused, his breath rasping in his throat. Something settled in his eyes, and a smile spread slowly over his thin and bloody lips. “My king.”
Boromir held out one red soaked hand. Aragorn smiled as he clasped it.
“Call me that when I have earned it.” He stood, not liking so many eyes on him. Keeping his own gaze down, Aragorn rifled through his bag until he found the map.
“Minriel, take this. It will guide you.” Aragorn paused. He didn’t like this. Didn’t like leaving her in so perilous a position, with no help. Perhaps he should stay and send Legolas and Gimli off.
“I can handle it.” Minriel’s voice was soft and sure. So like her mother’s. Aragorn looked at her, and there was the certainty of kings in her steady gaze as she took the map in one blood stained hand. “I will see you in Rohan, Ada.”
It was a promise. Not just on her behalf, Aragorn knew, but on his. She would hold him to his word. He could not hide from himself any longer, lest his daughter lose all faith in him.
“Be safe.” Aragorn pressed a kiss to her head. He didn’t release her for several long moments. Would this be the final time he saw her? Aragorn tightened his grip.
“Go.” Minriel pushed him gently away. “Find my cousins. Bring them back to me.
Legolas and Gimli were ready. Aragorn slung his pack over his shoulder and joined them. He spared one last look at Minriel and Boromir. Boromir was watching them silently, unhappy but accepting. Minriel was hard at work bandaging his chest, but she paused, and turned to meet his gaze. There was a reassurance in her eyes that allowed Aragorn to at last turn away.
“Let’s hunt some orc.”