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Boromir's sword was heavy by the end of the day. He'd wielded it since the break of dawn and now the silver steel was painted with the blood of many. The southern borders of Gondor had been successfully defended from orcs and Harad mercenaries.
Bodies were being piled in high heaps to be set alight. Ash and metal would be all that remained. A warning for those that would come to test the might of Gondor.
The Captain of the White Tower turned toward the west and let the rays of the last day's sun fall over him. He stood in the midst of the corpses, wondering how it had come to this. Boromir drove his sword into the ground and went down on one knee. There was blood coming from beneath his breastplate. It painted his fingertips a bright red.
Wordlessly, Faramir slipped his arm beneath his brother's and hauled him back to his feet. The men needed their captain strong and unchallenged. It was Boromir that held together the army of a once great kingdom.
The speech came easily, but the soldiers did not rejoice. There would be more fighting to come. There always was. Boromir instructed that the Gondorian dead be buried in the green valleys of Lossarnach. Their swords and trinkets would be taken back to Minas Tirith and delivered to their kin.
"Faramir." The Ranger turned and pulled at his hauberk. "Where is Oreth?" Boromir inquired.
This was the moment Faramir had dreaded since he'd saw Oreth fall prior in the day. "Come with me." The infirmary tent was full. There was not a cot nor blanket to be spared, but in the corner hung flags and cloaks. That is where Faramir led him.
She lay on a cot, unmoving, with a bruised arm draped over a heavily bandaged torso. The red of her hair masked some of the blood, but the mud was still visible.
His shoulders fell and his heart stopped. This was not how he'd envisioned the day ending. "Why was I not told?" The question was softly spoken with sorrow dripping from the words.
"She fell at the back of the line," the Ranger answered, "you were at the front." Faramir had carried her away from the battle as soon as he saw the Haradrim spear pierce her side and now he left his brother in her company.
Boromir sank to the ground and leaned his back against the leg of the cot. He fumbled at the straps and buckles of his armor. Though once free he could see the deep blue tunic beneath was stained with his own blood. The Gondorian Captain pressed his hand against the wound with a grimace.
He glanced over his shoulder, tracing the pale and peaceful features of Oreth's face. He'd told her to fall back before the fighting grew thicker and for once, she had listened, but it had not saved her from harm.
She'd waded into many battles at his side, despite his concerns. It was foolish of him to think she was untouchable, but until this day, that seemed to be true. Oreth was a force to be reckoned with on the field of battle. Her lineage was that of the Nandorian elves of Dol Amroth and shone in her skill with a blade and bow. But noble blood was not a shield.
Boromir wished he could be angry with her for not heeding his pleas that she stay in Minas Tirith. Faramir said she was as stubborn as he was. She was a shield-maiden, and he'd known that even as they spoke their vows beneath the White Tree on a cold winter's night.
She had been a vision in the pale moonlight. With snowflakes clinging to her fiery hair and lashes in a gown of pale white with his dark blue mantle draped over her shoulders. That memory brought a faint smile across his dry lips. Boromir laid his head back upon the coarse wool blanket draped over the cot.
"My lord!" Raendis exclaimed, surprised to see the Steward-Prince sitting on the ground with blood seeping from betwixt his fingers. Boromir tried denying the healers' aid. It may have bled badly, but in his mind, it was only a scratch.
"A cart is being prepared," Raendis admitted as she fitted a piece of linen over the cut just below his waist, "she needs attention from one more skilled than I." Ioreth would know the proper remedy, but the elderly healer was unfit to travel to the battlefront any longer. She remained in the Houses of Healing.
Boromir did not heed Raendis's protestations that he should not be carrying her himself with his own wound. He carried her nonetheless, with his head held high and a limp in his step.
The cart and been lined with straw and what fabric could be spared. The Steward-Prince laid her in the bed and covered her with a wool cloak. He stepped down and immediately grasped onto his injured side. "Go with her," Faramir echoed his own thoughts aloud.
"The men-" Boromir started but was hastily cut off by his brother. "This battle is over and she is your wife. The men will understand." They looked up to her just as they did Boromir and would want to see her properly healed.
Boromir clasped Faramir's arms and gave his brother a thankful nod. "I shall listen for the trumpets." He returned to Oreth's side. Meneldil climbed onto the driver's bench and snapped the reigns. Under the veil of night, they set off for Minas Tirith.
It was a three-day ride to the White City.
Upon the Steward-Prince's insistence, they stopped in a small village of Lossarnach and exchanged the tired white mare for a hearty brown steed. They'd ride on through the night and make it back to the city at sunrise.
Oreth woke in the night and groaned. It felt like her chest had been crushed by Helm's Hammer. The stars above her were moving, and it brought back earlier events. She remembered seeing an orc preparing to smite one of the young Rangers. She tried to reach him but was blind to the Harad mercenary that had caught her side with his spear. Her sword had fallen from her hands as the pain erupted, burning like a white coal. Faramir had driven his sword through the Harad's neck and caught her as she fell on the spear.
"Boromir?" The murmur of his name was a rasp that scratched her dry throat.
He shifted his gaze from the darkening east, brushed back her red hair and offered a tired smile. "Save your strength," he told her. There was still a battle to be fought, and she would need all her strength to be victorious.
Oreth took his hand and traced over the rough callouses she found before slipping her fingers through his. She held his hand close to her chest. "We must be from the same star," she said after some time. It caught Boromir by surprise. Oreth was watching the dark sky, but she turned her gaze to see her lord husband raise one of his brows in question. "I feel like part of my soul has loved you since the beginning of everything."
---
"It is a good thing that Raendis sent her," Ioreth digressed as she unbound and inspected the wound. An apprentice healer came with a basket of linen strips, honey and a glass bottle with apple vinegar. Boromir paced next to her resting bed as the two healers worked in silence. They had treated many wounds like this.
Ioreth had warned Boromir it could days before she woke again with the moon tea she'd drunk. She would need that rest to heal. The Captain of the White Tower would not leave her side, not even upon his father's request.
The light of the sun streaming through the open curtains blinded Oreth when she began to wake. She turned her head and saw Boromir bent over, his head resting on her cot. He was asleep, though his expression was knitted with worry. Oreth brushed his sun-lightened brown hair from his face. He stirred. "How long have you been sitting there?"
Boromir lifted his gaze with a heavy sigh that answered her question. He fetched the old healer after she'd woke and with a fresh set of linens wrapped about her ribs, Ioreth gave her leave of the Houses.
She went to the promenade of the city and looked over Pelennor Fields. The flowers were gone and the grass was brown. Winter had come. Boromir stepped up to her side and draped his cloak around her shoulders. "Oreth-" He started and she could hear the guilt in his voice. "Don't," she told him, knowing he'd blame himself for her injury.
The Steward-Prince did not speak on it again though he did draw the sword from his sheath, only it was not his. It was a blade was almost identical in make to his own but shorter and lighter, with white gems set in the pommel. "We wedded this night six years ago. I would have you accept this gift as a token of my love."
Oreth took the newly forged sword and balanced it on her hand. Then she took a step back and gave a tentative downward swing, mindful of her damaged side. It was a perfect blade. The shield-maiden stepped back to her husband and slid the sword back into the sheath on his hip.
Unable to restrain himself any longer, Boromir slid his arms around her and pressed his lips to hers. His beard tickled her chin and she smiled into the kiss, bringing her hand to rest against his cheek.
Boromir didn't know if he could claim to have come from a star, but she certainly had. Oreth pulled back, breathless, her forehead resting against his. He kissed her again, but this time it was to the clear ringing of silver trumpets.